Letter from Via Kosmische, 17/1/19
Earth Time, 16:37.
Driving (in the) snow from Kempten. I was
supposed to put saucers and blondes together, but the reversable
rider of Skye said „NO!”, and off he went on a rollercoaster ride
of thrift shop guitars, carrying the torch for Lady Biba. The 4 A.M.
Lamp kept burning, and sociopaths were rescued from their shady
caves, turned into rainbows and oh! Butterflies „above the nation”.
That was the dream of the Woodstock generation, now wasn't it? Drugs
on war. Peace for fuck. The TV replacable eyes of narcolepsy, the
tidal waves of Atlantis re-rising in the re-standing Baalbek
megalith-os of Love, drilled into Sumerian skies of transformatory
grace. There were no temples in the beginning, just staircases in the
jungle, and death whistles blazing over Spaniard beards, which
eventually put the whole conqueror thing in asylums. I shook hands
with Chris Karrer, and off I went to another gig, this time on the
airport, for the krautrocking children of a lost fantasy. It's all in
the Wood. Anonymous band, 2 drummers, carbon copy of the Duulian
magic – NO SOUL. Suddenly Berlin, and the airport park, parking
lot, P'Ark. There was this shady figure in robes of breakfast serving
sound on dishwasher plateau. There was a party in the Underground
Cart on the rooftop, far from Krishna Supermarkets, and the Queen was
paying for everything. Somebody stole my only good tune.
Telepathically coding „she she she” over napkins with new chords.
Sirens flashing, colors roaring, Arthur Rimbaud laughing in the
rearview mirror. What was the dream in 1968, cause I forgot where I
put my acid, and then the years skipped to 2019, and 1969 was now
half a century ago (Earth Time) from my original trip beyond Pluto.
VOYAGER 1 BEAMS GREETINGS – but there's no-one on the other side of
this purely human errorenous line. Time is structural, we invented it
- and those weren't the dreams of any generation. Back to work in Via
Kosmische, far high on Nepalese huts, arches of deconstruction, and
Angus MacLise's photo with the Reaper sharing space with Miss Stacia
on the wallpaper. I guess he was a prophet, I guess she was a dancer,
I guess I have some job to do. Now, what was the album about, saucers
and blondes together, right, and friends, on the psychetropic wave of
sonic exhaustion. Ambient. Sheer noise attack. Cough cough, Lady Biba
crosses her legs on the fridge, serving naked lunch on golden
stockings. Microtonal whispers of boy elevators, captured on tape in
the magical summer of 2002. There are visions there I couldn't
capture in any letter, but I sometimes send one from VIA to the
occupants of Earth Daze, and maybe they receive 1% of the message,
and share doctrines with the Eye See Eye mock pseudogod high on the
vinyl mount to punish me for trying. She last told me she worked in
Dubai. The letter's getting hazy, the dawn is over, clouds turn back
from blood-red to chromeblue, and the prophet buries fool's clothes
in the lava lamp bathtub. There is a new day, and songs have to be
written, wrong notes be sung, instruments be banged on, improvs
recorded. Bring on the congas, Ditty, there's a Joker escaping.
Buy More Chewinggum
We
live in funny times.
The Artist writes his best song for 7 years,
suffers mental breakdowns, heartbreaks, crazy life situations,
misunderstandings, self-doubt, rehabs, and other things that people
might encounter in 7 long years. The song is finally ready. He
records it. It takes a week. He releases it. Nobody buys it.
In
the meantime, The Kid makes a beat on his iPhone, it takes him 3
minutes. He drops it. Someone buys it for $50, to rap about „bitches”
over the mindless loop. The Kid buys more chewinggum.
We live
in funny times.
The Virtuoso studies his whole life in Music
Schools and Academies. He graduates, is selected for a virtuoso
contest. He loses the contest, winning which was the point of his
whole life. But, he never gives up, and runs in another. And another.
And another. 10 years later he never wins. So, he commits
suicide.
The Kid has manual skills, so he bangs on his drums, The
Kid's parents have lots of money, so they train their little monkey
to develop better manual skills, and record a video. They upload it
to YouTube. A „child prodigy” is born. The parents are proud.
We
live in funny times.
The Artist can barely pay his bills, because
he devotes his entire life to Art. His teeth are already missing,
because he can't afford the dentist. The dentist? You must be joking
– he can barely afford cornflakes. He couldn't eat them anyway, not
with his beautiful missing teeth. Nobody buys his paintings – the
system has declared him insane – so he has to buy medicine for a
sickness he doesn't have – he's sick only because a healthy
individual in a sick society is always sick. That's how it goes.
The
Kid „paints” in his application, and sells his designs to various
gadget producers. They print his „work” on their stuff and he
makes a living out of it. He buys more chewinggum.
We live in
funny times.
But luckily, I don't have to live in those
times.
I've long built a Time Continuum Machine, that is now
finally working.
I set the controls to Munich, 1968. I bid you
adieu.
In the meantime, decide if you're an Artist, or just a
lucky Kid.
If you're just a Kid, stop polluting the world of
Artists with your Bullshit.
And buy more chewinggum, for Christ's
sake.
Somewhere in Bavaria
I remember a funny situation. I'm at this jam in a friended Berlin house (Zehlendorf district), and we play like crazy, making really sick noise, really sick, like we were summoning a dusty Babylonian deity. Two beautiful Spanish girls sit upstairs, and I think the noise started annoying them, since one of them actually walked down into the basement, looked at my friends (Germans) and said something in Spanish. They all stopped playing, and all you could hear was my Hamer DuoTone bleeding like fuck because I figured out, hey, I don't understand Spanish, so I don't give a fuck, but one of the Guys says "Stop playing". I asked him "What the fuck did she say?" He says "I've no idea, but it sounded like murder - let's go upstairs and have some drinks".
I remember a funny interview from
back in 2015.
"How do you call your music?"
"Eternal
rozpierducha."
"What does rozpierducha mean?"
"Oh,
it's a Polish thing, you wouldn't understand."
This jam
has a very interesting background. It involves 2 French dancers I met
at a jam session. They wanted to buy cigarettes, but on the way to
the store, which took 20 minutes longer than it should they decided
to "take a musician home". I guess they never spent a night
with a guitar player before, as they were quite surprised by the
arpeggiated foreplay that lasted 4 hours and included Jimi Hendrix
showoffs, flamenco idiocy, and, finally oral practice on the frets.
After all that silly shit, one of the French girls, I don't remember
their names says "play something sexy", with an accent that
could drive Keith Richards even more nuts than he already is. So I
said, yeah, my first Woman taught me this song in bed, you'll love
it. I disappeared for 2 weeks that night. Gotta love jam sessions!
I remember a funny situation. Once I had an argument with my
wife, as usual when we talked art. So, I walked out of our apartment
muttering "bitch" under my breath, ignoring her screams
that could be heard in the entire block, and went straight to my poet
friend to get wasted on Jim Beam. We got triple wasted, cause we had
3 bottles. But, I figured out Wife, being a legal psychopath, would
kill me had I not returned home for the night. So, totally trashed, I
return home at 2:30 A.M., and think to myself, "I'll try to be
kind". I open up the door, and just then a pair of 5 inch heeled
black leather boots misses my head at full speed by about 5
centimeters. I never sobered up as fast as that day. Lesson learned.
It was all for you, Madeleine, now it's all for the Girl of
the Road. Have you met Her? Somewhere in Bavaria...