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Akiko Yano :: Japanese Girl

Whether producing Little Feat, or behind the boards sidewinding down Shakedown Street, Lowell George had a sound. And as sonic mojos go, no matter the project, his touch felt instinctual, immediate and, of course, funky. In 1976 George and the band hooked up with Akiko Yano to record her debut full-length, Japanese Girl, on the west coast at Hollywood Sound Studios. The flipside was laid down back in Tokyo with Haruomi Hosono, Tatsuo Hayashi and Moonriders’ Keiichi Suzuki. Damn.

Have a taste, below. Repeat listening rewarded.

Akiko Yano :: Funamachi-Uta Part 2

The reissue of Japanese Girl marks the second installment of Paris based label We Wants Sounds ongoing reissue series of Yano’s catalog, which began with Tadaima, and commences later this month with the release of 1977’s Iroha Ni Konpeitou.

Neil Young + Stray Gators :: Tuscaloosa

Intentional or not, Neil Young picked a rather poignant time to release a live album recorded in Alabama—and given his prickly history with the state (and with the South at large), Tuscaloosa feels like it’s arriving in the same way that so much of Shakey’s career has: just when we need it. Back in 1972, when he released the song “Alabama,” people were still getting used to Neil. They were still getting used to the fact that he wasn’t interested in continuing to be that twenty-one-year-old miming over an overdub of “Mr. Soul” with a smile on The Hollywood Palace. And they were still getting used to the fact that he was the type of Canadian who would have the audacity to call out the United States when it was acting horribly.

Neil Young & The Stray Gators :: Don’t Be Denied (live)

“Alabama” was a statement of purpose—a doubling down of intent, following “Southern Man,” that indicated to listeners that being a Neil fan was not going to be a smooth ride at times. These days, that’s more or less common knowledge, but it’s easy to understand how those showing up to his arena tour in 1973 might not have received the memo just yet (or rather, might not have listened past “Old Man” on side two of Harvest). Tuscaloosa, recorded on a February night particularly early on in this tour—less than three months after Danny Whitten OD’d the night he was summarily dismissed from band rehearsals for being too strung out—is a treasure-trove artifact of the beginning of Neil’s ride into the Ditch. Somewhat surprisingly, though, it’s also a rebuttal to the notion that the whole tour sounded like the big bummer that it was. At least at first.

In comparison to Time Fades Away, the live album of sorts culled from this same tour with The Stray Gators, Tuscaloosa is actually a pretty upbeat set. Perhaps that’s because it’s made up of mostly Harvest songs (Neil was notoriously difficult about playing the hits in this era, but clearly not that difficult on some nights), and you try and listen to “Out on the Weekend” and not feel like life is 100-percent swell. That said, this version of the Harvest opener does have something darker than the studio version lurking beneath—something black. Simply put, Neil sounds like he gives just a little bit less of a shit about hitting all the right notes than he did before. It’s a stunning performance.

Toward the end of this set, Neil, ever unafraid, plays “Alabama” for the University of Alabama crowd, who, to their credit, respond with courtesy and awareness, breaking out into applause just at the sound of the riff. But whatever reception they gave at the end of the show that night is pointedly left out—unlike basically every live album ever made, Tuscaloosa fades out before the applause comes in, leaving us instead with “Don’t Be Denied” playing into oblivion. It may be agonizing to Neil, but at least in terms of lore and value and repeated visits, this really is the tour that never ended. (His band members, who each reportedly received $100,000 for their time, are probably more OK with reliving this period than their bandleader.)

But no matter how cool it is to hear this album, and no matter how heartstopping it is to hear stuff like an electric version of “New Mama”—don’t miss the nuts drum part on that song from Kenny Buttrey, who would soon leave the tour early in frustration—it’s undeniable that Time Fades Away is still the vastly superior product. After all, it was compiled from various shows across the whole tour, instead of just from one night. Regardless, though, Tuscaloosa, with its alternate look at a quintessential moment in rock history, is a second drink that’s impossible to turn down. words / n rogers

Related: Neil Young & Crazy Horse :: The Unreleased Albums

Aquarium Drunkard has launched a Patreon page, which will allow readers and listeners to directly support our online magazine as it expands its scope while receiving access to our secret stash, including bonus audio, exclusive podcasts, printed ephemera, and vinyl records. Your support will help keep an independent cultural resource alive and healthy in 2019 and beyond.

Beverly Glenn-Copeland :: La Vita

Our fascination with Beverly Glenn-Copeland is no secret, from the jazzy folk of his 1970 debut to his 1986 minimalist electronic masterpiece, Keyboard Fantasies.

Well, Glenn continues to inspire wonder and awe. This week, ORG Music announced the forthcoming reissue of his little known, self-released 2004 long player, Primal Prayer, originally released under the moniker Phynix. It’s a dramatic and heady work, one of pure musical fusion and life-affirming imagination.

Opening track “La Vita” (Italian: ‘the life’) has been on steady repeat. Operatic, percussive and spiritual all in the same breath, the late soprano Maggie Hollis sets the dramatic backdrop behind xylophone and synth pad percussion, before Glenn transports in with an impassioned sermon.

“And the body says ‘remember you gotta breathe’

The body says ‘take the time to grieve’

The mind says ‘let the silence grow’

The mind says ‘allow yourself to grow’

The spirit says ‘cast your eyes above’

The spirit says ‘fill your heart with love’

The heart says ‘seek the light within’

The heart says ‘let the dance begin’

And my mother says to me, ‘enjoy your life’”

He is repeating this mantra to himself, but it’s no stretch to imagine he is being altruistic in this moment of deep spirituality. It’s otherworldly; something like Johnnie Frierson’s fiery gospel fused with The Fifth Element’s diva Plavalaguna. A breathtaking performance that continues to retroactively solidify Glenn’s singular talent and vision.

