Manafonistas

on life, music etc beyond mainstream

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2017 26 Mai

Cologne 6

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1. Monocle Scent One Hinoki by Comme des Garçons
2. Soudain L’Hiver by Henry Jacques
3. Terre d’Hermès by Hermès
 
 
 

 
 
 
4. Cuiron by Helmut Lang
5. Endymion by Penhaligon’s
6. Damask Oud by Hugo Boss
 
 
 

 
 
 
Playlist One
Playlist Two
Playlist Five
Playlist Four
Playlist Six
Playlist Three

Happy birthday, Mr. Budd!

Birthdays go along with memories. Even with memories beyond nostalgia and general consent. Harold Budd’s „Bandits of Stature“ isn’t the most immediate of listens. Not because it’s like not any good, obvz. No, more because it is so advanced that listening to it involves a degree of neuroplasticity. Your brain has to form new neural networks in response to it. It is, literally, a mind-expanding work.

I have a problem with neoclassicism – mainly because the term itself is an oxymoron. So any work that’s comprised largely of compositions for string quartets is going to have to make a formal leap way beyond the strictures of genre, lest it becomes cod-classical or sub-soundtrack fluff. Bandits of Stature makes this formal leap, and – perhaps even more incredibly – uses concrete psychoacoustics to lift it out of the composition box. It’s not simply a compositional exercise – everything from the placing of the microphones to the air pressure in the room and the phase of the moon are central to this work.

Is music pre- or post- or super- or meta- or ultra- or sub-linguistic? Does it project senses onto the listener or do we project senses into the music? Does it tell a story? I don’t know, and I don’t much fucking care. What I get from this is what I get from it. And what I get is a sense of noir placed in blinding light, aridity and blazing heat. Of mystery hiding in plain sight. Of wide streets at the edge of the desert. Of illumination so intense that the inner self diving further ever further downward to escape the glare, only to resurface in the time of gloaming.

One of my favourite novelists is Lawrence Block. It’s probably a disservice to call Block a novelist. The dude is much more than what that slightly stupid word is supposed to mean and/or connote. Block is a magician. One of very few writers of stories who fully knows not so much that fiction is fiction but the how of fiction being fiction, and it’s only when a writer of stories has this in their writing that fiction can be more than the communication of the writer’s values or imagination. It’s uncanny and mediumistic, and if you try and work out how some writers can do this, you can’t. Some writers conjure a universe in miniature that you can hold in the palm of your hand. They give you worlds to play with. And none of this is done via ambition or an attempt at immortality. Neoclassicise your writing and it will be dead before you pick up your fucking typewriter.

And Bandits of Stature reminds me, in a way, of Block, for the reasons stated above. And Rothko too, to an extent. And Hopper. All stand at just the right angle from their subject matter, letting the infinite in.

Oh, and this:

Totul este rupt, totul este reparabilă. Ceașcă rupt. Solidaritate, amiciţie, dragoste, pace -intact.

2017 23 Mai

In a landscape

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Thug mise dhut biothbhuantachd
is dè thug thu dhòmhsa?
Cha tug ach saighdean
geura do bhòidhchid.
Thug thu cruaidh shitheadh
is treaghaid na dòrainn,
domblas an spioraid,
goirt dhrithleann na glòire.

 

2017 19 Mai

Jazz lifers! Take your pick

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Ascension
A Love Supreme
On the Corner/New York Girl/Thinkin‘ One Thing and Doin‘ Another/Vote for Miles
Robot 415
Giant Steps
Spanish Key
Sly
Lazy Calm

 

2017 13 Mai

Weltraum

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You’re already in space
 
 
 

 
 
 
Beneath the grass and a stone that bears your name
 
 
 

 
 
 
Trabants still in orbit
 
 
 

 
 
 
And Budapest is a city I can’t get the hang of. Up, down, átváltozás, turn around. Please don’t let me hit the ground. Oh, if you could fall for a city. Staying in the same place, just staying out the time. Touching from a distance. Further all the time. Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance, to the electromagnetic radiation left over from the big bang. (It
 
 
 

