Good music speaks volumes… linger in fantastic rhythmic reality: lyrically speaking
“Youthless,” Modern Guilt (2008)
I riffed on Laurel Canyon and Mulholland Drive into a recording device for eight minutes and forty-nine seconds: this is the verbatim transcription.
So, I guess the most fitting thing for me to do at this point would be to talk about what Laurel Canyon and Mulholland mean to me. Fifteen minutes. So we’re on the clock, and we’re twenty seconds in: so, to me, Mulholland Laurel Canyon is just The … I wanna say The Fame. Oh. I wanna say The Fame, but it is fame: it’s American fame. What is The Fame to me? Mulholland and Laurel Canyon are Hollywood. It’s Cal – it’s … we’ll figure it out together.
Laurel Canyon is the Hippie Movement, right. It’s this, y’know, makeshift cobblestone ver– y’know, sloping – It’s… this canyon. It’s a canyon. It’s a cavity. It’s a cavity; but it’s the vein, and it’s the artery at the same time. Y’know like, you get traction. Y’know Laurel Canyon is the Hippies, is the Sixties, it’s the counterculture. It’s Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison. Umm, it’s an odd counterculture. It’s very calm and weathered. And then you’ve got Mulholland, which is fame to me.
I date many things… cities, sounds, dreams. These things happen. When I date sounds, it is a full-stop courtship: get to know their interests, their background, their dreams, with whom they engage, do they have siblings, where do they post up to get down – can they read. These things. Eventually, the dalliance fades and something worthwhile is made. Eventually, we mix a master, and reverberate rhythms of the most loyal low-fidelity.
All of this is to say, I mingle with sonic musings. I’m a made match for muses. What does a first date sound like? Like the first take. It’s slow on the uptake, but fairly deliberate. It finds a track it grooves with, and explores it from myriad angles, pitches, and plays. We talk about life, shared experiences, we find lyrical camaraderie and beat-driven commonality. We find freedom in the music. There’s liberation in improvisation. You take an understood foundation and say: “I know you, you know you – here’s how I hear you, here’s how you appear to my ears… Here’s how the finished product unravels into the unknown.”
It gets weird. It remains inspired. It leaves few scores unsettled. It’s somewhat manic. It’s experimental. It is not interested in how you move, more so in the guarantee that you move and what compels you to move at all. It, takes, its, time.
Black and white, oft-tred and well-read. Speak easy, swing hard. Record this life in absolute truth, to mine the media and peak the press, to establish mint, you beautiful bard.
If… IF I were to blinkk this I’d probably say … Fame Kills … like chewing on pearls … oysters and aphrodisies, flights of fancy and fights of fantasy … drunk in love on cake cake cake … love made edible incredible Anna Mae … the chosen one selecting apparent wanderlust servitude … will and desire … grace to transpire … mental gender on Parade … bonfire of the Vanity Fair … Parisian blazes … Harlem faces … eternal embers … Pompeii … knockout …
Russian Roulette is not the same without a gun, and baby when it’s love if it’s not rough you’ll never come … masculine … feminine … rocket number nine blast off to the Martian … Hephaestus in the bath haus … Aphrodite perched upon the partition …
#serve #face … because the sidewalk is your #champselysees
Pulse the signature sound as apropos a sonic aesthetic as any you could possibly fathom. Be the rainbow coalition rallying cry emerging as the pulse of the marginalized and socially-oppressed communities. The uber-derivative genre infusing indigenous sounds with new synth technology. The cultural anomaly with which to be reckoned, that self-contextualized subculture hidden-in-plain-view.
Be the rainbow-haired bad romancer emerging as the pulse of the Generation Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell fringe networks. Bathe in uber-derivative artistry. Pull identity from Lorca, Queen, Motley Crue, In Living Color, Peggy Bundy, Kardinal Offishall, Stanley Kubrick, Yoko Ono. Wear it. Infuse influence with modern Pop veneer. Bear the cultural anomaly with which to be reckoned, that self-contextualized subversive supernova hidden-in-plain-view, the bleeding red corpse of American celebrity hanging from the rafters.