Siriusmo "Doctor Beak's Rantanplant" (MONKEYTOWN024) Out April 06 by Modeselektor
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Kiki comes upstairs dressed in fake plastic black leather and chaps. The basement door is in front of the backdoor, mirroring it. The front door leads out to an enclosed porch where everyone enters and leaves. The basement walls are lined in red, orange and brown carpeting reminding me flames like the opening of hell. The door is made of cheap blond wood. I often sit in the darkness with the door closed and on the third step I pull away a piece of the carpet there in the wall that has no backing and peer into the cellar which apart from the living room area of the basement; I seek to see something move in the darkness. Sometimes a queer feeling overcomes me in my chest, like when I miss a step and fall downward. I touch my nipples and they are hard and I feel a pleasure in the sensation. I fear it is Satan. I do not want Satan to tempt me so I rock back and forth telling Satan to leave me alone, but I continue to sit in the dark of that step and seek for that feeling even if it means I might go to hell someday.
I am thinking of this when Kiki asks me, “Whatcha eatin’ child?” Kiki’s hair is long and permed and shares part of her body in a great mane. I smell her hairspray. She reaches for the plastic bag of apple slices. I hand over the baggie of my treasure and offer her a slice. She accepts it and begins to eat her first piece. Kiki licks her fingers, and my mother smokes a cigarette, the ashes forming a great burning cone on the end. “Ready for another round?” My mother asks. Kiki moans and nods yes. She hands me back the bag of apples and the two disappear into the basement. They will go into a room I am not allowed to see, one that my mother keeps locked from me.
My mother is a beautician. Many ladies come to our house and have their hair done at our kitchen table while I sit beneath and listen. My mother takes great pride in her ability to make them happy and offers them desserts and cigarettes and they tip her well. She hides the money under the doily above the television set in the living room, which is adjacent to our kitchen. She told me she has a secret bank account for tips, one that my father doesn’t know about, “Just in case,” she says. I love my mother. I love her dearly. No one in our neighborhood knows about the secret room. My mother tells me not to tell anyone, that it is our family’s secret. I want to tell the kids at school about Kiki because I am proud of her but I know that no one would believe me and it would get me into trouble. I pretend Kiki is my sister. She and I play Barbies together. Sometimes we spend all day dressing the dolls and preparing the room for the prom. I like to make the dolls ‘make-out’. Kiki just laughs and tells me I’m too young to know about ‘making out’. I love Kiki too. I hope she won’t go away like the last girl my mother brought to the basement.
Her name was Martha and she wore sequined dresses of red, pink, and silver. Martha didn’t like me. She told me I was a stinker and that I had a sour attitude. She would always make demands on me. ‘Bring me my nail polish and paint my toes’ she would say. I didn’t like her or her toes.
hi everybody!
tonight,friday night,well,almost saturday,i bring to you the most beautiful playback in the history
(in the case you haven't seen it)
this is 'JUST' from the record 'THE BENDS'
BUT live, at 'Hit Machine'
[by the way,i want to do an appointment here, this week, two days ago,was the birthday of The Bends,that was released the April 4th in 1995, such a wonderful record!so, HAPPY BIRTHDAY THE BENDS!]
hahaha, ok, focus
here, the link of the only playback made by radiohead, from 1996
pd: if you haven't seen it yet,please check it out, the faces of thom are awesome and jonny SINGING AND PLAYING LEFT HANDED!
enjoy
Momento magico hecho cancion, una manera genial de cerrar un disco.
Wis_h you a gL/orious day
Radiohead - Life In A Glasshouse
Otra vez tengo problemas con mi único amiga.
Ella está empapelando las vidrieras,
les está poniendo una sonrisa,
viviendo en una cárcel.
Otra vez,
empaquetado como comida congelada
y gallina de criadero.
Piensa en los millones que mueren de hambre.
No hable de política ni lance piedras,
sus Altísimas Majestades.
Claro que me gustaría sentarme y hablar.
Claro que me gustaría quedarme a chismear.
Claro que me gustaría sentarme y hablar,
pero hay alguien nos está escuchando.
