I recently had the pleasure of helping out with this, for the awesome Shanghai based music site Layabozi. The site has been one of the links in my sidebar for a while. The variety of articles on Layabozi is great – it’s eclectic, open-minded, rich in mental and visual stimulation, has no genre boundaries and is written by true music lovers, who take music seriously but still have a sense of humour. They describe it better:
“Layabozi is a web magazine about music in Shanghai today, with a sprinkle of the extra-mural and a tart sassiness—without ever being cloying. We take our inspiration from the snack which is both exotic (to us) and down home, and from which we take our name: Spicy Duck Necks. We are led by an exuberant, but discerning, Chilean amateur flautist with a strikingly handsome, yet humble, American bass player in support. We strive to provide writing that nourishes while piquing the intellect, and knowledge of music all over Shanghai, from Classical to Nouveau, from the Shanghai Grand to the neighborhood Chinese Opera house.”
And there’s a cool article on there right now, by ed, about funky Afro-Peruvian Music! You don’t even know what that is, do you? so go find out!
I’m going to post something non-intellectual, sacchrine sweet and potentially even irritating, depending on your ear. And you can’t stop me, unless your the copyright holder, I guess.
“My crayons are beautiful, just not magic…”
“Still Alive” by Jonathan Coulton (From the videogame, Portal)
Video author unknown.
A selecton of imported beers
and the autobiography of Peter Falk.
I ask you,
who’s arguing with that?
Of course that is not a proper poem (or is it? no.) but every birthday has it’s colours, waves its own flags, the flagpoles dug into sand and, around them, sand castles with their own moats, bridges and sophisticated pulley systems
and little rocks, which we’ll call milestones.
“Gee”, he said, “I never expected a milestone to be so small. I can hardly see it.”
“well, son, thats a pebble you’re holding.”
28th of July, 1866 is Beatrix Potter’s birthday. Beatrix Potter created Peter Rabbit, whom the hare must surely owe some alegience to somehow – yet another of his mystical kinships of which I am not am not fully aware.
A fine lesson in the archetecture of nightmares. It is unleashed, it has broke free and now we can all see it, and should. humanity’s Mr. Hyde is unmasked and stripped bare, and we left the cinema speechless and in awe. Heath Ledger’s performance seems to emmerge from some deep, dark well of the uncanny. Almost from nowhere, or somewhere too evil to contemplate.
“Just One More Thing” by Peter Falk (aforementioned)
He is a wanderer, who follows every whim, with wisdom and stupidity/naivity. To me, he’s not “Columbo”, I don’t really have that point of reference so much as others might. he’s a wiseman, who writes with great energy and carpe diem . In this book is life, lest we forget we’re living it. Not just a life, it’s that too, but the energy of life. Peter Falk crossed over to Yugoslavia, which was then behind the iron curtain, purely out of curiosity, and wound up helping to build a railroad.
music, music, music.
reggae, very cheesy and commercial, but great to get a party started, from a budget compilation from the supermarket.
and 1950s rock n’ roll songs and songs of a similar texture,
found a dark, subversive veign that i had not noticed in that music. cos it’s not all elvis, is it? Bo Diddley is finally getting his dues.
And Link Wray’s sound terrorism. “Jack The Ripper”. Jackson Pollock.
And I’m out,
I would say “Over and out” but nothing infuriates CB radio enthusiasts more apparantly.
Over — I have finished talking and I am listening for your reply. Short for “Over to you.”
Out or Clear — I have finished talking to you and do not expect a reply.
And so, “Over and Out” does not exist, you see.
Over and Out!
music plays here .
The Winter Hare assumed the very character of Winter, showing naught but contempt and bare-faced disregard for the mid-day sun that so persisted.
He stoked up the fire, poured a glass of brandy, and thought:
as a log cabin caved in, and the mantlepeice was thick with snow…
“How Shall I Ever Live?”
“How Shall I Ever Live?”
Banknotes flew in his direction upon the wind,
(which was strange for an animal with no concept of money.)
the sunlight faded ink
and the million dollar question
on everybody’s lips,
was now solely his to contemplate