This Recording


In Which We Go One Living Because It Is The Only Thing To Do
August 27, 2009, 3:03 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

Ladies and Gentlemen

we are for now and ever @

thisrecording.com



In Which A Lack Should Speak Louder Than Words
March 2, 2009, 12:04 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

alps_full_cover_328w

Image (Withheld)

by Jaye Bartell

The Alps
Brandon Shimoda
Flim Forum Press

(Get your copy over at the Flim Forum.)

NOTE: The blank squares accompanying each poem in The Handmaidens and Bridesman section of The Alps struck me immediately, fascinated and moved me to respond. The squares display vivid possibility, actualized by the writing beneath them, poems that are far more than captions. Possibility, in fact, is the prevailing sentiment I’m left with; there is much to discover in The Alps, and the squares serve as a kind of field guide. They at once refuse to be empty, or to contain anything. The slightest suggestion of an image, –gold / lightning struck / water–, and the square floods. Turn the page, a new square is presented, empty, simple, but vulnerable to the foment of cognition, memory, grasp, and total loss.

The presence of a blank square terrifies. It is end or, worse, beginning, and again, which signifies an end, and one come to nothing but the recurrent initial form.

1

The picture, implicit, brought forth, shown by the shape it would occupy if present, or leave as mark, if gone. Describe what could be seen within such a dimension. A poem, aspiring toward image, a presentation, cannot hide the strain caused by omission of the fundamental picture, of its basis. Nothing new can be said that would exceed the size of a postage stamp. The frame expanded, a life of days gain narration, new, because told anew. The frame expanded, just so, becomes a window, to see what may be all of it.

2

The image fractures when given to language alone, failed when words are sole mechanism, to restore experience to the blinded—it falters, gives only sound, the effect, what remained, after reception, and embodiment. An image seen, but so quickly passed from view, that even if photographed, the air is absent, missed. Toward what direction did it all tend, the now unapparent.

3

It will not. The dimensions, too variant; the sky that held the breaking, dispersed, as if a part. Fixity allows for the emergence of clarity—a beam, a fount, a shaft— from chaos. The hole, drilled in ice, a geyser breaks the punctured surface, and threatens reversal, of surface, that what once contained is no longer, and blurs. A line dropped, into the amorphous, filament, endless particulate, suffused to become element.

176063438_3e9113daaf1

shimoda (right) and frequent collaborator phil cordelli

In cold water, memory, languid, what passes among, objects once actual, become debris, of another, no longer possessed, but observed, elsewhere. What new image, to give form to voice, that recalls, and bringing back, sees again as, and not of, away, distant, what picture, correspondent.

4

Perimeter, both permits and forbids. There are only so many roofs visible from the window, so many arching bared trees, and the cars and lights, ephemeral. Value, defined: that it could have been anything, but was this, what took place, which had first to be made.

5

Memory, attempting. Looking, as light recedes and perception becomes its object, fade. The picture withheld, the risk, that all is false, that day and its weather. Were my hands not in gloves and those gloves not in my pockets, as now they are not. Am I at all, or have ceased. If not continuity, than at least recurrent, as in again and again, in myriad pieces of dissimilar snow.

6

The volition, frustrated, the violation, forcing ghost into body, a rehearsal of procreant need, against piety, that dares flicker when the darkening way struggles to preserve opportunity. We kneeled in soot, and in the morning, coughed, ash into the air, we must further live.

7

Out of phantasmagoria, a shorn plot, to let come what will and must. As if a clearing was all that was ever needed, to allow the story to determine its own course and contents. For once, a gap, uncluttered. Decimate the crowded halls, the stuffed frame, the heap of images, all existent color massed, black, in confusion. A small space but of enough dimension, backward, giving way, for the further image, what next comes to fill, and dispelling, leaves frame, for faces, hands, grasses, the time, all possibility, retroactive, to come again, but as unknown, emptiness given image, its truer name.

Jaye Bartell is a contributor to This Recording. He is a writer living in North Carolina. He blogs here.

poundhoppe1

“When A Man Loves A Woman” – Karen Dalton (mp3)

“One Night of Love” – Karen Dalton (mp3)

“Take Me” – Karen Dalton (mp3)

karen_dalton-237x300

PREVIOUSLY ON THIS RECORDING

Maybe I’m crazy.

I think you’re crazy.

Probably.




In Which CapGun 3 Chose Life And You Purchased It Immediately Because of This
February 26, 2009, 10:40 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

CapGun3CoverCOLORONLY

CapGun 3

The third edition of CapGun, the literary magazine/event of the year, comes out tomorrow. When you see it arrive in your mailbox you will have the closest thing to an orgasm that such a creation can trigger in the unsuspecting or suspecting recipient. We heartily recommend this third edition of CapGun as a gift for others. It can get you laid, and it will provide for the child that frenzied sex creates should you be so lucky. The cover is hand letter-pressed for christsakes.

What awaits you inside:

cgtoc31

Colophon Teaser: CapGun 3 was designed by Will Hubbard, and printed and bound in an edition of 250 at CapGun Press in Brooklyn, NY. The title face, Gotham, was created by Tobias Frere -Jones in 2000 to approximate vernacular lettering found throughout New York City. The text is set in Bulmer, which was used by John Boydell in 1805 for his famous, gilded, and financially ruinous edition of Shakespeare.

We rarely ask you to support This Recording, but we need your help now. Every issue of CapGun you purchase not only keeps this website afloat but gets you an enduring keepsake you’ll want to pass down through the generations.

We thank you for reading This Recording, and we ask that you prepare for your coming orgasm.

Alex Carnevale

Will Hubbard

CapGun3CoverRifplePlate

“Sad Days, Lonely Nights” – Spiritualized (mp3)

“Amazing Grace (Peace on Earth)” – Spiritualized (mp3)

“I Want You” – Spiritualized (mp3)

PREVIOUSLY ON THIS RECORDING

Where else you might like to submit your work.

Jackie Delamatre’s story from our second issue.

Bob Creeley’s poem from our first.



In Which We Walk In Our Mind And Not Through The World
December 15, 2008, 11:15 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

amonthormore

R. V. Neuman’s A Month Or More

by Will Hubbard

I am sitting in Gucci, a Midtown barbershop named not for the Florentine fashion icon but for Maritzio Gucci, the shop’s septuagenarian proprietor and sole stylist. Gucci is roughly 12’x12′ and boasts the striated green marble and mirroring of a men’s restroom in an opulent hotel. But Mr. Gucci, for all the glitz of our surroundings, is warm and gregarious, speaking to me of his notable clientele with the visibly conflicted pride of a child showing a perfect test score to his less fortunate classmates.

