To those familiar with this blog, it should come as no surprise that yours truly prefers to spend his evenings home alone, drinking either
camomile tea or, when I'm feeling especially inspired, a glass of red wine, listening to old folk records (on the original vinyl) to the sickly sweet fragrances of incense and orange peels, as I read old poetry out loud (practising my French) and contemplate our role in the universe and, occasionally, suicide. Like tonight, when I plan to listen again and again to my favourite song by Leonard Cohen, the profound and exquisite «Master Song», while meditating. Transcendentally.
camomile tea or, when I'm feeling especially inspired, a glass of red wine, listening to old folk records (on the original vinyl) to the sickly sweet fragrances of incense and orange peels, as I read old poetry out loud (practising my French) and contemplate our role in the universe and, occasionally, suicide. Like tonight, when I plan to listen again and again to my favourite song by Leonard Cohen, the profound and exquisite «Master Song», while meditating. Transcendentally.But not Toilet Guppies' on-again/off-again music consultant, so-called «DJ» Sheik Yerdixxx! Of indeterminate gender, Yerdixxx likes to spend nights sniffing meth off of old strippers' crusty, pierced and no doubt
inflamed nipples, veritably foaming at the mangina—all to the booming sound of nu-R&B tracks that were hits circa three years ago. («Careless Whisper» or «Nikita» when that Brazilian woman's working.) On the few occasions s/he's allowed to DJ in public, Yerdixxx either plays silly avant-garde music (which s/he probably doesn't even get) or abrasive nu-disco remixes of tawdry rock'n'roll tracks. (When s/he isn't happy, that is, and you risk being subjected to an incoherent mix of garage-psych, hard funk and perhaps even sweet soul slipped in with all the electro nonsense.)
And now, would you believe, some art school upstarts have asked to borrow the sheik for a three-hour set(!) at some vernissage tonight (disco at the art gallery?! What would the Old Masters say?), with Yerdixxx working for a pink wig, apparently. That it'll be a «partay» I've no doubt—but will it be art? The title of the exhibition is Natural It's Not, and I'm sure it won't be…
Go see and hear for yourself. I'm staying at home, ever since Yerdixxx asked me to upload this track, to be featured in tonight's DJ set—Beck, Devendra Banhart, MGMT & some guy from Wolfmother sullying my beloved Leonard Cohen masterpiece, funking it all up, in the style of that «old school» I sometimes hear about:
inflamed nipples, veritably foaming at the mangina—all to the booming sound of nu-R&B tracks that were hits circa three years ago. («Careless Whisper» or «Nikita» when that Brazilian woman's working.) On the few occasions s/he's allowed to DJ in public, Yerdixxx either plays silly avant-garde music (which s/he probably doesn't even get) or abrasive nu-disco remixes of tawdry rock'n'roll tracks. (When s/he isn't happy, that is, and you risk being subjected to an incoherent mix of garage-psych, hard funk and perhaps even sweet soul slipped in with all the electro nonsense.)And now, would you believe, some art school upstarts have asked to borrow the sheik for a three-hour set(!) at some vernissage tonight (disco at the art gallery?! What would the Old Masters say?), with Yerdixxx working for a pink wig, apparently. That it'll be a «partay» I've no doubt—but will it be art? The title of the exhibition is Natural It's Not, and I'm sure it won't be…
Go see and hear for yourself. I'm staying at home, ever since Yerdixxx asked me to upload this track, to be featured in tonight's DJ set—Beck, Devendra Banhart, MGMT & some guy from Wolfmother sullying my beloved Leonard Cohen masterpiece, funking it all up, in the style of that «old school» I sometimes hear about:
P.S. At the exhibition you'll get to see Karoline Hjorth's photos and sound recordings of various Norwegian nanas, such as the late Mia Berner, known to Norwegians as the no-nonsense writer who, ever since her husband died in 1983, wore only red—until her own death just before Christmas. Rage in peace…
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