DJ Spooky’s mix for the African Pavilion at the ’07 Venice Biennale is entitled “Ghost World: A Story in Sound,” and presents the continent as a virtual, imagined and real location. Generations and musical styles intertwine, the people’s prophets lie next to pop star profiteers, the inspiration looms forward and tradition looks back. It’s pretty great!
Listen to/download it HERE.
Mr. Jones: “Is it too late to get off the grid?”
Mrs. Jones: “Only if we get wireless…”
“Footballistic” – Arsene Wenger
Ambient sound y vision installation at Pace-Wildenstein: dark room + fog machine + patterned light projections = cold spectres of techno’s long-ass nights.
More audio, video, y phemera at Alva Noto.
Dancing Dead are Here Again
Adam Goldstone’s ghost, NYC 11.14.06
Cat Power, Memphis 11.15.06
Never been to a party like this before, mixing between the hesitantly living and the after-lifers, a get-together for solitary stories. I’ve never buried a man I’ve owed money to, who could not collect it from me. Nor entertained by the re-animated dead, whose striking second acts carry remarkable professional panache. Pockets full of gloom and gladness. 5 stars.
In the meat-packed West Village, the smell hinted at an opportunity to exume the past (again), unexpectedly old friends plugged into ancient memories, saluting an ecstatic romp that maybe was blown out of proportion to begin with, no? Alienated into a long slow decline, the tradition reminisces – not, remembers — a mythical peak. The friends it spawns are bigger than life (and do the same drugs, you got some?), wired for an urban current frying the circuitry when left on for too long. Bi-sexual. Know the switches that starts riots, but never been in one. Ahhh, but he was a handsome lad, hips brighter than schools of Ivy Leaguers. [There should be one more sentence…]
At the Deli by the river, the current flowed in the other direction. The guest of honor wore the black Audrey Hepburn outfit that made the occasion seem dress-up, though uniform of choice was a fashionable mix of slick thrift cut and awakened slack, adorning the young and old alack. Youth re-frayed into a familiar mid-life, and back again. Visit a city twice in ten years, and run into the same random people, different drugs, familiar hazes — only new records. The new record smiles a lot, she smiles alongside it, using her own teeth. The camera captured them both well.
Everybody goes into these things for different reasons.
Liquid conscience, the seed separating from the protective plasma, is spilling out the cracks. The yokes of my tears still hatch plots and bury good ideas in cemeteries of old notebooks. Neatly filed, hardly boiled; in the long run, zero-calory and empty of freedom. Maybe time to go on a stricter diet.
Dan Hartman Koans (for dark day revivals)
No more timing
Each tear that falls from my eye
Climbing up from down below
Where the street sees me lonely for you
I can dream about you
If I can’t hold you tonight.
— from “Streets of Fire” (dir. Walter Hill, 1984), rock and roll as coked-up whore servicing Meat Loaf and T. Rex on the set of “West Side Story.”