I am not here for a haircut. Instead, Mr. Gucci’s shop is simply the most recent attraction on my week-long whirlwind tour of the haunts and habits of novelist Robert Vernon Niman, or “R. V. Neuman” as it appears on the spines and dust jackets of his books. His latest, A Month Or More, is slated to appear in early 2009 and will, if we can believe the author’s cryptic musing from Mr. Gucci’s chair, “draw out something from the blood of this country that none knew existed before, either in violence or in love.”

rvneuman1

the author in Peru, circa 2003 (photo: Langdon Mackerley)

Niman is not an easy man to track down, and at 6 feet 7 inches tall, with deep emerald eyes and jacknifing black eyebrows crowned with grey, he is an even harder man with which to talk. Most days I have found him outfitted in a simple white polo, tartan wool slacks, and either a camel-hair or navy blazer depending on the ferocity of the early autumn chill. His cordovan loafers shine in even the lowest lights – “a man should wear cordovan, period” – and I cannot help but feel like his bumbling apprentice as I’m tugged into one Old Manhattan bistro after another.

But for all Niman’s warnings, A Month is not much of a departure in content or style from his previous efforts. The setting – as in 1994’s witty if oblique Honey, and 2003’s Stones In The Cellar – is blue-collar, south-east Bakersfield, California, the gritty neighborhood of the author’s birth and upbringing. The sentences are long but crystalline, beguiling as they are unaffected. One slips into the gnostic dream of Niman’s world as though the way has been lubricated: initial violence gives way to a resigned and fluid motion forward and down. “Your first fifty pages are like birthing a child, but after that, absolute bliss!,” Niman squawks in the high, mildly Southern and distinctly mocking tone of voice he often uses to parody his readers.

honeycomb1

Mr. Gucci trims Niman’s paltry tuft of bang with a surgical exactitude, the last step of what has revealed itself to be a rather laborious and intricate haircut. To me, the author looks more or less exactly as he looked before – vaguely aristocratic, detached but in control, intimidating as a lion. He has never married (“or divorced!”), and has lived the last two decades since returning from a twelve-year, meandering tour of the continent of Asia in a small but comfortable studio apartment two and a half blocks off Central Park West. He enjoys neither walking in the park nor going to the cinema, preferring to spend time between writing bouts aboard his tiny motorboat – named for his first novel, Nowhy To Run – on the Hudson. “The fishing was better when the river was a dump; now I mostly make large, irregular figure eights and wait for the sun to go down behind New Jersey.”

For the most part, Niman refuses to talk about his childhood in Bakersfield. His mother Cindy ran a business that supplied temporary catering staff to events in wealthy people’s backyards; the author’s one (and by his own reckoning poorly-researched) biography casts his mother as strong-willed but lacking imagination, pushing her son toward a career in the forest service rather than encouraging his obvious literary talents.

Nothing is known about Niman’s father, and when in 1995 an interviewer pestered him about the subject, Niman famously smashed his tumble of white-wine and Fresca (still his preferred drink) and began whispering a string of skittering negations – “Never… Not… Nil… Nohow… Non…” – that would obsess and frustrate critics for years to come.

Bakersfield Model-A Club, 1951

Bakersfield Model-A Club

Not wanting to add to the myth, I have skated the subject all week hoping for a voluntary offering. I am particularly interested in the possible relation of Niman’s father and A Month‘s fiery, winsome, and somehow blandly Protean protagonist, Marcellus, a paterfamilias a la Faulkner’s Sutpen faced with the task of retrieving his family’s good name after a spate of suicides, a child conceived by first cousins, and a massive wildfire that has completely destroyed the natural habitat of the winger-wasling, a virtually extinct and fantastically beautiful species of bird that drew, owing greatly to the oral lore of the wizened inhabitants of a nearby Native American reservation, the meager but steady tourism that kept his beloved city afloat.

Ironically, it is Mr. Gucci that provides my entrée into the subject of Niman’s father. He asks him while lathering his lightly-stubbled face for a shave, “This is one of the thickest beards I’ve ever seen. Signor, your father had a great beard too, yes?”

Niman, eyes closed and head tilted back, does not stir; has he heard the barber at all? For a long moment I am tense, wondering whether to build on Mr. Gucci’s ignorance in hopes unravelling the enigma of the novelist’s early days in Bakersfield. Just maybe, more than ten years after the tumbler and whispering incident, Niman is ready to talk.

barbershop

And he does: “Turn to the middle section…Must be around page two-thirty or two-thirty-five….The paragraph begins ‘All of us waited in the kitchen’ or something like that.” I understand that he wants me to open my advance copy of A Month or More and read the passage aloud. I am wary of what is in store for Gucci and I, but excited to be reading to a great writer from what may well be his masterwork. I begin:

All of us waited in the kitchen, some under the table and some over near the pantry, while Marcellus bundled the remaining sacks and dragged them to the curb. The light fell out of the one grimy window above the sink, and by the time his first tired footstep fell on the stairs leading up to the porch, the house was a dark, deep blue. Though I cannot speak for the others, the sound of Marcellus’ boots on the dry wood and the creak of the screen door as he pulled it slowly open were not regular sounds, like a cat or a pot of tea might make. It was as if Marcellus were walking in my mind and not through the world, as though the sound of him were nothing but the sound of my own thoughts runnin’ into one another. And when he joined the others under the table I knew it had always been, and would always be that way.

serpentine

“Serpentine Drive”, the old way from Los Angeles to Bakersfield

I look to Mr. Gucci, who has stopped shaving the author somewhere during my monologue. The old man is looking down at the half-lathered face, rapt in a limp but enveloping admiration he doesn’t quite seem to understand. Niman himself says nothing.

Recalling our first moments in the shop, I ask whether the passage, or the book as a whole, deals primarily with violence or primarily with love. Mr. Gucci is just finishing with the blade, and begins to towel off the writer’s face, which to me looks exactly as it did before. Looking up at Gucci, then at me, his mouth forms a smile at first sarcastic but melting as a moment passes into one of genuine pleasure. He chuckles as he rises to his feet, and looking into the mirror to inspect the job, says, “Violence or love? That I can’t answer. Because thankfully, finally, I cannot tell them apart.”

