Imported from Myspace

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

MISS COLORADO GREEK NATIONAL THEATRE


Hear ye, Hear ye, come one come all.

I am currently appearing as an actor with the Greek National Theatre in the role of Miss Colorado, an american drag queen living and working in the circus in Greece. In the course of my drag queenly duties, I also play violin, guitar and bass, as well as singing one rousing number on wheels.

The play is called ‘I Nykta Tou Mystikon” or “The Night of Secrets” by Greek playwright Akis Dimou. It is directed by Elli Papakonstantinou with music by Dimitris Kamarotos and costumes and sets by Kenny MacLellan. Also appearing in the show are, Laertes Basileou, Thanansis Katsafados, Thodoris Evthimiadis, Athina Masimou and Peggy Trikalioti.

Performances are at Ethniko Theatro, Nea Skini, Synkrono Theatro Athinas,

Evmilpidon 41, Gazi, Athens, Greece.

Wed.-Sat. 21:00, Sunday 19:00 until January 20.

Ticket information at

2103455020, 801-11-60000, 2106786000

Sunday, April 29, 2007

Pinheads on the Move, in depth interview with me and steven brown by John Gill

Pinheads on the move

Set your coordinates, gentlemen…

These interviews took place between these coordinates by wire over various dates in April 2007. The reason for their inclusion here, beyond marvelling at how technology has shrunk this small busy planet, is to note how far all three people involved have travelled since they first met, perhaps 26 years ago, in London (51.28′ N, 0.00′ W/E [Greenwich Observatory], Elevation +50 m snm).

Steven Brown: 17.03′ N, 96.43′ W (Oaxaca)

Elevation 1,500 m snm (sobre nivel del mar)

Blaine L. Reininger: 37.98′ N, Longitude 23.73′ E (Athens)

Elevation 147 m snm

John Gill: 36.51′ N, 4.79′ E (Ronda)

Elevation 700 m snm

In 2007, Brown and Reininger mark the thirtieth year of their musical collaborations and friendship. They are, of course, chiefly known as the founder members of Tuxedomoon, along with Peter Principle, Bruce Geduldig, Winston Tong, and various collaborators, temporary members, and numerous guests and friends, such as Michael Belfer, Ivan Georgiev, Benjamin Lew and many others. Tuxedomoon have released over a dozen studio and live recordings, and several soundtracks and compilations. The line-up currently comprises Brown, Reininger, Principle, George Kakanakis and Luc van Lieshout. Their latest release is Bardo Hotel (Crammed, 2006), the soundtrack to an as-yet-unfinished film, shot by video artist Kakanakis and the band, taking its name from the title of Brion Gysin’s only partly-published novel, Beat Museum – Bardo Hotel, after the Paris hotel where Gysin and William Burroughs lived in the 1950s (and where legend sites Gysin’s rediscovery of Tristan Tzara’s cut-up/fold-in technique). It followed their 2004 ‘comeback’ album, Cabin in the Sky (Crammed), after a seven-year period of rest from Tuxedomoon and various outside projects pursued by the members.

Brown and Reininger are the most prolific workers outside Tuxedomoon, with a raft of solo and duet projects to their names, as well as external collaborations with musicians outside Tuxedomoon. In 2007, Brown releases the third album by his Mexican band, Nine Rain, Mexico Woke Up (Independent Recordings) and an expanded version of his 1988 mini-album Brown Plays Tenco (Les Temps Modernes), his tribute to the late Italian pop star, Luigi Tenco. Reininger releases two new recordings this year, the theatre/film soundtracks, Elektra/Radio Moscow (Les Temps Modernes), and a new studio work, Glossolalia (Off/Stilll). Tuxedomoon have been working on a new studio recording over the past year. A 3CD-plus-DVD box set, 7 7 07 (Crammed), is planned for later in 2007. A compilation of covers by musicians and non-musicians on the Yahoo discussion page for Tuxedomoon admirers (http://launch.groups.yahoo.com/group/tuxedomoon) is also due this year available as a non-profit, non-commercial release to members of the list. The band’s official historian, Belgian writer, photographer and lawyer Isabelle Corbisier, has recently completed work on what promises to be the definitive history of Tuxedomoon.

***

Tuxedomoon formed in 1977 around Brown (voice, reeds, keyboards), Reininger (voice, violin, guitar, keyboards) and bassist Peter Principle (nee Dachert) after Brown and Reininger met while studying electronic music in San Francisco. They emerged into a north American post-punk scene that had already produced The Residents, Pere Ubu and Devo, but were almost instantly, perhaps uniquely, recognisable by their very ‘European’ sound, one that owed as much to the ‘art-rock’ school of Henry Cow, Univers Zero, Art Zoyd, ZNR and others as it owed to north America’s new wave. Cinema played a big part in their background (both Brown and Reininger have acted in films, and more besides), from homegrown genres (film noir, sci-fi, classic horror as namechecked in the title of a track on their debut album, Half-Mute, ‘James Whale’, after the director of the first, classic, Frankenstein) to the European art-house greats (Godard, Fellini, well, take your pick, really). As the circumstances of their first meeting might suggest, Brown and Reininger weren’t about to form your average pick-up-a-guitar-and-learn-some-chords new wave band, and from Brown’s personal pantheon of musical heroes we might glean an inkling of both Tuxedomoon’s origins and directions: ‘Eno, Bowie, John Cage, Bernard Herrman, Nino Rota, Igor Stravinsky and Ennio Morricone’ is how he described it to me in a 2005 e-interview from his small farm in the mountains outside Oaxaca.