Glenn says of the creation of “La Vita”: “I have always felt that the music I transcribe is piped in, so to speak, on wave lengths to which I am attuned. I woke up one morning speaking passable Italian. I wrote this song. By the end of the day, I no longer spoke Italian.” words / c depasquale

Related / Recommended: Beverly Glenn-Copeland :: Keyboard Fantasies

The Aquarium Drunkard Show: SIRIUS/XMU (7pm PST, Channel 35)

More tales from the pacific rim. The Aquarium Drunkard Show on SIRIUS/XMU, channel 35. 7pm California time, Wednesdays. Heat Wave guest for an hour on this week’s show…check out their AD mixes of 7″ records, here

SIRIUS 566: Jean Michel Bernard – Générique Stephane ++ Masao Yagi – Sukeban M-2 ++ Akiko Yano – Funamachi-Uta Part 2 ++ Shintaro Sakamoto – From The Dead ++ Shuggie Otis – XL-30 ++ Shuggie Otis – Aht Uh Mi Hed ++ Susumu Yokota – Lapis Lazuli ++ Michael Nau – No Quit To It ++ CAVE – Beaux (AD edit) ++ Los Mirlos – El Escape ++ Füsun Önal – Neden Tuttun ++ Elimi ++ Ciclone – A Todo Vapor ++ Antena – Life Is Too Short ++ Batista Júnior – Cheira ++ Lio – Sage Comme Une Image ++ Luisa Fernandez – Loca Por Ti ++ Black Blood – Rastiferia ++ Buari – Karam Bani ++ ดิอิมพอสสิเบิล – ผมไม่วน ++ Royal Sprites – Gotta Go Home ++ Mita – Ao Vivo Com Você ++ Aneka – I Was Free ++ Viva Voz – Fugitivos De Azul ++ Barbara Sookraj – By My Side ++ Manuela Moura Guedes – Foram Cardos, Foram Crados ++ Ranking Ann – A Slice Of English Toast ++ Wayne Smith & Prince Jammy – Sleng Ting + Computerised Dub ++ Felt Kuti – Unknown Soldier (AD edit) ++ Antibalas – Dub Je Je ++ Damon Locks -The Colors That You Bring ++ Mudies All-Stars – Loran’s Dance (outro)

*Listen for free, online, with the SIRIUS three day trial — just submit an email address and they will send you a password.

Heat Wave (Volume 3) – A 7″ Mixtape

Heat Wave (Volume Three) – A 7″ Mixtape

Several years back, Los Angeles collector and dj Daniel T told us about a regular series he was starting with fellow head, Wyatt Potts. It became Heat Wave — a weekly dj night in east Hollywood focusing on (often rare) slices of international funk, soul, disco and beyond. It’s grown (a lot) and is now a second home to a global coterie of visiting DJs from the likes of S. America, Europe and Asia. But this week is different. It’s just the resident founders and they’re only spinning from their 7″ collection.

Los Mirlos – El Escape ++ Füsun Önal – Neden Tuttun Elimi ++ Ciclone – A Todo Vapor ++ Antena – Life Is Too Short ++ Batista Júnior – Cheira ++ Lio – Sage Comme Une Image ++ Luisa Fernandez – Loca Por Ti ++ Black Blood – Rastiferia ++ Buari – Karam Bani ++ ดิอิมพอสสิเบิล – ผมไม่วน ++ Royal Sprites – Gotta Go Home ++ Mita – Ao Vivo Com Você ++ Aneka – I Was Free ++ Viva Voz – Fugitivos De Azul ++ Barbara Sookraj – By My Side ++ Manuela Moura Guedes – Foram Cardos, Foram Crados

“Normally when we play music at our party, we’ll bring a bag of everything from LPs and 12”s to CDs, but recently it occurred to us that our 7” collections were becoming quite large. We thought it would be a fun experiment to see if we could spin an entire evening of 45s, while maintaining a captivated dance floor. Any 45 DJ will tell you that spinning 7” records keeps you on your toes, as you don’t have the luxury of an 8 minute extended mix that you get with 12”s and Maxi singles. We are going to try it out this Thursday night at Gold Diggers. Consider this hour-long mix a little taste…”

Previously: Heat Wave (Volume One) // Heat Wave (Volume Two)

Aquarium Drunkard has launched a Patreon page, which will allow readers and listeners to directly support our online magazine as it expands its scope while receiving access to our secret stash, including bonus audio, exclusive podcasts, printed ephemera, and vinyl records. Your support will help keep an independent cultural resource alive and healthy in 2019 and beyond.

Craig Leon :: The Aquarium Drunkard Interview

Composer, producer, and conceptual artist Craig Leon spent the ’70s helping to launch the careers of some of the most exciting and boundary pressing artists in rock music: the Ramones, Blondie, the Talking Heads, Suicide, and dozens more. But in the early 1980s, he released Nommos, a synthesized speculative epic that imagined the sounds of the cosmos. Inspired by the mythos of the Dogon people, a Malian tribe with a vast cosmology, the record stands as an electronic masterpiece. Rhythmically intense and celestially-minded, it was collected and re-issued alongside its 1982 follow-up, Visting, by RVNG INTL as Anthology of Interplanetary Folk Music Vol. 1, a spaceways parallel to Harry Smith’s Anthology of American Folk Music.

This year, Leon and his musical partner Cassell Webb have returned to the sound worlds of Nommos and Visiting with the Anthology of Interplanetery Folk Music Vol. 2: The Canon, seven new recordings that, like the original albums in the series, blur the distinctions between minimalism, electronic folk, and New Age music..

Leon joined Aquarium Drunkard from his home in England, where he was game to discuss his roots in rural Florida, the blossoming New York experimental scene of the ’70s, and the conceptual framework of his interplantery sound saga.

Aquarium Drunkard: What was the first kind of music you learned to play? 

Craig Leon: I grew up in a household where my mother was musical. My father wasn’t too much, but he was a big fan and a record collector. They discovered I had a talent for classical music. That was the first music I ever listened to, my father’s hand-me-down records from his collection that I used to play on a little record player. I was very active as a kid, especially late at night. I’d sit and play this record player [listening to] the classical records of the 1950s: things on the American Angel label; the British EMI labels; von Karajan’s Beethoven set on RCA;  Beethoven string trios…Wanda Landowska playing Bach. I then started to listen to things on the radio. I’d started to study the piano, really really young, when I was four or five.

AD: What role did the radio play a role in introducing you to new music?

Craig Leon: Around that time, ’55 or ’56, I’d listen way up on the dial. You hear this a lot from people who grew up in rural America, and I grew up as rural as you can get, in a swamp: When you’d go up the right-hand side of the dial in those days, you’d get either country music or R&B and blues music. There were a lot of live concert broadcasts on those stations and DJs who were also musicians. You’d get Howlin’ Wolf as a DJ, things like that. Late at night, you’d get a clearer signal. Way down in Florida—we were on the water, so it was very receptive—you’d get stations from all around the Caribbean. Cuba, Haiti, Jamaica. You’d get things like the Grand Ole Opry, out of Nashville, WSM, you’d get the King Biscuit Flower Hour, a blues channel. You’d get BB King playing live on the radio.

So the first record that I drove my father crazy to take me to the record store to get was Howlin’ Wolf. We had to order it because I lived in an area that was segregated. I hadn’t learned yet to go across the tracks to where the cool people lived—which were mostly black people. But on our side, the so-called honky side, I guess, you had to order Chess Records. So he did, he got me “Smokestack Lightning.” I grew up with a very schizophrenic background, which shaped exactly what I do. I saw no difference between Beethoven and Howlin’ Wolf. It was all music and it all sounded great. And I heard nothing [dividing] country or R&B or rock & roll. Early rock & roll was starting to come out at that time. You’d hear Elvis Presley and the major record companies’ attempts to copy R&B songs and get extremely lame, white-ass versions of them. So I grew up listening to everything, but I was primarily [interested in] this link between classical music and blues and country music.