Will Hubbard is a writer living in New York City. He can be reached at whubbard at gmail dot com.

will

portrait of the author as a young man

“96 Tears” – ? & The Mysterians (mp3)

“New Partner” (Will Oldham Cover) – Mark Kozelek (mp3)

“Light’s Out” (Diplo Panda Bear Mix) – Santogold (mp3)

“Son of a Preacher Man” – Dusty Springfield (mp3)

PREVIOUSLY ON THIS RECORDING

Will finds Pavese in Pete and Kate.

Alex glorifies suicide in a good way.

Molly pretends to pretend to lament Baudrillard’s passing.



In Which Conflation Is The New Aural Intimacy
December 4, 2008, 12:04 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

What We Know

by Will Hubbard

It’s happening all around me. Creedence songs sucked of all life. Reading at 15 pages per hour rather than the normal, glacial 25. Elapsing time, stuffed with fecund deadness, between the needed and gotten. I think of the word “photograph” occupying a segment of the electromagnetic spectrum.

Saving was not an option – what came in, went out. Now, suddenly and without even the absurdist explanation of a parent or employer, “just” is now “not nearly” enough. Compensation, if still, retains its hopeful portent; prices for the meager necessities are down. Can a digital stream evaporate? And if so, I must keep getting everything for free.

The one known as Chan Marshall was in our thoughts as we crossed a bridge. Changing your name does not make you unbeautiful, luckily. Like great novelists who disappear but still leave traces of having existed and probably, therefore, still exist. They breathe the same air as those who believe them incapable of another novel, thinking them old, or at least agéd, perhaps in Italy or the Sonora Desert.

And yet Ms. Marshall proves herself perfectly able; she writes of what she knows, which is song. In times of little the people need the languorous songs of redemption. The author needs something to deify, to say “I am not a Senator’s son though you may believe me to be fortunate.” The appropriate singer will be a tenor, a woman singing a man’s song. The appropriate occasion will be a battle that nobody cares much about or even notices.

Atrocities can be valued in either real or cultural currency. The critic awakens to the sound of fireworks on the horizon, but assumes personal melancholy rather than answering its call to action. Maybe a song plays while she’s in the shower thinking “Don’t drink the water. Don’t drink the water. ” The music is imperceptible because it has no appropriate occasion.

l_beb4d81470827065ad0f8e99c28b0950

Like currency, the music of Aretha Franklin was not our music. We sought to own it, to bring it back to the homeland and give it the Pulitzer for excellence in contemporary American Iterature. Until now, none of this involved recording, with minimal instrumentation and inferior vocals, songs Aretha made manna. There are books that demand plagiarizing and those that preclude it. No one should re-record a song after Aretha has. Such things are not for humans to hold.

aretha-franklin-photograph-c12147468

Conversely, a truly big book puts everyone to the test. Do you have responsibility to the things of your world, living or dead? We can “steal time” for the little books, the books of anguish, hope, dread, and phenomenal poverty. But to read a truly big book we must “give time”, like blood, an activity of the leisured, listless, or European.

Everything recedes except the pace of life; dollars are speed bumps, asterisks. One knows the writing at hand will be part, infinitely small, of the future of every wealthy child. Rare beauty of lips, a nose like both its father and father, a cultivated singing voice, slow on the pitch. Listening to her old Cat Power records, he asks his au-pair from Tucson: “What is a roberto bolano?”

l_46dc6a949fe2e3bace9212967e08739a

She believes it to be a flavor of ice-cream, and she is correct. It is made of tuberculosis, plantains, and gaffer’s tape. The lesson of the day is that if one reads quietly from the time the sun rises until the time the sun is forgotten there will be sweets. She cracks her neck and continues writing her rich song of the red desert.

It is the year 2008. There are still seasons, OK. This is what we do, really? We slow down Creedence songs?

Will Hubbard is the contributing editor to This Recording. He lives in Brooklyn.

“I’ve Been Loving You Too Long (To Stop Now)” – Cat Power (mp3)

“It Ain’t Fair” – Cat Power (mp3)

PREVIOUSLY ON THIS RECORDING

Everyone says they know you.

Pink and waiting.

The sycophants masquerade.



In Which We See Through A Host Of Filmic Platitudes
September 24, 2008, 9:02 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

Relive the mysterious decade of the 1980s in film with us this week. You can find the archives of the seriehere.

Origination Cinema

by Will Hubbard

First off, it might be admitted that few if any of the writers for this publication, because of their relative youth, can honestly claim to have had much opinion about any film of the 1980’s when it came out. A pixilated nostalgia, maybe; the warmth of first perception, fine. But for the most part, these essays will be about the pleasure in going back to cinema birthed in proximity to one’s own birth, an act of curiosity about one’s origins rather than of direct memory.

In other words, most of us gained familiarity with these films in the 1990’s or later, well after most people had finished talking about them. Just the right environment in which to really get to know something, to really fall in love.

It’s hard to think of a better movie to issue in the 80’s—with it’s major shifts in the role of women in the workplace and family—than Richard Benton’s Hoffman/Streep masterpiece, Kramer vs. Kramer. (Release date, December 19th, 1979.)

How did I not know this movie existed until last week? Five Academy Awards?

I have to speculate that my parents avoided renting this one during my childhood because of its very (at the time) racy plot—the abandonment of a father and his young son by a neglected, mentally unstable wife. Perhaps they knew that I would grow up surrounded by children with divorced parents, and see, first hand, far worse endings than the one alluded to at the end of Kramer vs. Kramer.

I must say, I was not expecting the deft and subtle film-making that elevates Kramer vs. Kramer above, perhaps, its relatively bland subject matter. (Yes, I’m sure, it was controversial at the time…) But what opened my eyes were the vital performances of Hoffman and Streep, and the courage of director Richard Benton to film, for example, the story’s father and son for long minutes going about their morning rituals in complete deadpan silence.

These scenes are powerful and heartbreaking, and do not rely on the platitudes of sadness and regret that this type of film would seem to demand.

Hoffman, the grown-up Benjamin Braddock, standing dejected in a half-lit doorway of his apartment, lamenting the rather forgivable mistakes that have induced chaos in his house and career, acute suffering in his own heart, and the irreversible mark of early loss in his only child. One can’t help but wish he had stuck with the cute and simple Elaine Robinson.