The fact that their debut album appeared on San Francisco’s Ralph Records, home to that last word in wacky, The Residents, was promise enough for us thrill jockeys of the British rock press. The difference, perhaps, between Brown and Reininger – and matters of style and appropriation begin to blur when considering the sheer breadth of genres both have visited in their careers – is attitude. Brown is regarded as the egghead of Tuxedomoon, while Reininger is often seen as the joker in the pack, but in fact the roles are interchangeable. (And since we’re here to triangulate Tuxedomoon, it’s worth positing that the real brainiac in Tuxedomoon is probably the shy and retiring Peter Principle, whose four solo albums to date, Sedimental Journey, Tone Poems, Conjunction and Idyllatry [the last two on Les Temps Modernes] contain more sonic mayhem and mischief than anything by either Brown or Reininger.) Considering the array of genres they have coopted, individually, as a duo or in the democratic mix of Tuxedomoon, the term ‘eclectic’ might be beside the point here. I am tempted to invoke the name of Charles Ives and his idea of ‘universal music’, albeit fed through an electric, post-punk sensibility.

In a career wedded (like Reininger’s) to an almost wilfully contrarian ahistoricity and stubborn resistance to fashion, Brown’s latest release is a collection of subtly loaded pop tunes by the late Italian chart idol Luigi Tenco, who shot himself in 1967, his suicide an act of protest, it’s said, after the jury at the 1967 Italian Song Festival in San Remo failed to award him first prize. Brown has found a current of bittersweet self-awareness running deep in the work of the dead pop star (think Scott Walker, maybe, perhaps Marc Almond, or, even, Johnny Ray…). Brown Plays Tenco fits in to his track record of albums such as Steven Brown Reads the Works of John Keats in that it doesn’t fit in anywhere at all. Expect Steven Brown to do one thing and you can bet money on him doing the exact opposite.

Of Reininger’s new solo releases, the theatre soundtrack and movie score on Elektra/Radio Moscow take a backseat serving the narratives they accompanied, although leaving enough space for Reininger’s imagination to roam, at one point producing some wild symphonic structures recalling Norwegian electronic mavericks Supersilent. His imminent solo studio work, Glossolalia, is a landmark work in his solo career and on a par with Byrne and Eno’s My Life in the Bush of Ghosts and Holger Czukay’s seminal Movies. To this listener, the effect is akin to being locked in a cinema multiplex where Reininger’s favourite movies are all running simultaneously on loop. Rifling through their back pages, however, one Reininger track leapt out and demanded incessant replay: his ‘Black Out’, on 1988’s Book of Hours (also LTM), is his drive-time radio hit that never was, a glorious, big-guitar-noise pop anthem that should have fronted the soundtrack to The Breakfast Club. (I know, I know, but that’s Tuxedomoon for you. To quote one of their favourite writers, William Burroughs, ‘everything is allowed and nothing is permitted.’)

These pinheads have been on the move (our title comes from their 1978 debut single, quite possibly then on loan from the San Francisco Examiner cartoon strip, Zippy the Pinhead) virtually since they formed. I first met them in London in 1981, when they were en route to Europe, fleeing, they said, Ronald Reagan’s Amerika. They settled in Brussels, finding a home with adventurous indie label Crammed Discs. Their time in Brussels and with Crammed, a relationship that continues, produced all but the first two of their albums, Half-Mute (1980) and the lauded Desire (1981). After 1983, when Reininger left the group to develop solo projects, Tuxedomoon was in a state of flux. Brown, Principle, Tong and Geduldig produced three further albums as Tuxedomoon: the classic Holy Wars (1985), followed by Ship of Fools (1986) and You (1987). Reininger re-joined in 1988 for a world tour, which produced Ten Years in One Night (Live) (1990). Tuxedomoon remained in stasis until a series of concerts in Israel, Italy and Greece brought them together again in 1997. The n, in 2000, remix wizard DJ Hell, in their words, ‘shook our tree’ with a suggested re-release and tour of Half-Mute, and triggered renewed activity that would result in 2004’s ‘comeback’ album, Cabin in the Sky. [For the record, the title has absolutely nothing to do with either the movie of that name or the music of Cab Calloway featured in it.] The reinvigorated Tuxedomoon were joined by Hell, Aksak Maboul, Tortoise’s John McEntire, Coti K, Juryman and Tarwater on what might, until their next studio release appears, justifiably be described as their late masterpiece.

The obvious question to ask Brown and Reininger, after twelve years of exile in Brussels and, today, settled in Mexico and Greece, is, why there?

Steven: Claustrophobia, after 12 years in Europe. The original idea of [collaborator, co-writer/founder of Nine Rain] Nikolas Klau and I was to move to Belize. In order to get to Belize from Brussels you must change planes in Mexico City. On landing there we both experienced the same sensation: ‘What are we doing in Brussels when we could be here?!’

I actually made it to Belize as per our plan. NK saw no need and remained in Mexico.

And Blaine: I usually answer this question by saying that ‘Greece chose me.’ In the nineties, I was working rather a lot with a Greek director named Nicholas Triandafyllidis. I was acting in his movies and composing the music. I found myself practically commuting to Athens. When circumstances became dire in Brussels in 1998 and I knew that I had to leave, Athens was the logical choice as the place where there was work for me. In staying here, I became more and more involved with the place and before I knew it I had a son here. In Athens I suffered the death of the woman I thought would bury me, I remarried, saw my son born, divorced, found new love, all of that. Life caught up with me all at once after so long in the event-free phantom zone of my chemical days in deadly dull Belgium. In any case, my post-Belgian career has been surprisingly varied. I have worked as a radio producer, played Agamemnon both here and in Caracas, played a lounge music show with a piano bar pianist from a seafood restaurant, crooned my way through an evening of Hadzidakis [Manos Hadzidakis, the late composer, singer and folklorist], sung in Greek before his adopted son and musical heirs and much more besides.

I am also happy to report that I have begun to incorporate Tuxedomoon and our activities into the fabric of my life in Athens. Why not? This place is full of talented people and great locations to work and play.

Two very different men, two very different countries, and two very different loads of cultural baggage, one Not Wanted On The Voyage, another secure in their walk-on allowance.

Steven: Arriving in Mexico with the intention to live there …was like landing on another planet. In a situation like this one must carve out a new life. You use the resources you have at hand to survive. What will you do in your new life? What do you know how to do? As a musician I had a certain amount of notoriety in Mexico and this helped me to form a

band. Playing music, if not actually paying the rent, allowed me to work and gave me some mooring, some stability in this new frontier.

