Posts tagged: fin de siecle

Ascension Parish by Ross Beach

I was pleasantly surprised when Ross Beach shared his latest album with me (it’s officially due out March 25th). I find it quite enjoyable, much as I find all of his records. Ascension Parish bears the superior engineering and eclectic instrumentation that are the hallmarks of Ross’ recorded works. He describes the album as “country/folk/americana” but the perspective is modern and the preponderance of its sentiments are alternately dry and caustic. Play “Laundry Lint” for any accomplished domestic male who’s had to surrender his relationship with the washing of his own clothes and he will invariably connect with Mr. Beach the songsmith. Much of this set breathes in the terminal damnation of the living and exhales in supple, chiming verses and clever choruses, with their intriguing progressions often coyly telegraphed from afar but still warmly received upon arrival. With all he’s obviously endured and has still emerged smiling, please do at least reward Ross Beach with a listen. No matter whether you do, it seems Ross will continue to bring these delightful collections our way.

Three Friends Mondays: Caffeinated Art #43

 

The Three Scrapettes

David Abel, Marko Whens, Tony Christy and Leo Daedalus

We love what we do at Show and Tell Gallery, and we ask for no more than a bit of attention paid to those whom we bring to the stage.  Melissa Sillitoe signs them up, Nikia Cummings spreads the word and I gruffly co-produce and capture things for posterity as best I can.

On May 4, 2009, The Three Scrapettes sont descendus parmi les vibreurs et le papier et les un bon nombre de mutant de cri avec des mots to bring us “2+2=3” – Sound Poetry and Paraperformance with a variety of “non-acts, sound poems, peripheral pieces, audience impersonations and wrong solutions” that paid back in full the efforts we expend to make Portland a more caffeinated and arty placebo.  They offermade up some biographicallistic fallacies: Marko Whens falsely proclaims to be the first poet to misspell (in? -ed.) every language.  Tony Christy‘s father was a scrap surgeon his mother a mitt mender.  Leo Daedalus imagines that the ideal expression of any particular art form would have to be realized in a different form.  David Abel studied with Massenet and Fauré at the Paris Conservatoire (1890-97), then lived uneventfully as a teacher and theorist.

Let loose in Three Friends Coffee House, the four of them made incomprehensible, joyous mayhem on indirect trajectories from Dada, Fluxus, Surrealism and Situationism. The Broken Hours Remix is all spoiled up by Splice Finders with his little with ACID Pro 7.0c thingly in his basement area with his stuff in there and everything, he likes to say.  Roughed out and rhyming, the RSS feed leads the sojourning data file hefty onto your portable sound charmer off the media Montserrat Internet Archives grabbing burny onto the twine shall occasionally meet:

Play

Not At SXSW? You and billions of other people!

Last Thursday I was, as they say, “without portfolio” after the conclusion of a morning meetup and I happened to encounter Alex H. Williams.  As usual he was hatching a plot, but he was more enthusiastic than usual about this particular idea.  This thing was still gestating as it was being birthed, attitude fully-formed, into this cold, noisy world.  For my part, I had just told a whole group of somber but optimistic enterprise builders that I was “through with irony,” and here I was about to join the quintessential post-irony juggernaut of #notatsxsw.  I couldn’t refuse.  I was, in fact, already not at SXSW anyway.

Pronounced “not at South by Southwest,” #notatsxsw is a phenomenon facilitated by Twitter and brandished with the business-ends of social media’s many tentacles.  I immediately saw the appeal, especially since I had never been to SXSW, the high-profile, multi-day music, film and interactive festival that takes over Austin, TX every year, and which has more recently overtaken the collective mind of the Twitniscenti for whom it is a “be there, aloha” happening.  By the time I stumbled into the plot, Alex (who has been to SXSW in the past and would like to have attended this year) and his comrade and fellow SXSW ’09 non-attendee Nate DiNiro had already secured the notatsxsw dot com domain name and snagged the @notatsxsw Twitter handle, and they had scheduled the first #notatsxsw-specific event, the Portland Opening Feast.  All that remained was to help raise awareness and document “the first non-conference.”

