And we’re back, with a bird-filled assemblage of tunes. Check it out over on Bandcamp.
The first single from The Plural Muses’ forthcoming EP, “famous last birds”:
Please follow us on Bandcamp, where you can stream and purchase our music.
This is a perennial question among guitarists, this business of fungal ambience. I don’t fight it, I go with the flow, I write what I hear and then upload to Soundcloud.
Follow me there!
I love this 5-min video by Serbian multimedia artist Miloš Tomić. Like John Cage, he hears the music in everyday life. What to some might be an annoying racket is transformed into a celebration of banging, clanging, guitar tuning, and impishly drumming on every dang thing in site. Check it out here.
A new ambient track… A mostly restful dream in a shaded glade. The “trolls” yelling section is played with the Jussi vocal synth.
O my foregone conclusions, O my
ache of Spain, you’re gone
lay me low old Queen Coal: I thought
you would linger, Renee. Face
darkens under skies torn asunder,
I wear your foot-a-bed stockings
like a lace bandage and sniff
at the rain as it begins to fall.
Bayard St., San Diego, c. 1987
Sometime in the mid-1980s, Don Colvin (1960-2014) sent me this poem. I’ve given it a title and, because Don wrote in an architectural all caps hand, used lower and uppercase in the idiosyncratic way I think he would have liked. On the back of the sheet of computer-printer paper he wrote, “If you publish please refine, rewrite, and edit freely.”
Joe Cocker, Out on a Beer Run
by Donald Colvin, Jr.
It feels like I want to write like the singing
Star Joe Cocker’s yogurt-like, satiric-commemorative, residual latex type rendition of: Consequence, the Remaining Imbalance. Never, Have I heard of that.
I’m sure about one thing about Joe Cocker, that I cannot share.
No other time ago, the Poems were gone. None had been seen or heard from in some time.
The people (Poems) could not stand still for this. They cried out, “We must find them!” And went about it.
It started, well, like a scream, knowing all along that it would be like a scream, but all the while pretending to be one. It wasn’t a scream at all. I twas a force we resist, and stare at each other for. A force we have, still.
The colors streaked past the frightened faces, repelled by their acknowledging expressions, free to soar past in a glancing represent sweep.
“Love to!” The Shrieked and Sped by the mirror of a local sunset.
It feels like Joe Cocker came by, while I was making a beer run. It isn’t the same as when I left.
Here’s an ambient guitar track I just recorded.
My lover, Linda, and my brother, Don Colvin, are both dead these years now. But I just discovered this! I’m pretty sure the initials “L.D.M.” are for Linda Don Colvin. This pen sketch, then, c. 1981 in an old notebook of my horoscopes and songs, is, I think, a marriage of Don’s and Linda’s vision of “A Place We Might Like to Live.” Something the three of us, close as thieves, thin as a Bose-Einsteins condensate, chewed on constantly.