Blaine: One remarkable thing about Greece is that, on the surface, it resembles any other European country. The general gestalt of things is not so different from, say, Italy. It is only after one becomes involved with the place and the people that one realizes how deep the Oriental influence runs, namely that of the Ottoman Turks and their attitudes on such varied things as the relationship between the sexes, family life in general and how much sugar to put in baklava. The influence of family on the average Greek’s life is difficult to understand for those of us from Anglo-American protestant cultures where extended family has been superseded by the notion of the isolated individual or ‘nuclear family’ alone against the world. Also, there is a deep suspicion of foreigners that runs back to the ancient Greeks. ‘Barbarian’ is a Greek word and idea, coming from the imitation of the sub-human speech of the people from beyond Hellas, ‘bar bar bar bar’. The ‘xeno’ in ‘xenophobia’ is likewise a Greek notion. It literally means ‘fear of foreigners’.

To their credit, though, the Greeks are a pretty tolerant lot. They have an ironic sense of humour and are not easily shocked. This is perhaps because the volume level and physical animation of ordinary daily discourse would pass for physical assault and verbal abuse in England, par example. Anything short of nuclear explosion is seen as pretty tame. And naturally, without the proverbial Greek hospitality, I would not have done as well here as I have.

Here we should split them up to interrogate them separately about their work in their newly elected places of exile.

Steven: Our first trip to Mexico in ’92 was a vacation. We went back to Brussels with the idea of naming our musical group Nine Rain, a name derived by cutting up the Aztec calendar. At the time we had a group in Brussels called Steven Brown and Friends, which included Luc van Lieshout, Ivan Georgiev, Pierre Narcisse, Niko and I. Naming this group Nine Rain was the first step towards our moving to Mexico a year later and forming the Mexican Nine Rain.

By anyone’s reckoning, the ravishing Latin rhythms that carry the three Nine Rain CDs – Nine Rain, Rain of Fire and, now, Mexico Woke Up – are about as far as you might imagine Brown travelling from the baroque architecture of Tuxedomoon. (Or, given the contrary nature of man and band, maybe not.) It is not, however, Steven Brown and –

Steven: From the outset I’ve always been lucky to work with very fine musos, each with their own considerable trajectory. Although it is Niko and I and Alejandro [Herrera, Nine Rain guitarist] who come up with the musical ideas, it’s the band that gives them life.

During the period of stasis for Tuxedomoon, both Reininger and Brown established solo careers with a variety of independent projects, not least the latter’s solo albums, including Searching for Contact (LTM, 1987) and Half-Out (LTM, 1991). Meeting them again when Tuxedomoon played Madrid on their 2004 Cabin in the Sky tour, I had to reconsider Steven Brown as a ‘songwriter’, rather than the co-composer of the works of Tuxedomoon. I am still getting my head around this. Both men are, despite their exile, deeply (north) American composers; beyond the Ives simile, in Brown’s case I’d invoke comparisons with Van Dyke Parks, David Byrne, Stan Ridgway (late of the great Wall of Voodoo), maybe even Randy Newman and Brian Wilson.

Steven: I’ve always respected songwriters. There was a time when I fantasised about becoming one. (How thrilled I was when I met the grandson of Harry Warren in LA one time.) Still, from time to time I attempt to write a ‘song’. Ultimately, though, I think it’s my job to twist or bend or push the envelope. There are enough good songwriters in the world. But there is always room to explore between the cracks. Remember, we are the underground … beneath the floorboards of the mainstream rummaging through the debris of time and tradition, always looking for a new trick…

And are all his various hats in fact one and the same?

Steven: Yes and no. I do things with Nine Rain, for example, that I would be intimidated to do with TM. As for working solo, theoretically you have more freedom but in the end you have less because you are limited by your own talent or vision. Working with others gives you broader powers and opens up more possible horizons in spite of the inconveniences that invariably arise working with ‘the other’.

Despite the tumultuous personal events that he readily volunteers in interview, Reininger’s creative trajectory has been smoother than Brown’s. Since first ‘leaving’ Tuxedomoon in 1983, he has released a shocking (if only because I just sat down and counted them…) 17 solo and collaborative works under his own name. It’s impossible to choose a stand-out title, although his collaboration with Mikel Rouse, Colorado Suite (Crammed, 1984), which they toured live, remains the object of particular personal fondness for this writer. Glossolalia, however, seems to be a new departure for Reininger. Like the Byrne/Eno collaboration, and like Czukay’s dazzling widescreen juggling act with post-Can experiment and sources snatched from shortwave radio, TV and film, it sees Reininger cast as the mixing-desk circus ringmaster introducing a startling playbill of performers, styles and sources (Greek street scenes, dark cowboy laments, the mariachi chestnut ‘Cielito Lindo’ – ‘Ay! Ay, ay-ay!’ – wired, pulsing beat pop, mutant Kentonesque big band arrangements, electronic tone poems, broadcast exorcists, the voices of Tristan Tzara, John Cage, Jodie Foster and Anthony Hopkins, and then some) in a way that might, in an act of sheer journalistic desperation, be nutshelled as the disco remix of Cage’s Roaratorio.

Blaine: I am not really so familiar with Holger Czukay’s work, though I consider My Life in the Bush of Ghosts to be one of the seminal recordings of the late 20th century. It was on this work that modern music was invented, the use of sampled, ‘found object’ vocals and audio superimposed and montaged over dense electronic, acoustic and tribal rhythms, the pomo attitude and the ironic detached humour, all of these things appeal to me in ways that give me goose bumps. A correspondence between ‘Ghosts and Glossolalia is not imaginary, though I had stumbled upon this kind of thinking in my own mad musings around about the time Tuxedomoon began, ignorant of the fact that Eno and Byrne were working literally around the corner in San Francisco. San Francisco in the late ’70s was all abuzz with ideas and energy. I have always been one sensitive to being bitten by cultural memes, if you buy that notion. There were plenty of people working in just these sorts of areas. I got bit good by the pomo bug there in SF.

