Say what you will about the bloodless electroclash/no wave resurgence. Lard knows I have. Watching its rise in popularity in post 9-11 New York City, I experienced what can only be described as an excruciating kind of soul death. It still makes me a bit nauseated to admit that in the wake of The Tower, my generation of NYC rock musicians had nothing better to offer up than this cocaine-spritzed, head-in-the-sand, garage schlocky, post post post punk photocopy of a bootleg of a cover rendition of a vibrant cultural scene populated by non-derivative bands 30 years ago. (The documentary Kill Your Idols offers an unflinching assessment of this phenomenon. Highly recommended.)
Still, there’s some truth to that whole “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery” spiel, and it was nice to go to downtown clubs where beautiful, artfully tweezed and ever-mysterious DJs with asymmetrical hair spun vintage wax nightly: ESG, DNA, Contortions, Foetus, Teenage Jesus & the Jerks, Swans, beloved Klaus, etc. Cool non-Manhattanites –oh, ‘scuse me, I meant to say Honorary Citizens of the Center of the Known Universe– like the Birthday Party, Lene Lovich, Nina Hagen, and Malaria! were in heavy rotation as well. Which brings us, in a roundabout way, to the point of this post. (Heh. Sorry.)
Founded in early ’81, Malaria! was led by Bettina Koester and Gudrun Gut, and filled out with Manon P. Dursma, Christine Hahan and Susanne Kuhnke. I’m a longtime fan of theirs, but I hadn’t seen this gorgeous homemade Super 8 video for their song off the 12inch New York Passage: Your Turn to Run until recently:
directed by Dieter Hormel, Brigitte Bühler, Gudrun Gut
Is it just me, or is this footage reminiscent of something non-narrative filmmakers like Brakhage, Anger or Morrison might shoot? You know… if they were young, fierce and scrumptiously German in 1982. Dang! Both Gut and Koester are still actively making music, and having watched “Your Turn to Run”, I’m actually grumblingly grateful to the Bedford Avenue acoyltes of electro for their role in bringing the band renewed recognition.
Hooo boy. I’ve been sitting on my hands for weeks, not knowing if/when I’d be allowed to say anything, but I just got the go-ahead from Nils. NOW IT CAN BE TOLD.
“Look out, you’re dead like us. Dead like candy.”
photo by Katherine Copenhaver
For really and truly. The four core members of one of the most unclassifiable, unbelievable underground bands of the 80s/90s met up in Oakland late last month to get reacquainted and talk shop. They’re currently in the studio recording the final tracks needed to complete an album left unfinished since 1998, and they have tentative plans to do some live reunion shows as well. A bit of background on the band from the Idiot Flesh wiki entry:
Known to tour the US in a converted city bus with [member] Rathbun as the driver/mechanic, with the windshield destination banner of “HELL.” Besides their “rock against rock” attitude, they were also known to defy classification with marching band routines, performing puppet shows, and playing household items as instruments (in tune).
“Idiot Song” video directed by Annmarie Piette
If you’re already a rabid cult follower, chances are you are doing an exuberant wiggle dance right now. If you’ve never heard of Idiot Flesh, try to place their sound, guerilla theater tactics and spookylicious attire in the context of the 80s and early 90s, before Tim Burton’s aesthetic became quite so zeitgeisty. While they often draw comparisons to Mr Bungle (and there’s merit in that, seeing as both groups formed in 1985, wore obfuscating costumes and displayed frenetic, mathrock/metal/funk shredder chops), Oingo Boingo, Crash Worship and other unhinged California weirdos from that time period, Idiot Flesh and their roving pack of Filthy Rotten Excuse Chickens inhabited a world all their own. Their influences range from the Residents and Zappa, to SWANS, the Art Bears and Henry Cow, to T.S. Eliot and John Kane. The band’s live act –which places emphasis on audience participation and non sequitur antics– is the stuff that Dadaist wet dreams are made of.
It’s been an eventful day, hasn’t it? If you’re like me, you have trouble winding down after so much hullabaloo.
So here’s a wistful lullaby to sing you to sleep, courtesy of the brilliant innovators behind Creating Rem Lazar. You’ll be calling Child Protective Services drifting off to slumberland in no time. May you dream sweetly of infinity mullets and oddly bulging blue spandex.
…But even here, I know our work was worth the cost.
What we have brought to pass, no one can take away.
Life offers up no miracles, unfortunately, and needs assistance.
Nothing will be the same as once it was,
I tell myself. –It’s dark here on the peak, and keeps on getting
darker.
It seems I am experiencing a kind of ecstasy.
Was it sunlight on the waves that day? The night comes down.
And now the water seems remote, unreal, and perhaps it is.
excerpt from “A Distance From the Sea”
by Weldon Kees
(born February 24th, 1914 – presumed dead July 18th, 1955)
A poet, a novelist, a painter, a jazz composer, a photographer, an art critic, a radio personality and a filmmaker, Weldon Kees wore many hats. Always dapper, always daring without compromising his accessibility, he was a true mid-century Renaissance man: the twitchy post-war poster child of avant garde America.
On the rare occasion that I meet folks with knowledge of Kees, it’s all I can do not to grab their ears and plant a big, wet one on ’em. Despite his brilliance and polymathic output (perhaps in part because he’s hard to pigeonhole) Kees isn’t too well known outside of a small, devout cult of literati who seem to want to keep his legacy a secret. Personally, I wish his work would receive more wide-ranging attention.
