Colonial Bread Letter 77: th’yere ’twere

Lee Evin is not the age of someone whose ears can miss the tastes of 1977. Not that he’s heard Ornette Coleman’s take on “Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman”. Evin owns all of half his age in albums, though not even that really because none of them are outright his. Surely by now he’s stopped listening to the Elvis soundtrack, whose appearance in the house might be strictly down to a glut of beat up records at the drug store. Or not.There’s no accounting for taste, either good or bad, and Lee Evin’s’s determined by availability. There is radio. Where to turn the dial, dictated by curiosity or a lack of sump’m similar? Having only barely graduated from AM, the Freq Mod Album Orient is the new gatekeeper of what flows through his hair, which can’t hang higher than his earlobes.

In this neck not yet the burbs, 1977 means that in spite of the full lot of debuts, precious few of ’em Evin’ll know until the year is firmly in its dust jacket. As of the present, it’s the past in the making. Cheap Trick are as infectious as ‘ll eventually prove unavoidable, as are Talking Heads or Television to any DJ with the wherewithal to be a self-sleeved oddball, not in the middle of nothing but next to it.

Forget The Clash or Sex Pistols for a little while yet, unless it’s via TV news anchors musing weird on what’s going on in someone else’s world. Never mind Buzzcocks. Not even Bowie’s Low gets much play on the big two or three large here. After Before and After Science in December comes AOR indifference, Rumours is still getting cranked up after a year of airplay, liable to continue for years to come. Peter Gabriel’s debut solo gets spun, what with his genesis.

’77 is a foretaste; Lee Evin is not the age of himself when he’ll come to appreciate the vintage.

Historically speaking in puns

The Brothers Johnson are Right on Time with a reprise of recent Black history with their cover of Shuggie Otis. Even classic rock radio recognizes the supremacy of this strawberry letter. But Bootsy barely gets play even though he’s number 1, because Lee Evin heads to school the wrong direction to pick up on the vibe, spending time seeking interest on the east of the dial. On the other side of what passes for main street, only just, Bernie Worrell’s earth vibrating bass tone shimmers like a flashlight and, though you might not catch it, Herbie Hancock is all over the place.

Speaking of Black History [orig.pub: Feb] and A Farewell to Kings, now’s when the King dies on his throne. #thankyouverymuch

Then of course there’s disco — say, Chic — to name a trend that will be around. Is the best that peach-fuzzed & greasy sandy-blond boys can do to buck that trend, in all their disco destroyer-ness, The Grand Illusion? Short answer: Yes, yes it is. Longer answer: The likes considered to be local lads will manage to drown out a lot with their ridin’ storms out and such. It’s a market racket, after all. Even in the Quietest Moments…

So long, 1977! He hardly knew ye.

 

Advertisements

Weened on Hallowed Wood

Severed heads are sacrificed; the blood trickles toward the penthouse cellar. Se7en spaced the severity of the unsubtlety of his deflection — a brazen attempt to have his having had an active gaydar steal the spotlight away from the evil he used it for. Narcissus knows no bonds — none too tight from which to wiggle with glee. He’d be given to going, “It’s time to say ’twas not my intent, but coincident to coming clean’.” But silence is also an option.

Monday’s Man o’ Fort saw the phrase ‘dictator friendly’ just often enough to bring to mind an entire country’s intelligence combined. Verily. One could strikethrough each instance of the named in the indictment and replace it with ‘the US’. However, either’d serve as apt metonymy for machinations of autocrat-o-philic money laundering. But let’s not forget about extortion and racketeering.

Now for FAKE MUSE!

Blutkotzende Goten – bis Marzahn  – Unkrautrock (1989)

 

Heaven on their Minds

 

No mind is clearer now
Not least none too well
Can we see how it’s no mystery
If you’d stripped away
The myth from the land
You’d have seen where we all soon would be
Donald!

You started to believe the things they say of you
You really do believe this talk of Don is true
For all the shit he’s done with hist’ry’s human poo
He’s begun to matter more than all the things we do

I remember when this whole thing began
No talk of orange what was called a thin tan
Though he deceives, the supplication toward him doesn’t lie
Yet everything he seethes
You take for blasphemy
While the lies you hold have fed his rise

New Amsterdam’s famous son
Might have left the globe unknown
Like his father riding hood
He’d have burned wood
Hotel towers and TV shows
Oprah asking Donald those
Questions caused nobody stress
No one would jest

Knowing Donald he does care for his race
No one sees they must bow to save face
We have occupied
Have you forgotten all the crimes we’ve done?
I’m not startled by the crowd
For our silence was so loud
When we crushed them we had gone too far
We’ve gone too far

 

Gluttonily Greedily

It is said in certain corners here & there that today is a milestone birthday. It’s not the day that grocery shoppers were loosed in the arteries of a waste of their own making, to snort & squeal their own way towards cleanups on aisle be damned if I’m gonna mop my own mess in addition to having to take over the task of schlepping my own wares to a checker not of my own damn choosing.No, that day was one & one hundred years ago, a month ago or so. Today is the day we celebrate a storekeeper’s official acquisition of the right to, I dunno, I guess get compensation from copycats? I’m patently no lawyer so can only wonder at the avarice level unleashed with that application as to how deep in dollars, and years yet to last, any ongoing remuneration.