 
 
 
was only a theory.) You’re already in Space

 
 
Listens:

open.spotify.com/track/1D1JVTUfH41hJerYNmdLR1
open.spotify.com/track/6fb9lvQ9Bk9WpyA66o16dS
open.spotify.com/track/0OkWcpIp79yy3CjPDj0ips

2017 6 Mai

Elysium FC

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The first thing to say about Elysium FC is that it doesn’t exist, and never did. The club’s ghost stadium – kinda like a Spectral San Siro, a Stade des Fantômes – is an amazing place at 3 o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. Elysium FC will never die is the ghost chant from the ghostcrowded terraces. Elysium FC will never die.
 
 
 

 
 
 

 
 
 

 
 
 

 
 
 

 
 
 
There is something in the air here. Something deep, human, full of belief. Transcendental. I walk around. I move like a phantom. I’m at a loss to explain it though, this vibe. Then my phone rings. It’s André Breton. He has this to say:

Everything flows to make us believe that there exists a certain part the mind where life and death, the real and the imagined, the past and the future, the communicable and the incommunicable, the high and the low, cease to be perceived as contradictions.

And I think ‚Oui, André, c’est vrai‘ but the phone goes dead. So I WhatsApp my reply:


Tout est vert, tout d’un coup.

The playlist for the above photos is as follows:

Photo 2: Everything You Do Is A Balloon
Photo 3: Giftwrap Yourself, Slowly! (avoid any unintended Anglo-Deutsch puns on the word ‚Gift‘, though. lol)
Photo 1: Mutability (A New Beginning Is in the Offing)
Photo 5: Our Lives (Lost, Bolivia, New York)
Photo 4: Max
 

The cup is broken.
Everything is broken.
Everything is repairable.
Je me promène.
Principalement, je me promène.

2017 30 Apr

The Palace of Elysium

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The first thing to say about The Palace of Elysium is that it never existed.
 
 
The road to Elysium
 
Google Maps wasn’t much use. The name of the approach road is marked as „unnamed road“ which is kind of amusing. You follow Unnamed Road for maybe 20 minutes. Then you find a piece of raised earth, like a neolithic burial ground. In front of it, a discarded extraction fan and some sections of plastic industrial piping.
 
 
 

 
 
 
First sight of Elysium
 
Eventually you get to the building. On first sight it’s unimpressive. It’s completely sealed off by aluminium perimeter fencing topped with razor wire. I had to photograph the building from between narrow gaps in the fence. From this angle it could be a car park, or 1960s public housing in North London. There are – inexplicably – four redbrick cooling towers outside, and someone has painted a mystical four-syllable poem on the front of the building: EXPENSIVE SHIT.
 
 
 

 
 
 
Inside the Palace of Elysium
 
Like I said, you can’t go inside. These photographs were also taken by putting my phone through gaps in the fence, hence the awkward angles and inelegant framing.
 
 
 

 
 
 

 
 
 
At this point, and for no reason, RD Laing pops into my mind. Then pops back out again, saying nothing.
 
 
The TV room & a bedroom window
 
The TV room, where people once presumably sat watching Kojak, Hawaii 5-0 and Star Trek:
 
 
 

 
 
 
And it’s odd how the blocky, concrete car park shape of the building suddenly gives way to other forms. The TV room is round. What this means in terms of architectural semiotics I have no idea. This cell block also has curved walls. Its window is now glassless and forlorn.
 
 
 

 
 
 
The Zone
 
 
 

 
 
 

 
 
 
It wasn’t possible to get a good shot of The Zone. It’s actually right on the edge of a precipice so you have razor wire in front of you and a 100 foot drop on the other. And so you can’t step back and get the whole of this structure in the shot. It’s like a flattened amphibious landing craft set on a massive plinth, with an observation window at the front, again now glassless.
 