Streep’s character, on the other hand, represents the malformed prototype for her later roles of tight-lipped feminine strength and goodwill. Here she is entirely closed-off to our interpretation, a woman whose confusion about her social and familial standing leads to the unexpected act of leaving husband and son, without explanation, in the film’s austere opening scene.

Streep haunts the remainder of the film with that starkly beautiful, just-before-tearing-up facial expression of hers—now watching her estranged family from a café window, now standing motionless in a park watching them approach, and now loitering like a morbid statue in the lobby of her ex-husband’s building, bearing a message that will bring him to ambiguous tears.

Though the trial scenes in Kramer vs. Kramer are probably the weakest stretch of the movie, they have a certain achronistic poignancy. The trial environment formalizes the question of the child’s custody, and in doing so tries to formalize the emotional debacle that has separated husband from wife. While the former question is (and will always be) answered idiotically by a justice of the peace, the latter hangs heavy about the room, unanswerable and scathing.

The defense attorney, having proved ‘beyond a shadow of a doubt’ that it is true, insists that Mrs. Kramer admit her guilt. “Mrs. Kramer, have you failed in your duties as mother and wife? Mrs. Kramer, answer the question!” The camera cuts to Hoffman’s face, unreadable, charged with conflicting motivations. Both parties are to blame; both parties are innocent. O Divorce Trial, talisman of the 1980’s, symbol of a failed system of justice!

Mr. Kramer watches as his wife whispers her pained admission. His mouth says, silently, “No, No, No!”

Will Hubbard is the contributing editor to This Recording. Click here for nude pix.

“Wasted Time” – Kings of Leon (mp3)

“Happy Alone” – Kings of Leon (mp3)

“Red Morning Light” – Kings of Leon (mp3)

screenplay

PREVIOUSLY ON THIS RECORDING

Marshall didn’t need hot tips.

Podhoretz vs. Buruma.

Love to drown.



In Which The Nighttime Is The Right Time For Brushwork
September 23, 2008, 1:12 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

Cool Impressions

by Will Hubbard

Van Gogh and The Colors of the Night
The Museum of Modern Art
September 21, 2008–January 5, 2009

An early farmhouse landscape, 1883. Dark hues, color blocks against the waning light; a motivation to veil the scenes of a youth in Brabant. To suggest that he’s embarrassed, wishes the drama of these places filtered, would be beside the point. To be given the name of a dead brother lends a pallor, but not a gloom. There is no feeling of morbidity.

Rembrandt’s effets de soir, but in the open air. The orange sun is an innovation, as if something valuable and striking were breaking through from behind the canvas. As though something had been overlooked. Pregnancy. The scene is set to break.

Beside me, an older couple fights about whether a painting in the first room is ‘early’ or ‘late.’ Turns out she’s right, it’s late, a point of contrast for the darker scenes. Still, I blink looking at the dates; a mere decade between these two wildly different styles?

He writes to his brother of a walk at dusk: “I had forgotten myself in that symphony.” The handwriting fluctuates between small and large— small toward the end if the page when he wants to make a few extra sentences fit. The anxiety of an incomplete thought. And drawings set into the text, another vow of accuracy. These must have been delightful letters to receive—or maybe they were terrifying.

A traveling pastor passes an evening sketching Au Charbonnage Café, but drawing is still his hobby. His lambs “socialize, share a drink, and buy coal.” An interest in people staying up, getting what they can from the artificial light. Flames compose a scene of otherwise disparate, veiled activity.

A curatorial note reads: “the artist believed that rural laborers stood closer to nature than other people, and were more strongly linked to the cycles of life.” Cycles of life? The artist believed…?

These are phrases meant for imbeciles, and yet they have purpose. The warmth of such early, puerile motivations allows distraction from the psychosis of his later years. Van Gogh’s “night paintings” without Van Gogh’s night—it feels like sitting over a glass of absinthe in the gaslight, tapping a foot on cobblestones. A deceptive comfort.

The Potato Eaters—are they human beings? The frame looks to have been scoured by the two thousand hands of a thousand people, acquiring the mysterious stickiness of long human use. Head of a Woman. It hardly emerges from the dark. She strains to be noticed, pulling away from something. A cell phone call beside me—she repeats ” where are you, where are you, how are you faring?”

The Watch (After Millet) is literally a reworking of a Millet reproduction—an overlay of color and linear light that will make his style. And again with The Cottage, 1885, the sense that the sky is bursting at a spontaneous seam. Is it magma, hell, or a gilded salvation on the other side? Children are playing everywhere, they love the quality of the hardwood for sliding. How will they dream of these pictures (they will) if they never stop to look?

Then the sun comes out, a proper point of reference, rising above French wheat fields, casting the world and it’s labor in discernible lines. Every aspect of a scene has a direction, a flow, as on a contour map. A contour map of visual perception, the directions themselves meaningless except in relation to those adjoining.

In the half-moon space the reverent have made in front of Starry Night, two girls are dancing. But they are not dancing; dancing is simply the only way I can describe it. They are doing something else, something more innovative. One says, pushing buttons on the strange device someone has hung around her neck, “I want to hear what that silly man says about this one.”

The Stevedores in Arles hung over my bed in a room I’d forgotten about. Three men, somehow oblivious to the violence of color crying from the harborscape behind them, engage in the labor of trade. One departs with a wheelbarrow, another pulls a wheelbarrow up a plank onto the boat, a third plays the guitar to make the task bearable.

Less emanates from the later work, despite its luminosity. It is familiar; it has been looked at by teenagers high on mushrooms for fifty years. So masterful that it dashes associations of its possible creation. It is as masterful as an advertisement: perfectly suited to the task at hand, undistracted as a set of arms plunging a shovel into soil.

The only late canvas that gives me pause is the Garden of St. Paul’s Hospital. It is a scene I know from a French film—Bresson maybe, or Lacombe Lucien. Or perhaps it’s just the way of old French hospitals: there is a courtyard where the sick can be seen—they are alive still, and can breathe real air. They are not hidden away to die in an over-lit hallway.

Will Hubbard is the contributing editor to This Recording. He last wrote in these pages about the poet Ted Berrigan. He hardly ever posts anything of verifiable interest here.

“What I’m Saying” – Koufax (mp3)

“In the Name of Love” – Koufax (mp3)

“Drivers” – Koufax (mp3)

Koufax myspace

PREVIOUSLY ON THIS RECORDING

Descending into Wonderland.

Middle America at its finest.

The consequences of oratory.



