frankwhite
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The Velvet Underground & Nico. It's supposed to be one of the greatest albums ever, but it's more boring than Nirvana.
How many times have you listened to it?!?!
Listen to I'm Waiting for the Man & Venus in Furs. I mean actually listen to it. Listen to the lyrics and everything. Try and avoid the Nico songs, and only listen to Lou.
I seriously do not know how you can find that album boring and compare the VU to a shit band like Nirvana.
HEY!!!!
Nirvana kick fuckin ass and so does Nico, you should get her album chelsea girls, its cool. all tommrows parties, femme fatale, im stickin with you are standout velvets tracks!!! -
The Velvet Underground & Nico. It's supposed to be one of the greatest albums ever, but it's more boring than Nirvana.
hey, careful, thems fightin words!!
on a serious note tho, boring? u could say shit or slow or any number of reasons but boring? just as a collection of songs i think a better description might be...jarring. -
46 mins in and i think im in love no, seriously!!! where are these riffs comin from?!?! this is like the second coming of keith richards! and lead guy is fucin smokin!!!!!!!!!!
Glad to hear you're enjoying it.
What song are you at?
i dunno, i think its called dazed and confused. who the fuck said the guitar guy is overrated?!?! i dunno shit about the guitar really but surely that shit aint easy...oh he's talkin bout san francisco now? flowersin ur hair? ur gonna meet a lotta different people there?
Yeah, thats Dazed And Confused.
Check this one out I'm fairly sure the intro is stolen from an old blues song but it doesnt take anything away from the song. If you get the chance, pick up the Led Zeppelin DVD. Its worth it for the first disc alone.
my comps too shitty to play stuff dude, sorry (and not to you either
) i saw this other dvd in the store when gettin this, it had like 5 hours wortha shit on it and it was like...a little from knebworth a little from this madison sq garden gig and like bits from tonsa places. i wanted really to get that but a) i thought it was kinda heavy for a first timber and 2) this struck me as a "while they were around" release y'know? so theres like...some weird authenticity to it if u know what i mean? im on stairway right now? is this the great song everyones always raving about? (its good so far but...i dunno, aint finished yet so) -
46 mins in and i think im in love no, seriously!!! where are these riffs comin from?!?! this is like the second coming of keith richards! and lead guy is fucin smokin!!!!!!!!!!
Glad to hear you're enjoying it.
What song are you at?
i dunno, i think its called dazed and confused. who the fuck said the guitar guy is overrated?!?! i dunno shit about the guitar really but surely that shit aint easy...oh he's talkin bout san francisco now? flowersin ur hair? ur gonna meet a lotta different people there?
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46 mins in and i think im in love
no, seriously!!! where are these riffs comin from?!?! this is like the second coming of keith richards! and lead guy is fucin smokin!!!!!!!!!! -
Mmm, St. Anger comes to mind. Also Load as being a bad follow-up to Metallica.
Queen's Flash Gordon was rubbish too. Absolute junk. But I'll let it off easy for being movie-music.
One Hot Minute by the Chili Peppers was nowhere near their previous stuff. But then again it lacked John.
Same could be said about Aerosmith's Rock In A Hard Place without Joe. But the bigger disappointment might be Done With Mirrors which was supposed to be THE big return of Joe and Brad.
I also agree with U2's Pop being quite bad.
That's what comes to mind now anyway.
i loved one hot minute!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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Led Zeppelin are awesome.
I recommend you to buy a DVD, like The Song Remains The Same, there you will find this kick-ass version of Since I've Been Loving you. One of the best blues songs ever. B)
And Page is one of my favourite guitarists ever.
would u believe it, im watchin that now (10 mins in and not a song yet) i thought it was a like...entire gig show? so far this is like the magical mystery tour to new york
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i love this fuckin song!!!! that riff!!!! that main fuckin riff, i wanna play it, is it hard, sounds simple enough but i really know jackshit about guitar, i can do day tripper/ticket to ride and the opening riff for voodoo chile and thats it
but i jus heard this song a coupla days ago and im obssessed, i even got the guitar dvd thing to walk my retarded self through it but gotta wait for that, post y'know? so is it difficult...it can't be can it? i mean, would u reccomend a begginner to try it? -
One of the best.
