As of June 2018, Play Recent will now run on a monthly basis in print and online at Cult Montreal. Visit here for the latest instalment, and thanks for reading.
“Movement 1: Cognitive Awakening (feat. Gina Izzo)” – Pascal Le Boeuf – Into The Anthropocene – Periapsis Open Series
“Daddy, what’s it going to be like in the year 2000?” asks a child’s innocent voice in the introduction to Busta Rhymes’ 1998 album Extinction Level Event. “Well, sweetheart, I hope for your sake that it’ll be all peaches and cream,” her daddy responds, “but I’m afraid the end time is near — the cataclysmic apocalypse referred to in the scriptures of every holy book known to mankind.”
In the aftermath of this week’s deadly attack in Toronto, experts couldn’t wait to chime in and declare that it was not a matter of if, but of when. Every city in the western world will soon get their very own version of this catastrophe, like a McDonalds or a Starbucks franchise popping up in the infinite sprawling suburb that we are now living in. One pundit on the CBC announced: “this is the new world order.” What he meant, of course, was “this is the new normal,” but his misspeaking was revealing.
Acts of 21st century terrorism gerrymander our maps in the worst possible way. They redraw us into a two-nation world: one the victims of terrorism, and one their perpetrators. “#JeSuisCharlie” and “#XStrong” hashtags underscore this. Undoubtedly, the broadcasting of tragedy has taken up a particularly American medialogical perspective after 9/11 — the desire to never again experience any form of trauma that has not already been premeditated. Or, as literary scholar David Simpson wrote in his book 9/11: The Culture of Commemoration: “The prefigurative imaginative experience makes bearable the shock of the real.”
Visitors (2013) – Dir. Godfrey Reggio – Cinedigm
How do we look at others, especially when they are in the midst of unimaginable suffering? The camera eye is designed to be static and unflinching, to be able to train itself on that which might be intolerable to the human eye. It is up to the person behind the camera to direct it to look compassionately upon its subjects.
In her 2003 book Regarding The Pain Of Others, Susan Sontag wrote: “The other, even when not an enemy, is regarded only as someone to be seen, not someone (like us) who also sees.” What the filmmaker Godfrey Reggio captures beautifully and magically and effortlessly in Visitors is, quite simply, the act of the other bearing witness to otherness. In so doing, the film facilitates a rare and instantaneous recognition.
“Black Snow” – Oneohtrix Point Never – Age Of – Warp Records
In one bizarre scene from David Cronenberg’s 1999 film eXistenZ — a prescient hypothesis on biotechnology and virtual reality composed almost entirely of bizarre scenes — a black cloud of deadly spores erupts to infect a factory that manufactures living video game consoles. Similarly, the protagonist of Dan Lopatin aka Oneohtrix Point Never’s “Black Snow” video kicks up a toxic libidinal cloud that ultimately quarantines the creature into a state of perpetual isolated connectivity. Lopatin seems to be at once fascinated and revolted by his own alternating infectiousness as technologically endowed, digitally mediated virtuoso/trickster.
Every generation, a pop chart hero throws up.
“Everything Connected” – Jon Hopkins – Singularity – Domino Record Co.
Voice-over dialogue from a 1997 BASF TV advert: “At BASF, we don’t make the cooler, we make it cooler; we don’t make the jeans, we make them bluer; we don’t make the toys, we make them tougher; we don’t make the water-scooter, we make it lighter. At BASF, we don’t make a lot of the products you buy, we make a lot of the products you buy better.”
“Odana” – Alanis Obomsawin – Bush Lady – Constellation Records
Here’s a radical thought. The powers of domination and oppression and control require a degree of resistance to function. So stop resisting. Surrender. Let go. Kneel in the face of evil, for it is then and only then that you truly give evil the choice to do good, and thus a chance for eternal grace and salvation.