The way Glossolalia came about was strange. After my wife JJ died in 1998, and I recorded the songs I had been working on all through the late ’90s as The More I Learn the Less I Know, I felt somehow that I was finished forever with the creative approach that had brought about all of my solo work. I didn’t feel able to write songs again, for starters. I felt at home, in spite of myself, in that nihilist side of postmodernism, which says that ‘Art is such bullshit, the tackiest piece of mass produced garbage is better than serious art.’ What was really happening was a very deep and wrenching sadness, a reaction to a truly catastrophic loss, and a real need to re-define my personal identity. When I sat down to start ‘working again’, after first acquiring living and working quarters of my own, I had no idea where I would begin. I dug out my CD collection and started sampling with a vengeance. I decided to forswear my conscious mind and my ego as much as possible and use tried and true methods such as aleatory music techniques and philosophical assumptions to favour instinct over intellect.

I was also able, for the first time, to surf the internet with a vengeance, to follow the tenuous golden thread all over the damn place, to seek resonances and correspondences for this particular glass bead game as far as I could follow and plow the results back into my work. In spite of those who want to turn the internet into some kind of paid theme park or a mundane entertainment medium, the net is about as close as we have ever come to a model of the collective unconscious. For those of us who know how to do it, netsurfing is like dreaming. What a wonderful tool! It is really the tool I have waited for my whole creative life. I could smell the outskirts of this data world before it happened. I used to turn on a shortwave radio, talk on the phone, watch acetate transparencies taped over a television, project slides on my wall in my own apartment in the ’70s, trying to mock up what I now know is the sort of multimedia environment we now have online.

The results which now began to appear in my work with the sort of mystifying certainty of dowsing for water pleased me, so I continued. Of course, like any other activity which involves serious surfing of the tao, gambling, for instance, ‘when you’re hot you’re hot’. And when you are not, you are decidedly not. When fortune favours one, one can seem to do no wrong, every gesture turns up a gem. When the winning streak runs out, the work is flat-out shit. Just the dreariest crap you can imagine. You just have to keep working.

Both men write and sing words in Tuxedomoon and, obviously, on their own recordings. Burroughs scores high in their lists of favourites, but for different reasons: perhaps the literary stand-off between sensibility and text, or sens (Brown) and matere (Reininger). Brown admires Burroughs’s fiction, particularly, I suspect, Cities of the Red Night (he has cast Burroughs’s occasional fictional alter-ego Audrey in at least one twisted electronic sea-shanty on Searching for Contact) while Reininger is more interested in the idea of the cut-up as a tool, and one which, in fact, you can play with on a random text generator he has installed on his website at http://www.mundoblaineo.com

As words tend to, their lyrics ground both Blaine and Steven in a cultural past. Ironically, their lyrics ground them in the country they left in 1980, or perhaps in their resistance to the cultural forces that led them to leave. As we’ve already had his musical pantheon, I asked Steven what books feature alongside Burroughs and Keats on the bookshelves of that Oaxaca farm.

Steven: Philip K. Dick, Guy Debord, Mexican mythology and history, Inventing the Aids Virus, Greek tragedies, Moby-Dick…

The inclusion of angelheaded hipster Philip K. Dick shouldn’t be too surprising here, nor that of Situationist Debord, author of Society of the Spectacle – nor, really, Moby-Dick author Herman Melville, for reasons we’ll get on to later. Inventing the Aids Virus, however, might deserve explaining. Its author, Peter H Duesberg, is a leading, dissenting, voice in the field of AIDS epidemiology, who argues that a complex combination of factors causes AIDS, and that HIV is a relatively harmless passenger virus. Duesberg further argues that HIV/AIDS is a political, economic and cultural construct, myth, even, and one that is killing people. Steven is what he, as one, possibly but not necessarily autobiographical, song on Mexico Woke Up, ‘Invisible Man’, prefers to call it, ‘queer’ (and, believe me, as a happily self-defined queer myself, I spent a fair amount of time wondering just what to call Steven Brown in this text). During his years there, Steven was one of the driving forces behind the formation of ACT UP Brussels, and you wouldn’t need to be Roland Barthes to decode the semiosis of his multiple-punning-or-not Half-Out. Call it polysemy, maybe…

Blaine is more a Tim Allen, Home Improvement, powertools kinda guy when it comes to words and, specifically, the cut-up and randomly generated texts.

Blaine: I have always been fascinated by the kind of insouciant word play found in James Joyce, William Burroughs, and Zippy the Pinhead. Non-sequiturs fill me with delight and I can’t get enough. I devised a few of my own systems to generate random juxtapositions and non-sequiturs in my pre-computer days, notably one which used dice and then special eight-sided dice and a table of my own devising. It is not so much that I am in love with the po-faced sort of verbal deconstruction of the Surrealists and Dadaists, it is just that I have always found this sort of stuff funny. Now, of course, I have stumbled upon a couple of very good random word-generating systems for my computer, one of which draws upon a database of words which I have lovingly loaded for years now. Fun for the whole family.

I structure my music, my words, my photography, my cooking, the same way, because I decided early on that the sort of inter-disciplinary virtuosity and synaesthesia proposed by Herman Hesse in The Glass Bead Game is true, is the purest expression of art and science there is. That is to say, I know that it is possible to express a notion in music, in art, in mathematics, in flavour, in terms of any and all human disciplines, without losing resolution since all knowledge and all information is connected at the source.

The relationship between Brown and Reininger is far more complicated than anyone outside their friendship can probably imagine or divine. They’re often painted as warring bosom buddies, but something far more profound holds this friendship together. I tried a joke on both of them, asking who was who in their post-punk production of The Odd Couple. Steven treated the question with the contempt it probably deserved, sending me a crisp ‘X’ in place of a reply. Blaine, however, always game for a laugh, allowed: Well, Steven would be Felix, if Felix were an arty slob. I am like Oscar, but I am compulsively symmetrical, if not neat.

