IT’S TIME FOR AMERICANS TO FULLY ACKNOWLEDGE THE LIKENESS BETWEEN THE INCREDIBLE HULK AND PRIS STRATTON.

Imagine Dr. David Banner tripping along dystopian urban streets in the year 2019, which was not so long ago. Coincidentally, it’s the Los Angeles of Blade Runner, a city with 106 million people, most of them cavorting-about with their spacey umbrellas perpetually sprouted. There are talkie-ads the size of skyscrapers and flying cars and embittered replicants, artificial people who intend to visit some voracious vengeance upon the malevolent corporation which designed them.

In this future, the camera follows Sean Young, Rutger Hauer, and especially Harrison Ford. (“Harrison Ford?” says Dr. David Banner.) Yes, Harrison Ford, which is really aggravating, so Dr. David Banner hulks, his mouth agape, his eyes resembling the green of lightning. The buttons on his shirt pop free, one at a time, and he shreds the legs of his blue dungarees to inhabit them perchance as a perfect pair of cutoff jeans. “Rawwr!” he says.

By now, Dr. David Banner hulks every fifteen-twenty minutes. So much so, the makeup artists tire of scrubbing off the green pancake, and slopping it on, scrubbing and slopping, until it’s just Lou Ferrigno walking around as an ill-clad drifter, a kind of Mr. Green Universe Meets the Crowded Indifferent Future of California. There’s no more need for Bill Bixby, who is seen smoking apple tabac and attending dubious matinees. His anger no longer matters; he’s cured of his gamma radiation overdose.

When all of a sudden, Lou Ferrigno espies Pris Stratton, a basic pleasure replicant who could be The Incredible Hulk’s spirit animal. They are both pancaked, they are both raccoons, they are both shorn in the same shaggy hairdo. Pris is really Daryl Hannah. She dunks her hand without pain into water that boils a dozen eggs. Perhaps she desires a magnificent sprawling omelet, the ambient heat of the whipped eggs and southwestern ingredients. “Rawwr!” goes Lou Ferrigno.

If Daryl Hannah was capable of love, then she’d have already crushed Harrison Ford’s face between her thighs, his head bouncing down the stairs like the meatball in the spaghetti song. We know more about the future than ever before, and it continues to predict the demise of Pris, kicking her legs and howling for help. The Incredible Hulk trudges toward a second transformation, green and dumbfounded, and in that way, Lou Ferrigno resembles all of us, trapped in the lonely squalls of our acrimony.

too futuristic? see super secret project

the doctrine is IN.

The rapper reveals his sensual exploits in S & Eminem, a Yo Yo Mah Jongg film. Perhaps he was “cup-holded” in a previous relationship, you know, forced to watch his partner place a beverage into a strange receptacle. Or perhaps he developed sympathies for the captors who kept him hostage in a warehouse—he might’ve suffered from Stockroom Syndrome. Do you know the hip-hop poet, Eazy-e.e. cummings? Well, L.L. Cool J. Edgar Hoover Dam!

We say “patty wagon” because in the beginning of law enforcement, only hamburger makers were thrown in the back of the van. Did you know that the cops can invoke “Search and Caesar” and thereby confiscate your salad? The Chinese, meanwhile, will be catering the next solar eclipse with their cuisine, Dim Sun. Before that happens, you should go see the new episodic play that focuses on Native American deified spirits—The Kachina Monologues.

Listen to the editor, when the editor sez: “I smell errata!” He may be suffering from a Chagall stone in his De Gaulle bladder. Humankind emerged from the ancient goop to primordial ooze and ahs. Thirteen deer are a hunter’s venison whereas every bird is a moderate, owing to its left and right wings. Chickens are always being forced to re-coop their losses, while turkeys are on the rise—and on the pumpernickels. I saw it on that TV show, Slaw & Order.

Thinking ahead, the husband and wife planned their funerals: his and hearse. Afterwards, they watched a triple X movie about double-entendres: Read Between the Loins, a Yo Yo Mah Jongg Film. Here are your messages. The crunchy sixty-something called you back—yeah, the baby boomer rang. Whereas that Australian toy you chucked at the far horizon, that didn’t return? What a bummer-rang. Lodge a complaint with the Obscurity Exchange Commission!

