Long lost gem from the internets

You all remember a guy named Leonard? I'm sure most of you don't, but he was always a brilliant, amusing guy. Just recently he fake-replied to a guy on Craigslist who wanted to start a rap-metal band inspired by Terminator 4. Apparently Leonard still has it.

The original ad:

Sonic Weapon needs musicians. Especially a vocalist who likes trippy singing, and also controlled yelling (And possibly more instrumentalists). The project currently has a 7-string guitar player, and a midi/pro tools operator, and a rapper with a voice meant for metal. But a dedicated keyboard player will eventually be needed, until then, any studio we will have to use midi.

If one were to describe this project in a nutshell, it sounds like it should be the soundtrack to the next Terminator movie. So the singer has to have controlled yelling, and also can sing and plainly just capture and hypnotize the audience. The vocalist should like all kinds of music, as well as Deftones, Ill Nino, Fear Factory, Himsa, Killswitch Engage, Chimaira, etc. A rapper has already been found with a HUGE voice! So the rapping spot is already taken care of. (Think you've heard rap-metal? Please think again).

Eventually a drummer can replace the MIDI drums. But a metal drummer who likes Lamb of God, Slayer and Fear Factory, who is open to an aggressive and massive rapping that is totally meant for metal. So until that day finally arrives, then we're stuck with the program 'Drum Kit From Hell'

And the conversation that ensued:

Dude man, I literally and figuratively jizzed myself when I read your ad. I am THE ONE. I am your Neo. fuck dude, let's get inside the Matrix and just fuck shit up with our raw tunes and mind-altering sonic collage. Not only is my singing hypnotic, but I actually hypnotize the audience, and then I yell but in a controlled way. it's so subtle but full of expression. Like I start yelling and just keep it under wraps, I'm am so coy about yelling, but then I will just yell and it's like listening to someone die in a meat grinder, but really captures the audience, literally. Like I will throw a net on them or some shit.

I love all the bands you mentioned, but I love everything from Lamb of God to Travis Tritt to Slayer to Toby Keith to Buckethead to fucking Minnie Ripperton even, sometimes. I do it all, I hear it all, I listen indiscriminately to all music and I make every sort of music possible. Gamelan, fucking Lawrence Welk-type shit, Merzbow noise experiments, Ian Tyson covers, shit dude I am all over it. I am probably the greatest genius who ever lived AND I dream about James Cameron at night, and like him having a metal skeleton and punching women. Wouldn't that be a wicked song

Listen, I have the dream and hitch onto this shit, I will make you trip balls, literally.

Nameth Razorseed

ok , nahmeth (is that the name you go by). here is the thing. can you yell almost like the way himsa or hatebreed does? cause i know i can't. what about samples… any experience with previous acts?

I was in "Brave Rape" for like 2 years, but then we broke up. I've been doing a solo project as "Colostomy Slime", and my other band now "Wigger Fight."

Fuck please, I can totes yell like Himsa. I can yell like anyone, Himsa, Hatebreed, Kirk Douglas, Mel Gibson, I studied yelling in fucking Thailand

Hewl yeah, I know how to use them samples. I be triggering samples when I sings, I be throwing them down with Boss Dr. Sample and yelling.

let's meet and you lay down some 7-string guitar, start off slow and then I be melodically yelling and thinking about Terminator

oh yeah, just call me Razorseed.

- Razorseed

oh cool. i never meant samples, i meant samples of your music.

but its not that important i guess if u say u can do all that. but it would still be cool to hear and all.

i wish i was on terminator 4…. i am not really writing the soundtrack… my ad is meant to trigger interest in people who would like to be a part of something that SHOULD be on there…

where are you located?

I am a sick vocalist, you think you've heard vocals? Please, Placido Domingo worships my phallus

We could be on the Terminator 4, all we do is get into Crowley sex magick. Have you peeped The Book of the Law? Wigger honestly, the band thinks up a thing and then gets into a circle wearing musty old robes, then chant a lot and think about Ra. Then ejaculate onto an ancient mystical symbol. 4 real you get power, I get money doing this, I made a mustard recipe and sold it to a small organics company. Then I sold a ketchup one. Then I sold horseradish sauce recipe. Then I sold a vegetarian ranch dressing. And now Im living well large, I live on a big fuck of a boat.

