BED OF DADDLE/ ANDREW DRURY

Text by Jonathan Vincent, images by Richard Bergeron.

People keep eating!  Did the stream of gong mucilage slather onto the pot of fire in our face?  Why on earth does the food enter our lives the way we expected it to go into mouths?  They mince your words upon a carcass, scribbling names to identify and thereby make words like when you hear it, you stand inside of it, but it’s not you.  If you beat life into anything, then you’ve invented the world, but why?  The world was made, and you ate a portion of it with instruments attached to your sensation, but why get excited about it?   Despite what they say, I’ve found so many reasons to love you.  Every space within the mesh your skin makes me want to make myself clear to you.  Not like Tom Cruise, but expressed with every possibly tiny gurgle you’ve ever imagined and still in liquid form!  Take a long breath out, until you have emptied, and swallow, then take a bite.  You can sit in chairs now.  You have smelled your first pot of fire, and let’s talk about it!

BED OF DADDLE is…

Michael Evans (above)(drums, percussion)

Gordon Beeferman (above)(piano, synth, organ)

and ANDREW DRURY (solo percussion)…

Some more, or only one, a person.      

FIVE DOLLAR FERRARI/ YOLT

Text by Miriam Atkin, images by Richard Bergeron. 

Dual CD release party for two strange armies backed by the Prom Night record label collective.  This evening was organized by Brad Henkel, billionaire industrialist, conductors’ liberation activist, and innovator of steam-powered steam engine manufacture.  Five Dollar Ferrari and Yolt have been found guilty.

Five Dollar Ferrari (Brad Henkel, Dustin Carlson) makes machines to count the bubbles in your boiling blood.  Heavy duty trumpet bubbles and one missing guitar.

Yolt (Nathaniel Morgan, Dave Grollman,Weston Minissali) does its own exercises right between your thighses.  Up in your limns.  Riding the Tijuana rails. Fundamental downtown sound bringing you the holy motion.

and guests…

Papacookie Flight of the Fancypants: RIC ROYER’S DESPAIR/ALEXANDRA KALINOWSKY SINGS SCHUMANN/ENID ELLEN

Text by Miriam Atkin, photos by Richard Bergeron

This was great because the Belnord management had just issued to all of the doormen a shoot-on-sight mandate for Jonathan’s guests.  No joke! It was posted at the security booth that morning, with a minimalist-type artist rendering of someone who looked just like me—tall, black, with a perfectly round head, nice-broad shoulders and no hands—circled in red with a big slash cutting right though my middle!  I felt this picture stood for all us creative geniuses the world over: oppressed, shadowy, midnight men with inky outerspace where our bodies should be, aiming to answer the nothingness we find at the core of being by turning it into something. And we’re cool so long as there continues to be a whole lot of nothing, but then the powers-that-be are all smiling good naturedly at the avant-garde saying “isn’t that something?” and before we know it there isn’t anything left for us at all. 

But we made it.  Not one shot fired.  Our enchanted attendees were ether itself, wafting through the filigree of the Molten Gates of Something up to Our Heavenly Lord Cookie and in the end the gatekeepers had an uneventful evening.  Which brings us to the night’s theme: ghost bodies. 

 Ric’s oral transmission of the weeping willow’s rheumatism after which we all coughed and slouched in remembrance of when we used to believe that love had anything to do with the living. ( below ) 

Alexandra’s heartbreaking nod to both Clara Wieke (via Schumann) and the ghost of Theodor Uppman, our original Cookie, with Johannes Brahms in the background. (below)

Enid Ellen’s pale and sandy oceanic tones washing up on a misty morning alongside the mother’s body in a whale carcass; glowing angel in a fish. ( below )

More images of the sacred entities that were not harmed by the gate watchers.  We love our guests, friends, newcomers, and hosts. ( below )