Laughing Pottypants
I'm posting this on my blogger blog. It IS fucking stupid that it shows up on facebook, and I can't remember how I did that or how to turn it off, so.. hopping along. That's an excuse. I'm not turning it off. I am good at figuring out, "I do this for a living."
I have been listening to a lot of noise music, ramping up to do the album I have also been punctu...ally digging into old recordings. Recordings I do, reader. I do them. I make music and sometimes sounds that you wouldn't call music. Odd you, kiri, wouldn't even call it music. You, other exemplar templar, bastion of the weird wyrd, sister.. placebo of a person acting to type - you too, would be too tight and tawdry of spirit, inkling to treasure and reserve reverence for those never brethren one such as me, mastermind-cum-masturbator of misgivings, waster of your time with this, that, and the thing anything but what you would call - you, avid appreciator and eager name-dropper of all things obfuscated and reject, little-known and catalogue-combed - you, part and parcil (it's a prescription drug i'm making up here), pit and patter, betrothed to and clutching to the heart strings the auteur noise musician, the mangler of "is it art" and "but i don't like it" who graces still photoblogs and 'least likely to be darling fucking adorable' - you, of space and comma - you. To call music this sound I've made an assemblage of myself, would not.
I make music, and sometimes that you would not call music, emblazoned to a crispness deserving of texture. Amon Tobin: "Fuck the visuals - we're sinking every last penny into the sound system".
I found an old sample titled "crunchbass_nonsense.aiff" is a very, very fitting title for a recording of this ridiculously crunchy bass-heavy explosion of a wall, a fist from each speaker. CrunchhypenBasshyphenNonsense was the basis for a song called "IPcode", something an Owen asked to have made very late in the morning years ago. 4am late. And tonight, I was to be done digging and put the bassline on my own fuck-the-visuals and immediately, upon hearing this sound for the first time in these years, realized that the song would work terrifically well live. I've been struggling to find ways of performing this new material... it's all environmental and fuck-ro-scopic. Perhaps, to see it made, a line could be crossed. I could lose your favor. You may begin to think I'm not actually.. cool. I'm being gratuitous. I'm being a disrespectful braggart, a Herculean timewaster, only not deserving of such high-edifying verbiage. Not that you have it in you, you fucking slag.
Slag. noun. stony waste matter separated from metals during the smelting or refining of ore. Oh, let's bask here for a moment. Worship me, my rabbits. Swallow every stroke of every letter. This garbage is on your mind. I'm the boy who has just discovered my penis, and I'm peeing on your everything.
collide-a-whirl. I put on this bassline and fucking danced for an hour. I don't generally do this, so all signs point to rekindling old flames.
I want to record the noise album NOW, but I also want to start work on the style-unnamed album 3, since it will take a really long time to do. Like Like.. in the way songs like have singles, this album.. in this series like.. will be the single like. It'll be the like album that stands out as the like clear "winner" amongst you like types who appreciate "like music" and, unlike the sonic hummingbird of my previous personal example, do not come within an arm's reach of "like noise". It'll catch you with it's effortless melodic existence, and pull you into the depths of sound so direct and soluble you don't realize it is not like, is as fucking weird as the next 'entry' in the series.. haha you're fucked. you will listen to it high, and it will be.. pudding. you'll have to turn it off. high. you don't know how to tell, insolent whelp! i spurn you to death, pitworth. i spurn you as i would spurn my very self, bleeding with wounds i've sewn open. i'm going to have sex with these portmanteau. pluralesbian. plebatory. punct.
you can't even tell which two words i've sandwiched for those last two. THEY AREN'T PORTMANTEAU, you'll scream.. only.. you'll use the "s" form plural. look it straight in the I love you. I've always loved you. I've written letters to myself, telling me of my love.
i'm also having a humdinger of a time deciding what christmas ditties to put to tape and party this winter break. i've one Little Drummer Boy in the sack, Three Kings have RSVPeed, and my third attendee is only a Silent Night away. I know of one more to invite, a musical portmanteau of the James Bond theme and Thurl Ravencroft's masterpiece. I'd like two more, and welcome suggestions.