Compulsively symmetrical or a-symmetrical, there is something that has kept these two geniuses circling each other for thirty years in what is known in astronomy as tidal locking, the gravity that keeps planets and satellites in tidy orbit. It goes beyond the giddying variety of genres they have plundered: write a list of them – gypsy airs, say, Debussy or Satie, fraudulent bebop, minimalism in the manner of Steve Reich, strung-out punk neurosis, prairie melancholia, twisted love songs, chamber works mixing whimsy and menace, heartbreaking melodies to make you go weak at the knees – and Blaine and Steven will simply add another to the list when you’re not looking.

Which, of course, leads the journalist to the next question: their longevity. Thirty years, on and off, is a long time for any band to continue working together, particularly when you consider the perversely uncommercial nature of the collective genius of Tuxedomoon. U2 take their tax registration off-shore; Tuxedomoon, you fear, still starve for their art.

Blaine: The in loco familias approach has helped us hold together all this time. I don’t think we know what people like about it. We just, like, do it, man.

Or Steven: Peter put it best I think when he said we reformed the band (after a seven-year hiatus) because nobody else was doing Tuxedomoon music.

Which hands us the next question. What is ‘Tuxedomoon music’? Was there a founding philosophy?

Steven: The founding philosophy of Blaine and I in the beginning was to take the electronic and experimental music we were learning at the time out of the staid academic halls and play it in the clubs where the real people were. Unwittingly, we were continuing in the tradition begun by the likes of physicist, composer and musician Wendy Carlos, who in the ’60s also wanted to take electronic music out of the hallowed academic halls of atonal serial dissonance and ‘make music that wasn’t ugly’. Or Warhol, who succeeded in dissolving the boundaries between high- and low-brow art. Our philosophy was born in the late seventies and out of our unique personal situation. The question could be asked: is this idea still valid today when anyone with a computer is an electronic musician? But trends come and go. In the ’50s the only way to hear the new-born electronic music was on tape. People would go to a concert hall and the composer would push ‘play’ on the tape recorder. Loudspeaker music, it was called. Quickly, people like John Cage realized this was boring and performance art was born. A direct parallel is the laptop crowd today. I’m always amazed to see an audience avidly staring at some nerd on stage staring down into his lap … top. The music may or may not be interesting, but there is nothing to see! And so like their ancestors in the ’50s, laptoppers now often connect video to their rig and now the audience can watch a screen. Today in the performance world there is what’s called Live Cinema. The video artist is ostensibly showing his or her work but part of that work is a live feed of what is being filmed onstage and so the actual process of recording is part of the overall performance, in part a Meyerhold idea of stripping away the artifice to reveal the inner gears at work. TM was doing this in the seventies through the work of Bruce Geduldig and Winston Tong. We like to think of TM as a style of its own, an entity that until now has rode out all the passing trends and fashions and remains true to itself.

But then again, como siempre, there is also Blaine: There are many unwritten rules and conventions in the Tuxedomoon working partnership, many of which evolved in the course of doing the thing. I do think that the initial form of it, the multi-media, unified field of art, synaesthesic entity, was there from the start. We have our roles in the composing, we deal in certain ways with money, with sharing writing credits, we sit in certain places in the van on tour. We function somewhat like a family, more like a collective, we think we are anarcho-syndicalists but we probably ain’t.

The, if you will, gluon that holds these two astronomical objects in balance is, perhaps, and paradoxically, the very thing they have spent much of their adult lives running away from: America. I will immediately problematise that observation by saying that ‘we’ Europeans have a habit of misreading (north) Americans, but despite their exile, there is a very ‘American’ voice in their work as composers and writers. I asked both of them if they weren’t, really, still singing the ‘body electric’ that Walt Whitman sang?

Blaine: I used to think that I was singing that glorious Whitman song, that Herman Melville, Alan Ginsberg, ‘land of the big shoulders’, Jack Kerouac, pure American cry of rugged individuality and the romance of the lonely highway through the desert of night. I realized only recently that what moves me is the paradoxical, the state of love/hate, bitter/sweet, Irish coffee/baked Alaska, take on reality. Thus, though I have the sight of the full moon on virgin fields of snow under astral mountains in Colorado forever lased onto my heart, I have been away so long and I am so heartily disgusted by what my countrymen have made of the place in the last twenty or so years that I don’t know where I’m from anymore. I retain two undisputably American qualities, my accent and my passport. The rest is uncertain.
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Or Steven: There’s a phrase by American expat writer James Baldwin that has always haunted me. It essentially refers to that intangible feeling of recognition, or of having something in common when looking at another American. Living abroad for over 25 years, I have always avoided Americans. Maybe part of that is self-denial, but in the end what does one leave one’s country of birth for, if not to start a new life freed from the past?

Still, there is ultimately no way to eliminate your roots. I think it’s true for anyone from anywhere, no matter how well you learn the local lingo or blend in to the local colour, you are always the stranger. As for Whitman, there was a time in my life when I felt the ecstasy of the promise for humanity he speaks of. Those days are few and far between nowadays, I’m afraid to say.

Steven has recently lived through what the glib journalist describes elsewhere as the short-lived people’s republic of Oaxaca, when the inhabitants of that beautiful city high in the Sierra Madre del Sur (since we’re here, John Huston’s Sierra Madre, in fact) rose up against a corrupt regime led by a corrupt state governor, chased the cops and army out of town, only to see their people’s republic smashed by the armed forces. It had a profound effect on a man who normally prefers to tend his cows and watch the weather.

Steven: I live in Oaxaca, Mexico, and for the last year we have been suffering through serious social upheaval, the city occupied by protesters for months, barricades on hundreds of streets, curfews, death squads, molotovs, the eventual entry of the military who then themselves occupied the city. Recently, there have been expositions of paintings and videos directly inspired by these events. Critics have accused artists of profiting off this difficult and painful situation. But I think it’s part of the artist’s work to absorb the environment and report on it, using the filters of the given artist ultimately providing a vision often far more important then the majority of official news reports, [like] Goya, Picasso, Genet…

I must say I have been very disillusioned with recent events here where I live, and for the first time have thought of moving somewhere else. But looking around it’s clear that most of the world survives under some form of totalitarian rule. Still, there are places where the repression is better camouflaged, like Europe.

