Metaphor is a small death.

Ben Gazzara, Rest in Peace.

2012-02-06T09:36:00.000-05:00

Husbands

The Killing of a Chinese Bookie

Opening Night

St. Jack

Tales of Ordinary Madness

Buffalo 66

Happiness

Permanence Is Relative: SUMMER END SALE!

2011-08-25T09:23:00.008-04:00

So it's been a long time since I posted and since I sold a book.

I have a small inventory of Permanence Is Relative still in stock and want to sell them at the discounted price of $9.99 + 1.99 s/h.

That's 5 whole dollars of the publisher's cover price! Ye gads!

Now is your chance to save money, read poems about childhood trauma, pornography, ekphrastic poems based on the pedophilic work of Larry Clark, and suicide for less than what it costs to buy a 12-pack.

But wait, there's more!

Impress your friends with literature from a local, independent artist.
Proudly display an original Stephen Andrew Palermo autograph! (worth at least $2.94 on Alibris and Abe Books!)
Wow them with your literacy by explaining the significance of the book's section titles like Enucleation and Evisceration! It'll tear their insides asunder with envy!

In today's uncertain economic climate, East Coast earthquakes, tabloidian infanticide cases, and global terror, couldn't we all use a little pick-me-up?

What are you waiting for, click the Buy It Now Button on the right side of this page.

Character Study.

2011-01-31T10:41:00.009-05:00

I find myself thinking a lot about the character study lately; those well-paced, cinematic looks at lives on the outer fringe; loners, losers, junkies, and ordinary people wedged into extraordinary circumstances.

My appreciation for a film's sense of pacing wasn't immediate, so when confronting my first grouping of character studies, it wasn't necessarily a seamless transition from blockbusters and obvious arthouse favorites. With time, it grew, especially in the past decade, due in large part to films like Hardcore (1979), Joe (1970), and The Piano Teacher (2001).

Though very different in tone, the three aforementioned films share similar sensibilities: a sense of dread, suffocation, and lone men and women on a search for something, whether it be a lost child or a sense of power.

The latter, a contemporary study of a woman living in the shadow of an oppressive and psychologically abusive mother, finds the central character's experience dominating what is a superficially standard narrative: woman fears mother, woman meets young boy, tension mounts, woman's world comes apart by the film's close.

The most basic tenet of the character study is that an individual's every movement counts more than set design, cinematography, and score, although all can still be remarkable. Often, it is the minutiae of daily life that allows the film to work.

The relationships of a single character to the forces that surround them, be it the failure of the American dream, a stifling relationship, substance abuse, or virtually nothing at all, are primary. In 90-100 minutes, a single man or woman's history, desires, fears, and breaking points are revealed and unravel, typically in ways unfavorable to the viewer.

If honesty and an overarching sense of the genuine are to be found on film, they most definitely are in the successful character-driven story.

While the 1970s were overflowing with these stories, this is not the only point in cinema's history to uncover this type of narrative, but the work of that decade and its fearless directors certainly brought the most amount of courage and risk to the screen.

This still remains one of the few extended (and most rewarding) periods in filmmaking that understood and embraced the slow-burn; the rise and fall of action, inaction, experience, and conflict that finds the viewer being careened into a film's close left with one of two things: redemption or destruction.

"Happines is a"

2010-10-12T11:07:00.010-04:00

As someone who has known James Black for close to a decade, this day was always a certainty.

And quite frankly, it has taken way too goddamned long for it to come.

Happiness is a, Black's first full-length collection of short fiction is on its way and I want to promote the shit out of it.

And not because of any personal affinity to the man. If I was a complete stranger, I would want to promote this book.

Being close to someone engaged in the craft of writing that is also gifted, prolific, and downright brilliant can do a number on a writer's sense of worth. It's also a fucking rarity in a world of one-trick ponies and next big things.

For an example of Black's prolificity, see my bedroom closet stuffed with hundreds of pages of early drafts, completed works, a collection of poetry, and other published works all with his name punched into them.

And most of them were complete in a year's time.

How many people can say they've written a novel only to trash it upon completion just to say they could? He can.

As long as I've known him, he's been in the game. It's one of the main reasons we're still milling about in one another's lives; recognizing the writer's innate need to connect with at least one other soul doomed to give itself over to the act.

To sum up my excitement about the release of Happiness is a would fall short of the mark.

In summary, be prepared for what a lucky few of us have already seen at work for years: dizzying concoctions of wordplay, rhythmic grace, a devastatingly real sense of people and place, and a voice all unfairly his own.

To my own dismay, Black is possessive of a gift that makes this particular writer ashamed to call himself such.

From http://sesquipedalism.com:

In this collection of stories written between 2002 and 2006, James Black investigates the myriad and curious ways people react to the most conspicuous absences in their lives.

A son suddenly starts seeing his father everywhere, half a decade after the man's death. A deadbeat dad goes to meet his son, but only after the boy has been slain and buried. In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, a young man decides to pack his life inside a camper, and drag it all to higher ground. A caregiver discovers a typographical error on his birth certificate, which allows him to develop a second self, capable of many things which he is not.

The fourteen stories in Happiness is a each strive to lay bare the truth in the late Kurt Vonnegut's assertion that loneliness is the worst disease by which mankind has ever been stricken. And in the desolate interior worlds described by Black's texts, the idea that the affliction can be permanently cured is dubious at best.

That Which Can't Be 'Unseen.'

2010-07-23T14:51:00.011-04:00

It's been six years or so since I saw Irreversible for the first time. A friend and I went to a matinee at the George Eastman House's Dryden Theatre, the only place in town with balls enough to show Gaspar Noe's infamous second full-length feature. Around that time, they also screened Takashi Miike's ode to arterial spray, Ichi the Killer.

At that point, I had not been as immersed in the consumption of film as I am now. Thanks to above friend for shoving me head-first into the grindhouse that is his DVD collection. Had it not been for this person, I may still live a semblance of a normal life.

Heading to the Dryden, all we had to go on was hearsay, magazine articles, and poster art. I don't even think the trailer had leaked. If it had, I didn't see it. Anyone that's seen the film knows that I was in for a mindfuck of a cinematic experience.

My buddy had been old hand at shocking, disturbing, and downright disgusting movies. He was the kid that brought a fifth-generation copy of I Spit on Your Grave to school one day for everyone to pass around. At least one of us jacked to it. Not me. I saved that for Shocking Asia.

Knowing how strong his stomach was and how deeply entrenched he was in extreme films, part of me had to walk in without fear. I can admit now that the hype surrounding the film and the Dryden's curatorial disclaimer about the nauseating opening of the film made me less than comfortable.

With its frantic camerawork, excessive use of strobe-lights, and extreme sexual violence, Irreversible completely tore my inability to be shocked asunder. Certainly nothing before had affected me as deeply, and for a long time, I was convinced nothing after would.

Enter Srpski film [A Serbian Film].

Last weekend, my buddy and I did the Fred Dekker double feature at the Dryden, then headed home to watch what promised to be yet another title in the long list of movies we'd watch and totally forget. My friend told me of the press it had been getting and how early viewers were either disgusted or amazed at how far the envelope was pushed. We'd heard it before, hadn't we? I told myself it'd be a cake walk.

I was not prepared.

On paper, the depths of depravity Serbian Film reaches will likely cause excitement to the horror-trained eye. Rightfully so, A Serbian Film is a horror film. Just not in the way Nekromantik is.

This is a truly horrifying cinematic experience, where shock for shocks sake is pushed aside for the good of extreme storytelling and emotional devastation.

Spasojevic's debut has already won many over who read the film as a critique of the Serbian government and the atrocities its people suffer through, the central metaphor for the onscreen depravity the viewer witnesses.

The director intended for his viewers to read his film this way and he has been very vocal about his disgust with the socio-political landscape of his native Serbia.

If A Serbian Film's subtext speaks to institutionalized violence, it is even more superficially about all of humanity's ability to destroy human life and the context in which that violence becomes possible.

Due to the Spasojevic's careful attention to character development and a great deal of restraint, Sprski's first half is something to behold; a world in which Sprski's viewers become invested, even if only on the "I'm watching a movie" level. This is what separates the comical trappings of modern horror via the torture porn vehicle and films like Noe's Irreversible, Breillat's Fat Girl, and now, Spasojevic's A Serbian Film.