Put it this way Frank, there's a reason the band is still being talked about to this day. They were a British Invasion all by themselves. They were legendary for their 4 hour concerts, a lot of rumours of Satanic worshiping, going thru goupies like a man with a cold goes thru Kleenex, and for influencing pretty much every rocker you have ever, or will ever like, because the songs don't lie, they were some of the greatest.
i was always into Aliester Crowley and i remember hearin one of em bought his house...whats the shark thing about tho, anyone know?
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way to fuckin put me off guys
j/k, i was lookin for honest opinions and i still am, i thought people loved em around here for some reason. -
Yeah I got II, III and IV. A lot of it's boring and goes on too long. IV is predominantly good, but a lot of the songs just lack flavour and Plant's poor lyrics push me away. But I plan on getting more, maybe it'll give me the same effect you got.
oh and Jimmy Page, no hot shit. Very fucking over rated
yeah?? damn...
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i borrowed early days off a friend a year or so back...but i was kinda lookin' at it thru punk shades and although good times bad times, rock n roll, dazed n confused stuck out to me...i kinda...dismissed a lot of the others offhand and i guess i wasnt REALLY paying attention but anywayz...i hear this song played by somebody i THINK its called Black Dog i remember some of the lines roughly "been somethin somethin i found out what people mean by down and out" and "i dont know i been told big legged woman aint got no soul" (dont laugh, thats what it sounded like to me!!) and i jus been playin the nuts offa this song, over n over n over n over n over and i dont even know what its called, i just took the cd outta my friends car where i was listenin to it (it was a burn) and jus repeated that track over n over n over, i jus love it to bits, somethin bout that guitar bit is like....simple yet fuckin just totally totally perfect. so i figure fuck it and got all their albums today offa ebay (for under 50 bucks, pretty good i thought) assuming i got the right shit, led zeppelin 1 2 3 4, in through the out door, houses of the holy, presence and physical graphitti. kind of a dumb move considering i might hate the shit but somethin bout that song REALLY fucking turned me on. i hope their not another fucking pink floyd cuz i dunno...theres so much promise in that shit. this is prolly gonna sound insulting to hafta explain this shit to me cuz i know they're like, rock gods or whatever but tell me about em!!! i mean, albums, which ones good, which ones bad, did i get the right ones, am i missin one, who the fuck are they, i know this much bonham, drummer, dead, drugs, not gettin back together again. page singer sounds kinda like axl, plant guitarist, supposed to be hot shit...thats it. oh yeah, i remember hearin somethin about groupies and sharks once? and uh, they're from england, i dunno, someone help me out. really hope they dont suck but so what if they do, nothin ventured nothin gained and WHATEVER happens, that one song with be the shit until the shit dries up!
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I've been meaning to get into Classic Country for some time, and I just recently decided to start off on this expedition with Waylon Jennings' Honky Tonk Heroes. It's nothing too startling, but it's sincere and Waylon has a great voice. I think I'll begin to like it more and more. Any suggestions as to what Country albums I should get next are welcome, as it's fairly new ground for me so I'm excited to dig deeper.
Hank Williams, without a fuckin doubt! he is the fuckin man, the father of it all, without him i dunno if Dylan or Cash would sound like they do. he was just amazing, pity he drank himself to death by 29 but LORD was he talented! Jambalaya, Move It On Over, I Cant Help It If Im Still In Love With You, Honky Tonk Blues...just anything this man touched is/was pure fucking genius. as honest and as true and as authentic country music as u will find. bet that.
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i agree and disagree with OD. he's right but...i think judging a genre based on the ignorance of its fanbase is to ignore the music but then again im just as guilty maybe more of thinkin that way about rock but not only towards the fans but the genre too. always was kinda had my heart in punk rock and the whole No Wave idea but...i dunno. i was kinda partial to this ideology.
I don't mean to judge the genre, I'm just saying that it's unfortunate.
seems to me you'd be more likely to sneer at people beside you and in front of you at a concert...
Oh please.
I only go to concerts to have fun.
You people all need to lighten up, you don't need to become "defenders of the faith" just because of an observation I've made.
y'aint from round here are ya boy?!?! ya done riled up the elders! quick, someone get a length of rope, i see a sacrifice in the offing
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i agree and disagree with OD. he's right but...i think judging a genre based on the ignorance of its fanbase is to ignore the music but then again im just as guilty maybe more of thinkin that way about rock but not only towards the fans but the genre too. always was kinda had my heart in punk rock and the whole No Wave idea but...i dunno. i was kinda partial to this ideology.
