Saturday, August 24, 2013

To stemmer taler her, men også Amors stemme er todelt; han snakker ofte med en overdrivelse først (Han vil dø for sin bror Shavi!) og føyer siden til mange moderereringer som gjør oss i tvil om hvor sterk solidariteten egentlig er.

Anmeldelse af Jonas Hassen Khemiri: Jeg ringer mine brødre her.

Friday, August 23, 2013

Der er intet der. Hvis du bevæger dig længere ned end Houston Street er der ingen biler om natten. Du kan spadsere ind og overtage en bygning, stjæle elektricitet ud af en gadelampe. Ramones, Sex Pistols og så videre, det er en modifikation af rockkonventioner, flænsede Chuck Berry riffs. New Yorks No Wavere gør noget andet end de såkaldte punkere. Støj, manglende melodi, teknisk naivitet, alt som ikke kan betragtes som musikalsk bliver nøglen til afskaffelsen af rocken.

No Waverne vil kaste gadens ondskab i hovedet på publikum. Alan Vega, en blanding af elegance og vold, som den forladte del af byen No Waverne indtager. Nulgenerationen, den tomme generation, men tomheden er som et åbent canvas, en vej til genfødsel. Der er ingen guitargreb, der er en glidende bevægelse henover guitarhalsen, den ustemte guitar og de primale trommer. Lydia Lunch deklamerer teksterne monotont, næste nummer indledes med et skrig.

Ikue Mori, en turist fra Japan uden musikalsk erfaring inkluderes i et band, hun rejser aldrig hjem igen. Bands består ofte af én eller to med musikalsk erfaring i åben interaktion med amatører castet på grund af deres stride gadeattityde. Måden de danser eller taler, et eller andet som gnistrer i rygsøjlen eller i ansigtet.

This goes on and on for a while. Inspireret af Marc Masters: No Wave, 2007.

Thursday, August 22, 2013



It might not be/ the time and place for me/ to examine the genre/ inspired bullshit

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

Halims drøm om kjærlighet brister, og vill av kjærlighetssorg, i en tilstand av semipsykose, løper han rundt i Stockholm med en pistol i den ene hånden og en stjålet mobiltelefon i den andre. Den symbolske betydningen er klar: telefonen tilhører en ansatt på Dramaten, og kunne vært hans forbindelse til den sentrale kulturen, til en form for kreativ oppdrift, mens pistolen selvsagt er det motsatte, muligheten for å for alvor å føkke ting opp.

Om Et øye rødt i 2005 her. I Jeg ringer mine brødre findes også valget mellem våbenet og telefonen. Amor minder på mange måder om Halim. Her læser forfatteren, her findes teksten i kronikform, og her en vigtig analyse af Khemiris brev til Beatrice Ask.
He was milked and fed and cultivated and allowed. He was encouraged, and enabled, to become Flaubert. Same with Tom. He was allowed to write "The Waste Land." Waited on hand and foot by Vivie once at home. His nerves tended to, his absolute exhaustion treated. (She nursed him through several collapses, when she collapsed he would perennially send her away.) Although he did work constantly, too much, everything was spiritually in the service of his eventual great art, the Bel Esprit, Ezra Pound's monetary campaign to allow him to be a writer. Save the poet. And lines built upon lines. That is how one writes. Slowness. Wait. And in the isolation of that room, a belief in oneself that could be construed as monstrous. In one's own Eventual Greatness. No little voices that wormed through to whisper in one's ear: Sick Sick Sick. What is seen as signs of great Artistry in a man can be seen as alarm in a woman's behavoir. So besides the isolation of the room that all writers and artists suffer under, there is an active campaign against women to pathologize their struggle, their torment, or to have this done for them.

Random quote from Kate Zambreno's book Heroines. All pages can pretty much be quoted from. Sadly we didn't know about this project when we set up Audiatur Waste Land in 2012. Zambreno's book is an essay-mess (her own expression) that tells the story of the wives of modernist authors like Eliot and Fitzgerald. The empathy is so strong towards the "illegitimate" writing of these women that on the last 20 pages her own writing burn down into "blogcriture" while describing her community of bloggers that give the kind of support that, for instance, Vivienne gave Tom. The regression is funny; Zambreno going for total nakedness, turning into a wee girl saying fuck you. I read this as a self parody and an acting out of the girly outsider position that she analyzes so well through the book. Her blog here.

Saturday, August 03, 2013



Teosofisk bebop på Hamburger Bahnhof. Totally enjoyed Hilma af Klint.