...One of the implications of the increased interhemispheric interaction in mixed-handers is that it may give such individuals enhanced conscious access to right-hemisphere-based processing. It is well established that the right hemisphere is superior at processing nonverbal environmental sounds. This may help to account for the wide variety of nonverbal environmental sounds that permeate Electric Ladyland, from the sound collages of ‘… And The Gods Made Love’ and ‘Moon, Turn The Tides … Gently Gently Away’, through the use of a home-made comb-and-waxed-paper kazoo to augment the opening guitar of ‘Crosstown Traffic’, and the frequent presence of guitar and microphone feedback in songs like ‘Voodoo Chile’, to the mysterious underwater chime-like sounds during the guitar solo and bird-like sounds at the very end of ‘1983 … (A Merman I Should Be)....
University of Toledo psychologist Stephen Christman wrote a pretty interesting paper about the creative advantages of ambidexterity. The original article is 16 pages long and free to read here if you read too much nonsense like me. Right here is a pretty smart summery as well. It's pretty interesting thought to turn over though. Sports is the first thing that comes to mind when you think of the two handed advantage. The link between the different sides of the brain probably reaps a more colourful advantage in music though. What the article totally discounts is drugs, which is nuf said in my book.
The worms of the senses ponder quickly towards destruction. Winning is not everything but in our elitist competitive society it is all that matters. Rice cakes for the people and caviar for the leaders who built our world around machines, money and matter. We were left out of the plan and our destination is set by the used car dealer or the factory boss. Bored we walk home with our heads hanging and our creativity stolen as an effect of capitalist gain. In a dream state there is nothing more than simple abstraction of the mind from the matter and the belief that work will somehow “macht frei”...
Turn the knob and wait for the liberating sound of ecstasy and revolution. Who pays the newsman and who owns the radio stations and who runs the record label? Who benefits from the de-politicizing in art and music and who benefits from the clean sound of the next pop wonder? Who runs the game show and who pays the salaries to the reporters? Here and now we offer you a taste of our liberation frequency, provided by us for your satisfaction and excitement. This is radio clash, 33 Revolutions Per Minute, our haven of thoughts and ideas. It could be yours too, if only you’d let yourself go and turn the knob and listen and love and sing and think.
Stuck by the deadly rhythm of the production line. Stuck by the conditions set by the capitalist market. Stuck by the necessities of living and forced to take part. If we are tired it is because we are supposed to be and if we are hungry it is because we have to be and if we are bored it is because it is expected of us. Bored and chained and stuck and dead. New forms of work camps are arranged and new ways of hiding the monotonous beat of slavery are being presented. The preliminary condition required for propelling the workers to the status of “free” producers and consumers of commodity was the violent expropriation of their own time. The spectacular return of time was made possible only after this dispossession of power. Urbanism is capitalism’s seizure of the natural and human environment; developing logically into absolute domination, capitalism can and must now remake the totality of space into it’s own setting. Time, work, environment and joy all have their norms set by modern ways of production.
The youngster touches his poster and glances upon the stars and the heavens. The day seems neverending and there is a certain notion of innocence and childhood play. The mantra will be repeated and we will learn to obey and love and cherish the chosen few. Manners inconceivable and then we have to live. Ideals corrupted and echoes from the past about ideas once held true are shining like untouchable constellations. But we are all stars, shining and burning, cruising down the highway looking for the next stop and the next break from capitalised boredom and slavery. Then there is the option of summer holidays vs. punk routine. Then there is greed and money and fallen heroes. “We are all tired of dying”. So why not try and live for a change and turn that glimmering into bright shining creation through the realisation that you know everything and that you are you?
Must I paint you a picture about the way that I feel? This situation of Art vs. Life and the present elitism within the bourgeoisie and upper-class. The critics hold their heads high cause they know about the real suffering and the real work while we get the easy accessible forms of communication and entertainment, pinned down simple for us to comprehend. The lack of stimulants within art, politics and life lowers our standards which is why we settle for talkshows and MTV. We are not stupid, but if we are treated like ingrates we will start to act like children. The lack of challenging forms of expression and thoughts of fire and self-confidence gives us a passive and hollow nature. So reclaim art, take back the fine culture for the people, the working people, the living people and burn down their art galleries and destroy their fancy constructions and buildings. Cause we, unlike the bourgeoisie, have nothing to lose and therefore our expression will be the only honest one, our words will be the only challenging ones and our art will be the one revolutionary expression. We need new noise and new voices and new canvases to become something more than the last poets of a useless generation.
