Behold... the Arctopus w/ Krallice, Dead Child, Animal, Maw @ Silent Barn

Here is a post I did for BushwickBK.com about Friday's Silent Barn show:

A Night of Old-School Pizza and Black Metal

Hopefully there will be some new stuff up here soon too.

New Posts and The New Adventures of the Berenstain Bears

There haven't been any posts for awhile. Sorry, I've been moving. Some new stuff will be up soon. And stay tuned for Lucas Barton's New Adventures of the Berenstain Bears, in which Papa Bear discovers himself and moves out of his treehouse with Mama Bear and in with his new lover Big Paw!

That Place Where the Wave Finally Broke and Rolled Back

I've been re-reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas recently and was reminded of one of my favorite HST passages, and it still gave me chills. So, here:

"It seems like a lifetime, or at least a Main Era--the kind of peak that never comes again. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run . . . but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. What ever it meant. . . .
History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of 'history' it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time--and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened.
. . . There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . .
And that, I think, was the handle--that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn't need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting--on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . .
So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark--that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back."

- Hunter S. Thompson

The Decider Continues to Make the World Safe for Democracy

This bodes well...

From President Bush's speech: “My message to the Iranian people is, ‘You can do better than this current government,’ ” Mr. Bush said. “ ‘You don’t have to be isolated. You don’t have to be in a position where you can’t realize your full economic potential.’ ”

Hmmm.... couldn't this statement be better applied to some other country? You know, like a country with $8.97 trillion in national debt and $2.62 trillion in consumer debt? A country where the average life expectancy has fallen from 11th in the world to 42nd in the past two decades? A country that is already quagmired in two wars? With a government that increasingly acts unilaterally in the global arena at the peril of its own citizens? A country burdened by an executive branch with ever-expanding secret powers? And an opposition party that gained control of the House on the backs of civil rights groups, but then turned around and voted new secret executive powers into law, just in time to collectively head out the door for a vacation? Couldn't Bush's statement better apply to a country like that????

Old Traitorous Architects of Evil GOP Empires Don't Die They Simply Fade Away

My Time Among the Militiamen of Access Road #3... Fire Works... What Lurks?... The Unfortunate End of Jason

by Derek Bushmiller

Arriving at the camp near to dusk we park our vehicle amidst the pack and exit, scanning the throngs of militia for the familiar face of our contact. He is nowhere to be found among the militiamen lounging and eating beneath the reeds that encircle our post.

Darkness is falling as we meet up with our man. The acrid smoke of spent explosives hangs heavy over the water as the rival camps trade volleys, demonstrating their awe-inspiring might for all the lakeside to see. As the combative vapor drifts across the lake, one of the men raises his rifle and fires on the unsuspecting villagers huddling near to our camp, scattering them with a luminous burst.

".22 gage shotgun shells stuffed with M80s!" comes the slurred proclamation from his sweaty, salt-bloated face. His body displays the kind of hard puffiness that comes from sustaining oneself on beer and sausage. He has a terrible case of the meat sweats. His belly full of cured meat. His brow dripping with the sodium-rich waste.

He is dressed in the disjointed fashion that has become the standard uniform of the militia: a tshirt with some sort of emblematic figure, in this case an eagle, with the sleeves cutoff to reveal his massive tree trunks of arms--pale from the elbows to the shoulders, grease-stained Lee bluejeans cutoff at the knees (as far as I can tell the men seem to get bored and regularly plunge their knives into their own clothing), and tan work boots with mid-calf length white athletic socks rolled down so they are just barely peeking out. This striking visage is topped off with a neon-orange, "camouflage" hunting camp.

As I'm contemplating how best to not attract the attention of this foul beast, a young recruit eagerly pushes forward to join the action. This is his country and he'll be damned if he'll let these freakniks take it from him! To prove it he too lights up the sky with the crude shotgun-propelled explosives. I am not entirely comfortable with the presence of these warmongers in the camp and I get the same feeling from our contact. Unfortunately, it is beyond any of our control. The militia shows up where they want, we all know that. The leader of this camp has brokered an uneasy agreement by allowing them to stay, so whether we like it or not we are in bed with these sweaty, booze-besotted behemoths. Truth be told, the men have been rather gracious to us, but the close proximity of that volatile combination of alcohol and bloodlust unsettles me.