 
My phone rings. It’s Ivan Chtcheglov. He says this:
 

All cities are geological. You can’t take three steps without encountering ghosts bearing all the prestige of their legends. We move within a closed landscape whose landmarks constantly draw us toward the past. Certain shifting angles, certain receding perspectives, allow us to glimpse original conceptions of space, but this vision remains fragmentary. It must be sought in the magical locales of fairy tales and surrealist writings: castles, endless walls, little forgotten bars, mammoth caverns, casino mirrors. These dated images retain a small catalyzing power, but it is almost impossible to use them in a symbolic urbanism without rejuvenating them by giving them a new meaning.

 
The Palace of Elysium must be built.

2017 29 Apr

Before Today

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Time moves in numbers / I count the summers
 

2017 25 Apr

The Kinks

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North London, December 2002. Having no idea that 15 years later I’d time travel back to this moment via memory, I didn’t bother taking notes. What mobile phone did I have? Probably a Sagem, probably dual-band model with WAP, the shitty mobile internet precursor. What was I wearing? No idea, but I do know that (for reasons now long forgotten on account of being too silly to remember) I didn’t wear denims for a full five years between 1998 and 2003, when in 2003 bought a pair of £50 Zoo York jobs out of a skateboard shop. But this was still 2002 and that was the following summer, so I was probably wearing £12 black cargo pants from either Millets or the army surplus store. I was rocking a utilitarian look and style was not my middle name. (During those 5 years there was also a 2 year period where I didn’t have a CD player (or a record player) or a television. It was a good experiment, and you’d end up reading broadsheet newspapers and books and whatnot out of complete boredom. I especially enjoyed The Karamazov Brothers but felt that Russian doesn’t translate well into English and that what I was reading was not Dostoevski but a series of approximations that missed the poetry of the original. Same with Pushkin’s Yevgeny Onegin – you can get the metre but you can’t get the spirit.)

Finchley isn’t a name that means an awful lot to me. It was Margaret Thatcher’s constituency during the 1980s. I believe McDonald’s also had a „Hamburger University“ there. I think I may even have gone to gawp at the outside of it in hopes that some hamburger knowledge might seep by osmosis into my brain. And apart from occasional trips to Finsbury Park and Stoke Newington, I don’t think I’ve really ever been back to North London, good though it is, since last week. Anyway, the other Finchley sightseeing I did was to go to the Clissold Arms pub, where The Kinks had played their very first gig 39 years before – in 1963. I always liked The Kinks – and part of the reason why is their balance and subtlety. They never overdid the cheeky chappy wacky 60s bit, they never overstated anything much, never went headlong into rock with a capital R, and recorded a body of work that is always worth revisiting. The other thing they never overstated was production values. And yet, there they are. Listen to Big Sky off the Village Green album. The recording levels are turned up way too high on the drums and the guitar, but the vocals are as clear as polished glass. The drums on old Kinks records always have that elemental feel. But I wasn’t thinking about this stuff then. The record on the radio that week was „Don’t Mug Yourself“ by The Streets. One England had faded into the sepia-coloured folds of memory and another had appeared. Not on top of it, but in place of it. And it’s appropriate that „Don’t Mug Yourself“ reminds me of being at The Clissold Arms, because The Streets, remind me a bit of The Kinks – real without descending into social realism, ambient without even trying, and about as English as it gets.

North London, April 2017. Times and perspectives change. (And I’m wearing Levi 511s.) Battersea doesn’t feel like Battersea anymore – not in a good or a bad way, just different. Nine Elms is something else, it’s a physical space, yes, but, but psychogeographically it’s almost locationless, like an airport – a swirl of hope and anticipation and a question: how will it age? Battersea and Nine Elms are of course south of the Thames, but bear with me. Walk north for an hour (over Vauxhall Bridge and far away) and a half, in a straight line, and – boom – you’re in Maida Vale. And it’s preserved. Even the tube stations at Maida Vale and St Johns Wood still have the indefinable northness about them. What’s on the radio, who knows, fuck knows. Pasta at Allora on Boundary Road, maybe a limoncello or two, then home to sleep.
 
 
 

 
 
 
Nine Elms. The Jago it ain’t.

2017 17 Apr

Lips that would kiss (form prayers to broken stone)

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He: Wake up, I need you.

She: In your dreams!

 


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