Monday, November 18, 2019

Guitar: Pat Metheny's Journey into Noise

I am just finishing up a solo electric guitar album. During the process, I naturally dialed up some of the solo guitar records that caught my attention over the years. Today we're going to visit one of the more forgotten attempts, even if its progenitor is one of the better known of the guitarists I listened to.

There are several obvious solo electric guitar records: Neil Young's Dead Man, Sonny Sharrock's Guitar, Fred Frith's Guitar Solos, various electric guitar experiments in late period John Fahey, any one of a handful of Derek Bailey odysseys, etc. Of all the guitarists I listened, Pat Metheny is the highest profile (save Neil Young, of course). Yet, 1994's Zero Tolerance for Silence sunk almost as immediately as it surfaced, an anathema to both the hardcore fans of Metheny's light, cerebral jazz, and the growing legion of guitar noise aficionados spawned by the 80s NYC downtown scene. Way too noisy for Metheny's mainstream crowd, lacking of the extended techniques obsessed over by the new noise heads, Zero Tolerance fell into the cracks between.

Zero Tolerance is fairly simple: solid body electric guitar, humbucking pickups, high gain amp; no effects, no feedback, no oddball tunings, no "tabletop guitar" techniques . . . just Metheny shredding atonal improvs with his multi-tracked self. Technically, it's all rather straightforward, but the cumulative effect was compared by some to Lou Reed's notorious Metal Machine Music (though not by anyone who has actually listened to both records). It's understandable that Metheny's crowd wouldn't cotton to his self-described "2-dimensional" foray, but in spite of Thurston Moore's endorsement, it didn't catch on with the avant improv crowd either.

When this record came out, I was eight years into my avocation as a noise guitarist, living in Bloomington and working with two noisy rock improvising outfits, The Belgian Waffles! and The Catkillers, and many other inspiring friends and musicians, some of whom I still work with to this day. Like pretty much everyone else, I was at a loss on this one: in spite of the comparisons to Metal Machine Music, a record I was (and am) quite fond of, it very clearly was not trying to achieve the same thing. There were no kaleidoscopic phantoms hiding in the sheets of noise, there was no  annihilation of space like the burning of the oxygen in the air. Though almost as noisy at points as MMM, it never loses its pointillist articulation: unlike pretty much everything I was listening to at the time, you could easily imagine this scored and accurately reproduced by an acoustic string quartet. Noisy as it was, it had none of the touchpoints I looked for, no refusal of music as music, no refusal of guitar as guitar. And yet, I found it compelling, though perhaps not compelling enough to listen to on a regular basis.

25 years later, I am starting to get more of a vocabulary to deal with ZTFS. After years of neglect, I pulled it back out and loaded it into my changer with 5 other guitar discs. In the intervening time, I have delved deep into classical, avant garde and otherwise, as well as a lot of free improv with acoustic roots. Still, it doesn't quite grab me by the throat: it feels sterile - something that is perhaps intentional, as evidenced by Metheny's characterization of the music as "2 dimensional" - and tends to live in an uncomfortable abstract zone that fails in the way that many Jackson Pollock paintings fail. As far as my own interests go, I am not and never will be interested in the primarily technical problems he was probing, and the fact that he only explored this particular mode once ensures that any answers he found remain unarticulated, and that any development he could make remains arrested . . . if indeed he found anything compelling to work on in these sessions.

At the end, I still find this album interesting, if not exactly essential listening. It definitely has its moments; perhaps these moments will continue to reveal themselves to me in the future.

Below is the album in its entirety, since it obviously is meant to function as one piece with five movements. If you feel the need to only sample part of this, listen to part four, which has an almost funky quality to it in places. Or, get all five parts rolling at once to get that much closer to Metal Machine Music . . . actually, yeah, that's the way to listen to this. Gets a lot more fun.

That's it for now. More solo guitar discs sometime in the future.










Tuesday, July 30, 2019

Shut Up!


