Is it just me, or is an exceptionally pungent cloud of irony-infused nostalgia hanging o’er the interwub like a stale pegacorn fart today? First, three different people send me this. Also, this has resurfaced. Someone just made me watch “Falkor Gone Wild“. And now, this:

*sob*

I’m so glad Z published that Captain Eo post. A questionable antidote for the inappropriate diddling of one’s childhood, perhaps, but still. Every little bit helps.

Menacing and amusing in equal measure, here’s “a selection of book titles and covers so boring they’re interesting”, set to spooky minimal pseudo-Webern music, and seemingly narrated by Alan Rickman on a ‘luude binge:

Via Sport Murphy.

Reading the YouTube comments is, for once, highly recommended. MAXIMUM PO-MO LULZ.

Corporate patronage does not equal crappy art, even if said art is associated with a stupid campaign. That statement may be literally true in the case of this short film commissioned by Diesel:U:Music:

(Via Siege.)

The concept for “Ritalin” (a Dancing Pigeons music video directed by Tomas Mankovsky) is based on Diesel’s theme for their spring jeans collection, Fire & Water. It’s easy to see how the gonzo style of the short dovetails nicely into Diesel’s recent, polarizing “Be Stupid” commercial campaign. Still, “Ritalin” stands on its own as a feisty, snarling gem of a short film.

Wheeeeeeee…

MY GOD IT’S FULL OF STARS. AND PINK POLYESTER.

The Unarius Academy of Science is a non-profit organization founded in in the mid 50s in California, with various cells still located throughout the United States as well as Canada, Japan, and Nigeria. Unarius is an acronym which stands for UNiversal ARticulate Interdimensional Understanding of Science. Founded by Ernest and Ruth Norman, Unarius espouses “a new interdimensional science of life based upon fourth dimensional physics principles.” Ernest Norman also believed that the Chinese “evolved from ancient interstellar migrants who began colonizing Mars a million years ago.” After being attacked by native humans, these interstellar migrants reportedly returned to Mars, where they now live in subterranean dwellings. In 2001, the Unarians were all supposed to fly away in a fleet of spaceships, but that doesn’t appear to have worked out so great for ’em. From Wiki:

From the period of 1954-1971, when Ernest Norman still controlled the organization, the organization defined “the mission” as the bringing in of the interdimensional science of life in the books channeled by Ernest Norman. In the period of 1972-1993, while Ruth Norman guided the organization, the organization experienced renewed growth and public awareness. “The mission” became bringing Unarius to the masses. Ruth Norman granted interviews, appeared on The Late Show […] and kept very up-to-date technologically with video productions and a studio built in the late 1970s when such equipment was still in its infancy. Unarius video productions began appearing on public access stations all over the United States…

…much to the delight of stoned and tripping teenagers nationwide. Watch their entire “educational” film, The Arrival, below.

Donald Weber takes a heart wrenching look at the city of Zholtye Vody in Ukraine. Located near two nuclear waste sites and an enrichment factory in the hub of the Soviet Union’s uranium mining and enrichment area, the homes were built using highly contaminated materials. With a higher radiation level than Chernobyl, over half the population of 60,000 people suffer from some sort of radiation sickness.

Upon first viewing this slide-show I was immediately struck with the strangest memory. Specifically, a memory of being a child, sitting in the ophthalmologist’s office and leafing through a copy of National Geographic which contained a large article on the Chernobyl disaster. The same hollow and broken faces are here in Weber’s essay. There is some joy here too, but it never seems to truly outshine the pain.

The image below was especially affecting and I had mixed feelings posting the set. It struck me that my vision of these post Soviet states is largely informed by images like this — a collection of gnarled women in babushkas, all furrowed brows and vacant stares, and emaciated youths, bald and hurting. It’s a world where lives are lived entirely within tiny, cramped apartments in stark, concrete tenements whose facades and walkways are slowly succumbing to an inexorable army of vegetation. I find myself thinking that there must be more to these people’s lives than this and fearing that there isn’t. I worry that I am passing on a misconception; proliferating a stereotype. I suppose that if the purpose of art is to make us question then, at least in my case, Daniel Weber has succeeded.

Happy Summer Solstice! Y’know, unless, like Sergeant Howie here, you’re not into that sort of thing…

SPOILER ALERT. Don’t watch if you haven’t seen The Wicker Man before! Rent the full film.

Summer is Icumen in,
Loudly sing, cuckoo!
Grows the seed and blows the mead,
And springs the wood anew;
Sing, cuckoo!
Ewe bleats harshly after lamb,
Cows after calves make moo;
Bullock stamps and deer champs,
Now shrilly sing, cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo
Wild bird are you;
Be never still, cuckoo!