AD: You started playing music, working in studios. Eventually, you found your way to New York City. How did you land at Sire Records?

Craig Leon: I had this tape [I shopped around] and I ended up working for Sire, which was the label that one of the guys I knew was actually the co-owner of, Richie Gottehrer. I was basically Richie’s assistant. The first thing I did was help him with a band called Climax Blues Band. It was a British blues band, but he said they’d forgotten the blues. I knew a lot about blues…I used to go out and look for 78s growing up, because nobody wanted them. So I was charged by him with indoctrinating Climax Blues Band back into the blues. Back to mono, back to Charlie Patton.

AD: You were there right as the punk explosion began. As you got into A&R, were there specific qualities you’d look for in a band regardless of genre?

Craig Leon: First of all, it would be if I liked it, and if there might have been another person in the audience that liked it. Then also, if I thought they had something funny or serious to say. That was a prerequisite; it didn’t matter what the genre was.

AD: In other words, you were drawn to artists like distinct points of view? 

Craig Leon: Things were very segregated in terms of sounds, and clique-y. People who liked West Coast California sounds didn’t necessarily like hard rock; R&B bands didn’t necessarily like folk music. It’s not now—one of the beauties now is that, because of the internet, everything’s accessible. You can flip through any genre. People don’t know anything that’s genre-specific. They’re not like that anymore to a great extent. They’re more like I was as a kid: “Whatever it sounds like, it’s great.” But in New York, most of the people who congregated in the Lower East Side were like me too, both philosophically, looking at esoteric reading materials and alternative lifestyles, and into art and participation in the alternative arts and music and writing scene. It was a very closed group of people. It was small.

It didn’t explode until much, much later, when the attitude of it was co-opted and taken over to England by Malcolm McLaren. The British bands had big hits in the UK and in Europe with the attitude of some of the bands from New York. But in New York, it really was very insular and very small. You’d go see—at CBGB’s or Max’s or Mothers or one of the other places people played—you’d go to see Talking Heads and there’d be a paying audience of maybe ten people, maximum, but the rest of the audience would be people from other bands and artists and whoever was around in the neighborhood. A lot of the bands came out of art school. That’s what drew me to that scene. And at the very underground of all of that was electronic music—I was fascinated by electronic and synthesized sounds.

AD: Who were you moving alongside in those circles, in the underground of the underground?

Craig Leon: Well, they’re not so underground now thanks to the internet. Everybody knows who they are. Éliane Radigue, La Monte Young, Tony Conrad—the ubiquitous ones. John Cale, and then his band, the Velvet Underground. It was all the same circle of people. They were bordering between the rock scene and what you’d call the installation scene. There were other people like Charlotte Moorman, Nam June Paik, Karen Finley, the performance artist. There were tons of people like that. One of the easiest to listen to was Annette Peacock—she came up through jazz with Carla Bley and Paul Bley.

All these people played in a radius of about twenty blocks. It was in isolated enclaves, but eventually, people would venture forth. Way uptown, the early hip-hop stuff was happening, and that was bridged by some of the downtown New York bands having a great affinity for some of that music. To me, that as just a modernization of the blues. It was all folk music to me—literally music by people for people. [Laughs] Most of it was intuitive, which falls into what folk or rock would be, but a lot of it was people educated in planned music, what people would call classical music, who then mined the same area, the subconscious plane.  

AD: You produced the first Ramones record. I take it those guys came from the farthest place away from a prepared music background.

Craig Leon: The Ramones were definitely New York, listening-to-the-radio, rock & roll oriented. 

AD: When I listen to that record, it’s clear that they were interested in pop music, girl groups, in almost recreating the Wall of Sound approach with minimal instrumentation. Was that how you heard them early on? 

Craig Leon: It developed as we started working together and as I got to know them even more. When I first saw them, they were like performance artists. It was one big blur of a song—it expended so much energy that it just kind of blew up, and that was the end of the set. That was really exciting. Rock had gotten less communicative, very corporate, and very flabby right before then. For me, it was back to the stuff I heard on the radio as a kid.

AD: Did Suicide feel different? Clearly, there are very reverential nods to rockabilly and early rock & roll there, but there’s also a very caustic, avant-garde angle too. Did you recognize that at the time?

Craig Leon: They were much more in the avant-garde scene than just about anybody else. They were older than the other bands, particularly Alan Vega. He was an NYU student in the ‘50s. They were an art project. Marty Rev put out a very obscure record recently called Demolition 9, it was on a very short-lived label I started a couple of years ago. It had 34 one-minute songs [inspired by what he listened to] growing up. That will tell you everything about the roots of Suicide.

AD: In 1981, you and your partner Cassell Webb released Nommos, a beautiful album of synthesized music that imagined what the music of an extraterrestrial race might sound like, on Takoma Records, John Fahey‘s label. How did you end up working with that label?

Craig Leon: I knew John’s manager really well and knew John secondarily. I got to know him as a result of Nommos and everything. It was a totally independent label, run by him and his manager, Denny Bruce. If it was known at all, Takoma would have been known as an acoustic guitar-focused American roots label. John was a blues collector, a 78 collector like me. He’d do the same thing: he’d go driving in his car and pick up boxes and boxes of 78s people were throwing out. He’d buy 200 records for a dollar, and get home and 150 of them would be Chess and Sun—I’m not exaggerating. But John wasn’t only that. He was a pioneer in electronic music…he recorded some records for Vanguard Records. He dabbled strongly in musique concrète and tape loops. Not necessarily synthesizer music, but [he was working in] a lot of the areas people in New York were working in. He also placed synthesizer artists on the label, so it wasn’t out of the question for him to put out Nommos. He had Joseph Byrd, he had one of the guys from Beaver and Krause, if not both of them. He was always interested in it.

He told Denny to go get someone to do a newer synthesizer record, because synthesizers had progressed. And lo and behold, we were able to get four-voice polyphonic synthesizers around that time. They’d progressed quite a long way since the old batch bay things. Denny also managed Jack Nitzsche, who was Phil Spector’s arranger and a film score composer, who was playing around with a very early synthesized sound system, Fairlight, which was actually a digital system, it wasn’t analog. It was multi-voiced and very, very complicated to use. It was being used for film scores and Jack didn’t want to bother to make an album. He was too busy making films. Denny knew that I knew synthesizer stuff and asked me if I had any ideas. So I came up with one, and that was the album we did for Takoma. 

AD: Nommos and its followup Visiting, which were combined for the re-edition The Anthology of Interplanetary Folk Music Vol. 1, diverged widely from the sonic palette people likely associated you with. 

Craig Leon: But all the punk people really liked it. 