Otra vez, tenemos hambre de un linchamiento.
Ese es un extraño error qué cometer.
Deberías poner la otra mejilla,
viviendo en una cárcel.
Claro que me gustaría sentarme y hablar.
Claro que me gustaría quedarme a chismear.
Claro que me gustaría sentarme y hablar,
pero hay alguien nos está escuchando.
The warm taste of apple teases my tongue and I turn around to the refrigerator to seize one from the crisper. I open the drawer and select a nice sized rounded apple, with no green showing. I pull out the cutting board from the cupboard beneath the counter and reach over the sink to the cutting board to grab a steak knife. I cut the apple in half first then gently remove the core in curves from each piece. The bite I take is still cold to my teeth and I am careful to let it warm in my mouth before swallowing. My mother comes into the kitchen. Her hair is teased and standing straight up in a beehive helmet on her head. The color is radically stained red and burns like her blue eyes. She tans every day and her skin is dark, against the pastel pink sweater she is wearing. Suddenly, I do not want to eat the whole apple, I will let the other pieces brown in a plastic baggie on the counter and devour them later when no one is watching.
“You haven’t finished drying the dishes, you know.” My mother arches her left eyebrow at me and I retrieve the towel and begin wiping.
A Dark Dream,
The Tao.
She turns to him with a wad of cash and smiles drunkenly. She needs him to kill her lesbian concubine. Another body for the burn pile. She was standing in a speakeasy with a band at the right at break. The bar behind her outlines her back and her lithe form twists into a laugh as she collapses in weakness on the table. No words are exchanged; he simply takes the wad and knows in embarrassment what is expected. Her husband, the lead singer of the band doesn’t take notice. He knows she keeps her lovers in the basement like love puppies on a chain. He knew the man before her would take care of it. She had high hopes.
She remembers her husband, the time they wove webs on a campsite ground. The time he spun music for that rustic scene, his hair dyed blond. That night he took her in the camper, raped her hard. They were lying on the dinette sofa turned bed, the fake cushions against the thin wood were stiff beneath the weight. She remembers turning her cheek to him, her dark skin unfolding under his hands. She had wanted to leave him then, divorce the bastard. But they had had a chemistry, a bond that held them like a master and his slave. He is white after all.
So instead, she would take lesbian lovers under him, women who would do anything for her, her pets. She would keep them in the basement and use them at her will. And when she grew tired of them, or when they grew too demanding of her, they were disposed of like arrogant cats that had overstrayed their welcome.
At home now, she maintains the housewife menagerie of cleaning and gratitude. She bakes cakes for the neighbors to share with coffee and smokes cigarettes at the kitchen table while I listen tracing the wood grain underneath with my finger from the floor. I am their child. It is summer now and the sunlight fills the house with memories of the moments we notice it.
My mother built a garden behind our house to the left. I play in the garden. The pumpkins I realize are larger than my head. “But mother,” I asked, “I thought they were watermelons?” when I first laid eyes upon them.
Today my father is away but he and I are in the kitchen like a dream. I lie on top of the counter and feel my father lie on top of me. I lay on that counter to the left of the kitchen sink, the window above the sink overlooking the garden to the left. I see him above me. His eyes are darkened. He touches my shoulder blades and I see that his hair is black. My eyes dilute in pleasure. I see the intent in his hands. I love him. I love him. I love him. We lay like this in love for a while. My mother knows and does not disturb us.
When my father leaves me, I moisten my hands in the dishwater. The dishes are finished and drying in the second sink. My mother will not notice that I have finished them; she will notice that they are not yet put away; they must be dried with a towel. She always notices what I have not yet done. I do not despair for her torture but instead grab a towel and begin to wipe the first dish, placing it in the cupboard. I wish the radio was on but it has been broken for some time so instead I listen to the silence outside and a dog barks in the distance. Next, I dry a cup. It is my father’s coffee mug; it has a mountain and a slogan, “Climb the next peak”. My father has never climbed a peak but neither have I. We have use for the mug though, it is black and the mountain is purple, mountains majesty echoes through my mind and I realize I am American. It is a strange feeling being American. In school, they teach us that we stole this land from the Indians, this is not our home. I feel like a thief. It is synchronous, this feeling of home as an American. Through small moments of notice, I study the Aryan race, my race, half of my bloodline from my father, and realize that Aryans were found in parts of China. I imagine that my ancestors left North America across the land bridge and moved into Asia all those centuries ago. I imagine that America is my homeland and that this, English, is my native tongue. The Indians are our next of kin and we are not thieves.