In Which Happy Black Monday To You
September 15, 2008, 11:30 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

Not to worry. Amid concerns of a blogosphere-wide liquidity crisis, it has become clear to me and our team of financial advisers that ThisRecording.com is sufficiently insulated against potential damage from our interests in Lehman Brothers and Merrill Lynch. We thank you for the confidence you have shown in our product, and are fighting to ensure that your tiny piece of this pie will continue to be a source of pride for many years to come.

-WH



In Which There Is No Greater Tragedy Than That
September 5, 2008, 6:04 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

End of Story

by Will Hubbard

I’m trying to die correctly, but it’s very difficult, you know.

- Lawrence Durrell

Not finishing books is the kind of terrible habit one acquires from an ex-girlfriend. She’s gone, but her vices stick around. It’s in the same category as drinking exotic fruit juices, or taking muscle relaxants.

In a certain way, beginning a book resembles travel to a foreign country—new tastes, new values, new forms of devotion and sacrifice. Devouring the four books of Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet, for example, is hardly distinguishable from actually visiting the rueful, coy Alexandria in which they are set. And as is true of any vacation, packing up prematurely and leaving such a world of fiction diminishes the experience only slightly.

There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature.

It must be that the vast majority of our comprehension and awe in a new environment happens within moments of making its acquaintance. Three days pass, and while there will always be more to see, there is little left to learn. And so the last days of many vacations, like the last 100 pages of many novels, seem capricious.

My own bookshelves hold more books abandoned than read all the way through. Books I’ve told people were dear to me, books I’ve taught, books for which I’ve written glowing reviews – all only partially apprehended.

So, what is in an ending?

As many have suggested, endings are a truce the author makes with her talent – an agreement to begin living again outside the story, to return to ‘real’ life. Endings are a purely artificial constraint (pure and artificial), and philosophically speaking, the characters simply must go on living regardless of even the best endings.

It’s hard to think of a greater tragedy than that, which perhaps is part of our desire to finish a book—to feel the cathartic brunt of having to separate from its persons, its tastes, its devotions. The other part must come from the vanquishing of the text itself, from the leaving of no stone (word) unturned.

For those of us who happily choose to forgo those pleasures, blaming any one distraction or temperament would be folly. Book-abandoning is surely in greatest evidence among the non-obsessives and quitters, but those who work or love too much are equally susceptible. Most often, of course, it is the exhilarating beginning of a new book that intercedes, and yet another aborted Alexandria is added to the bedside stack.

Will Hubbard is the contributing editor to This Recording. He tumbles here.

woody guthrie

“Two Good Man” – Woody Guthrie (mp3)

“Vigilante Man” – Woody Guthrie (mp3)

“The Rising Sun Blues” – Woody Guthrie (mp3)

“Lindbergh” – Woody Guthrie (mp3)

“Red River Valley” – Woody Guthrie (mp3)

dylan

Music was invented to confirm human loneliness. – Durrell

“School of Kraut” – Peter, Bjorn and John (mp3)

“Next Stop Bjursele” – Peter, Bjorn and John (mp3)

“Favour of the Season” – Peter, Bjorn and John (mp3)

GO READ SOMETHING INSTEAD

Will Hubbard on the Alphabet

Summer Reading Part One

Brittany Julious on Kazuo Ishiguro

Summer Reading Part Two

Tao Lin on K-Mart Realism

Summer Reading Part Three

Good Will Syllabusing

PREVIOUSLY ON THIS RECORDING

George met BLDGBLOG’s Geoff Manaugh.

A.C. Hawley turf-talked Friday Night Lights

We are trying to break your heart.

notorious



In Which We Dab Out All The Colors But Only Use Red
August 13, 2008, 2:14 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

Minor Changes to a Formula

by Will Hubbard

Home Delivery: Fabricating the Modern Dwelling
July 20–October 20, 2008
The Museum of Modern Art, sixth floor
West lot, exterior, first floor

The children build them first. Shaved pine, notched and sanded, “interesting playthings typifying the Spirit of America.” On my grandmother’s rug, amid incessant sneezing, I was given the use of my father’s Lincoln Logs.

Cabins were boring, a castle or highway was more to the point; but only so much can be done with right angles, and after all, “the more logs a child has, the more things can be built.” If the pieces don’t fit together, they must be balanced upon one another. Imagination leads to instability, danger, and eventually a pile of rubble and a smile.

Older and richer, we turn toward customizability. The offer is familiar, communes of gently curving asphalt, white trim and light-hued siding. In being each one slightly different from the next, they achieve a paradoxically heightened, gross uniformity. Shallow matches of form and function parade as taste, suggesting that minor changes to a formula might satisfy the entire range of human needs.

Ipods were all exactly the same, no two iPhones will ever be. Which experience is more pleasurable?

And what if your house really did come in a box? I imagine long-stay travel, emergency housing, ephemeral communities in fields of hip-high, autumn-gold grass. How much variation could be found in the box, and could there be peace-of-mind—or better yet, release-of-mind—in your adult set of Lincoln Logs?

I wonder, too, if we are educating a citizenry that actually possesses the intuition, motivation, and time to discern what they could actually need in a dwelling? Doesn’t part of our joy in buying anything derive from the very notion that it’s just like the object other strangers are putting into their homes, into their mouths and heads? A remote though strangely intimate bond is created by the marketing of identical objects and ideas.

Frank Lloyd Wright got it right, of course. His American System-Built Houses were pre-cut in the factory; construction was assembly, pure and simple. And yet four drawings of these structures reveal little aesthetic uniformity—each has its particular elegance, and seems fitted to its site rather than to the drowsy whims of its financiers.

The poet and builder Robert Kocik once said something very interesting to me about his trade: that if it was very difficult to construct a dwelling, it would be very difficult to live there.

Sadly, it’s raining when I walk out to tour the Saran Wrap house. I am allowed to seek a moment’s calm shelter among its aluminum stilts, and the drops make no sound as they kiss the plastic windows above. I ask the guards, as though they’re real-estate agents, if I can take a quick look inside. They laugh to each other; they say “no way”. They say it is because of what might be tracked in on the soles of my feet.

Will Hubbard is the contributing editor to This Recording. This is his tumblr.

PREVIOUSLY ON THIS RECORDING

Did you read Tyler’s piece?

It made our whole deployment!

Evil jellyfish attack.



