Burning Witch - Crippled Lucifer
June 27 2008 at 09:15:35 AM
SOOOOOOO. EWE THINK. I’M WHEY-STING MUH TIIIIIIIIIME.
Fuck the fanfare. Fuck the history. Just try to suitably remove yourself. I’ve tried. All I can do is think of anything other than what’s charging out of the woofers. All I can do is think of how
Towers is one of the most hermetic musical documents I’ve ever heard. But really, you can do it. I’m a goner. Try to think diagnostically. Abstract way the fuck out of private mentation. Ponder, contemplate, fuckin’ ruminate. Think of thoughts, second-order thinking. Think of koans. How they are devised to shock someone out of his or her current frame of mind and turn him or her towards thinking about something “useful.” A koan is to shock the mind. Privy to all psychiatric hocus-pocus. Tricks of the trade. Purposeful designs. Patterns rendered in speech imbued with missionary zeal. Ain’t NO different with the Witch. Sonic symbols of birth and death. Ephemera: forests, waters dead. The crusted, brittle skeletons of birds, dogs, infants. Sound that strives for the sun. The stars. The moon. Etc. Really. Purpose and Strength. Ja!
Yooooou miiiiiiiiiiight beeee shouuuuuuuuuuuuuuul. Shouuuuuuul ennnnnn tooooooow. Edgy 59’s vox as so many canopic jars surrounding the body of sound. Tilting a mess of organs into their wells: liver, pancreas, the lungs heavy with tar. A heart. A brain pulled from the nostrils. Sliming out an infected gray. Swaddled in gummed linens. The face plastered with mud. Mud, that’s right. Why build so high, when they should have been tunneling, burrowing like an armadillo in the conchita’s garden? See how the ants do it. A hump like a dirt tit, and below a splintering nervous system of tunnels. Valves greased with their reluctance to stop. Their tubes like ventricles, thumping blood and life and motion over the heart of the Queen. The great lascivious larva, a primordial prophylactic brimming with Yes. Her crown the spittle of labor yoked ‘round her base. The Witch did it like this. A squirming wooden pew frowning under a smear of deacon farts. The lumber stamped with the puckers of their holes. Collection plates circulating as junky needles. And the organist plays on. The bells of Notre-Dame sway as the cross; a donging deeper than the Well of Souls. Their clappers so many hands of Pilate, wringing blood from their knuckles as slime from a bedpan. Psssseduo sep-ewe-cooooooo!
Wer, wenn ich schriee, horte mich denn aus der Engel Ordnungen? und gesetzt selbst, es nahme einer mich plotzlich ans Herz: ich verginge von seinem starkeren Dasein. A Figment. A Form. Smohhhhhhhhkh Filllls Theee Skeyeeeeeee / Thuuuuu New-clearrrrrr Winterrrrrrrr / Izzzzz Meathdone ceyeclonnnnnnnnnne...
My mind floooooows freeeee-leeeeee / On wings of fire…. Christ, I used to live with this guy—an aspiring TV writer. Motherfucker would talk during Law & Order, Hill Street Blues reruns. Ruined that shit for me. We’d argue. “Sure, sure, but that’s late night shit,” he’d say. “Televison is always throwing together these quilty narratives. Endings that ambush your mind.” His arms would fan about, taking flight. “They come right at you. Confrontational. And the real gold is where you get an audience that won’t spill. Tight lipped. The networks got six, seven, nine guys all writing the thing together. Real soldiers. They live together. Wake up to cold Chinese. Rectilinear boxes popping up like mushrooms. The rooms reek of mold. There’s fistfuls of greying hair deepthroating the sink, the bath. And these guys are poured over the kitchen table, cartons of generic cigarettes lit whole, meth, pills, someone knows a pharmacist—you know,” he’d say, smiling again. “And this ending, this distorted, wacked out, steroided Hollywood ending, comes back like Odysseus, hacking his way to Penelope.” That’s how I saw the Witch. This fucking nuthead sitting on a stained couch stolen from a roadside. Sitting there in a wife-beater and boxers, eating cold pizza and drinking Colt .45. Trying to talk me into packing a bowl just to make the madness stop.
Stuart Dahlquist says the Witch was always about drugs and booze and chaos. Shit, who am I not to believe him?
[Stewart Voegtlin]
RSS FEEDS
print
email
Sod all the nitwits who call you pretentious just 'cos they're too lazy to read you properly. This writing's perfect for this filthy stuff.
Yo, Grk! I can slice my own bologna. But, won't you join me for octopi & ouzo?