Who does history bleed for?

Or, for whom does history bleed?

I like being able to utilize the "whom"

Think about this: definitions can only belong to the definers and certainly not to the defined. 

Did you think about it?

I'll give you a little more time

Imagine your mustache was narrow. Well, first imagine having a mustache in the first place. Almost unbelievable that there was a time when mustaches were fashionable. No, they are not fashionable now, as hard as hipsters (and Greek women) might try. They simply look awkward upon a backdrop of non-sweatshop-made basic t-shirts and wayfarer sunglasses (really, enough with those, please, I beg of you). A proper mustache requires a fair bit of maintenance. Daily maintenance I would assume. The appearance of any budding hairs outside the confines of the mustache could greatly alter the impact the mustache has on any casual on-lookers and especially on mustache aficionados. I wonder what is more difficult: growing and maintaining a narrow mustache or enduring four years of struggle against lies, stupidity, and cowardice. 

Or, enduring forty-six years of lies, stupidity, and cowardice.

Cat burglars, stealing the lives of mice.

Defining their lives.

Stealing their tails.

Burning their tails.

Whipping them with their own tails.

Owning everything they are when the only thing they are is what you define them as.

It's blood that soaks this cloth

It's cloth that covers this table

It's blood that soaks this cloth

It's cloth that covers our eyes

I've just sat here all night with cloth over my eyes. A thin cloth veil. 

At least I downloaded some great music. 

Gah, my mind is mush (perhaps some type of oatmeal concoction that is initially dry, but you must add boiled water to the mix to moisten it up). 

Nothing profound (not that anything I type actually is profound, just self-serving attempts thereof).

STD - Under The Boards

A prototypical civilian?

It's true, it's true. Words fall short. Syllables. Consonants. Curvature. Enunciate. Conjugate. Enunciate. Conjugate. Repeat.

We ascribe meaning to words through our perceptions of what they should mean. They mean nothing. "I love you"--nothing. The fact that metaphors exist shows the shortcomings of words. We need to assign a value to words by utilizing elements of the natural (or sometimes unnatural) world. The fact that Ralph Waldo Emerson actually manages to (and finds it necessary to) prove his points through metaphor (instead of merely using the device to better illustrate his points or make them sound pretty) solidifies my point. A brilliant and moral man, he concedes to the ineffectuality of words. Standing in the middle of the alphabet is the hollow letter "O." It expands and swallows the rest of the alphabet on both sides, sucking them into the dismal futility of words, sentences, sentiment, monologues, phrases, concrete emotions. Asphalt. Ashen letters. Ground to a sludgy pulp. We drive over these flattened sentiments. Words are flat. Flat and meaningless.

On their first CD, Nova Scotia's Wintersleep sing of the prototypical civilian. In terms of the music world, Wintersleep have become a type of prototypical civilian: they have succumbed to the fate of the loyal indie subject. Indie. Fuck that word. It truly means nothing (especially when bands that sell millions of albums are deemed "indie.") The interesting time signatures are still there. Paul Murphy's dreary, barren vocals are still there. The fairly minimalist lyrics are still there. However, I find a new "danceability" in many of the tracks on Welcome to The Night Sky. Also, I find much of the originality that can only come from their East-coast bubble of alienation to be missing on this album. In terms of prototypical indie albums, this one still kicks major rectum. Yet, in comparison to their first two albums it falls upon the barren ashpalt and withers meaningless.

Welcome to The Night Sky

This is my night of the long knives

Just as the mustachioed one eliminated his political demons, I must dismiss my personal demons with the ruthlessness of a chancellor. No, I do not plan to massacre these demons in an attempt to solidify my hold over the Reichswehr. I have more positive aspirations. I want so badly to transcend this culture that I am a product of. I want to be a product of only myself, like a worm that is cut in half. The original worm-self will spawn a new worm-self that is free of want. The two worms will forever be connected in spirit and likeness. Or in my case, in body as well...making me nothing like a worm at all and perhaps disintegrating this entire worm analogy. However, what I am really getting at is that I would like to be one of the earth, of the soil, of what is truly natural. I want to engross myself in the soil and be free of the supposed need to shell out green for green (see: purchasing a trendy eco-friendly lifestyle that has been manufactured in China by mostly unpaid labour).  

In Rainbows is incredible. My only criticism is how quickly it ends. It feels short and not in the understandable conceptual way that both Kid A and Amnesiac are. Those two albums need to be short in order for the listener to catch up and fully fathom the transcendent qualities of them. They transcend music itself and establish a new aesthetic that can never be achieved by another. As for In Rainbows, it is a more straightforward album than the two just discussed and could actually use a few more tracks. It goes by rather quickly and leaves your fingernails scratching the tips of your other fingers in a desperate attempt to generate more despite a full realization that scratching anything (especially your fingertips) will not generate music--rather, an obsessive compulsion to scratch the tips of your fingers every moment that your mind, ears, soul are not occupied by the palpable bliss of Radiohead (I must mention that certain scratching [that is, of records] may [according to some] result in actual music, but as far as I am concerned, this dj scratching is actually just an alteration of pre-existing music that was created through something more than scratching).

My first link from the previous post appears to have passed on to the pearly gates. Here is a new one:

In Rainbows

Tegan and Sara. What more can I say. For me, I just have to think of, or say aloud (though it would be odd for others to just hear me say "Tegan and Sara" and nothing else, then just sit there and melt in a bubbly serum [not to be confused with my own brand of cervix serum]) their names and instantly the aura surrounding two individuals who are supremely intelligent, morally grounded, whatever the opposite of righteous is, beautiful, humble, whitty, and the best goddamn role models in Canadian music threatens to envelop me and fill my clothing with warm fuzzies that provide both the warmth and comfort you would expect from something called a "warm fuzzy." On top of what incredible people they are, Monday evening at Danforth Music Hall the Quin sisters performed one of the finest musical concerts I have seen. Even the old songs that I do not find particularly striking sounded fantastic. Their on-stage banter and sibling rivalry was entertaining and endearing and made me want to hug my brother all night. To put it plainly, Tegan and Sara Quin are fantastically talented and superior human beings who have my utmost respect.

As you reach the pearly gates of this post, enjoy a fantastic solo performance by Thom Yorke of my favourite song from In Rainbows.

Queue up lads

You can thank me now. You can thank me later. You can do both and then a twist and then do it like this. 

Radiohead-In Rainbows

Inordinately skewed

Fact is fact.
Fact is fact.
I am fact.
In fact, fact is fact.

I was late. I pride myself on being in the "know" musically, ahead of the curve, on top of the heap, so on and such, but I only recently got into Neutral Milk Hotel. I really only began to take a genuine interest in them (him) after hearing Jesse Lacey cover "Oh Comely" last May. Fucking incredible. Like allowing your eyes to free themselves from the constrictive sockets, survey the room without the limitations and influence of your mind, just eyes roaming the room and it feels liberating but with the underlying terror of a new sensation.

But if seeing is believing then believe that we have lost our eyes.

NMH - In The Aeroplane Over The Sea