Intergalactic FM, and, Orient Express

Now – that was a moment to be heard.  One that restored to full power, my faith in the radio station that once was the CBS – the cybernetic broadcasting system, and is now, Intergalactic FM.

The track Orient Express, a song written for a presumably Italian 70s rock opera, by the remixer-re-recorder’s father.  The track won the contest.  About a 1:100 chance.  But he won.  Based on the votes by the members of the intergalactic collective.  But it was a amazing moment.  For two things, first, the uncanny fact that it won, and the even more uncanny fact that the DJs could not believe the back story on the track, at least, it sounded as if they were checking their own pulse, to make sure that the excitement that they shared in was true.

After 16 hours of on air contest time, and countless more hours spent collecting the first 100 tracks, getting everybody together, the tension was high as to see which one would win.  More refined, smoother, housier, more disco-esque tracks were played, more industrial, more darkened drum-n’-bassy tracks, but none would conquer the elegiac “Orient Express.”  Obviously, the registered listeners and I shared a similar happiness as one posted after the contest was over, *This Reminds me of the old CBS days*

This was indeed, the first, or second, I’m not sure, time the Demo Contest had been held.  Usually it was the new-years count down, which I was not informed of this last year, in fact, I skipped it, because of the sheer pain of missing the old Cybernetic Broadcasting System.  They were gaudy, loud, 70s, 80s, 90s, 2000s, campy, x-rated, horror-ific, steeped in coffee and fog, druggy, sober, slap-happy and seemingly could shrug off any criticism by simply yelling the word *ROBOT* out loud. They even had a sexy *Robot Player* that danced as you streamed the station.

But they were always, and have always been, reggae-soul-disco-house-techno-italo-fan-tastic.  Too cool for the likes of everybody who wishes for the smooth-over-produced sounds of the clubs, they sampled Star Trek, Taxi Driver, and Scarface, and ride the Netherland-ish line, keeping a sense of chaotic order that can only be described as Cybernetic.

To hear about them and their death/cred, check out http://www.splicetoday.com/music/west-coast-knows-how-to-party

And so, when the Cybernetic Broadcasting System died, a part of me died.  Nothing sustained me but their strange spaced-out ethic, their un-ending tribute to music which can only be classified as that which pushes forward *The drive of life* and their respect for artists on the basis of the context of the times in which their tracks were released, put them close to my heart.  Pure energy.  Plain and simple.  They’d drive you high, space you out, and then keep you going with some deep techno or house, none of it cheezy, unless it was meant to be.  Their rainbow colored “CBS” logo and Dancing Robot gave them the flair of finally taking to the nerds out there the pride of a clandestine liberal politics which was only mysteriously re-enforced by their eclectic and esoteric taste in music.

But more than anything else, it was that driving, perhaps violent sense of humor that made them precious.  To hear a CBS Top 100 year end countdown was to be blessed with a real DJ, playing tracks that, when good, were truly gems that you would never be exposed to without the link of a human, or the CBS.  For all their robot rhetoric, they were commenting more on the medium of sound production — their medium of transmission.  Nonetheless, their sound and live broadcasts were infinitely personal.

Their main DJ, was titled RobotDJX.  What MORE can you ask for!? The pseudo interaction of normal Dj listerer relationships was subverted.  Now, listeners not only had a DJ, they had a super-robot that sounded just like a real DJ.  Their system truly was *systematic*.  This was fun.  Anytime you wanted an escape from the earth bound reality, to the freescapes of Pan-European and Global Listening – centered around something where you found people who wanted more life, out of their beats.  Sometimes they got it wrong and ended up sounding like can openers, for sure, but, for the most part, they were making the party.

Literally, nothing else can give you disco like they do and keep you in the year 20xx.  Rooted firmly in tradition, and in outer space at the same time.

