Technocratic Confessional + Womb Tracklist

Its true!
I broke down last minute in one of the five hundred polished aisles of the
local church of Sam Walton and impulse-bought an RCA mp3 player.

I must confess to someone or something
that I really do enjoy touching and feeling the album, smelling the plastic wrap and all the other strange and ritualistic behavior that proceeds the typical product liturgy wherein behind closed doors I relish in the physicality of my purchase.

So in accordance with this truth,
I found it rather difficult to give in and justify to myself the purchase of such a device in this brine vastness of synthetic lighting with the counterfeit sneers of a dense and growing aggregation of customer service Walmarteers creeping along like malnourished hyenas for a killing.

I'm unsure if I should state that I'm proud or not to own the evidently convenient, nearly weightless, visually aesthetic song prison that requires only one AAA battery to run and work tiny stereophonic miracles.
But I cannot deny the vicious song of my very blood,
that chimes loudly to the village folk that
I am without a shadow of doubt a uniformed participant of the digital revolution...

I can only hope such words do not adorn the concrete slab that sits above the decay of my yesteryear body like a dull grey aureole reminder of my shopping shortcomings.

In other words, I am thoroughly pleased with my purchase and am enjoying the fact that I can compartmentalize around twelve album's worth of material into a space no larger than that of a box of tic-tacs.
I've always been fond of making mixed tapes, cd's and the like and my interest in continuity and syncing tracks up perfectly with one another either for ambience
or to personify a particular theme has made a jump straight into my 2-Gigabyte buddy.

The first mix that I integrated was Womb With A View,
a moody collection of gentle melodies and post-rockish compositions I've long used as an aid for inspiration when attempting to decipher my cryptic notes and turn them into poetry or something like it.

I have included the tracklist below for anyone interested in recreating it or attempting to access the exalting and ataractic effects that it had on me.

I would offer you the collection myself but flinch at the prospect of being water-boarded by the
Record Industry Association of America’s goomba’s in black neckties.

Perhaps in a future where material is propagated under creative commons licenses and visual art, music and literature exists in the public domain to distribute and enjoy will you get your very own copy from me via 3rd party file transfer,
until that day however, good luck hunting!


WOMB WITH A VIEW

1. Lornaderek- Aphex Twin 0:33 (intro)

2. Around Knuckle White Tile- Omar Rodriguez Lopez 7:20

3. Theme from to Kill a Dead Man- Portishead 4:26

4. East Hastings- Godspeed You! Black Emperor 18:00

5. Rotten Candy- Zechs Marquise 4:12

6. Sherbert Head- Boards of Canada 2:43

7. Yes! I Am a Long Way from Home- Mogwai 5:59

8. Go Slowly- Radiohead 3:50

9. Thiriacho Summit- The Sounds of Animals Fighting 1:32 (segue)

10. Paper Planes- M.I.A. 3:26

11. The Smallest Weird Number- Boards of Canada 1:19

12. Lady- Regina Spektor 4:47

13. Are You There?- Klint 3:38

14. Hunter- Portishead 4:05

15. The Color of Fire- Boards of Canada 1:47

16. Another Version of the Truth- Nine Inch Nails 4:11

17. Motion Picture Soundtrack- Radiohead 7:03

18. An Infant Crying 0:17 (sound effects/outro)

And If I Go Insane, Please Don't Put Your Wires In My Brain

I have recently reentered the dark and winding wonka tunnel of Pink Floyd, after several months of a playlist almost entirely devoid...of Floyd.

And in the process I figured I'd regurgitate an impromptu review,
become a hypocrite and give critiquing a go.

I selected at random Atom Heart Mother,
or the "cow album"
as some chic and ignorant shoegazing mom & pop record shop hop zombies call it.

An album originally and quite
interestingly titled "The Amazing Pudding."
An album that featured a full orchestra, the John Aldiss choir,
and ran for an impressive 52 minutes and 44 seconds
despite the fact that it only contained 5 songs.
An album that received mostly unfavorable reviews
and was ultimately disowned by the band that gave it life.

Roger Waters had this to say in 1985,
"Atom Heart Mother is a good case, I think, for being thrown into the dustbin and never listened to by anyone ever again! It was pretty kind of pompous, it wasn't really about anything."

and

David Gilmour commented,
"At the time we felt Atom Heart Mother, like Ummagumma, was a step towards
something or other. Now I think they were both just a blundering about in the dark."

Was this album really a convoluted, disorganized hodgepodge of melody and prog goo
or a delicately assembled rock suite and masterful sound collage showcasing the strange although genius qualities of the band?

I feel the answer is a bit of both, but the good far outweighs the bad.
If at very least this album showcases a great band in the process of becoming greater;
a necessary step on the ladder to later works such as Wish You Were Here and Animals.

Song-by-Song Analysis of ATOM HEART MOTHER

1. Atom Heart Mother
A. Fathers Shout
B. Breast Milky
C. Mother Fore
D. Funky Dung
E. Mind Your Throats, Please
F. Remergence

The title track, epic in its 23 minutes.
Motor cycle exhaust pipes, muddy bass, lots of effects.
Vocals sounds like the surrogate choir at the
Somerton masquerade in Arthur Schnitzler’s Traumnovelle.
Some of the guitar work is very similar to sections of Echoes from the album Meddle.
The song breaks down into ambient noise and eerie endless tape recorder loops before reintroducing the primary melody for a climactic ending.
Nothing is spared, an example of true unrestrained experimentation and creativity.