If at any point in your life, you've seen something you wish you hadn't, if you've ever tried to erase something from your mind, think twice about watching this.

Not for the faint-of-heart, easily disturbed, or those prone to nightmares, Sprski could very well haunt you for a long time after the credits roll.

I still haven't been able to shake some scenes in particular. As a cinephile, that can be a double-edged sword. On one hand, a film that can actually grab it's viewer by the throat is a rarity, especially in what is on the surface a piece of genre work.

On the other, the viewer is a human being, complete with a memory and maybe a sliver of hope left in humanity. Sprski effectively destroys that hope and burns extreme images into one's brain. To this day, Irreversible still lingers about somewhere in the periphery. And yet, I own it on DVD.

This is the mark of an amazing piece of work.

Once seen, it can never be unseen.

2-Second Review: "Vigilante" [1983]

2010-07-12T13:43:00.018-04:00

For some reason, it took three or four attempts to get through Bill Lustig's (Maniac, Maniac Cop, Hit List, etc.) ode to street vengeance Vigilante.

Why such a long time to bang out an 80-minute feature? Mostly it was exhaustion. From work, from the heat, from Rolling Rock. My failure had nothing to do with the awesomeness of this movie.

As a sidenote, summer in Rochester, NY can be less than reliable. This summer's odd heat spells, followed by torrential downpours, back to clammy heat has made for some interesting viewing. Either I want to watch something closely related to the weather or something that completely rails against it. [I'm thinking of Carpenter's The Thing and still can't bring myself to pop it in, despite the heat. It's sacrilegious.]

Fortunately, I've stuck to my guns and have taken in some nice, steamy (no, no soft titles here) gems of cinema [Framed, The Wild Bunch, Two-Lane Blacktop, and The Border come immediately to mind.]

On to Vigilante, a gut-punch of a revenge film from 1983, directed by William Lustig. Anyone that knows me is likely familiar with my love of vengeance tales. Sure, they're predictable and formulaic, but then again, so is life. If done right, a good revenge film warrants multiple viewings. [See I Spit on Your Grave, Rolling Thunder, Ms. 45, and the obvious Death Wish for standout examples.)

The whole of the film follows the vengeance textbook nicely, showcasing the thugs dousing innocent senior citizens in gasoline, terrorizing women in elevators, and much more mayhem I don't want to spoil for you.

In this nasty little revenge tale, Rochester native Robert Forster plays Eddie Marino, a hard-working factory man done wrong by a local gang of hoodlums. We see scenes of Marino laying with his wife during a picnic and playing lovingly with his son. Basically, proof that evil is lurking just around the corner.

Once the requisite act of violence is perpetrated against his family, we see the sham of a trial, the obvious abortion of justice, and a furious Marino melting down in seconds which leads him to be temporarily jailed for being in contempt of court. While in prison, Forster's character is told by an elderly black inmate that in the clink he's "just another nigger," a harsh dose of reality Marino has already faced and will be forced to face again and again, particularly when dodging would-be rapists in the shower room.

Violence against his family, corruption in the justice system, and attempted rape? Just more fuel added to the walking tinderbox this man has become in just a few short days.

This is the point in the movie when Marino reunites with Fred "The Hammer" Williamson and great character actor Richard Bright to dole out their own brand of justice. Needless to say, a bloodbath ensues.

Vigilante in a nutshell?

Violence
An excellent score by Jay Chattaway
Elevator lechery
Gasoline baths in broad daylight
Squibs galore
Home invasion sequences
Fred Williamson rocking a beard whilst smoking cigars
More violence
Joe Spinell as a corrupt, oily, lawyer

Did I mention unapologetic violence?

In my book, it's a standout in the genre, as well as Lustig's body of work.

Boss...

Thoughts on June 8.

2010-06-21T10:14:00.005-04:00

So I did it.

My first poetry reading.

Shit, was I nervous.

Beforehand, I didn't think about how I would do it, I just wanted to let it happen the way it was going to happen. Actually, that's only half-true. I daydreamt about for a week leading up to last Tuesday. The nerve it might take to say cunt in front of an audience. If I would stutter, read too fast, or offend anyone.

Luckily, I don't think I did any of that shit. Despite reading a bit fast in two or three places, I did well. Better than expected actually.

The morning of June 8, I considered going fishing, showering, having a Rolling Rock or two and heading over to Writers & Books. [this would all take place in the span of 10 hours, not as fast it that probably just read.] It's no secret that alcohol tends to take the edge off. Of everything. It's also no secret that I have used alcohol do just that for a long time.

Not only was June 8 going to be remembered as the night I finally took the plunge, but it already meant something altogether different; something much more painful, something that I dreamt of off and on for the week leading up to that day. June 8 was the one-year anniversary of Johnny's death. As much as I tried to push it from my mind, it was still there, lurking about, much like those dreams/nightmares where we're reunited, both alive, close, together again.

Despite the feeling that will never go away when I think about Johnny's death, his life, and all the crazy shit we did together, I knew last Tuesday had to be a success, if not for myself, for Johnny.

Even at age 10, he supported my love of the written word, a passion he still supported when less than two years ago we first started talking about writing a screenplay together, a movie he wanted to star in, something that he could sink his teeth into, do something different.

As shitty and timely as it sounds, one of the last things he wrote to me was a post to my Myspace wall. It read "You inspire me." Those three words, as simple as they look on paper, have made his passing equally terrifying and peaceful.

While I know he will never return, I know that he loved me and supported everything I did without question. He would have been there last Tuesday, watching me. Proud of the life I've made for myself.

One day, I will begin that screenplay. For you brother.

Ultimately I decided against taking a drink before the reading, knowing that a drunk [or even lightly oiled] poet is little more than a fucking cliche. And if I've accomplished anything in my near 32 years here, it's the fact that I never went with what was easy. So why should a definitive moment in my life as a poet be an exception?

So I went in straight and did it. I couldn't be happier that I did.

Once I climbed up onto the chair at the podium, I was fine. I read my poems, one by one, didn't talk in between and did my thing. The stage was illuminated by a few small lights, completely blacking out the audience, which was nice, for my nerves anyhow.

All told, there were probably two dozen people at the reading which to me, felt like a small victory. People I know and love, and people I have never met were there to hear me which was pretty boss. And they paid to get in.

For anyone reading this, thank you. It means the world to me that anyone would pay attention to anything I do, let alone buy my book, support my work, and in general, be present.

At the end of day, none of us can ask for much more than that.

Can we?

Until later, stay cool.

Anne Sexton: "A Curse Against Elegies"

2010-04-22T15:46:00.001-04:00

Oh, love, why do we argue like this?
I am tired of all your pious talk.
Also, I am tired of all the dead.
They refuse to listen,
so leave them alone.
Take your foot out of the graveyard,
they are busy being dead.

Everyone was always to blame:
the last empty fifth of booze,
the rusty nails and chicken feathers
that stuck in the mud on the back doorstep,
the worms that lived under the cat's ear
and the thin-lipped preacher
who refused to call
except once on a flea-ridden day
when he came scuffing in through the yard
looking for a scapegoat.
I hid in the kitchen under the ragbag.

I refuse to remember the dead.
And the dead are bored with the whole thing.
But you - you go ahead,
go on, go on back down
into the graveyard,
lie down where you think their faces are;
talk back to your old bad dreams.

The Day of the Rope is Coming. [R.I.P. Corey Haim]

2010-03-10T11:06:00.009-05:00

I'm not ashamed to admit that I liked Corey Haim growing up. Still do as a matter of fact.

As a child of the 1980's, a time when the entertainment industry was slightly less congested with torture-porn and white women saving homeless black kids, life in general seemed somewhat "fresher," more exciting, and full of possibility. Then again, it's probably the 11 year-old in me typing this.

In retrospect, my childhood was free of an increasingly hostile economy, national terror, and a rising body count in some fucking desert skirmish in a country I still don't care about pronouncing correctly.

Movies seemed funnier, the water tasted cleaner, and 12 year-old girls weren't sucking dick to earn colored bracelts. Ah, the 80's.

The body of work that Corey Haim and partner-in-crime Corey Feldman put out was always welcome in the theaters and in my family room.