“Sumer Is Icumen In“, a traditional English round, is one of the oldest known pieces of polyphonic music in existence, dating back to the early 13th century. It’s actually a song celebrating the advent of spring (or Christ’s crucfixion, depending on what translation you favor), not summer. Yet it always seems ends up in my stereo on June 21st.

The entire original Wicker Man soundtrack, arranged and recorded by Paul Giovanni and Magnet, is recommended listening on this, the longest day of the year.

An early Middle English form of notation, showing performers how to sing in a round.

The Floria Sigismondi wet dream that is iamaiwhoami (Jonna Lee?) has finally taken the next step in her personal YouTube evolution, from feral avant garde video antihero to fully-fledged electro chanteuse, and she is lovely.

It’s fairly straightforward –albeit spooky– electronica. The song’s driving melody is even a bit reminiscent of those daffy chugging synths Limahl used for the Neverending Story theme song, with an added dash of Deep Breakfast. And yet? “o” is putting the same loamy glow in my bones that initial exposure to Goldfrapp, Julia Frodahl, Karin Dreijer Andersson, Björk, Julee Cruise and female surrealists like Dorothea Tanning and Leonora Carrington once did. I remain intrigued as ever.

How about you?

Yes, I know, damn it– every time we post a Stoopid Pet Video, it “lowers the meaningful discourse.” Sorry, purists. Sometimes it can’t be helped; MUST POST OR HEAD WILL EH-SPLÖD. If you’re offended by unseemly displays of silly cat memes on Coilhouse, please avert your eyes now. May I recommend David Forbes’ latest rigorous serving of sci fi critical theory, located directly under this post? It’s a spicy meat-ah-ball.

For the rest of you, there’s this:

Which is, of course, of a riff on this. As longtime Coilhouse reader Tequila puts it: “Well, that’s it. There can be no greater win than this. Thank you, Internet, it was fun… time for you to rest now. Back to cave paintings for us all!”

Good night, sweet worldwide wub. Pleasant dreams.

In honor of Alex Chilton’s passing, we’d like to publish this article written by Joshua Ellis. This article appeared in Coilhouse Issue 04. You can also view a PDF of this article, by a strange twist of fate, over at the official Pixies website. It’s not an article about him, or The Pixies, per se. However, we’ve been wanting to publish this article on our blog for a while now, and this feels like the right moment to do so. This article speaks to the heart of why we’re all here together. What’s that song? / I’m in love / With that song…

I have this memory, and I’m not sure if it’s even real–or if it’s real, if it’s cobbled together from a half-dozen memories, fragments of things that happened over the course of a year or two that began the summer before I started high school, in 1991.

In this memory, I’m sitting in the basement of a girl named Sara, who pronounced her name “Saah-rah” and had purple hair and smoked clove cigarettes. I didn’t know Sara very well, but she was part of a small collective of freaks and weirdos that I had congregated to when I moved that summer from my ancestral home of north Texas to the small mountain town of Hamilton, Montana.

I’m sitting in Sara’s basement with my friends: Jeremy, the pretty guy who wears big black woolen overcoats and Jamaican tam o’ shanters in bright yellow and red and green, and seems to have unlimited access to the panties of every single girl in the Bitterroot Valley; Wade, who perpetually sports Birkenstock loafers that look like inflated bladders and drives a white Volkswagen Beetle covered in Grateful Dead stickers; Nate, who is one of the best guitarists I’ve ever met and is a huge aficionado of what will later come to be known as “extreme” sports, like bouncing down jagged rock faces on a beat-up skateboard deck; Sarah and her sister, Jenny, who are both fond of dropping random giggly non sequiturs into the conversation when stoned.

They’re all here, or some of them, or none of them. We’re sitting in the dark, talking bohemian bullshit, maybe smoking pot. It’s the kind of night that gets put on endless repeat when you’re young and strange and condemned to spend your adolescence in some far-flung desolate shithole like Hamilton, Montana, where you can’t lose yourself in the noise or happily become part of it, the way you can in New York or Seattle or Los Angeles or Chicago.

I’m not as cool as they are. I don’t know about cool shit. I’m just this uptight kid from J. R. Ewing Land who talks too much, still wears Bugle Boy button-downs and M. C. Hammer pants, and has only the dimmest idea that there’s some entire world out there of cool shit that I know nothing about. I own a Jane’s Addiction album and I’ve vaguely heard of the Sex Pistols.

And in this memory, Sara gets up and puts a cassette tape into her boom box. It’s a time traveler from 1984, beaten and scuffed, with the inevitable broken-off cassette door, so you just slap the tape in and hope that the tape head keeps it from falling out, which will cause the relentless motors to chew the tape and unspool it like the entrails of a slaughtered pig. Sara slaps the tape in and hits play.