For the time being, then, these pinheads are maintaining their coordinates.

Steven: Due to the ironic situation of recently receiving government financing for two projects here (one being Nine Rain), I will be staying put for another two years at least.

And Blaine: True to my love of paradox, I am that strangest of animals—a nomad who hates to travel. Truly. I get antsy leaving a hotel I have been in for more than three days. Nevertheless, I cannot bear the notion of being in only one place on Earth for the rest of my days. I will stay in Greece as long as that is tenable, primarily because my son is here.

As for the future, the Felix and Oscar of post-modern art-rock intend to stick around, together.

Steven: Tuxedomoon will probably be our Cabin in the Sky for some time to come.

The last word has to go to Blaine: I will endeavour to maintain Tuxedomoon and its activities as long as possible and then some. If nothing else, it is the closest thing any of us have to a pension.

All available recordings by Steven Brown, Blaine L. Reininger, Nine Rain, Tuxedomoon and other individual members can be found at the following web sites:

http://www.crammed.com

http://www.ltmpub.freeserve.co.uk

http://www.independentrecordings.com

http://www.stilll.org

Thursday, March 15, 2007

CELLPHONE VIDEO, TUXEDOMOON TOUR

Yes, my friends, having purchased a USB cable for my new phone, I have transferred my first series of cellphone videos to my computer, edited them suckers up and posted them to YOUTUBE! for your enjoyment. Go to this link and entertain yourself with these priceless and entertaining scenes from our middle-aged boy band’s life on the road. Or, if clicking a url is beyond you, you may see this selfsame video embedded in my MYSPACE profile. Oh, ain’t web 2.0 grand?

Yours for the viewing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hj1mKcz5QCE

Blaine

Thursday, March 01, 2007

Well, my dear friends, I am now back home in Athens. The february 2007 tour of tuxedomoon is now officially finished. And what a swell tour it was, too. We had some good times this time around. We played a set composed of mostly new songs and this seemed to set well with the public. I think the notable gigs were the Nouveau Casino in Paris and the first two German gigs, Hamburg and Berlin, though they all went well.

We spent many days riding in a van, as one usually does on a tour like this. The middle-aged knees and butt were in danger of seizing up and ceasing to function but hotel room and roadside yoga helped me persevere.

I was very pleased to meet the many myspacers who now number among my actual flesh and blood friends. Rupert or no Rupert, this social networking stuff is a good thing.

And now here I am back home in the Big Olive, rolling in my sweet baby’s arms as the song would have it.

Also worthy of note is the pending release of two new solo cd’s from me. First is the soundtrack music from Elektra, backed with some tracks from Radio Moscow, out even now on James Nice’s Les Temps Modernes. Second is my new song cd “Glossololia” from friend Alain Lefebvre’s Stilll label. Look out for them.

That is all for now, my little chickadees.

Blaine
I guess it has been long enough. I guess I am over the experience of playing in London enough to post it up here on this blog. I played at this former transvestite bar in Soho called Madame Jo Jo’s on December 14, 2006. Nah, not so bad, and I thank Erik Stein most deeply for arranging said spectacular. I have always liked Soho, too, the area feels really charged, really exciting, like Times Square or Berlin Mitte. It’s just that England is just so damn….nasty. No, not really nasty, so damn, I feel so damn ambivalent about the place. On the one hand, England is the very source of the culture in which I was steeped like a germano-mexican teabag. England is the very cradle of the blessed English language which delights me so. There is this agressive hipness to London, this refusal to refer to any other place, a sense that London is not really part of the earth at all. It seems to be adrift on a dark asteroid, lit by a yellow sodium vapor sun.

On the other hand, few places are so merciless to anyone with no money. The pressure to acquire in order to rise above the feculent swamp in which ones fellows swim is great in London. Those that have in London have so very much, like their equivalent numbers in the United States. Those that have not, are really pitiful scum, are truly shit on someone’s shoes. This is where that agressive hipness comes in. The conviction that one has seen it all, knows it all, been everywhere is salvation from the sodium-lit asphalt reality that one has seen pretty much nothing except the local chicken kebab shop, knows very little, and has been nowhere of any consequence . There is very little support from the environment in the sense of the German word “umwelt” the world around. Here, in Greece, for instance, there is always that blue sky. Blue for all people, all day long. There is always that old sun rolling around heaven all day, lawd lawd. In England in winter, when midnight rolls around at 4 in the afternoon, you might as well hang your head and moan the blues.

And yet and yet. The world cannot seem to get enough of the culture this place spews out. I cannot help but lump england and america into one cultural behemoth, angloamerica, giving the world books and movies and music by the ton. It seems, though, that the true spirit of the place is found at its borders. The Closed circuit TV, dehumanizing insulting grey nastiness of the British frontier is the naked and awful face of the 21st century, my friends. No one does foul-tempered bureaucracy better than the brits. They have been at this “post 9/11” security state since the seventies and they have it down to a fine science. Fie. Enough.

Saturday, November 04, 2006

Today I attended a demonstration of cyclists in Athens at Pedio tou Areos park. The aim was to show strength in numbers and ride to the Ministry of Transport to demonstrate in order to allow bicycles on the Metro among other demands. I had the most wonderful time. When I started cycling around this town 6 years ago, I felt like a lone freak, dashing around in between the cars, invisible, beneath contempt. How divine to find myself riding down Mesogeion and Vasilias Sofias avenues today, in the company of at least 500 of my cycling fellows. For just that little while, the bikes owned those main streets. I have noticed before that cyclists tend to wear these big smiles and today was no exception. Even when we arrived at the Minstry of Transport no one seemed to feel at all confrontational. Everyone was having too much fun.