My father and I must have rented License to Drive 22 times from Wegmans and Blockbuster. Don't forget, this was the later part of the 1980's, a time when videotapes cost an arm and a leg to purchase. $90. Can you fucking imagine that? When it was all said and done, we could've owned it four times over.

But I wouldn't trade those memories in for all the money in the world; laughing hystyerically with my father when the drunk gets into Haim's grandfather's Cadillac and slurs out "What is this, a Maserati?!"

I now own License to Drive, The Lost Boys, and Prayer of the Rollerboys, and I still enjoy all of them. Today, you could never pitch a post-apocalyptic tale of rollerblading teenagers who not only controlled the drug trade, but were also intent on the eradication of adult control and complete takeover of the national landscape. Unless of course you were an Italian filmmaker. For all of it's cheesy trappings, Rollerboys is an unforgettable cult classic featuring the little kid from Sleepaway Camp and a young Patricia Arquette.

The first time I saw Lost Boys was a mind fuck. At age ten, I was probably too young to watch vampires rip bits of skulls and throats out, but that's OK. Schumacher's teen vampire classic prefigured the Twilight series with its smart blend of humor, blood, and unforgettable dialogue.

And did it without computer enhancement, and featured a fantastic soundtrack ("Though shalt not kill..." sung by a choir of creepy children? Come on), not to mention an always memorable Jason Patric and Kiefer Sutherland at the heights of their mullet and trench-coat donning awesomeness.

Being just on the cusp of becoming a certifiable sex and violence hound, The Lost Boys (in conjunction with Stand By Me), was one of the definitive "grown-up" films that started me on the road into irreversible cinephilia.

Coarse language, light teen drug use, and sex made the perfect prepubescent cocktail and informed my life-long relationship with film and art in general.

In recent months, I have spent far too much time dwelling on death. For those who know me, the reasons are obvious. I hate seeing the young die. Notice I didn't employ the time-honored adage "The good die young." I never said Haim was "good." We all make our beds, and yesterday was his time to lay in his.

To me, taking one's own life or making bad decisions that lead to one's demise doesn't make the pill any easier to swallow. Death is death. All we have now is what has been left behind. A life recorded on film for enjoyment. Despite personal demons or turmoil, it is what it is.

At the sake of sounding melodramatic, an actor that once adorned the covers of teen mags like Tiger Beat, with his messy hair, atrocious clothing, and claims that he lead a "good life," meant a lot to the kid in me. And still does.

As with River Phoenix before him, it's sad to see a life that has become entwined in a collective memory snuffed out. For all the horrible choices he made, terrible movies he was in, and bridges he inevitably burned in the industry, he made his mark, a mark that the younger set of today's Hollywood would be hard-pressed to duplicate.

For now, be well Mr. Haim.

And don't forget, "the day of the rope is coming..."

2-Second Reivew: Cabin Fever 2

2010-02-10T12:11:00.012-05:00

As a huge fan of Eli Roth's Cabin Fever, I had relatively low expectations for the non-Roth directed sequel, Cabin Fever 2: Spring Fever.

And while it's not the original, I have to say, it was a pretty enjoyable movie. Though only two members of the original cast return (Ryder Strong in the film's opening sequence and Giuseppe Andrews as dirt-stache donning "Party Man" police officer Winston), fans of the original will probably find something worthwhile here.

Clocking in at 75 minutes, opening and closing with full-scale animation, and apparently abandoned by director Ti West (House of the Devil) who requested an Alan Smithee credit, CF2 may not live up to its predecessor's cult status to many genre fans, but it also doesn't shy away from the tenets of the virus film or its requisite splatter-fest of coughing, vomiting, and dripping sex organs.

This time around, there's no cabin in sight, only a high school on Prom Night filled with horny teens unaware of their impending doom. The story is a little light: infected water makes its ways to the town once again and people get sick and begin to disintegrate before our very eyes. I'm fine with that. I just wish Eli Roth and Dr. Mambo could've been there for some additional comic relief that comes mostly in the way of a brace-faced blow-job scene and an oozing penis.

Throughout, there are nods to Prom Night, Irreversible and Carrie. They should appeal to fans of the homage-mad Roth. For the old school effects enthusiasts out there, fear not, a good chunk of the blood spray, head crushing, hand-severing, and headshots come full-on and CGI-free. There may have been a small amount of CG used during a group vomiting scene (think the Lardass scene in Stand by Me, but on the whole Spring Fever delivers the gory goods.

Is it a good film? Not necessarily. Could it have been better? Maybe. Worse? Probably. I'd recommend it to anyone that's tired of J-Horror influenced tripe, PG-13 swill being shilled on Blockbuster shelves, and anything involving teenage vampires dominating the box office.

If you're on the fence, I should also mention that Mark Borchardt (of American Movie fame) plays Giuseppe Andrews' cousin. He also drives a sweet rape van complete with Boris Vallejo-influenced mural work. His small cameo, Andrews' awesomeness, and the handful of gory delights make this 75 minute outing well worth your time.

"Permanence is Relative" at Lakeshore Record Exchange.

2010-01-13T09:15:00.022-05:00

So, back in October I started working part-time at Lakeshore Record Exchange on Park Ave.

Excellent independent music store with tons of indie, jazz, hip-hop, new wave, etc. on CD and vinyl.

Aside from carrying the standards like Brubeck, Miles, and Coltrane, the jazz section is currently undergoing some nice updates in the form of brand new titles from OkkaDisk and Atavisitc, as well other labels in the world of avant garde/free jazz.

My book, Permanence is Relative, is now being sold there as well, so you are now actually required to leave your house in this wretched Rochester cold, go down there, buy some music, a copy of my book, and maybe A Night in the Life of Jimmy Reardon on DVD for $5.

If nothing else, just go listen to some good new music, read a collection of my work, and support an awesome local business.

Visit Lakeshore at www.alternativemusic.com.

Save the Date: 06/08/10

2010-01-12T09:10:00.000-05:00

I've got something is in the works with Writers & Books on June 8, 2010.

As this is six months away, plans are not 100% confirmed.

When I know more, so will you.

In the meantime, mark up your calendars, stay tuned for updates on new work, movie reviews, and other general self-promotional ramblings.

Visit Writers & Books at www.wab.org.

Xmas Evil: A Brief List of Holiday Horror Delights

2009-12-11T09:07:00.062-05:00

This is not a "best-of list," nor do the titles below appear in any hierarchical fashion (they're organized by release date.)

This is merely a sampling of my favorite holiday-themed horror films.

Many of these you've probably seen or heard of, and some of you may have a twenty-five year-old Gizmo hand-puppet stashed away in an old box of memorabilia. But maybe that's just me.

I love Christmas. And I love cinematic bloodshed. If you do too, please check out some of these titles.

All pack a punch, have their fair share of black humor, and all contain at least one or many killings. Some have incestuous themes, castrations, microwave executions, cunnilingus, Fiona Apple's daddy, flying vans, eye-gouging, and the requisite cookies made from human flesh.

Just go out and get some. After all, what Holiday season would be complete without at least a modicum of evil.

Christmas Evil [aka You Better Watch Out!]

(Dir. Lewis Jackson / USA / 1980)

My all-time favorite here. Originally released by Troma in a cut version, You Better Watch Out! transcends early-80's slasher territory and creates a compelling character study on childhood trauma, an intense love of Christmas, innocence lost, and the nature of good and evil.

And I'm really not making that up.

Also, the mom from "Home Improvement" slaps the shit out of her Penthouse reading 8 year-old.

I cannot recommend this film enough. It's easily in my top 20 favorite films of all-time.

Gremlins

(Dir. Joe Dante / USA / 1984)

The most widely known and commercially successful of Christmas comedy horror on this list.

If you haven't already seen it, Dick Miller's going to punch you in the fucking heart.

Don't Open Till Christmas

(Dir. Edmund Purdom / UK / 1984)

Someone's killing department store Santas left and right.

Castration, nudity, and bloodshed abound. Don't miss this Limey delight!

All Through the House

[Tales From the Crypt, Season 1, Episode 2]
(Dir. Robert Zemeckis / USA / 1989)

Infidelity, fireplace poker skull-crushing, terrified children! Also features Quato from Total Recall and Dr. Giggles as Santa!