Retiring to our quarters to regroup, our contact appeals to his small cadre of men to hold steady, and avoid discharging any of the remaining ammo in our absence. The plea goes unheeded however, because no sooner do we take up positions in our bunker than we hear the familiar sound of explosives detonating above the lake.

"Was that from our side?"

"Looks like it."

"Goddammit Graham!"

No matter. He is too intent on enjoying our repose to trifle with the unruliness of the few men left below with the militia. The group convenes for a communal smoke and I settle into conversation with one of our recently arrived brothers-in-arms and his girlfriend; a pretty, young photographer who has come along for the ride. Like the rest of us I suppose, she has come along so as not to miss the excitement.

* * * *

We return to the camp to find a much calmer scene, the militia has moved on but long after the smoke settles into nothing more than an eerie fog, bearing no indication of its fiery birth, the aggression continues to hang over the water. The competitive violence shifts in shape and volume as angry timbres rise in pitch and disturb the calm that has descended upon our camp. It is no longer the angry, drunken impulses that unnerve me, however.

What am I saying? Am I losing it already? Have the drugs warped my own hyperbolic projections of violence and turned them back against me? No, I think I have just been in the cities too long. Swapping the chaotic din of the precise gridded streets for the quiet disorder of the forest, I am imagining danger in every shadowy tangle of bushes. Macabre images most foul dance through my head, rattling in my skull and twisting my entrails into the tensest of knots.

But no, something is surely amiss amongst the shapes that drift across the water. There is an evil that lurks here which predates our own. And as I set off on a brief, but ill-advised solo trip into the brush to retrieve an essential piece of equipment, I am certain I will shortly meet my brutal end. But I do not. By some twist of fate I have escaped the deadly, primal evil that lurks in the darkness, waiting to cut me down in the prime of my youth, as it has so many others--at Elm Street, and at Crystal Lake, and on the back wood trails and desert outposts across this godforsaken land. For now.

It's Giuliani Time!

Fear Before the March of Flames w/ This Will Destroy You, You In Series and 65 Days of Static 07.20.07

by Peter Aleksa / photos by Jason Bergman

I got to the Europa Club in Greenpoint just as daylight was beginning to fade and the crowd was beginning to show. I always enjoy getting to a venue early for these types of shows because you get to watch the energy slowly change. To see the anticipation building for the event that is about to take place, the slow transformation of whatever ratty American Legion hall or dim night club is the reluctant host to these informal services.

First up was This Will Destroy You, a four piece instrumental group that I heard someone describe as "like Explosions in the Sky's older brother." Ok, sure. But I guess I can see the comparison.
The music begins still, and quiet, until the icy melodic trickles have gathered the momentum of a roaring sonic river, bursting with a pent up energy that has been quietly building in that little stream. Then rushing out, released into a vast sea of feedback. The band's movements closely mirrored the way in which their music unfolds; brooding quietly until breaking out in a series of temper tantrum fits. Watching the bassist in particular, I was reminded of the protagonist of one of my favorite childhood books, Where the Wild Things Are, terrorizing his household before being sent away in exile.

You In Series was up next. In one word: tight. That's how I would describe the singer's Mongoloids tshirt. The performance, not so much. This was really the only low point of the night. I was not digging this band at all. They looked the part but I just wasn't buying it. They oozed with that awful, overdramatic shtick that tends to germinate in New Jersey malls. (Wait, I'm myspacing them, it would be too good if they actually were from Jersey.... hmm, no, Vegas. But close enough. That's like a classy Atlantic City right?) Anyways, there could be something there, they are signed to Equal Vision and all, but they are just missing something for me at this point. So... onwards!