Tom: "Both you and John have said that you don't want this to have anything to do with rock 'n' roll. Why do you dislike rock 'n' roll so much?"
John: "It's dead. It's a disease. It's a plague. It's been going on for too long. It's history. It's vile. It's not achieving anything, it's just regression. They play rock 'n' roll at airports. It's about as like advanced as it can possibly get!"
Tom: "But there was a . . ."
John: "It's too limited."
Tom: "But there was a time when you didn't feel that way!"
John: "It is too much like a structure, a church."
Tom: "Yeah, but there was . . ."
John: "A religion. A farce."
Tom: "A time when you did not feel that way! What made you change your mind?"
John: "No, I've always felt this way."
Tom: "Even when you were with the Sex Pistols?"
John: "I wondered when you'd get round to that one! Yes, even then! Because the Sex Pistols was going to be the absolute end of rock 'n' roll, which I thought it was. Unfortunately, the majority of the public, being the senile animals that they are, got that wrong. Too bad. All's I want is an image
so fuck it, everyone make some horrible dischordant noise instead
:) -
There's no logical reason to argue for Guns N' Roses above AC/DC, with the exception of personal preference. In terms of influence and endurance, AC/DC are miles ahead. Guns N' Roses always had a certain edge that appeals to me more, but I wouldn't really press the issue either way.
yeah but influence? they been around much longer. and what was always cool about guns is that they were like DC/stones/aerosmith/NY Dolls/led zeppelin all mashed together and spat out. i call evens. btw, Highway To Hell is better than Back In Black imo.
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Rock and roll ain't noise pollution.
thats the best kind
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the antedote
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Straight Outta Compton - NWA
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some of Jims writings...for anyone interested.
THE LORDS
Look where we worship.
We all live in the city.
The city forms– often physical, but inevitably psychically–a circle.
A Game.
A ring of death with sex at it's center.
Drive towards outskirts of city suburbs.
At the edge discover zones of sophisticated vice and boredom, child prostitution.
But in the grimy ring immediately surrounding the daylight business district exists the only real crowd life of our mound, the only street life, night life.
Diseased specimens in dollar hotels,
low boarding houses,
bars,
pawn shops,
burlesques and brothels,
in dying arcades which never die,
in streets and streets of allnight cinemas.
When play dies it becomes the Game.
When sex dies it becomes Climax.
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2.
All games contain the idea of death.
Baths,
bars,
the indoor pool.
Our injured leader prone on the sweating tile.
Chlorine on his breath and in his long hair.
Lithe,
although crippled,
body of a middleweight contender.
Near him the trusted journalist, confident.
He liked men near him with a large sense of life.
But most of the press were vultures descending on the scene for curious America aplomb.
Cameras inside the coffin interviewing worms.
It takes large numbers to turn rocks in the shade and expose strange worms beneath.
The lives of our discontented madmen are revealed.
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3.
Camera, as all seeing god, satisfies our longing for omniscience. To spy on others from this height and angle: pedestrians pass in and out of our lens like rare aquatic insects.
Yoga Powers. To make oneself invisible or small. To become gigantic and reach to the farthest things. To change the course of nature. To place oneself anywhere in space or time. To summon the dead. To exalt senses and perceive inaccessible images, of events on other worlds, in one's deepest inner mind, or in the minds of others.
The sniper's rifle is an extension of his eye. He kills with injurious vision.
The assassin (?), in flight, gravitated with unconscious, instinctual insect ease, mothlike, toward a zone of safety, haven from the swarming streets. Quickly, he was devoured in the warm, dark, silent maw of the physical theater.
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4.
Modern circles of Hell: Oswald (?) kills President. Oswald enters a taxi. Oswald stops at rooming house. Oswald leaves taxi. Oswald kills Officer Tippitt. Oswald sheds jacket. Oswald is captured.
He escaped into a movie house.
In the womb we are blind cave fish.
Everything is vague and dizzy. The skin swells and there is no more distinction between parts of the body. An encroaching sound of threatening, mocking, monotonous voices. This is fear and attraction of being swallowed.
Inside the dream, button sleep around your body like a glove. Free now of space and time. Free to dissolve in the streaming summer.
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5.
Sleep is an under–ocean dipped into each night.
At morning,
awake dripping,
gasping,
eyes stinging.