AD: When you made it, were you aware of the burgeoning New Age musical movement, people like Steven Halpern or Iasos?

Craig Leon: I knew the names, but I didn’t really listen to that. I thought of New Age music as Windham Hill, something like that. I wasn’t that intrigued with it musically, but the ideology [was interesting]. Nommos is a kind of supernatural fiction thing I put together, so that appealed to me, and it always had. It appealed to a number of other people on the New York scene. It wasn’t far fetched that we were intrigued in the same areas as New Age artists, but I myself didn’t know those artists. I didn’t like most of the New Age music I heard. I do now, but not then. It was quite alien to the music I was listening to. It was intuitive music that was sort of having pretensions toward being classical and ethereal. It was basically not classical enough for me.

If you wanted to count John and Robbie Basho and Leo Kottke as “New Age,” yeah, it was really cool. But I don’t think you counted them as that. When people were lumping things together, those guys were lumped into traditional folk, whereas you’d get somebody like Michael Hedges, who was more known as New Age. The only reason I knew him was because he was the caretaker at a house I stayed at in Mendicino. He lived next door—I got to know his music because he was playing it next door to the house I rented as a bit of a retreat. Is the Paul Winter Consort considered New Age? It’s a genre I really don’t know the roots of…if I know anything, it’s accidental that I do.

AD: It’s an ill-defined genre. It’s an ethos more than an actual style. 

Craig Leon: I’m kind of lumped into it and I don’t even know what it is, so that’s kind of cool.

AD: When you were making Nommos, did you have any sort of classification in mind? Was it related to the furniture music of Erik Satie, or cosmic German music, the kind of stuff derisively referred to as Krautrock?

Craig Leon: It was not consciously like that. I was trying to recreate—in my limited imagination—what the music of another planet would be. But what was called Krautrock, I loved from the very beginning. When I worked at Sire, I wanted Sire to sign Kraftwerk. We couldn’t afford them. I wanted to sign Can. I’d heard them all play in Germany in the early ‘70s. That music appealed to me. I’m thrilled to be playing gigs on bills with Faust and Manuel Göttsching now. [Laughs] It’s brilliant for me. I don’t know if they’re so thrilled to be playing with me, but I am with them.

That was part of it. But I wanted it to be electronic because I didn’t have a budget for it to be orchestral, though I did want orchestral and “ethnic” elements to be on it, we just couldn’t afford it, so I had to duplicate them myself. Luckily I came across this machine called a LinnDrum. Roger Linn had built it. So I could make the drum patterns. They were looped, but I played in very long, strange loops on tapes and then looped them together. 

AD: Neither you or Webb, with whom you worked throughout your career, knew exactly how to use the LinnDrum.

Craig Leon: I had no instructions or no panels as to what buttons did what. 

AD: Did the spirit of figuring it out as you went influence the work itself? 

Craig Leon: Well, it was very similar to the Suicide record. Marty Rev had to make his synths out of other equipment. He didn’t have a synth at all on the first Suicide album—that’s all stuff he rigged together. So I thought, Alright, let me see how this thing works and I’ll use it. What I was doing was insane quite honestly. What we were doing was nothing like what it was “supposed” to do. I eventually calmed down and learned how to do normal loops and tempos and everything. 

But for Nommos, I really liked what I did, which was play everything in at really fast speeds, make a loop on tape, and then stretch it, edit it together, and have it just keep playing. That’s why it’s a bit wobbly sounding, which adds to the actual feel of it. 

AD: Nommos found you imagining interactions between the Dogon people, from Mali, and the water spirits their religious traditions center on, which you portray, in a science fiction setting, as alien beings. Your new album, Anthology of Interplanetary Folk Music Vol. 2: The Canon, finds you returning to that framework. What was it like to get back into this story you imagined decades ago?

Craig Leon: It’s a supernatural fiction project really. If it were a book, it would be three or four books in a row, like Larry Niven used to write. The other planet’s music is what you hear on Nommos; Visiting, the second part of it, is then getting into earthly sounds—we’re talking about the Nommos themselves during their sojourn on Earth, incorporating some earth-like tendencies into their own music. Now, this one is what humans get out of that synthesis, going down that line several thousand years later. It’s a very logical progression. If people can bear with me and I have enough years on the planet, we’re going to get to the present day in these albums, and the future. But I don’t know how long that’s going to take. Ideally, it will be four albums overall, to parallel Harry Smith’s Anthology of American Folk Music.

AD: You obviously studied mythic, religious, and mathematic histories as you explored the Nommos idea. But you also refer to the Anthology of Interplanetary Folk Music as “speculative fiction.” When did you first become interested in SF? 

Craig Leon: When I was very young, and I  mean very young, I was lucky to have been allowed to have access to my father’s rather large library.  Along with other volumes of supernatural tales, one of the books that struck me was Tales of Horror & The Supernatural by Arthur Machen. The same sort of stories appeared in the popular comics of the time like Tales From The Crypt and House of Mystery. Some were used verbatim. This led to an interest in science fiction as well as supernatural fiction.

Nommos [should be classified as] supernatural fiction. The Dogon myth of the Nommos and their religious and philosophical beliefs intrigued me. As I started studying it more over the years, a couple of books came to mind. One that’s very intriguing is a French book [that collects] talks with the elders of one of the tribes that the anthropologist Marcel Griaule had with a Dogon elder, Conversations With Ogotemmeli: An Introduction to Dogon Religious Ideas. He just left the tape recorder going [and would ask questions like] “Did the Nommos give you any religious ideas?” “Did they tell you where they came from?’”

That started a flood of information that is basically the roots of ancient civilization, the roots of philosophy, the roots of everything we use in the arts today. I’m not an anthropologist…but [the Dogon] had a very complicated religious system based on numbers. It’s unlike the other African religions of the time, who also had water spirits and such. I did a whole show with Red Bull Radio about water spirit music from Africa, and didn’t play anything from Nommos. It’s not really that—it’s speculative fiction, not factual. It’s not reality. 

If you look at the Dogon philosophy, it’s incredibly close to the religious structure and origin mythos that’s conveyed in ancient Egyptian civilization. That in turn, influenced the whole Middle Eastern area, into Greece and Sicily, which became Rome. That whole thing, about the Orphic Egg…if you look to the video we did for the second track from the album, “Standing Crosswise In the Square,” [director Milton Melvin Croissant III created a] representation of both the Dogon theory of creation and the ancient Egyptian and Greek theory—they’re virtually the same. 

