V.19 No.28 | 7/15/2010
An egg sucked away my sense of time.
My bandmates and I have been building a giant piñata for many hours (or days, by the time your read this). It will be a black egg, lowered from a warehouse ceiling, full of light and gifts. It’s really fucking big.
After parasitizing my love, attention, sleep, energy, the big black egg can only hatch something out of Eraserhead. It’s doomy that way. Doom piñata. Drying under my AC, awaiting yet another layer. Always another layer.
I dreamed about this thing all night. There was a real yolk in it when we smashed it open. It burned the skin.
There is paper mache in my hair as I type this.
I will cart the egg and some local musicians to Denver today. We are going to DIY, feminist, outsider music festival Titwrench. I went last year, and it’s maybe the most “fun” I’ve had in a minute. Fun is a dumb word—I returned to Albuquerque in July 2009 with many new friends and at least a year’s worth of inspiration.
V.18 No.31 | 7/30/2009
On: Goggles, Crushes, a Saw Factory, the Wrench
Rain and rain and rain
+ sweaty me + facepaint = eye bath in the blazes. Later, I will dump 4 oz. of beer directly into my left eye when flailing dancers erupt because the Hot White chick is twisting on the floor all pained and sexy and furious. I should have worn the goggles.
Night two of Titwrench.
Let me tell you about Rusalka. Crushing, just crushing. Audience presses in tight, clumps around her table on the floor. We contract as she pulses. Some people get all choked up. And I don’t think it’s because they’re sad.
On: Cake Batter Air, Avant Opera, Composting
NOTE: Hell-Kite is playing Albuquerque tonight on its way back from Titwrench. Friends, get thee to the house show.
No parking at a noise(esque) show? I’m sure it’s occurred in history, but not in mine. We roll up in our mom van (blue Toyota, three-disc CD player from the ’90s, drives like a champ) to Rhinoceropolis, an outsider venue in Denver’s industrial district.
Tired. Late. Stinky. Sitting among piles of gear and a delicate giant albatross puppet. Happy though. Way happy. Everyone involved will echo the sentiment in these next 48 (or so) hours, but an all-girl, DIY, experimental music fest is fucking good for the soul. Camaraderie. Inspiration. Best of all, the music is unfailingly phenomenal. A-games all around.
V.18 No.30 | 7/23/2009
Friday a.m. I’ll be loading local noise chicas into a minivan (thanks, mom!) and driving out to Denver for what promises to be one nipple-twister of a music fest. We’re going as Milch de la Máquina, a group that formed around the beginning of ’09 just to play in the all-girl experimental gathering Titwrench.
Conor Oberst • singer-songwriter • Jonathan Wilson • Refried Ice Cream at Sunshine Theater
Does the Transatlantic Relationship Still Matter? at Drury Plaza Hotel
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