In Which She Moved She Had Moved He Heard Her
August 11, 2008, 6:35 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

Cedar Bar, 1951

I’ve read Pound’s first encounter with Henry James. H.D. on her first meeting D.H. Lawrence. Picasso’s love for Henri Rousseau, and I’ve seen Red Groom’s painting of De Kooning’s and Rothko’s accidental meeting in Washington Square. But to this day Franz Kline meeting Robert Creeley is one of the most beautiful things that I have ever witnessed. Bob and I were drinking beer in one of the booths that lined the walls of the old Cedar Bar.

Bob had recently moved back to the states and had stopped off in New York on his way to Black Mountain College. Bob was wearing the blue winter coat that Zukofsky had given him. He didn’t have any money, and I had credit at the bar. It was late in the afternoon, and Franz Kline walked in and sat down next to me. Franz, meet Robert Creeley. Awe came over Kline’s face. He shifted his weight, adjusted his brown hat, and took Bob’s hands and held them. “I can’t tell you how much your poetry means to me.” Franz was still holding Bob’s hands when Bob broke the silence. “Thank You.”

- Basil King, 2005

A Note on Franz Kline

by Robert Creeley

There are women who will undress only in the dark, and men who will only surprise them there. One imagines such a context uneasily, having no wish either to be rude or presumptuous. Darkness, in effect, is the ground for light, which seems an old and also sturdy principle. There is nothing quite so abrupt and even pleasant as such “light”—ask any woman. Think of the masses of misunderstanding that come from a betrayal of this. Make a list. Picasso? Much a way of being about something, minus night, etc. There are some men for whom it seems never to get dark. As, for example, for Klee it never quite seems to be sun, etc.

Paul Klee, Comedians’ Handbill, 1938

But, more interesting, think of it, a woman undressing in broad sunlight, black. What if light were black—is there black light? If there is black light, what is black? In other words, argue to the next man you meet that we are living in a place where everything has the quality of a photographic negative. Take hold of his coat, point to anything. See what happens.

Francisco Clemente, Portrait of Robert Creeley, 2003

With Kline’s work, if the blacks were white, and vice versa, it would make a difference, certainly. It has to be black on white, because there he is, New York, etc. He has no wish to fight senses and all. But he is a savagely exact laugher, call it. I don’t know literally if he depends on argument for a means to cohabitation, but I would myself argue that he is a lonely man. Men rarely laugh this precisely, without such a thing for a control. What is ‘funnier’ than forms which will not go away? If you say this to someone, they will laugh at you, but all the time, right behind them, there is a skyscraper! It’s incredible how they can notice it, if they do, and still talk to anyone.

Chair, 1950

So what is form, if it comes to that. That question I once tried to answer in relation (as they say) to the theater. I was convinced that a man, formally, is no more and certainly no less than a chair. Fool that I was, I took two chairs, placed them either side of me, and sat down on the floor. The answer was, from these friends: Who would go to the theater to see a man be a chair? What would Kline have said, if anything. Is this thing on the page opposite looking at you too? Why do you think that’s an eye. Does any round enclosed shape seem to you an eye.

There is no ‘answer’ to anything. A painter (possibly a musician) can assert this more effectually, more relevantly, than any other ‘artist.’ He can be present all at one time, which no writer can quite be—because he has to ‘go on.’ If no one sees a painter, or, rather, what he is doing—finally, not ‘doing’—doesn’t he still have things? At least no man can point at a painting and say it’s nothing, he’ll be lucky if it doesn’t come down off the wall and club him to death for such an impertinence.

God knows we finally enjoy, deeply enjoy , wit, the grace, the care, of any thing—how it is. Kline’s audience (no doubt in Paradise) will be a group of finely laughing women, plus what men won’t be jealous.

Robert Creeley no doubt would have been an important part of This Recording had we the good grace to start this thing some sixty years ago.

ENJOY THE MUSIC OF RED HOUSE PAINTERS

franz kline

“Star Spangled Banner” – Red House Painters (mp3)

“Blindfold” – Red House Painters (mp3)

“Uncle Joe” – Red House Painters (mp3)

CREELEY ON TR

Will and Charles Simic duel.

Will’s Creeley-esque syllabus.

Thank God it’s Creeley.

Houses in the ring to pass through.

Creeley and Diane Williams.

Olson writes Creeley.

Poets and painters.

Creeley and O’Hara.

Poetry eases the pain of being a man.

Creeley in Malaysia.

Will Hubbard and Franz Kline.

Creeley opens the door.

The time is, the air seems a cover.

Dear X

PREVIOUSLY ON THIS RECORDING

Women of the year.

The swimming pool.

Danish gets halfway through the best tracks of ‘07.

from here



In Which James Mallord William Turner Is Nowhere In The Aria
August 7, 2008, 10:18 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

Turner at the Met

by Will Hubbard

J. M. W. Turner
July 1, 2008–September 21, 2008
The Tisch Galleries, 2nd floor

A small fishing boat about to be tossed onto the shore by a violent, confused wave. Or maybe the boat will not smashed. Such is the tedious ambiguity deliciously attractive to the young.

He was 20 years old at its conception. The blue pall of the seascape, from memory, not a photograph. A plastic plaque: “the contemporary vogue for moonlit imagery.” Contemporary vogue for moonlit imagery? Another painting in the room is entitled “Sheerness as seen from the Nore.” It simply must be a spoonerism.

Whether it be the members of Odysseus’ crew or merchants pounding fish-heads on the smoky Thames, these beings are phantoms, half-present, weak embodiments of former ambitions, the beacons of a collective past. Even the living recall the morbid angels of Blake—seething, suffering arias of consecrated flesh.

He turns to the light, the morning and afternoon and setting sun. Always distant, it makes all ether an X, a joke of perspective.

When the water of the sea and the water hanging over the sea veil the light, they break into vectors that actually move. Composition can no longer be a trick—careers were born in this idea, and in the apprehension of this idea.

Still later, the sun is a funnel drawing the eye infinitely away from life. Death on a pale horse—to die on a pale horse, to be visited by death riding on his back on the shoulders of a horse hardly intelligible for all the vile terror.

To approximate oil painting with watercolor—to approximate watercolor in oils. To paint “not so much the objects he saw as the light which played around them.” Finally, utter abstractions, save in each the ghostly outline of an animate form—the suggestion of a calf makes a pool of water, cliff beyond; a ring of huddled forms makes a beach and the cold.

