Now this is a blog entry - great comments, too.

Obsidian Wings is celebrating National Poetry Month by posting various Classics and Great Works. Today, they give us "Ode on the Mammoth Cheese", which begins:

We have seen the Queen of cheese,
Laying quietly at your ease,
Gently fanned by evening breeze --
Thy fair form no flies dare seize.

It, and the others like it, are all brain-curdlingly good.

I found this 1991 review, by Steve Albini, of Slint's Spiderland record, and thought I'd archive it. Spiderland is one of my favorite records of all time, and Albini is a minor guitar hero of mine - as well as an entertaining writer and critic of the music industry. Anyway, this post is mainly for my own reference, but you can read it if you want.

Since about 1980, America has been host to an ever-increasing parasitic infestation of rock bands of ever-dwindling originality. It seems there is no one left on the continent with an aspiration to [p]lay guitar that hasn't formed a band and released a record. And that record sounds a little bit like Dinosaur Jr.

Trust me on this; all but maybe three of those records are pure bullshit.

My primary association with rock music is that I am a fan of it, though listening to the aforementioned nearly killed that. In its best state, rock music invigorates me, changes my mood, triggers introspection or envelopes me with sheer sound. Spiderland does all those things, simultaneously and in turns, more than any records I can think of in five years.

Spiderland is, unfortunately, Slint's swansong, the band having succumbed to the internal pressures which eventrually punctuate all bands' biographies. It's an amazing record though, and no one still capable of being moved by rock music should miss it. In 10 years it will be a landmark and you'll have to scramble to buy a copy then. Beat the rush.

Slint formed in 1986 as an outlet and pastime for four friends from Louisville, Kentucky. Their music was strange, wholly their own, sparse and tight. What immediately set them apart was their economy and precision. Slint was that rare band willing to play just one or two notes at a time and sometimes nothing at all. Their only other recording, 1989's Tweez hints at their genius, but only a couple of the tracks have anything like the staying power of Spiderland.

Spiderland is a majestic album, sublime and strange, made more brilliant by its simplicity and quiet grace. Songs evolve and expand from simple statements that are inverted and truncated in a manner that seems spontaneous, but is so pricise and emphatic that it must be intuitive or orchestrated or both.

Straining to find a band to compare them with, I can only think of two, and Slint doesn't sound anything like either of them. Structurally and in tone, they recall Television circa Marquee Moon and Crazy Horse, whose simplicity they echo and whose style they most certainly do not.

To whom would Pere Ubu or Chrome have been compared in 1972? Forgive me, I am equally clueless.

Slint's music has always been primarily instrumental, and Spiderland isn't a radical departure, but the few vocals are among the most pungent of any album around. When I first heard Brian McMahan whisper the pathetic words to "Washer", I was embarrased for him. When I listened to the song again, the content eluded me and I was staggered by the sophistication and subtle beauty of the phrasing. The third time, the story made me sad nearly to tears. Genius.

Spiderland is flawless. The dry, unembellished recording is so revealing it sometimes feels like eavesdropping. The crystalline guitar of Brian McMahan and the glassy, fluid guitar of David Pajo seem to hover in space directly past the listener's nose. The incredibly precise-yet-instinctive drumming has the same range and wallop it would in your living room.

Only two other bands have meant as much to me as Slint in the past few years and only one of them, The Jesus Lizard, have made a record this good. We are in a time of midgets: dance music, three varieties of simple-minded hard rock genre crap, soulless-crooning, infantile slogan-studded rap and ball-less balladeering. My instincts tell me the dry spell will continue for a while- possibly until the bands Slint will inspire reach maturity. Until then, play this record and kick yourself if you never got to see them live. In ten years, you'll lie like the cocksucker you are and say you did anyway.

Ten fucking stars.

Sweet !

But why?
says:

"The more daylight we have, the less electricity we use,' said [Rep. Ed Markey], who cited Transportation Department estimates that showed the two-month extension would save the equivalent of 10,000 barrels of oil a day.

10,000 of some things is a lot. Is is a lot of oil ?

The country uses about 20 million barrels of oil a day.