The credentials with which we call upon you are simple linguistics thrown and tossed liked flaming songs of discontent. The Refused party programme screams out not 1, not 2, not 3, not 4, not 5 but 6 opinions and 6 structures of change and 6 levels of liberation. All in all not mystical but direct and attractive and as we shout “Yeah” you’ll feel the same sensation best described by Tomas Paine: “Let them call me rebel and welcome, I feel no concern from it; but I should suffer the misery of devils, were I to make a whore of my soul...”. Here and now and all the time the mythical touch and the obvious message. Behold the wisdom of the party program. Pro (in favour) – attest (testify for). The time is now and still we sit and wait for it to become the now that we think we need. The movement of protest has strong traditions and we are far from the first to recognise and use the power of the song and the words from the young poets. We are trembling from the taste of days gone to waste and there is inspiration and there is clarity. Phil Ochs stated firmly “If I have something to say I’m going to say it now” and still protest song 68 is nothing more than a pastiche, a blueprint of seduction of the echoes that once filled the corridors of dorms and boys/girls rooms in an era where rebellion and revolt was present in art and music. From the first until the last, from the taste of longing freedom to the shackles of oppression, the weapon of the artist has always been used.
Refused are fuckin dead that’s what the answering machine said, looks like this is it!!! They talked one to many shit about the upper-class and the government, did you hear what those faggots said in some fanzine someone else read. I heard they are a bunch of spoiled little rich kids who need to get their asses kicked. Fuckin ingrates! Fuckin pussies!! Refused are fuckin dead guaw huydsas kjhds aowedde (fighting sequence). Refused are fuckin dead by order of the postmaster general just like the panthers only this time for real because SAPO have tapped their telephones and the Umeå police raided their homes and they must have been killed.
Are you ready baby? For the shape of punk to come. Get the equipment together and we’ll meet at the show. It’s gruesome that someone so handsome should care. We all recognise the hint of the programme screaming at the top of his lungs that “We’re all dressed up and we got somewhere to go”. Like the rebellious swing kids of the 40’s or the crazy jazz heads of the 50’s to the stylish mods of the 60’s we all need to recognise that style in contradiction to fashion is necessary to challenge the conservatism of the youth cultures placed upon us. Strict in our style but with a touch of elegance and freedom and individualism. The uniform and the production of constructive challenges comes in the most unexpected of shapes, Ornette Coleman reinvented jazz altogether and we need a new beat to move to so grab your partner and ask: Do you want to go out with me, watch me get on my knees and bleed? This blind date might take you to places unknown and it will be new and scary and vital. But nonetheless there is no danger in exploration and searching. It never tasted this great to scream “yes” and you never had more enticing cavalier to hold hands with. The new teen hysteria of noise and kisses and politics and crazy entertainment and naked fun and beats and books and poetry and travelling and style. It’s never been safe to live in a world that teaches us to respect property and disregard human life. So drop your belongings and get on this soul train, dig the static sound and think that maybe this once there is just us, the kids, playing the day away, it’s just us kicking over statues and smashing windows of houses of parliaments, just to show them who has the real power. This blind date will take us anywhere we want.
A dream only lasts so long. Imagine the pyramids inhabited by aliens and the dark corridors and the dreams and the longing for a better condition. The sweat pours down your neck and you run and you run, heart beating, head pounding, alive tonight. The streets never sleep, they are glowing, vibrating with the echoes of laughter and joy, screams and curses. We just need to take the time and see what it can offer us and how we can break free from this boredom that the capitalist reign has forced upon us. Tonight we can be as mighty as tannhäuser and we can tumble excited down the labyrinths and the turns knowing that derive` is potent. So where do we go from here?