2. If
Lovely little folky ballad, lyrics are tender but acerbic.
"If I were a swan, I'd be gone. If I were a train, I'd be late. And if I were a good man, I'd talk with you more often than I do. If I were to sleep, I could dream. If I were afraid, I could hide.
If I go insane, please don't put your wires in my brain."
I Read Waters played this a lot during his solo tour for Radio K.A.O.S.

3. Summer 68'
Starts with ivory,
moves along like something from piper and reminds me of the days of Mr. Barrett.
Good grooves.

4. Fat Old Sun
I've heard many bootlegs and live versions of this track all of which include long and expansive jam sections and bluesy finagling,
unfortunately none of them were lucky enough to make the cut.
Instead we get a chopped shortened version without all the great guitar work that made the live version so awesome. All bitching aside, its still a good listen.

5. Alan's Psychedelic Breakfast
A. Rise and Shine
B. Sunny Side Up
C. Morning Glory

The band playing behind the audio recordings of Pink Floyd Roadie Alan Stiles as he fries bacon, heats hot water for tea, and makes a bowl of cereal. This is is either pushing the envelope or burning it. As strange as the concept is for a song, it works out some how. The sound effects evoke powerful imagery and its difficult to deny the displacement. You'll either jive with Alan as he eats (and end up hungry as I did) or you'll dismiss this as strange shit wasting recording space and your time.

Neat fact: On the vinyl, the sound of a dripping tap at the end of the psychedelic breakfast is cut into the run-off grove, so it plays infinitely until you pull up the stylus.
Something cool that we've lost with compact disks and mp3's.

Summary:
The album is worth buying for the title track alone, the other songs serve as the bread of this tasty sandwich...but the meats where all the fun is at.

Boy, that metaphor was lame huh?

I would recommend the album to individuals interested in musical experimentation and long rock suites.

Anyone who enjoys Pink Floyd should at least give it a chance and a listen...
and for science's sake stop calling it the fucking cow album.

At Home

Photographs behind the now defunct South Hills Mall in Poughkeepsie, New York.

This Isn't Real

TOMENTUM

With every lunar eclipse,
dips ringlets of your angora locks
That wave down the tremens but dock me commonsensical in burnt to a crisp asarum.

Ice-boxed eyes draw blood from my face and hand my heart to me
every time we kiss open-eyed in confessional.

I was forced upon pagan words, I am the wet submission that oozes from the swelling walls and ruby lampshades and all the wraiths seduced and trapped in thirst and lust.

I am enslaved by your mane.
I’m a crowded exit in the nervous frenzy of your perfumed hairline,
A false alarm brought back the plague that bespangled bowlegged ascetics that whispered they were your hair to the universe but never really believed.

I am unable to carve my name into a surface, or leave an object of my person behind,
There will be no witnesses to the abrasion of my being.

There will not be a single atom or indication that I ever was,
this is perhaps how it should be.

The necropsy of what is left in your umber of me will not speak of who or what I was,
it will not recount my life or flash images of my living before reinserted eyes as they glass over.

Bundles are writhing greedily to choke each appendage,
I am not ashamed to admit to myself that this is what I have dreamt, prayed, fantasized, begged, obsessed, stole, deceived, and betrayed for.

My death is peaceful,
and I am correct, there is no trace in the end.

©Justin Parrinello (September 3rd, 2006)




I'm not here, this isn't happening.
I wasn't here, this isn't real.

Some Find Soothing, A Parade of Insect Noise Pollution

Tis one A.M. here in Neo-York,
and I'm relaxing with the chirps of crickets and
a tall bottle of my favorite oatmeal stout.

I recently began working on a rather frightening segment of Mnemosynesiac called
"The Proper Etiquette of Binding a Woman's Calves to Obstruct Childbirth."

In creating the right mood and ambience for this piece,
I've resorted to Burrough's cut-up method and the integration of a drastic re-working of a stillborn poem in one of my old collections.
A poem called "Misdirectomy" which despite my greatest efforts ended up
an unpleasant breech.
All that and more for what is to come.

I'm excited also for the narratives progress seeing to that
it may become collaborative.
A groovy word-smithing scallywag friend of mine and I have been conspiring for some time to compose a 2-man poetic burst of controlled chaos on loose leaf.
I say it's about time we get down to funky business and actually get the cochineal on cardstock.

In other news, I have obtained a new job with better pay and will soon make a climactic escape a'la Andy Dufresne with rock-hammer in hand and Rita Hayworth in heart from the sweltering scullery pandemonium I'm currently enslaved in.

Isn't that boss! I'm a stone throw from being a
Self-employed, Concerned but powerless, and empowered & informed member of society.

I shall part now, with this...



Buy Samuel Smith's Old Brewery Tadcaster Oatmeal Stout!
For it is a simply delicious brew of oaty goodness thats sure to
bring a crooked cookie smile to your head-box.

...Soul-Bargained Shards

Bowlegged Single-Lens Rotary Shutter Stud

Carries a Chthonic Cornucopia

of Suspended Events in Soul-Bargained Shards.

Black & white snapshots are decidedly regal minotaur reels of autumnal mouth-feel,
for reasons undefined.