Which, is why 2009 was a fundamentally important demo contest year.  The Sci-fi sybollic importance of the 20-09 years. 2099, 2999.  Hell, even 1999, made it into sci-fi movie titles for a while.  Back before the internet reminded everybody that historically 20 years is a short time span.  Some great apocalypse was bound to happen.  One that would shake the bones of the dead CBS from the Intergalactic FM radio station.  And it did.

In the year 2009, a man from Malta won the contest, on his father’s track, made for a Rock Opera, in the 70s.  Yes, a ghost from the original past to which the CBS, and intergalactic FM, and bring down the house.  Operatic, is indeed a very good way to describe his track, *Oriental Express* which sounds as if it came off of the Vangelis soundtrack, with a little bit more swing inside.

Arriving, back home

this could be the last night on the Orient Express

arriving, back home.

The sound of the locomotive was clearly evinced in the beat and the pacing of the percussion, which, in turn, is where the track so much resembles the soundtrack to Vangelis, on top of this, a trance crescendo from some synth that I cannot as of yet describe, and in the end, it was pure cheese.  But the good kind, that means to be cheese, and bring tears to your eyes.

This track literally rose from the dead – as did the CBS.  Recently, the Cybernetic Broadcasting System was re-instituted as Channel 4 on the Intergalactic FM.  Which, perhaps, was another cosmic sign marking the arrival of more slow, synth, juiciness.  The tension when the moment came, when they felt a winner had been found was wonderful.  Nobody could identify the author of the track.  In fact, he was mis-identified, and then, the tension rose, as during the playback of the winner, the announcement was made that it was not their accountant Hans who had made the track, but soembody else.  Hans was nothing but an impostor, incorrectly given the title of winner by the DJ rude 66.  Neither was it Taro.  And finally, after asking for calls, the winner, called in.  It was Rudi.  And they finally had cheers around the room, when it was found out, that he was from Malta and could be properly identified as the winner.

He had entered another track, “Miami Girl” that had also placed within the top 15.  But the track that used the work of his father, won.  To have this tension, the tension of the false victor claim a prize, even if this was not due to his own circumstances, the drama of the pretender was there.  The lie waiting to be stripped away to reveal the truth!  Ah-ha! Yes!  It is Rudi! From Malta! With this legendary track from the past, to come, and save us, in the future of 2009, to restore what has been taken away, to bring back life, to what had already passed away.  Tears, my fellow listeners, tears, for his triumph, after the demo contest marathon.

And what else is a 16 hour demo contest than a marathon! A great trial, to let us know of the battle waiting to be won.  It is only the beginning.

To the IFM and Rudi! A million thanks!  I can gladly say that the maddening bliss of those post 9-11 days is back in this, 2009, the first post-9-11 year.  Disco will keep terrorists in check.  Have no fear.  The decade of anthems that decry anthems that become anthems to dreams that once were anthems, that still are, is already here.

http://intergalacticfm.com

The Limits of Control – A look.

Well, here we are again, Jim Jarmusch, and me, thinking about the realm of silence.  The only time that you get the absolute stillness of his films, is in a dead body.  And that is what he is looking for. 

 

Perhaps the only valid criticism of his film “The Limits of Control”, is that despite is reaching for the essence of life through it’s an assertion of it’s negation, is that he only managed to get some of the vibrancy of existence.  If you ever see a corpse, cold from the freezer, painted in gay colors of somebody you have known, then you will know what he is getting at.

What Jarmusch came to tell us is the line, “The one who thinks that he is better than the others, he should go to the cemetery, to see what life is: It is a pile of dirt”.  The easiest connection to this scene, when every time it is mentioned I remember the opposite, the singer in Television’s “Marquee Moon” who says, after visiting the graveyard:

Well, a Cadillac, it pulled out of the graveyard…
Pulled up to me, oh they said, “get in, get in.”
Then this Cadillac, it puttered back into that graveyard,
Me, I got out again.
I’m in the high point of my life,
I feel so impressive,
life,
All this time with the Marquee Moon,
but I ain’t waitin’,
uh-uh.