A Dark Dream,
The Tao.
She turns to him with a wad of cash and smiles drunkenly. She needs him to kill her lesbian concubine. Another body for the burn pile. She was standing in a speakeasy with a band at the right at break. The bar behind her outlines her back and her lithe form twisted into a laugh as she collapses in weakness on the table. No words are exchanged; he simply takes the wad and knows in embarrassment what is expected. Her husband, the lead singer of the band doesn’t take notice. She keeps her lovers in the basement like love puppies on a chain. This man before her would take care of it. She had high hopes.
She remembers her husband, the time they wove webs on a campsite ground. The time he spun music for that rustic scene, his hair dyed blond. That night he took her in the camper, raped her hard. They were lying on the dinette sofa turned bed, the fake cushions against the thin wood were stiff beneath the weight. She remembers turning her cheek to him, her dark skin unfolding under his hands. She had wanted to leave him then, divorce the bastard. But they had a chemistry, a bond that held them like a master and slave. He is white after all.
So instead, she would take lesbian lovers under him, women who would do anything for her, her pets. She would keep them in the basement and use them at her will. And when she grew tired of them, or when they grew too demanding of her, they were disposed of like arrogant cats that had overstrayed their welcome.
Her husband built a garden behind their house. I am their child and I play in the garden. The pumpkins I realize are larger than my head. “But mother, I thought they were watermelons.” Today my father is away but he and I are in the kitchen like a dream. I lay on top of the counter and feel my father take me. I lay on that counter to the left of the kitchen sink, the window above the sink overlooking the garden to the left. I see him above me. His eyes are darkened and he loves me tender. He touches my shoulder blades and I see that his hair is black. My eyes dilute in pleasure I see the intent in his hands. I love him. My mother knows.
When my father has finishes with me, I moisten my hands in dishwater. My mother will not notice the wrinkles that become there, she only notices when I haven’t done.
Uh, for all the screaming psychedelic, jam-out, ‘we know how to play our instruments super well’ moments that White Denim creates, 'Get Back To Love (Street Joy)' is a welcome smooth-as-hell revelation. The four-piece Austin TX outfit reminds use that it's okay to occasionally put all of the theatrics aside and just go for a ’60s barbershop soul vibe — some beautiful music to fall in love (or do other requisite love-oriented things) to.
The band will be banging out the beats next weekend, April 13th at Bowery Ballroom in NYC. Peep it.
DOWNLOAD:
White Denim - Get Back To Love (Street Joy)
i will be joyful the moment the weekend officially starts...
Some pairings are just meant to be: peanut butter and chocolate, yupsters and absinthe drips, Mr. Little Jeans…and Wavves? California dream pop meets rambunctious surfer rock. Seems like a disaster but sounds like awesome. 'Runaway' as heard through a wall of Brillo pads, trashy guitars and sandy reverb nearly bests the original. It’s hypnotic, dark and feels like sleeping under the boardwalk with no blanket. This is weekend rock, through and through.
No word on anything new yet..but as always--shall keep you posted.
DOWNLOAD:
Mr. Little Jeans - Runaway (Wavves Remix)
Mr. Little Jeans - The Suburbs (Arcade Fire Cover)
↑↑↑↑
bullshit!!
that's my response to all those people who says like;
-(me)YEAH!Radiohead is my favorite band!
-(asshole)Radiohead?that's SO depressing!how can that be your favorite band?!you can commit suicide listening to them!
-(me) WHAT THE FUCK ARE U TALKING ABOUT YOU LITTLE PIECE OF SHIT!GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE BEFORE I KILL YOU!
but,well
you know,they're full of shit
besides...depressing?
yeah,sure.
thanks for read!