Dost thou and his brethren live near the water? I saileth my boat over. I sailed to Buffalo. I sail where I feel.

I got mad samples of me singing, but my music is all in Calgary. It'll be here soon though, you mark my fucking words.

Oh yeah, call me N-Seed for short. Be like "Hey N-Seed" and mean it.

PS - think about it: maybe change the band name to Psonick Whepun, just think about it. Or Sawknic Whepan maybe? I'm just riffing

N-Seed

we have no interest in the occult. i do not mess with that. i give my word straight.

i was thinking some singing, but it might not work for this project cause i think our rapper is pure monster tone. it prolly wont work with deftones style singing beside it. i think we might be good man. but i am open to hearing your samples cause if its that good as you are saying then it would be impossible to deny anyways.

right now this project is in a slump so nothing is established as in stone yet.

Your rapper is definitely a plump nutsack full of monster tone, I can't wait to work out with that fucking guy, it'll be legendary. I bet we'll get famous in like 3 months, max. I made a new instrument last night, it's like a crossbow and it fires arrows at pieces of metal and makes this lord of fucktown of a tone, it sounds so Terminator 4. I've been dreaming about Terminator ever since I saw your ad, I think it's gonna happen. Do you think in Terminator 4 that the Terminator will start getting into Ancient Egyptian culture? That'd be perfect. If you had to write about me, you'd say "He's like Terminator got into Ancient Egypt." I'm all about metallic arm attachments, robes, big staffs with fancy shit on the end, fucking leather-ass boots built for shit-kicking cement.

You shouldn't be in a slump man. Should I sail over with my boat and give you guys some motivation? My boat is full of poontang right now, I picked up all these bitches on the Toronto Islands and we've been freqstyling ever since. You want to come over and get milked?

Yo hit me up and let's jam buddy. Or if you want to just come over and drink absinthe smoke hash and meet some of these cracked-out bitches I be slamming with my gourd cock, that's cool too. We can rub out a vibe together. or just talk about fucking talk Wittgenstein over a plate of cheese-filled smokies, let's just do this man. Let's make the dream happen.

N-Seed

I cannot see anything in relation to Egypt in this terminator or sonic weapon theme man. Although I am a fan of the band Nile.

dude ure last email freaked me the fuck out. just cause i play this music doesnt mean i am into all that dark shit or that type of partyinh. you would be surprised to know i am just a nerd. i am doing this only for business. the relations in this band are primarily meant for business.

as a precaution , or anyone else involved in this does not take on anyone without hearing samples first. i am not making any guarantees. and there are plenty of delays right now. i have to figure out some pro technology before any of this gets going again. ..

the slump is cause i must learn all this technology for the production end of things.

I appreciate your intentions, but please make your inquiries regarding this entity business only.

Listen friend, I appreciate your caution.Music is more than business though. I've been chewing on a chimp's pituary gland to get at the hormones, then I play the lyre for these ladies, and this is what life's about. You know? You'll figure it out once you move in. I have some extra space on the boat. When do you want to move in? Food is all you can eat, I've got everything, perogies, pizza pockets, beef jerky, count chocula. Get Priest to move into my boat too, we'll get mad wiggerish on this motherfucker. I've got plenty of robes for everyone.

I've been awake the past 74 hours hooped on animal hormones, but that's where my values are. I see you may only be into it for business, but this is about MUSIC, and Terminator, two of the most important things to the history of mankind. I am your John Connor, you are Sarah Connor, Priest is the dude from the future in Terminator 1. The other guy is just some soldier, but mad useful.

Let me ask you before I sign off, how many orgasms do you think you could have in a 24-hour period? Come up with an answer and DOUBLE IT, that's what life is like on this boat. Mad poonani, beef jerky, animal hormones, tons of zinc and potassium supplements, some dehydrated tiger prostate tablets, anything you could want to get down. Hell, if you just want to play Wii, I've got almost every game. Do you like Jason Statham? I have his phone number, he's in TO and might pop by to get mad wiggerish on me. I've got lizards even, do you like lizards? Let's just do this thing already.