I remember
how the darkness doubled,
I recall
lightning struck itself,
I was listenin, listenin’
to the rain,
I was hearin’, hearin’,
something else……

—Hearing something else.

“Drugs?”  A diva once told me when I told her of this song.  Drugs. Yes, while the song is reminiscent of drugs, maybe there is something else, some silence, some stillness some consistency.  Silence, as spoken of by Batlthus.  Consistency, as spoken of as the basis of the Dao.  Hearing one thing, and it’s shadow too.  Seeing one thing, and dancing blue.

—The main point of this discussion being that indeed, Jarmusch is bringing something to life.  But, his main problem lies in his choice of music.  Dramatic and large, and overbearing at times, it’s meant to inspire the indie-drama of recent years, in it’s most blatant and syrupy form.  A form that was brought about by Radiohead and countless electronic pioneers who work distortion into lounge guitars, horns, with a quasi-bossa feel to them. The music was not bad, but it did not necessarily bring the film to life as it should have, as the flamenco dancer in the film does.

–Yet, what the movie does prove is that death and the underlying sensation of the meaningless and ridiculousness of society does exist, and yet, most journalists are afraid to touch it.  The reviewer from the NY Time’s didn’t mention it, viewers did, but the reviewers didn’t.  Showing that Jarmusch still has the ability to throw a black hood over them, and scare them into their defensive critical mode.

–It was during a search for a review that may was supposed to reconcile my consideration of this film, and how to interpret it’s direct assault on the absolutely typical conclusions made towards daily life, when I found that this ultimately satisfying, yet frustrating aspect of the film was completely ignored.  It is Jarmusch’s most brutal attack on the social ego, and the ego’s only defense was to ignore, or to pretend that the attack never existed.

–Which, is why the beauty of the internet is seen, to show at a moments notice, what I understood internally watching that film.  An exercise in self justification?  No - If time is spend in consideration of the direction of life there really is no more self justification, because what is being justifies transcends mere egotistical existence.  Frustration becomes fuel, bliss, a moments reward for the reaffirmation of a cosmic unity that penetrates all.

–Despite an addiction to information, there is still an intuition, a constancy, upon which it is built, and the longer one practices thinking, this mode becomes accessible.  With so many singular items of information available the forest is easier to see, as is the promise of the internet – shared intelligence.  My joy is, that despite the ways in which information is used badly, the ability of seers and listeners, and feelers to discuss their insight, to conclude that those feelings, intuitions, sensations, are, in the first place, more valuable than the information. 

This is where I feel joy, that people will only re-affirm their intuition.  That it will arise despite any technological uses, and that, now, that technology and information are more prevalent, it should encourage people to feel more.

“réalité est arbitraire! “La vida no vale nada!” says Jarmusch.

Memento mori, say the wise.

Remember your life, we all say, or wish to say, but sometimes, we don’t say it, as we should.  All those moments of alienation, of being separate from body and soul, or feeling nihilistic at the prospect of things which make humans happy.  Love, sex, life.  This is a feeling that exists, but it is a poison.  Jarmusch, in the end, makes one only hope that he is commenting on the poison, not attempting to be the poison of nihilism that is affecting everything right now.  Nihilism
towards capitalism, nihilism towards life, nihilism towards nature and faith, and science, too.

The problem, and the greatest risk of Jarmusch’s film is it’s association to this alienating nihilism.  Of an arbitrary reality, that is arbitrary to the point of madness.  Reality is not arbitrary, and their is consistence in the universe.  If you do not think so, merely watch….anything related to self-organization….as a
principle that hints to the fact that the sum, may be indeed greater than the whole of it’s parts.  Of course it is, that is life.  And the only way to approach it in it’s totality, is through an admission of a lack of control, or an admission, of history.  To divide the world not into arbitrary sections, but to treat is as one, undivided whole.  To see beyond the myth of incremental, developmental increase, to see the entire symphony of life, without separating it in terms that are merely self serving, or convenient.  This is challenge, where interpretation and acceptance, are arbitrary, and those are the terms of life.

