Posts mit dem Label Domenic Maltempi Flash Fiction werden angezeigt. Alle Posts anzeigen
Posts mit dem Label Domenic Maltempi Flash Fiction werden angezeigt. Alle Posts anzeigen

Dienstag, 21. Januar 2014

Go to Japan Young Man, and Make a Killer Record Please!
Thoughts on Dustin Wong’s album: “Mediation of Ecstatic Energy’

Ex-Ponytail & experimental guitar artist: Dustin Wong (photo: Malcolm Wong)

Dustin Wong’s latest release (Thrill Jockey Records) is a rapt conversation between excited participants that may not even know they live on the same planet. Not that these well-paced loops, colorfully exuberant guitar tones, effect pedaled planetoids of musical dust and light, and the rest of the sounds used on his perfectly titled ‘”Mediation of Ecstatic Energy,’ are capable of dialogue, or live in a particular place. These songs do grow around you, and it seems natural. What I mean by natural, is that this growth beneath you, over you…and so forth--- It just happens before you get too head-stuck into over-thinking this is the case. You’re not thinking about this track or that one, you get caught up in the livingness of the sound, and before you know it by thunder!---- you’re deep within the mad amalgamated beating heart of the thing---half way in, and bound by the blue vines gently wrapping around you-- serving as the slipperiest of manacles.
 
Mediation of Ecstatic Energy

This album is the crown jewel, and final installment of a trilogy. I didn’t find enough meaningful connections with the other works to draw grand themes, or what have you, so I’ll just wax euphoric a bit on what may be one of the best and innovative new albums that have come across my ears in a while. 

 As mentioned---songs on ‘Mediation of Ecstatic Energy,’ feel more like a living organism than a product, well executed or otherwise. The songs visit your body and head without filling any paper work, seeping into your body tissue, or entwining into your hair. Hair drug tests after listening to the album might reveal a heavy dosage of Dustin Wongage! Just imagine music showing up as a drug in your hair. Well sir, the test results are in---you don’t have the job, looks like you’ve been playing a bit too much Pharaoh Overlord for your own good, and certainly for ours!  It’s a fun thought. Anyway, the tunes are closing/opening, perhaps like a plant, or some such life-form that allows you to see its opening, and closing, speeding up its typical motion for your pleasure without need of time-lapse technology. 

Time signatures are unafraid to freak-about, joining up with mordant bass stabs that compliment fiery fine points of guitar work, washed in a protective fluid that travels with the roaming nuclei of emotional depth that spreads itself in many moments during the 14 tracks of album. Most of the music is instrumental, with occasional vocal sounds deftly blurring into the weft of these well stitched together tunes. Upon first listen, the  continuity of the various tracks batting into each other’s eyes, puts me in the mind of listening to Roedelius, perhaps capturing, and releasing with quicker fingers, the sparse and full cosmic lull and lift off  a track from Selbstportrait – Vol. II ----the fourth solo album by the German keyboardist put out in 1970’s. Digging a bit into the artist’s interests—sure enough!! I got that ‘yeah…that was it satisfaction’--- reading about how Dustin was very much into that continuously fascinating German experimental electronic music from 70’s—often called ‘Kosmische’ music. I happen to like that sort of music, so I was all the happier to feel the continuity with something that already lifted me up, and made me pay all sorts of notice, which in turn rewarded.

Mediation of Ecstatic Energy starts with ‘The Big She.’ Oh she’s big alright, a plumpy mash of erratic, energetic lines crossing each other, forming a brilliant loop that jumps about as if reacting to an unseen flash of lightning wearing a flattering lightning bra that burns down to earth, a cadre of lunatics jumping into the fray of sound as it builds and whirs, foot-prints climb in the air all white-gold and jaggy-rising, a portent or an illumination stretches the presence the big gal. Emerald Atmosphere (track 2) borrows the shoes of ‘The Big She’ on her way out, and scatters peacefully to a wide open soundscape enriched by a poised and excited belt of aural dust that flutters and absconds, doubling into itself till it finds itself as Track 3—Imaginelectric. This is the end of the first movement of this mediation, or so it seems to me. Imaginelectric pulls in different directions, exhorting one to embrace the tension--- the deep joy of the splitting-togetherness to be culled into something more powerful. There is no doubt that there is an earnest spiritual quest in this album, something perhaps basted by the wet feelings produced in the artist by moving back to the Japan of his youth. But so much pours over so much. 
M of E E employs a steady diet of counterpoint. Melodies wave to each other constantly. These works grab each other’s hands, crossing paths, hitching onto the train or gliders that carry melodies together--- depending if they’re more terrestrial creatures such as a track like Cityscape Floated (don’t let the title fool you.) The track that precedes this----Liberal Christian Youth Ministry (Wong attended such a place as kid) is a head-full of static-fuzzy guitar pushing up along a vertical column. It sounds like a sort of quiet, but powerful worshiping as it begins, and I thought this way before I knew what the title of the track was, listening to album over and over again. An atmosphere thickens and allows deep breathes. I can only hear the deepest of breathing as ‘Out of the Crown Head’ bows into beginning, and begins to sweat. This album truly manages to lend peace to a heart, as it activates a part of one’s musical spirit that might have been left untouched during your fun moments with many other records that shook you, or took you with it, but didn’t hit a particular spot.