This song comes out–a slow beat, big and echoing, then a bass playing eighth notes, and then a guitar, dreamy and vibrating. It sounds like what I imagine sunrise on a beach would be like, like what I imagine doing heroin would be like, like what I imagine sex in a dark room with that awesome girl you lie awake and dream of meeting would be like. I haven’t experienced any of these things–yet.

And then a voice, a high husky man’s voice, gentle over the music.

Cease to resist, given my good-byes
Drive my car into the o-o-sha-hah-hahn
You think I’m dead, but I sail away
On a wave of mutilation, wave of mutilation
Wave of mutilation
Way-hey-hey-hey-have
Way-hey-hey-hey-have

“What is this?” I ask. Sara shrugs.

“It’s the Pixies,” she says in this memory that may not even be real, or maybe didn’t happen this way at all. “The song’s called ‘Wave of Mutilation.’ This is the U.K. Surf Mix. The real version is faster and louder.”

“I’ve never heard of them,” I said. “I’ve never heard this.”

“They’re pretty cool,” Sara says. “I think they’re from, like, Boston.”

I nod. Pretty cool.

Film courtesy of Syndicate of Human Image Traffickers

Storytelling is, among other things, the art of regulating the flow of information shared with an audience. Playwright Richard Foreman is a foremost master of this art, withholding much that makes our world familiar and meaningful.  In his plays, we are thrust into a room – perhaps suggestive of the human psyche – where information circulates without context, and language often appears to lose its capacity to bear information or even conjure words.  Characters inhabit situations and events transpire, but usually without the problem resolution endemic to most fiction.  Ultimately, we never know whether what we have witnessed is satirical, psychological, resolutely absurdist, or somehow all three concurrently.  Enduring such a bewildering circumstance, the audience is challenged to find or impose order and meaning – never knowing which they are doing.  As you may well imagine, this is not easy art.  It may leave the theatergoer uneasy – even queasy – amid buzzers, flashing lights, warped music, and the voice of un-reason.  One may even wonder whether it’s akin to what Jeremy Bentham said of natural rights: “nonsense upon stilts.”  If, however, the official tastemakers are to be believed, this is theatre operating at a high degree of abstraction, offering sly humor and curious insight into our social and inner worlds.

Richard Foreman’s Ontological-Hysteric Theater made its debut in 1968 – a year redolent with meaning for alternative culture – and his plays have been a mainstay of the weird and wonderful (and wise?) ever since.  He has written, directed, and designed more than fifty plays, received five “OBIE” (Off-Broadway) Awards for Best Play of the Year, the Literature Award from the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters, a Lifetime Achievement in the Theatre Award from the National Endowment for the Arts, the PEN Club Master American Dramatist Award, a MacArthur “Genius” Fellowship, was elected officer of the Order of Arts and Letters of France, and his direction of the 50^th anniversary production of The Threepenny Opera was nominated for both T.O.N.Y. and Grammy Awards.

Foreman directs at Tanglewood, 1968.

For nearly 20 years Foreman has launched his plays from a little theater on the grounds of the historic St. Mark’s Church-in-the-Bowery in New York City’s East Village.  For those of us for whom an annual trek to Foreman’s demented dimension provides regular respite from worlds we are otherwise doomed to inhabit, I bear bad news: this year’s play is slated to be his last.  And for those new to Foreman, or without the ability to see one of his plays in New York or when they tour Paris or Los Angeles or Berlin, there is good news: he will now be turning his prodigious talents exclusively to film making.

A blinkered guest in Foreman’s book, art, and technology engorged SOHO loft – one of the original lofts designed by George Maciunas – I feebly tossed feeble questions before the “Genius” himself.  Despite his telling me that he “didn’t like people,” Foreman was a good sport, ruminating on whether alternative- and counter-cultures have futures, the keys to a vital art scene and to becoming an artist, the meta-politics of theatre, and his mystical yearnings.  Alas, I still don’t understand why existentialists get out of bed in the morning.  The Syndicate of Human Image Traffickers maintained surveillance (see above) and the remainder was captured by my electro-ear (see below).

COILHOUSE: What first brought you to lower Manhattan?
RICHARD FOREMAN: I moved to lower Manhattan because, in the middle 1960s, I got friendly with Jonas Mekas, who was head of the underground film movement, and a close friend of his was George Maciunas, who was the head of Fluxus.  At a certain point, George made his art setting up artists’ coops.  It was totally illegal.  I was coming down all the time to look at underground films.  At one point, I told George that I was ready to take the risk and move downtown, and he got ten people to buy a building together.  Starving artists did all the work of converting the manufacturing lofts into living lofts.  I was going to films Jonas was showing all the time and, at one point, I dared to tell him that I was writing plays. I showed him a play. He allowed me to show it at his theater when the fire department closed it after they said that he didn’t have a proper license to show films, since it was a play.

Photo via Real Time Arts.