“Cut Grass 1” – Aqueduct Ensemble – Improvisations On An Apricot – Last Resort
As a kid, one of my best friends was called Devendra. He was a naturally funny guy, always with a wry comment or a quick response to anything. He had a big smile, too, which put everyone at ease. Everyone liked him, and I was happy to be his friend.
As kids, we used to do funny things. Everything we did was about making each other laugh. One of the things Devendra used to do to make us laugh was what we might now call the “Apu” voice. Devendra was of South Asian descent, his parents first-generation Canadian immigrants. They did speak like that. And we did laugh.
But now, I realize that Devendra was imitating his parents for our amusement as a pre-emptive strike, so that nobody else could imitate his parents in jest without the jest coming principally from his own self. He wanted us to know that he was laughing first. So, laughing at him and his family was a useless strategy, if strategies there were, which, of course, there weren’t, because we loved Devendra and his whole family.
It reminds me of the language around MIDI — the master-slave thing, which I talk about extensively in my book, which you should read. Master devices, slave devices. It’s abhorrent. It’s worse than abhorrent, because it’s language, and it’s the language we use every day, and language makes reality. Like the Apu thing. If someone tells you that something you do makes them feel bad, and you keep doing it, you are an asshole.
“Some Limited and Waning Memory” – Christina Vantzou – No. 4 – Kranky
In the 1998 film Hurlyburly, adapted for the screen by David Rabe from his 1984 stage play of the same name, about the intertwined lives of seven sex-and-drug addled Hollywood wannabes with severe issues, the main character, Eddie, played expertly by Sean Penn — I mean, who plays a coked-out motor-mouth better? — rants obsessively about weapons of mass destruction: “They’re not,” Eddie says of the apparent misnomer. “They’re very, very selective about what they destroy. They annihilate people, and preserve things.”
“You want me to be kinder? Softer?” he cries, delving as deeply into a character as Penn has ever done: “I say NO! Be harder! Be a rock. Or polyurethane. I say, be a thing. And live.”
“The Evas” – Hunter Lombard – Eris EP – Jack Dept.
I have a sample somewhere of Teddy Pemberton saying “right now we gonna give you guys like some dope, dope beats they just gonna be banging out your mindframe just bust your thing open, aight?” Basically, what he said.
“Brilliant Yes That Would Be” – Underworld – Smith Hyde Productions
I am so pleased that Underworld turned out to be the band from the 90s electronica era with the most staying power. Their catalogue has held up better than many of their contemporaries (say, who bought that 20th anniversary pizza box edition of You’ve Come A Long Way Baby?) and on this cut, Underworld prove that they need little more than one really cool patch to make something brilliant.
“Claustra” – Eartheater – PAN
Your friend and mine, Chal Ravens, beat me to the punch this week when she said this was like the acid trip sequence in Dennis Hopper’s 1969 film Easy Rider. That particular acid trip was nearly 50 years ago, and it’s still producing flashbacks.
If you are reading this, congratulations. Well done on arriving at the end of 2017 without dying in a flood, an earthquake, fire, famine, nuclear war, terrorist attack, murder by police, new plague, white supremacist mass shooting, poverty, poison, revenge, hate crime, accident, or just by tossing your own stupid remains on some moonlit night into the depths of a quarry like a victim of the mob hit that was the past twelve months. You know when you’re on a particularly turbulent flight and all the passengers erupt in applause as the pilot finally lands the plane safely? That’s right now. You made it. You’re alive. A standing O for us all.
Welcome to my annual list of the top eleven albums of the year. A few brief words on how this list was chosen and assembled: First off, this is my list. It doesn’t have to be your list. I don’t claim it to be a comprehensive catalogue or accurate cross-section of musical production in 2017. I don’t care if it’s cool, and I definitely don’t care if it’s correct. It is, rather simply, music that I loved. If loving this music is wrong, then I don’t want to be right. Some of it is problematic. Some of it is uncomfortable. Some of it is sad. Some of it is hilarious. But all of it is brilliant, I believe. I hope that there is one record on this list that you have heard before, and at least one that you have not. That was my aim.
