Svastara

[Takeshi]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ylivVQ94-Rw

[holden kolfild]

mozda sam kacio ovaj suludi nastup, j&j kod pete seegera. meni je zabavno, cash u elementu tih godina, june koja ima 101 odgovor na 102. anegdote koje ova budala prica. ili izmislja, stagod. kao da je bitno. uvek su bile kompilacije snimaka (i sve su dojajne) u kojiima postoje sekvence iz emisije, ali nikad cela.

 

trio fantastiko, samo za vas:

 

[Indy]

Mega-giga-super-huper... uživajte

 

All 139 the Clash Songs, Ranked From Worst to Best

[Nikola Kiric]

kao i obicno kod slicnih lista ne mogu da se slozim. Protex Blue na 105-om mestu umesto na prvom?!?!

[bad music for bad people]

a guns of brixton ispod onog govneta od pesme koju je bregović tito pokrao

[beyoncé]

 dosta uvrnuto

 

In 1968, three sisters from Fremont, New Hampshire strapped on their instruments and declared themselves The Shaggs. At that moment begun a peculiar tale that would last far beyond the group’s five-year run. Dot, Betty and Helen (and occasionally Rachel, the fourth sister) played in the group on the insistence of their father, Austin Wiggin Jr., who was convinced they were going to be big. The band's only studio album, Philosophy of the World, was released in 1969. The album failed to garner attention, though the band continued to exist as a locally popular live act. The Shaggs disbanded in 1975 after the death of Austin.

 

The conceptual beginning of The Shaggs came from Austin Wiggin's mother who, when her son was young, had predicted during a palmreading that he would marry a strawberry blonde woman, that he would have two sons after she had died, and that his daughters would form a popular music group. The first two predictions proved accurate, so Austin set about making the third come true as well. Austin withdrew his daughters from school, bought them instruments, and arranged for them to receive music and vocal lessons. The Wiggin sisters themselves never planned to become a music group, but as Dot later said, "[Austin] was something of a disciplinarian. He was stubborn and he could be temperamental. He directed. We obeyed. Or did our best. Soon after The Shaggs would enter Fleetwood Recording studios in Revere, Massachusetts to record their sole album, Philosophy Of The World, a collection of garage rock tunes that balanced charm and discordance in equal measure. Austin would spend most of his savings not only on the session but also on the manufacturing costs to press up 1,000 copies of the album (900 of which mysteriously vanished upon completion).

 

Throughout the album’s simple truths are revealed through the pen of sister Dot, the songwriter of the band. The rich people want what the poor people got, just as the poor people want what the rich people got. Your parents love you. There is happiness in nearness and sadness in the farness.

 

The album failed to fulfill Austin’s expectations of rock stardom, though the group remained together until their father’s death, performing frequently at the Fremont town hall and a local nursing home, no further albums were released. That might have been the end of it, until rock band NRBQ discovered a copy at a Massachusetts radio station and re-released it in 1980. Rolling Stone’s reviewer at the time described it as “the most stunningly awful wonderful record I’ve heard in ages”. Nearly 50 years later, the album ranks among the most polarizing LPs of all time. Some said it was the worst thing ever made. The band was described in one Rolling Stone article as "sounding like lobotomized Trapp Family singers." Others felt it was one of the great long players of the 20th century. Terry Adams of NRBQ compared the group's melodic lines and structures to the free jazz compositions of Ornette Coleman. Frank Zappa famously dubbed the band “better than The Beatles”, while Kurt Cobain placed the album at #5 on his list of Top 50 favorite albums. Original copies of the album fetch for $10,000. Decades later and one could argue that maybe Austin was right all along. We’re all here, still enthralled by the purity of The Shaggs.

 

 

štreberski sam odslušala ceo album i uši mi krvare

ko plankton kada je morao da sluša lignjoslavovu muziku u jednoj od boljih epizoda sunđer boba (sviraću ti, moj mali kiklope!)

potpuno odsustvo sluha bubnjarke je posebno dirljivo

nekakvo olakšanje mi pruža saznanje da ova sumanuta priča ima relativno srećan kraj

 

[beyoncé]

King Krule just dropped a new fashion line

 

kakav pompezan naslov za nešto malo dizajniranog merch-a

 

http://www.dazeddigital.com/fashion/article/38005/1/king-krule-just-dropped-a-new-fashion-line-babylon-los-angeles-pop-up

[Sludge Factory]

JIMMY PAGE AND THE YARDBIRDS COVER THE VELVET UNDERGROUND IN 1968

 

In honor of what would have been Lou Reed’s 75th birthday, here’s the Yardbirds covering the Velvet Underground in 1968.