Think about it, do you want to make the greatest music of all time, or do you want to pussy out? The choice is yours, take hold of your destiny and reinvigorate rap metal like you just shot it with a syringe full of Priest's mad flow.

Do you take the red or the blue pill?

Thanks but I cant leave to go on a boat. I must meet up a synth man… drummers. Very busy. In the middle of a pro tools certification. i must be near a studio at all times.

I'll get back to you once you can send samples first.

Yeah I feel you man. I'm doing a little downtime today too, to reflect on things. My testes are in a real sperm deficit. and one of the girls couldn't handle her mescaline last night and threw half my lizards into the lake. it's been a real wake-up call, like when things get too real like this. i feel like i've been touching the void only to realize i've been touching an anus.

Anyway, my samples should be here today, and when I lay them out on your lap like a salami of a cock, fuck homey, you will gargle those sounds with relish. I can't wait until you hear them. I just have to convert the files from laserdisc to .WMA. What audio program do you use? I sometimes use the Win 95 version of Cakewalk, but I should probs update. What do you suggest?

Hey, I'm thinking about loading up my dune buggy and heading to Burning Man. you and Priest want to come? I know you don't want to chill with me and all, but this is probably something even you can't pass up without feeling like a dink. I have about 10 powerbars per person, a flat of gatorade, so we should be good for food for the next week or probably more. Or maybe you're busy learning about computers and that's OK as long as you're learning how to capture some of the sweet shit I make with my mouth. I came up with this new vocal technique last night like out of all the grief for my drowning lizards I just let out this dope yell. I think a new epoch is upon us.

Tell Priest to drop me an email. I'm just doing some downtime, drinking laudanum, reading Henry Miller aloud to this bitches and blowing their minds, I bet Priest is the type of homey to get down with this action. Listening to a little Kravitz, it's chill.

- N-Seed

Spooky Pictures for Halloween

Women are Mysterious

Very mysterious indeed.

Pulp is the best band

Mis-Shapes

Mis-shapes, mistakes, misfits. Raised on a diet of broken biscuits, oh we don't look the same as you, we don't do the things you do, but we live round here too. Oh really.

Mis-shapes, mistakes misfits, we'd like to go to town but we can't risk it, oh 'cause they just want to keep us out. You could end up with a smash in the mouth just for standing out. Oh really.

Brothers, sisters, can't you see? The future's owned by you and me. There won't be fighting in the street. They think they've got us beat, but revenge is going to be so sweet. We're making a move, we're making it now, we're coming out of the side-lines. Just put your hands up-- it's a raid yeah. We want your homes, we want your lives, we want the things you won't allow us. We won't use guns, we won't use bombs, we'll use the one thing we've got more of--that's our minds.

Check your lucky numbers, that much money could drag you under, oh. What's the point of being rich if you can't think what to do with it? 'Cause you're so bleeding thick.

Oh we weren't supposed to be, we learnt to much in school now we can't help but see that the future that you've mapped out is nothing much to shout about.

We're making a move, we're making it now, we're coming out of the side-lines. Just put your hands up-- it's a raid yeah. We want your homes, we want your lives, we want the things you won't allow us. We won't use guns, we won't use bombs, we'll use the one thing we've got more of--that's our minds.

Brothers, sisters, can't you see? The future's owned by you and me. There won't be fighting in the street. They think they've got us beat, but revenge is going to be so sweet.

The Future

Machines

These are amazing. Don't you agree? A fellow named Brian Dettmer makes them.

I Think that I would Very Much Like to Travel to Paris Next Year

Lost and Found

In Search of Ghosts

Beginnings

Beginnings

I.
The steam, low and palpable,
and filled with the bitter stench
of soy, hides the figure of my mother,
the taste of milk.