Dustin Wong. Photo: Malcolm Wong
Maybe it’s all the wild, sudden swerving, but always in control movement of the album that makes it sound like such a unitary creature.  All those AB switches that the artist makes such artful use of has produced feelings in this listener that has me grabbing for an imaginary ticket deep in my pocket to so many places, but I need not move from where I am for a ride that will accent a sudden heavy but sweetly precise series of changes in direction within me. Dustin mentions one particular thought in an interview that really summed up where he was going with this work: 
“Sounds allow different contradictions to move in harmony.” I so heartily find myself in agreement with this statement. It’s something that makes listening to music, or music itself, so potentially more liberating than many other activities. Listening to music most certainly does not need to be a passive activity, the equivalent of people being fed their surfeit of media pink-slime as they gaze at a little frying screen, or spool around an inane repetitive pre-packaged vapor—sales-pitch in the drag of music or entertainment. Dustin’s above quoted thought really is the ethos within these songs, and the aura of them. Wong’s aura appears as the umbra of a torched orange shade, and serves as the cover for his album. An aura---an interesting idea at the least!

Here is a video for Imaginelectric: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y9vMLgZWH-M




For more on Domenic Maltempi---please visit: http://maltempitown.tumblr.com/

Montag, 16. September 2013

Dom Maltempi's reflections on new Dirty Beach's double album

Dirty Beaches is Alex Zhang Hungtai 

New Double album-----Drifters/Love Is the Devil 




Dirty Beaches - Drifters
Its Cleveland 1978, Life Stinks-- by Pere Ubu--- ricochets from a squalid….. No, it’s 1985. Asylum Party is playing in your head. You’re passed out standing up, leaning on a tottering book-case in Courbevoie, France. The denuded and pointedly emotional sounds festoon around each other sending one into a blurry dream orbit. Or it might as well be 2013 in Berlin. It is! Hello Berlin! Dirty Beaches have released their new double album Drifters/Love is the Devil. The albums were recorded in Montreal, and in Berlin. 

Drifters reaches out to a listener, shows a little raw skin, keeping one’s ear close, head moving about a bit, but not richly swallowed up in what is to come on the second half. There is more movement in the synths, exposed flesh in the cool oscillating pressures that push around a track such as the almost danceable Belgrade. First tune ‘Night Walk,’ is strong, playfully-ribald, crepitating, viscerally metallic, stomping not always so seriously into that half-dark water.

These songs are intensely personal, and share the same conceptual blood. I couldn’t stop their earnest procession once I picked up the album. I got the sensation when I heard them of being led to a quiet screening room, where the sounds were presented visually, strongly inscribing themselves as a unitary creature wandering a unique shifting landscape, at turns painfully enshrouded in minimal murk, and quietly brimming with pulchritude. The artist was/is dealing with the loss of love, and had moved to Berlin. 

 The past be damned, the possible aesthetic or other sorts of antecedents of these conjoined albums drugged, and peacefully dragged by the arms through the mirage halls—--legs calmly twitching, newly shaved. I’ve had little exposure to the music made by Alex Zhang Hungtai. A few Dirty Beaches tunes have hit my ear, and resonated nicely; but I never followed up due to the usually shitty attention fracturing whip-and-wait moments of my day. Perhaps that’s for the better. I’m not drawn to make comparisons to their previous records. I came across this new album haphazardly, washing dishes, and listening to an on-line music stream. A track comes on. 