The Apollo programme was a hoax or so we say. The biggest lie was market economy that blinded us with the glory of prosperity and freedom. The deck was dealt and we all lost, on our knees in the dirt hoping for salvation and then we look and there are golden drops of dawn functioning as oral sagas, keeping us shackled, making glory of the lies that the spectacle provides us with. So as we sit tight and enjoy the soap operas that are designed to keep us bleeding out of our eyes and keeps us nodding and sighing, there is still hope in the petrol bomb and in it, the revolution. For in the destruction and the overthrowing there is a certainty of salvation. We need to destroy the museum and it’s old artefacts, we need to tear down the power structures that enslaves and then in revolution we can live and be alive. Yes, this is our hymn and our praise to the brave and bold stranger in the night, to the fed up worker and the angry wife. Hope, revolution and dedication. Fight fire with fire and everything will burn. Yeah.
Despite its unorthodox speed-meets-weed compositions, the self-titled cassette [Banned in DC] was essentially a sonic pamphlet for the group's increasingly extensive PMA philosophy."We're the thinking man's punk, so we know our message is that of peace and love and Positive Mental Attitude. That's what we really stood and stand for. In music, we have a background of progression. When I imagine a riff, it's like a big wall falling down. If I pick up my guitar and I say to myself, 'You sellout,' then I say, 'All right, watch this- this is a song about sellouts.' And from there, my imagination will let me create, from my musical experiences, what a sellout introduction riff is going to be. I guess that's a blessing that I have, and me and Doc and Earl and all of us together, that we're able to do this.
Western played Houston at home the other night and it was a wrestling match in every aspect until the end, when it suddenly turned political in a moment of moral vulgarity. The snow started falling in droves right as the sun set and the whole town immediately iced over. Walking to the game, you could slide threefold for every step taken. My buddy Joe and I showed up at halftime to avoid a fee and we parked ourselves in the middle of the arena. Western games are well attended by the community, which is funny because the community is mostly elderly in age, but hardly in spirit. The black Cadillacs and Lincoln towncars with the white leather seats were hardly deterred by the weather, like most of the demographic would be, thanks to tire chains and the twenty minute pre heat of the car after dinner. The arena was lively inside. I had no idea it was white out night either. The game was tied at 42 at the half and the grudge match continued when the clock started back up. I settled down and tuned in to make sense of the happenings. Houston has a guard that's currently the nation's leading scorer at nearly 25 points a game and he was Zen with the ball in his hand. Slow motion, in complete control, not expending more energy than called for, enlightened, blessed with the inward eye, he commandeered every aspect of the dharma's hoops spectrum. He could create his own shot with ease and take it strong to the basket, with a momentum that couldn't be stopped simply by a much larger center's presence in the paint. Probably won't make it to the NBA because he's undersized by NBA standards, but the guy still played with his heart on his sleeve and had nothing to lose-everything to gain. Houston was big and they flexed it mightily and Western is skinny and they took it gruesomely. By neither luck nor fate, Western still was still in the game because Houston couldn't play team defense. They swarmed the ball like mad but completely fall apart after a dribble penetration. And that's exactly what AJ Slaughter does so well. And with Anthony Sally, the senior point guard most responsible for Western's offensive woes this season, out of the game, Slaughter touched the ball every possession and made the offense happen. It's relevant to mention that the referees had been calling a whole lotta fouls all night long. No one important was out of the game, but there were three keen sets of eyes acutely tuned to the action happening and nothing was slipping past them. Holding fouls off the ball , three second violations, a broken rule was not to be missed. The combined factors mentioned above set the tone for the end of the game.
The end came down to the wire. With under a minute left, a prayer of a three pointer and a steal at midcourt tied the game up at 72 and Houston's main man hustled the ball down the court with 20 seconds remaining and the shot clock off. Everyone in the gym was on their feet, hollering. The guy dribbled near the halfcourt line. Slaughter was guarding him. All the Houston players were on the low block or the deep corners, spreading the defense out as far as possible. He finally made his move with 8 seconds left, feigning right but crossing left to find an angle. There wasn't any. He pulled up in front of his bench and shoot a off balance 23 foot shot that would have been a terrible look for anyone else but him. It looked good but for but a moment. It bounced high and came off hard near the free throw line, where it was scooped out of the scrum by Houston, who dribbled once and forced up a floater. That's when the whistle blew. More than one. I saw the the black ref near the scorer's table signaling that it was an On The Ball call, nonshooting violation which would have given Houston the ball near the halfcourt line with 0.02 on the clock. Pretty much game over. But that didn't happen. When he called the foul and signaled for it, he was facing the other refs with his back to the Western bench. The Western bench was heated. The coach was far on the court with a water bottle in his hand. He obviously thought they called a shooting foul. So did the rest of the gym. In slow motion, the black ref turned to the scorer's table to call the foul and that's when Western's coach threw his water bottle back at the bench in anger....
