This guy just set the world record for being the object of the phrase “crazy asshole” in as many different langauges as possible over the period of nine weeks.
I kinda like that.
Not Friends of Dean Martinez, not Morricone Youth, not Ghost, and not even Calexico have been able to update Ennio Morricone’s best work (Giu La Testa; The Mission) and retain the psychedelic atmosphere and compositional sense and intelligence Morricone usually offered. Grails must be listening to EM, but also to John Fahey (who doesn’t), Can, Mermen, Einsterzende Neubaten (sic?), Hawkwind, all sorts of obscure late sixties psych shit. Come to think of it, Grails’ 2006 odds and sods collection Black Tar Prophecies wasn’t half bad, either. Surprisingly, Pitchfukk has slept on them, entirely, at least evinced by a search of their site.
In other news:
The new Cocorosie album is unlistenable. I never much liked them anyway, but ouch, this would be a career-ender for prouder musicians.
The first 100 pages of the new Pynchon might be a Saul Bellow homage/send-up or some sort of attempt at an alternate-universe Bellow. Me likey.
Grand Central Publishing (AKA Warner Books) just awarded a 1.25 million dollar advance for a book about a fucking cat who lived in a library in Iowa. Jamie Raab, Grand Central’s publisher, is quoted as such: “To me it was just about how animals can bring out the humanity in us, and I loved that,” she said, comparing “Dewey” to books like “The Bridges of Madison County” and titles by the novelist Nicholas Sparks, all best sellers for the publisher. “It was one of those books where I thought, ‘We know how to sell this.’ ”
Of course you know how to sell it, Ms. Raab — especially if you’re also one of those semi-literate shitheads who believe animals bring out the humanity in all of us. I got a proposal for you: a cat lives in a slaughterhouse and gains a taste for prime rib after licking blood off of his whiskers for 19 years. Or better: The secret cat-mascot at Guantanamo. Heartwarming. Or: A dog is locked into a bomb shelter with his survivalist owner, who dies of a heart attack, and the dog starves to death because he’s too stupid to eat the man before relatives find them; meanwhile, he recalls their wonderful life together.
Animals have nothing to tell us about ourselves, except when they eat, kill, or fuck, three things they perfected long before we walked on the show. Everything else? Like God, love, or humanity? We invented it. Animals like us because we save them the trouble of hunting.
My back hurts.