The eyes looks vulgar
Inside its ugly shell.
Come out in the open
In all of your Brillance.
Nothing. The air outside
burns my eyes.
I'll pull them out
and get rid of the burning.
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6.
Crisp hot whiteness
City Noon
Occupants of plague zone
are consumed.
(Santa Ana's are winds off deserts.)
Rip up grating and splash in gutters.
The search for water, moisture,
"wetness" of the actor, lover.
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7.
"Players"–the child,
the actor,
and the gambler.
The idea of chance is absent from the world of the child and primitive.
The gambler also feels in service of an alien power.
Chance is a survival of religion in the modern city,
as is theater,
more often cinema,
the religion of possession.
What sacrifice, at what price can the city be born?
There are no longer "dancers," the possessed.
The cleavage of men into actor and spectators is the central fact of our time.
We are obsessed with heroes who live for us and whom we punish.
If all the radios and televisions were deprived of their sources of power,
all shows and cinemas closed,
all the arts of vicarious existence...
We are content with the "given" in sensation's quest.
We have been metamorphosised from a mad body dancing on hillsides to a pair of eyes staring in the dark.
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8.
Not one of the prisoners regained sexual balance. Depressions, impotency, sleeplessness ... erotic dispersion in languages, reading, games, music, and gymnastics.
The prisoners built their own theater which testified to an incredible surfeit of leisure. A young sailor, forced into female roles, soon became the "town" darling, for by this time they called themselves a town, and elected a mayor, police, aldermen.
In old Russia, the Czar, each year, granted–out of shrewdness of his own soul or one of his advisors'–a week's freedom for one convict in each of his prisions. The choice was left to the prisoners themselves and it was determined in several ways. Sometimes by vote, sometimes by lot, often by force. It was apparent that the chosen must be a man of magic, virility, experience, perhaps narrative skill, a man of possibility, in short, a hero. Impossible situation at the moment of freedom, impossible selection, defining our world in its percussions.
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9.
A room moves over a landscape,
uprooting the mind,
astonishing vision.
A gray film melts off the eyes,
and runs down the cheeks.
Farewell.
Modern life is a journey by car. The Passengers change terribly in their reeking seats, or roam from car to car, subject to unceasing transformation. Inevitable progress is made toward the beginning (there is no difference in terminals), as we slice through cities, whose ripped backsides present a moving picture of windows, signs, streets, buildings. Sometimes other vessels, closed worlds, vacuums, travel along beside to move ahead or fall utterly behind.
Destroy roofs, walls, see in all the rooms at once.
From the air we trapped gods, with the gods' omniscient gaze, but without their power to be inside minds and cities as they fly above.
June 30th. On the sun roof. He woke up suddenly. At that instant a jet from the air base crawled in silence overhead. On the beach, children try to leap into its swift shadow.
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10.
The bird or insect that stumbles into a room and cannot find the window. Because they know no "windows."
Wasps, poised in the window,
Excellent dancers,
detached, are not inclined
into our chamber.
Room of withering mesh
read love's vocabulary
in the green lamp
of tumescent flesh.
When men conceived buildings,
and closed themselves in chambers,
first trees and caves.
(Windows work two ways,
mirrors one way.)
You never walk through mirrors
or swim through windows.
Cure blindness with a whore's spittle.
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11.
In Rome, prostitutes were exhibited on roofs above the public highways for the dubious hygiene of loose tides of men whose potential lust endangered the fragile order of power. It is even reported that patrician ladies, masked and naked, sometimes offered themselves up to these deprieved eyes for private excitements of their own.
More or less, we're all afflicted with the psychology of the voyeur. Not in a strictly clinical or criminal sense, but in our whole physical and emotional
stance before the world. Whenever we seek to break this spell of passivity, our actions are cruel and awkward and generally obscene, like an invalid who has forgotten how to walk.
The voyeur, the peeper, the Peeping Tom, is a dark comedian. He is repulsive in his dark anonymity, in his secret invasion. He is pitifully alone. But, strangely, he is able through this same silence and concealment to make unknowing partner of anyone within his eye's range. This is his threat and power.
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12.
There are no glass houses. The shades are drawn and "real" life begins. Some activities are impossible in the open. And these secret events are the voyeur's game. He seeks them out with his myriad army of eyes–like the child's notion of a Deity who sees all. "Everything?" asks the child. "Yes, every–thing," they answer, and the child is left to cope with this divine intrusion.