At this point, 65 Days of Static still had not made it to the venue and it was unclear whether they would, so Fear Before the March of Flames took the stage.

It may still strike some as odd (how people shake!) to see the recently expanded Fear lineup, but I'm thrilled that most people seem to have embraced the way that the band is evolving and are able to spread their sound out both live and on their records.

The overall aesthetic of Fear's live show is far and above what most bands are capable of pulling off. From the stage design with its green, white and blue box lights to the dedicated core of fans who crowd the front of the stage and feel the pull to shout every word of every line back into Dave's face, a Fear Before show is a full on happening in the truest sense of the word. Dave always seems to have an intriguing stage presence. At one point he seemed to be waving his hand over the crowd to affect a snake charmer like control over them. Indeed, the group maintains an eerie control over the crowd throughout the night, constantly reshaping the energy in the room, shifting its intensity (dynamics!). At this particular show, the band managed to pull this puppet act off quite well even with a crowd full of hiptards who were too cool to uncross their arms for most of the night.

The band played a full set and ran through a good spectrum of their music with cuts off of Always Open Mouth, Art Damage, and even some off of OHPS. It was good to see songs like "Should Have Stayed In The Shallows", "Law of Averages", and "The 20th Century Was Entirely Mine", but I would have personally liked to see a few more tracks off the the new album (Utter Confusion As A Result.../...Of Signals Being Crossed!). Still, it was a great performance, and no matter what Fear period is your favorite I think you would have walked away pleased with the show.

65 Days of Static took the stage last, after almost not taking the stage at all. The band was making the trip from good ol' mother Britain, and apparently were Guantanamo'd for awhile. Or so the rumor goes. But seriously, I'm glad that these guys were able to make it. I had never seen or heard them before, but a lot of people in the crowd seemed pretty pumped for them. And I can see why. I am now digging on them alot. When a band like this opens (or closes, as it may be) when you go to see another band its always a pleasant surprise. Like finding a whole new world you never knew existed. Which is what going to a show should be about. Not suffering through some shitty trend-rocker garbage til you get to see what you want.

Anyways, I digress. Probably because I haven't had enough time to fully digest this band and so I don't have any hyperbolic prose to back up my assertions. The best approximation for what it sounds like is Russian Circles jamming out with the Dust Brothers. While that is woefully inadequate it gets you in the right ballpark I suppose. Anyways, long story short, 65 Days of Static is a realllly good band that I will be listening to for a long time, and hats off to them for not only making it to the venue but going out there and putting on a solid show to end the night.

As 65 Days of Static finished their set the final dynamic shift of the night occurred with scene kids filing out past some early arrivals who had begun to show up ready to put the Club back in Europa Club.

Not the Next Living Thing

by Lucy Pagerey-Grey

A square of light
On bushes is
Mistaken for a deer

And then mistaken for nothing.
Mind goes blank
As a pane of milk.
I record my muscles’ recourse –

Knife edge of alarm
And then
None at all.

So this,
I think with the unanimal brain,
This is what it was like,
Waiting out all the old years
For meat to come along

For the membrane to pale
And then, of a sudden,
Break.

3rd Ward Brooklyn/Antistrot Mural

by Peter Aleksa

This weekend I got a chance to check out the Antistrot mural at 3rd Ward in Brooklyn. Unfortunately, I was a bit late in getting over to see the mural and missed all of the performances that the group staged to accompany it.

The six member, Netherlands based Antistrot collective create neurotic works that, while they come from six different places at once, avoid seeming disjointed. The multiple images and themes all manage to flow.

If I were to give you a completely inadequate one-line description of their work it would go something like this: A lot of sexual imagery juxtaposed with dinosaurs and simians. Filled with naked women and guns it speaks to new the american dream. Yet, there's something very off putting about the way in which the sex is offered up. It's very cheap and objectified and you get the feeling these women have been used many times before, while the men come off as predatory.