"I don't know how to find my way back to you," breathes the deep red gelid air of Gesualdo—an Italian Noblemen and madrigalist of the late 16th Century, who murdered his cuckolding wife and lover after he caught them in flagrante delicto late at night when they thought he would be away doing whatever counts did back then. Carlo knew what was up, and he took revenge. 


(If you're curious about the composer Gesualdo check: 

 
Dirty Beaches - Love Is The Devil
The track may not be possessed by the same—at times shockingly chromatic passages, sung with equal voices soaring dissonantly higher into space, and experimentally shaking the firmament sick. It does share a peculiar slow tempo that radiates out a wide flowing agony, heart stung lashing and longing, other-worldly clam and terror---bridging to who knows where else. It is the track that feels like the central bridge between the two albums, a dissonant nexus, a south sinking tunnel with soft hands digging. The songs on “Love is the Devil,” are the ones that stayed with me more, becoming the more infecting and impressive. 


The song Berlin closes Love is the Devil. The hardly dressed song watches itself from a cragged and high-altitude small tight patch. Its air is thin, but noble. It’s best not to shuffle around too much on this precarious but calming perch. Perhaps ones equanimity can be recaptured again, perhaps not. It is night and somewhere north of forlorn in relation to the rest of the latter half of this double album. There is much wandering about, and this spreading floor of wandering is strewn with exilic objects casting long shadows. Berlin blends with crickets well, and falls out of its crestfallen stockings in its 7 minutes and 37 seconds--- while walking an even pace back to who knows what.

http://dirtybeaches.blogspot.de/ 
http://dirtybeaches.bandcamp.com/


Freitag, 11. Januar 2013

Domenic Maltempi flash fiction #1:
Oh Nabby, Oh Daddy - oh NabbyDaddy




Flash fiction describes a literature style that the Chinese call "smoke-long" or "palm-sized" story, meaning the story should be finished before the reader could finish smoking a cigarette. Domenic Maltempi's fiction is funny, disturbing and abstemious while feasting. We´re more than happy that this writer, floating around the outer rings of New York, decided to release his work on this blog. Enjoy!






Oh Nabby, Oh Daddy---oh NabbyDaddy

By:


Q R and z were taking a quilting class together on Manetto Hill. I know because my dad teaches it, has been for forty-two fucking years. Nabby is my sister. I’m my sister. Nabby suggested I be my own sister. Thinks I’m an incurious bastard. I’ve proven her wrong again and again. What does she know? She spends thirteen hours a day watching her computer swallow her up and digest her with aquiline snortitude. Oh Nabby, Skype-Christ Face for all her doting international disciples. She’s some kind of risk management guru. I have no clue. She’s invented things. I’ve invented things. I can’t even talk to her. She makes that boring-guru face that pulls the life from your very fingers, stuffs your head into a coin-purse of arcane brainlessness. Oh daddy loves Nabby!

Dad saying often: I started teaching it before I could get hard-- not it---that was his boast. That was his boast in joke garb. He would check himself if he detected incorrigible prudery in a listener, or if unfamiliarity made such a boast-joke beyond acceptably vulgar. That was his every-other boast. I started teaching quilting before I could get hard---not it. That was it.
 Quilting is like language acquisition, he would often follow up. Past a certain age—it was well-nigh impossible. What horsehola! I mean, not what he repeated about language acquisition, pretty standard idea that--- the comparison!

Constantly quoting some Mauritanian linguistic jock known for balling his academic rival’s wives in conferences around the world, and succeeding, forcing them to say some sort of gibberish which he recorded for his ‘experiments.’ Making up some horse-sunk tripe about an advanced field study he needed a certain mind to participate in, a brilliant soft mind full of so much schooling. One could hear the Mauritanian language jock droning on as he puts a condom over his linguist’s best buddy down there. He made an album of all these women talking this gibberish. No Islands Records put it out. This guy is double-famous. And me? Well, fuck it. Who wants that I guess?

Do I want to be dying, grandchildren getting soda from the hospital soda machine, and my last thoughts are about an album of gulled women moaning and talking gibberish for a fake linguistic experiment? I have dignity.

Some people are mono-boasters. Dad was a two-prong boaster with equal alternation. He boasted under duress only. What a claim! Fuck-off Da’. That’s what Nabby would say amorously, pretending to be British in a way that no Albertan with dual-citizenship did with such disastrous and bizarre aplomb.