II.
At night, the wind carries
poetry of insects. Lilies answer
with white anther.

III.
In my wallet the young girl's
face curles in the damp
light of age.

IV.
I put my hands inside
my pockets, but I can't stop
touching my face.

V.
The way body language betrays
a person's words, I fill these blank pages
with water--

Interpretation

Interpretation

Off-road, amidst yellowing leaves and crudely
painted in white, a sign: "Fresh Oranges Daily,"
and an abandoned wooden fruit stand.
I plan the drive around this ritual, arriving
in time to catch the sun bowing in the branches
of those cedars, basking on the opposite bank.
For now the lake ripples along in slow torpor
with the crisp air, made dusty by drought.
At sunset it is different. For the first time
in my life, all I can think of are oranges.
The way one slice so effortlessly peels away
from another, perfectly suited for the mouth.
I drift into this slow perfection, where the sky breaks
into dusk, thin slices of orange cut through the clouds,
and I catch myself thinking of the spirituality of machinery.
I imagine this erosion as some signature of our failures.
Any sort of metaphor fails here, I know; the sunset
is already gone, like the sound of a passing train.
All that's left is an interpretation.
Again, this sunset is different. To sleep
in its sight is to curl into the arms of a lover.
I breathe the air of the light, become its latticework.
I glide over the black trails of crows, into shade.
I plunge my hands into a mound of wet leaves,
the only damp part of this country.
It feels like breath and flight and escape.

Mishima Today or Mishima's Guide to Productive Tennis

Mishima Today or Mishima's Guide to Productive Tennis

If you were here now, I would tell you the way I love you.
It is the same way a whale catches the red of the northern lights
in the gleam of a harpoon, clutched by a Japanese whaler, poised
to let it fly.
Which is to say it is difficult. I heard somewhere that
Harry S. Truman, right before he died, was asked if he had
any regrets, and he responded,"I'm dying. I regret that
I'm dying. And love. I wish I had loved as often
as I died".
I think that was Truman, I'm not sure. Love is hard,
stubborn, and rigid as a bad serve. I've been practicing.
If you were here now, we could play,
and I wouldn't have to waste time hitting against a brick wall.
Serve and return. You should have been named
after Konohana-Sakuya, translated, "Symbol of Flowers".
If you were here now, I would tell you how
in Japanese mythology, the marriage of Konohana-Sakuya
and Ninigi, the grandson of the sun goddess, led to the gods
being stripped of their immortality.
(She also set fire to her bedroom during childbirth).
Serve and return. I grip the racket tightly, and remember
how you would grab my arm, correct my form, guide my swing
like a sword.
The court is lit by one lone floodlight, and behind it, the stars
wane like fireflies. You and I are always fighting for something
and we're always failing. If you were a war, like the oh so futile
Keian Uprising of 1651, I would be that revolutionary writer
who thinks of you a century later as he barricades himself inside
the headquarters of the Japanese Self-Defense Force before committing seppuku
in shame.
Serve and return. I think you're turning Japanese. Me too. I think
that if we were to stop fighting, lay down our swords, and just fall
into a long sleep, we might disappear, the way the color spreads out
from a rising sun. We could fall asleep and never wake up again.
If you were here now, I'd tell you not to worry, that I'm not afraid
of dying or fighting or dreaming or dissolving into the sky overnight,
or however long it takes.