Hilarity and horror ensue!

Silent Night, Deadly Night

(Dir. Charles E. Sellier, Jr. / USA / 1984)

Three words:

Punishment. Is. Good.

Enough said.

Black Christmas [aka Black Xmas]
(Dir. Glen Morgan / CAN & USA / 2006)

Fuck the naysayers. This is a far superior film than the original. Sorry Bob Clark. I still love you.

Candy-cane eye gouges, jaundiced skin serial killers, flesh cookie cutouts, and incest.

Stop reading and view immediately.

Treevenge

(Dir. Jason Eisener / CAN / 2008)

Normally, I'd pass on anything that wreaked of environmental horror, but this 15 minute short is amazing nonetheless.

If you can get past the Christmas trees' squealing "voices," this little tale of revenge will satisfy your inner gore-hound.

Gore, gore, and more gore.

Rempis/Rosaly Duo. 12/02/09.

2009-11-05T08:37:00.020-05:00

[from [ the Bop Shop]
Bop Arts Presents:
Dave Rempis / Frank Rosaly Duo
Wed., 12/02, 8 p.m.
$10 Donation Requested
Bop Shop Atrium
The Village Gate

Saxophonist Dave Rempis and drummer Frank Rosaly have performed and recorded together in countless projects since Rosaly arrived on the Chicago scene in 2001, including the Thread Quintet, the Ingebrigt Håker-Flaten Quintet, The Outskirts, and The Rempis Percussion Quartet.

Both musicians have established themselves as prominent players in the active milieu of the Chicago jazz scene, and spend as much time on the road in North America and Europe as they do at home. Their duo, active since 2004, focuses on the wide-ranging possibilities inherent to free-improvisation. And while both musicians are comfortable in the more abstract sonic spaces pioneered by European improvisers, neither one shies away from hard-hitting grooves, nor are they afraid of melodies or swing. Having allowed this relationship to develop gradually over the years, they decided to record a cd for release on 482 music, scheduled to be out in the fall of 2009.

A North American tour is planned in conjunction with that release. For more information about this group, or their upcoming cd and tour, please check out www.daverempis.com.

DAVE REMPIS
Over the last decade, Dave Rempis has emerged as one of the most active young players in the Chicago jazz and improvised music scene. Rempis graduated from Northwestern University in 1997 with a degree in anthropology, focusing in ethnomusicololgy, and a year spent at the University of Ghana, Legon in 1995-96. Since 1998, his work with the Vandermark Five as the "other" saxophonist has established him as one of the up-and-coming voices of his generation, and has also provided him the opportunity to perform extensively in clubs, concert halls, and festivals throughout the U.S., Canada, and Europe.

His own groups, including the Rempis Percussion Quartet, Triage, The Engines, The Rempis/Daisy Duo, and The Dave Rempis Quartet, have toured regularly throughout Europe and North America, and have been documented on the Okkadisk, 482 Music, Solitaire, Utech, and Not Two record labels. In addition to these groups, Rempis plays regularly with Ken Vandermark's Territory Band, The Ingebrigt Haker-Flaten Quintet, The Outskirts, and the Rempis/Bishop/Kessler/Zerang Quartet. His frequent ad hoc collaborations have included performances with Paul Lytton, Axel Doerner, Peter Brotzmann, Hamid Drake, Kevin Drumm, Paul Nilsson-Love, Tony Buck, David Stackenas, and Joe Morris.

As a founding member of the Chicago presenters' collective Umbrella Music, Rempis curates a weekly concert series at Elastic, as well as the annual Umbrella Music Festival, now in its fourth year. Rempis has also been named as a Talent Deserving Wider Recognition in both the alto and baritone saxophone categories in the annual Downbeat Magazine International Critics’ Poll.
Dave's website.

FRANK ROSALY
Frank Rosaly is a percussionist and composer currently living in Chicago. Over the last 10 years he has become an integral part of the Chicago scene, navigating a fine line between the vibrant improvised music, indie-rock, experimental music, and jazz communities. He contributes much of his time to performing, composing, teaching, and organizing musical events, while managing a heavy touring schedule that takes him throughout North America and Europe.

Frank is currently active in many different groups. Some of these include Rob Mazurek’s Mandarin Movie, The Rempis Percussion Quartet, The Ingebrigt Haker-Flaten Quintet, Jeff Parker/Nels Cline Quartet, Matana Robert's Chicago Project, Fred Lonberg-Holm’s Valentine Trio, Keefe Jackson’s Fast Citizens, The Jeb Bishop Trio, Jason Adasievicz’s Rolldown, Jorrit Dijkstra’s Flatlands Collective, The Chicago Lucern Exchange, and The Daniel Levin Trio. Rosaly also leads his own quintet, Viscous, featuring his original compositions. Other performances in the recent past include collaborations with Peter Brotzmann, Tony Malaby, Anthony Coleman, Paul Flaherty, Marshall Allen, Louis Moholo, Eric Boeren, Ken Vandermark, Michael Zerang, and Walter Weirbos, among many others.

Frank's website.

High school heroine uncovers home horror!

2009-10-06T09:19:00.005-04:00

Nothing will prepare you for the majesty that is 1984's Scream for Help. I can't recall the last time I laughed this hard out loud when I was sitting alone on a couch.

From Michael Winner, the writer/director of Death Wish, this lost gem crosses genre lines to create what can only be aptly described as Nancy Drew meets home invasion meets 80's teen melodrama meets family horror.

Let's face it, I can't do it justice. I think Winner himself would be hard pressed to do it justice.

With it's unintentionally over-the-top laughs (a woman is pushed so hard down a hallway in a wheelchair she flies out, almost immediately followed by the same woman and her daughter being thrown down cellar stairs) to the awkward loss of innocence scene complete with would-be-killer stepfather discovering said teen screaming at a crotch full of blood.

In other words, I cannot recommend this film enough.

Insanely bad dialogue and domestic violence, all made the more magical by the paranoid interior monologue of a seventeen-year-old sleuth that's actually "gone all the way" make Scream for Help required viewing for just about everyone that owns a television.

Back in the game.

2009-10-05T15:05:00.004-04:00

Ahh, the submissions grind. Much like our friend to the right, the prospect of constant rejection leading to a solid game of roulette is upon me once again.

While it's an arduous process, it's a worthy once nonetheless. If I don't take a shot (no pun intended), nothing can be gained.

I have a nice grouping of 3-5 poems that I feel are quite strong. A couple of them have been kicking around for over a year and have gotten some much needed attention as of late. Portrait of My Father as Juror and The Cop and the Photograph being the most notable.

Mockingbird, wish me luck.

Let's go clean 'em up.

2009-08-09T14:52:00.013-04:00

Got this for $1 at the Public Market.

Really? Yes.
...
Major Charles Rane: "I found them."

Johnny: "Who?"

Major Charles Rane: "The men who killed my son. They're in a whorehouse over in Juarez right now. There's the four that came into my home, and there's eight or ten others."

Johnny: "Let's go clean em' up."

Vandermark 5, 08-06-09, Rochester, NY.

2009-08-07T09:37:00.021-04:00

Contamination (1980)

2009-08-05T10:16:00.009-04:00

Thinking about running out to you local theater to see The Hulk travel through time, fuck that chick from The Notebook, wax philosophical about the fleeting nature of love/life only to dissipate in a cloud of computer-generated smoke?

Fuck that.

Stay home, puncture a keg of Ox .45, and get your hands on this splattery gem.

An outstanding Italian knockoff of Alien and The Thing, Contamination (aka Alien Contamination/Contamination: Alien on Earth/Toxic Spawn) knows that special effects are king and dialogue is merely a way to pass some time between bloodletting.

It's important to note that this little bloodbath is brought to us by Luigi Cozzi, the Itai auteur that blew our fucking minds with Starcrah (the Star Wars ripoff featuring a pre-cheeseburger binging and German superstar David Hasselhoff, Caroline Munro (Maniac/Fanatic/Don't Open Till Christmas), and Joe Spinell (Rocky/The Godfather/Maniac/Fanatic [aka The Last Horror Film]). Now that's a fucking cavalcade of 80's starpower!

