friedrich jurgenson, eartha kitt, dead kennedys, derek bailey, joe cocker, charles ives, leon russell, john coltrane, the sex pistols, captain beefheart, pablo casals, blind blake, keiji haino, john cage, jamie d, george formby, christophe charles, muddy waters, x-minus one, joseph spence, israel kamakawiwo ole, laurie anderson, frank zappa, charlie parker, dizzie gillespie, arnett cobb, ornette colman, illinois jaquette, miles davis, all the good ones, we all love david bowie, marianne faithfull how great you are with the kurt weill songs, sticks and stones and broken bones, legions of minimalists and maximalists, and the pulse of tanum.
The first solo release from Infrequency Editions co-founder Lance Austin Olsen is also the first exploring our new packaging ideology: extending our audience's experience of the sound art through the handmade artist book.
Road to Esperance is, much like its creator, simultaneously aggressive and poetic, applying a long form narrative to guide the listener on a blindfolded journey from Canada to Australia. Imagine starting with a compelling collection of field recordings and then beating them into submission with a ball-peen hammer to form a unique and enigmatic travelogue.
Trained as a painter, and having spent the last 40 years developing his own language of mark making on epic scale canvas and paper, Olsen began pursuing a parallel career in sound in 2000, subsequently co-founding Infrequency to help publish editions of experimental minimalist sound art.
Road to Esperance comes housed in a hand crafted artist book with silk screened wraps, original ink drawings on vellum, and a randomly selected photograph from Olsen's family history in a glassine envelope. The result is a crosstalk of ideas between the audio and the tactile artwork, an experience which Infrequency Editions recognizes as missing in the homogenization of the album format through digital distribution.
Published in a very intimate edition of 100 copies. www.infrequency.org
ICE SHARDS IN MY SOUL
I had a thought the other
day and at the moment that
it touched my mind it
seemed to freeze and fracture
moving in a flash from
thought to action, there
was no malice and
regret was never
optioned by that thought.
The hammer lay as I had
left it and my hand caressed, then
grasped the wooden handle
polished by a thousand beads of
salty liquid leeched from ancient
skin now dry as seaweed on
a beach.
She lay perfect
in her twilight years, silver soft
with glowing beauty, love
from endless happy
moments, life so crystal sharp
upon her gentleness. With
thought and moment stretched
before me, I laid one blow upon
her temple, crimson, thick with life,
now death upon her,
fractured,
as my frozen soul.
..
CHIANTI AFTERNOONER
it was a hot weekend in italy,
dogs were dragging
old cold bolognaise
from plastic tv dinner trays
tossed in piles outside the "tourist
haven" restaurant.
the waiter cursed
and honked an oyster,
black bob cocked his leg
and pissed all down the side of table five,
then strutted
down the street
and over to the yankee handing cookies
to the starving kids.
"fuck off bob you ugly bastard"
barked the waiter.
i sat alone across the way, watching
table three,
one stunning dark haired babe,
with tits so soft
my rod was twitching in its cover.
loose bermudas kissed her thighs
with pinks and creams
and lemon yellow satin softness,
her thighs relaxed and I could glimpse
her glistening pussy,
glowing softly in the shadows
of her beauty.
meanwhile,
across the ocean
e.c.u.
great aunt dorcus,
cries the blues.
some faggot nurse,
had stuck his finger
up her arse.
after fifty...
...whatever's wrong...
arse investigation...
...the name of the song.
ja jack
jack hammer
jack off,
dream is busted,
back on the bed,
extended care,
old men wailing,
jacking off to pass the time,
death a-waiting,
time a-passing.
the pain,
legs are gone,
arms are twisted,
back is broken,
is the war still on?
those boers were tough,
they took the land,
enslaved the people
and now,
here was I,
conscripted.
powerful fuckers,
zulu warriors,
not impressed,
they backed us all
into a corner, they were
kicking ass.
at table three
the babe had ordered
two chiantis,
she caught my eye and
gave a nod,
turned her legs
a fraction more,
and waited for my move.
i sidled up and
smiled a wide one,
"sit" she said,
"and sip chianti"
excitement welled,
i sat,
i sipped,
her dark eyes cut my soul in two.
my heart bled thick
and stopped my breath.
i panted out,
"my name is aaron"
"no names"
she said,
"i'm here to take you home"
ba bang
hammer bang,
construction zone or
gatling gun.
brain twists thoughts
and screams for dorcus,
"dorcus! dorcus!
come,
please help me"
"what?
where?"
the zulus closed,
with spears and
knobkerries,
thrust and bang,
cut and slice.
"my leg! my leg!
where is my leg?"
chianti sipping afternoon.