I have been listening to a lot of noise music, ramping up to do the album I have also been punctu...ally digging into old recordings. Recordings I do, reader. I do them. I make music and sometimes sounds that you wouldn't call music. Odd you, kiri, wouldn't even call it music. You, other exemplar templar, bastion of the weird wyrd, sister.. placebo of a person acting to type - you too, would be too tight and tawdry of spirit, inkling to treasure and reserve reverence for those never brethren one such as me, mastermind-cum-masturbator of misgivings, waster of your time with this, that, and the thing anything but what you would call - you, avid appreciator and eager name-dropper of all things obfuscated and reject, little-known and catalogue-combed - you, part and parcil (it's a prescription drug i'm making up here), pit and patter, betrothed to and clutching to the heart strings the auteur noise musician, the mangler of "is it art" and "but i don't like it" who graces still photoblogs and 'least likely to be darling fucking adorable' - you, of space and comma - you. To call music this sound I've made an assemblage of myself, would not.
I make music, and sometimes that you would not call music, emblazoned to a crispness deserving of texture. Amon Tobin: "Fuck the visuals - we're sinking every last penny into the sound system".
I found an old sample titled "crunchbass_nonsense.aiff" is a very, very fitting title for a recording of this ridiculously crunchy bass-heavy explosion of a wall, a fist from each speaker. CrunchhypenBasshyphenNonsense was the basis for a song called "IPcode", something an Owen asked to have made very late in the morning years ago. 4am late. And tonight, I was to be done digging and put the bassline on my own fuck-the-visuals and immediately, upon hearing this sound for the first time in these years, realized that the song would work terrifically well live. I've been struggling to find ways of performing this new material... it's all environmental and fuck-ro-scopic. Perhaps, to see it made, a line could be crossed. I could lose your favor. You may begin to think I'm not actually.. cool. I'm being gratuitous. I'm being a disrespectful braggart, a Herculean timewaster, only not deserving of such high-edifying verbiage. Not that you have it in you, you fucking slag.
Slag. noun. stony waste matter separated from metals during the smelting or refining of ore. Oh, let's bask here for a moment. Worship me, my rabbits. Swallow every stroke of every letter. This garbage is on your mind. I'm the boy who has just discovered my penis, and I'm peeing on your everything.
collide-a-whirl. I put on this bassline and fucking danced for an hour. I don't generally do this, so all signs point to rekindling old flames.
I want to record the noise album NOW, but I also want to start work on the style-unnamed album 3, since it will take a really long time to do. Like Like.. in the way songs like have singles, this album.. in this series like.. will be the single like. It'll be the like album that stands out as the like clear "winner" amongst you like types who appreciate "like music" and, unlike the sonic hummingbird of my previous personal example, do not come within an arm's reach of "like noise". It'll catch you with it's effortless melodic existence, and pull you into the depths of sound so direct and soluble you don't realize it is not like, is as fucking weird as the next 'entry' in the series.. haha you're fucked. you will listen to it high, and it will be.. pudding. you'll have to turn it off. high. you don't know how to tell, insolent whelp! i spurn you to death, pitworth. i spurn you as i would spurn my very self, bleeding with wounds i've sewn open. i'm going to have sex with these portmanteau. pluralesbian. plebatory. punct.
you can't even tell which two words i've sandwiched for those last two. THEY AREN'T PORTMANTEAU, you'll scream.. only.. you'll use the "s" form plural. look it straight in the I love you. I've always loved you. I've written letters to myself, telling me of my love.
i'm also having a humdinger of a time deciding what christmas ditties to put to tape and party this winter break. i've one Little Drummer Boy in the sack, Three Kings have RSVPeed, and my third attendee is only a Silent Night away. I know of one more to invite, a musical portmanteau of the James Bond theme and Thurl Ravencroft's masterpiece. I'd like two more, and welcome suggestions.
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