The 3rd Ward building itself is a pretty cool space located in a largely industrial area of East Williamsburg at 195 Morgan Ave at the corner of Stagg. For a quick description of 3rd Ward, here is this from the 3rd Ward mission statement:

3rd Ward is a 20,000 sq. ft. workspace and studio facility for artists & creative professionals, located in East Williamsburg. Our facility was formed based on the needs of contemporary artists and creatives whose work is often multidisciplinary... By helping artists pursue professional careers and creative projects, 3rd Ward is spearheading a movement that aims to create a permanent artist community in Brooklyn. ...space includes a photo studio, wood shop, metal shop, dance studio, audio/music recording & rehearsal studio, digital media lab, post production suite, conference room, large shared office space, and computer lab...

The staff there seemed pretty friendly and helpful and it appeared like there was a good amount of activity going on. Definately seemed like a good creative environment and basic membership runs $30/month for a one year membership. So, fucking check it out already...

The Village Moved Calendar

There is now a TMV Calendar in the sidebar. Listing things that we might be doing this week. That is, if we don't end up sitting on our friends couches and getting stoned or something...

A Mutherfuckin' Evening With Fabrice Fabrice

by Peter Aleksa

On Thursday I went to see a Mutherfuckin' Evening With Fabrice Fabrice, a (mostly) one-man improv performance/variety-show extravaganza at the Upright Citizen's Brigade Theatre hosted by Fabrice Fabrice, a very important person and also the craft-services coordinator for the hit tv show That's So Raven!

The quick wit and dance moves that have made Fabrice Fabrice an underground sensation on the craft services circuit (and in his appearances at UCB shows such as Broin' Out and Crash Test) were on display throughout the star-studded event, which featured such big names as President Gen. Pervez Musharraf of Pakistan, M. Night Shyamalan, and Aziz Ansari from Human Giant. Aziz and Fabrice recounted tales of their recent trip to Bonnaroo, where Fabrice mingled with dirty hippies. It wasn't all fun and games though. Fabrice was there to work. He spent much of his time serving food to comics such as Dmetri Martin, Flight of the Conchords' Jemaine Clement, and Lewis Black, and even took home top craft services honors!

Part way through the night, Fabrice showed he not only has a skill for craft services and cutting down 'Brooklyn' tshirt clad UES poseurs but a delicious judiciousness as well. It was time for Fabrice Court, where Judge Fabrice Fabrice--dressed in a fabulous Gucci/Oakley judges robe--tried a case of he said/she said. He said 'bitch stole my man', while she said not much of anything. I'm no court stenographer or anything (and Pabst was only $2) so I can't give you the exact play by play, but I can tell you the case was quickly settled and the harlot sent to jail for stealing the plaintiff's object of affection, J'Taurus. Luckily for all, bailiff Maurice Maurice was able to solve the case of the missing vowels.

Just when I thought I had a grasp on who Fabrice Fabrice really is as a man, he stunned me, and the rest of the audience alike, with a rousing slam poetry performance, in which he gave the audience a glimpse of his inner rage and touched on such important topics as oppression, chest hair, Harry Potter, and Nicholas Cage.

Fabrice ended his show by taking questions from the audience and used the opportunity to teach everyone in the room a few things about life, love, colon-cleansing meat products, the history of teabagging, and Paris Hilton's boring ass dead eyes. I'm sure I'm not alone when I say this, but tbt, it changed my life.

Sadly (for those of us in NY at least), Fabrice Fabrice will be moving out to Los Angeles with his "good friend" Nick Kroll, another UCB staple (who you may have also seen on VH1's Best Week Ever or Comedy Central's I Love the 30's). Kroll will be starring as one of the cavemen in a new ABC show based on the Geico cavemen commercials and got Fabrice a gig working craft services for the show. So, if you're in LA, be sure to check him out at UCB LA, or Fabrice Fabrice will cut your face til you look like Seal!