[This album centers on] the mathematical roots of things. Strangely enough, an architect named William Stirling wrote a book in 1897 called The Canon: An Exposition of the Pagan Mystery Perpetuated in the Cabala as the Rule of All Arts.It sold about 100 copies. I have one of them. Like a lot of people in 1890s, he was trying to come to grips with spirituality in the age of machines and medical discoveries. It was a compendium of everything that unites architecture, the arts, philosophy, numbers, and music. It’s something I started reading again that said, “OK, I’m going to do the second part of the Anthology on the canon of philosophical thought that was conveyed through the Dogon, down to us eventually, and the roots of our Western civilization. 

AD: So you’re talking about combining supernatural fiction with actual anthropological sources? Basically, informed speculation?

Craig Leon: Exactly. The philosophies the Dogon espouse show up and get mutated over time, but [they share a common thread with the] roots of philosophy and what you would call the creative motivation that pervaded everything in our own sense of the arts. Everything that’s in Stirling’s The Canon is quite real: you can build an ancient Greek temple from the formulas in there. Or a medieval church. [It delves into] Kabbalah and numerology. I didn’t really want to dwell on those aspects of it. I’m not trying to give away the secrets of the Masons or anything—he says, laughingly—but The Canon does, the book. Not that they’re very secret anymore. It doesn’t really matter. I wasn’t trying to espouse [anything]—I was trying to keep my story going. [Laughs]

AD: You’ve got these incredibly cosmic electronic recordings under your belt, but also pivotal productions with Suicide and the Ramones and dozens of other important groups. Does anything strike you as a uniting factor, a throughline that runs through your work? 

Craig Leon: Thinking about things from an alternative viewpoint has always been intriguing. Also, having a great deal of fun isn’t too bad either. words/j woodbury

Aquarium Drunkard has launched a Patreon page, which will allow readers and listeners to directly support our online magazine as it expands its scope while receiving access to our secret stash, including bonus audio, exclusive podcasts, printed ephemera, and vinyl records. Your support will help keep an independent cultural resource alive and healthy in 2019 and beyond.

Private Pressers: Warren Winter’s Band / Merry Airbrakes / Bill Bissett & th Mandan Massacre

Rescued from the underground! Check out a handful of highly recommended private press gems, recently reissued.

An oddball masterpiece, lost in the 1980s — Warren Winter’s Band’s Crossbar Hotel casts a melancholy eye on the “me” decade. Masterminded by songwriter Edward Winterhalder (Warren Winter is a pseudonym of sorts), the album might strike you as a bit normie on first listen, thanks to its almost-slick production values. But give it a little more attention; Winterhalder’s novelistic eye for details and character will emerge and you’ll be hooked on his dark vision of disillusionment, heartbreak and the biker life. There are great songs here, including “Oh, Can’t You See,” the sharp lead-off rocker that kicks the album off, and the quietly devastating “You Live Forever.” The reissue via Sophomore Lounge also looks cool as hell, too, with a hand-cut/silkscreened cover. Limited edition of 500, so grab yours before it’s gone, gone, gone.

For a minute there in the 1970s, a coked-out-of-his-mind Stephen Stills tried to convince everyone that he had served in Vietnam. Not true! But if it was true, Steve might’ve recorded an album not too dissimilar from 1973’s Merry Airbrakes, which was the brainchild of Bill Homans, an honest-to-goodness Vietnam vet (who also happened to play a mean slide guitar). Leading off with a cooking rendition of Woody Guthrie’s “Vigilante Man,” this is a powerful, deeply felt piece of work, with edgy blues, weedy psychedelia and chooglin’ country funk all mixing and mingling. It’s also a fairly radical record in the political sense; Homans was a member of the Vietnam Veterans Against the War movement and his seething bitterness over his war experience is never too far from the surface. Perhaps most effective is “Quang Tricity,” a military marching-style song that flips the script by giving a voice to the Vietnamese soldiers Homans had fought against just a few years prior (“If I die in battle / Pick up my AK47 and fight on”). Scissortail Records has done a fine job bringing Merry Airbrakes back to light, with a lovely screen-printed jacket and groovy liners.

Plenty of albums have been described as “acid-fried,” but Awake In Th Red Desert may take the cake. Renowned Nova Scotian poet Bill Bissett recorded this strange motherfucker of an LP with a band of thoroughly psychedelicized freaks in 1968. It was reissued on CD in the early 2000s, and now Feeding Tube Records has given it a fresh (very limited) vinyl edition, doing justice to its classic cut ‘n’ paste artwork and adding a thoughtful essay by Alex Moskos. Be ready for some very out sounds, with Bissett speaking in tongues and th Mandan Massacre (as his band was dubbed) conjuring up improvised anarchic mayhem. It clatters, skronks and skrees. Almost Can-like at times! Scary, weird and thrilling … a total trip.

Bill Bissett :: An Ode To DA Levy

Bill Evans: Evans In England / Wes Montgomery: Back On Indiana Avenue

Hot on the heels of last year’s revelatory Eric Dolphy release, Resonance Records returns this spring with two essential sets of previously unheard jazz bliss, all presented with characteristic care and love.

First up, we’ve got Evans In England, a double-disc collection that captures Bill Evans with his longtime rhythm section of bassist Eddie Gomez and drummer Marty Morell at Ronnie Scott’s in London at the tail end of 1969. These are audience recordings, but they’re shockingly clear and intimate — as good as “amateur” tapes get, really. And the performances are absolutely great. Evans, unlike his peers at the time, wasn’t interested in modernizing his sound, sticking to the straight-ahead piano trio approach and standards-heavy repertoire that was his bread and butter. But it’d be a mistake to call the music on Evans In England “conservative;” masterful is more like it. The interplay between the musicians crackles as Evans lets his imagination run wild over the keys. He never needed electricity to set off sparks.

Next, we head back to legendary guitarist Wes Montgomery’s pre-fame days on Back On Indiana Avenue, which collects more than two hours of recordings made by fan and fellow musician Carroll Decamp. Resonance has dug deep into this era on previous Montgomery releases, but it doesn’t seem like the well has run dry yet. There’s amazing stuff here, from informal house jams to studio sessions that illustrate Wes’ early prowess. Particularly strong are the piano quartets that kick the set off, with Montgomery leading a small group through a handful of whip-smart tunes – the version of Miles Davis’ then brand-new “So What” is a complete delight, with plenty of Montgomery’s typically dazzling licks. words / t wilcox


Related: Eric Dolphy: The Expanded 1963 New York Studio Sessions

Sun Ra: A Joyful Noise (Documentary)

“The light of the future casts the shadows of tomorrow.” – Sun Ra

Space is the place — something to keep in mind during these increasingly weird times. Something our space age prophet knew all too well. For those interested in the potent alchemy that was the brew of bandleader, philosopher, player and poet, Sun Ra, filmmaker Robert Mugge’s documentary A Joyful Noise is essential. Released in 1980, the hour long film captures Sun Ra’s Arkestra performing in Washington D.C.,  Philadelphia and Baltimore, along with behind the scenes footage of the players at rest, rehearsal and in interview. Stream the film, in its entirety, below.