Will Hubbard is the contributing editor to This Recording. He tumbls, but never reblogs. He is the editor-in-chief of Capgun magazine.

turner

IT’S SO HARD TO TELL WHO’S GOING TO LOVE YOU THE BEST

It’s Alright (Ray Charles cover)” – Karen Dalton (mp3)

“Run Tell Major” – Karen Dalton (mp3)

“Darlin’ Corey” – Karen Dalton (mp3)

“Blues on the Ceiling” – Karen Dalton (mp3)

“How Did the Feeling Feel To You” – Karen Dalton (mp3)

“Prettiest Train” – Karen Dalton (mp3)

“In the Evening” – Karen Dalton (mp3)

PREVIOUSLY ON THIS RECORDING

You must examine the wackness.

Jesus Was Black and Fleet Foxes

Impotent Desire: There Will Be Blood & No Country For Old Men



In Which White on Black Black on White
July 24, 2008, 2:22 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

Le Gros, 1961

An American Exception

by Will Hubbard

The great American art critic Clement Greenberg always included Franz Kline on his list of “American-Type” painters. However, Kline’s membership in this group was not self-evident in the early 1950s when the artist had only just begun producing his striking oversized pictures rendered primarily in thick black lines and complimentary white polygons.

On the contrary, reviews of Kline’s first two one-man shows at midtown Manhattan’s Charles Egan Gallery tended almost uniformly to claim, for better or for worse, that the paintings were, in the words of one critic, “magnified improvisations of the signs and symbols found in Chinese and Japanese writing and painting.”

The calligraphic quality of Kline’s early mature work required Greenberg—at the time attempting to declaim Abstract Expressionism the first purely American pictorial art—to reinterpret Kline in a way that did not simply transfer laurels from Europe to Asia, but rather located the startling effect of Kline’s black lines in something essentially American.

Given that many of Kline’s early sketches were done with black ink on rice paper—the very materials used by classical Chinese painters and calligraphers for centuries—this identification would prove to be an uphill battle.

Cardinal, 1950

Compounding the futility of denying Kline’s Eastern influence was the fact that many of his early large-scale canvasses present ideographs in the most elemental sense—symbols that offer both lexical and representational meaning. Cardinal (1950), for example, cannot be viewed as purely gestural abstraction for two very important reasons.

First, the painting’s various black strokes can, if viewed from certain angles, come to resemble the very figure of a bird that the title indicates.

More clear, and more interesting perhaps, is that fact that every letter of the word ‘cardinal’ can be deciphered easily within the various cross-hatches of Kline’s painting.

By 1962, Kline himself began distancing himself from the ideographic quality of some of his early canvasses, stating that “in the first place [Eastern] calligraphy is writing, and I’m not writing.” But in Cardinal, and in several other early black and white works, Kline’s inky shapes on traditional white backgrounds had lexical meaning that went beyond both the purely gestural/emotional suggestion of Pollock’s splatter paintings and the value-muffled metaphysics of Mark Rothko and Barnett Newman.

Mark Rothko, Untitled (Dark over Light)

Many critics agreed with Greenberg’s view of the progression from Cubism to more abstract modes as a “loosening up [of] the relatively delimited illusion of shallow depth”—that is, a move toward surface and the process by which surface is altered to create meaning that is both depth-less and non-representational.

But even cursory attention to Kline’s post-1952 canvasses reveals that these qualities of non-illusion and surface-ness do not aptly characterize Kline as a painter.

Four Square, 1953

Four Square (1953), for example, may on first glance resemble a straightforward arrangement of four black columns on a white background. Upon closer examination, however, we notice Kline’s very curious use of white paint in a positive role, and in various places in the painting—most importantly along the black/white borders—it is difficult if not impossible to determine which hue has been painted first.

The result is an unmistakable illusion—the picture consists not of four black bands upon a white background, but rather three irregular white objects arranged on a black background.

Because we cannot tell which description of the painting is correct—black on white or white on black—an uncanny effect prevails that obscures both our interpretation of the painted objects and also the very process by which Kline conceived the work.

Jackson Pollock, Enchanted Forest, 1947

A fruitful contrast can be drawn to Pollock’s black and white splatter paintings—1947’s Enchanted Forest, for example—in which both the painting’s objects and the process by which Pollock conceived them are immediately apparent. It is difficult to say of Pollock that he uses a color or hue of paint positively or negatively, as one round of splatter seems to cover but not engage directly with previous or subsequent rounds; it is easier to trace a chronology of color application represented by the successive layers of colors lain out on top of one another.

Though Enchanted Forest lacks visual depth, it presents a chronological depth that is the very definition of Greenberg’s foregrounded, non-illusionistic, “American-Type” approach.

Cupola, 1958

As Kline’s style continued to mature in the latter part of the decade, the illusionistic qualities that put him at odds with Greenberg’s definition of Abstract Expressionism only intensified. Perhaps most interesting in this respect is Cupola, a painting Kline conceived in 1958, which resembles a matrix of receding and projecting shapes. Positive uses of white tend to background adjacent black shapes, while elsewhere these same black shapes used positively background instances of white. The overall effect is, unlike Pollock’s clear chronological process, a highly illusionistic image that boasts an almost holographic depth.

Unfortunately, Greenberg’s seeming monopoly on Abstract Expressionist criticism, combined with his stubborn unwillingness to interpret Kline as an exception to the rule of “surface”, has caused the complexities of Kline’s black and white paintings to be largely ignored.

It is one thing to stand in front of an enormous Kline—as one might a Rothko or Newman—expecting and perhaps feeling a ‘metaphysical’ connection to the shapes staring down from the ‘flat’ surface. It is quite another to look closely at the subtle layering of a Kline and experience the uncanny presence of the black and white shapes as they move at you and away.

Will Hubbard is the contributing editor to This Recording. He is also the editor of CapGun Magazine, the third issue of which will appear in September. He tumbls here.

portrait of the artist as a young boy

GIVE WH SOME GOOD VIBRATIONS

“God Only Knows” – The Beach Boys (mp3)

“The Little Girl I Once Knew (45 version)” – The Beach Boys (mp3)

“Hang On To Your Ego (Alternate Version)” – The Beach Boys (mp3)

“Heroes and Villains (Alternate Version)” – The Beach Boys (mp3)

PREVIOUSLY ON THIS RECORDING

Molly explored the fifties TV angle.

We gave you a lil’ mixtape.

When you’re with me, I’m free.