Mimsy Were the Borogoves

by Derek Bushmiller

I stood eying the small tan caps, roughly the size of a quarter, and the off white stems, sitting in the palm of my hand. I vaguely remembered hearing something about how psychedelic mushrooms grew in cow shit, but put it out of my mind. Best not to dwell on it as I was already rather disgusted at the thought of having to put the dirty little pile of fungus in my mouth. I had eaten mushrooms on two prior occasions, but both times they had been baked into chocolates, and had been rather weak. This batch we were assured were extremely potent, and I was hesitant not only about actually eating the fungus itself, but about the trip that was to follow.

I glanced over to see if my two companions were as hesitant about the process as I was. My friend Wade seemed to share the same reservations as I, staring at his pile like a child preparing to wade into a swimming pool, timidly dipping a toe or two in to check the temperature before committing to anything rash. Fred, on the other hand, apparently ascribed to the philosophy of diving in headfirst, as he was already chomping away at a mouthful, gathering the last remaining bits from the bottom of his bag. Wade and I exchanged glances and popped a handful into our mouths, following Fred to wherever it was we would be going.

Not wanting to sit around idly, nervously anticipating the imminent trip ahead, we headed down the hall to the resident stoner lounge on our floor. We settled in with a handful of our baked companions who were lounging around, smoking a bowl and, fittingly enough, preparing to watch the movie Dazed and Confused. About half an hour into the movie I noticed that I had gotten a bit chilly and that my palms were clammy and perspiring. I wondered for a split second if the mushrooms were kicking in, but I suddenly had my answer. ‘Ohhhh fuck,’ I thought to myself as I was propelled headlong down the rabbit hole in a matter of seconds, my once familiar surroundings becoming strange and alien, my mind working a mile a minute in an attempt to sort things out.

The wave of anxious energy soon crested into a giggling euphoria, as I looked in amazement around the room I had sat in a million times, but had somehow failed to realize its overwhelming beauty. I was fascinated by the glow of the bright box in the corner that seemed to hold everyone’s attention, shimmering in the dark room, displaying the most vividly brilliant colors I had ever seen. Suddenly the colors began to swirl and the surface that separated us from the world inside the box took on the consistency of water, pulsing and flowing. There were people on the other side of that bright little window. Smoking pot. Drinking beers. It sounds like they’re planning quite the party at the moontower. Struck by the similarity between the box people and our selves I’m suddenly faced with a Sartrian conundrum—no, no, I mean sartorial conundrum. Which side of the box is real? Inside or out? It was quite conceivable that the people inside the box were real and we were not. Perhaps they too were sitting around a similar box, observing our absurdly trivial existence, ascribing meanings to the arbitrary situations in which we found ourselves that were relative to their own consciousness.

Bordering precariously on the edge of losing it I decided it would be best to retire to my room to collect myself. I eloquently stated my intention to take leave of my friends for a moment of quiet reflection, “I gotta go. I’m fucking freaking out, dude!” And took my leave…

Safely back in my bedroom I stumbled upon the most amazing discovery. I could, at will, change it from light to dark merely through the manipulation of a magic lever that sat above my bed. I alone could decide whether it was day or night. Ecstatic at my newfound control of nature I began jumping on my bed, giggling furiously as I tested out my new powers.

“Daytime!”

“Nighttime!”

“Daytime!”

“Nighttime!” I shouted as I commanded the sun to do my bidding.

At this point my roommate, who I had earlier informed of my plans, returned to the room, curious as to how my trip was going.

“Drew! Drew! Check this shit out!” I exclaimed, eagerly demonstrating my powers.

“Awesome man. Keep up the good work,” he replied, clearly less enthused at my discovery than I had been. Maybe if he knew how it worked.

“Look, all you have to do is move this thing! Do you want it day or night?” I explained to him, sharing the secret of my powers.

“Its your world, man. I was just seeing how your trip was going. Looks pretty good. I’m out, but enjoy that light switch.”