Sow was a short-lived but prolific project of spoken word artist Anna Wildsmith, her once boyfriend Raymond Watts of Pig and several members of KMFDM. Among other gritty eclectic compositions on their 1998 album “Sick”, the title track stood out and forged itself into my brain. Wildsmith screeches, cries and whispers through some of the strangest lyrics you’ll ever feel forced to pay attention to. Appearing fully nude on all of “Sick” album art, Anna carries the theme over into the vocal tracks, too. Her voice, though beautiful at its core, is distorted into nerve-endings and vocal chords stripped raw – commanding, compelling and frail.
Sow only released two full-length albums: “Je M’Aime” in ’94 and “Sick” in ’98, but remains one of my favorites to this day. Since, there have been 3 newish tracks released through Euphonic Productions which can be heard here. Little is known about Anna’s current whereabouts. During a 1999 interview with Release magazine she was living in a primitive French village, writing and hoping [though not especially planning] to release more albums. If anyone knows what she’s up to these days, I’d love to hear about it.
We’ve never met, and your ashes have long since been scattered above Manhattan, so I guess it’s pretty weird for me to be writing you this letter. Then again, everyone always says you seemed to hail from another planet. Let’s pretend for a minute that you didn’t die alone in a hospital bed in 1983. It’s comforting to imagine that you simply returned to your home world and maybe, somehow, you can read this.
If you were still here, you’d be 64 years young today. No doubt your friends would be gathered around you at the piano to sing Kurt Weill and Chubby Checkers tunes. Perhaps you’d share some of your delicious homemade pastries with them and spend hours reminiscing about those hazy, crazy post-punk days in NYC.
Ruff and ready.
I wish I could fold time and space to sit in the balcony at Irving Plaza the night your brief, bright star ascended during a four night New Wave Vaudeville series. It was 1978. Up until then, you’d been supporting yourself as a pastry chef for well-to-do Hamptons types. They say that you emerged from the fog machine vapors like an alien from another planet, stiff and somber in a silver space suit and clear vinyl cape. My old friend Jim Sclavunos was there, manning the spotlight. He once told me that when you opened your Clara Bow mouth and sang, no one believed it was really you. The MC had to keep assuring the audience that you were not lip-syncing…
I never thought I’d ever see my two favorite music scenes, riot grrrl and industrial, intersect more than than when I saw Bonfire Madigan open for Laibach in 2004. There she was, pink hair in pigtails and stripey socks and her screeching cello, with ominous black banners of gear-contained NSK crosses hanging on either side. But that very special industrial-meets-riot-grrrl moment was matched (if not surpassed) when I received a link from a group called Experiment Haywire this morning:
Does that sound like Kathleen Hanna’s long-lost EBM project or what? It’s not polished, but neither was riot grrrl, and that’s exactly what made it charming. The musician behind Experiment Haywire, Rachel, has also started a record label called machineKUNT. While I’m not crazy about the name (I just hate that spelling! I hate it!), the idea is great. Their first release, a compilation called “Extreme Women from the Dark Future,” features various female EBM musicians. It’s a nice contrast the dumb, misogynistic “Shut Up and Swallow” bullshit of bands like Combichrist.
The idea of women in industrial music isn’t new; they were there from the very beginning. Most female EBM musicians who came before, such as Shikhee from Android Lust, deliberately made their gender a non-issue in interviews. That was a powerful and positive statement of a different sort, but it’s interesting to see someone, perhaps for the first time, make gender the primary focus of their industrial/EBM project.
And just because I love it, since we’re on the topic of riot grrrl, here are Jem and the Holograms performing Le Tigre’s Deceptacon:
Have you ever been filled with the burning desire to see your favourite ’80s rocker step out of a massive, glowing vag and use his tongue to make sweet love to another man’s eyeball?
I knew it. You people disgust me.
I give to you the 1993 tour-de-force of homo-erotic gluttony that is Seth et Holth. Set to the backdrop of some actually rather wicked industrial rock, the 43 minutes of beautiful confusion that follows is staged by one Hide (X-Japan) and Tusk (Zi:Kill) as Angels who communicate with their blood, struggling after being cast out of heaven and eventually executed by earthlings. It’s kinda like a less pretentious Cremaster Cycle done in the style of a New Wave music video but with cooler-looking dudes.
Don’t make too much of an effort to ‘get’ this movie — seriously, it would make David Lynch cry — as it presents itself to be more of a visual and musical experiment. It’s worth a look as an unusual piece of rock nostalgia alone.
Thanks to everyone for your responses to the Mix Tape Post. We’ve received some incredible submissions of mix tapes for the print magazine so far – keep them coming! Here’s a great example of what we’re looking for: The Yellow Tape, cialis sale sent by Mishel Cobb. During her first year of college, Michel had a long-distance relationship with an art student from Texas; they sent each other letters, packages and mix tapes by mail. “He’d make them in colours. Each tape had a theme based on that colour, and the music on it suited the colour – at least, in his mind. Even the tape itself would be painted.” Here is The Yellow Tape from this series.
For publication in the magazine, send us scans of tapes with interesting themes, interesting artwork or a story to tell. The deadline for having your tapes in the print magazine is January 20th. The email address to send submissions to is [email protected].
The oldest known folk song of Japan is called Kokiriko-Bushi. Villagers in secluded Gokayama used to perform it in honor of local Shinto deities.
A wonderfully daft electro-pop wizard who goes by Omodaka came up with the idea to revamp the song with chiptune vocals and Stevie Wonder-isms. He then handed the track over to the equally wonderfully daft animator Teppei Makki, sick who made the following video. It features a breakdancing marionette skeleton cutting a rug with a dexterous disembodied hand and assorted Residents reminiscent eyeball-headed women at the cosmic discotheque. Enjoy:
