We have been asked if the caravel has a different set of sails out in these hearts, as a number of other shipping crews still operate on older systems of antique brass as well as methods involving several trips to the workboots store. It's by no means the same trawler, but there are still conversations with brethren (whom have descended from the trees to the plains) on how to each their own and their loans tithed to new brinkmanship have in fact garnered stares into unexpected voids, and unknowable yards of felt & fat. Identifying with one's place and time is and has always had its hazards; the hearts pump a bit more purple while on this geographical metric.
Meanwhile, the earnest amongst ye can tap this pic for a trip to yonder dims!
What news to share. It might be inferred that we're in a state of triangulation. You see, the winds act differently, setting behaviors off into tangents that are remarkably different for us from our primal zones and alma maters. It's a little more palpable, hopefully not pallid, although our east coast brethren would insinuate something sinister hereparts, as there it is autumn, and with that all the creakiness off ill winds and the china cabinet making hollers in the death knell of imminent something something. Seasonal confounding aside, the posture in this place has its twofold mystery and strip mall. We have ceased performing borings as it's near constant surveillance in this vast basin of human interactivity; the viaduct of tourist brochure helmet-production doesn't disguise our age so much either. Keeping us afloat in the binge of ash and automobile emission is a hovering layer of whirl, a particulate noise which sates the whetting whistle with a two thousand nine reckoning. Absurd as it seems, the prescient poetry from that time is serving as causality in this present state and so, we are rolling with the punch, abutting with a glint of jacaranda leaf and alligator-clipped mettle.
This transpired, despite retiring in a respite of perspiration, clueing into a moment of desperate separation between inspired yet tired tirades cumulating into parades, charades, and personal inflation.
This fine pair of rescanning duets is on deck! We did a little something back along with our pal, Spreaders - if ye scroll down, it's the pic of us in full regalia, unscrolling a little knowledge from our bicorneous cabeza. Long story short, it's available in its proper VHS format. Click on the pic for details.
Nevertheless, we beseech thee:
O bile-ridden and contempt-forming means of conveyance, to whom doth thee desire to engage? The following plug-in reveals our latest lapse into narcolepsy. Trust me, at this point in the career it's way more than a habit.
Dig it. Got another one for your tongue. A recent trek with the fam' made sneaking out with recorders a tad conspicuous so we did what we could, resigning to the obvious, which usually meant ignoring the fact that we'd be obliviously standing there whilst tangled in cables, contact mics, and wielding heavy audio recorders whenever the opportunity made itself randy. Still, it bears a kilt inspection. Enjoy.
There was an inner disagreement in using too much echo or bleepy stuff in the conduits. Many heaps had tried to filter this stuff while assuming that in doing so, their ill-foundedly despicable telephone operators would sit there twiddling their idles, all-too happy to assume the role of layabout, on hold, waiting for the next interrogative to be stated, internal umbrage applied with cavernous reverb and space soundtracks in the wiring. Several piles attempted to refine this aforementioned bulk in the insistent mindset which implied privilege to bluntly allow courteous and yet make-believe telecom employees to linger at their beckon, plenty such and contentedly simpleton, to remain obedient as one would impart onto a bovine pastoral species, and merely while the hours away, in a stasis of sorts, inching the minutes hand closer to an inquiry to have its claims laid in stone, inner-leaning agitation inserted into canyon-wide sonic wallops, bearing countless gapes, in queue for all time, never folding, and all the while wondering which topic would come up next.
We got another one! It's kinda funny, our fascination with the silly "connection is not private" image has been on preoccupation mode for the past couple of weeks; and so it anoints our podcast. The tracks below (the before & after audio / Soundcloud pieces) are also featured within, as well as a bunch of goo culled from a recent visit back east... bobolinks, water sloshes, and other strange bedfellows. Enjoy!
