Posts tagged: “bang me”

Ignite Portland 5 (BLBH #18)

El unificationo de ill-peppered Bacon Landscape attending IP5 on February 19, deriving testament amid situation and freedom, it’s a bonus upon us.  Running on fumes, the fetid race snapside etiologies, gratitude torpedoes the wide red distance.  The highest of fives for the highest ip5-1of the Five to the fabulous and Orwellian (not the pejorative) Legion of Tech (“yes, it’s a techie event”) from Splice Finders, the team at Broken Hour d’Ouevres and all our handfuls of followers on Twitter, ExtraTicket, FreshFriend, HungerMeat, OverShoulder, Underarm Laptop and BeerLines.

Whatever did it matter to these long queues tonight? Portland is the strongest gestureau,  “we” love it here,  we “love” here and we’re used to sitting patiently waiting for the file transfer of our affection to proto call.  Dangling our participles out the bus window isn’t our scene but much was learned about fonts, the Universe and everything, and the sustainable memories collide with general ideas up there, down there, it’s sweet and beloved all the same, both ends of the Sterno burning ever brighter, they have to have your name, the ship is waiting to take you away.  Try it some time.  The next Ignite Portland (6) is already scheduled for July 16, 2009, again at the jewel on the jerrrymand, the illustrious Bagdad Theater.  It’s really comfortable after all and no work is involved, everything will be fine.

Three Friends Mondays: Caffeinated Art #26

It could’ve been the Craigslist promotion for the Open Mic on January 5, 2009, or maybe it was the ineluctable attraction of publisher-musician-poet Paul Evans, he of Redbird Studio and Alberta St. Small Press, but the dingly bell on the front door was a-dinglin’.  Those who came to see and hear Paul were treated to not one but two gorgeous and talented friends of Paul: 1) the warbling banshee Dina Rae, she of sunshine, of obviously superb mid-western stock, and of a vocal range that must be measured using the same unit used to measure the distance from here to her voice’s planet of origin, and, 2) advancing unmasked from under a pink and orange Texas sky, the mega-romantic Dominique Garcia, she with guitar shielding heart, it of passion overflowing.

Cattle call or no, the ensuing Open Mic served up a dozen open-mikers, including the now comfortingly regular participants Rick J, Melissa Sillitoe, and a delightfully more-humbled-than-usual Mike G (for “girl crazy”).  To the stage ascended deep thinkers, wise believers, grieving MCs, a digeridoo and dinglies to match the door-dinglies anon; among other poets, Christian, he of sometimes feeling like a fucking chameleon,  Christine, she of Sinophilia and Mount Hood climbing, Wayne Flower, he of Boise originally, and of many a band (as I suspected), and the briefly but deeply missed Celestial Concubine, she of paying back the sacrificed hours of sleeptime, thank you, we trusted you all along.  Admittedly, the writing in this so-called “blog entry” doesn’t really cover it all, so (as soon as I find where I put it) I will include the visual aid that accompanies Nathan‘s poem about the cats that go ’round (and ’round).

Show and Tell Gallery Productions is so damn glad that the Open Mic event will continue on a weekly basis following the invited performance.   Be sdvised, all you shoe-top dinglers, bridge-builders, denizens of different-tempo chaos  – prestazione dall’invito every giant, steaming Monday under the taupe and tender rafters of Three Friends Coffee House from 7:00 to 8:00, followed by the Open Mic sign-up from 8:00 to 8:15.  At 8:15 the Open Mic (limited to sixteen slots – sixteen milk necks ripe for licking) will unfurl its pink-crested, cartoid heart.

If you ever miss that ringing in your ears, you will find the podcast on the Three Friends Mondays: Caffeinated Series page at brokenhours.net until it, too, is washed away by the ocean.  And, simply because it is the largest distributor of organized sound in the world, iTunes unwittingly allows you to access the Three Friends Mondays: Caffeinated Series podcast via sheer grace by using this link:

http://phobos.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?id=295435461

Contact With Your Environment (BLBH #13)

Low-ebb bellows from the briny mawr of Baron Landscuzz asante, reckoning, blithely channeling M. Gira or Nick Cave, and barely on schedule. Winter fast approaching, entrails washing upon the shores of Miasma Beach, scattered leaves, paranoia, that most obscured object of desire, plugged, describing a circle within which there is another circle. Music by Nat Cloud, based on a walk by Ol’ Fuddyduddy. Please come back tomorrow.

