Greatly anticipating a visit from a representative of Corwood Industries at the Empty Bottle in September during the upcoming Wire magazine festival (esp. after last year's heartbreaking hurricane-related last minute cancellation) (not to mention this year's other stellar attendees...OM! William Parker/Hamid Drake Duo! Coughs! Steinski! Edan!), finally broke down and saw the Jandek documentary. A little heavy-handed in spots, and maybe a bit too respectful of the legendary recluse, it was also a splendid glimpse into the warped views of his fervent fanbase. Of which your host is an enthusiasticly recovering member, natch. I don't even bother trying to explain Jandek to folks anymore, though, so I'll save the prosthelatizing until after your 2nd briss. Don't bother trying to listen to his records 'cause you'll hate them, and then me for getting you at all associated with his bleak broken-chord meltdowns. Musically, it's all part of our new SLOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWW program around here. If you like your songs benzidrine psych ward dripped onto your flaming brain pan by a cruel, lamenting God, then by all means we have xxxtra space on the trampoline. Or, go buy the new Lupe Fiasco instead. Same diff.
Another (unintended) side-effect of the Jandek viewing is that it has helped propel me further into a medium-serious jazz phase. The kind where I start whipping out the Marzette Watts ESP-Disks and fretting over the acres of Sonny Sharrock um.....fret discharge therein. Did you know that I own a shitload of bad early 70s Herbie Mann LPs just for the weird Sonny gtr soloz they flaunt? Mustachioed buttfuck flute hound is bopping along on the neutral bad cover-version highway in a peach convertible and suddenly Sonny jumps in from the back of a passing truck, turning things upside down and shaking the change from everybody's pockets, saying hurried, nasty things as he does so, stinking of gasoline and three dollar a pint gin. Sonny Sharrock's guitar playing is untoward. Why Herbie invited him on board in the first place is sheer jazz lunacy. He hijacks the musical scheme and in seconds you are snacking on your brains like Swedish Fish. Lovely circles turn into terrifying dive bombs, runs up and down the strings like knives against bone and then peace, solitude, reflection. Before you've picked up your hat up off the floor, the wheels of time have grown tongues like long, wet ribbons and a tawdry moon is rising over the dashboard. And only good jazz musicos will show you that barrage of explosive heat they have tamed. From Sidney Bechet to Illinois Jacquet to David S. Ware, the universe, I am happy to report, is still exploding three times every second.
In other news, favorite OGFP dad and east-coast academic type Ian sent us even more Bob Dylan Theme Radio Hour episodes. Ian is the cotton balls. Seriously, the Coffee episode is stellar. The Divorce episode starts off with the Tammy Wynette killer and then it gets HEAVIER.
Hold on, Famoudou Don Moye is in the middle of a six minute solo on duck whistles. I'll be right back.