It's summer. There's been a sleepy folder clod in the matrix, regaling itself in tines and hues which, to our knowledge (or Tom), smelled of damp cardboard, memories cherished by the last day of one's childhood mammalian ween, and treasure chips, oh those two binaries, winking on and off modes to less garish beats but nevertheless as-boring-as leaving one's orgy in the field to let ticks and other pincers become advanced diets in lieu of thinking about where one dropped their latest deuce on, or more aptly, in, bellowing plume formats, rinks laid bare for mudskippers, frown crowds, or those tenacious thief teethings, and aware of their heir to the brand scamp.
Currently looping our wiles amongst the relative kinetics in keeping with the blood lines. As such, our forays, albeit personal, are still fostering hopeful inertia and glare-worthy fuzzy tv stations left to keep the childmind occupied with its own peer group exasperations and none-too-mild soothsprays. Click the wink to seek out these recent rolls!
A new sense of oracular tremulousness! Falt Records just released our schlupst anthem, "Fyjk/Furd", on cassette. One can find it at their web presence by repeatedly clicking here. Alternatively, one can repeatedly click on this video.
My glaring eyed friends, have a gander at this advertisement. While we may occasionally smirk and sneer at a world inundated in variations of similar buckets of pleas, it is in our hearts to letchoo in on the glance, to understand that, even the most underground geode inhabitants require teensy iotas... think about it, what ye spend on craft brews in a week, or coffee hither & thither, or other tropes manifest in these dates of post-something something consumption. Meh? Yup. Exactly. I needn't rub it in.
A rebuttal to the toxin reports we receive and perceive daily. A rewrite to the poison relays all of us interpret and comprehend regularly. A response to the pain-inducing news-feeding-troughs these folks communally and synonymously gather in a togetherness form of mind & body association and with alarming frequency. A revision to the ouch-masochist fervor fattening pens this general relatable populace simultaneously hoards as a mutual corporeal tendency.
An adaption of a reunion with recycling older (rewinds) emerged from the welt-reddened (re-doings); rightly so, and even better, the Bad Day Box now twists! No guessing what comes next unless one bravely forges pathways with a mere click of the thimble.
There's a lust for the smooch of double takes. Unfortunately, waiting for the clicks to transpire is not exactly the most expedient pathway in order to beat the band. Personally, one can unearth these releases via its binaries (these are veins or corpuscles containing fluids which, to our knowledge, are formulated primarily with the arcane understanding that, by genetically modifying lactic aid, urine, and the swill drunk readily at the troughs which line the aisles of the US Senate, one can attain a higher plane, something not dissimilar to the torpor induced by faking whiffing motions when the glass table is laid out with tidy rows of talc). Nevertheless, to date, these were discovered in the form Kool cigarette ads found throughout old issues of Bitter Ohms & Garbage. Nowadays, it's pretty much assumed that crapitalism is under siege (I know, right), and so, daring to lasso the foam released by large quantities of aforementioned inappropriate liquids (and gels) being sneakily carried onto the airplane, the entitlements of barrier, ferrier, comporting one's own derriere (with a grace so cottony slothed), said bubbles tied gently with floss bind both of us (you and me, not the senators' delightful childish renderings of picket fences, but images of kicking their buttocks repeatedly with hooves), meaning, triangle-shaped signage directing the gaze towards radical rabbit chutes; escape patterns of a sort, two way mirrors revealed in all likelihood as sedges (hold onto that thought for a second or two), something not only leaning towards an A or B answering service (conducted by those late 70's graphic designers) (and having huffed the flour enough times to create yeast nodules in the chest pocket of our mutual v-neck), but a tucker into nether reaches whose only endgame was that followed by a two-lip impression.
Unimpressed, we puckered up by means of self-inducing the following clarinet breaking ceremony:
On par with cursive aspersions, have a taken dwell on this rind fistula: once thither, you'll find that occasionally we will be widening said repository of half-wipes and handy wits by adding beacons of nonesuch blather for sole transportive means of pursed lip perversion. As scene on the TP, these momentary fluctuants may change, wrangle, and smear genes like a horseshoe fly in amber, so rake thine hair and travel loosely on over. Guano!