The Princely Wit Semi-Dry Oodsday of the Baron’s Broken Disgrace (BLBH #4)

Free 8% by volume beer for the kids who can say, “expand the playground, going to all eastbound destinations.”  Hundreds of seismic alien sounds in the heart of this nations’ great cities in the making.   The Baron, facing none of the problems of the magitude of those which his forefathers faced, renders no decisions, thank God, although he is anxious, journeys he to the Temple of Power, all afraid so glistening dear hearts bristle.  Pestilence and putrefaction shadow his very scent, suspicious eyes all around.  The Princely Wit Semi-Dry Oodsday originating in a deja long-since vued, coming online in the present infinite obtained, Baron Landscape’s Broken Disgrace as death-defying, mutilated armies scatter the earth, crawling out of dirty holes, jealous, ready to knock down all obstacles.

Baron Landscape’s Broken Hours – A History (Part One)

It began with Beethoven, Tchiakovsky, The Beatles and The Monkees, and using my grandfather’s multi-speed reel-to-reel to alter my voice.  I considered this a better use of the technology than my grandparents‘ recording their seemingly generic hick spiritual duets.  Likewise did my parents‘ folk and easy listening records generally bore me, their only child.  A notable exception was the loco 2:18 a-side by The Texans called “Green Grass of Texas” (Infinity [INX-001]).

With very good humor, Mom and Dad exposed me to the masters of popular song and unconditionally indulged my music appreciation.  Being undisciplined, however, I neglected to practice and thus could not sustain an interest in piano or drum lessons.   But I was always interested in those paper sleeves and their contents, vinyl discs that made music when you spun them and put an amplified needle in their grooves.

I came of age musically listening to top-40 radio from the late 60s through the early 70s.  Thinking that I was being a dutiful citizen of Radioland, I transcribed playlists and enclosed them in fan letters to the DJs.  Ultimately I would be found toiling in my room for hours recording my own air-checks to cassette tape with a condenser microphone and a turntable.

I really liked songs that had melodic, chiming codas with long fade-outs: “Atlantis,” “Isn’t It A Pity,” “Ride, Captain, Ride,” “Rocket Man,” and Keith Barbour‘s “Echo Park,” to name a few.  Drawn to complex arrangements with classical references and sparkling production, I preferred Simon and Garfunkel and Mason Williams, to The Stones and Creedence.  In these pre-experienced days of mine, the psychedelic, blues-based jams of Iron Butterfly or the Dead did little for me.  They still don’t.  Give me five spins of Badfinger‘s “Day After Day” over a side of Led Zeppelin any time.  Not to say that I never found my way to the land of over-driven metal — I just didn’t stay very long.  No sense of humor there, and little humility.

By the mid-70s I was firmly in a British progressive mode.  I will always have a great fondness for albums of that era by Yes, Genesis, King Crimson and The Moody Blues, as well as solo projects by various members of those bands.  I believe that 1974 in particular was a pinnacle year for albums, including Visions of the Emerald Beyond by Mahavishnu Orchestra, Rock Bottom by Robert Wyatt, and Supertramp‘s Crime of the Century, in addition to King Crimson’s Red and The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway from Genesis.

I was profoundly influenced by my high-school friend, the late Steve Abrams.  He was an “audiophile” with a component stereo.  He actually worked in radio, played guitar, collected records and hung out at Everybody’s Music in Bellevue, WA, subscribed to Rolling Stone and smoked marijuana.  Soon I wanted to do and be all of that, and he took me to the FM stations where he’d gotten his foot in the prosaic soundproofed door, turned me on to Dr. Demento, The Firesign Theater, Pink Floyd and The Who, and had a hand on my first joint, which was at a Supertramp concert for which Heart was the opening act.  Bless you, Steve.

