Roughly Enforcing Nostalgia Sample Based Music Indie plunderphonic Mash up power pop Roughly Enforcing Nostalgia Sample Based Music Indie plunderphonic Mash up power pop
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Roughly Enforcing Nostalgia Chainsaws Ripped My Flesh   Naked Lunch
  (1:30)[2/25/00/2:30 a.m.]

  Based on the novel by William S Burroughs.
  Liner Notes

Got leathered wallpaper for muscles, blue vericose veins like spidering crow’s feet between toes, injections there for incognito. Got junk (i.e. illicit prescriptions) this district’s powder blue light special, Blue Screen of Death dangling over my head. Got cordon key fob’s digital readout reads out: “Place snapbrim sax solo over spinning fan . . . HERE.” Got undercover as research assistant that professor sleeping with, holed up under azured paisley-fleece ceiling, keeps washing Jonah’s footprints up -------- pointing towards sea and away from sea -------- expensive ice cream swimming its cones. Got no reason to wake up, got no reason to sleep in, but I’ve been freezing like Bland Lemons, cranked down registers to ice keeps the fresh, young demons from crawling, trapped solid like scatalogical unmentionables stuck on Dumb Waiter shaft, see the last straw came and they carried away the dinner mint.

Highbeams on fire are swooping to action, Cities on flame with rock ‘n’ roll, and he walked on down the hall. Jesus will be my savior, and Punk Rock, change my life.

Breath, sheet out my mouth; it’s exhaled miles and Miles of a blue bus. A huge tip = a huge head. Easter Island headstone. Enormous, doesn’t fit through the door, dig? That means no more room service. Broke-down neon sign outside window pulses in royal blue “_ _ S _ S _ _ V E S.” 5 months studying fedora ridge leads me fill it in, and Why O why didn’t I just take the BLUE pill?, but God can filled the God-shaped hole, and through it I get free. And though Jesus saves, and I’ll never let You go, but Request magazine (March, 1991) it changed me. Aqua seafoam shave, replace to awkwardcy from shame, ‘cause hepcats, punkers, sports rockers: did thrives on marquee-ed adversity, rage against the hopped-up dry-ice (its minted steam), then becomes, then shine as perishable dry-ice billowing. I’m the toughest cop on the force, but I drive a formica-lavender Shriner’s car and it’s just a dry-erase moon when the Man knows the names for your heart.
liner notes for Chainsaws Ripped My Flesh
While we usually shun improv in favor of calculated risk, “Naked Lunch” is an obvious exception, an attempt to use techniques of “automatic writing” employed by author Burroughs. A free-association on the color blue, little censoring in the creation stage was allowed.

On top of unrehearsed percussive loops (found garage objects such as the crunch of accidentally tripping over an ancient cage fan or the pop-smack of lips for a sound check) was smothered guitar growl, placed on an old plank atop a shitty practice amp in our darkroom’s sink. Feedback growing in intensity matched a single string’s harmonic, “plucking” the string and shaking its diving board foundation, which fed into this cycle. (This idea owes some theoretical similarities to Alvin Lucier’s Music on a Long Thin Wire, in which a miced 50 ft wire was excited by an oscillator.) As a gag on Modern Classical, samples from Zorn’s Cobra were inserted, neutralizing its original celebration of slap-dash into a structured endeavor.

All in all, the song was meant to have a tossed-together feel, a stream-of-consciousness jam session in which the knob-turner is more important than the musician, and so the video’s aesthetic followed suit. In several feverishly productive days, a rotating composition of fingernails, dead skin, and clipped hair was put together. This grotesque imagery represents physical growth occurring long after the host body is deceased, tying into the notion that Burroughs was in essence a heroin-addicted zombie creating while “dead”. An obscured shot of a pin-up model drapes behind in a wash of blue, signifying the sexual as it’s perverted into crude obscenity (an adjective often used to describe the novel). It’s blocked by a hazy smokescreen, a dark joke on the way junk can short-circuit libido. The final images make apparent that the ubiquitous blue background is actually a crashed computer screen, the infamous “Blue Screen Of Death” that’s so synonymous (like self-medication) with impeded productivity

.musicians on roughly enforcing nostalgia
“Shooting PG is a terrible hassle, you have to burn out the alcohol first, then freeze out the camphor and draw this brown liquid off with a dropper -------- have to shoot it in the vein or you get an abscess, and usually end up with an abscess no matter where you shoot it. Best deal is to drink it with goofballs . . . So we pour it in a Pernod bottle and start for New Orleans past irridescent lakes and orange gas flares, and swamps and garbage heaps, alligators crawling around in broken bottles and tin cans, neon arabesques of motels, marooned pimps scream obscenities at passing cars from islands of rubbish . . . New Orleans is a dead museum. We walk around Exchange Place breathing PG and find The Man right away. It’s a small place and the fuzz always knows who is pushing so he figures what the hell does it matter and sells to anybody. We stock up on H and backtrack for Mexico. Back through Lake Charles and the dead slot-machine country, south end of Texas, nigger-killing sheriffs look us over and check the car papers. Something falls off you when you cross the border into Mexico, and suddenly the landscape hits you straight with nothing between you and it, desert and mountains and vultures; little wheeling specks and others so close you can hear wings cut the air (a dry husking sound), and when they spot something they pour out of the blue sky, that shattering bloody blue sky of Mexico, down in a black funnel . . . Drove all night, came at dawn to a warm misty place, barking dogs and the sound of running water.”
- William S. Burroughs, Naked Lunch (1959)

“Egos drone and pose alone like black balloons, all banged and blown
On a backwards river the infidels shiver in the stench of belief
And tell my mama I’m a hundred years late
I’m over the rails and out of the race
And the crippled psalms of an age that won’t thaw are ringing in my ears”
- Beck, “Bottle Of Blues” (1998)

“There is no one, nothing to see
The night is useless and so are we
Because everybody knows
The fabric of folly is falling apart at the seams
And I’ve been looking for a good time
But the pleasures are seldom and few
There’s no whiskey, there’s no wine
Just the concrete and a worried mind
‘Cos everybody knows death creeps in slow
Till you feel safe in his arms
And I’ve been looking for a new friend
I don’t care if he’s decrepit and grey”
- Beck, “O Maria” (1998)

Bibliography for chainsaws ripped my flesh !
The Dream Syndicate – “Burn”
DePaul University Avant-Garde Music Society – John Zorn’s Cobra
Wire – “Fragile”
Lone Justice – “I Found Love”
Men At Work – “Be Good Johnny”
Hair clippings
Smoke clip art
Alberto Vargas – pin-up model painting
Self-sample – lip smacks, guitar feedback, finger snaps, furnace, electric fan, microphone foam windshield, spoken word, percussion & vox

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