Plug In To The Low Anthem
‘This Goddamn House’ by Dan Lefkowitz
She left me here with breakfast in bed
Oatmeal with sugar and a hard-boiled egg
The note on the dresser said I’ll be back by three
I’m going uptown, did you need anything?
And don’t forget to comb your hair
I’ll be back by three, I hope you’re still there
Now the kitchen is empty and the dishwater’s cold
The newspaper on the table is three days old
I’ve read every book on the living room shelf
I’m losing my mind in this goddamn house
The Low Anthem’s sparse production is the perfect picture frame for this band’s strange and affecting music. Their emotionally-charged stories are deftly delivered in swaddling fok instrumentation — pump organ, piano, acoustic guitar, double bass, cornet, folk crotales, and especially Jocie Adams’ haunting clarinet. As lead singer, Ben Knox Miller expells his demons along with the words. Jocie and Jeffrey Prystowsky leave ghostly harmonies and instrumentation to complete the band’s original aural folk paintings.
I defy you to turn down lights in the late of the evening, put your head back, and turn on “This Goddamn House,” “Ghost Woman Blues,” “Charlie Darwin, “To Ohio” or “To the Ghosts Who Wrote History Books” without the raising of excitated goosebumps. The thrill that comes when someone’s music or other creative endeavor DCs with your spirit. Beyond music, it’s electric…a static ball, sparking the soul, not the hair. Like Voux Deux, The Low Anthem provide an outlet to connect.
Plug in.
Deep Writer
Hmmm…another reason to power up my iPhone? Mobile blogging! It may replace mobile Kindling as my new favorite pastime when I seek privacy. Of course, there’s the little problem of inspiration.
Mark Twain or Ernest Hemingway surely cleared their desks, found some fresh paper, and took to writing their great novels in a well thought-out process that demanded planning. Will this bit of extemporaneous, wide open, thought faucet spill of words mean anything?
Well, I’m already slopping up the screen with a readable font, so what hey! I might as well keep pouring them out, and see what happens.
The only issue that might make this a short story is my haunches. Writing in the privacy of my throne room makes them sore. But it’s not like I can just walk away; my legs are numb. “A Farewell to Legs?” Ugh! Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.
Who Is Making Music As Media Line Road?
You know this road from a lifetime ago. You walked it many times. You remember the faces. You join the ghosts of those who re-trace their steps along with yours. They smiled then and smile now. Your best friends. Your gym teacher. Your brothers…here and gone. Your mom. Your dad. Someone you used to love. And, Kitty. Do you even recognize the child you once were? The best friend? The boyfriend? The father? This old man? Garage music rides the wind even now. Ricky’s garage is a mile and 40 some years away. But, Linda still sings Never My Love. The needle rises and falls on the acetate. Yet, her voice is beautiful: what makes you think love will end? There was so much promise in a road that lay ahead of us. Still, the sun is bright today. The stars are in their places and ready to shine tonight. We can forget the moment and recall the steps to now. It’s alright, and it’s all right here on Media Line Road. Welcome home! (taken from MediaLineRoad.com)
It’s The Arts, A Pointless POV
It’s the Arts. Borrowed from a sketch seen on the very first Monty Python Flying Circus episode, “Whither Canada?” You can call me William Edward, Edward, or Ed. Just don’t call me Eddie Baby. And, don’t even think about Johann Gambolputty de von Ausfern -schplenden -schlitter -crasscrenbon -fried -digger -dangle -dungle -burstein -von -knacker -thrasher -apple -banger -horowitz -ticolensic -grander -knotty -spelltinkle -grandlich -grumblemeyer -spelterwasser -kürstlich -himbleeisen -bahnwagen -gutenabend -bitten -eine -nürnburger -bratwustle -gerspurten -mit -zweimache -luber -hundsfut -gumberaber -shönendanker -kalbsfleisch -mittler -raucher von Hautkopft of Ulm. Of course, you wouldn’t since he’s in a different Monty Python “It’s the Arts” sketch altogether. The point is that there is none. Instead, reading this blog should be, like life itself, preposterously random, rich in intrigue, 2000 light years from home of lonely, soaked in bitters, and nose-holdingly swallowed anyway. Something to while away the minutes in between the hours of the days of our lives.
we pierce iv 