Aquarium Drunkard has launched a Patreon page, which will allow readers and listeners to directly support our online magazine as it expands its scope while receiving access to our secret stash, including bonus audio, exclusive podcasts, printed ephemera, and vinyl records. Your support will help keep an independent cultural resource alive and healthy in 2019 and beyond.

Connan Mockasin: Auckland, New Zealand, April 2015 / Sundae Session

Kicking off our 2010 Mondo Boys Halloween mix, Connan Mockasin’s “Forever Dolphin Love” was our introduction to the New Zealander. That was nearly a decade ago, and in that time the Kiwi artist (née Connan Tant Hosford) has called California, England, and, at present, Japan home. One thing that hasn’t changed? Hosford’s singular fealty to a sound that can only be described as his own. There have been numerous imitators since, yet Mockasin’s homegrown surrealist psychedelia, and exploration thereof, has remained at once constant and in flux — as evidenced by last year’s Jassbusters, a record we’re only now digging into…

Which reminded us of this: a session cut four years ago, live on a rooftop in Auckland, as part of the recurring NZ Sundae Sessions.

1. Why Are You Crying? 2. It´s Your Body 1 3. Do I Make You Feel Shy? 4. I´m The Man Who Will Find You 5. Forever Dolphin Love 6. I Wannas Roll With You 7. It´s Choade, My Mear 8. Megumy The Milky Way Above 9. While My Guitar Gently Weeps (Beatles)

Aquarium Drunkard has launched a Patreon page, which will allow readers and listeners to directly support our online magazine as it expands its scope while receiving access to our secret stash, including bonus audio, exclusive podcasts, printed ephemera, and vinyl records. Your support will help keep an independent cultural resource alive and healthy in 2019 and beyond.

Future Language: The Dimensions of VON LMO

Lori Felker’s documentary about no wave/space rock weirdo Von LMO is a true labor of love. Like many other music docs about obscure or forgotten acts, it began from Felker’s fandom, but unlike most of the others, this film acknowledges its subject’s faults and often even calls into question whether he’s worthy of celebration. I’m glad Felker kept going because Von LMO’s flaws are as fascinating as his strengths.

Von LMO (born Frank Cavallo in 1951) came up in the same late-70s New York scene which spawned iconoclasts like Suicide, Lydia Lunch, and countless others. But to hear him tell it decades later, he invented the entire genre. His brief period of visibility ended sometime in the mid-80s, but he left his mark, making fans of musicians like Thurston Moore, Jim Sclavunos, and Julian Cope.

Felker made contact with Von LMO in 2011 and worked on this film until its release in 2018. Along the way, she became aware that a lot of what he tells her is to be taken with a bucket of salt. The latter day Von LMO comes off like a cross between Tommy Wiseau and Sun Ra—a self-created personage claiming to be from the planet Strazar and existing simultaneously in ten dimensions. But along with the mystical mumbo-jumbo is a very real dark side. Von LMO acknowledges his heavy drug use, a jail stint for armed robbery, abandonment of his child, and his practice of branding girlfriends with his band’s logo. This is no harmless eccentric. In fact, when Felker introduced the film at the Music Box in Chicago in May 2019, she said it was alright if, after watching, we didn’t like the man.

What shines through, more than Von LMO’s theatrics or absurd self-mythology, is Felker’s affection for the man. The final interview, filmed along the boardwalk on Coney Island, features a wobbly shot of Felker’s hand holding his as she shoots. He’s now an old man who’s grateful for a young person’s attention and help. Felker had hoped to get answers to questions she’s been asking the man for eight years; instead, she becomes his caretaker, watching over him as he nods off on a park bench, obviously in an opiate haze.

Weasel Walter—an admirer and sometime collaborator—puts it best when he describes Von LMO as a time bomb waiting to go off, not a privileged or supported artist, but one forced to make up his own path on the fly. Whatever one may think of the man’s music or personality, there’s no doubting his forceful will to express himself in the face of near-universal indifference.

Felker’s film is an affectionate portrait of stubborn persistence, rather than mere hagiography, as so many music docs tend to be. It’s as subjective and idiosyncratic a piece of work in its own way as the dark star at its center. words / d samarov


Aquarium Drunkard has launched a Patreon page, which will allow readers and listeners to directly support our online magazine as it expands its scope while receiving access to our secret stash, including bonus audio, exclusive podcasts, printed ephemera, and vinyl records. Your support will help keep an independent cultural resource alive and healthy in 2019 and beyond.

Aaron Beckum :: Obsolete

I recently finished Graham Hancock’s 1995 pseudo-archeology tome, Fingerprints of the Gods. In short, Hancock proposes that an ancient, incredibly advanced, civilization inhabited the planet during earth’s prehistory. The author is nothing if not emphatic in his hypotheses, and highly entertaining at that. The narrative of the book begins in Antarctica, and of course scans the Americas, but much of Fingerprints concern lies within the genesis and intent of the great pyramid of Giza. Here, Hancock contends the structure was not erected between 2580–2560 BC, by the Egyptians, but is in fact the work of a far older civilization — one wiped out during the last Ice Age. One who left “clues” for those who came after.

Guess that would be, uh, us. Anyway…

Los Angeles, lo-fi cosmic country, newcomer Aaron Beckum also has the pyramids on his mind. It’s here, in a metaphysical Egypt, the crooner drowns a platitude of sorrows in terra-cotta whiskey amongst the monument’s 2.3 million stone blocks…all the while counseled and kept company by Sphinx. Naturally.

Speed: The Infinite Soup Can, Psychic Visigoths and The Beatles Going Fast

The Speed At The Heart Of The World’s Most Beautiful Soup Can, The Roar And Burn Of Chopper Wheels In Your Bedroom And The Beatles Going Very Fast: An infinitesimal scratch at the surface of speed in popular art. By Ethan P Miller (Howlin’ Rain)

I’ve been asked to take you on a mini-odyssey of my interest, wonder and respect of speed, a witching hour scrawl to accompany my song, a musical love letter and filmmaker Joe Denardo’s visual ode to the much-maligned, misunderstood and anti-glamorized (al)chemical.

Speed has, for the most part, remained elusive in the kind of sub-cultural homage and praise as muse or mind expander that marijuana, LSD and of course the oft-romanticized (but extremely tricky to stay on top of) heroin have received fairly regularly over the past six decades. When I pull the curtain just slightly back on some of what I consider to be the most important art and music of the second half of the 20th century I often find that the little Oz, that gear grinder and reality scrambler at the heart of the idea and universal thought and comprehension behind these huge ideas and works is speed.

