Noise and Mystery
“I have to see a thing a thousand times before I see it once.”― Thomas Wolfe
I am loving the fact that Les Rallizes Dénudés are getting full-on New York Times coverage. Yes, they are one of the greatest mysteries of Japanese music history…who the hell WAS their leader anyway? Where did he come from and disappear to? Is it all a hoax? But calling the band and their history one of rock’s deepest mysteries elevates them to a higher place that I just didn’t see coming. But I am into it.
For those NOT in the know…this psycho-crazed freaked-out genius group has been talked about in the annals of the Forced Exposure generation for decades…written about and name-dropped (complete with sentences ending in a hell of a lot of exclamation & question marks) by the likes of Byron Coley, Julian Cope, Jay Babcock (read his [Landline]) and Kim Gordon. I love this description of them (source unknown): “the most insane psychedelic noise rock band with doo-wop basslines you’ll ever hear.” All record collectors such as myself own their recordings as almost a rites of passage…I am pretty sure I have a vinyl box set of theirs gathering dust somewhere…I need to brush it off…and then scrape the cobwebs from my mind when I throw the records on and re-witness the obliteration of the electric guitar onslaught. Les Rallizes Dénudés destroy.
So now that the band is getting a slew of what I would call somewhat-legitimate reissues (the article lays the whole story out), the band has finally hit pay dirt and a New York Times story. And yet none of the members will talk about Takashi Mizutani, the mystery main man (some bandmates won’t even be interviewed at all). This is the way it has been for years….article after article digging into what the hell this band was all about and how this enigmatic character can remain so shrouded in confusion. And to be honest…I am thankful for that. Because in the world of legends, the real stories once uncovered are either oft uninteresting or so disgraceful that it would render the subject an undesirable piece of crap. Long live the mystery.
So are you looking for some music to melt your day away? Interested in getting your mind tore open right before Kol Nidre? Check out Night of the Assassins or Heavier Than A Death… and let the band lull you before they blow you away.
And speaking of Kol Nidre….for those who observe Yom Kippor, may it be a meaningful one for you. L’Shana Tova.
Greg Cartwright Opens Up About Songwriting and His Hit Black Keys Co-Writer
The Memphis Flier gives wayward son some major ink, talking him through a fantastic career with The Oblivions, The Reigning Sound (my favorite) and his new horizons. I met Greg when he was just a teen playing drums in the 68 Comeback. I had no idea where he would go. Don’t know him? Just listen to this. Or this. Or this.
How the Late U.S. Ambassador Donald Blinken Shaped Mark Rothko’s Legacy
This article shows the power of the relationship between the artist and the collector. Blinken helped support the beginning careers of Rothko, Willem de Kooning, Phillip Guston, and so many others.
Kazuo Ishiguro-scripted remake of Kurosawa film shown at Venice film fest
The film is called Living and from the trailer it looks like a beautiful production. The Variety article does a deep dive into the film itself…..
Shriek of the Week: Pink-footed Goose
Charlie from Birdsong Academy knows how to celebrate the bird songs. The Pink-Footed goose’s call might not be as mellow as lets say…a piece by Terry Jennings, but it is worth the listen. They are the Boredoms of birdcalls….
The Transcendence of Terry Jennings
As Aquarium Drunkard relates in their piece about Jennings, “Terry Jennings phantasmic presence runs quietly throughout the early history of minimalism.” So true. I have heard his name….heard only one of his pieces before. This new release from Saltern, Piece for Cello and Saxophone, is a thing of droned-out beauty. Instantly one of my favorites to come out of that whole era.
Crossing The Atlantic
By: Anne Sexton
We sail out of season into on oyster-gray wind,
Over a terrible hardness.
Where Dickens crossed with mal de mer
In twenty weeks or twenty days
I cross toward him in five.
Wraped in robes
Not like Caesar but like liver with bacon
I rest on the stern
Burning my mouth with a wind-hot ash,
Watching my ship
Bypass the swells
As easily as an old woman reads a palm.
I think; as I look North, that a field of mules
Lay down to die.
The ship is 27 hours out.
I have entered her.
She might be a whale,
Sleeping 2000 and ship’s company,
The last 40¢ martini
And steel staterooms where night goes on forever.
Being inside them is, I think,
The way one would dig into a planet
And forget the word light.
I have walked cities,
Miles of mole alleys with carpets.
Inside I have been ten girls who speak French.
They languish everywhere like bedsheets.
Oh my Atlantic of the cracked shores,
Those blemished gates of Rockport and Boothbay,
Those harbor smells like the innards of animals!
Old childish Queen, where did you go,
You bayer at wharfs and Victorian houses?
I have read each page of my mother’s voyage.
I have read each page of her mother’s voyage.
I have learned their words as they learned Dickens’.
I have swallowed these words like bullets.
But I have forgotten the last guest terror.
Unlike them, I cannot toss in the cabin
As in childbirth.
Now always leaving me in the West
Is the wake,
A ragged bridal veil, unexplained,
Seductive, always rushing down the stairs,
Never detained, never enough.
The ship goes on
As though nothing else were happening.
Generation after generation,
I go her way.
She will run East, knot by knot, over an old bloodstream,
Stripping it clear,
Each hour ripping it, pounding, pounding,
Forcing through as through a virgin.
Oh she is so quick!
This dead street never stops!
Tribute to Photographer Mario Algaze (1947-2022)
***This newsletter is dedicated to Victor Hatch, 15 year old son to Dana Hatch and Wendy Maureen Carney-Hatch, who passed away unexpectedly this week. I know Dana and Wendy through my work with the Cheaterslicks. My heart goes out to them.