The voyeur is masturbator, the mirror his badge, the window his prey.
Urge to come to terms with the "Outside," by absorbing, interiorizing it. I won't come out, you must come in to me. Into my womb–garden where I peer out. Where I can construct a universe within the skull, to rival the real.
She said, "Your eyes are always black."
The pupil opens to seize the object of vision.
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13.
Imagery is born of loss. Loss of the "friendly expanses." The breast is removed and the face imposes its cold, curious, forceful, and inscrutable presence.
You may enjoy life from afar. You may caress the mother only with the eyes.
You cannot touch these phantoms.
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14.
French Deck. Solitary stroker of cards. He dealt himself a hand. Turn stills of the past in unending permutations, shuffle and begin. Sort the images again. And sort them again. This game reveals germs of truth, and death.
The world becomes an apparently infinite, yet possibly finite, card game. Image combinations, permutations, comprise the world game.
A mild possession, devoid of risk, at bottom sterile. With an image there is no attendant danger.
Muybridge derived his animal subjects from the Philadelphia Zoological Garden, male performers from the University. The women were professional artists' models, also actresses and dancers, parading nude before the 48 cameras.
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15.
Films are collections of dead pictures which are given artificial insemination.
Film spectators are quite vampires.
Cinema is the most totalitarian of the arts. All energy and sensation is sucked up into the skull, a cerebral erection, skull bloated with blood. Caligula wished a single neck for all his subjects that he could behead a kingdom with one blow. Cinema is this transforming agent. The body exists for the sake of the eyes; it becomes a dry stalk to support these two soft insatiable jewels.
Film confers a kind of spurious eternity.
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16.
Each film depends upon all the others and drives you on to others. Cinema was a novelty, a scientific toy, until a sufficient body of works had been amassed, enough to create an intermittent other world, a powerful, infinite mythology to be dipped into at will.
Films have an illusion of timelessness fostered by their regular, indomitable appearance.
The appeal of cinema lies in the fear of death.
The modern East creates the greatest body of films. Cinema is a new form of an ancient tradition–the shadow play. Even their theater is an imitation of it. Born in India or China, the shadow show was aligned with religious ritual, linked with celebrations which centered around cremation of the dead.
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17.
It is wrong to assume, as some have done,
that cinema belongs to women.
Cinema is created by men for the consolidation of men.
The shadow plays originally were restricted to male audiences.
Men could view these dream shows from either side of the screen.
When women later began to be admitted, they were allowed to attend only to shadows.
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18.
Male genitals are small faces
forming trinities of thieves
and Christs
Fathers, sons, and ghosts.
A nose hangs over a wall
and two half eyes, sad eyes,
mute and handless, multiply
an endless round of victories.
These sad and secret triumphs, fought
in stalls and stamped in prisons,
glorify our walls
and scorch our vision.
A horror of empty spaces
propagates this seal on private places.
Kynaston's bride
may not appear
but the odour of her flesh
is never very far.
A drunken crowed knocked over the apparatus, and Mayhew's showman, exhibiting at Islington Green, burned up, with his mate, inside.
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19.
In 1832, Gropius was astounding Paris with his Pleorama. The audience was transformed into the crew aboard a ship engaged in battle. Fire, screaming, sailors, drowning.
Robert Baker, an Edinburgh artist, while in jail for debt, was struck by the effect of light shining through the bars of his cell through a letter he was reading, and out of this perception he invented the first Panorama, a concave, transparent picture view of the city.
This invention was soon replaced by the Diorama, which added the illusion of movement by shifting the room. Also sounds and novel lighting effects. Daguerre's London Diorama still stands in Regent's Park, a rare survival, since these shows depended always on effects of artificial light, produced by lamps or gas jets, and nearly always ended in fire.
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20.
Phantasmagoria, magic lantern shows, spectacles without substance. They achieved complete sensory experiences through noise, incense, lightning, water. There may be a time when we'll attend Weather Theaters to recall the sensation of rain.
Cinema has evolved in two paths.
One is spectacle. Like the Phantasmagoria, it's goal is the creation of a total substitute sensory world.
The other is peep show, which claims for it's realm both the erotic and the untampered observance of real life, and imitates the keyhole or voyeur's window without the need of color, noise, grandeur.