Hmm.

Athenae has something to say about those who cheered the Iraq war, but boo pictures of the war:

From On Messengers and Shooting:

"Freedom isn't free, you say, giving me the impression that whatever other xenophobic homophobic fundie whackjob tendencies you harbored, at least you understood that for your bravado somebody pays a price. I hope you got a receipt, because it sounds like freedom's a little more expensive than you counted on. In fact freedom's so fucking expensive you can't stand to be told what market price is these days.

Freedom isn't free, you miserable chickenshits. You cheer the war, you love the war, you love the troops, you support the troops. But to recognize their sacrifices would diminish your pleasure so you send the images away."

The rest is just as, umm, expressive.

Driving home from work Friday, I get to Rt 55. I need to make a left onto 55 to head south to my little suburb. Where the road I'm on meets it, 55 is on a hill and a curve; and the road I'm on meets 55 at an angle and a hill of its own, so it can be a tough merge - you gotta creep up pretty close to the northbound lane to get a good view of the traffic. So, I do. There are two cars in back of me waiting for their turn - they creep up anxiously.

Everyone else in town is already on 55 south making the same commute I do, the line of cars is going less than 20 mph, and there's a stop light about a half-mile south of me causing backups. So I need to wait for a hole to open up. I see a hole coming my way, maybe 200 yards off. Traffic on 55 N is light (and so, moving much faster than 55 S), but it's looking like it'll be all clear when that hole gets to me. So, I wait.

I've been at the intersection maybe 15 seconds total, when I hear tires squealing, and out of the corner of my right eye I see that the guy in back of me has had enough of my goofing around and is going to make a break for it. He's gonna try to get into this 3/4 car-length hole that's passing us on 55 S. Picture it: he's making a left turn onto a two lane road by going around me on my right, uphill, at an angle to the road. He has essentially no view of the traffic situation. So I see him, and for a half of a second, two thoughts occupy my brain simultaneously: "Wow, what an asshole!" and "But, what about the car ... ?"

Smash. He gets his nose into the road and immediately gets it smacked by a car zipping up 55 N. He stops dead, his front end sprayed all over the road. The car that was going north continues basically north, but now with a little hint of west. It bounces off two cars in the line crawling down 55 S, where it trades in its western momentum for some eastern momentum and ends up in the ditch on the right side. The beautiful paintjob hopelessly marred.

The dumb guy gets out of his car, gives me a look like "whew, that was close", and runs down the road to see if anyone is hurt. I consider ranting at him for being such an asshole driver, when I realize he's responsible for a four car accident - he's gonna get some sharp words from the people whose cars he wrecked, so I hold back my righteous anger and call 911 instead.

Hey bub, have you heard the good news on sphincter bleaching?

Prepare for war:

"...when you start sticking us together, without more targets, it's a recipe for disaster. It is, in fact, a classic definition for war: two or more groups that are socially alienated (and already exhibit slightly hostile tendencies towards one another) that are placed in competition for the same limited resource. Do the math.

We've already started creating spies and moles... monitoring their targets and raid times. A guild has been reduced ... to a single self-defining goal: survival."

This is what happens when a reckless and fickle God decides he doesn't like the way his worlds are providing for him. Consider yourself warned.

After the 9:30am meeting where we discussed The Various Ways In Which I Got It Wrong, I ran back to my cubicle to start my iPod and forgot about everything I should've remembered from the meeting.

First songs of the week:

1. The Lilys - The Tennis System (And Its Stars)
2. Miles Davis - Bitches Brew
3. Nick Lowe - Cruel To Be Kind
4. Flaming Lips - Race For The Prize (2)
5. REM - Carnival of Sorts
6. REM - Cuyahoga
7. Led Zeppelin - Candy Store Rock
8. Yo La Tengo - You Can Have It All
9. Neil Young - Cortez The Killer
10. Pavement - Sepentine Pad

    That tells me: I need to get more music written after 1996.

April is, that is.

So, here are a couple of my all-time favorites:

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.
-- Mushrooms - Sylvia Plath

...and...

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

-- William Carlos Williams