Let me be clear: many works that I find tremendously important have nothing to do with the use of enhancers and reality changers. I am in no way a believer in the notion that drugs make great art or that artists need to be damaged or in pain or fucked up in some way to truly access the muse or any of that critics’ romance duck-shit. Great art comes from ideas, from a human mind. That mind can function in extraordinary ways be it sober as a judge, drunk as a lord, high as a Peruvian coq, or stoned as the rock of Gibraltar. There is no ‘best’ way to bring ideas from a spark in the deep, dark, exploding black and purple depths of the subconscious into the foremost of our thoughts and from there usher it into the world in a physical form that, at it’s most successful and propulsive, will effect other people and in some cases illuminate and/or change the course of human culture. That said, we can all agree that the use of chemicals, the absence of the same chemicals, the engagement with excess, the lack of sleep or the use of speed, hell, even whether it’s foggy or sunny out the window— all have a very real effect on the thought process and the following perspective that ushers an idea into a fully formed creative work. And in many cases speed has played an exceptional role as lens for the process of great works.

In my casual and rambling investigations of the places where speed was present and played a role in art and creativity in its’ most rewarding forms I have found that the outcome seems to break down into two main categories of expression: 1. ecstatic mania/ momentum, (think of the high speed rhythmic infinity and adrenalized motion of Lou Reed’s white light/ white heat = pure action/ pure feeling) and 2. Ultra connectivity, the artist is lifted into the eye of a great storm, a swirl and tempest so vast and colorful as to be blinding to the point of opacity to the sober viewer. Here the speeding artist views, comprehends and expresses the humanity they’ve found, returns from the big bang with uber-panoramas of the DNA structure of the consciousness of that humanity (in sticking with Lou, think this time about his narrative-song masterpiece ‘Street Hassle’; a few black and white snap-shots of desperate lives projected, reflected and expanded into infinite shades of complex emotion and action, collectively expressing and becoming the damaged consciousness of 1970s America and resonating endlessly.)

Ever wonder why we’re still staring at Warhol’s canned soup? Or why his monotone images of yester-century celebrities still drape, as mighty tapestry, the palace walls of 21st century culture? It is because within them lies one of the most extraordinary examples of ultra-connectivity. A soup can. A Pandora’s box within which broils the whole of the human story from lifting upright onto two legs from the swamp to the writing of this essay, my pounding of a computer keyboard, a device so futuristic and complex and yet already outdated and vintage in comparison to the totality in which present day humans live a life completely dominated by ‘smart’ devices and machines.

Yes, on the surface of Warhol’s famous silk-screen work, it is ‘pop art’ elevating the mundane, the mass-produced, the commercial lifted to the level of high art. The soup can itself is a common thing, a still-life, endowed with the irony of a cheap, simple lunk elevated on a pedestal and sold for millions based on the manipulated intellectual perspective of the viewer. A bold idea at the time, no doubt, but why does it still mesmerize? How does the soup can work as an incredible abstract statement when very little in the history of art has seemingly been more plainly stated on the canvas.

Because one can feel the eye-of-the-storm energy within this simple soup can. Why have we gazed upon it over and over? Why it has become one of the most viewed and greatly discussed works of art in human history? My guess is because of its speed. Because what that work really shows, is the capturing of the eye of the storm of all human history, as mesmerizing a piece of ‘storm’ art as Turner’s great sea paintings or Pollock’s free, looping labyrinths of the sub-psyche.

Warhol’s soup can, monolithically still, yet buzzing at its edges, echoing infinitely in its white spaces, is surrounded with the roar of American culture, especially modernization and industrialization, and then art history, and then human history and finally the birth of human kind. The soup can is the big bang, the apple that tempted Eve, the far end of the Edison bulb filament from which all human life has sprung and continues to flow in a great, endless cycle of energy, neither created nor destroyed— flowing, apple to soup can and all points, all space, all myth, all matter and all things in between: all the same, all energy.

So when Warhol set out to create his masterpiece, to silk screen his Finnegans Wake in a single noun, it is through the lens of speed that he gazed upon his big idea, or rather, through that lens that he gazed upon the storm of the great unconscious and was able to focus, brilliantly, beyond the pure noise and blur of the tempest to show us something extraordinary, beautiful, frightening, horrifying and massive about our story together so far.         

Through that lens he tangled with, and untangled his greatest subject and work. The work as it stands, as a final piece, is absolutely humming with the energy of speed, as if it was possessed. The canvas still vibrates with the tipping of Finnegan from his ladder, humanity falling and rising, falling and rising in endless cycle. It is why, when we stand before the soup can, we don’t feel mundane, sleepy or indifferent as should be the normal response to staring at a simplified rendition of a mass-market object of little monetary, spiritual or intellectual value of any kind. Instead we feel the speed, ultra-focus, agitation, vertigo, heat, a vast semi-formless comprehension passing over us like a ghost, the electricity of humanity popping and exploding before us, the human genome from all recorded time twisting and shuffling before us. We feel the air and vibration beneath our body, the first solo flight, the horrors of the holocaust, childhood, true love in a hazy, ancient room, the moment that that bone of carcass became a tool; a gateway to ‘civilization’ as Kubrick showed us through the magical flicker of another lens, we feel industrialization in time-lapse, the fall of Lucifer and the casting out of Adam and Eve, the present, the past and the future combined into one still, focused, speeding monolith.

Had Warhol been creating through the lens of psychedelics or marijuana or some other psyche-enhancer/alterer I believe we would now have a very different work before us than this great, deceptively plain, grandfather clock of an idea that has the ability to carry in it human time and history. Ultra-connectivity, a mania of function, the grandiose on macro, universal scale, the stillness of the ultra-mundane and the improbable miracle of the atom and human gene; one. An extraordinary work of the speeding mind.

Lemmy Kilmister. Perhaps the most well known speed artist. High lord of raw, fast, heavy jams and rock and roll speed incarnate. Lemmy is at the other end of the spectrum of speed expression. In his work, speed simply expresses the great, hurtling, opaque, boiling NOW. Lemmy’s speed expression in art was not a focused, eye of the storm capture, but was much more of a reflection of the mania aspect. Almost every Motörhead song feels like grit, raw energy, adrenaline, base psyche, the basic sub-intellect building blocks of all of our physical human function and psychic pleasure turned up past ten— all the time.

Lemmy’s speed expression is basically the expression of the fundamental beating of the human heart, in this case pounding, fast and at a sustained and deafening rate. His expression is the flash of the pure, blinding sensory experience we feel upon the moment of impact in a car accident, in orgasm, when we are walking along in a daydream and a dog jumps from out of nowhere at us in vicious action, gnashing in a predatory lunge— let’s face it, the history of the universe doesn’t exactly unfold in these moments— our experience is based on adrenaline, fight or flight reflexes, a psychic and physical flashbulb popping and blinding us in a dark room, so that we are bypassing intellect and in most cases any thought at all. We experience pure feel, momentum and reflex.