Cinema discovers its fondest affinities, not with painting, literature, or theater, but with the popular diversions–comics, chess, French and Tarot decks, magazines, and tattooing.
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21.
Cinema derives not from painting, literature, sculpture, theater, but from ancient popular wizardry. It is the contemporary manifestation of an evolving history of shadows, a delight in pictures that move, a belief in magic. Its lineage is entwined from the earliest beginning with Priests and sorcery, a summoning of phantoms. With, at first, only slight aid of the mirror and fire, men called up dark and secret visits from regions in the buried mind. In these seances, shades are spirits which ward off evil.
The spectator is a dying animal.
Invoke, palliate, drive away the Dead. Nightly.
Through ventriloquism, gestures, play with objects, and all rare variations of the body in space, the shaman signaled his "trip" to an audience which shared the journey.
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22.
In the seance, the shaman led. A sensuous panic, deliberately evoked through drugs, chants, dancing, hurls the shaman into trance. Changed voice, convulsive movement. He acts like a madman. These professional hysterics, chosen precisely for their psychotic leaning, were once esteemed. They mediated between man and spirit–world. Their mental travels formed the crux of the religious life of the tribe.
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23.
Principals of seance: to cure illness. A mood might overtake a people burdened by historical events or dying in a bad landscape. They seek deliverance from doom, death, dread. Seek possession, the visit of gods and powers, a rewinning of the life source from demon possessors. the cure is culled from ecstasy. Cure illness or prevent its visit, revive the sick, and regain stolen, soul.
It is wrong to assume that art needs the spectator in order to be. The film runs on without any eyes. The spectator cannot exist without it. It insures his existence.
The happening/the event in which ether is introduced into a roomful of people through air vents makes the chemical an actor. It's agent, or injector, is an artist–showman who creates a performance to witness himself. The people consider themselves audience, while they perform for each other, and the gas acts out poems of its own through the medium of the human body. This approaches the psychology of the orgy while remaining in the realm of the Game and its infinite permutations.
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24.
The aim of the happening is to cure boredom, wash the eyes, make childlike reconnections with the stream of life. Its lowest, widest aim is for purgation of perception. The happening attempts to engage all the senses, the total organism, and achieve total response in fact of the traditional arts which focus on narrower inlets of sensation.
Multimedias are invariably sad comedies. They work as a kind of colorful group therapy, a woeful mating of actors and viewers, a mutual semimastubation. The performers seem to need their audience and the spectators–the spectators would find these same mild titillations in a freak show or Fun Fair and fancier, more complete amusements in a Mexican cathouse.
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25.
Novices, we watch the moves of silkworms who excite their bodies in moist leaves and weave wet nests of hair and skin.
This is a model of our liquid resting world dissolving bone and melting marrow opening pores as wide as windows.
The "stranger" was sensed as greatest menace in ancient communities.
Metamorphose. An object is cut off from its name, habits, associations. Detached, it becomes only the thing, in and of itself. When this disintegration into pure existence is at last achieved, the object is free to become endlessly anything.
The subject says "I see first lots of things which dance...then everything becomes gradually connected."
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26.
Objects as they exist in time the clean eye and camera give us. Not falsified by "seeing".
When there are as yet no objects.
Early filmmakers, who—like the alchemists—delighted in a willful obscurity about their craft, in order to withhold their skills from profane onlookers.
Seperate, purify, reunite. The formula of Ars Magna, and its heir, the cinema.
The camera is androgynous machine, a kind of mechanical hermaphrodite.
In his retort the alchemist repeats the work of Nature.
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27.
Few would defend a small view of Alchemy as "Mother of Chemistry," and confuse its true goal with those external metal arts. Alchemy is an erotic science, involved in buried aspects of reality, aimed at puifying and transforming all being and matter. Not to suggest that material operations are ever abandoned. the adept hlds to both the mystical and physical work.
The alchemists detect in the sexual activity of man a correspondence with the world's creation, with the growth of plants, and with mineral formations. When they see the union of rain and earth, they see it in an erotic sense, as copulation. And this extends to all natural realms of matter. For they can picture love affairs of chemicals and stars, a romance of stones, or the fertility of fire.
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28.