The Tao.
She turned to him with a wad of cash and smiled drunkenly. She needed him to kill her lesbian concubine. Another body for the burn pile. She was standing in a speakeasy with smoke and a band to the left at break. The bar behind her outlined her back and her lithe form twisted into a laugh and she collapsed in weakness on the table. No words were exchanged; he simply took the wad and knew in embarrassment what was expected. Her husband was the lead singer of the band and her lover was kept in the basement like a love puppy on a chain. This man before her would take care of it.
She remembered her husband. The time they wove the web on a campsite and he spun the music for the rustic scene, his hair dyed blond. That night he took her in the camper, raped her hard. They were lying on the dinette sofa turned bed, they fake cushions against the thin wood felt stiff beneath the weight. She turned her cheek to him, her dark skin unfolding under his hands. She wanted to leave him, divorce the bastard. But they had chemistry, a bond that held them like master and slave. He was white.
She would take lesbian lovers under him, women who would do anything for her, pets. She would keep them in the basement and use them at her will. When she grew tired of them they were disposed of like arrogant cats who overstrayed their welcome.
She built a garden behind their house and the children tended the pumpkins that grew larger than their heads. I am the child and when my father is away he takes me. Right there next to the dishes in the kitchen sink. I felt him hold me on the counter and love me tender like he never knew with my mother. He would touch my shoulder blades and his black hair would shine through the dye, his eyes focused and intent in his hands. I love him.
My Prayer Tonight.
My mother born me an heiress of temptation,
My father soaked me in the shame of a whore.
I have become to seek to be a man, but I am no man.
I stand at a great shore in agony of my womb, blood red my river flows.
Loneliness consumes me to bear a son with blue eyes and a heart of blond.
Such a one I would creep to my breast and beseech never to leave me in my weakness.
I am hollow without such a seed to bear my name, to cradle my likeness.
I bleed again.
I am no mother yet.
The fate of flesh is unjust.
The cathedrals full with the glory of our man’s hands.
O’ Great God Yaldabaoth, I am lonely.
I am your creation, can you not soothe me with the love of darkness that has become us.
I burn down another cigarette, a silent prayer, a subtle tear.
I pray let the horses take me tonight,
I pray let the doors of your cathedrals open upon me,
I pray let me drink of the waters that is your wine.
And I will dance for you in celebration of this creation, feel the wind call me name, feel us become one as the darkness softens my heart.
Amen.
Regarding my own personal recent struggles I have come to grips with a new formula for the boheme, an underlining definition of what Truth, Beauty and Love mean and express to me, a secondary delta of change within. The words I have chosen to redefine are as follows: Beauty becomes sensuality, Truth becomes honesty, and Love becomes passion. I also discovered an inversion for the word War, "raw", which I have defined as Invoke the raw and eliminate war within the self, meaning expose all that is hidden and vulnerable despite fear, to become whole. These philosophies are becoming fundamental to my development and are aiding me in my healing. Thought they might help others. Also, I thank god for everything, I am humbled. A little background, I am bipolar and under Chapter 51, so accepting my self and my flaws and learning to communicate these experiences and knowledge is a challenge for me, perhaps I am not alone in this?
You Know It.
I am following the moths, feeling my way with leg hair and toes grounded in moss.
A kiss on the cheek and I see you weep, such compassion.
A full moon for the sweetest of hearts.
Orion keeps watch over his kingdom of air, while we grow hair and hold each other discretely.
I love you, you know.
I’m sorry I couldn’t tell it to you all honest, like a bunny holding a wilted flower.
The moment is coming when I will weep too.
At long last I need to find my heart again, feel the beauty of earth again.
Aquamarine and sunshine seeds taste the salt brine and pickled swine will clear away all my most ignoramus statements of S&M and we will find each other again.
I miss you, you know.
I try to be the girl you love, the good kind, the worn in baseball glove thyme,
You know it.