 

You may recall that Michelangelo Antonioni considered the Velvet Underground for the club scene in Blow-Up before choosing the Yardbirds, but the connection between the two bands does not end there. As I learn from Richie Unterberger, the Yardbirds’ last lineup—the one with Jimmy Page on lead guitar—had “I’m Waiting for the Man” in its repertoire. A recording survives from the May 31, 1968 gig at the Shrine Exposition Hall in Los Angeles, one of the Yardbirds’ final shows. 

 

 

“I’m Waiting for the Man” was a forward-looking selection in May ‘68. John Cale was still in the VU; White Light/White Heat had been out for a few months, The Velvet Underground & Nico about a year. Yardbird Chris Dreja, who remembers “hanging out with Andy Warhol at The Factory” on the Yardbirds’ first US tour, suggests the cover was Page’s idea. As a session musician and arranger, Page had worked on Nico’s 1965 debut single “I’m Not Sayin’,” whose B-side, “The Last Mile,” he co-wrote with Andrew Loog Oldham. The following year, as Unterberger points out, the Yardbirds and the VU both played at Detroit’s Carnaby Street Fun Festival. 

 

Alas, as much of a head start as these interactions might have given the Yardbirds, it was not enough to scoop David Bowie, who recorded his own version of “I’m Waiting for the Man” with the Riot Squad in April ‘67, and was playing the song live in England even before it was released on The Velvet Underground & Nico. (His manager, Kenneth Pitt, brought him an acetate from the Factory in late ‘66.) But a fucking hip move for the Yardbirds nonetheless.

 

Caveat spectator: the footage below is in fact a clip of the Yardbirds live on Music Hall de France in ‘66 overlaid with sound from a bootleg of the Shrine show. This was not filmed at the Shrine; note the bass in Jimmy Page’s hands, and how nothing on the screen corresponds to the sounds you are hearing, just like life in 2017. Find all of the soixante-huitard Shrine audience tape and “Smokestack Lightning” here.

 

http://youtu.be/BLNSMtpfTx4

 

[Takeshi]

 

Quote

The legendary singer-songwriter has, after years of development, unleashed the Neil Young Archives, a sprawling website and streaming platform featuring everything Young has recorded as a soloist and bandleader, as well as with Buffalo Springfield and Crosby Stills Nash and Young, and listings regarding Young-related films and books.

http://www.neilyoungarchives.com

[Frank Pembleton]

On 2.12.2017. at 6:50 PM, Takeshi said:

 

http://www.neilyoungarchives.com

Video vest pre 2-3 nedelje....

[Fakundo Sava]

A od Kuma arhiva 

[Lancia]

Lepo stivo uz jutarnju kaficu:

In 1999, the artist, actor, and composer John Lurie invented a personality: Marvin Pontiac, the musically gifted son of a man from West Africa and a Jewish woman from New Rochelle, New York. Pontiac’s biography, as Lurie imagined it, was a wry and purposeful sendup of the ways in which critics canonize and worship the disenfranchised and the bedevilled. In Lurie’s mythologizing, Pontiac, who was born in Mali in 1932, was abandoned by his father. His mother was institutionalized in 1936. He eventually ended up in Chicago, where he studied blues harmonica: “At the age of 17, Marvin was accused by the great Little Walter of copying his harmonica style. This accusation led to a fistfight outside of a small club on Maxwell Street. Losing a fight to the much smaller Little Walter was so humiliating to the young Marvin that he left Chicago and moved to Lubbock, Texas where he became a plumber’s assistant.”

Later, Pontiac went nuts; he believed that he had been abducted and probed by aliens. He was hit and killed by a bus, in Detroit, in 1977. Because Pontiac “held the tribal belief” that cameras suck the soul from the body, there are only two extant pictures of him—both candid, both impossibly blurry. His recordings were discovered and released posthumously, though it was also true that Pontiac’s music was “the only music that Jackson Pollock would ever listen to while he painted.”