We debated from the beginning:  What is it?  How to refer to it?  The spirit of compromise prevailed because, primarily, #notatsxsw is about the unity of the masses of people who, for whatever reason, were not making the pilgrimage to Austin this year.  Controversies could potentially undermine the whole thing — details such as whether the prepositional phrase “not at SXSW” is a noun like its more chic corollary “(at) SXSW,” or an adjective, comfortably interchanged with descriptive terms such as “sad,” “bitter,” “unemployed” or “couldn’t get the week off.”  These minor tweeting points became secondary to the need for a sense of community and an organizing principle for those of us who may or may not be feeling somewhat left out of the cacaphonous, hashtagged songs of the SXSW migration.

Ultimately #notatsxsw is a state of mind.  It may offer a return to one’s roots or simply the maintenance thereof.  “I like the carpet under my feet,” wrote Tot Taylor.  This writer, an acutely Cancerian homebody, putters similarly.  For those of us for whom a trip across town is a source of discomfort, wearing the #notatsxsw badge is plenty fashionable, notwithstanding that the prices are lower and the lines are not nearly as long.   And while there are plenty of gatherings, concerts and workshops #notatsxsw to attend, some of us even found time to clean the bathroom or clear some overgrowth in the woods.

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.

The Show and Tell Gallery Podcast #8

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Melissa Sillitoe welcomes Laura Chase

Gallantly, the  evening air warmed up a skosh for the first First Thursday opening of the year for the Show and Tell Gallery, a return to the source for the unsinkable Melissa Sillitoe who, naturally, had wavered at the prospect of continuing to host receptions at her live-in artspace.  The turbulent economic predictions clapping together with last year’s unexpected retirement of First Thursday at The Core Gallery, which shares the same trough aloft, were conspiring to freeze out this humble and geeky operation from the flow of the more terrestrial galleries in the Everett Station Galleries building.  However, the enduring promise of fulfillment and monkeyshines obligado forecast another show, and with the Spring perhaps more will blossom.

Messenger (2008), acrylic on wood

Verily did Melissa rain-dance another lightning-strike event, turning first to prior collaborator Lea Keohane, who has stayed busy and brave during the Winter season and who has hung her delightful pieces along the main concourse in the sky above Everett Street amongst the isobars and areas of convergence and divergence in the wind field (which are helpful in determining the location of extreme points along the spectrum).   The next ray of sunlight belonged to Laura Chase, having returned fresh from West Africa to parlez pearly dewdrops of pop and samba, followed like a rainbow by the hyper-chipper hip-hop of  Inkre:mentals with an album soon to drop and who-all brought in many lovely attendees (of whom one was, to our surprise, our favorite check-out king Jason) to minglebrate with supporters Mikey Golightly, Anna Todaro, Mike G, Christian, James Honzik, Becca Yenser and The Dark Lord, among many others, in addition to saintly gallery volunteers Dwight Peters, Patrick Bocarde, Rick J and Eric McEuen.  For our part, we had a nice conversation in the back of the house with Wayne Flower, who pointed our anemometer towards his own visual expressions.

Inkre:mentals

Inkre:mentals

Podcast producer Splice Finders was criminally loved and appreciated by Inkre:mentals Justin Eder and Jesse Gardner.  The backatcha cloudburst of enthusiasm for this MC positive pair and the perseverance of Tiffany (aka DJ ASAP) upon a beat system less-than-loud ushered a warm front of victorious vibes through the assemblage, many of whose errant voices were captured in the sleety Show and Tell Gallery Podcast, which is in da here fo’ sho, we hope, what fo’ Broken Hours’ own technical difficulture re: this index has been de-rigged.