Was it B.B. Q’ing who sang the blues and ate the barbecue? (He’s back on line, he’s B.B. Queueing, for some more saucy meats.) Okay, okay, I’ll mind my appeasements and queues. The mafia are now predicting the end of the world, or so sayeth the Cosa Nostradamus. If you can’t honk there’s a product—“Honk Ease”—that should help you honk, whether or not you’re brightening your coffee in Half & Halfghanistan.

SONNET NO. 2 (FOR CLARICE LISPECTOR)

The young woman’s whereabouts involve snow: seeds and dots weltering in halos of oily water at her shoelaces, which go boot-over-boot down the embankment to lengths of wintering scrub. “Garvey’s Ghost”—the bitter sweet percussion—starts on her earbuds. Her red hair clipped and chipped. The railroad tracks offer a north-south corridor between shallow wood where the wind can scour the poor footing of coarse ballast, culvert quiet and quiet akimbo. She had walked, once, through the pre-lightning metals, the stackable shoulders of a buckled housing distant, until she had lain down in a cemetery, long enough to be missing. A group of firefighters in t-shirts, heavy pants, and suspenders had discovered her, fetal, amid the irrational angles of the headstones. They had carried her (it only took one) (at a time) through a bright precipitate, and among the elevations and lift, she caught the slanted medallion of a fuselage in blue-gray suspension. Trumpet, the train drives through the wake of its own trumpet, the heralding, itself, always irrelevant.

There is little time to spread her arms in benediction as the locomotive—speeding, bright, juiced by catenary power—illuminates the regret of her body, organized forward in recognition of terror. Thirty minutes later, the train brakes, shrill, to a clatter, before the incongruity of a brief reversal, the passengers wakening to a small station, quiet akimbo. Abbey Lincoln had been guiding the musicians with the swells of her wordless voice, and the young woman must’ve deduced, “No, it’s good to be cold, it’s good to be cold,” before the engine’s number, 900 series, screamed beyond the glint of her good, cold, living eyesight. The conductor will fumble but save his coffee, the train will move, people will move, and isn’t that why she had protested in the first place, as the song clanged in her earbuds? Portraits will always decorate the hollows of a living room. They will always decorate fewer hours of dusty light.

also see

sonnet (for clarice lispector)

MOUSE DON'T RIDE THE SUBWAY.

Starring:

Little Blue Mouse

Setting:

Red Line

Wash., D.C.

Director:

Blood And

Length:

1 minute

Advance Praise:

“No mice, no dice! We demand umpteen equity rodents now!” —Critter Twitter

“The sensible reaction in the D.C. subway system (is to run!)” —Espouse Mouse

“The mouse sizeth-up. Ye shall know of my great benevolence.  ” —Mono Deity

Also see:
A Ring of Fire
Dan Gutstein Speaks to the Cat
Send in the Burgliz!

MICROPHONE MAYHEM: MY TWO MONTHS AS “WORDS” AMONG THE EXTRAORDINARY MUSICIANS WHO FORM THE HETERODYNE MUSIC COLLECTIVE.

Falafel Sandwich Induction Ceremony

I first witnessed Heterodyne at St. Stephen’s Church (D.C.) last October. The band had appeared as part of a “punk rock benefit” to raise funds for a worthy social services organization. In addition to core performers Ted Zook and Maria Shesiuk, four other musicians had arrived to swell the band’s membership. A landscape, a tableau, a panorama ensued, and the bandmates climbed around in that scaffolding without compromising the ethos of ensemble cohesion. They listened to each other. I listened to them listening to each other. I wanted in, and after enduring a grueling application process—just kidding; it mostly involved lunching on a falafel sandwich in Baltimore—I appeared with Heterodyne in early November.

How I Violate the Band’s Basic Premise

At a minimum, Heterodyne performs as a duo. Ted plays basscello and Maria plays Moog synthesizer. Anybody who they invite to contribute as a guest performer, can contribute as a guest performer. The band might feature three (we three performed at the Lutherie in Baltimore during my inaugural appearance in November) or it might feature as many as seven. There are no “tunes,” plural. Each time it plays, the group creates one original, improvised, continuous song that it does not—cannot possibly—rehearse. As “words,” I arrive with prepared texts, and in this way, I violate the band’s basic premise, even as I shuffle the texts throughout. To recite from memory would still violate the premise and to speak extemporaneously would terrify everyone. 