I know of personal sloth afforded by bags & cans, but have personally seen the industrial diligence depicted in film segments on Sesame Street. How enchanting the wonder that brings beans to market! What I didn’t know — though I’d been familiar enough with the country store in Westerns or the drugstore in Mayberry, Hollywood — was that fetching one’s own Count Chocula abides a long proud tradition of outsourced labor… to the customer!

And what a way it was to have conceived it! You gotta envy the ingenuity. In all of our piggily wiggling, we’re in fact sweating schmucks as if we don’t need no stinking wages! They should be paying us to cart our shit to the stand! And for all these hundred years… I want revenge! Though I suppose in the world of legal predators, not forgoing the filling of one’s own wagon might add up to signing off on a deal to forgo a paycheck for the right to engage in activities listed in Patent Number US1242872 A.

Lawyer up, people! I wanna see this shit go down!

Just who’s doing the abiding here?

 

Kito Lorenc • 4 March 1938 – 24 September 2017

A giant of a wordsmith has gone to earth. As with grain growing toward its sun — this essayist & playwright and erstwhile editor & dramaturg, foremost bi-lyrical poet & constructor of verbs, decoder & developer of expression — this complete creator of meaning has set down not a last episode, but a lasting one.Bestowed with the legacies of Heine & Hesse and Mann & Lessing, and Petrarca, Kito Lorenc must have been a perfecter of that which Ćišinski is reputed to’ve found in the lyricism of their West Slavic voice, not only digging up each definition by its roots but also spinning the pots in which to replant them.

He translated his own work and was astute enough in that art to be the first to unite his inherent & acquired German & Sorbian in verse. For, as he reckoned, one was good for visits to the public authorities and philosophical musings, the other for house and garden and the walnut tree in the yard.

REDE-WENDUNGEN
Ich steh auf Messers Schneide
knietief in der Kreide
als fünftes Rad am Wagen
und will ein Schnippchen schlagen.

Auf dem Zahnfleisch krieche
ich in Teufels Küche.
Der Teufel malt mich an die Wand
und legt mir Feuer in die Hand.

Ich sauf im Sitzen Tinte,
werf Korn in meine Flinte,
streu Puder auf mein Haupt und jag
die Katze aus dem Klammersack.

Und wie’s mich juckt, so kommen
die Felle angeschwommen
mit Zähnen auf den Haaren,
die noch voll Suppe waren.

Kaum hab ich einen blassen Dunst
der Tuten- und der Blasenkunst,
da beißt die Maus den Faden ab,
der ich den Marsch geblasen hab.

from Wortland by Kito Lorenc (Leipzig Reclam 1984)

 

Der Parkbank Pinkler: rückfünfundzwanzig

Was keiner zugibt, gesagt zu haben.

—so einer
.VXX
Massenpsychologie. Zeuge unheimlicher Lichter
am
Himmel. Zuschauer neuer Programme
im
Fernsehen.
Sie
wären nicht alle Verrückte.
Sie
dürfen ihre Staatsführung mithilfe deren Marketinggags aussuchen.
Da
hat
einer einen Bezug
zur
volkstümlichen Vernünftigkeit. Pop-begründet heißt
er
Sag
Dusmir. Meinte immer,
»Sie müssen mich nicht
Herr Dusmir nennen.

Können ruhig Sag sagen.«

Sucht
und
stimmt vermeintlich nach links. Vermeintlich, meine

ich,
da
er
ja
volkstümlich denkt,
und
wer
volkstümlich denkt,
ist
nun
gut
in
dem
zuletzt gelesenen Berichte versiert. Das funktioniert.Haaaaallo User!
Haaaaallo User!
Hallo User! Hallo User!
Hallo, O! Yoo S. Air! 

Dieser Andere meinte,
die
Gelben
sei
‘ne
Nuttenpartei.
Sie
versuchen
es,
mit
jedem
wo
sie
‘nen
Platz haben. Denkt aber nicht,
die
Grünen wollen grad
bei
der
Nuttenpartei Platz, haben schon
das
Können erwiesen,
mit
der
Jamaikaner
so
gut
wie
mit
der
Ampel
zu
verkehren.

Und
da
das
Rot
von
den
Ampeln, als erste Wahl wohl Freierpartei möchte, nimmt zwar zwei
(t)
stimmig schon in Kauf, Ersatzspielkleidung
mit
ins
Rennen zu nehmen, sich
da
als
größte Nuttenpartei verkauft
und
erwiesen hatte, versteht
sie,
daß
nicht alle eine Nuttenpartei sein dürfen.

Das gibt’s doch gar nicht. Jemand muss bezahlen.

Hä?
Ne!
Nö.
Wie
es
so
Volkstümlich auch bestimmt
ist,
vom
Volk
aus:
Geht wählen. Sieht schwarz. Blecht.

__