Representz the Show and Tell Gallery Podcast do too on the inexorable iTunes audi-file storm-gathering jet stream with this link-a-dink:

http://phobos.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?id=295435468

God Damn You, NaPodPoMo! (BLBH #17)

napodpomo1

annihilator of dreams

What went wrong?  Breakdowns take many forms.  Some are brief and intense.  Others linger like a scratchy throat.  We can say that we can change.  Change is impossible.  Breakdowns and breakups are the blues and browns in the fog-bound mountaintops and silicon pastures of our Broken-hearted Hours, and all that we see or seem is but a podcast within a blog.

We who are about to upload salute you – Shawno and Jen, Dr. Normal and Cami Kaos,  David Grizzly Smith, Rowland Cutter, Jennifer Navarrete, Spanking Bea Arthur, and all the others too numerous to sample, for sticking together through that sullen and desperate NaPodPo Month of November, 2008.  We hope to play with you more in the new year.

“Music” by Broken Hours, with help from Alex H. Williams’ “Hey, Mr. Bankerman” and Phobia via Renegade Recordings.  Specious retrofaction from Shawno and Chloe Randolph, and from the Castrobot, whatever you are tying to accomplish.  Paranoid Russian-American woman, on the streets of downtown Seattle, speculates.

Ignite Portland 4 (BLBH #11)

Amber Hockley

Amber Case - Photo by Aaron Hockley (Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 Generic)

The accidental meeting of The Princess Bride and an industrial shredder at the warm and inclusive Bagdad Theater on November 13, 2008.  Broken cyborgian moments from the excursion to the alternate planet Portland, scouted and chaperoned by the handsome and modern Legion of Tech for lovers everywhere.

This is the canary in the cold cuts, the broken pix elation of the Baron’s de-tuned avatar, a soundflake like no other.  Throw your gang signals elsewhere, jockoes, how does one spells “re-tweet,” and remind me again what the name of that piece of skin between the nose and upper lip is called.  My digital watch is still in the box, in fact I don’t know where it is, and it’s hard enough trying to dance, much less to text, perchance to power dream.  If batteries were horses then beggars would podcast.

(This podcast is not currently available)

Alex H. Williams (BLBH #9)

He’s opinionated, he embraced podcasting from the get-go, and I can see his house from my back door, so this may not be the last time you hear Alex Williams on BLBH.  An hyper-active member of Portland’s tech community, as of this blogging he has 1,362 followers on Twitter and he just started his songwriting carreer.   Baron Landscape sits near Alex’ feet (soon to be shod with mpeg-playing slippers) and floats softballs about Podcast Hotel and starving artists, RSS and open source, the thrill of being in Portland today and the agony of moving trees in his yard.  In this ambling and entertaining conversation, pausing only at the 28-minute mark to roll out his FDR-folk opus “Hey, Mr. Bankerman,” Alex endorses Android and subjective journalism, and foresees promise in Obama and the new generation.

Oh and here’s a link to that Marriage Records XLR8R podcast that’s referenced.

(This podcast is not currently available)

The Party’s Over

Welcome.

The party is indeed over.  I’m glad you could stop by.

The randomness with which these pages will be populated will be far outmatched by the wondrous synchronicity that will guide them, and me, and you.

Unless an irresistible compulsion serves to totally divert the focus, this blog will default to representing the pre-existing Luke Lefler.  But please contribute in any way you feel moved and I’ll attempt to do the same.

Once I’m comfortable with the layout of this cyber-rambler I will set about furnishing it with news, views and reviews.  I envision an upload link for audio files out of which I’ll make serious hay in future podcasts.   Expect to witness with great amusement my difficult but inexorable emergence into the ranks of bloggers, however faintly and for however long.  There’ll be prose and pictures sublime and insane.

Amounting to what?  We shall see.  We’ll probably find that there’s more on my mind than may have appeared, and that I’m busier than I might have demonstrated previously.  I may have an inordinate amount of faith, or not enough.  In any event, there may be yet another guest at the end of the party.

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