Panisches Liederbuch (NFF Traum der Langeweile)
No Fun 2005
Two big questions:
Why were we (Sightings/Tom Smith) asked to attend?
There are many possible motives. Primarily, Carlos is an avid and increasingly effective networker. He enjoys the music that he promotes. While he likely prefers Fe-Mail - who I found to be almost perversely inane - over Sightings, he recognizes a need for balance in curatorial presentations.
This is not meant as a slag against Mr. Giffoni; No Fun is his baby, a reflection of his sensibilities. That I in no way share that aesthetic (except, of course, within the narrow aperture of coincidence) is ultimately of little import.
(I congratulate CG for another successful effort, and bade him not to ask me back should he in future ply more noise wares. 'Taint my milieu.)
Given the aforementioned discontinuities, why then did we agree to participate?
There are three excuses:
1) We took advantage of an opportunity to write and perform together again.
2) We knew how much fun it would be to blow three days of turgid, bellicose horseshit right out of the (Hook's fetid pools of standing) water.
3) We desired to celebrate Mark Morgan's return to the city after he'd endured five months of stewed carrots and Jesse McCartney mixtapes at a sordid Michigan teen ashram.
A prejudice often expressed:
I have long found noise music to be utterly, absolutely, intolerably dull. As hidebound as bluegrass (which I nonetheless enjoy), it is a joyless orthodoxy.
(Which may have been the point for Merzbow, but which seems to elude almost everyone else.)
It is to post-punk what Widespread Panic is to Albert Hofmann.
(In other words, not my cup of vermin. )
As I boarded my flight Monday morning at 6:15 AM, I found my biases had not been derailed.
Owing to our rehearsal schedule (and my general fatigue - no sleep Friday night), I saw only those performances occurring Sunday, March 20, and then only those after 9:30 PM.
None were in any way surprising, provocative, or stimulating. I found myself smiling the odd half-smile, but nothing more.
I would be remiss if I failed to note my regard of Joke Lanz (who I like very much as a person and performer), the members of Double Leopards (they are to be lauded for their exploratory ethos, regardless of the set they delivered Sunday - I'd love to work with them, although after reading this I fear they may not vouchsafe my calling card), and Peter Rehberg (whose duet with Lasse Marhaug was a godawful bore, but whose care in the selection and processing of sounds should not be undervalued).
Pita, most distressingly, cannot look you in the eye during a conversation. Always a warning sign. (Decent chap, though, and all that.)
I enjoyed seeing certain of my friends at the venue, but I was otherwise wholly disengaged from the event. I brought a good book.
End of scene report!
End of scene? Of course not. As we have learned from decades of zombie flicks, the dead, inevitably, become ambulatory. Noise has been dead forever. It has shambled many thousands of miles; it utters its baleful moan, and it congregates with others of its unfortunate ilk.
Me? I prefer John Philip Sousa.
His compositions were crippling in their martial hysteria. "U.S. Field Artillery March"? Total badass.
PS: Did anyone else notice how much weight John Olson has put on? (Canseco jabs, or marriage flab?) And that his new look (Tiny Tim, circa 1971) is marvelous?
Love,
TS
Two big questions:
Why were we (Sightings/Tom Smith) asked to attend?
There are many possible motives. Primarily, Carlos is an avid and increasingly effective networker. He enjoys the music that he promotes. While he likely prefers Fe-Mail - who I found to be almost perversely inane - over Sightings, he recognizes a need for balance in curatorial presentations.
This is not meant as a slag against Mr. Giffoni; No Fun is his baby, a reflection of his sensibilities. That I in no way share that aesthetic (except, of course, within the narrow aperture of coincidence) is ultimately of little import.
(I congratulate CG for another successful effort, and bade him not to ask me back should he in future ply more noise wares. 'Taint my milieu.)
Given the aforementioned discontinuities, why then did we agree to participate?
There are three excuses:
1) We took advantage of an opportunity to write and perform together again.