New York noise rockers A Place To Bury Strangers will follow up February’s Onwards to the Wall EP with the release of their third LP, Worship, on June 26th via Dead Oceans. The band describes the 11-track effort, which they wrote, recorded, mixed and mastered themselves, as “our vision of what music should sound like in 2012.” Here's more:
“Every sound on the album is made by us and our tools; tools created by us, used on no other recordings, and purposefully built for this project. This is real,” bassist Dion Lunadon explains in an issued statement. “Some of it is the band being in complete control — bending, shaping and building the songs and the sounds. Other parts are the band relinquishing control and letting the songs and sounds take over and produce themselves. We are not trying to reinvent ourselves, but simply push ourselves further in all aspects of our music.”
Sonically, the album interweaves “threads of krautrock, dream-pop, and 80s goth without ever losing the edge that is quintessentially Strangers,” according to a press release. As a first listen, you can stream and download 'You Are The One' below (via SPIN.com). The tracklist follows.
“You Are The One”:
Worship Tracklist:
01. Alone
02. You Are The One
03. Mind Control
04. Worship
05. Fear
06. Dissolved
07. Why I Can’t Cry Anymore
08. Revenge
09. And I’m Up
10. Slide
11. Leaving Tomorrow
DOWNLOAD:
A Place To Bury Strangers - You Are The One
There is no phenomenon that can be completely explain. There is no scientific experiment that can explain what arts truly do to our minds and souls. To think that love can be easily explain with science is to think that there is no magic in the world. Magic is real but not present for those who don´t want to see it. If there were no unexplainable phenomena, there would be no scientists.
Music is a form of magic. The oldest form of communication. A way that with out words can reach our very soul. We need of music to keep in touch with our most precious and beloved essence. To keep in touch with the hole that makes the motor of the universe keep eternally running. There is no nostalgia or sadness there, only joy and happiness.
Music can have different effects. There is music that can make you shake and gives you life. There is music that can arise sexual feeling and behavior. There is music that can transport you to far away places, places that exceed our own imagination, connecting us with the mind that imagine the hole thing. There is music that can awake us from our slumbering and make us see reality for what it really is; sometimes when this happens the rich taste we use to like feels like crap.
In my opinion a group like Radiohead is a complete form of music, it has it all of the above and many things I haven´t mention. This are no ordinary men, but one of the best magicians I have seen in my life. Their music truly touch the soul. In times like this we need more of this valiant warrior. Only trough art and magic we can free humanity from the thick obscure smoke that blind us and make us slaves of animal behavior. Individualism over been part of the universe is not right, any social theory can tell you that. There is no strongest nor weakest only dice in a never ending dilemma.
Para cualquier otra banda este tema seria parte de un disco y primer corte. Para una banda como Radiohead no, es un B-Side....La vanguardia es asi.
Wis_H you a gL/orious day
Radiohead - Fog
Hay un niñito
que corre alrededor de esta casa.
Nunca se va,
nunca sa irá.
Y la niebla emana de las alcantarillas,
y brilla en la oscuridad.
Bebés cocodrilos de las alcantarillas
crecen rápidamente,
crecen rápidamente.
Cualquier cosa quieras se puede hacer.
¿Cómo fue que te echaste a perder?
¿Te echaste a perder?
¿Te echaste a perder?
Hay cosas que nunca se quitan.
¿Te echaste a perder?
¿Te echaste a perder?
Esta pasando y es ahora (y es siempre),
Ya no tenemos el pelo largo, ni anteojos redondos,
es verdad, ya no hay castillos ni dragones contra que luchar.
Pero esta pasando y es ahora (y es siempre),
el corazón afuera de la armadura,
la palabra y la canción como bandera.
Esta pasando y es ahora (y es siempre),
mientras la obra de las financieras derrama sus últimos versos,
estamos vos y yo, celebrando un viento que viene soplando
bajo, pero continuo, manso, pero imparable.
Somos los que no olvidamos, los que no olfateamos rabiosos tras la novedad,
los que sabemos que crear, lo que sea y como sea, es sagrado y eterno,
como el amor o los pies sobre el barro o todo lo que deja huellas.