If a theme did emerge this year, it was one of late-style, in Adorno’s logic—what Edward Said described as “surviving beyond what is acceptable and normal.” In this list is what can be characterized as late-career works from artists like Slowdive, Godspeed You! Black Emperor, and Jay-Z. None of the records I chose was a debut. “In addition,” Said continues, “lateness includes the idea that one cannot really go beyond lateness at all, cannot transcend or lift oneself out of lateness, but can only deepen the lateness. There is no transcendence or unity.” I no longer believe this to be true. The last album of his storied career, David Bowie’s Blackstar was among his best of works, and Gord Downie’s final record may have been his very finest.
Stubbornly, this is a list of albums—not tracks, EPs, 12”s, mix tapes, reissues, archival releases, and the like—because I still believe in the indelible format of the long-playing recording, regardless of its medium. There is good reason why we use the same word for collections of songs and of photographs: they are both recordings of events, inscriptions in sound and light, and as such, albums are compendia of our most glossed-over and unvarnished memories. This is why certain records can be so evocative of a particular place and time—invoking every single sense—and I think it’s why we tend to want to make wrap-up lists like this one each year.
Finally, this list is unranked. Instead, I chose one song from each album, and curated the songs into a playlist. Unfortunately, there is no single platform that contains every song I chose, so I arranged the playlist in the form of the blurbs and links below. I designed this playlist to be listened to in order, in its entirety, one song after another. (Revolutionary! I know.) If you like it, I also encourage you to buy the music on this list, either from an independent shop, or directly from the label or artist. The songs herein conveniently fit neatly onto a CD, which is the way I still like to compile and listen to playlists. It’s my version of making an album. I hope you enjoy it. I care because you do. So thank you for reading, thank you for listening, I love you, and see you in 2018.
“Ascent” – Kate Carr – From A Wind Turbine To Vultures (And Back) – Flaming Pines
Have you ever climbed a mountain? If not, I recommend it. There is nothing quite like being higher than anything else around you. A popular cliché says that it’s lonely at the top. The reason for that is because most people can’t be bothered. It’s a lot of work climbing a mountain. Sure, you can helicopter your way to the top, but there is an immense sense of accomplishment reaching a real summit on your own steam, and looking on at the vastness and relative emptiness of this still-beautiful world.
If you want to, you can skip over Kate Carr’s incredible augmented field recording, a strange document of rare quality and precision. It is twenty-seven minutes long, and you’d be forgiven for thinking, initially, that not much happens. But in doing so, you will have skipped over the literal and the figurative ascent, and will have ab initio missed the point of this excursion entirely.
“Ab Ovo” – Joep Beving – Prehension – Deutsche Grammophon
Like a lot of kids, I took parent-enforced piano lessons when I was young. My teacher was a stern Polish woman who had a reputation for smacking her pupils’ knuckles with a ruler whenever they played a wrong note. Music lessons began when I was three years old, with basic rhythm training. I remember walking in circles on the Afghan rug in my stern Polish piano teacher’s apartment, little drum in hand, counting and beating in time with a wooden mallet. In addition to that drum, my mother brought home shakers, bells, and a triangle with which to make percussive noise. At four, I graduated to the piano keyboard, taking Royal Conservatory lessons until high school. I went to several teachers: Mrs. Peedee from the neighborhood; Mrs. McNaughton at Alberta College; Yana Tubinshlak, a sturdy Russian Jewish woman with two massive, ornate, and ancient pianos sat side by side in her drawing room. She never smacked my knuckles. But she did say things like: “What orchestra are you playing with?” if I accidentally struck a discordant tone. Mrs. Tubinshlak was my favorite teacher.
But, like a lot of kids, I hated practicing. In the summertime, I would have rather been outside shooting hoops or riding bikes with friends. In the winter, I wanted to be playing hockey and throwing myself down snowy hills on a toboggan. Instead, I spent two hours a night, every night of the week, practicing piano.