Furthering that particular manifest chestimony, this resulted in concurring acrid stanzas, the kind seen on the television back when two shits were leavened in a sour low heat rise; but most of us were toweled with a. moist. lot., this sedge twine which rubbed heavy misses in a minus ocean seeing spout, lurid uninspired but with a twitch un-still, an insipid inscisor gnawing not on the only less hake chimerical hate rogaine (caps, usually maroon) (in flavor), butt-width hence, a t-plus flooring or lathe cut ship lapsing oolong trial (sign us up!). Click it ________ here or licht lightbulbs _________ thither (ps: even if you cannot.)
Our pals at the Alien Buddha Press have given the green light on this unflappable critter, which is to say, yes, friends, behold (the end must be near) : the aforementioned collaboration with Marcel is now available, all 84 pages of it, and it even has a title, "I woke up unflappably counterfeited". Said collection can be unearthed in two formulaic channels: by simply dashing off a cheerful (or at least interesting, er, encouraging (?)) email to me, or, pursuing portals unmentionable, ie., thee amazons. Nevertheless, we've done the hard part so all ye have to do is click the link-encoded-picture below.
Ahh, the grin of new limbs and sensorial deviousnesses. We've been tinkering away on a number of varied audio components and gigglery for the better part of this spring, usually late Sunday evenings (if you want the specifics). The following promethean ghouls now avail themselves at our shop hosted by the Etsy corporation. Sneaky peaks can find precursors below (we'll feature vignettes with fewer dancing pixels in the near future).
Well, well, and further wellsprings.
Whether or not the matter is of concern, well (?), we've engaged a little button called the SSL Certificate for this website. For those not in the know (which until recent times included us), the SSL thingie-doo is an extra wedge of security. While browsing websites and whatnot, that HTTPS heading (located at the beginning of a domain name) indicates which pages are safe; it also helps yer digits navigate cookies, bungie-jumpers, implementing per-usual avoidance practices which deter nefarious tracking biscuits. In a nutshell, it was kind of an eye-opener (not the Clockwork Orange kind, but also not-too-dissimilar), as to how many awful bastions of crumb tracers existed herein. So, we're doing what we can to eliminate. Rest assured, our intentions here in the sedimentary layers of programming and code problematization care not one wet whistle about your viewing habits or selling yer spores to the fascists.
We decided to ramp things up (somewhat) with a new thought dispenser series. It all went down at Wonder Valley Experimental 11, so please click the pic if ye wanna have a look. It was a fine evening (and sizable stage) where the scrolls were free to do their cascading, oft aloft, other times, much akin to a ticker tape machine (with an endemic hiccup aberration). As an addendum, and likewise in service of this thematically-inclined resurgence of duh-conceptualism in our feverish spring fortitude, an instructional video antecedent (ie., right wing angry uncle at the holiday dinner table) is also stuffed in there, wicked soft, sort of like an ogre, but with less "grr" and more "o-god-no-not-him-again".
Speaking of Kleenex-wearing-mossbacks, our latest thirty minute cassette installment, "Allied Ogre Softness" is available for purchase! Simply utilize the dude below with a button press and follow the prompts...