With my audience gone I soon got bored with my discovery and became distracted by another intense flurry of psilocybin fueled existential deliberations. The uncomfortable feelings of anxiety that had caused my earlier flight from the pot den resurfaced and I crawled under my covers, trying in vain to come down. In the dark room with my eyes closed I became entirely convinced that I was dead. I laid absolutely still, unable to open my eyes, listening to the sounds of sirens on the streets outside. ‘That must be the ambulance coming to get my body,’ I thought to myself rather matter of factly.

Indeed the more I became convinced that I had died the more I became accepting of the fact, and a sudden calm came over me. I began to lose my concept of self, viewing my situation less in terms of dead or alive, but rather in terms of states of consciousness. I was no longer ‘alive’, and yet I still existed somewhere in some fashion. Viewing my situation by way of a sort of cosmic reductionism, convinced that “I”, whoever I was, was all that existed, as some singular entity or idea, floating through eternity, and that everything that I had ‘experienced’ up to this point, everything that I had believed ‘existed’, were nothing but the product of my sole consciousness.

I decided that this black emptiness was reality, and that all that the objects and people I had encountered in “life” were imaginary, nothing more than inventions, born out of a lonely entity unable to cope with being alone in the universe.

Suddenly, I opened my eyes and took stock of my surroundings, realizing where I was, who I was, and that I had been tripping on mushrooms and I was coming back down to baseline. I decided to get up and join the collection of people across the hall, all who peppered me with questions about my experience, which, out of a fear of sounding like some corny New Age philosopher, I mostly replied to with vague assertions of, “It was fucking trippy, man. I thought I died,” and descriptions of color swirls and other minor details.

Casting aside the mushroom induced revelations about existence of the previous hours, I delved wholeheartedly back into a world that may or may not have been just a figment of my imagination.

The Modern Oblivion Film Teaser

Here's a teaser for the Modern Oblivion Film, a docu about an artist/emcee named the Iron Gentleman from Northampton, MA. It was shot almost in its entirety by the Gentleman himself and edited together by Jay and Erik. I've seen it and its pretty effing captivating. Hopefully it will be out for distribution soon, but for now here's the trailer:

The Modern Oblivion

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Genghis Tron @ Club Europa 06.16.07

by Peter Aleksa / photo courtesy of Jason Bergman

Saturday I had the privilege of seeing three-piece electro-grind ambientcore group Genghis Tron at Club Europa in Greenpoint.

Carbomb opened, and while they had what seemed a pretty dedicated cadre of fans present, their set came off, to me at least, as pretty unimpressive. There were a few moments of ambience and some tight drumbeats that caught my attention for a few seconds at a time, but mostly it was straight-up thrash metal. My compadre, Erik, fell asleep against the wall (or had a seizure from their light show, I forget which it was).

Genghis Tron hit the stage next. I had never seen the group live before and was interested to see how they pulled off such complex numbers live with only three members. I have to say they pull it off really fucking well, with a tight live sound and great stage presence, all backed by their impeccable drummer Fruity Loops Studio. On the set list were all our (my) favorites from the first two albums, including "The Folding Road", "Asleep On the Forest Floor", "Arms", and "Laser Bitch", as well as three new songs off the upcoming album. The new joints (hot joints? bitching jams?) were extremely satisfying and despite Mookie's rather formulaic explanation of the song structure ("i'm gonna scream a little, there'll be a guitar riff, some ambience, we'll both play keys for a little, then we're gonna bring it all home") they alleviated any fears I may have had that the band might settle into their sound and become dull. They closed with a song off the upcoming album, which I always view as a risky move. However, for a song largely unknown by the audience the energy remained high. It turned out to be the perfect closer and possibly my favorite performance of the evening.

All in all it was definitely worth the $10 cover and I left slightly in awe of the trio's presence and seriously fucking pumped for their next album.

Since the Tron played second, I bounced out early and so can't really tell you anything about Total Fucking Destruction or Pig Destroyer's sets but it probably sounded alot like this: "CHUGG-CHUGG-GRAWR-MOTHRFUCKING-GRAAAAWWWR-METTTAAALLLLL". So, whatever.