Work going on. Sometimes though, it's best to just step back and listen. Lots of stuff in the drafts, but need to get some weight here before I go back to Star Trek lists and old records. In the meantime, here's this summer's reading list:

Paul de Man Allegories of Reading
Jean-Paul Sartre Saint Genet
Raymond Roussel Locus Solus
Michel Foucault Death and the Labyrinth
Joseph Conrad Under Western Eyes
Harry Cleaver Reading Capital Politically
Terry Eagleton Exiles and Emigres 
J. G. Ballard The Complete Short Stories of J G Ballard
Michel Foucault Madness and Civilization
Jack Spicer My Vocabulary Did This to Me
Cornelius Cardew Stockhausen Serves Imperialism
Monique Wittig One Is Not Born a Woman
Emma Goldman Anarchism and Other Essays

More soon, hopefully by the end of August.

Wednesday, June 19, 2019

Humbly Submitted: Your Juneteenth Playlist

Allow me to offer a possible soundtrack to your Juneteenth celebrations.

And let me also observe that Google's spellcheck, like the US government, does not recognize Juneteenth.






Wednesday, March 6, 2019

Ash Wednesday

ashes fall late this year
"to dust you shall return"
as if, in deep cold dark
mortality
is somehow in question

wet
not much in the way of dust
windows rattle the howl
whistles down between trees
bungalows & shotguns
swirling animate
clacking stick trees
bone chilling
wet

clacking sticks
waving palms
broken body hanging from a tree
Ash Wednesday a taunt
from dust you came
to dust you shall return

Thursday, February 21, 2019

Pete and His Dad Joe

Pete Buttigieg is really working that Obama thing hard, isn’t he? Maybe he will win the presidency and get a Nobel prize for not being Trump just like Obama won a Nobel for not being Bush.

There was an article in The Nation ostensibly about what he learned from his father Joe, who was a leading Gramsci scholar and literary theorist, and the conclusion of the article is that Pete learned to be quiet about his beliefs and work with everyone … you know, the usual centrist bullshit.

But you know what? I studied under Joe not long after he got to Notre Dame, and while it is true he did not challenge his students on a directly political level in the classroom, his reading lists left little doubt as to what discussions should be on the table.

But the most vivid image I have of Joe Buttigieg is from 1981. On a sunny spring day toward the end of the semester, he let class out early and advised us that we were welcome to join him at a rally protesting the commencement address of President Ronald Reagan. This was not long after Reagan got shot … as a matter of fact, it was his first public appearance after the assassination attempt. Now Reagan was extremely popular at a right wing Notre Dame in the first place, and post-shooting, even the liberals thought the disrespect of a protest bordered on treason. So the counter-protesters outnumbered the protesters easily 10-1, and the windows of the dorm that towered over the small elevated wooden stage boomed Doors music out the windows - I don’t remember what song, but that was a year after No One Here Gets Out Alive came out, and all the bros were pumping the Doors 24/7, and it was killing me - and dropping bedsheet banners with witticisms such as “don’t give the Gip no lip”. I remember one particularly loud stereo pumping Elton John’s “Texas Love Song” over and over again, completely without irony.

Most of the student speakers chickened out. I remember one dude stepped up, shouted angrily for minute, and backed off before the hail of debris crested. The priests, nuns, and monks stepped up though. And Joe stepped up. He was a small guy, and “foreign looking” to the ND bros, and he got even more shit than the rest of the folk. But he stood strong, weathered a storm of eggs, and looked straight up into the windows with the booming speakers and flying eggs and unequivocally let it be known just what a horror Ronald Reagan was.

Meanwhile, I have no idea what position Pete holds on Medicare for all, or any issue at all, for that matter. Kind of like Obama. I remember Obama taking one fairly solid stand: if elected President, he would close Gitmo. Okay, I thought, that’s good enough, that’s something he can do by executive order. But of course, Obama didn’t close Gitmo. Obama didn’t do anything. Obama was congenial and statesmanlike. Obama was dignified. I suppose Pete will be dignified. I suppose “dignified” is the major plank of his platform, and I don’t know that there are any other planks.

Sure, Obama was better than Trump, but the bar should never ever be that low. I would choose Pete over a lot of Dems, including Harris, Booker, Biden, Gabbard, etc., but again, the bar should not be that low. Likewise, “unity” is worthless if we unify under defective principles and values. America is simultaneously on the verge of rising toward being a just, humane country and descending into fascism. The government is nothing more than a circus, a dramatic re-enactment of reality; the real work needs to be done on a socio-cultural level. And “unity” is the friend of stasis, the enemy of change.