Our piano was made in 1916 in Woodstock, Ontario, by the D.W. Karn Piano and Organ Company. It was an upright model—known as a “Cabinet Grand”—built of quarter-sawn oak in the Mission-Arts and Crafts style. My parents bought it for $350 when I was born, and made sure I made good use of it.
Each year, I took the Royal Conservatory exam at the Edmonton House, an apartment hotel on the edge of downtown. According to urban legend, the Edmonton House, with its upper balconies exposed to the river valley, was a popular place for people to commit suicide, although there was no clear correlation to piano exams.
Every Friday afternoon in our elementary school, we had assemblies in the gymnasium. Everyone from grades one to six would sit in neat rows on the floor. These were like a cross between pep rallies, recitals, and talent shows, at which students would dance, sing, or otherwise show off. One Friday, I was supposed to perform “Für Elise” on the piano. I had been practicing for months. I had it down. I knew it backwards. But somehow, when I got up on stage in front of six hundred other students, I froze. All that practice drained from my brain. I couldn’t seem to summon a single memory of how to play the song. Looking back, I imagine that the impetus behind musical automation, and the drive for digital perfection—for MIDI, and for instantaneous, permanent memory—was determined at least in part by the overwhelming embarrassment and trauma of experiences like mine. The sheer terror of performance now belongs to the machine.
“Sugar for the Pill” – Slowdive – Slowdive – Dead Oceans
The shower-masturbation sequence in Gregg Araki’s Nowhere, twenty years old this year, which Slowdive incidentally soundtracked, is among the sexiest, funniest, and most accurate sex scenes in all of cinema. From now on, I can’t fathom an encounter that won’t be masturbatory. Good thing I love me.
“The Pendulum” – Daniel O’Sullivan – Veld – O Genesis
The opening track to Grumbling Furrier O’Sullivan’s solo record sends Enya-worthy shivers southward, spineward. Note in particular the acoustic phenomenon of “beating,” where the superimposition of two similar frequencies creates within the interstice a third frequency, a modulation of amplitude, and one of infinite natural instances where 1 + 1 = 3. This album is alchemy.
“B.H.S.” – Sleaford Mods – English Tapas – Rough Trade Records
When Sears Canada began liquidating its merchandise in advance of the company’s insolvency, it secretly started hiking its prices higher than an octogenarian’s socks. Sure, the competition bureau was called in to investigate, but what are they going to do? Penalize a company that no longer exists? The problem with capitalism is that it holds no one to account. CEOs waltz away from financial disasters with seemingly zero consequences. Rather, the best and brightest capitalists are rewarded for stripping off everything of value from a fire sale, like sharks in a Hemmingway novel. Nobody sees and says this more clearly than Sleaford Mods, the punk-as-fuck UK duo for whom 2017 was a goose with golden eggs for material.
“Grit” – Pessimist – Pessimist – Blackest Ever Black
There’s an old joke that goes: the difference between an optimist and a pessimist is that the optimist believes that things could never be better, and the pessimist fears that the optimist is right.
“Carbon 7 (161)” – Jlin – Black Origami – Planet Mu
“The Story of O.J.” Jay-Z – 4:44 – Roc Nation / Universal Music Group
The powers that be managed to deracinate, fatten up, and otherwise silence Kanye West in a year when we needed nothing more than for a ballsy American to go on international television and say straight into the cameras that the president doesn’t care about black people. What we got instead was Jay-Z singing the blues, because Kanye tells it like it should be, and Jay-Z tells it like it is. One reason why 4:44 works so well as an album, rather than a mere collection of songs, is because of the uniformity of its vision at the hands of a single producer, No I.D.—the name alone ironically suggesting effacement and ubiquity at once. The result is a sharply focused record, an account of a true baller late in his game, grappling with the trappings of his own success, coming to maturation in Trump’s America.