Recommended viewing for anyone that loves insanely ludicrous overdubbing, horrible dialogue, a blatantly lifted score by Goblin (for Dawn of the Dead), blood spray, and seriously balls Italian cinema.

Blue Collar (1978)

2009-07-22T10:12:00.002-04:00

Watched Paul Schrader's directorial debut the other night. Fantastic...check it out...

Fulci? Mattei? Prepare the squibs.

2009-07-11T10:19:00.011-04:00

Watched Zombi 3 yesterday, preparing for a complete and utter fucking failure of a zombie film. All I knew was that Fulci filmed what equaled out to ten minutes of working footage before walking off the set and Bruno Mattei (Rats: Night of Terror, Escape from Women's Prison) took the helm.

I was pleasantly surprised by Shriek Show's presentation of the first of three sequels to Fulci's Zombie vs. Shark masterpiece. Once the film stock got grainy, I knew I was in for the goods that had been stripped out of the version mass amounts of gorehounds had used when justifying their disappointment at this piece of trash.

A flying head emerges from a refrigerator to shred a throat, a man is impaled, a baby is delivered via voluntary c-section to rip a face apart, and a zombie takes a shotgun blast to the head from 5 feet! All without CGI! Amen!

At the sake of dragging this semi-review on any further, do yourself a favor and give this shit a shot. If you like insanely poor overdubbing, horny army men chasing busloads of girls minutes from their untimely demises, and good old-fashioned gore, this might be for you...

Vandermark 5; 08-06-09.

2009-06-24T08:49:00.004-04:00

from The Bop Shop's website...

BOP ARTS presents: THE VANDERMARK 5
THURSDAY AUGUST 6TH 8PM
$10 DONATION REQUESTED
BOP SHOP ATRIUM
274 N GOODMAN ST IN THE VILLAGE GATE

Ken Vandermark formed his quintet, the VANDERMARK 5, during the spring of 1996. Since that time it has been a major outlet for compositional and improvisational ideas that have been fascinating its leader, whose thinking has been developed through years of work with groups like the NRG Ensemble, AALY, the Peter Brötzmann Chicago Tentet, Free Music Ensemble, School Days, Free Fall, the Territory Band, Powerhouse Sound, Frame Quartet, and the Resonance Ensemble- the members of which represent an international gallery of the cutting edge of contemporary music.

Each of the band’s current members has years of performance experience working with a wide variety of music. This, coupled with the range of instrumentation and stylistic potential held by the ensemble, allows Vandermark to compose material that runs the gamut of musical possibilities- he incorporates elements of Jazz history, contemporary composition, Funk and Rock throughout the group’s music. Even so, the quintet’s main focus is developing methods of improvisation. Each piece is arranged to allow ample room for the members to interpret and reinterpret the writing; this creates an environment where the performers are constantly interacting and utilizing their ideas in a spontaneous way.

In the spirit of the great bands scattered throughout the history of Jazz, the Vandermark 5 has always concentrated on live performance as the means to hone its skills and develop its concepts. For many years the quintet played on a weekly basis at the Empty Bottle in Chicago. Now the ensemble has shifted their concert schedule to the road, touring in North America and Europe on a regular basis, and incorporating weekly concerts at the Elastic performance space when the members are back home.

http://www.kenvandermark.com

Inconstant Sol.

2009-06-24T08:35:00.004-04:00

I've been meaning to post about this for quite some time. About two months ago I came across an incredible blog called Inconstant Sol. They're a veritable treasure trove of rare free jazz and avant garde recordings spanning the last five decades or so.

Some of my favorite players; Han Bennink, Peter Brotzmann, Fred Anderson, Misha Mengelberg, Sam Rivers, Cecil Taylor (with the late Raphe Malik in several spots!) Ken Vandermark, etc. (the list could go on ad naseum) are represented in countless live configurations, whether captured on radio or recorded in another live setting.

Even if you're not too familiar with filesharing, don't worry, the blog offers direct downloads which aren't terribly difficult to figure out.

Please visit Inconstant Sol and get your hands on some incredible and seldom hear rarities...

Raymond Carver: "The Current"

2009-05-01T14:53:00.006-04:00

These fish have no eyes
these silver fish that come to me in dreams,
scattering their roe and milt
in the pockets of my brain.

But there's one that comes--
heavy, scarred, silent like the rest,
that simply holds against the current,

closing its dark mouth against
the current, closing and opening
as it holds to the current.

Ab Baars/Ken Vandermark: 04-20-09.

2009-04-22T08:41:00.004-04:00

Virgin Spring. Just in time for Easter.

2009-04-08T09:15:00.009-04:00

Watched Ingmar Bergman's The Virgin Spring a couple days ago.

With Easter coming this Sunday, I couldn't have picked a better time for a first viewing.

While Last House on the Left's director Wes Craven cites this as a bit of an inspiration for his rape-murder-home invasion-revenge, this is certainly not a 70's grindhouse film.

Fans of Last House will find themselves in similar territory; a tale of innocence and life lost, leading to a father's call to justice. And no brutally graphic rape sequences complete with David Hess forcing young girls to "piss their pants."

I can't recommend this highly enough. Whether you come to Virgin Spring from an art house standpoint or that of someone that loves revenge tales, you'll find something very special in Bergman's work.

Utterly stunning. Get your hands on the Criterion release if you can.

Marie Howe: "The Star Market"

2009-04-05T12:26:00.008-04:00

Rheytchul and I saw Marie Howe last week at the University of Rochester. Amazing.

Here she reads "The Star Market" from her newest collection, "The Kingdom of Ordinary Time."

In the Realms of the Unreal.

2009-04-05T12:21:00.002-04:00

Check it out...

An Introduction to Paal Nilssen-Love.

2009-03-11T13:05:00.027-04:00

Of all the living jazz drummers working in "free jazz" today, my personal favorite is Paal Nilssen-Love.

Marked by a polyrhythmic insanity all his own, my first exposure to his work took the wind out of me; a sound I hastily likened to Interstellar Space-era Rashied Ali. On speed.

But with all forward-thinking jazz players, the more I listened, the more I heard; beneath and beyond the immediacy and freneticism.

It goes without saying that the European players and their vastly Chicago-based counterparts come out of their corners swinging. And like his counterparts and peers, Love's percussive voice draws upon a wide palette. Despite the octopus-like control over his kit, he's light-handed and colorful when the music calls for it.

Sadly enough (for me anyhow), I have not yet been able to see him in a live setting. Owning all the School Days discs (including their incredible ensemble work with Atomic), FME, Tripleplay, the Territory Band, and Vandermark/ Nilssen-Love Duo recordings just hasn't fully satisfied my need to get my nose broken by this Norwegian powerhouse.

Someday my friends. Someday.

[Please visit http://www.paalnilssen-love.com/index.php for a complete discography, streaming radio, and tour dates.]

"Playing Drunk."

2009-03-06T20:06:00.026-05:00

Finally! Farmhouse magazine took my poem "Playing Drunk."

It's been a while since I got something out there, so I raised a Rolling Rock in celebration.

Which is kind of fitting considering the poem's subject.

As an update, I've posted the entire poem below as I copyright to this poem has been reverted back to me.

"Playing Drunk"

A decade before dry heaves
and hangovers, before rehashing
a night’s events so I could start making phone calls
to apologize, before needing to carry
sports bottles of Burnett’s and tonic water
to house-parties because waiting on line
got to be too much to handle,
before buying a belt of Rikaloff
immediately after Friday’s final class let out,
before sitting in the front window
of dark bars, having to explain that
I couldn’t always be the center
of attention, that I needed to rest,
pile one cold drink on top of one another to rearrange
memories the way I wanted them, before
the slight self-admission that drinking
may have finally become a problem,
Heather and I got fucked up on apple juice
sitting at her parent’s kitchen
table after school.

We convinced each other movie stars used it
on screen in lieu of scotch, so it made
sense. To give our performance more depth,
we barked orders at an invisible bartender and
careened into walls. It was funny, the two of us
playing drunk, partaking in a learned ritual
we had a limited vocabulary for, intoxication
and inebriation only big words
after-school specials had warned us
to remember, yet steer clear of their meaning.