Maria and Ted

The Heterodyne Sound

Maria builds a city at every engagement: a grayscale terrain filled with partial signage, the simultaneous focusing and unfocusing of ideas, and an invigorating sense of desolation. (Too, the moonlit curtain of possibility hovers throughout the fluidity of this terrain.) Enter the guests—Patrick Whitehead, Leah Gage, Doug Kallmeyer, Amanda Huron, Sam Lohman, Bob Boilen, and Sarah Hughes—who inhabit the space that Maria has built, in phrasings that mesh the truest experiments of the American idiom. The dot dots of the trumpet, the murmurs of synth, the horizon of strings, the indivisible odds of percussion, and the undeniable impulse and curvature of the saxophone. In particular, the women of Heterodyne have really astonished.

                                                          

Ted Zook

Ted, of course, contributes mightily to the Heterodyne sound. He begins, he presides, he saws away, he fingers the strings, and he, quite importantly, offers us all a thoughtful level, when we take a moment to repurpose. He rudders, he nods, he does and doesn’t conduct(s). I’ve known Ted for many years, and his stature as a Great Musician and a Gentleman cannot be underscored enough. Ted organizes the group offstage. He keeps Heterodyne swimming in gigs. He “porters” a generous aesthetic that empowers the collective to search. And when I say “porters,” I am punning a little bit on one of Ted’s other well-known qualities—that he arrives at each performance with, and hauls, and installs, and debugs a considerable amount of gear! 

Heterodyne at Dew Drop Inn, January 18, 2018. L to R: Ted Zook (basscello)

Amanda Huron (percussion), Maria Shesiuk (Moog), and Bob Boilen (synth.)

What We’ve Learned As a Band

Individually and collectively, we say “Coltrane” far too often for it to be a coincidence. This—cross-genre collectiveness—is the future of all things. During our two-month stretch, we appeared at ten iconic venues, including An Die Musik in Baltimore and Velvet Lounge in D.C., but our performance at VisArts in Rockville may have been tightest. We have invented many, many meanings of the color “preternatural.” Personally speaking, I didn’t do my best work. Too often, I read whole pieces, when I should’ve stuck to scraps and syllables. I can, however, write for a band like Heterodyne. There is a new kind of integrated art possible, and as someone who has searched, for years, for community, this realization may (literally) save my (literary) life.

Coincidentally, Heterodyne Is a Poetry Term, Too

Nobody understands the “poetry heterodyne,” and thus, it sits dusty in encyclopedic spaces. Purportedly, dear reader—purportedly!—the poetic heterodyne occurs when a physically shorter syllable receives stress (or pitch change) ahead of the physically longer syllable. (So sayeth the Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics.) It’s not half-mad to think that way, in “telling it slant” (per Dickinson). The better-known definition of heterodyne involves the creation of new frequencies by combining two frequencies. I have seen that firsthand in Ted’s and Maria’s partnership, only they are taking it further, in combining as many as seven frequencies all at once. I am very grateful they allowed me the opportunity to add my frequency to the ruckus.

Recordings & Links

Recording at VisArts, 12/1/2017 

Recording at Rhizome, 12/14/2017 

Recording at Velvet Lounge, 12/22/2017 

Recording at An Die Musik, 1/11/2018 

Recording at Dew Drop Inn, 1/18/2018 

Heterodyne Tumblr page 

Heterodyne Facebook page 

this post is part of a triple issue.

Also see: Sarah Hughes

Also see: Joy On Fire

THE SARAH HUGHES SING SONG TRIO CONQUERS “LET’S COOL ONE” AND OTHER JAZZ CLASSICS.

The Sarah Hughes Sing Song Trio at Sotto, Washington, D.C., January 25th, 2018

After wrangling my way into the improvisational group, Heterodyne, I’ve had the great fortune to befriend several musicians I wouldn’t have otherwise encountered. The first day I met Sarah Hughes, she invited me and a few others to an impromptu jam session in her apartment on Maryland Avenue in Baltimore. Some highlights included Sarah playing flute while riding a stationary bike, the arrival of Corey Thuro and his electric mandolin, and a personal moment during which Sarah and I discovered an owl living in her kitchen tabletop. Also present were Heterodyne core partners Ted Zook and Maria Shesiuk. (For this gathering, it can be said that I bongo’ed rather incompetently.)