Everything and Nothing

Everything and Nothing

In his youth, the boy had been a worshiper of rocks. His father had given him his collection, something like a cigar box the boy thought was a chessboard. The father told his son he'd had it for over 40 years, and every time he looked at it he remembered his youth, when he found fool's gold by the creek. He had wrapped it up in a rag and given it to his mother, as a gift. But those were just memories, and he had no use for memories anymore, and so the collection was given to his son, the boy. The boy learned how to know a rock by color and weight; to identify lime and sandstone; to wash and dust and care for rocks like treasure.
Everyday the boy dug into the soft dirt around his school, hoping for an emerald, a ruby, quartz, diamonds. By springtime, he had mined the length of the baseball field, caked dirt permanently under his fingers, which had swollen to the size of boys' hands three times his age, and found nothing. But he continued. One day, the boy was resting under a bush of honeysuckle, which grew around a chain link fence. Through the fence and leaves the boy could see the other children playing softball, hear the dull tunk of metal against leather, the softball slowly plummeting like a fat bird. Gretchen was there, with the red pig-tails and brown overalls, a German girl resented and feared for what passed as exoticism in elementary school. At this time, she walked over and sat with the boy.
To him, she wore a crown of light when she stood in the sun, and for her, this daily excavation was the scant human interaction for which she starved. They never talked; Gretchen would hold up a rock and the boy would squint at it for a few minutes. Inevitably, he would shake his head and the rock would be discarded, being not a gem, not a ruby, not a treasure of any sort. The boy and Gretchen eventually moved past the ball field, across the ditch, past the grass so short it never grew back, past the dead blackberry bush, and all the way to the street paved with cars, and back again. This entire endeavor lasted all summer, and was rooted in silence the entire time.
It was an autumn evening when they at last returned to the honeysuckle bush and the chain-link fence. The bush was alight with an orange glow. Gretchen ran ahead of the boy towards the bush, and she disappeared for a moment. The boy looked around the field, at the other children, and they all looked back. Gretchen returned with a firefly in her hands, held together as if in prayer. As she held her hands up to show the boy she felt the firefly in her hands getting larger, heavier. All around them, the light blushed from an orange glow to green. The boy felt as if he were sliding, as if he were stretching out, like ice. The children were there on the field, and Gretchen's foster parents were there, waiting in their car, and Gretchen's real parents were there, spying from the shadows of the dead blackberry bush, and the boy's father was there, asleep in the ditch, and I was there too. I was there watching, with everyone. We were becoming part of their imagination.

Neighbors

Neighbors

On the floor above, a man drops something heavy,
or a gun fires, and you can barely hear it except
for the muted bark, the slight tremble of the wall
you feel inside your fingertips, the hardness
hiding amidst softness, the ripple in your coffee.

The girl sitting next to you looks up,
and you are amazed, because you are also looking up,
and what you both feel is the same concealed mixture
of wonder and fear that disappears
a second later like a lost memory.

Upstairs, something is said about the moon,
about its blackness, how it stares like a stranger
lit by the starlight, but what was said is drowned
out by the sound of a man's heel, bearing down
on the spot where someone else once stood,

and who now calls out to him, from very far away.

Cutting the Ribbon

The blog takes its name from the poem that follows, by Mark Strand, from his collection Blizzard of One.

The Delirium Waltz

I cannot remember when it began. The lights were low. We were walking across the floor, over the polished wood, the inlaid marble, through shallow water, through a dusting of snow, over the shapeless figures of fallen light. I cannot remember, but I think you were there — whoever you were — sometimes with me, sometimes watching. Shapes assembled themselves and dissolved. The hall to the ballroom seemed endless, and a voice, perhaps it was yours, was saying we'd never arrive. Now we were gliding over the floor, our clothes were heavy, and the music was slow. I thought we might die all over again. And I think we were happy. Large constellations of sound were leading us on. We moved in the drift of innumerable notes, abstractions and histories and as we passed over the ground it formed for us the shape of the earth. We moved toward the future, or was it the past? Anxiety has its inflections — wasteful, sad, and sometimes tragic — but here it had none; in its harmless, cloudlike hovering it was merely fantastic, the sweet result of a musical will. We kept on dancing. And I was with you. Why else would I practice those near calamitous dips? I think it was clear that we'd always been dancing, always been eager to enter the rhythms and transports of light. The attractions of motion were forever asserting themselves — from the beguiling fluff of clouds to the wink of an eye. Rooms became larger and finally dimensionless, and we kept turning, arriving and turning.