2) We knew how much fun it would be to blow three days of turgid, bellicose horseshit right out of the (Hook's fetid pools of standing) water.
3) We desired to celebrate Mark Morgan's return to the city after he'd endured five months of stewed carrots and Jesse McCartney mixtapes at a sordid Michigan teen ashram.
A prejudice often expressed:
I have long found noise music to be utterly, absolutely, intolerably dull. As hidebound as bluegrass (which I nonetheless enjoy), it is a joyless orthodoxy.
(Which may have been the point for Merzbow, but which seems to elude almost everyone else.)
It is to post-punk what Widespread Panic is to Albert Hofmann.
(In other words, not my cup of vermin. )
As I boarded my flight Monday morning at 6:15 AM, I found my biases had not been derailed.
Owing to our rehearsal schedule (and my general fatigue - no sleep Friday night), I saw only those performances occurring Sunday, March 20, and then only those after 9:30 PM.
None were in any way surprising, provocative, or stimulating. I found myself smiling the odd half-smile, but nothing more.
I would be remiss if I failed to note my regard of Joke Lanz (who I like very much as a person and performer), the members of Double Leopards (they are to be lauded for their exploratory ethos, regardless of the set they delivered Sunday - I'd love to work with them, although after reading this I fear they may not vouchsafe my calling card), and Peter Rehberg (whose duet with Lasse Marhaug was a godawful bore, but whose care in the selection and processing of sounds should not be undervalued).
Pita, most distressingly, cannot look you in the eye during a conversation. Always a warning sign. (Decent chap, though, and all that.)
I enjoyed seeing certain of my friends at the venue, but I was otherwise wholly disengaged from the event. I brought a good book.
End of scene report!
End of scene? Of course not. As we have learned from decades of zombie flicks, the dead, inevitably, become ambulatory. Noise has been dead forever. It has shambled many thousands of miles; it utters its baleful moan, and it congregates with others of its unfortunate ilk.
Me? I prefer John Philip Sousa.
His compositions were crippling in their martial hysteria. "U.S. Field Artillery March"? Total badass.
PS: Did anyone else notice how much weight John Olson has put on? (Canseco jabs, or marriage flab?) And that his new look (Tiny Tim, circa 1971) is marvelous?
Love,
TS
Comments
Re R&G: Dave Philips informed me of Rudolf's visa snafu. Too bad. Mr. Eb.er's recordings manifestly transcend genre. I first met Dave and Rudolf in 1996; they're both splendid fellows.
Didn't catch Mr. Purient, although the word on Bedford Ave was that either that he "rocked" (whatever that might connote) or blew, totally. Depends on whose Depends you sniff.
Lucas Abela, with his glass-eating routine, is clearly the man to topple. By comparison, Purient's antics would seem to be rather more obtuse, a distant fiftieth.
(The sound of my ceiling fan wobbling off its fourteen-degree blade pitch is, of course, a million times more interesting...)
Lest this appear to be an anti-P diatribe, be comforted. I care only about one genre - Tom Smith. I am necessarily absolute. It is as it should be...
Thanks for your post!
My life is good, and my desires are met. I get plenty of attention...
I am not resentful of others' art.
I abhor that which I abhor, however. My tastes, admittedly, are elitist.
If my opinions have provoked you, then you must ultimately examine yourself. My thoughts regarding "noise" have long been known; I wrote my first essay on the topic in 1995.
My province is life, knowledge, empathy, the unknown. My aesthetic is ecumenical.
That noted, I'm under no obligation to love, or even attempt to empathize, with everything. We all respond to varying stimuli. Nothing I witnessed on Sunday was sufficiently stimulating; for me, it was all a crashing bore.
That's not "hating," to borrow the graying slang you so recklessly employ. (Just fuckin' around with you, mind.) It's my opinion. Take it, or jack it into an array of effects pedals and make a non-scene out of it.
As to your ruminations on noise, I'll leave them to you, and other scholars.
It just don't move me. I need far more.