I melted into warmth
and drifted closer
to the promised land,
her lips were parted,
tongue moved firmly
cross her mouth.
sweat was beading
on my forehead,
panting!
panting!
i cocked my leg
like bob at table five,
my pants were wet,
i've lost control,
the babe is fading,
zulu breath is on my face,
another slash,
the other leg.
"my god,
i must be dreaming,
"dorcus!
dorcus!"
I WOKE UP DRUNK IN COOPERS CANYON
a throbbing head was all that told
of recklessness the night before
when bob romanovitch and i had
left the party early.
we flirted with some excess pussy,
leered like leather licking nazi camp guards,
pounced,
and led her down the road
to bobbys pride and joy.
some piece of shit from
nineteen sixty two, a duotone
convertible with rust holes large as bed sores
on a quadriplegics arse.
we drove
down eighth street,
left at twenty first
and on to coopers canyon
where the shagging never quits.
the aging redhead couldn’t wait,
pedal pushers round her ankles,
lip glossed lips spewed language like a french canadian syrup bleeder.
bob looked back
his eyeballs popping,
wrenched the gear
shift into fourth, and
gunned the metal.
i came around at three a.m.
the redhead gone,
bob was gasping
on the side of coopers canyon
bleeding from the eyeballs,
twisted like some fucking pretzel soaked in juices,
dead,
or dying.
“SHIT”
was all my voice could utter.
SAILING IN CONCRETE
sailing in concrete,
sailing in concrete,
my father left me a sheep skin coat.
Should I wear it?
I’m a vegetarian.
I wear the shoes,
and I have a leather belt,
is wearing them the same as eating them?
I could win the race,
do you think I could win the race?
I can run fast but I need my shoes on.
That hotel you stayed at in London burnt down
and I remember that we were watching Charley Cook dribble the ball all the way to the goal.
England won the world cup, and the hotel burnt down.
what was it called?
I don’t know,
but I remember Richard Burton,
you know,
the actor,
not the guy who wrote all that pornographic shit that his wife burnt,
what was he doing?
It was some movie, (pause)
or was it on television?
(short silence)
I wrote this poem,
(pause)
I think it was about you?
(pause)
How did it go?
(pause)
I parked the van with “Simpson’s Carpets”
printed on the side and
knew I had to get inside the hotel door
to stand a chance.
“I need a piss.” I said,
and she said there’s
a toilet in the lobby.
(pause)
As I stood kidney bleeding in the can
my burning mind could think of nothing smart to say.
I flushed, stepped out,
dick pressed tight against my leg
to hide the obvious
as I stammered
silent streams of----
“Would you like to see my room?” she said.
(pause)
Sailing in concrete,
sailing in concrete,
sailing in concrete,
the Cutty Sark,
sailing in concrete.
My father said I should join the infantry, (pause) when the bullets start flying I could hide in a hole (short silence) I fancied the navy, (pause) he said the navy was full of poofs and anyway I needed to kill a few wogs to show them who’s boss.
He used to clean his medals, not those fucking spam gongs that you see all over ancient chests on remembrance day, (pause) real medals, (pause) he got them for heroism at Dieppe. That prick Montgomery, talking of poofs, sent in all the Canadians as cannon fodder (short silence) the Americans showed up 3 years late, as usual, (pause) it was just like the great war, the real war, we lost a lot of kids then, the trenches, what the fuck were we doing? What was I saying? (pause) O, (pause) I know it was George Bush, or was it George Washington? He hated my father, (pause) uncle George, I don’t know why, it was never said, but I could tell.
I loved uncle George, he was fat, doughnuts and rum babas, he almost became a concert pianist, (pause) it was fascinating to watch those short fat fingers dance over the keyboard, I decided that I could do anything if he could become a concert pianist with those incompetent hands, (pause) he worked for a fabric company, (pause) tweed suits, (pause) that kind of shit, (pause) he called the boss, governor, but he hated the Jews, (pause) his governor, (pause) the Jew, (pause) those fuckers were stealing the whole country, he said.
My father and mother went to his funeral and his son was really pissed off to see them, passing the hate through the generations, consistency and tiny minds, a perfect combination.
He wore that cowboy hat till the day he died, (pause) we cremated him, (pause) the hat, (pause) and his cavalry twill suit, (short silence) his face was the same colour as the suit, bad make up artists, still, if they were any fucking good they’d be working in the movies.
(pause)
I can still hear the sound of his boots clattering down Streatham high road as he high tailed it for the pub. He used to leave us outside the boozers when we were kids and bring us bags of monkey nuts so we wouldn’t spill the beans, (pause) was that in Streatham? (short silence) No, (pause) that was in Rhodesia or whatever the fuck it’s called now that the mau mau have taken over.
