At dawn I consider
a year of considering.
This that this that
Job to job to job
Standing in a room with people looking at me like I’m the teacher
I don’t know enough
I babble babble babble
And what do they learn,
These staring people?
And how they give me their power
Filtering by Tag: Cabildo Quarterly
okay?this poem is a plum treeevery time I write a good line, it getspoached for another poempalate a painterdabs colors togethertransfers to canvas, a landscapethere’s no shape here, only gaspingthere’s no gasping in poetryif only I were getting too old forthis…
Gnards: “Deep” (https://gnards.bandcamp.com/)
Because I know these dudes – and know their pedigree – it’s easy for me to talk about where they’re coming from. I mean, if you know Pete Camerato, chances are good that you’ve seen the guy perform dressed as D. Boon in his long-running band…
Demeter and Persephone in Odessa, Missouri
My momma said all she needed
after her man took off
was a sack of dried beans
and plenty of split wood under cover.
Then I came squeezing through
the difficult dark, too sick to cry
and hot as rolled-up rags the midwife
A Dream of Books #2, by DJ Frederick
The way it used to be is the way it still is, at least in the case of DJ Frederick. By ‘the way it used to be’ I mean a strong connection through shared interests, rather than a tertiary interest and ‘yeah, I (saw/read/heard) that’ about everything, every…
Just in time for tomorrow’s reading is Cabildo Quarterly issue #6, early spring 2014. With new poetry by Bruce Pratt, David Lawton, Karen Lye-Neilsen, Kathleen Ellis and Leonore Hildebrandt, and new fiction by Jeffrey Schroeck.
I tried everything in my formative music years. No, not like that – get your mind out of the gutter. What I’m talking about here is styles, genres. My fanzine reading, the real entrée into punk rock, was as broad as I could make it – it was cheaper, after all, to read zines than to buy records blind as we waited for bands to come to New Hampshire (or tried to bum rides to Boston). Sometimes it was consensus amongst the swath, or sometimes it was some trusted arbiter throwing out a recommendation. Get burned a few times and pull names from the list; hit a few out of the park and keep reading.
You know it goes: listening, after a time, becomes vetting. Screaming no, time changes yes, melody please. The sweet spot, the wheelhouse, is hard to pin down, but it’s there. Or was there, anyway – the very specific brand of band that makes me sit up and say “this is exactly it,” I thought, was exclusively a thing of the past. Or so I thought until this band Minutes blipped across my radar screen. Goddamn.
The specifics of what makes this band so good are many. This is cerebral music, certainly, but the band is unafraid to wear many hats: “In Your Own Fuel” is a straight-charging, four-on-the-floor pounder, all party rock and cymbals, widened in scope by dual vox and a subtle guitar line sneakily snaking behind it all. This duality is at work throughout the rec: Minutes knows, and loves, the vocal trick where the sung vocals are deadpanned while the backing vocals are shouted, behind, in a higher pitch for extra emphasis, as in “Boxes.” “I’ve Learned To Roll,” manages to play simultaneously languid and taut thanks to a guitar line which wouldn’t sound out of place on the Instrument soundtrack. “All Is For The Best” feels like Sonic Youth suddenly unconcerned with distortion or alternate tunings. And “Raise Our Fists Up!” Seriously one of the songs of the year all year: anthemic without being an anthem, tight dueling guitars forming notes where there are none, and that abrupt end, another trick the band knows and loves – get in, say it, and get out. (Minutes – get it?) If you hear some DC in your Kalamazoo, you’re right, as Ryan Nelson, he of Most Secret Method, one of my favorites, is here.
The only negative here is that the band has been around for a while, and I missed them. Don’t make the same mistake.
Michael T. Fournier/cabildoquarterly.tumblr.com
What is Happening?
on seeing the work of Daniel Anselmi
It is a picture of your life.
It is in this room.
It is not the heart of the wind in sweetest May;
It is not the old light of merry Vienna;
You are not the hero.
It is lace, manufactured in Boston.
Their account book had pages like that.
Moss paint from the bridge you see Thursday afternoons.
Cabildo Quarterly online: Review: [alt] 3.3, “Horses In The Library” by Kyle Richmond-Crosset, and [alt]: music 1, Kyle Stuckey on Kendrick...
“If found, please read,” says each installment.
That’s the big crux in 2013, isn’t it? Not the work, and not the availability of the work, but the availability of all the other work, the barrage of information all the time on our multiple screens. So much information follows the law of…
Nurses Who Love English by Paula Marie Coomer
Paula Marie Coomer is a nurse and writer who uses poems as balm. Her latest collection of poetry Nurses Who Love English gives a diverse coalescence of lyric story and song: a soundtrack to a personal history that traces American landscapes of…
Getting The Mail.I have seen see her at the Post Officewaiting to sign for a package,buying a page of stamps,or hunched down in the lobbystruggling with her box key.Once when I offered my help to wrestthe tangle of flyers and bills from her box,she said,…
I’ve never thought of Eric Richter—he of Christie Front Drive, Antarctica, the 101 and Golden City – as a dude concerned with chops, or fidelity. It sounds like a knock, but it’s not: in the case of Christie Front Drive, easily my favorite mid/late-nineties emo band, the rudimentary…
“Snake Pit Gets Old” (Birdcage Bottom Books)
Since 2000, Ben Snakepit has been drawing a three-paneled comic strip a day, chronicling his life, diary-style: he plays in bands, drinks too much, works a job he alternately loves and hates, draws himself as a giant turd on…
He called you Alex.
He’s the supervisor who asked you
to read poems at a holiday party, then said,
Don’t get too Black with it. Your name is Alan.
He was light enough to pass,
had a gray high-top fade
and, on Fridays, wore his leather
“Road Dawgs” jacket.
You could see where the wings hit,the prints they left in the soft snow, & the holeswhere the claws thrust deep into the snow,where the talons caught & held & killed.He sat for many days on top of the pole,looked asleep as he sat in the cold gray light,strange to see, an owl by…
Death, if you bury us
It will not be a hard and dry abyss
But a soft depth,
An immense profundity!
If you are, death,
like a black subterranean summer;
it matters not, in you, that the sun falls
because the night is beautiful and clear!
I’ve caught so much shit from the older generation for writing an installment of the 33 1/3 series on the Minutemen. How could I possibly know what it was like Back In The Day when I wasn’t there? The simple answer, of course, is (and always has been) I have no idea. All I know is “Double…
Cabildo Quarterly online: Playing the blues to overcome the blues: Eric Green Interview Interviewed by Lisa Panepinto
Playing the blues to overcome the blues: Eric Green Interview
Interviewed by Lisa Panepinto
For a .pdf of this interview go here: http://pdfcast.org/pdf/an-interview-with-eric-green
Eric Green is a blues, swamp, funk, jazz musician & Maliseet and Penobscot…