Sounds of the day.

So, new sounds. Sound comments?  I’m not sure about that.

The Wii has great sounds.  Whoever figured out how that system should sound should get an award.  It makes the machine feel right.

Also, there was the sound of bagpipes and drums today on 3rd or 4th avenue for St. Patricks Day. The sounds of Anthony B about a week ago were absolutely amazing.  Like hearing one of those club reggae records, live.  His show reproduced that sound impeccably.  There were no errors, no faults, pure energy.  To be honest, he had more energy to his show than David Byrne could muster at his, at the Benaroya Hall. You can see at the venue, the Columbia City Theatre, that the place was made for non-main acts.  The kind of second-stage acting that comedy gets aside from Drama.  It’s a truism, if you give comedy the same stages as the dramas, they become serious.  The stage sets the tone.  But for Anthony B, his show rocked me enough to keep me going on only 3 hours of sleep.  Seriously, if you ever here the fly girls from Kingston sing out, if you ever hear the bass player, the keyboardist, the drummer, set those Reggae tones on fire, you feel alive again.  And, for his show, he truly deserved a serious stage. Reggae can remain pure, even on a stage set for dramas, the love and peace of reggae does transcend typical, categorical binaries.  I would pay to see such a show…

But, this city, for some reason, makes me think of Jean Cocteau’s comparison of Paris and Vienna.  He called Vienna a city of sound.  As opposed to Paris, a city of eyes.  Accordingly, the air here is so light that it seems that it can accommodate a lot of sound.  Is it possible that this lightness somehow empties the air of sound?  Whatever it is, the city welcomes sounds with a constant feeling of quiet.  Almost celestially so.

Geographically, Ballard, however, has a buzz to it.  But Squire Park and Lake Washington do not.  For some reason, Belltown has a Buzz to it, too.  Downtown/Pioneer Square has a dual drone/siren aspect. Wallingford, a horn.  The U district seems to be screaming.  For some reason, Leschi seems to be incredibly loud, almost like the deafening silence of a Jarmouch Film.  Out by Rainier, Jenkins Park, you get the feeling that asphalt rules the waves….not a good sign.  Perhaps that’s what’s going on in Ballard too.  At least people here seem to have ears.  Perhaps that’s why the musicians stop by.

Speaking of sound, and sinus issues, it seems that the aspect of breath worth focus and control is the exhale, according to a tai chi practitioner I met over the weekend…  I can imagine that when one exhales correctly, sound can travel smoothly through the head to all parts of the brain, instead of sticking inside of some shallow depths of the ear canal.

But today, rain again.  This near silent rain.  Just enough to make things peaceful again.  There is something primordially soothing about this slow and calm rain that happens so frequently here.  As if the water itself was not in a hurry to reach the ground.  Water always goes to the lowest point.  An inch of water can hold up a battleship.  The wisdom of Tai Chi is also the wisdom of sound.

Sound-off?

Well, here we go, the sound files of the century have arrived. If anything else they should somehow try to prove that audio, as it is, is an aesthetic, as thick as the paint on walls, or the smog in LA. Around, everywhere, penetrating everything. Tesla thought the world was just one big vibrator, of sound, that is, and well, he was probably right. So, every once in a while, I will sit from my post out in the -ether-net and send something down the pipeline to those that know the way here….

So, I leave you with the question, what sound does your head make? When you hear nothing, when you’re in the midst of silence, and you hear some ringing sound, what is it? High, low? Just what is that? And well, when does it feel the best.

Right now my mind feels like 10,000 unanswered questions ready to come forward, one after another, waiting for the pure ray of light to touch down.

Here we go.

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