Sailing in concrete,
sailing in concrete,
sailing in concrete.
CURRENT RELEASE
AU CLAIR DE LA LUNE
VARIOUS | AU CLAIR DE LA LUNE
2 x CD | INFREQUENCY 005 | Edition of 500 | Duration 1hr 37min
Nine internationally acclaimed sound artists create new compositions based on the earliest known recording of the human voice.
The original recording was made by Édouard-Léon Scott de Martinville on April 9, 1860 using his own invention, the phonautograph, and consists of a series of scratches on a roll of blackened paper. Scott had never developed a way to play back his recordings and they went unheard for 148 years. In 2008, scientists at the Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory converted the thin lines back into audio, allowing us to hear a woman singing a segment of the folk song “Au Clair de la Lune”.
The two CD compilation is a conceptual extension of breathing life back into this document through modern technology; deciphering a voice that was etched into a thin layer of oil lamp smoke, and featuring a diverse group of international contemporary composers, creating new works from this ten second piece of history.
Additional credits: Our sincere thanks to historians David Giovannoni & Patrick Feaster for their assistance in this project. The Édouard-Léon Scott recording is licensed by Firstsounds.org
CD1
STEVE RODEN - AUCLA IRDE LALU NE
LIONEL MARCHETTI & YÔKO HIGASHI - A SHORT STORY
SLEEP RESEARCH FACILITY - DARK SIDE OF THE LUNE
LANCE OLSEN - THE CREATURE THAT DRANK SOUND
STEPHEN VITIELLO & MOLLY BERG - CLAIRE SONG SUNG
CHRISTOPHE CHARLES - BREATHE
CD2
JAMIE DROUIN - SOOT AND PAPER
BERNHARD GUNTER - LES VOIX DU PASSE / CHANTENT L'AVENIR / CLAIR DE LUNE
YANN NOVAK - TIME FORGOT
Price $18US (includes international shipping)
SNOWFIELD + REMIX 2xCD set
2007 - Infrequency, Canada
"The seven untitled tracks here have a remarkable cumulative impact, the contrast between their tiny, crystalline details and the vastness of the landscape becoming ever more telling."THE WIRE
"A deep work of musical art...If this is the calibre of release we can expect from this label in the future, then I for one will be eagerly anticipating the next installment! Quite superb from beginning to end and a must for lovers of Raster Noton, NVO, Line and other such labels. Highly recommended." SMALLFISH (UK)
"This re-issue of a set of CDR field recordings now emerges as a tour de force for Canadian based Infrequency Recordings. Documenting and interacting with a field of snow in British Columbia, artists Jamie Drouin and Lance Olsen have taken their original installation piece, and offered it up for remixing by fellow collaborators, Yann Novak and Tomas Jirku, as well as re-mapping the contours of their source work.
This is a densely layered piece, not only a direct recording of snow activity, but also thematically and compositionally corresponding to all the manifestations of snow. The original installation piece sets out to record snowfall, interspersed with energetic sampling that gives life and energy to the field recordings, that are muted, gray renderings of dappled sound.
Essentially, this is minimalism with a capital “M” pared down to minute shavings of granular texture, and literally brings the outdoors into a gallery environment, blurring the boundaries between the real and the simulated."
WHITELINE
Please check out the profile and let me know your thoughts! You can do six_events anywhere in the world; just do one or two events if you like.
So far, there will be hundreds of simultaneous performances of six_events in Spain, America, Egypt, China, Japan, Italy, England, Canada and Australia.
If you would like me to send you a reminder nearer the time about this then just send a blank email to six_events@yahoo.co.uk (or just send me your email in a message on here)
This book is a celebration of Banksy’s Bristol street art that puts him in the context of 3D, John Nation from the Barton Hill Settlement, Inkie, Nick Walker and the other artists and musicians who were instrumental in linking Bristol to the original New York hip hop scene.
It is the most revealing account written so far of Banksy’s formative years and contains more than 100 images of his Bristol art and pictures of Banksy at work which have never been published before.
Steve Wright traces Banksy’s roots back to the rave culture of the Nineties and draws a rounded picture of an artist who is most famous for being anonymous.
out december 07, pre orders from http://www.tangentbooks.com from november!
we are glad to present our download music shop in cooperation with musicdock.net we provide you with a fast, easy and secure way to purchase our music in DRM-free cd-quality .wav and mp3 in various bitrates directly from us:
deepdub.com
Hi Mr.Butoh, thanks for the invitation. Fascinating work! Wonderful sonorous atmosphere! All of the best and greetings from Brazil Rodrigo Montoya and Abaetetuba