Thanks Again,
TS
Who's John Olsen? Most famously, an Australian abstract painter of wide renown. His "Darlinghurst Cats" is a favorite of mine. Less well-known, but rather important to this latest noise revival, is the John Olsen of Wolf Eyes, a prolific Michigan trio. Their releases are spotty, redolent of the best work of their 1970s-80s predecessors. A 2004 album, "Burned Mind," was issued on the Sub Pop label, the Seattle imprint most commonly identified as a fount from which much late 80s "grunge" music sprung. That release brough them to a wider audience, and helped fan the fires of 2004's oft-hyped noise explosion. Wolf Eyes are best experienced live; their performance at No Fun 2004 was very impressive. (I told them so, immediately after they'd left the stage.)
Does that help?
Best,
TS
Non-Noisily,
TS
If you doubt the veracity of my assertion, I only implore you to disprove it using instruments of your own choosing. You may find that I'm not half as hateful as I have been accused of being.
Re Mitchell Bros.: the brilliant Greg Chapman wrote the sex stuff, and I penned the political stuff. We combined our notes, and I gave Greg the credit for the composite. Draw your own conclusions. That was the shot first fired across the bow. At the "height" of the Miami "noise scene" (TLASILA, Harry Pussy, et. al.) no less.
Thanks for your generous and flattering words re Shave. Much obliged. I hope that we won't disappoint you with Noon and Eternity.
Re NFF 04: I love jungle, and follow its convolutions with considerable avidity. It underwent one hell of a renaissance ca. '03, and the best of the subsequent releases (hundreds each year) are often, in my wretched opinion, jaw-droppingly great. Although the genre is very tightly codified (much like our lil' lost pal noise), it nonetheless gives me great joy. (I'm a very physical, intensely extroverted, preturnaturally expressive doofus, and I dig anything that lights the fuse. Noise, unfortunately, only dampens my nervous system. I've never been into drones, dull roars, artless shrieks, or barbituates.)
D+B was the right call to make in 2004.
Re the future of NFF: I'm sure Carlos will mix things up for subsequent fests. I'd like to bow out, however. I've done it twice, and that's sufficient.
Re Sightings' opinions: Mark Morgan seemed thoroughly appalled by the proceedings, although he had kind words for Wayne Rogers on Friday (?) and Mouthus on Saturday. Richard Hoffman, ditto. John Lockie, ditto. At least I think that's what they said. For additional details, ask them yourself.
My millieu? Unknown. I don't want to know. I love the mystery.
Re school: I'm in Georgia and I study Media Ethics.
Best,
Tom
My "specs," therefore, are absolute. I walk as I talk. No one need join me. (Please, do not join me!)
I am orthopractic. Process is the least of my concerns.
Re Red Hook: I was unimpressed, clumsily inveigled. To my ears, hippie shit.
(Forgive my informality.)
I heard nothing I did not know; all had long been inculcated. I needed more.
Whether or not the scene exists, whether it subsists within mimetic wavelengths or folds (cough), and despite its meaning for anyone else, it means only "tag," "defined field," to me. All scenes are ghastly spectacles. None have utility for me.
I nonetheless wish all within the cortege happiness.
Few seemed genuinely suffused with joy at The Hook (Kyle Lapidus, Rat, some of the Kentucky crew, etc., being notable exceptions); it was a gangrenous tableaux, the "smug satisfaction" I wrote of in Wigmaker, writ horribly large.) Lest I seem a humorless tw*t, I shall now insert a joke: Pabst Blue Ribbon!
NFF '05 was no muzak festival. It was a flea market, one with reinforced identity branding.
One day was plenty.
Otherwise, you axe? Life is good, considering the funnel cloud twisting overhead. (She ain't dipped just yet.) Hope this finds you well.
Best,
Tom
(Pardon the parody. Just can't fucking help myself.)
Yurp, that you're you (within parameters) is a good goddamn thing. I welcome future commentaries.