Lemmy has captured this aspect of speed expression, and indeed this totally present-tense, explosive, pure action part of the human experience as well as anyone in art. It’s not just that he looked like a biker, and in many ways lived like one, his art was the sound and feeling of a whole biker gang roaring into your bedroom and burning out the carpet down to the blackened sub-floor. Frightful, exhilarating, mesmerizing and though there is horror at these psychic Visigoths, you very well may eventually rise from your shelter under the bed and climb on the back of one of their iron horses to go raiding down the highway and leave the quiet ‘everyday’ life behind, social contract in ashes, ripping into the asphalt horizon full throttle for the infinite visceral. Speed.

What about the Beatles? Acid and questionable Indian gurus get the credit for opening the fab four’s collective mind (and popular culture) to psychedelia and exotic spirituality but over half a decade earlier it was speed that was the lens through which they saw the end of their small street in Liverpool give way to the broader world via the all-night bar gigs of Hamburg, their gateway to the universe, both literally and artistically. The world of the night, the world of extreme work ethic, of music pouring over them like an ocean and the little pills that helped them to drink in, in ultra-vivid comprehension, a flood of music and (sub)culture that was blasting over them in nearly 24 hour cycles, every day. These speeding Hamburg nights would be the foundation for the Beatles profound abilities together as a group for the rest of their earth-shaking career.

It’s no coincidence that as the Beatles cut their teeth on the entire young history of rock and roll their minds were wide open and racing a million miles an hour, drinking a raging music river that would become an ocean, aided by speed, cheap beer and gangster’s champagne during all-night, 8 hour sets, physicality pushed beyond normal human limits to work, drink and party almost limitlessly. Speed is the mechanism by which they could surpass the human boundaries of sleep and rejuvenation and the neon wedge propping the trapdoor in the their minds wide open so that they could absorb and retain it all while existing in a warp speed state.

Their mastery of ‘the people’s music,’ the sense of performance and endurance, their 360 degree ears for song, melody and rock and roll, their expression of the lovable but raw edge and expression as a single entity, one band, never four musicians (ok, let’s ignore Abby Road for now to let this point lie) these were all the seeds planted in their speed era. From the dreamy half-sleep of youth and 1950’s British school days to the pungent awakening and entering the world— WIDE awake, mind wide open. A gulp-less swallowing of music, of the world, of life and all it’s possibilities and horizons leading out of the cavernous club back door in the conquered dawn— this moment provided the granite cornerstones for the foundation that would be beneath all else the Beatles built and speed was an integral part of the lens and mechanism of that moment.

Of course, not all combinations of minds and speed are good ones. Many essays have previously documented the horrible outcomes of the wrong mind or wrong population coming into extended contact with speed. Speed enhances the thought and emotional momentum of a mind. An open mind is made more open, a searching mind sees the hidden geography beyond the horizon of the nearest hillside, a loving person finds positives and curiosity in people who would normally be faceless strangers on the street. But the blank mind is easily filled by another’s ideas and motivations and the mind prone to evil is often given momentum and made fearless in the execution of their worst ideas.

My three examples: Warhol, Lemmy and the Beatles are a few rather obvious lodestones of speed art, an almost infinitesimal scratching of the surface on the subject. From there we’re just a hop, skip and a jump to other famous speed creators close to my heart: Kerouac/Cassady/Burroughs/the beats/HST, the revolution in country music in the 60s & 70s fueled by speed, the go-fast chemicals of the punk/ new wave/ no wave movement, Leonard Cohen outspoken love of speed, radical 70’s film makers like Fassbinder and John Waters speed edge, speed element in radical feminism, science fiction writing, in dance, in sports, in the White House and on and on. The investigation of the results of the speed lens in art and culture could go on forever. Point is, it is flowing everywhere under post World War II western culture like subterranean lava.

Would these works and cultural events and histories have existed without speed? Perhaps, perhaps not. But they would not have been the same that much is for sure. They WERE made with speed, through that lens, through that perspective and they burn with something we recognize as both an ecstatic and deeply human flare of energy turned up beyond the normal burn rate into something that continues to fascinate, mesmerize and serve our collective story.

Aquarium Drunkard has launched a Patreon page, which will allow readers and listeners to directly support our online magazine as it expands its scope while receiving access to our secret stash, including bonus audio, exclusive podcasts, printed ephemera, and vinyl records. Your support will help keep an independent cultural resource alive and healthy in 2019 and beyond.

The Aquarium Drunkard Show: SIRIUS/XMU (7pm PST, Channel 35)

Slide in, water’s warm this week. Every Wednesday night and on-demand via the SIRIUS/XM app. The Aquarium Drunkard Show on SIRIUS/XMU, channel 35. 7pm California time. Fazed cookies explicado.

SIRIUS 565: Tom Zé Dulcinéia – Popular Brasileira (Intro) ++ Cochemea – Maso Ye’eme > All My Relations ++ Akiko Yano – Funamachi-Uta Part 2 ++ Rich Ruth – Coming Down ++ Helado Negro – Paz a Ti ++ Devendra Banhart – Carmencita ++ Juan Wauters – Camdombe ++ Adanowsky – Me Siento Solo ++ Rodrigo Amarante – Hourglass ++ Juana Molina – Cosoco ++ The Beets – Preso Voy ++ Destroyer – Del Monton ++ Juan Wauters – Letter (feat. Maxine) ++ Julien Gasc – Canada ++ O Terno – Eu Vou ++ Robert Wyatt – Yolanda ++ Tim Bernardes – Recomeçar ++ Connan Mockasin – Charlotte’s Thong ++ Mega Bog – Diary of a Rose ++ Cate Le Bon – Miami ++ ZNR – Solo Un Dia ++ Peter Tosh breaks some shit down (interview, 1979) ++ Yves Jarvis – Curtains of Rain ++ Tricatel RSVP – Dernier Métro ++ Mario Molino – Traffico Caotico ++ Brigitte Fontaine w/ Areski – C’est normal ++ Lee ’Scratch’ Perry – Double Six ++ Lace Curtains – Kali ++ Blur – Moroccan Peoples Revolutionary Bowls Club (AD edit) ++ Ernest Ranglin – Surfing ++ CAN – All Gates Open ++ Kikagaku Moyo – Kogarashi

*You can listen, for free, online with the SIRIUS three day trial — just submit an email address and they will send you a password.

David Nance Group // Long Hots

Been a minute since we caught up with David Nance, but he’s back on the 7″, and back on the road next month with Philly shitkickers, Long Hots, who serve up their own special brand of fried zoner boogie blues.

Nance’s “Meanwhile” is 4 minutes of post-everything rock n roll death race to the bottom of the sea of tape hiss and Wiper-ian broken space riffage. This is an essential 2-sider for anyone whoever stared in their dad’s closet at his faded denim jacket and DREAMED…