“America” – Scott Wollschleger – Soft Aberration – New Focus Recordings
Unlike Simon and Garfunkel’s whimsical Beatnik-era search for identity, or Neil Diamond’s bombastic nationalistic anthem, or Nas’s prophetic cautionary tale, Scott Wollschelger’s “America” is a more mournful invocation of what once was the land of the free and home of the brave. In this piece, rendered meticulously imperfect by the cellist John Popham of the outstanding trio Longleash, are echoes of Aaron Copland’s quintessentially American “Our Town,” as well as something as unexpected as James Horner’s Field of Dreams score. To be sure, there is little neither free nor brave about America now, its president and citizens hiding behind the glowing screens of mobile phones, betrothed to hands both more powerful and yet tinier. Let us be haters, we’ll marry our misfortunes together.
“Fam_Famine” – Godspeed You! Black Emperor – Luciferian Towers – Constellation Records
I wish that Godspeed would take themselves seriously already. I’m joking! God. Don’t take yourselves so seriously.
All kidding aside, Godspeed have never donned wigs and stockings, simpering with painted faces, attempting a masqueraded escape lowered to sea-level in lifeboats amongst women and children, as the captain and his crew have quite clearly done. I think that our hometown house band may have found a way to take themselves just seriously enough, doing the solemn duty of playing until the ship goes down.
“Bedtime” – Gord Downie – Introduce Yerself – Arts & Crafts
Following a diagnosis of glioblastoma, the aggressive brain cancer that ultimately ended Gord Downie’s life, he did not, like so many of us would have done, rest on his laurels, and sink quietly toward his own expiry. No. What Gord Downie did was to take his band mates and best friends of three decades The Tragically Hip on one last road trip across Canada, and then record not one but two exemplary solo albums: 2016’s The Secret Path, and this year’s heart-gnawing collaboration with Broken Social Scene’s Kevin Drew, Introduce Yerself. Each of the record’s twenty-three songs is written to a person. I assume that “Bedtime” is for one of Downie’s children, and if you’ve ever had a child—or been one—this song, which resides at the exact meeting place between “It’s A Good Life if you Don’t Weaken” and “Lover’s Spit,” will leave you in pieces. Downie’s inimitable talent was to take the everyday, the quotidian, the seemingly small, something as simple as a creaking floorboard, and like a master toy-maker, imbue it with an intricately moving sense of magic realism, yet without slipping into saccharine sentimentality. This album is not for everyone. It is for those of us who loved Gord Downie, and its weight and heft seem to reveal how much he loved us back.
There could be any number of valid readings of this song—that it’s a metaphor for Downie’s more frequent returns to the stage near his end of days; that death itself is not final—but what I take away is the profoundly valuable lesson that everything important in life must be done twice. Like a bad drive off the first tee, or a foul ball, this year was a do-over, in the Daniel Stern-in-City Slickers sense, only far darker.
We can do better. We must do better.
“Army of Me (Instrumental)” – Björk – Post – One Little Indian
Two stories consumed my news feed last week: one was the near unanimous praise for Björk’s latest album; the other was about recent music-related experiments conducted by the Neuroscientist Dr. Robert Zatorre at McGill University. Published this month in Nature, Zatorre’s research concluded that listeners’ attitudes toward music could be successfully altered using magnetic stimulation of the frontostriatal circuitry. Effectively, our reward centers — the ones that register pleasure from our favourite songs — can be manipulated by positive or negative transcranial stimulation. Now, I’ve never really liked Björk. She’s had some good tunes, but her quirky, twee voice ruins them. “Army of Me” is a banger, but it should have remained an instrumental. I cannot stand her new record. This, I know, is an unpopular opinion, and makes me wonder how long it will be before they come for me with the Björk magnets. Just please, keep the Nickelback magnets far, far away.
“Borders feat. Jenny Hval (Klara Lewis Remix)” – Carmen Villain – Borders/Red Desert 12” – Smalltown Supersound
Another late addition to the alternate Twin Peaks playlist?