“Fuck off-Da,” some equine -chug-chug-manure. Nabby--- and her made up Liverpudlian lilt. ‘Know what I mean.’ That’s another one she puts out there. That was her idea of a quintessential British colloquialism. Know what I mean? She was serious.

What a pathetic accent she blew around, a slaughtered parturition of an accent that never did opened its eyes, nor felt a wet nurse’s warm arms, a mother’s stomach. The hopeless exaggeration of not aspirating her aithches----it was repugnant.  

Father---all your boasting. Your closeness to Nabby causes me disgust. I’ve made this clear. I’m not without humor. I’m not simply angry. I’m having fun relating this to myself, but it’s not all big-sad-laughs and capering foolishness. I’m serious. I know how all this has affected me. I must do something about it. I must remain animated, wild-myself out of the sick-odd maelstrom of my life.

So much disgust I felt for both of you. You left me in an electronics department with a stuttering-stink-ball-salesman for hours. His short sleeved slimy forearms wiping themselves on me. So many announcements were made. You both hid in a nearby stockroom pretending to be air-conditioners. How?

Hours I waited. You still make the noise of a human air-conditioner to summon that day of bestial static-free mirth for you and your father, attempting to ease my anger by focusing on the absurdity of the air-conditioner-as human-- jokes. I suppose I’m trying to pacify my anger here by shaking out this foolishness as Polish women pulverize a family room carpet with a dancing Polish rolling pin, removing every speck of god’s endless dust. Not all of us can fly off to Tuscany tomorrow, and spin a tale of cornuted love, mining weightless insights that blow up received wisdom and free one to kick the can into another universe, or street.

.   .   .     

 Was father’s boast even a boast? Perennial question! He would never even acknowledge this question as worthy of discourse.

Mom was so successful with the clock-mice series for Sky Radio, he would wander around the commons of the four connected 5 story buildings of our ‘secret city,’ working up ways to avoid feeling shrunken by any direct comparison to his professional or other pursuits. Always in thrall to the sense that mom’s friends were just waiting to corner him by one of the eco-playgrounds or tennis courts, licking their lips to watch him squirm with his embarrassing response to their questions about his professional and creative pursuits. He fancied them just itching to hike up their black skirts revealing spa-treated legs that were lightly sun-toasted and scented with jasmine---gams and all---laughing at him, but unable to control their strong desire.

He joked. He didn’t joke. There might be a day for joking, maybe an off day. Binary Sun systems aren’t for everyone. It’s hard to tell what you will get, what you will truly get. Sometimes it was inscribed in the way he would hold the whisk to beat a soufflé into existence in bright humiliating afternoons. They were humiliating for me. He was either boasting about the time spent----mastery accumulated---quilting. First apprenticed to Dr. C with his dolly arms, and then running away to some quilting hermit master later busted in a yoga cult soda scam. 

My mother hasn’t looked at him in the eye since the 90’s. Q R, and the always provocative z---were all born in 1990. Here are two patents from that year that I’m constantly reminded of for reasons that I’ll never be able to tell anyone about. Forgive my abruptness. I’m not on the run. It’s worse than that. It’s dry and dicey, and altogether predictably shot through with predicted anomalies and no fuse to burn down.

02/20/90

4,902,296

Use of Demineralized Bone Matrix in the Repair of Segmental Defects

1990/009118

A windproof umbrella includes a post (14); a plurality of ribs (18) extending outwardly in a radial direction from the upper end of the post; a lower canopy (20) secured on the ribs; a plurality of vent holes (34) therethrough; a channel forming member (57) secured to the lower canopy in surrounding relation to each lower vent hole (34) for further preventing entry of water therethrough; an upper canopy (36) positioned over the lower canopy in covering relation to all lower vent holes. The upper canopy (36) including at least one upper vent (56) closer to free ends of the ribs (18) than the lower vent hole (34), an outer edge and plurality of slits (44) extending inwardly from the outer edge thereof, each slit being (44) in line with one rib (18), the upper canopy (36) being smaller than the lower canopy (20); and elastic fastening straps (48) securing the upper canopy (36) and the free ends of the ribs (18).
Plurality of it all---slits---slits, and windproof ribs…. Watching father curse himself to quilting class, watching myself not curse, walking before any of this, away.