There’s something to be said about feigned
intoxication, whether 10 or 21 or 100, we’re operating
with a net, being a self we can still control, loosening
our arms and legs, slurring our speech, involving
ourselves in accidents we can clean up in an instant.

When I had my first real drink at age ten,
an age most experts mark as the definitive
first taste, I couldn’t have recognized that bitter
swallow as little more than a seed,
a seed that would take years and great care
to germinate. In retrospect, it’s hard
to admit that there’s joy in this remembering,
the innocence of acting as explorer, traversing
the bend in the road just ahead—
a kind of otherness I can never again achieve.

David Strait: “Christmas Day”

2009-03-02T14:55:00.003-05:00

from http://www.bloodrootlm.com/index.html

The box came on time
and I signed for it
with a shaking hand,
a broad smile.
Under a brightly lit tree,
I peeled back cardboard flaps
and sorted through a sea
of Styrofoam beads.

I took hold of a wife
by the shoulders, lifted her
up and over the edge.
I snapped off all the plastic tags,
shifted a lever, and watched her
waddle about the room.

Then I reached back in,
found a son on a tricycle.
I wound him up and watched
as he pedaled across the floor.
His wooden head turned smiling
side to side, perched neatly
on a dowel.

Next, a daughter.
I pulled her, shining,
out from the tissue and tape.
I installed batteries
correctly, flipped a switch
and watched her crawl about
on flat palms,
knees at right angles.

Christmas night, I put my kids on shelves,
stood my wife in the corner of the room.
I knelt down before bed,
for the first time in years.
I said thanks for my family, I vowed
to take up church again, and tennis.

Ab Baars Trio with Ken Vandermark: 04-20-09

2009-02-17T09:49:00.013-05:00

BOP ARTS presents

Ab Baars 3 w/ Vandermark

Monday, April 20, 8 pm

$10 donation requested

Bop Shop Atrium

The Village Gate

One of the celebrated players on the Dutch jazz scene, saxophonist Ab Baars is a member of the famed ICP Orchestra. He has also worked with Ig Henneman, George Lewis, and Anthony Braxton. Baars' trio, with bassist Wilbert de Joode and drummer Martin van Duynhoven, has released numerous acclaimed CDs including Goofy June Bug (Wig) featuring his new collaboration with Ken Vandermark. To this day, Baars has worked with improvisers such as Han Bennink, Jaap Blonk, Alberto Braida, John Carter, The Ex, Cor Fuhler, Ben Goldberg, Tristan Honsinger, François Houle, Michael Moore, Sunny Murray, Sonic Youth, Cecil Taylor, Wolter Wierbos, Michiyo Yagi, poets H.C. ten Berge and Diane Régimbald, dancers Beppie Blankert, Hisako Horikawa, Masako Noguchi and Katie Duck’s Magpie Company.

For the past 20 years, Ken Vandermark has been exploring and working to expand the possibilities of improvised and composed music in North America and Europe. Since moving to Chicago from Boston in 1989, he's performed and recorded in a variety of contexts, and with many internationally renowned musicians. Past groups of significance include the NRG Ensemble, the DKV Trio, AALY, FME, the Vandermark Quartet, Spaceways Inc., School Days, Cinghiale, Witches & Devils, Steam, and Caffeine.

Currently, the majority of his work as a composer and improviser has been directed toward the Vandermark 5, Powerhouse Sound, the Frame Quartet, the Peter Brötzmann Chicago Tentet, Sonore, and separate duos with the percussionists Tim Daisy and Paal Nilssen-Love, the Territory Band, CINC, and Free Fall. Upcoming projects include iTi (with Johannes Bauer, Thomas Lehn, Paal Nilssen-Love), Lean Left (with Terrie Ex, Andy Moor, Paal Nilssen Love), a collaboration with the group ZU, and the Resonance Ensemble (an international group featuring ten musicians from Poland, Sweden, the Ukraine, and the United States). Vandermark is a recipient of a MacArthur “genius” Award.

Best Album of 2009?

2009-02-17T09:17:00.021-05:00

Yes.

Thank you.

Goodbye.

Philip Schultz, 02-11-09 / Two Poems.

2009-01-23T11:36:00.017-05:00

February 11, 7 p.m.
University of Rochester
Rush Rhees Library
Hawkins-Carlson Room

Philip Schultz (b. 1945 in Rochester, New York) is an American poet, and the founder/director of The Writers Studio, a private school for fiction and poetry writing based in New York City.

He is the author of several collections of poetry, including his most recent Failure (2007) co-winner of the 2008 Pulitzer Prize in Poetry, Living in the Past (2004), and The Holy Worm of Praise (2002), all published by Harcourt. He is also the author of Deep Within the Ravine (Viking 1984, recipient of The Academy of American Poets Lamont Prize); Like Wings (Viking 1978, winner of an American Academy & Institute of Arts and Letters Award as well as a National Book Award nomination) and the poetry chapbook, My Guardian Angel Stein (1986).

Failure

To pay for my father's funeral
I borrowed money from people
he already owed money to.
One called him a nobody.
No, I said, he was a failure.
You can't remember
a nobody's name, that's why
they're called nobodies.
Failures are unforgettable.
The rabbi who read a stock eulogy
about a man who didn't belong to
or believe in anything
was both a failure and a nobody.
He failed to imagine the son
and wife of the dead man
being shamed by each word.
To understand that not
believing in or belonging to
anything demanded a kind
of faith and buoyancy.
An uncle, counting on his fingers
my father's business failures—
a parking lot that raised geese,
a motel that raffled honeymoons,
a bowling alley with roving mariachis—
failed to love and honor his brother,
who showed him how to whistle
under covers, steal apples
with his right or left hand. Indeed,
my father was comical.
His watches pinched, he tripped
on his pant cuffs and snored
loudly in movies, where
his weariness overcame him
finally. He didn't believe in:
savings insurance newspapers
vegetables good or evil human
frailty history or God.
Our family avoided us,
fearing boils. I left town
but failed to get away.

The One Truth

After dreaming of radiant thrones
for sixty years, praying to a god
he never loved for strength, for mercy,
after cocking his thumbs
in the pockets of his immigrant schemes,
while he parked cars during the day
and drove a taxi all night,
after one baby was born dead,
and he carved the living one's name
in windshield snow in the blizzard of 1945,
after scrubbing piss, blood
and vomit off factory floors
from midnight to dawn,
then filling trays with peanuts,
candy and cigarettes
in his vending machines all day,
his breath a wheezing suck
and bellowing gasp
in the fist of his chest,
after washing his face, armpits
and balls in cold back rooms,
hurrying between his hunger
for glory and his fear
of leaving nothing but debt,
after having a stroke and
falling down factory stairs,
his son screaming at him
to stop working and rest,
after being knocked down
by a blow he expected all his life,
his son begging forgiveness,
his wife crying his name,
after looking up at them
straight from hell, his soul
withering in his arms—
is this what failure is,
to end where he began,
no one but a deaf dumb God
to welcome him back,
his fists pounding at the gate—
is this the one truth,
to lie in a black pit
at the bottom of himself,
without enough breath
to say goodbye
or ask for forgiveness?

C.K. Williams: "I Hate"

2009-01-16T14:59:00.011-05:00

I hate how this unsummoned sigh-sound, sob-sound,
not sound really, feeling, sigh-feeling, sob-feeling,
keeps rising in me, rasping in me, not in its old disguise
as nostalgia, sweet crazed call of the blackbird;

not as remembrance, grief for so many gone,
nor either that other tangle of recall, regret
for unredeemed wrongs, errors, omissions,
petrified roots too deep to ever excise;

a mingling rather, a melding, inextricable mesh
of delight in astonishing being, of being in being,
with a fear of and fear for I can barely think what,
not non-existence, of self, loved ones, love;

not even war, fuck war, sighing for war,
sobbing for war, for no war, peace, surcease;
more than all that, some ground-sound, ground-note,
sown in us now, that swells in us, all of us,

echo of love we had, have, for world, for our world,
on which we seem finally mere swarm, mere deluge,
mere matter self-altered to tumult, to noise,
cacophonous blitz of destruction, despoilment,

din from which every emotion henceforth emerges,
and into which falters, slides, sinks, and subsides:
sigh-sound of lament, of remorse; sob-sound of rue,
of, still, always, ever sadder and sadder sad joy.