Already halfway through college in Bellingham, Washington, I joined the radio station KUGS-FM and rolled out my manifesto on the air, consisting mostly of my own burgeoning collection augmented by whatever the record elves would send us and a few Revox tape effects.  Because the airtime was available and the livin’ was easy I split up my sensibilities into two on-air personalities: Lou Crimson, who would indulge the darker more progressive tastes with a loose and fractured playlist on his program Broken Hours, and Baron Landscape, whose mission was to rifle off the tighter and brighter new sounds on New Precision (named after the Bill Nelson’s Red Noise song).

A circle of friends at KUGS became big fans of the first Killing Joke and Heaven 17 albums and Iggy Pop‘s New Values.  And, as Joy Division and Gang of Four were bringing us the bad news about ourselves, Lou Crimson was laid to rest as the megalomaniac Baron Landscape covetously co-opted the “Broken Hours” name along with its notions existential.  The previous three years had seen more dramatic change in music than anything yet to come (in my opinion) and in far-flung Bellingham from 1980-1982 we were bleating at 100 watts trying to capture one mind at a time with our edgy, new records.

Every great party gradually becomes just another affair, however I stuck around long enough for one particular colleague, Lyle Pearson, to profoundly affect me with his use of multiple studio sources in the creation of imaginary on-air soundtracks — on one occasion it was E. Power Biggs playing a Bach cantata over which he layered some Miriam Makeba vocals and a recording of a Buckminster Fuller lecture, resulting in something otherworldly — something which completely changed my attitude towards radio.

It had become something personal again.

Upon leaving Bellingham I relocated in Portland, Oregon, curled up with my Associates and Marc and the Mambas albums, and began writing and recording my own songs.

I still had the non-commercial radio bug, and in 1983 I re-seeded my non-commercial sensibilities in the Sunday at midnight slot on KBOO-FM in Portland.  Baron Landscape’s Broken Hours enjoyed a run of ten years during which house, industrial, ambient, grunge, shoegaze, alt.country and post-rock all faded in and out of the sludgy fin de analogue mix.

At first it was only me, with my records and usually some production tapes that I’d made at home using a couple of two-track recorders, doing pretty much the same type of program I had done in the last year at KUGS.  It wasn’t too long before I began to spread continuing themes across multiple programs, such as Baron Landscape’s Dry Summer and The Broken Will of The People.  Along the way I drew upon the listening audience for collaborators, which is how I met and hosted Scott (0f The Antarctic) Cameron, Kirill Galetski, Billy Miles, Dan Grasvik, Larisa Zimmerman, Laurie Ballantine and many others.  The Miracle Workers and Rozz Rezabek-Wright from the Portland music scene were both guests .

Although the history and progression of Baron Landscape’s Broken Hours can be taken as a whole, I tend to view it in two distinct eras.  The first came to an end September of 1988, after nearly five years during which many of the basic premises and elements of the program were established.

I cannot fail to mention the contributions of my long-time partner Trish, as well as the sole applicant for the position of Air Assistant, Evan “The Subject (010x)” Morris.  Ultmately the three of us fleshed out some of my most ambitious ideas for radio: The Broken Cruise of The Landscape Liner, full of intrigue and adventure on an impromptu ocean liner voyage; Johnny Lansky and his Broken Youths, in which the troubled title teen fulfills his community service obligation as volunteer programmer (oh, the fan mail Johnny received!); and The Broken Continuum of Space, wherein KBOO’s signal is mis-directed into a time warp.  After a second, poorly-planned Broken Cruise ran on the rocks of apathy, I penned and produced an 80-page pledge drive script inspired by the Iran-Contra affair: The Landscape Liner Hearings.

Towards the end of this period I was drinking pretty heavily.  There were brownout and blackout shows and long drunken call-in segments.  There were bleary-eyed mornings-after when I’d listen to air checks of me singing to easy listening versions of Elton John songs – I would soon destroy those tapes.  In September of 1988 I took what would be my longest break in the ten years of BLBH, a one-month leave of drying-out.

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