Dichters Dansen Niet staat sinds 10 jaar voor de combinatie van muziek en poëzie. De kern van de groep bestaat uit schrijver Serge Van Duijnhoven en producer Fred dB. Naargelang de aard van de performances wordt deze basis bezetting uitgebreid met andere muzikanten/ performers.
Releases: Obiit in Orbit (98, djax records/ de bezige bij), Bloedtest (2003, de bezige bij), Klipdrift (2007, Nieuw Amsterdam).
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Firetime (with members of Cheech Wizard, The New Earth Group, Doodoos Coffee, Special Power, Harry Merry & The Must)
Zondag 19 april releaseparty van ons debuutalbum “Rotan” dat uitkomt bij het Laterax label, waar ook bijvoorbeeld Nanko’s solowerk, Dr.Schnitt en Politics zijn gehuisvest.
@De Unie, Rotterdam centrum, 5 minuten in een rechte lijn lopen van Rotterdam CS.
Het zou te gek zijn als je komt, het wordt leuk en labelgenoot “Piaz” heeft ook zijn relaseparty van zijn nieuwe “Formants” album.
Sunday april 19 releaseparty of our debutalbum “Rotan” that will come out on the Laterax label, home of for instance Nanko's solowork and Dr.Schnitt en Politics.
@De Unie, in the centre of Rotterdam.
It will be great if you come on by. it will be a good night, also labelmate PIAZ will release his new album “Formants”.
Fee is 10 Euroz including our alboom....
Doors open at 20.00 uur, Piaz 21.00, Firetime 22.00 and then Laterax DJ-set till 01.00 uur.
It's a 5 minute walk in a straight line to Rotterdam Central so you can be back home on time...if you like being home on time and walking in straight lines....
Please come !
Martin, Nanko, Arjen, Michel en Fonckeltoff
De Unie
Mauritsweg 34-35
Rotterdam
Hai Serge, how's life? A.s. zondagavond, 28 Sept, 8pm, presenteer ik 2 cd's met Caroline Luik en band in De Badcuyp in Amsterdam: you're invited! Groetjes, Hans
Bloemen noch Kransen is dood …
Leve het stiftgedicht!
Want krant + viltstift = poëzie
Kijk voor het nieuwe project op
http://gemarkeerd. wordpress. com
of klik en lees hier ->
(En uiteraard: héél erg bedankt aan iedereen die van dit myspace project zo'n succes heeft gemaakt!)
waw da klinkt hier heel tof... leuk dat je ff bij ons langskwam, groetjes, peter ps, if you have some time www. myspace. com/bixmedard my vocal project
Rick Treffers over Klipdrift: (www. myspace. com/ricktreffers) Ik zit nu voor de tweede maal naar Klipdrift te luisteren (volumeknop naar rechts, ramen open) en ik vind hem te gek. Apocalyptisch, compromisloos, donker, gepassioneerd, fantasierijk en gevoelig, wat wil je nog meer? Bovendien houd ik van het spel dat je vaak met de taal speelt en de vragen die je je stelt in je gedichten. Identificatieplicht! En dan nog een veer in de reet: de productie van de cd is perfect. Helder en hard, daar houd ik van. Heel soms denk ik aan My Life in the Bush of Ghosts. Ook de accordeon- en vioolpassages zijn raak.
Journalist Michael Bird sent us this wonderfull impression of his "listening to Klipdrift" experience. Thank u so much Michael!!
PART1:
I am listening to your atmospheric compact disc without understanding the words. There is the sound of bottles. A child is repeating a nursery rhyme. The city is busy. There is a bass guitar. Some military-style chants. Someone is suffering. From a throat disorder. I am concerned. It may be a terrible dream. The guitars are back. And a beat. It's pop with Tom Waits. Wie gehts? Pop Waits. I am in Istanbul. Are they calling to rouse the army or is the market about to begin? I hear someone trying to cough up a butterfly. There's jazz. A choir. A black choir. There is gospel in Istanbul. Maybe we have passed into the clouds. But it is night again and we cannot be sure where we are. Except there is nothing under or over us but darkness. The beat brings us back to earth. Because we cannot dance without gravity. Now the violins and a woman - she is Scottish and she speaks in a mysterious brogue. Then it all goes Bowie. Low Bowie. Cold war jazz Bowie. Your voice is digging into the ground. It talks with a mouthful of dirt. The trumpets come back. We are in and out of audibility. A sick Ian Curtis locked in a toilet is making up a song as he goes along. It has been a bad night. His song is not pretty. Is this a man-woman or a woman-man with the crushed voice and the synthesised piano? Serge wants to speak about love. But he can only scream while rolling his Rs. Breaks.
It becomes hard and confused for a few minutes. I don't know what's going on. I can't explain what's going on. Now it's time for samba. I'm funking. I'm funking crazy. But you end the funk. You end the fun. With sad words and the violins. Those damned violins. They kill every party. But it comes back. You let the funk return. But it's angry. It's bad funk. It wants to hurt me. It dissipates. More strings. A quartet I think. You are speaking a memorial. Are you burying the funk? There is a smile in your voice. You are becoming more animated. As though Brel has gate-crashed the funeral. Let the strings speak now. The cello is brooding again. The violins let the Cello brood and then make fun of him. Drums beat. Into the Dutch jungle we go. Meat everywhere. Eyes in the trees. Snakes in the canal. A monkey in the windmill. But Serge is not afraid of the jungle. Even though the insects are under his skin, under every inch of skin, even though they are breaking out and will turn his skin inside out, so his hair will grow inside and his entire body will be covered with blood. The more he bleeds from every inch of his skin. The more the hair grows inside until every organ in his body is thick with beard. The jungle laughs at Serge.
PART 3 It's German. An elergy. A catchy elergy. It's the hit on the album. It's a lullaby now with trumpets. A cradlesong for demon children. Now we are moving into the torch song. But you allowed the child to sing. He likes to sing with Uncle Serge's words. He is singing about a beautiful place he wants to live in. A place where every house has a football field and all the dogs speak baby language. Echochamber. This is where children talk to themselves. Serge talks of his own childhood with fondness. It was not something full of woe or happiness. But this makes his longing for the time before all the more depressing. Now I cannot remember anything but being in darkness. So how can I be sure that what is around me is darkness? Double bass and concertina. French bistro music. You're talking to the staff behind the bar, regaling them about a story from a far far place. They don't believe you. You talk about Shakespeare and Eliot and Thomas Mann. All the wonderful mistakes they made. Don't get in a fight, Serge, it's not worth it. But there will be no arguments anymore. Let the bass play and play and play. And the trombone. You drink a pastis on the house. Then the barman whispers to you - he tells you never to come back. When his back is turned, you spit on his counter and swear at him in Dutch.
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