Han Bennink. 01-21-09.

2009-01-15T21:37:00.012-05:00

Right now, I'm working on a new-ish poem, tentatively titled The Cop and The Photograph, listening to Tripleplay's Gambit record, and getting extremely excited about Han Bennink' solo performace and art exhibit at the Bop Shop [Village Gate] next Wednesday, January 21.

from Tom Kohn at the Bop Shop

Wednesday, January 21, 8pm
$10 donation requested
Bop Shop Atrium
274 N Goodman St.
the Village Gate

This past fall was a particularly memorable season for the Jazz In The Atrium concerts. But perhaps the most memorable concert of all was the Dutch ICP Orchestra with Misha Mengelberg and Han Bennink. They were everything we like in a big band: powerful, driving, with great soloists, a liberal dose of humor and they created fantastic music. And who can forget that this remarkable band of 10 members strong was driven by drummer Han Bennink using only a snare drum! Truly a remarkable performance.

While they were here, Han mentioned that he would be touring as a soloist and we immediately set about discussing booking it here at the Atrium. Don’t be put off by the idea that this is a solo drum concert. Han Bennink is one of a kind. We’re really excited to be kicking off the new season of Jazz in The Atrium concert with this Dutch master.

Bennink was born in Zandaam, Holland. His father was a classical percussionist and Bennink was perhaps inevitably drawn to the instrument. He was mostly self-taught and rather than focusing on classical music, he gravitated toward the jazz he was hearing on the radio and in clubs. Soon he was an in- demand drummer for visiting American musicians and he was backing players like Sonny Rollins, Dexter Gordon, Lucky Thompson and many, many others.

Concurrently, he was drawn to the free jazz that was making inroads in Europe in the early 1960s. He co-led a groundbreaking free jazz trio with German saxophonist Peter Brotzmann and Belgian pianist Fred Van Hove. With pianist Misha Mengelberg and saxophonist Willem Breuker he founded the Instant Composer’s Pool (ICP). Eventually Breuker went his own way but Mengelberg and Bennink have kept the ICP flame alive and it has grown and evolved throughout the years.

Over the years, Bennink has played with an enormous range of musicians from Derek Bailey, Dave Douglas and Anthony Braxton to Eugene Chandbourne, Sonic Youth, The Ex and Ethiopian singer Mohammed Jimmy Mohammed. If you see Bennink’s name in the cast of musicians, chances are the music is worth listening to.

Bennink’s solo music is something all together unique. He can make music with a snare and a chair or a full kit. He’ll play the floor, the walls, furniture, virtually anything. One never knows what to expect from Bennink. But whatever it is, we think we’re all going to be in for a real treat.

Go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Han_Bennink to learn more and to view his atrwork.

Fun with Fulci.

2009-01-05T23:36:00.007-05:00

Just watched Lucio Fulci's Contraband (aka The Smuggler.) A complete knockoff of The Godfather, but with much, much more gore.

In grand Fulci tradition, there's an immeasurable amount of squibs, head shots, punching, slapping, and horrible discotheque setpieces.

Blooad-soaked, gut-ripping, throat-exploding, skull-splintering excitement from the late master.

Have a look for yourself...

Box of Goodies; OKKA Disk Stlye.

2008-12-15T21:47:00.017-05:00

Treats, treats, treats! All free today! Free jazz that is! Ohhh, zing motherfuckers.

Double-discs, triple-discs, studio sessions, live radio sessions, bass clarinets!!! Hours and hours and ludicrousness from the windy city of Chicago.

FME's Cuts album, Territory Band - 5's New Horse for the White House, the Peter Brotzmann Chicago Tentet's At Molde 2007, and Atomic School Days' Distil. An intense haul to say the least. As always, Bruno Johnson at OKKA gets his shit out super quick.

Maybe at some point in the future I'll get on my high horse, review this stack, dispel all the myths about modern aesthetics in the avant garde scene here and abroad. Right now is not that time. I've got some Italian horror to watch. And a Rolling Rock or two to consume.

Until then, stay cool.

[here's a little Tentet from Molde 2007 to keep you fiends satisfied.]

Put an empty chamber in that gun!!!

2008-12-03T15:12:00.004-05:00

Another rejection yesterday; my second from The Pedestal in a month.

The way things are looking, I may be requesting this board game for Christmas.

Come One, Come All, Rejections, Rejections, Rejections!

2008-12-01T14:31:00.020-05:00

Another rejection. The Cimarron Review this time.

Aside from the small defeat that is once again being rejected by a journal that has previously published my work, my biggest surprise came when I realized the last three rejections came back in SASE's, without the submitted poems.

Standard operating procedure has seemed to take a turn for the worse...

We Care A Lot!

2008-11-24T23:18:00.019-05:00

Another rejection this week, this time from the Broome Review in Binghamton. The hilarious thing was the shape my SASE was returned in.

Not only was my work rejected, the federal governement decided to send an early Christmas treat at the same time, an anihilated piece of mail. Poems missing, form letter intact.

Oh sweet, sweet rejection...

.chicken bone. interview with ACT:LIVE

2008-11-18T13:51:00.024-05:00

I wanted to share an excerpt from a recent interview [below] with the painter .chicken bone. This interview originally appeared on the ACT:LIVE blogspot on 11/17/08.

Hope you enjoy.

If you're around on December 5th, stop by the Gallery at Potential Life Studios (34 Elton St., 1st Floor) for First Friday; .chicken bone. is premiering of a lot of new work and some old work...

ACT:LIVE ON ART:
Introducing .chickenbone.
werd: james niche

ACT:LIVE: My first question is did you go to school for art and have you always lived in Rochester?

I’ve moved about, but lived in Brooklyn while going to school. I went to Pratt, but I don’t like to credit school with my talent. Out of all the schools I’ve been to, MCC has the best art program. I have one high school teacher who will always be solely responsible for my interest in art and pushing me in the right direction.

ACT:LIVE: How do you view your art? I mean, what’s the vibe you send out?

I think I have a sense of humor that other people may not see or don’t know how to react to. I think that comes through with the titles.

ACT:LIVE: You paint a lot of face portraits, are these models in front of you while you paint?

I paint from a lot of photographs. I have a lot of these old journals and magazines and they have the greatest photographs of people. I use those for a basis, and then turn it into whatever it ends up as.

ACT:LIVE: What drove you to portraits?

I’ve always been drawn to people; even as a kid I would do portraits of Garth Brooks and New Kids On The Block. It’s hilarious to look at now.

ACT:LIVE: How long have you been involved in the Rochester art community, and what has your involvement been?

Last year I kind of decided to use it or lose it, if you know what I mean.

ACT:LIVE: Meaning, get involved or stop doing it?

Yeah, I never really showed my art before.

ACT:LIVE: Have you found many opportunities to get your work out there?

Yeah, especially working with Pat (Gaffney), he helped me out a lot and gave me my first big push. He threw the ‘Sunglasses Only’ party at Tilt and that got me back into it.

ACT:LIVE: So you won the award for best painter at Artist’s Row, tell me more about that.

This group of people came into my tent and began scrutinizing and asking what everything was, so at that point I thought I was in trouble because of my tent size. I didn’t know if they were asking me all these questions because I am a painter and I had prints…I just thought I was in trouble. So, then they left. Then, they came back and told me I was best in show for painting!

ACT:LIVE: Is there any sort of support that comes along with winning the award or is it just a pat on the back?

Honestly, I’m not really sure. I was just really interested to find out that my demographic is broader than I had imagined. People that I would have never guessed to be interested in my art were approaching me all day. It’s much nicer when a total stranger compliments your work than someone who may feel obligated.

ACT:LIVE: I have had many people tell me that the artists in this town desperately need more resources to help get their art sold and into the hands of the marketplace…what are your feelings on what can be done about that and is that important to you?

Well, selling things and making money is all well and good, but if you’re not doing it if you have to do it, then you shouldn’t be doing it. I love all these alternative art spaces we have like Lux, Bug Jar, salons and Laundromats that want to hang our work. I mean, that’s great, but we also have places like Rochester Contemporary, too. I can’t tell you the last time they had a big solo show for a Rochester artist. I say represent the people that are here in Rochester, the people who are really working. I just think Rochester Contemporary could do a lot more to represent.