Everything around me smells of L'eau d'Issey. (But, that's to be expected, non?)
Cheers,
TS
Feel free to weigh in whenever, wherever. There's nothing terribly esoteric or oblique about the more recent exchanges; positions are being trotted out, analyses are floated... The idea, as always, is to engender critique (without resort to spume and rancor). You don't have to have attended NFF (in any capacity) to form an opinion on the topics we've touched upon: genre, organizational heirarchy within "scenes," aesthetic perception, lingusitic gymnastics, etc. You only need a brain, or at least be in a persistent vegatative state...
Down to it: Firstly, I've got no beef with Pita whatsoever. After all, he helped release the initial Ohne album, and he's been very generous to Daniel Lowebnbrucke. I wrote the "eye contact" paragraph with what I considered to be obvious humor. (Perhaps I should go a wee bit broader in future.) 'Tis true, however, that he always manages to look askance when we chat. Could be shyness, disinterest, any number of things, I suppose. We did have a pretty cool chat once in Wien, as I recall. He seemed to have his orbs locked in at the time, but then again we were fairly hammered. Anyhow, I dig some of his recorded output (he's got very good instincts when it comes to sound selection), but live, well, I could just as well do without the racket. I'd recommend an editor as well. I could have condensed Lasse and Peter's NFF 05 set into a sweet three minute apertif. That's just me, mind you. Jesus, Carlos, you know that I hate noise, and abjure genre completely. Can't we start a mellow coffee klatch instead? A book circle? Quiet walks on the fucking beach? Anything that doesn't involve stuff we already know? Being around all those noise collector hippies made my skin crawl all the way to Harlem... I know that you were happy, but I needed the feeding tube removed bigger than big time.
I love you, CG, and I'm not slagging you. You're Miami Gold, and I don't step on old peeps from the beach. I noted my regard for your efforts: I almost lost my mind with Tora way back in '96, and here you've pulled off two of 'em. All praises are due.
I just see everything differently. I'm an artist, after all. I crave the not-known to an insane degree. I think I've got this noise thing fairly well knocked down and dissected. Whaddya want me to do? Lie? Carlito, you know that's not my style. Our aesthetics seem to veer - so what? You won't drink with me now? (I predict that we will again share bar space.)
I'm positive you'll be throwing curve balls if there's a NFF '06. More power to your arm!
Our differences make the art stronger.
Thanks for your kind words re Sightings/TS, Shave, my wife of 53 years Rat, etc.
Best,
Tom
PS: By the way, my vote for the most important muso in the last twenty would go to xxxxxx xxxxxx. (In other words, I find such distinctions ultimately unimportant. Process, categorization, codifying... Blah. As Ramones so sagely noted, "Gimme Gimme Abstruse Author and Effective Side Illumination!" I prefer to leave all the pole positioning crap to our hillbilly pals over at NASCAR.
I agree. I'm all noised out.
Watched the newly restored version of Fritz Lang's Metropolis earlier. Man, did they do a bang-up restoration job; unbelievable depth, tonal resonance... A quarter of the original negative elements are apparently lost, but this version still clocks in approx. forty minutes longer than previous prints. Von Harbou's narrative is at last fully realized; with earlier versions, it always seemed scrambled.
Have any of you ever seen Lang's American films from the 1940s? All very intriguing, especially the westerns. The Return of Frank James is one of my favorites...
TS
I love your "bluesgrass" coinage.
With n*ise having long morphed into comforting New Age palliative, your missive points the way to a paradigm that may yet confound: wire your crazy ass to a PA, and let blurt. The "wha-?" factor missing from NFF's Sunday segment (mind, I only saw the upstairs stuff, maybe 12% of the fest in total) would surely be REINSERTED IN NUTTY SCREAMING CAPS!@!
Ben Wolcott raved and raved about Lucas's performance in Los Angeles. Mr. Abela's brain plate seems to have been either replaced with a urinal cake, or tamped back into position with the assistance of GM assembly line door frame welder-bots. Bravo!