“Duelle” – Roger Tellier Craig – Soundcloud
Beginning with his excellent September release on Root Strata, and culminating in this experimental piece produced at the Conservatoire de Musique de Montréal, M. Tellier Craig’s music has grown exponentially this year, in both aesthetic and technical complexity. In less than a decade, he has gone from making lovely but anodyne Kosmische-inspired soundscapes with Le Révélateur, to his own brand of fully realized Musique concrète. I think that Roger Tellier Craig is one of the most exciting and yet criminally overlooked electronic musicians working today, and won’t be surprised to see him get his fair dues.
My Own Private River (2012) – James Franco and Gus Van Sant, Dirs.
Until this week, I had no idea that James Franco and Gus Van Sant made a film in 2012, called My Own Private River. Ostensibly, it’s classified as a documentary, but what it actually is is a Genettian paratext of the highest order. Essentially, the pair made a contrapuntal film out of pick-up shots, outtakes, and B-roll from Van Sant’s 1991 picture My Own Private Idaho. The result is something like the perfect mixture of Rashomon, Buffalo ‘66, Easy Rider, and River Phoenix fan fiction. It’s amazing. How far we have fallen when what was left on Van Sant’s cutting room floor in 1991 is better than anything the A-list film industry has to offer today.
“Chick Habit” – April March – From the credit sequence of Death Proof (2007) – Quentin Tarantino, dir.
Early this morning, I logged in to twitter, and saw this tweet from the NYU AI scholar Kate Crawford. It’s about the widespread and sexist use in digital imaging processing of a 1972 Playboy magazine centerfold model called Lena Söderberg. Apocryphally, the photo was chosen almost by accident when researchers at the University of Southern California Signal and Image Processing Institute were looking for a complex new image to digitize. A colleague came in with the November Playboy issue, and the rest is history. Lena has ever since been at the center of a simmering controversy over the continuing objectification of women in an already male-dominated field.
This reminded me of the story of the LAD girls: benchmark images developed by Kodak for the color printing of motion picture film. An acronym for Laboratory Aim Density, a method by which film-processing labs strive for uniform emulsion consistency, LAD girls essentially became the most photographed women in cinema, their headshots appearing on three or four frames at the head and tail of nearly every reel of color celluloid distributed globally over the second half of the twentieth century.
Throughout the 1970s and 80s, many projectionists, lab technicians, and film nerds — who were almost exclusively male — began collecting the images, in the same way that men might collect Playboy magazines or pornographic playing cards. One of them was Quentin Tarantino. You might recall having seen his LAD girls in the credits for the 2007 female revenge film, Death Proof. That sequence also contains the song “Chick Habit” by April March, an English-language revision of France Gall’s Serge Gainsbourg-produced 1964 hit “Laisse tomber les filles” — a song warning men to “leave the girls alone” lest “you be the one who cries.” And who produced Death Proof? Harvey Weinstein.
Was Tarantino subconsciously using the LAD girls to send Weinstein a message? Perhaps. Looking back ten years on, it’s a delicious coincidence. Nonetheless, in Hollywood cinema, computer science, and beyond, we can no longer use chicks’ images simply out of habit.
Downpour – “A beginner’s guide to mass hysteria” – Destroy It Yourself – Bandcamp
Nobody knows exactly what happened to members of the American envoy in Cuba, and their spouses, who in the fall of 2016 started suffering from unexplained hearing loss, nausea, vertigo, and a variety of other vague physical symptoms. The Associated Press reported in August that they had been attacked by some sort of sophisticated sonic weapon: “an advanced device that operated outside the range of audible sound.” The new American administration retaliated by expelling the two sole official Cuban diplomats from the US. The Cuban government denied deploying or even possessing any such weapon, stating in its defence: “Cuba has never permitted, nor will permit, that Cuban territory be used for any action against accredited diplomatic officials or their families, with no exception.”
In the absence of evidence to the contrary, or for that matter any logical or definitive explanation, commentators have been forced to speculate on the cause of the Americans’ mysterious illnesses. “There may have been chemical exposure,” say Lisa Diedrich and Ben Tausig in The New York Times; “mass hysteria,” say Julian Borger and Philip Jaekl of The Guardian. “None of this makes sense until you consider the psychogenic explanation,” argues Robert Bartholomew, a medical sociologist familiar with the case.
