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  • 3 weeks later...

ćerka king khana je snimila album a prva dostupna pesma je skroz girly sugar spice and everything nice fazon :wub:



The album's liner notes were written by Jared Swilley of Black Lips:
It's not often you make a lifelong connection. Saba Lou was just four years old when we met. I didn't make much money back then, and neither did her father, whom we dubbed "Budget Dad" because of how he used to make Saba Lou and her younger sister, Bella, toys from cardboard. For her fifth birthday, we all chipped in to build a cardboard castle, complete with picturesque windows filled with plastic flowers and glued-on Indian gods inside. Saba Lou loved it so much she probably still thinks it rivals the most extravagant of Bohemia's Black Forest! 
So many memories -- selling cupcakes at her elementary school, not knowing a word of Turkish or German other other than "hello" and "thank you", watching her play violin on our Defenders record, crying our eyes out at a Dolly Parton concert...
I couldn't be more proud of the amazingly talented young woman she's become. Saba Lou did it on her own, which makes me even prouder. Her debut album is the best damn thing in the world -- except for the album she's about to make. As her uncle Jack Hines says, "There are signs in this desert of what we once were. Every glimpse of the wonder of youth is a fresh breeze in our souls. Every promise of love not yet fully realized spurs our hearts on. Every delicious daydream makes waiting for the bus a communion with eternity."



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  • 2 weeks later...




In the film, Josh shows a package you sent him to encourage him to work on music. It has pages of these incredible details about your Berlin years with Bowie. I know you did an autobiography in '82, but have you thought about updating it for something new?


I'll never do that. I said enough in the one I did. I'm not enough of a shit to do one for the money. I'm not clever enough to edit myself and I'm not shitty enough to tell everything. Because most of my life belongs to other people anyway, and who am I to talk? I got a lot out of doing it once, really, really early. It's sort of way there in the distant background, kind of a strange-ass reference work. And that's fine. I'd rather just leave it that way. I could sing about that stuff. Sometimes I think about turning it into fiction. But many novelists are alcoholics, so that's a problem. Writing is a lot of pressure in general.




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  • 2 weeks later...

"Quine was an obsessive record collector with an encyclopedic knowledge of rock, blues, and jazz. He once made me a cassette of rare Ike Turner tracks from the ’50s. On it, Turner, playing a (newly invented) Stratocaster Tremolo bar guitar, takes this insane solo, completely noise/punk. Robert copied the solo three times on my cassette just in case I missed it. This is almost all you need to know about rock history: it has never belonged to the people who play it right.
It may seem odd to punk-identified fans that Quine, who never played a single jazz lick, practiced hours a day along with be-bop records. (What I wouldn’t give to hear what Quine, alone in his studio, actually did play over his Johnny Smith records.) It seems less odd to musicians that Quine could trace a line through Blind Willie Johnson, Lester Young, Albert Ayler, Ike Turner, the Velvet Underground, and extend it into what became “punk.”
In his June 21 New York Magazine eulogy “Delicate Rage,” Richard Hell described Quine’s own solos as “perfectly structured but outrageously wild expositions,” and writes that Quine was a “connoisseur of moronic rapture.” What ties the contradictory sides of Hell’s description together is the idea of critique: pushing self-expression to the breaking point of noise/wildness problematizes it. Pushing formalist constraint to the point of the moronic/autistic problematizes it. (Check out Quine’s and Fred Maher’s “Basics,” in which the rhythm section’s “basic tracks,” normally completed by the addition/overdubbing of the featured vocalist and soloists, are instead presented as a minimalist finished masterpiece.)
Quine and I got along because we never talked about stuff like this. We mostly talked about guitar equipment. He once insisted I accompany him to 48th Street to try out the “Buzz Box,” a particularly horrible distortion pedal. The box’s black metal covering was painted in drips of yellow paint to simulate strands of vomit. I bought it instantly, and it was a point of pride with Robert, after the store discontinued selling the Buzz Box, that the store had sold only three of them, to him, to me, and to another customer who had sent it back assuming it to be defective.
But guitar equipment, for those who love it, is a language. The line Quine traced through history, the qualities he looked for in used guitars and fuzz boxes, were those with the force of being to cut a wound in the numb skin of pop.
A month before he died, Quine gave me a CD of Lester Young’s last sessions. Young, nearly dead from alcoholism, could hardly get the notes out, while the muscular rhythm section behind him didn’t cut him an inch of slack. The disconnect was almost total: and still, Lester won, he cut them all—his soul bleeding through that cold machine. Moments Quine lived for, while he could..."

—Marc Ribot

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  • 1 month later...

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