Hallock Hill

Master Musicians of Bukkake, “Circular and Made of the Earth,” The Visible Sign of the Invisible Order (Important 2010 repressing, originally issued by Abduction 2004)

The idea of slowing all breath down to near nothingness save a sync with ebbing thought, tending towards thoughtlessness. Unison of voice and carriage, tone drawn together, and apart, safety in each.

The fan oscillates, wind blows the lilac bush outside. Cold inside and scorching out, but here without climate, sound overtaken. The fern undulate beyond the glass. Leaves wisp.

If I planted a seed in my mind would it grow, and if more seeds what garden could I make to tend. I will take care of it and it will take care of me. You might say my broken train of thought is what this is all about, and it a glue to remake me. Who will not say that might be so, or wish it otherwise?

______________________________________________________________

The superb liner notes:

“An opening gong signals the interface between collective ceremony and individualistic expression. This is the surviving carnival of creation from the frigid nights beyond a blistering hell to come. Out of neccessity, a pack of wild solo predators assembles for the purpose of creating a larger and much more efficient hunting party. Creatures of like minds produce unlimited energy fields largely uncontrollable yet focused on an elusive chasm between desire and need. The choice is clear: Predator or Prey. By scattering the collective into individual identification snares, wardens of hypnosis domesticate confused souls relocating them to dry islands of servitude or stark pastures of the harvest. Bloodline or benefits claimed by slave masters and their operatives are not sufficient justification to remain among their rans for all wardens and their masters will be eliminated by a billion ghosts sailing the winds of death when filthy truths are revealed.

These songs were siphoned from flying graveyards and fed through fiant funnels as navigatory spirits and sprayed in the haunted outskirts of behavior and its rickety platforms. Spreading as aggressive invasion in a mist of self-motivated obsessive defense mechanisms, this anti-virus of sparkling plasma glows as illuminated orb amdst the enemy’s elite shadows of deceptive, inferior energies which continually pollute the dimensions of all accessible realitites. Within this illumination are gateways to new realities where the enemy fears to tread.

A clever, weirder America is on the rise. One that won’t give up their guns or their souls to the agencies trained to occupy them.Those who can speak outside the language and direct energy on the inside are the only valid resistance to the creeping tumors of controlled humanity. Conceptual movement, intellectual logic, and “reasonable alternatives” are not factors in decision making. Decisions are instantaneous judgements as perfection. The deciders who used to roam the universe in large numbers are almost extinct.

The Master Musicians Of Bukkake are among the last bastion of entities capable of deciding which vapors of truth shall manifest and who shall breathe these truths.” Alan Bishop December 2009

Image via Important Records. The Master Musicians of Bukkake at MySpace.

Mike Shiflet, excerpt from split LP with Keith Fullerton Whitman (Amethyst Sunset, 2010)

At the very top of the tree some small bird perched alone. Wind makes sound and often gets louder the more one hears it, crescendo, an orchestra tuning up gaining focus. That bird. Too many leaves. What part of a tree is hollow? Or hallow?

The bird blurred a line from there to the small fence next to the lean-to where no one almost never sleeps. Save an occasional bat. It has been a hot summer with endless days of rain, just a few hundred miles north of the city island, century’s boat just found there, skeletal hull linings bearing time and life. The skyline’s gone but the port is open and people are still sailing.

A cricket relentlessly embraces the heat with drone, pitch consistent but the wind and distance deflect it and it bends. The pitch twists. It pitches. Like the boat, despite the boat’s growth into the earth, the earth’s growth into sky. Someone said that if the sun had hit the wood it would have immediately disintegrated.

As things grow silent the bird still flutters. Twittering anew against the cricket’s field. They both relate to their distance. A shape persists in the sky of clouds and rocking tree tops, which though they always seem to be there show different colors every day.

If the bird closes its eye, will it still see the shapes, and what spots of light will splay across its darkened screen?

(Limited LP release. Find it directly from Amethyst Sunset or Mike Shiflet.)

Side 1: Keith Fullerton Whitman: live analog synthesizer
Side 2: Mike Shiflet: live guitar and oscillator

A follow-up to yesterday’s reaction to Keith Fullerton Whitman’s side.