Strange, fertile correspondences the alchemists sensed in unlikely orders of being. Between men and planets, plants and gestures, words and weather. These disturbing connection: an infant's cry and the stroke of silk; the whorl of an ear and an appearance of dogs in the yard; a woman's head lowered in sleep and the morning dance of cannibals; these are conjunctions which transcend the sterile signal of any "willed" montage. These juxtapositions of objects, sounds, actions, colors, weapons, wounds, and odors shine in an unheardof way, impossible ways.
Film is nothing when not an illumination of this chain of being which makes a needle poised in flesh call up explosions in a foreign capital.
Cinema returns us to anima, religion of matter, which gives each thing its special divinity and sees gods in all things and beings.
Cinema, heir of alchemy, last of an erotic science.
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29.
Surround Emperor of Body.
Bali Bali dancers
Will not break my temple.
Explorers
suck eyes into the head.
The rosy body cross
secret in flow
controls its flow.
Wrestlers
in body weights dance
and music, mimesis,body.
Swimmers
entertain embryo
sweet dangerous thrust flow.
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30.
The Lords. Events take place beyond our knowledge or control. Our lives are lived for us. We can only try to enslave others. But gradually, special perceptions are being developed. The idea of the "Lords" is beginning to form in some minds. We should enlist them into bands of perceivers to tour the labyrinth during their mysterious nocturnal appearances. The Lords have secret entrances, and they know disguises. But they give themselves away in minor ways. Too much glint of light in the eye. A wrong gesture. Too long and curious a glance.
The Lords appease us with images. They give us books, concerts, galleries, shows, cinemas. Especially the cinemas. Through art they confuse us and blind us to our enslavement. Art adorns our prison walls, keeps us silent and diverted and indifferent.
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31.
Dull lions prone on a watery beach.
The universe kneels at the swamp
to curiously eye its own raw
postures of decay
in the mirror of human consciouness.
Absent and peopled mirror, absorbent
passive to whatever visits
and retains its interest.
Door of passage to the other side,
the soul frees itself in stride.
Turn mirrors to the wall
in the house of the new dead.
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i cant get over that one song i cant remember the name wait around the train station, waitin for the train to take me from this lonesome place, a whole lotta people put me down without a change and my girl done called me a disgrace...that one
Hear my train a comin'.
I love the acoustic version.
yeah man, thats the one i meant...the whole train thing i think is important in blues history, it has like...the departing aspect, a lot to thematically do with the blues. the whole idea i think, in some kinda understated way has a kind of cosmic connection with the fact that the blues was born in the cottonfields of a race that made that ultimate departure...against their will from africa.
but yeah, the accoustic 12 string one man, its the fuckin shit, its delicious, i've listened to it end to end for a coupla hours before. Hendrix really...made things his own, like he could go to that spot in himself that could relate to the subject matter and just magnify it 20 fold.
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i cant get over that one song i cant remember the name wait around the train station, waitin for the train to take me from this lonesome place, a whole lotta people put me down without a change and my girl done called me a disgrace...that one
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i LOVE the doors in a fanatical fuckin way, i have every single little thing they've recorded and some of it is barely audible. anyone ever hear his jam with hendrix (fuck her in the ass BAYBEEEHHH!!!) i have just everything to do with the doors in the audio visual sense. i even have the movie Jim Morrison made, the art flick, HWY An American Pastoral, which i reccomend to anyone who can get his hands on it by the way, i got all of his fuckin written poetry the lords, the new creatures and beyond. i really think this band is about as good as it gets. my favorite doors song is "rock n roll is dead" which kinda takes on the form of a free-form jam, i reccomend it to anyone. the ONLY thing i can posssibly criticise the doors for is sometimes, POSSIBLY, Jims poetry goes beyond like...abstract and off into...meaningless i.e. "the west is the best, get here and we'll do the rest, the blue bus is calling us" although, u gotta give it the benefit of the doubt based on the fact that its poetry but yeh, great fuckin band! pity they carried on and made those two albums with ray manzarek (other voices and full circle) on vocals and then reformed without John Densmore and that insufferable twit Ian Asstbury.
Nirvana kick fuckin ass and so does Nico, you should get her album chelsea girls, its cool. all tommrows parties, femme fatale, im stickin with you are standout velvets tracks!!!
j/k, i was lookin for honest opinions and i still am, i thought people loved em around here for some reason.
:)
Most disappointing album of all-time?
in MY WORLD
Posted
These Days and Fairest of The Seasons by Nico are such tragic tracks, u should REALLY listen to em, they're mad cool!