The Animal

by Lucy Pagerey-Grey

In a dream
I saw myself
Clutching the tail
Of my own life –
I saw how far
The Animal extends:
The whole time
I walk here
Is the single bounce
Of a single bone
Stuck like a button
To the tail of
Some furious monstrous thing
I am hardly worthy to name.

Three Thirty Three

by Lucy Pagerey-Grey

It is enough to see and not to wish.
Because the wish is still there –
It will always be there,
Like the numbers that are nowhere
And yet so easily grasped –
Desire is there giving
Birth to each minute.
And though in the lucky glance
Your watch may offer coincidence cubed,
Want is in them all,
And the wish never stops.

The Day Before Thursday

by Lucy Pagerey-Grey

it’s funny, really,
to look at the mountains…
to just think about
looking at mountains
when you are inside a building
sitting next to a calendar
with a watch on your wrist…
to remind yourself that
tomorrow is thursday,
perhaps the thousandth thursday
you’ve been around here
looking at mountains
and buildings and calendars,
thinking about them, and
thinking about yourself
thinking about them.

Faile NYC Solo Show 06.09.07

by Peter Aleksa

As I first enter the warehouse on Chrystie St, announced by a large yellow 'Faile' Banner hanging above the entrance, I'm greeted by a metal statue of an orally fixated boy with a look in his eyes that I can't quite discern, something between nervousness and sadism. This opening theme, representative of an emotionally neglected yet over-protected society, stares you in the face as you enter, and returns a number of times throughout the exhibition. There are a number of common themes and images splattered throughout the show: images of Mao Zedong, images of women in danger, desperately needing to be protected by a strong hero of a man, and alternately women with a sense of power, holding a gun, or simply holding out. But it is this first theme of menacing vulnerability that everything else seems to run a connective thread through the works.

The expansive warehouse is an appropriate setting for Faile's work and a number of the artists' consorts mill about the entrance, while a deejay (i use this term loosely) runs through an eclectic playlist, lest you thirst for some aural stimulation.

The works--displayed on canvas and on a collection of stacked boxes--are intricately layered works combining elements of wheatpasting, stencil, and comic art. All these techniques converge to form a juxtaposition of words, speech bubbles, ads, and assorted images of pulp heroines, cultural icons such as Mohammad Ali and Chairman Mao, and distorted surf imagery of dashing young men on surfboards wearing horse heads atop bodies you would expect to see topped with beaming, all-american features and a perfectly coiffed do. Images and themes extend across panels and seem to continue into spaces beyond the canvas--blurring the line between the works on display and the broader canvas on which the collective is used to working.

The Always Open Mouth

by Peter Aleksa

Since their 2003 debut Odd How People Shake, Fear Before the March of Flames has fast become one of the most respected and innovative bands in today’s hardcore scene. And with their highly anticipated third album, The Always Open Mouth, released September 19^th on Equal Vision Records, the band is poised to make some serious waves.

Fear Before the March of Flames has really created something unique with The Always Open Mouth, a dense sonic landscape full of haunting piano melodies, anguished screams, singsong vocals, spoken word samples, breakdowns, and ambient noisecore. The band has really broadened their sound on this album, layering a myriad of synthesizer parts, delayed guitars, and multiple vocals to create a dense, rich sound. And unlike some hardcore bands who just hold a few keyboard chords with the default settings on a Korg, the use of keyboards and piano is done astoundingly well on this album, blending perfectly with the host of effect laden guitar parts and driving bass lines, as the whole mixed media collage of sound is punctured perfectly by Brandon’s stabbing drumbeats.

As the band shifts genres at ADD speed, they seamlessly combine elements of a host of diverse musical styles to form something that sounds like many different bands, but like nothing else at the same time. Songs like the crushingly heavy “Drowning the Old Hag” and “A Gift For Fiction” offer a new take on the breakdown-driven sound Fear demonstrated on their last album, Art Damage. While sections of music like the electronic techno babble and catchy hooks of “My (Fucking) Deer Hunter,” which features guest vocals from Anthony Green of Circa Survive, and the odd timed grind and stoned out heavy metal of “A Brief Tutorial in Bachanalia,” similarly give an altogether familiar feel to the album. And yet, paradoxically, it is somehow unsettlingly different, like the way that people and places in dreams become distorted.

