St. Vincent – Marry Me
Naum Gabo & Antoine Pevsner – The Realistic Manifesto
“While it would be impossible to explain, in simple terms,” the plinkiness over what is this beat? Now, now, I may not understand modern pop music, but I do understand flight and Kenny Rogers this morning reminded me to tear my mind on something I’ve only seen under the influence. She’ll make me sorry and I don’t doubt it given how this has transpired so far, giving way to distortion.
Little drummer boy, and probability ensures that is what you are, get rolling bum bum bum, bum. I guess. Here we find a native tradition and a graft from an alien culture. Alien only to one who never made a habit of orchestrating what didn’t need to be orchestrated in the first place. A simple proclamation will do nearly always and if we want to get into what constitutes “mysterious” then I’ll admit my ignorance of everything. If I remember correctly it was “Why ask why? Try Bud Dry.”
My face is red, too, but it’s a temporary blood pressure thing and not merely my lefty sympathies. This city’s black b/c it’ll always be the style here. Guilty party after guilty party and how long did it take me to figure out the difference between style and fashion? The excitement of collaborators as they meet to plot in the local drink, the recently-dubbed Last Bohemia. We know who dunnit, we know who owns the stakes at least, we recognize a good fade out.
In futurism I can taste what I cut my tongue on, but Andy Warhol & The Beach Boys left a lingering stench of passive aggression and I feel it in the powerless melodies and three-part harmonic middlebrow miasma. Whatever that was.
Someone says get rid of the bass and adopt the tuba, which seems like a good idea only in the way that the Gypsy Kings make an Eagles song listenable. Too much dance in the steady rhythm of the telegram. I can handle the flamenco as long as I’m sitting down, which, helpfully, I am at the moment, unable to stand without knocking the props off this cluttered sitcom set. Speed may have been a pompous program, but at least it was an ethos. I can hold a mug and empty it.
Pianos are nice, a life-lesson oft-discussed and never learned for lack of discipline. Another life lesson imposed via petropharmacopeia. Avoid catatonia at all costs, in this case it’s nearly free since I know the barista and, fortunately, lack internal ulcers. I’d be painting in abstract shapes if I could pain at all.
On the upside these things are brief and the despair will subside as soon as the palate is cleansed. I was probably mistaken with this choice, or, more likely the case, there really is something to this disaffinity with so many peers. “In them we do not measure our works with the yardstick of beauty, we do not weigh them with pounds of tenderness and sentiments.” Sentiments are to heavy for any contraptions I own and, anyway, I hate the word tender. What is everyone made of? I can’t follow the line of logic anywhere.
There are so many things I’d love to renounce, on behalf of culture or taste or what-have-you, but God help me if people all liked the same shit. Regardless, it’s a great way of saying I’m right, you’re wrong, and also that painting sucks.
I can agree with the affirmation of tone as the only pictorial reality. I like weathered concrete and irregular rhythms, though under certain constraints that I can only gauge by analogy to pornography. For example, it’s nearly impossible for women to wear high-waisted jeans, but they do it anyway. Some of these passages would make great samples, but on the whole, I just don’t know.
This fretwork was more interesting before the bossa-nova: I love the ocean but I’m wary of the beach. Whenever people talk about plasticity I’m, like, what? Canals are cool, as are railroads, yet here were are hostage to the car. The smell of gasoline versus the smell of brine. Pickle me when I’m dead.
There’s nothing left in the tank. I’m just sitting here listening and dulled. Something should have happened by now. One can make things happen or wait for things to happen or whatever-the-fuck. Globetrotting adventurers are usually morons.