Joke Lanz similarly ruled in Paris (at Ohne's second ever-gig) in 2002. (Very effective perf. art.) Dave Philips has the same sort of lurking potential...
So, I'm a hater, eh? Oh, alright then. I hate you too!
Salam,
TOM SMITH!!!!!!
Heads up: try "preview" mode next time.
TS
PS: I'll delete 'em anyway, for the sake of cognitive dissonance if nuthin' else.
Firstly, I wouldn't be concerned with being "out of your league." That's rubbish. You've asked cogent and insightful questions. Besides, my IQ hovers unsteadily at the south end of the number line. Considering that I'm the host, you're doing fine.
As to your remarks: yes, I agree with your assessment that a desire for an absense or abatement of content, inasmuch as substance (or contextualization, or narrative) can be emeliorated from any performance endeavor, may be a principal motiovation for certain n*ise adherents. (By "certain," I imply a very small handful. For most, an emollient squall seems sufficient.) This essential monocromatic character of noise (as a genre, a scene, a sputtering neon place holder on the fucked-out boulevard of record collector lifestyle offerings) is its ultimate flaw, of course. Slightly diverting as faux-transgressive kitsch, and inoffensive as an occasional garnish, but who needs power electronics and parsley 24/7? The serious movers and shakers have long gone elsewhere.
IMHO, beauty will always trump iterations of "absence." That noted, I would be wrong not to add that moments, brief snatches of NFF sets I've otherwise been critical of, struck me as being quite lovely. Thus, the "odd half-smiles" previously aluded to. (I'm always slightly pleased by sound, despite its sources of origin...) Such moments are short-lived, of course. Mainly, I just can't take any of its supposed or intended frissons seriously. It's D&D for post-punk 'tards.
How to rectify? I recommend taking an antipodal tact. Suppose you're a huge Matthew Shipp fan, and your like-minded pals often indulge in scabrous roundtable discussions of music they consider well beneath their contempt; prefab pop annoyances, for starters. The name "Clay Aiken" makes everyone at the table groan. You should thus learn everything you can about the guy. Imagine the power you wield over your friends when, three weeks later, you exclaim "Dudes, I'm blowing off the Charles Lloyd concert! My gal and I have fifth row Aiken tix at the OfficeMax Arena!" Creative opportinities for exploitation and documentation would soon abound. Guaranteed.
Taking that chance would lift any number of veils. More pointedly, have any of us the courage to step out of the rat cage, outside mediated spheres of prescribed assumptions? Not to toot my treated and effects-laden horn o'ermuch, but I said my farewells to the supposedly "nourishing" Miami noise scene a decade ago. I prefer to run blindly into walls than hoist a banner for anything. Across the n*ise-globe, little seems to have changed in the intervening years. A few cats have gotten a bit more attention, journalists can summon two or three more references. Otherwise, the "movement" seems stuck firmly in reverse. Not my millieu, indeed.
Re Nautical Almanac: I dig Twig's headspace, and I think he's capable of greatness. I agree that the albums aren't terribly arresting, but he's still finding his way. I predict he'll be one of the few to escape from genre conventions.
Best,
TS
The name of John Olsen, the Australian painter, does indeed differ from that of John Olson, the Nautical Almanac bassist and frequent Monotract lyricist. Olson also runs the Choclate Mank label and, when time allows, sits in with Bristol trip-hop icons Rapid Attack. Wish I knew more about the guy, but Hawaiian folk just isn't my milllieu.
Thanks Again,
Ttom
des Mouches? Yeah, it's pretty damned cool, as Holy Grails of 70s French pop-psych go. I've yet to hear more than online preview snippets, however. Looking forward to digging in at length. I am still blasting Gainsbourg's crazy-ass dub album Aux Armes et Cætera, howev'. Nothing but happiness.
Nice pick up, Sweets.
New thread approaching...
TS
Glad I could be of sercive.
Best,
John Olsen
TS