ACT:LIVE: What are some of your other favorite art venues…and what is this place, Café Vas?

Café Vas is a cool little place over on Merchants, Mike Hanlon from Hanlon Photographic and Beth Sumner were both showing some work there. It’s a fun little coffee shop in the Merchants neighborhood. The Potential Life Gallery is a really awesome space, too. They have been bringing in a lot of fantastic art and music. Every Sunday they do like, a noise music jam night. It’s really cool.

ACT:LIVE: So, where is your next showing?

December 5th, The High Falls Gallery. They’re doing a show called ‘Portraits: Our City, Our People’. I actually met Sally Winslow, the lady who runs The High Falls Gallery at Artists Row and she invited me into the show, so, big thumbs up to Artists Row, all the way around.

Working on a New Poem!

2008-11-04T09:35:00.009-05:00

Revisiting an old poem that began over a year ago called "Nintendo Tapes."

Heavy cuts, new sections, and a new title, this piece is based on a story my friend Tom shared with me while working for the East Rochester Sheriff's Department.

Taking that into consideration, and my penchant for childhood trauma as subject, you can take a guess at the poem's feel.

So far, it's taking pretty good shape. Looks to be a long one possibly.

Who knows how it'll end up...

Rejection Slip #2: Getting Closer

2008-10-22T21:50:00.018-04:00

Second rejection slip today; from The Pedestal.

Excellent journal, awesome editor. My poem, "Portrait of My Father as Juror," was rejected, but I did receive a very personal note from the editor:

Stephen,

Thank you for submitting to The Pedestal Magazine. I want to personally inform you that your work came very close: the top 1 percent of all submissions. But, unfortunately, I turned your work down for this particular issue. You could easily have appeared in this issue… and it doesn’t mean that the poems chosen were necessarily “better” poems. My advice is: persist! And kudos on the work you submitted.

Most Sincerely,
Michael Spring
Poetry Editor, The Pedestal Magazine

Hey, at least wasn't a fucking form letter.

Mr. Spring, you will be seeing more of my work very, very soon.

Rejection Slip #1

2008-09-23T22:40:00.045-04:00

First rejection slip yesterday.

From Slipstream. An excellent journal out of Niagara Falls. About four years ago, I placed a poem with them called "Conjoined." That came after about 3 or 4 rejection notes. That acceptance letter felt good.

As with the other returned SASE's, the editor included a note: "Thanks for the read."

One down. A handful to go.

I remember Kim Addonizio, a poet and fiction writer that has had great impact on my work, blogging at one point about the frustration of being rejected past the point of "becoming established." Kim is an honest writer, something I admire in her work [especially the early stuff], so this public admission of rejection was eye-opening and influential on me as an aspiring "working" poet.

Lesson? Even if you put out three award-winning poetry collections, a book of short fiction, and had a contract with Norton & Co. in the bag, you can still feel that gut-punch when someone doesn't want your shit.

I got a half dozen poems published and a full-length. I guess I'll keep on trucking. It's all a part of the game I guess.

500 Films is 365 Days?

2008-09-22T15:41:00.043-04:00

Is it possible to watch 500 films in a calendar year? I'm not sure. The way things have shaped up thus far, I may just hit 500 by October 1. A quick recap: October 1, 2007, I make the decision to give myself over to the incurable sickness of cinephilia for a single year, borrow DVDs, rent DVDs, steal DVDs, buy used DVDs; anything to create the "illusion" that I have no life.

It all started when I thought that watching 31 movies in 30 days would be a neat way of remembering all of the horror films I planned on watching to celebrate Halloween. 31 quickly turned into 66. 66 made way for thinking 100 would be attainable. It was in fact, not. The list ended at 65 on October 31,2007. Once November 1 rolled around and a stop to the insanity didn't come, I decided to surrended to my compulsive proclivities and continue watching, and start religiously logging. And why the fuck not? I watch a a ton of movies.

Breaking the films down categorically came in somewhere at about the three or four month mark. And all of it went down on my myspace blog. Did people read it? Sure, some. Most people questioned whether I was still employed, if everything in my personal life was ok, and if I would ever stop.

So far, it hasn't.

Let's review, shall we...Rape/revenge, murder, disembowelement, necrophilia, self-mutilation, incest, organ harvesting, coming-of-age tales, vampires, zombies, slashers, grindhouse, nunsploitation, women-in-prison, cannibalism, outlandish trailer compilations, mixtape video comps, better than half of Russ Meyer's "body" of work, arthouse, experimental, midnight movies, alcohol and drug abuse, the lecherous films of Larry Clark, Gaspar Noe's bestial condom campaign, Cronenberg, Friedken, Mamet, Martin, Miike, Morris, and Schrader, Hollywood melodrama, Canadian melodrama, films from the Hollywood of the 1970's (balls), polygamy, blood-splatter expert serial killers stalked by limey cunts, weed-slinging milfs from middle-America, carrot masturbation and queefing for Stevie Vai on videotape, corpophagia-induced regurgitation, necrophagia, celebrity impersonation, documentaries on cane toads, serial killers, pet-collectors, artists, pornographers, and cryogenics, habeas corpus hearings, almost every season of almost two dozen tv series, piles of concert dvd's of everyone from Tom Waits to Manowar to Sigur Ros to Behemoth...And of course, Steve Buscemi.

Back to the Grind

2008-09-10T14:40:00.035-04:00

About a month ago, the time to return to the submissions grind finally came. The last year-and-a-half passed quickly, and the release of "Permanence is Relative" is somewhat of a faded memory. Finally.

The time to toss the pomp and circumstance of a "real" poetry collection aside [pomp and circumstance I am solely responsible for creating and attempting to sustain for too long] had arrived. The time to start writing had returned.

Though the road back was not a short one, it was a necessary one.

Thrusting myself back into the act of reviewing current calls for work, scouring online search engines, and keeping my eyes peeled for any opportunity to put something together has offered me some much needed clarity. You can't accomplish shit if you don't do shit. It's one of the elementary certainties many people who want to "make it" never get. That they probably won't ever "make it." But you never fucking know.

For me, the fight was always more valuable than the success. Am I a masochist? Yes; a kind of artistic masochism that may be hard to explain. When a poem is accepted by some stranger in North Carolina or New York City or Oklahoma, your heart explodes. Then you start to doubt the piece, the editor's competence, and whether or not the work will ever again be good enough to waste a contributor's copy on. Every single poem I've placed in a journal was hard-won; in the eight years that I've taken my poetry seriously, I've submitted over 100 times; all for a dozen published poems. That's fucking insanity. And fantastic.

I've told myself time and time again, since the year 2000, when that single acceptance letter arrives amidst a sea of form rejection slips, the juice will be worth the squeeze. Because, let's face it, if you're doing what you do [without a pistol at your temple], there is no fucking squeeze. It's about swinging the goddamned bat, not playing the role of the complacent whiner. Go out and get some. Motherfucker. And if you decide not to, sit back down and let someone that's far more hungry take your place at the plate.

POEM: The Performance [for Bob Flanagan]

2008-09-09T10:58:00.018-04:00

Tonight’s performance will probably hurt
you a lot more than it’s going to hurt

me. I am here for all of us,
you and I, performer

and spectator—for anyone
curious enough about the sick man

that sticks things in his dick
to pay admission for the ride.

Since birth, the cystic fibrosis has insisted
I submit, insisted that I share the skin

and the shit and the semen. Somewhere
along the way, exposing

the mechanics of the human form was its own
single truth, what most would call a mystery,

of getting off by giving in,
using household oddities and instruments;

c-clamps and clothespins pinching
veins the sickness has created

telephone cords of, weighted
steel balls worked into my asshole

without lube—anything strong enough
to make me feel, to offer myself

up for someone else’s possession.
This is not about mutilation,

though that’s what your eyes
want to name it,

that driving a nail through the head of your
penis is sick, inexplicable,

sad, that the sputtering of blood
in public is a crying out for

help. The body’s greatest function
is pliability, a function

that instinct is inclined to deny.
This is our single gift: to adapt,

to bend, to come
apart when we beckon—

to train our bodies to love us
just enough

to turn
over the deed.