In Which In Mexico You Can Be A Poet And A Politician
July 18, 2008, 9:52 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

I Don’t Know For Certain

by Will Hubbard

Before beginning a 50-year career that cemented his place as Mexico’s preeminent contemporary poet, Jaime Sabines (1926-1999) studied to be a doctor. Abandoning medicine for a post-graduate degree in Spanish literature at the Universidad Nacional Autonoma de Mexico, Sabines began chronicling everyday life in the streets, hospitals, brothels, and cinemas of both Mexico City and his native Tuxtla, Chiapas. In the 1970’s and 80’s, Sabines held various governmental positions in both Chiapas and Mexico City’s Distrito Federal.

The following translations are by Will Hubbard.

“Seeing themselves naked they know everything”

I Don’t Know for Certain

by Jaime Sabines

I don’t know for certain, but I suppose
that a woman and a man
one day begin loving
and little by little come to be alone,
something in each heart says so.
Alone on earth they enter each other,
they go on killing each other.

All of it happens in silence. Like
light breaking in the eye.
Love unites bodies.
In silence they go on filling each other up.

One day they awake above their arms;
from then on they think they know wholly.
Seeing themselves naked they know everything.

(I don’t know for certain. I suppose it.)

Limbo

by Jaime Sabines

A closet, a mirror, a chair,
not one star, my room, its window;
the night as usual finds me
without hunger for food
but for what a mouth might touch.
Outside, men everywhere, and
beyond them fog, then morning.
Trees iced-over, dried-up soil,
fish indistinct from the water,
nests asleep under a dove’s slight warmth.

Here, no woman. I wish there were.
For days I have been restless to calm
under some sensation, a soft word
unlike ‘the night’. On the wall opposite
shadows of dead friends crawl
without my help. That woman’s veins
ran into my veins, her skin
covered my bones, and my eyes
were source and object of her sight.
Many times we died
that the morning might walk again.
I remember
by remembering your name
your lips, the dress I could see through.
You carry a hidden sweetness in the cavity
your ribs make, and one travels a long way
between nodes of your simple form,
a hundred lips and an hour
from nipple to nipple, a heart
between pupils, two tears.
There is no depth of you I do not desire,
and until the last wing carries
its little flesh homeward, my soul will remain
your soul.

I imagine the poem taking place here

Desire should be precise. I know this already.
I want your body, its tautness, warmth,
and simple directions.

I need this night.
A violin comes to my bed from the street below.
Yesterday I watched two boys stand before
naked mannequins in a store window
and comb their hair.
The train’s call worried me for three years.
Now I know it is a machine.
No goodbye better than that of day’s light
to every thing that rises from the ground
and transfers heat through its body
by water.

More and more unused blood,
nights of only smoking
that turn the bed-sheets yellow.

One leaves one place for another.
And so my hand returns to me,
that writes as much as it speaks.

Will Hubbard is the contributing editor to This Recording. He lives in Williamsburg. He tumbls here.

WHAT A DAY FOR A DAYDREAMING BOY

“Taking Your Life in Your Hands” – John Cale (mp3)

“Broken Bird” – John Cale (mp3)

“If You Were Still Around” – John Cale (mp3)

“Changes Made” – John Cale (mp3)

CONSUMMATE THE FURY OF READING WEEK

Molly visits Edith Wharton’s estate

Will Hubbard on the Alphabet

Summer Reading Part One

Brittany Julious on Kazuo Ishiguro

Summer Reading Part Two

Tao Lin on K-Mart Realism

Summer Reading Part Three

Good Will Syllabusing

PREVIOUSLY ON THIS RECORDING

Some songs are deceptively simple.

The genius of Ed Koch.

Danish versus Jay-Z.



In Which The Art Of Quitting Isn’t Hard To Master
July 15, 2008, 11:16 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

End of Story

by Will Hubbard

I’m trying to die correctly, but it’s very difficult, you know.

- Lawrence Durrell

Not finishing books is the kind of terrible habit one acquires from an ex-girlfriend. She’s gone, but her vices stick around. It’s in the same category as drinking exotic fruit juices, or taking muscle relaxants.

In a certain way, beginning a book resembles travel to a foreign country—new tastes, new values, new forms of devotion and sacrifice. Devouring the four books of Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet, for example, is hardly distinguishable from actually visiting the rueful, coy Alexandria in which they are set. And as is true of any vacation, packing up prematurely and leaving such a world of fiction diminishes the experience only slightly.

There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature.

It must be that the vast majority of our comprehension and awe in a new environment happens within moments of making its acquaintance. Three days pass, and while there will always be more to see, there is little left to learn. And so the last days of many vacations, like the last 100 pages of many novels, seem capricious.

My own bookshelves hold more books abandoned than read all the way through. Books I’ve told people were dear to me, books I’ve taught, books for which I’ve written glowing reviews – all only partially apprehended.

So, what is in an ending?

As many have suggested, endings are a truce the author makes with her talent–an agreement to begin living again outside the story, to return to ‘real’ life. Endings are a purely artificial constraint (pure and artificial), and philosophically speaking, the characters simply must go on living regardless of even the best endings.

It’s hard to think of a greater tragedy than that, which perhaps is part of our desire to finish a book—to feel the cathartic brunt of having to separate from its persons, its tastes, its devotions. The other part must come from the vanquishing of the text itself, from the leaving of no stone (word) unturned.

For those of us who happily choose to forgo those pleasures, blaming any one distraction or temperament would be folly. Book-abandoning is surely in greatest evidence among the non-obsessives and quitters, but those who work or love too much are equally susceptible. Most often, of course, it is the exhilarating beginning of a new book that intercedes, and yet another aborted Alexandria is added to the bedside stack.

Will Hubbard is the contributing editor to This Recording. He tumbles here.

“My Secret Lover” – Private (mp3)

“That Boy Is Hurting You” – Private (mp3)

Music was invented to confirm human loneliness.

“Rocket” – Albert Hammond Jr (mp3)

“Spooky Couch” – Albert Hammond Jr (mp3)

GO READ SOMETHING INSTEAD

Will Hubbard on the Alphabet

Summer Reading Part One

Brittany Julious on Kazuo Ishiguro

Summer Reading Part Two

from here

Tao Lin on K-Mart Realism

Summer Reading Part Three

Good Will Syllabusing

PREVIOUSLY ON THIS RECORDING

George met BLDGBLOG’s Geoff Manaugh.

A.C. Hawley turf-talked Friday Night Lights

We are trying to break your heart.




Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 80 other followers