In corralling all of our preposterous critical fetishes into a single, nonsensical narrative, Lurie is, of course, writing a kind of meta-commentary on the ways in which we assess and value so-called outsider art—that Pontiac’s characteristics (all of which point, in one way or another, to misshapen yet pervasive ideas of authenticity) are so precise and absurd is also what makes them funny. Working-class, mixed-race, mentally ill, dead and heretofore undiscovered: eat it up, suckers!

Lurie is preceded in this experiment by John Fahey, the finger-style guitarist and collector of 78-r.p.m. records, who, in 1959, invented a figure named Blind Joe Death. The name was a nod to the real-life bluesmen (Blind Lemon Jefferson, Blind Blake, Blind Willie Johnson, Blind Boy Fuller) whose records Fahey hunted down and cherished. But Blind Joe Death’s backstory (he played a guitar fashioned from a baby’s coffin) was a gag at the expense of revivalists, who were so pie-eyed at the idea of discovering some gloomy and tenebrous new artist from some previously unreachable rural pocket that they bought in without asking questions.

“The Legendary Marvin Pontiac: Greatest Hits,” which Lurie wrote and recorded with Marc Ribot, John Medeski, Billy Martin, G. Calvin Weston, and Tony Scherr, was released in 2000, by Strange and Beautiful Music. Even its cover—which features one of the two obscured photographs—feels like a lampooning of the many reissue labels dedicated to hunting down lost talent, and then repackaging and recontextualizing the work, trading on the idea that, in our era of abundance, obscurity is its own currency.

Lurie has always been a playful and adroit satirist, and a deft comic. His series “Fishing with John,” which aired on IFC in 1991, is a reimagination (and a spiritual dismantling) of shows like “Bill Dance Outdoors” or “Fishing with Roland Martin,” which featured a jocular man in a boat, trying desperately to catch fish. On “Fishing with John,” Lurie invites a famous friend—Jim Jarmusch, Matt Dillon, Tom Waits, Willem Dafoe, Dennis Hopper—to join him on a fishing excursion, though he appears to know very little about the particulars of the sport. His companion inevitably becomes agitated. (He takes Jarmusch to Montauk, where they try to shoot a shark by dangling a chunk of cheese over the surface of the water; he invites Matt Dillon to Costa Rica, where they perform a fish dance.)

…seventeen years after Marvin Pontiac’s début, a new record, “The Asylum Tapes,” unexpectedly arrived on various streaming platforms. The conceit is that Pontiac made these songs on an anonymously donated four-track recorder, while locked up at the fictional Esmerelda State Mental Institution. (“I want to get out of here,” he repeats on “I Want to Get Out of Here.”) Lurie has been tweeting blurbs of support for the work from Albert Einstein (“Great spirits, like Marvin Pontiac, have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds”), Aristotle (“Knowing Marvin Pontiac is the beginning of all wisdom”), and Charles Dickens (“It isn’t the best of times, but this is an amazing record”).

“The Asylum Tapes” is, in its own way, an album about solitude and insanity—which form the twin pillars of a truly artistic life (or so we are taught to believe). There’s a complicated element of semi-autobiography to all this, too, insomuch as Lurie left New York City—where he was a darling of the downtown art scene in the nineteen-eighties and nineties—in 2008, after he and the artist John Perry became entangled in a vehement disagreement, and Lurie believed that Perry threatened his life. Lurie, who was also suffering from a mysterious, debilitating ailment (he has since said it was advanced Lyme disease), went into hiding. The entire debacle was chronicled for this magazine, by Tad Friend, in 2010. (Perhaps in response, Lurie recently tweeted a clip from the 1973 film “Papillon,” about a wrongly accused French convict, at The New Yorker’s account: “Hey, you bastards! I’m still here!” Papillon hollers that line from atop a bag of coconuts that he’s fashioned into a makeshift raft and used to escape from prison.)

 

[kurdi]

sjajna vest da se oglasio john bilo kako, ali kako ti se cini album?

ja sam jednom na brzinu preslusao, i rekao bih da nema tu bas neke muzike.

[Lancia]

7 minutes ago, kurdi said:

sjajna vest da se oglasio john bilo kako, ali kako ti se cini album?

ja sam jednom na brzinu preslusao, i rekao bih da nema tu bas neke muzike.

Vise kao mozaik isecaka iz novina i glasnog razmisljanja, ali to je najmanje bitno:)

[Ras]

Hvala na skretanju pažnje, ali umeo je Lurie to mnogo bolje.