Whenever anyone I love is feeling especially gloomy, I have one very reasonable, reliable cure-all recommendation. It’s not exercise, or sex, or drugs, or comfort food. Simply this:
These are the joyful and uninhibited sounds of Shooby Taylor, the Human Horn. It’s my opinion that anyone who doesn’t at least crack a smile listening to this singular scat musician is probably beyond all hope and should be taken out behind the barn and humanely dispatched.
Born in 1929, William “Shooby” Taylor lived in Harlem for the majority of his life, toiling as a New York City postal worker for 21 years. From a 2002 article in the NYT:
[His music] can be difficult to digest. As he tries to approximate the sound of a saxophone solo with his voice, he hits sour notes. He spits out nonsense syllables like a machine gun, communicating in a private language nearly impossible to imitate. And he rarely meshes with his background music, whether it is the skating-rink organ in ”Lift Ev’ry Voice and Sing,” songs by the country singer Christy Lane or Mozart.
…In homage to his hero Babs Gonzales, who died in 1980, Mr. Taylor began honing his scat stylings in the mid-1950’s after serving in the Army. After his shift at the post office ended at midnight, he frequented jam sessions at Manhattan clubs, but most musicians shunned him.
For decades, Shooby persisted in following his dream, enduring endless ridicule and rejection. One day in the early 1980’s, he walked into a vanity-press recording studio called Angel Sound. Located in sleezy, pre-Disneyfied Times Square, the studio had seen its share of feisty characters. Shooby proved one of the most memorable, laying down 14 smokin’ vocalese tracks ranging from jazz to country to show tunes to… unclassifiable…
Traveling on business usually leaves no time to explore your surroundings. Spare moments are generally dedicated to little more than sleep and maybe a bath. However, should you have a few hours between meetings, what better way to spend them than exploring some industrial areas around town! Especially if that town happens to be Denver, Colorado, which was the case with this particular excursion.
Who knew that within a few driving minutes we’d be greeted with the foreboding towers of a power plant, intricate and doomy enough to echo the painting of our beloved Yakov Chernikov! Photographer James Stolzenbach and I swiftly snapped as much as we could before being kindly asked to leave by a burly trucker. He came completely out of nowhere, truck and all, and I suspect dark powers were at work. That and video cameras.
Dress: Crystal Candy at Common Era, Denver Fingerless gloves: random sock shop in Tokyo Striped socks: Target Boots: Luichiny on Melrose, LA
Make up by Breanna and Sally of Beauty Box, lips by me*
*I used MAC Liquidlast liner on my lips. Please, do not do this unless you have a powerful make up remover within reach. This stuff does not come off otherwise. At all. I had to use my fingernails.
The muses of fashion sing again as we enter spring here in Angel City. To celebrate the turning of the tides agent Yoon and I had ourselves a little roadside picnic near the ever-fragrant LA River.
For this momentous occasion I picked a simple knit dress, leggings and high heels with steel-plated toes - a sensible choice should one need to escape the local packs of roaming hobos on foot. In daylight hours these [equally fragrant] folks keep to dark shelters under bridges, with only glowing eyes indicating their whereabouts. Still, one can never be too careful when choosing footwear.
Eyes: my usual cobalt eyebrows in a Ben Nye shadow, a hint of drugstore iridescent green shadow on the eyelids to echo the shoes, liquid liner, Urban Decay “Heavy Metal” glitter highlights Skin: Pür mineral powder Lips: Nyx coral lip gloss Nails: NYC enamel in Times Square Tangerine Creme Dress: Final Touch $30 at Angel on Melrose Ave Leggings: H&M Bag: shop near Asakuza Temple, Tokyo Gloves: Harajuku, Tokyo Shoes: Naughty Monkey $30 on Amazon
My parents complained the other day because they actually visited the blog and thought that Mr. Pearl was “a scary man.” Mom and dad, no. This is what a scary man looks like!