Stop. Let's consider the powers at be, here in this matter. Western's coach is in his second year and has struggled more than expected this year. They are 19-14 with a younger team, who's captains are juniors and seniors looking to step out of the shadow of success set by their previous teams and finally make a name for themselves. They have won big this year, beating a solid Vandy team in Nashville and lost dumbly, mainly at home vs MTSU, which hasn't happened in over 20 years. Western really needed a home win. For morale, confidence, help the coach's job, help keep spirit up on Bowling Green, the list goes on. More benefit would have been found in a win than in learning to cope with a loss. A loss would have dug the hole exponentially deeper. A dirty loss, at home, would be a twisted, cruel insult to an undeserved injury.....
....at the bench in anger, which was immediately spotted by Eagle Eye calling the foul, who didn't hesitate to T the man up. 0.02 second left, technical foul, two free throws, game over. You just gave the game away. The players' effort were essentially rendered nill, as they didn't decide the outcome of the game. I was already in overdrive thinking of that call's ramifications, when the notion of survival instinctively took over. Folks were livid. Old men were letting the finger fly. Their wives furiously waved their jackets at the man. I passed a cute mom, short and blonde maybe forty, with kids no doubt packs lunches before she runs, probably teaches Sunday School-looking Mom yell "Mother FUCKING SHIT" at the top of lungs. That tore me up a little bit. Meanwhile, Joe was loving the violence that was on the cusp of happening. State troopers lumbered onto the court in front of the student section, naturally the most temperamental party represented. The PA system was reminding folks that THROWING THINGS ONTO THE COURT IS NOT ALLOWED. The air was think from fumes of anger. Bad vibes abounded so we split.
What can be learned from this episode? One might say,"Yeah but that referee was only doing his job. How can you fault him for that?" The fact that the referee did exactly what he was suppose to do is the heart of the problem. How can his decision to follow orders, call the foul, and give the game to the other team be seen as the moral thing to do in that situation? Would he have made the same decision if he would have been aware of all the variables at work? His perspective was strictly limited to the black and white scope of thinking. Thrown water bottle = technical. One plus one will always equal two. For some people the world is always Either Or, never Both And, especially considering morality. I believe the moral worth of an action is determined by its outcome and that referee should have let the game play out in overtime. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to justify anything in particular here. But that game is a fantastic example showing how breaking a rule or not following a direction sometimes is the moral act to do. And that's if it contributes to the greater good of the world and the overall harmony of mankind. The players should have been the outcome's deciding factor. Who knows what though? That night, half the crowd wanted justice and the other half wanted blood, everyone wanted a direction to point their whole lot of frustrations in and no one really knew what was going on. Joe and I left in a flash on to more important matters to deal with, happy with not knowing the little details of the matter. What we did have though was a pretty good idea.
It would be easy enough for me to hire somebody to write "The Ballad of Shosanna" (the heroine of "Inglourious Basterds") if I wanted to, but I don't want my choices to hit the nail on the head. I want them to be glancing blows. The second-generation quality about it makes it more resonant. You're watching that scene and you're hearing the lyrics and you're actually surprised at how appropriate they are to her story. In its own way, I think that makes it play even more like interior monologue. I (played) it on set when we (filmed) it. That's always really cool to do -- you can't do it all the time, because you're probably recording sound at least half the time -- but what's really fun when you do it is, not only do the actors respond to it, the whole crew responds to it. It's like they're watching the movie as we're making it. When you actually play the soundtrack and you can sync something up, the crew gets a glimpse of what the movie is going to be like, and it just thrills them.