Mass hysteria could be one explanation. In 1518, around four hundred residents of Strasbourg, Alsace, in modern-day northeastern France, took to dancing for days without rest in a bizarre case of “dancing mania,” many dying from heart attack, stroke, and exhaustion. The 1962 Tanganyika laughter epidemic, which affected ninety-five students in a mission-run boarding school for girls, was attributed to a mass psychogenic illness near the Ugandan border. On November 8th 2016, nearly sixty-three million Americans voted for Donald J. Trump to become their next president. Anything’s possible.
JK Flesh – “Exit Stance” – Exit Stance – Downwards
Last chance to evacuate planet Earth before it is recycled.
CMD – “Graviton Cloud” – Wavecraft – Low Noise Productions
Corina MacDonald, aka CMD, is a Montreal-based electronic music producer, who sometimes performs under the name Cyan, too. MacDonald also hosts “Modular Systems,” a bi-weekly show on CKUT community radio, every second Sunday. And she is a mainstay of local events and festivals like Mutek. CMD is what might be described as an “overproducer,” an active member of a creative scene generating far more material than is rationally possible to parse. But it’s fun to try.
Sabrina Ratté (with Roger Tellier-Craig) – “Créteil” – Machine for Living
“The ancient idea of pleasure still seems sacrilegious to modern architectural theory,” wrote the famous deconsructivist architect Bernard Tschumi in the early 1980s. And little has changed since then, says Anna Klingmann, in her 2007 book Brandscapes: “Most critical practices in architecture are still governed by the Calvinist credo of the ‘socially conscious,’ who condemn every sensual design as ‘spectacle’ without any understanding what that might mean.” What it means to me is that, in the future, built environments won’t need people to populate them. Paradoxically, they will be much more “socially conscious” in absence of the social altogether.
Kate Carr – “Ascent” – From A Wind Turbine To Vultures (And Back) – Flaming Pines
I have been re-reading Of Walking On Ice, a beautifully written travelogue penned by Werner Herzog in 1974, during the course of his three-week walk from Munich to Paris to visit his friend and fellow filmmaker Lotte Eisner, who had fallen gravely ill. “Flat countryside,” Herzog writes, “only the crows, shrieking all around me—I suddenly ask myself seriously whether I’ve lost my mind, as I hear so many crows but see so few. There is dead silence around me, as far as I can hear, and then there’s the shrieking of crows. Mistily the heights of the Vosges Mountains are penciled along the horizon.”
“There was mainly just wind, mud, and the odd wire fence or cryptic red sign post,” writes Kate Carr, of her equivalently Herzogian quest in Velez Blanco, southern Spain. “I didn’t know until towards the end of my stay at Joya, but the signs denoted that the mountain was hunting ground for local residents at various points of the year, and boar were quite common there, although I never saw any, and only very few birds, whose calls were often muffled by the wind. The only exception being the mighty black vultures which flew over the crest of the mountain, and could be identified by the whistling beat of their wings.”
I cannot think of a better soundtrack to accompany this book than Kate Carr’s From A Wind Turbine To Vultures (And Back)—the “sonic transect” of her harrowing ascent.
Daniel Lanois – “Not Fighting Anymore” – Here Is What Is – Red Floor Records
I hadn’t cried in a long while. It was like that Seinfeld episode when Jerry hadn’t barfed for a decade. The last time I cried was a frustrated, heavy sob on the day of Trump’s inauguration. I’m not American, but I cried anyway for the sorry lot.