Readers may remember the face above from BoingBoing, November 2007. Turns out his name is Zombie and that since his last appearance on the web, he’s gotten even more decrepit flesh inked into his dermis, including an exposed brain at the top of his skull. For the first time ever, he speaks! Here are some choice bites from a hilarious interview with BME:
BME: You’re kind of an internet celebrity — what do you think about it? Zombie: Not much, I don’t even own a computer. So fuck you assholes.
BME: Facial tattoos are a big step from “regular” tattoo placement. How long had you thought it through before you started your facial tattoos? Zombie: Never really had to think about it… I’ve been white trash my whole life…
BME: Are you single? Zombie: Yes… Very single… I’m not very dependable… Girls cut into beer time.
BME: What did you family think about your transformation? Zombie: My mom told me, “You started it, you better finish it.”
His mom’s right. Also, I think he’s kinda cute! Ladies, what say you?
“The gentleman who has the pleasure of tying the final bow owns you.”
- Mr. Pearl, interview
What strikes me about fetish legend/corsetier Mr. Pearl’s images is how much he looks like a true English gentleman - and how, magically, his 18-inch corseted waist works to enhance that image, the opposite of what one might expect it to do.
Mr. Pearl grew up in South Africa and moved to London at the earliest chance after completing his military service. He spent three years in New York in the early 90s, where he did his most intimate published interview, of which there are few. Already a renowned tightlacer by this time, Pearl treated corsetry with such reverence that he insisted on precision in every aspect of his involvement with it; when his New York interviewer described him as a corsetier, he interrupted. “Forgive me,” he said. “I am a designer who employs the corset and lacings into his designs. I am not a corsetier - I have not attained that specialized knowledge. There are only about five left in the whole world now, who possess that art. I hope one day to be amongst them.”
Fast-forward to the 2000s: Mr. Pearl is a successful corsetier, commissioned by Mugler, Lacroix, Galliano and Gaultier when they need a master to produce their corset designs for the runway. Clients include Dita, Kylie Minogue and Jerry Hall. He lives in Paris, and works out an atelier behind the Notre Dame.
Despite his success, Pearl doesn’t have a flashy website. There’s no web store to offer plastic-boned corsets that bear only his name, no MySpace page and no blog. He’s known for his aversion to modern technology, and his only web interview was handwritten and transmitted by fax.
Prosthetics are hot! That’s how I’ll console myself if I ever lose my hand in a terrible accident. I picture a long-fingered, razor-nailed chrome hand for everyday wear; a sleek jeweled hand with fingertips that project light (or film!) for the evenings; and for special occasions, I want a sock puppet that’s also a flamethrower. In my toolkit, I would also like to have something Ye Olde. Ideally I’d love to get my remaining hand on the following, eloquently written up for us by guest blogger David Forbes (aka Coilhouse commenter ampersandpilcrow). - Nadya
Götz Von Berlichingen had a problem. It was 1504 and, at the tender young age of 24, the plundering knight, mercenary and all around bastard had the upper part of his right arm torn off in a cannon blast. As someone who made his living off war and already had a sizable enemies’ list, Götz needed his killin’ hand.
So he got another one. Made of iron.
However, this was no crudely shaped hunk of metal — it was a mechanical masterpiece, centuries ahead of its time. The iron hand not only allowed Götz to return to battle, but later helped lay the foundation for modern prosthetics. Complete with articulated fingers, spring action and an array of levers and buttons, the hand allowed a degree of control that’s stunning even today. Fitted with it, Götz could do the following:
A sort of apparition - a tall, elegant and bejeweled creature, with wavering elegant gestures, reminding one rather of an Aubrey Beardsley illustration come to life - Clough Williams-Ellis about Henry Cyril Paget, 5th Marquis of Anglesey
The subject of the “Coilhouse patron saints” comes up in conversation quite often, and Henry Paget deserves a high rank on that list, perhaps between Genesis P-Orridge and Marchesa Luisa Casati. He was the most outrageous of the English aristocrats, often seen gallivanting around London bedecked in jewels and silk, with a poodle under his arm or driving a custom car spraying perfume from the exhaust pipes.