I have performed with Sarah several times by now. At Heterodyne shows, we are usually situated next to one another, and it has been momentous for me, to be arranged beside Sarah, who is a keenly intelligent, considerate soul, and who is wildly talented. She is the reigning best alto sax player in the D.C. area, as proclaimed by the latest Jazzies Awards. In addition to sax, Sarah also plays flute and clarinet, and sings, and scats, and projects the fabulous melodies of her voicing. Last night, I caught her for the first time as leader of the Sing Sing Trio, which features Steve Arnold (bass) and Jack Kilby (drums). The Sing Song Trio played a host of jazz classics—Monk, Bird, Ellington-Strayhorn, etc.—with such affection and energy that when Sarah crooned “You Don’t Know What Love Is” she must’ve been speaking to those out of earshot. The audience, meanwhile, fell in love with her quickly and “maaaadly.”

Unless I’m mistaken, Thelonious Monk first recorded “Let’s Cool One” in the early 1950s, on Blue Note. More than sixty years later, Sarah and her bandmates easily resembled a trio of Monk’s era. A song that builds, “Let’s Cool One”—akin to another Monk tune, “Evidence”—could have invented bebop all by itself, if called upon to do so. It was compelling to watch the Sing Song Trio navigate through an intricate Monk composition, especially as all three musicians experimented in the middle of the tune. A lot rides upon Sarah’s shoulders, if jazz is ever to regain a percentage of its former prominence, but as last night demonstrated, she is more than capable of “cooling one.” Her choice of piano-less trio resembles Sonny Rollins, Joe Henderson, and Ornette Coleman, and she’s as good a saxophone player as any of them. Let Sarah cut a slew of 45s, jam at Minton’s (so to speak), and become the High Empress of Love, Saxophone, and Jazz Trio!

More:

Sarah Hughes web site 

this post is part of a triple issue.
Also see: Joy On Fire

Also see: Heterodyne

JOY ON FIRE INVENT THE BLURRY BOP DRIVETRAIN—“HEY, HEY!”—THAT PEPPER ADAMS, THE STOOGES, AND GRADY MARTIN WOULD HAVE FORGED, HAD THEY EVER (IMPROBABLY!) CUT VINYL TOGETHER.

Joy On Fire perform “Hey, Hey!” live at 

The Crown, Baltimore, January 14, 2018.

Hard Rockin’ Trio

I had my bones blown backward by Joy On Fire when they shared the stage with the improvisational group I belong to, Heterodyne, at Baltimore’s famed music palace, An Die Musik, on January 11th of this annum. Three scant evenings later, they played their scorching piece, “Hey, Hey!”, a second time, as we shared the stage at The Crown. Let’s get a few things straight, straightaway: Joy On Fire swings HARD. It’s rather immediate, what they do, onstage. Try to categorize them, if you dare, but they are producing outstanding music that defies classification.

Call ‘em What?

Joy On Fire describe their sound as “punk-jazz / fuzz-rock.” Just imagine the baritone sax of Pepper Adams grinding away throughout the Mingus album Blues and Roots, and the implacable cascade of The Stooges as they crush “I Wanna Be Your Dog,” and the inventor of fuzz, one Grady Martin, and his guitar, playing “The Fuzz,” with chorus and orchestra, on Decca, 1961—all of this compressed into a present-day trio. “Hey, Hey!” builds, circles, honks, hammers, rings, and crunches something fierce. A magical moment transpires when Anna Meadors (bari sax) shouts “Hey, Hey!” after John Paul Carillo (guitar) and Chris Olsen (drums) return from a rest. Get it?

Fire with Fire

Their new album, Fire with Fire, is available from Procrastination Records. It unfolds as one cohesive document even as individual numbers distinguish themselves. Joy On Fire enmesh their considerable threads of influence. They demonstrate copious ensemble. We have always wanted to experience this music, but couldn’t demand it be played, because we couldn’t articulate it in advance. We must worship this band by driving up and down a sleepy street, windows unrolled, stereo full-throttle, scotching the complacent dreams of many good people.

More:

Joy On Fire web site 

Procrastination Records web site 

this post is part of a triple issue. 

Also see: Sarah Hughes

Also see: Heterodyne