Riding a bicycle, for one who is physically capable of doing so, seems to be the most excellent and just solution to the transportation problem. Cyclists add no pollution to the polluted skies, make very little noise, do not travel fast enough to kill anyone or cause structural damage in case of accidents and get vast amounts of good exercise. Blood flows to the brain, a smile breaks out on the face, and one is less likely to vote for fascists or engage in genocide as the brain functions better.

I am just so pleased to see this sort of thing coming to this big retarded city. Bravo to the people who organized this thing. I hope to see more of this sort of thing. I will be there, in any case.

Here is a link to the site of these people.

http://www.podilates.gr/

and another one, in English

http://www.filoi.eie.gr/index-eng.htmonday, October 16, 2006 width=”30″> Yes, my friends, today I managed to hook up two new plastic boxes to my computer and join the fast set, surfing the net at a breath-taking 12 mb per second. This constitutes a vast improvement over my former speed of 64 kb per second. Just goes to show you, if you wait long enough, just about anything comes to greece. Now I can join the smart set downloading media in less than two days’ time, listen to music from the horde of bands who seem to come to my virtual door and become a youtuber.(analogous to couch potato).

For those of you kind enough to ask, yes I have managed to keep up the not smoking. How strange, though to put so much energy into an absence, a negation. I am very busy not smoking. I certainly don’t intend to resume. How very foolish that would be.

I even saw this movie “Thank you for smoking”. Thought it very funny. I thought it speaks volumes about the kind of amoral non-man we will become before long. No morals, no problem, what’s morals, granpa? Perhaps this is the Nietzschean superman, beyond good and evil?

I repeat, addiction equals control. Never mind your personal inability to shake whatever chemical or behavior has you by the snarlies. What is really evil is that one human would steal another’s very life essence, his time and the energy congealed in his money in order to perpetuate the delusion that the one doing the stealing can somehow live forever. What is the ultimate goal of greed if not to seek a reprieve from death? More time to get more things to be happier. Hah.

For you see, my dear friends, nicotine is not the first chemical which had me by those snarlies which I have been obliged to rule out of my existence. Not by a long shot. You can probably imagine the nasty stuff I shoved down my gob or into my arm or up my nose, from bottle, bindle, pharmacy. And, not to get all pious and strange, I thank God for helping me get past these toxic traps, for it is entirely down to him/her/it. I am a lucky dude, dude, that I am still alive and healthy with at least half a brain and my creative abilities intact. Damn.

oh well. It’s late. Time for sleepy bo bos. Outta here.

blaine

Thursday, August 31, 2006

Well, I didn’t think I would keep a running tally like this, but what the heck? Tarnation, jethro! Am well into the third cig-less week, will start the fourth. I never thought this would be possible. My friends, I started smoking at the tender age of 15. My father, seeing that I would never stop stealing his cigarettes decided to just buy me a carton of L & M’s when he bought his weekly cartons of Raleigh straights and Bel Airs at the Cliff Brice gas station where they were cheap. Cigs in them days, chilluns, was about 35 cents a pack. Hell, gasoline was 24 cents a gallon. That’s GALLON, 4 plus litres. This is what happens, the world changes and you get older and you go on and on telling the young folks about stuff that bores ’em silly. Memories of a vanished world.

Way back when, my darlings, in High School in 1970 and on, we were allowed to smoke in the courtyard in the middle of our school. Somehow, then, as now, the more interesting people were smokers so I took up the habit with a vengeance.

And I have been lucky, my wee bairns, I have been to a doctor for a chest x-ray and all, and I don’t have cancer, and I don’t have emphysema or smoker’s leg or bladder cancer AND NOW IT LOOKS LIKE I WON’T HAVE TO GET THEM EITHER!

And the main thing is, the thing I despise about addiction, is not the poor suckers who have been exposed to toxic habit-forming chemicals and have been encouraged by the siren songs of omnipresent advertising to continue to consume those chemicals. Those on nicotine, heroin, cocaine, are so many hosts to the parasitical hell spawn men who seek to prolong their own lives at the expense of their fellows. And what does the man who continues to pursue material wealth long after his own needs are met for the next two million years want from his wealth but more time on earth? More life, suckers, and we’ll suck your souls from you like crawdad brains to get it.

Yes, testify, I’m talking about all the pushers in town, from tobacco to smack, to burgers, to missiles, western economics seems to have taken for its model not free or fair trade, no no, drug dealing seems to be the way forward for the capitalist dream machine, gang.

Well, I’m just happy that now, I don’t have to have a tracheotomy hole in my neck, I don’t have to walk around with an oxygen tank, I have been spared the gallows, my friends. That’s something to be a wee bit pleased with, no?

Saturday, August 19, 2006 no smoking, first week Yes indeed, dear friends, it is now one week since last I lit a paper tube full of dry leaves, put it in my mouth and inhaled the vapours. Though I have been plastering my thigh with nicotine poltices, this week has marked the first period of any duration at all in the last thirty or so years that I have not marked the passing of each 5 minute interval with a cigarette.

I shall not keep a daily record of this activity, or non-activity, this cessation. That would get boring.

It is not so damn tough after all.
No smoking, 2 days in.
And so, and so, today marks the 2nd day of no cigarettes pour moi. Oh yes. For the first time in over 30 years I have made it through two whole days without a cigarette. Wearing that patch on my arm, drinking lots of roiibos tea, eating fruit. Not so damn bad. If it weren’t also so hot in athens. And if those wee green bugs with richard nixon’s face would stop lecturing me in trans temporal vibration language about semiotics and the steely flavor of musics.

more later

Interview With Me and Steven Brown by John Gill

Sunday, April 29, 2007

Pinheads on the Move, in depth interview with me and steven brown by John Gill

Pinheads on the move

Set your coordinates, gentlemen…

These interviews took place between these coordinates by wire over various dates in April 2007. The reason for their inclusion here, beyond marvelling at how technology has shrunk this small busy planet, is to note how far all three people involved have travelled since they first met, perhaps 26 years ago, in London (51.28′ N, 0.00′ W/E [Greenwich Observatory], Elevation +50 m snm).