This was a boy raised entirely by women, first in a theater environment in Paris and later in the seclusion of a Gothic mansion in north Wales with little peer contact and sudden access to a seemingly endless supply of money. To call the grown up Henry Paget an eccentric would be a grave understatement, and his upbringing was blamed for his behavior and suspected homosexuality. The charismatic young man transformed himself into a work of art with each waking breath. Obsessed with being photographed, he spared no expense for his costumes, meticulously preparing his poses and taking on new personas for each shot. He even employed a team of dressers to help with frequent costume changes.
Briefly married to his cousin, he showered her with jewels, as well. He “liked to view his emeralds, his rubies, his diamonds displayed on her naked body. But he didn’t lay a finger on her. There was no sex… The marriage was annulled on the grounds of non-consummation.” says the Daily Mail. The Marquess may have shunned romantic involvement entirely, but surrounded himself with other beauty despite the raised eyebrow of aristocracy. His expenses included a number of modified cars, canes, “jewels, furs, boats, perfumes and potions, toys, medicines, dogs, horses and theatricals on a scale unimagined”.
Her Modesty is a Muslim Fashion blog that will soon be a print magazine.
I’ve been reading Her Modesty, a Muslim women’s fashion blog. The project has a lot in common with Coilhouse: both Coilhouse and Her Modesty are blogs that will soon launch in print magazine format, both extoll the virtues of being covered vs. letting it all hang out (you may have noticed our obsession with covered necks, loosely-flowing clothes and total body coverage), and most importantly, both Her Modesty and Coilhouse are interested in the tenuous relationship between the “mainstream” and the “underground,” and where one stops and the other begins. They’re two different “undergrounds,” but the concerns are largely the same.
Primarily a fashion blog, Her Modesty’s main purpose is to display “how sisters can be covered but yet still feel good about themselves and how they look.” The blog author, Kima, obsessively catalogues her new favorite trends as inspired by street wear and the runway, follows the appearance of the hijab-inspired styles in Western fashion magazines, and offers readers tips on how to create the “modest version” of various popular styles. My favorite is this outfit, which in the author’s opinion walks the line, though her readers seem to love it.
Haute Hijab from the Her Modesty blog.
Kima’s writing tone reminds me of the sweet and upbeat Gala Darling, and similarly to Gala, Kima also challenges the readers by briging topics for discussion into the fashion mix. In one post, Kima posts a loose leopard-print D&G dress that resembles an abaya (the loose overgarment that’s worn by many Muslim women), and asks her readers, “would you rock it with a shiny red bag, black pumps, and a hijab?” In another post, Kima engages the readers in an interesting debate about the female “fashion police” in Iran. Similarly to my obsession with goths in TV commercials, there’s a post about a hijab-wearing girl in a Sunsilk TV ad. The most profound post, one where I almost felt like a voyeur when reading the impassioned comments, is the post where Kima asks readers if they’d still dress modestly if Allah didn’t will it.
But the best part are the hilarious Muslim Fashion Dont’s! Here they are, after the jump.
I’ve been feeling sort of… understated. As understated as one can remain with cobalt blue hair and eyebrows, anyway. Seriously, it’s gettin’ crazy. In another effort to make some sense of my belongings I’ve organized my wardrobe shelves by black, grey and color. The black pile, she grows. The rest is dwindling. What could it all mean?
Peeps, I have entered another era, an era of DARKNESS. Frankly, all i want to wear these days is black. This means two things:
1. I’m looking extra-fetching; everyone knows black is the ultimate in sleek stylish goodness.
2. WZW as you know it is drawing to an end.
Yes, it’s true, my dearest squids and squidlettes. I suspect you don’t want to look at me decked in clouds of carbon every week, so it is time to take an indefinite break. I may return with sporadic make-up and hair tips or random news stories, and if I do find an occasion to WZW once again I shall.
What’s that? Oh no, you promised you wouldn’t cry! Please, I.. I can’t bear it!
Well, okay. Just to ensure you know precisely what you’ll be missing after this week there will be a few more all-black installments What’s Zo Wearing. Just for you, you hear? I’m doing it for you.