And then came Bob and Sonia
And the dance was slow
And joining them now were Chip and Molly
And Joseph dear Joseph was dancing and smoking

And the dance was slow
And into the hall years later came Tom and Em
And Joseph dear Joseph was dancing and smoking
And off to the side were Mark and Jean leaning together

And into the hall years later came Tom and Em
Holding each other and turning and turning
And off to the side were Mark and Jean leaning together
And Bill and Sandy and Jorie and Jim

Holding each other and turning and turning
Then came Jules tall and thin
And Bill and Sandy and Jorie and Jim
Everyone moving everyone dancing

Then came Jules tall and thin
Across the wide floor
Everyone moving everyone dancing
Harry was there and so was Kathleen

Across the wide floor
Looking better than ever came Jessie and Steve
Harry was there and so was Kathleen
And Peter and Barbara had just gotten back

Looking better than ever came Jessie and Steve
Leon and Judith Muffie and Jim
And Peter and Barbara had just gotten back
And others were there

Leon and Judith Muffie and Jim
And Charlie and Helen were eating and dancing
And others were there
Wearing their best

And Charlie and Helen were eating and dancing
And Glenn and Angela Wally and Deb
Wearing their best
Around and around dancing and dancing

And our shadows floated away beneath us towards sunset and darkened the backs of birds, and blackened the sea whose breath smelled slightly of fish, of almonds, and of rotting fruit. A blizzard of coastal aromas had come to collect our attention, and we drifted through all it tried to impart, not knowing where we were going. And soon the air was soiled with dust and iris-colored clouds. We were standing, watching everyone else afloat on the floor, on the sea of the floor, like a raft of voices. "Hi there," they said, as they sailed by, "may we have this dance?" And off they vanished into another room with pale blue walls and birds.

And one room led to another
And birds flew back and forth
People roamed the veranda
Under the limbs of trees

And birds flew back and forth
A golden haze was everywhere
Under the limbs of trees
And Howie was there with Francine

A golden haze was everywhere
And Jeannette and Buddy were dancing
And Howie was there with Francine
Angels must always be pale they said

And Jeannette and Buddy were dancing
And Roz and Denis were talking
Angels must always be pale they said
But pale turns round to white

And Roz and Denis were talking
Saying that blue slides into black
But pale turns round to white
And Jules was there in heels

Saying that blue slides into black
Rosanna was there and Maria
And Jules was there in heels
And day and night were one

Rosanna was there and Maria
And Rusty and Carol were there
And the day and the night were one
And the sea's green body was near

And Rusty and Carol were there
And Charles and Holly were dancing
And the sea's green body was near
Hello out there hello

And Charles and Holly were dancing
So thin they were and light
Hello out there hello
Can anyone hear out there

And the rush of water was suddenly loud as if a flood were loosed upon the ballroom floor. I seemed to be dancing alone into the absence of all that I knew and was bound by, the sight of the sea coming close, the spread of solvency, the smear, the blurred erasure of differences, the end of self, the end of whatever surrounds the self. All that I saw was a vast celebration of transparence, a clear dream of nothing. And I kept on going. The breakers flashed and fell under the moon's vacant gaze; scattered petals of foam shone briefly, then sank in the sand. It was cold, and I found myself suddenly back with the others. The sea, that vast ungraspable body, that huge and meaningless empire of water, was left on its own.

They drifted over the floor
And the silver sparkled a little
Oh how they moved together
The crystals shook in the draft

And the silver sparkled a little
So many doors were open
The crystals shook in the draft
Nobody knew what would happen

So many doors were open
And there was Eleanor dancing
Nobody knew what would happen
Now Red waltzed into the room

And there was Eleanor dancing
And Don and Jean were waiting
And Red waltzed into the room
The years would come and go

And Don and Jean were waiting
Hours and hours would pass
The years would come and go
The palms in the hallway rustled

Hours and hours would pass
Now enter the children of Em
The palms in the hallway rustled
And here were the children of Tom

Now enter the children of Em
There was nothing to do but dance
And here were the children of Tom
And Nolan was telling them something

There was nothing to do but dance
They would never sit down together
And Nolan was telling them something
And many who wished they could

Would never sit down together
The season of dancing was endless
And many who wished they could
Would never be able to stop

I cannot remember when it began. The lights were low. We were walking across the floor, over the polished wood, the inlaid marble, through shallow water, through a dusting of snow, over the shapeless figures of fallen light. I cannot remember, but I think you were there, whoever you were.