Luke 12:49-56 y’all. If I don’t actually oppose Pete, it’s only because the real work has to be done outside government.

Friday, February 15, 2019

In Rotation: Winter Doldrums 2019

Sofia Gubaidulina - Concerto for Violin and Orchestra, Silenzio
Jackie McLean - Let Freedom Ring
Pink Floyd - Ummagumma
Nels Cline/Gregg Bendian - Interstellar Space Revisited
Various - Ecstatic Music of the Jemaa el Fna
Arto Lindsay - Mundo Civilizado
Black Sabbath - Master of Reality
Wagner - Götterdämmerung (von Karajan, Berlin Philharmonic/Deutsche Oper Berlin; Haitink, Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra/Bayerischen Rundfunks chorus)
Schoenberg/Berg/Webern - Gurre-lieder, Lieder (Kubelik/Fischer-Dieskau)
Wagner - Tristan und Isolde (Furtwängler)
The Ex - History 1980-2004
Suicide - s/t
Don Cherry - Brown Rice
The Flesh Eaters - I Used to be Pretty
Anthony Braxton - (Actuel 15)
Sonny Sharrock - Monkey Pockey Boo
Stockhausen - Gesang der Jünglinge, Kontakte
Xenakis - Orchestral Works & Chamber Music

Wacky winter, Louisville style: a dump of snow that lasts barely a day, temperature ranges from single digits to 70+, often within the same week, and the February showers that bring March . . . floods.

I acknowledge the drastic slowdown on this blog, but it is not necessarily a bad thing. Bands and solo projects in full swing, new recorder means new recordings and mixdown times, still working on a poetry collection started last summer . . . lots & lots of projects, little time. There are several projects in this particular pipeline as well, including the ongoing Profligate Vinyl series, and yet another attempt to "get into" Bob Dylan. This blog too will find its turn. Until then . . .



Monday, January 7, 2019

The 18


            {one}

Preston Highway is hard and yellow brown, an
Ohio Valley temperature inversion parks the stink
on top the Watterson overpass  leaden clouds coating the lungs
of the proletariat lumpen and otherwise lining up aside the road
            waiting for the 18

churches and check cashing joints
suicide lane running all the way down to the Snyder

the 18 runs down Preston every 15 minutes
eight, nine, noon, four, five, six, nine-thirty

the wrong 18 dumps you out short of Outer Loop
at the Cash America on Ulrich
in the sun or rain or snow or pure cold or unbearable heat,
whatever the fuck is dealt on that asphalt strip
its never as bad as it can be  but its always worse
than it should be

            {two}

Mexican places for whites  Mexican places for Mexicans
bare tube fluorescent gold-flecked white formica and Tecaté
whites point at the menu in the Mexican Mexican joints
Mexican white places have secret menus &
seat all the Latins under curved glass at the front of
  the converted Wendys

bus stop, hammered wet cigarette tar, poison
fumes from busted catalytic converters

broken cars making the right off Outer Loop
accelerating up Preston in a trail of stink

late, catching the 18 with the stragglers
they’re not turning off the blue lights, obviously
pull knit cap down over burnt eyes  up to Eastern Parkway
the 18, then a mile home

            {three}

drunk and killing things with punk rock, pulling
on a Tecaté 24 running up Preston in the dank night
up about where Indian Trail slashes across oily dark
swimming across broken asphalt  dirt you feel as much as see
  breathing chunked petroleum
  sloughing off strip malls 
           

{four}

perhaps not dark so much as light at crazed angles
as negative light  always people crossing the street
in the dark you don’t see them just sort of hanging out
there in the double turn lane  Mexicans Africans
Koreans Whites about half dragging strollers
the prole lumpen and otherwise defying death
hanging on the edge of the broken asphalt river

            {five}

all it is is
you wake up in
the morning
and find yourself
back out on Preston
fucked

Wednesday, January 2, 2019

Ed Dorn

it was a green velour suit
at least I think it was, a bit rumpled
it was really fucking cold
of course it was, South Bend Indiana
at the end of February, dry
fine powdered snow and single digits
I was hip to the Southwest thing, so
I said “fucking cold, bet that’s a bit
of a shock” and he said “well, I’m
from Chicago (he probably said
Illinois, but I heard Chicago), so . . . .”
and turned away

the interminable death of the Lit mixer
years before uncool was the new cool