We've had a number of goes at podcasting for over a decade. Not that we had any grand informative belief systems to convey or a burning itch to interview our best friends, the thrill of podcasting was always this idea that one could become one's own radio station, meaning, record-and-play-back-whatever-sounds-happened-to-be-concurrent-with-the-temporary-autonomous-zonal outlook. Back in the Myspace daze, there was a sturgeony rendering of a sort called "Ergonomic Disc Tenderly" out on Podomatic. When that went away, or rather, boredom took over, formats changed, nobody gave a shirtless shirk, the next emergence was a more thoughtful patter going by the title, "Codcast for P". This one had a decent run, spooling out a handsome handful of full length collage fritters on Mixcloud right up until a couple years ago; and at the same time was supplemented by burp-n-fart record-everything-on-your-iPhone thingie-hoo going by the name, "Portable H & Lair", which had its own separate intermittent gasps on Spreaker. But dammit, quick as a furtive wink, passwords go away, formulas once again transform, and worse for the wear, information simply disappears. What's a person to do? Don't look back too poetically; fast forward to the perpetual state of shoulder shrugs and keep on with the deeds. And so dear husophone, gaze thy nodules towards this latest entry into digitizing our schlupst. We hope it hears you well!
Working on a thought dispenser as a means of sidestepping certain digital tendrils. 100% analog, mind you, although not entirely secure from attributes spawn from the corporeal realm, what with all this talk of near-ubiquitous penetrative instances and incursions of a most nefarious hue and cumber, dew droplets, whatnot, sour dispositions, tiny classified mads, certain spoils inferred, ie., topical (implied), whether indicated elsewhere on pages prior, a priori, poster pried, oh and rent.
Currently boiling these tubers into needless hems. That being said, smirks do their curtain calls at some of the cacophony rearing up from the orchestrated pitting. Here's an instructional we'll never actually be able to replicate, at least under any duress.
And this little moot has been finding friends in pitch decay.
Fair sails and mercantilism!
Behold the Mini Mono SP, now available for consumption on our Etsy shop. This contact mic is very much along the similar dance steps of its forebears & rotor-rooters, the Plug SP, Plug Ugly, et al; this time marrying a terminal input of the 3.5 mm variety. Application-wise, the Mini Mono's usefulness speaks truths beyond appearance, hailing from the netherworlds of monophonic cassette recording to neverlandish eurorack noodle-dom & spaghetti wrestling.
Click the pic for a look at this rook.
In keeping with the nonsense, older less-sensical mussels more than unlikely needn't their hay in the pun. By tapping the flaring nostril below, we assure you appearances into a lasting and perhaps forgettable passage of time that showered umlauts on the state of Massachusetts. And please, for a bested interference, use the plug-in friendly Firefox. All sorts of nuisance and myspace coding can worn on that velveteen habit of yours, and ours will grin a salmony.
Good gravy, that previous entry was grumpy. We're seriously not curmudgeony types herein, despite the archaic underpinnings of our namesake and/or otherwise objectionable PR campaigns, self-martyring-deterioration-proclamations, and additional ramblings and inclinations towards a decay that might be construed as negation vs. cheery. Mind you, one isn't in this to be a pollyanna nor that of a pariah, which is entirely another topic, and potentially objectionable pursuit; sort of prurient even, in its self-flagella-ish (and by that we don't mean method of propulsion), er, anyway. Point being, well past the pointed head of entry, beyond the teething and weening of milky entrance exams into this here existence, truth be told, there ain't a load of doings or boohooing's of grandiosity in which to perplex the matrix quotidian. Instead, we're chugging along. Here are a few items of soothing seance, read into that what you will.
YouTube has been given a wee boost. We tried to do it daily, now it's back to the irregular weekly here or there, meek, oblique, and other wides
SoundCloud too! Seems to be a nice way to posit some schema that pocks the E-Z upload manifest
Started working on a book with our pal, Marcel
And other schlupst ruptures happening hither and thither, in no particular order, but sort of a backlog of malfeasance & ribaldry
The last year or several, dwelling in and occasionally fleeing from the myopic lens of hereparts and thereabouts:
Summarized by algorithms, our heads have been have-been's, by in large etched in the splatter of if & when, sequenced by tides unbeknownst, with meals served on the backs of an indefatigable bad breath knell, purging up grubs with mirroring effects, ad agencies, turncoats, and bombastic sixes. We'll take nine more to the hilt, quit for a hot liquid minute, and then cast the rest for our forebears to cycle up another sabbatical neverolution...