Other Mixes By FDA
Cassette
|
Mixed Genre
the noises made by the performers and heard by the audience are not the music at all
Artist | Song | |
Ezra Pound | Usurer | |
Camerata Mediolanse | Lili Marleen | |
Caretaker | The Haunted Ballroom | |
Magma | Ork Alarm | |
Dick Hyman | Moon Gas | |
Albert Ayler | Deep River | |
Joe Meek and The Blue Men | I Hear A New World | |
John Peel | Chat With Ivor Cutler (1969) | |
Fred Lane and The Hittite Hot Shots | The French Toast Man | |
Wild Man Fischer | My Name is Larry | |
Charlie Patton | Magnolia Blues | |
Jacques Brel | Ne Me Quittez Pas | |
White Noise | Firebird | |
Nina and Frederick | Listen to The Ocean | |
Akira Ifukube | Requiem | |
Reverend Benny Campbell | Meetin' House | |
Muslimgauze | Turkish Sword Swallower | |
DJ Spooky | Peace in Zaire | |
Noise Girl | Discopathology | |
Cutty Ranks | Limb By Limb (jungle remix) | |
Steven Jesse Bernstein | No No Man (part 1) | |
Comment:
Look not on our sins but on the faith of this church. Heathcliff! All that keeps me alive in this desolate belltower is the thought of you, of our time together, sampling lucent tinctures, lush jellies, slipping upstream amid shoals of pink and silver. Joyriding, top down, slewing and skidding cross marble beaches, wetsuit tarmac, wherever you would want to go. There was no dream we couldn't dream, no destination too far, no gift too outlandish for our tastes. Ah! I can taste now the sweet wines of our life, no, the damp, lukewarm grey mush that calls itself food in this rat hole has not ruined my palate. But, oh, I am so wretched here! Amongst these jabbering fools, these idlers, layabouts to whom Levi Strauss means nothing more than their pairs of shapeless jeans and jackets. So depressing is the apparel of the apparel of the poor and weak minded, and what little sartorial style they may posess never has chance to shine, for the garments on offer in their sweaty, crowded little stores almost defy the efforts of my swift pen to put them into words. Such fibres, cheap, sticky even to the touch, uncaringly dyed, unlovingly sewn. No wonder these plebians live in a constant state of ignorance, for who could approach Shakespeare or Cervantes whilst so gracelessly clad? It would be an affront to the bard and all his followers. Oh, you art of the mix peons! Scurrilous knaves every last one of you! You whole seek to lay claim upon my glorious Agamemnon, who wish to bathe in his sweet golden glow, to bask in translucent dreamworlds and sample the juice of Eden's sweetest pears. You who layed bird under wheel that August evening on blind corners. And oh! But you my love managed to escape, while I, hurt and stricken sacrificed myself to the whims and cruelties of those who had pursued us for so long, those who sought to bring our transcendence back into their petty bureaucracies, to smudge with grubby finger on thin, cheap paper the pattern of our love. Oh vile captors! Who said I, yes I, was not fit, not 'suitable' to walk the streets that you walked. No, they cooped me up here, animal like in a dusty cold garret, flaking paint and low iron bedsteads. And not once did you visit mother! Oh, forgive me! In my darkest hour I doubted you, but twas only because I craved your touch, I know you could never come here, art of the mix, those authorities did not rest with me alone. Oh how they plagued me with questions of you, and how I was forced to conceal my love. I did it for you Heathcliff! I fawned for you, I abased myself, made out that I would serve him your genitals in a sauce of my own blood if only I knew where you were! I lied for you art of the mix! And now you are surrounded with these fools, these mole-eyed delinquents, cream-faced loons! Well know this, thou current crop of art of the mix users, those who did not heed yesterdays warnings, know as you read now that your card is marked, that you shall account for your actions with blood and with fire. Therefore stand as in your glaringly lit, cold, uniform supermarkets around trays of dead animal carcass, blood and crusty flaps of sinew, stand and glare slack jawed and goggle eyed and blinding ceiling lights. Take a number, and wait in your frayed denim standard issue for I, the butcher to swing, with glint in carving knife and eye at your inarticulate throats. I savour the thought. Oh Agamemnon, that day will soon be ours!Feedback:
that's crazy like bill cosby!
proper bo
That first track, is that Ezra Pound on there, or is it just some cranky indie band trying to borrow quick street cred from the original greybeard crankmeister? Well, this stuff appears to kick some butt, its always nice to see something new here and not just another roomate's Avril LaBamba cuts. Glory Oh Glory.
yeah, it's an actual Pound poem about usury, oddly enough
I did have the name of the person reading it, which I wanted to put up, but have since misplaced it, he has an excellent speaking voice, whoever he is, very well suited to the cadences of Pound's lines
I did have the name of the person reading it, which I wanted to put up, but have since misplaced it, he has an excellent speaking voice, whoever he is, very well suited to the cadences of Pound's lines