[ Hypnos Forum ]

Years back, I read a heart-wrenching nature piece and stuck it in my back pocket for circumstances just like this.   The conclusion of the story provided a shifted tide -- the author focused back on the footsteps and the young.  There's terrible loss, but solace in that which has been created.

Jimmy -- from now on, when I see the great hunter in the sky, and its brightest star -- I'll think of you, of what you loved, and what you gave us.

John Martyn Glorious Fool

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/30/arts/music/30martyn.html

Ouch.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pYLVM560Fok

Rest in peace, John.

The Gatherings night was great.  The church concert ran the gambit -- A.R.S. (e), Cluster, Tim and Hans did some time alone, all four for a while -- then Dwight went solo for two hours over at the studio from two until four a.m.   I kept him supplied with coffee,  "Here!  Drink!", but totally blew it with the pizza.   It was pouring rain that night and I had to rapidly carry several boxes several city blocks.  The mushrooms, sausage, pepperoni and cheese all wandered to one side.   I ruined the entire night.

Bill

Dean De Benedictis A Cambient Variations

An experimental all-sounds-created-by-single-voice release picked up at last night's Gatherings Concert Series performance with Dean and Vic Hennegan.  It works quite well first thing on a Sunday morning -- somewhat hushed, some subtle rhythms, polished, and often lovely.

Kate Bush Aerial

A favorite that never seems to leave my personal playlist. 

Up in the Old Hotel by Joseph Mitchell

Wondering if I've ever enjoyed a book more.  This is a compilation of all of the author's work, all of it published, going way back, in The New Yorker.  All of the pieces included are character studies of eccentric folks in New York City. I'm thinking the first line of one of the blurbs on the book's back cover grabs it best ... A poetry of the actual, a song of the streets that casts a wide net and fearlessly embraces everything human ... 

"We Resolve," from Abstraction, fits it best, this time of the year; my night painting, that is.  I put my pieces back together on sand roads in pine barrens, miles from anything but sand and pine, windows on the Silverado down, bombarded by the sound of insect chants.  Abstraction screams back.  There are hundreds of miles of these roads which make a perfect escape from the otherwise most densely populated state in the union. 

Zo Pilots, Fields, Edge of the Forest, my broken boxes (still haven't figured out how to open them, Saul), Outfolding, cicadas, katydids, frogs, owls, howling coyotes ...

I dunno.  I might be Saul's first groupie.  I followed him around so much during his pioneering Philadelphia days he would turn around at every live performance and see me there, front and center, and I could read his lips.  "Oh.  Him again."  Stokes fascinated me.  Not being a musician, nor knowing much about the technical aspects of what it takes to be one of an electronic nature, I still managed to see in the artist the genius behind his accomplishments; building instruments by hand, then sculpturing the sounds created from these into unbelievable shapes.



And his compositions speak to me in the same manner as what I hear out there.

Last night, sand roading, and Villa Galaxia setting the mood, I thought of my step father.  Not long before he lost his final battle, and curious about the weird choice of music preference I had a reputation of having, Shep offered me a "five minute window" with which to impress him by playing an electronic music piece of my choice. What I picked then wasn't important ... and there was no chance of impressing him, even if I had 500 minutes to play.  Wish I had another chance.  I think I've heard the song.

"Night Painting."

I played it pretty damned loud last night, repeatedly, remembering one of the last things he said.



"Life was good."  

I finally shook Gordon's hand for the first time the evening Mike, Dave & Jeff made magic in Philadelphia, nearly six years ago.  It was a honor to do so; his words were always painted with eloquence and he was so full of passion.

A huge ouch on hearing of his passing.

Bill Beck