Waking up on Wednesday morning was as unremarkable as waking up on any other morning. I arose with the sun and finished writing a cover letter for a job I’m applying for, made a cup of tea, opened twitter. Of course, I saw first thing that Gord Downie had died, and was immediately overwhelmed with profound sadness. Knowing along with the nation for the past eighteen months that this day was near was no consolation. I remembered all the campfires and tailgate parties and even the oddly sentimental moments that the Hip had soundtracked over the years. I remembered seeing them with loved ones who aren’t around anymore. I remembered the farewell concert they played last summer, and I remembered focusing intently on identifying Downie’s custom-made hat to keep myself from welling up.
Then, before I had even an instant to properly grasp my mourning, I read the news that Quebec had passed its disgraceful Bill 62, prohibiting all facial coverings while administering or receiving public services in the province. Ostensibly, the law was enacted as a “state neutrality” measure, but it is targeted almost exclusively against a small minority of Muslim women. My sorrow for Downie quickly made a sharp U-turn toward anger at Quebecers — for the institutionally discriminatory, xenophobic, and downright racist society that I have been living in for the past thirteen years; for the betrayal of a provincial government that only months ago apologized on behalf of all Quebecers for the worst terrorist attack on Canadian soil in our history, the slaying of six Muslims knelt in peaceful prayer in a Quebec City mosque on 29 January 2017; for the betrayal of the motherfuckers who continue to remain silent on the most heinous issues that are so urgently facing not just our city or province, but the entire planet. I didn’t cry. I didn’t cry for Gord, and I didn’t cry with the news of a massive social backslide in my own backyard. The thick teardrops saved themselves for later that evening, when, after a hard day applying for jobs and being simultaneously more angry and sadder than I had been since January 20th, Daniel Lanois’ “Not Fighting Anymore,” from his beautiful and apparently invisible 2008 album Here Is What Is, came on the iPod shuffle. The machine, in all its automated, algorithmic wisdom, chose that song. It was an honest mistake.
Scott Wollschleger – “Brontal Symmetry” – Soft Aberration – New Focus Recordings
I am fascinated and disturbed by cognitive dissonance: the apparent disparity between appearance and reality. Today, we are all too often glued to some form of screen, telling us that things are different from what our eyes are telling us — that everything is okay, when it quite clearly isn’t — the Žižekian “I know very well, but…” “Relations of domination function through their denial,” Žižek writes, in his 2008 book In Defence of Lost Causes. “We are not only obliged to obey our masters, we are also obliged to act as if we we’re free and equal.” What I like about Wollschleger’s “Brontal Symmetry” is that, at several points in its fourteen and a half minutes, the piece pulls the screen back so that the listener must face reality, face our own cognitive dissonance in all its horrible hilarity.
тпсб – “Are You Still Hurt” – Sekundenschlaf – Blackest Ever Black
In January, four men were discovered dehydrated and starving inside a shipping crate at the Cast Terminal in the Old Port. The Georgian nationals were rescued during a random inspection of the container. They had been confined for at least twelve days, on a transatlantic voyage that took them via Hong Kong to Quebec City and Trois-Rivières, before docking in Montreal. Remember them next time you whinge about getting the middle seat, or having to endure a crying baby on a flight.
buffalo MRI – Hushed sketchica – Power Puerto Rico Compilation – Bandcamp
In a 19 October interview with NPR, FEMA coordinator Michael Byrne said that, nearly one month after hurricane Maria devastated the Caribbean island, the US emergency agency is still distributing 600,000 meals and millions of gallons of water per day to Puerto Ricans whose homes and lives were demolished by the storm. Even Royal Caribbean, the luxury cruise line long criticized for their Haitian private island walled off from the locals, used the Adventure of the Seas, a 3,800-passenger vessel to bring aid to San Juan, and to evacuate the stranded to Fort Lauderdale. While the president, with a personal net worth of $3.1 billion US, tosses out rolls of paper towel for television cameras, and concurrently trades barbs with the city’s mayor on twitter. Why is it always those who have the least who give the most?
Esmerine – “Mechanics Of Dominion” – Mechanics Of Dominion – Constellation Records
By the sweat of your brow
you will eat your food
until you return to the ground,
since from it you were taken;
for dust you are
and to dust you will return