Lyrically, the album is a haunting tale, like stepping through the looking glass into a discomforting vision of a future gone terribly wrong. A nightmarish take on who we’ve become and who we are on track to become, the album abounds with themes of repression, apathy, greed, rampant materialism, drug abuse, and the disintegration of the modern family. On “Mouth,” the lyrics anguish about the lack of discourse in modern society, “Anything to numb/ anything to encourage ignorance/ anything to put us to sleep,” and later rant about our coddled existence and generational apathy, “Someone/ anyone/ take off your shirt/ and pacify/ make it easy for us to eat/ easy for us to sleep/ someone/ anyone/ take us out back/ and put us down/ I think we deserve it.”

There is also an excellent usage of unnatural imagery to unnerve the listener, such as in “Dog Sized Bird,” “Have you seen me lately/ I am the dog sized bird on the tracks/ I have an unhealthy handful of options/ and a couple of trains on my back.” The chillingly apocalyptic predictions in “Taking Cassandra to the End of the World Party” further the unsettling tone of the album, “At six miles up you will explode/ I can see it all/ at sea level you will be drowned/ I have seen it all/ beneath the surface the monster will have you/ I can see it all/ but God damned no one will believe me.” Such lyrics echo the dilemma of Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, questioning whether, in a world predicated on certain illusions, being the only person able to see the truth would make you appear insane.

Some of the most insightful lyrics on the album can be found in the track “High As A Horse,” which examines our modern drone like existence, as we dull our senses with pharmaceutical dependencies and mindless television. Commenting on the systematic fleecing of the american public, Adam and Dave sing, “If we give the horses blinders/ they won’t see the approaching ledge/ too much time and effort spent on just another bridge.” And by accusing, “We trust the local doctor/ we trust the medicine/ our child gets a scratch/ we give our child a brand new head/ we eat what’s on our plate/ we drink what’s in our cup/ we like the shiny TV screen/ it spits/ we lap it up... There’s no need to talk/ when we have medicine/ there’s a pill for every fucked up thought/ and a cure for every fucked up child,” they capture perfectly our reliance on modern comforts to supplement unfulfilled existential desires as well as the epidemic of overmedicating American youth.

The high point of the album by far, though, has to be the brilliant two-song tandem of “Complete and Utter Confusion” and “...As A Result Of Signals Being Crossed.” Here, the band’s new blend of ambience and brutality is at its most stunning. In “Complete and Utter Confusion” vocals sweetly soar over a mix of piano, clean guitar, and electronic blips, “There’s a man from the afterlife/ at the door trying to sell us hope,” before brutal screams coming crashing down on the listener with, “Lock the doors/ and close the windows.” The song continues to alternate between sugary, dancey atmospheres and heavy rock, before finally fading out in a sea of feedback. Which, is where the companion track “...As A Result Of Signals Crossed” picks up, continuing the religious and salesman motifs of the previous track, as well as the masterful shift between beautiful instrumental arrangements and calculated brutality.

Throughout the album, the band makes use of repeated imagery and lyrics, such as, “What you see/ and what you believe/ are never going to be the same,” appearing in both “Drowning the Old Hag” and “...As a Result of Signals Being Crossed,” that help tie the album together into one big fucked up portrait. This is furthered by the continuity between the opening track “Absolute Future” and the closing track “Absolute Past,” with their repeated refrains of “Everything will not be made right.” The album artwork, designed by drummer Brandon Proff, features unsettling mashups of portraits of individuals, cityscapes, and productivity charts that embody the thematic elements of modern life encroaching on humanity that is representative of the overall tone of the album.

Pick up The Always Open Mouth now, it’s one of the most unique and rewarding albums in recent memory, and probably the only album you’ll find worth listening to in quite some time.