Steven Brown: 17.03′ N, 96.43′ W (Oaxaca)

Elevation 1,500 m snm (sobre nivel del mar)

Blaine L. Reininger: 37.98′ N, Longitude 23.73′ E (Athens)

Elevation 147 m snm

John Gill: 36.51′ N, 4.79′ E (Ronda)

Elevation 700 m snm

In 2007, Brown and Reininger mark the thirtieth year of their musical collaborations and friendship. They are, of course, chiefly known as the founder members of Tuxedomoon, along with Peter Principle, Bruce Geduldig, Winston Tong, and various collaborators, temporary members, and numerous guests and friends, such as Michael Belfer, Ivan Georgiev, Benjamin Lew and many others. Tuxedomoon have released over a dozen studio and live recordings, and several soundtracks and compilations. The line-up currently comprises Brown, Reininger, Principle, George Kakanakis and Luc van Lieshout. Their latest release is Bardo Hotel (Crammed, 2006), the soundtrack to an as-yet-unfinished film, shot by video artist Kakanakis and the band, taking its name from the title of Brion Gysin’s only partly-published novel, Beat Museum – Bardo Hotel, after the Paris hotel where Gysin and William Burroughs lived in the 1950s (and where legend sites Gysin’s rediscovery of Tristan Tzara’s cut-up/fold-in technique). It followed their 2004 ‘comeback’ album, Cabin in the Sky (Crammed), after a seven-year period of rest from Tuxedomoon and various outside projects pursued by the members.

Brown and Reininger are the most prolific workers outside Tuxedomoon, with a raft of solo and duet projects to their names, as well as external collaborations with musicians outside Tuxedomoon. In 2007, Brown releases the third album by his Mexican band, Nine Rain, Mexico Woke Up (Independent Recordings) and an expanded version of his 1988 mini-album Brown Plays Tenco (Les Temps Modernes), his tribute to the late Italian pop star, Luigi Tenco. Reininger releases two new recordings this year, the theatre/film soundtracks, Elektra/Radio Moscow (Les Temps Modernes), and a new studio work, Glossolalia (Off/Stilll). Tuxedomoon have been working on a new studio recording over the past year. A 3CD-plus-DVD box set, 7 7 07 (Crammed), is planned for later in 2007. A compilation of covers by musicians and non-musicians on the Yahoo discussion page for Tuxedomoon admirers (http://launch.groups.yahoo.com/group/tuxedomoon) is also due this year available as a non-profit, non-commercial release to members of the list. The band’s official historian, Belgian writer, photographer and lawyer Isabelle Corbisier, has recently completed work on what promises to be the definitive history of Tuxedomoon.

***

Tuxedomoon formed in 1977 around Brown (voice, reeds, keyboards), Reininger (voice, violin, guitar, keyboards) and bassist Peter Principle (nee Dachert) after Brown and Reininger met while studying electronic music in San Francisco. They emerged into a north American post-punk scene that had already produced The Residents, Pere Ubu and Devo, but were almost instantly, perhaps uniquely, recognisable by their very ‘European’ sound, one that owed as much to the ‘art-rock’ school of Henry Cow, Univers Zero, Art Zoyd, ZNR and others as it owed to north America’s new wave. Cinema played a big part in their background (both Brown and Reininger have acted in films, and more besides), from homegrown genres (film noir, sci-fi, classic horror as namechecked in the title of a track on their debut album, Half-Mute, ‘James Whale’, after the director of the first, classic, Frankenstein) to the European art-house greats (Godard, Fellini, well, take your pick, really). As the circumstances of their first meeting might suggest, Brown and Reininger weren’t about to form your average pick-up-a-guitar-and-learn-some-chords new wave band, and from Brown’s personal pantheon of musical heroes we might glean an inkling of both Tuxedomoon’s origins and directions: ‘Eno, Bowie, John Cage, Bernard Herrman, Nino Rota, Igor Stravinsky and Ennio Morricone’ is how he described it to me in a 2005 e-interview from his small farm in the mountains outside Oaxaca.

The fact that their debut album appeared on San Francisco’s Ralph Records, home to that last word in wacky, The Residents, was promise enough for us thrill jockeys of the British rock press. The difference, perhaps, between Brown and Reininger – and matters of style and appropriation begin to blur when considering the sheer breadth of genres both have visited in their careers – is attitude. Brown is regarded as the egghead of Tuxedomoon, while Reininger is often seen as the joker in the pack, but in fact the roles are interchangeable. (And since we’re here to triangulate Tuxedomoon, it’s worth positing that the real brainiac in Tuxedomoon is probably the shy and retiring Peter Principle, whose four solo albums to date, Sedimental Journey, Tone Poems, Conjunction and Idyllatry [the last two on Les Temps Modernes] contain more sonic mayhem and mischief than anything by either Brown or Reininger.) Considering the array of genres they have coopted, individually, as a duo or in the democratic mix of Tuxedomoon, the term ‘eclectic’ might be beside the point here. I am tempted to invoke the name of Charles Ives and his idea of ‘universal music’, albeit fed through an electric, post-punk sensibility.

In a career wedded (like Reininger’s) to an almost wilfully contrarian ahistoricity and stubborn resistance to fashion, Brown’s latest release is a collection of subtly loaded pop tunes by the late Italian chart idol Luigi Tenco, who shot himself in 1967, his suicide an act of protest, it’s said, after the jury at the 1967 Italian Song Festival in San Remo failed to award him first prize. Brown has found a current of bittersweet self-awareness running deep in the work of the dead pop star (think Scott Walker, maybe, perhaps Marc Almond, or, even, Johnny Ray…). Brown Plays Tenco fits in to his track record of albums such as Steven Brown Reads the Works of John Keats in that it doesn’t fit in anywhere at all. Expect Steven Brown to do one thing and you can bet money on him doing the exact opposite.

Of Reininger’s new solo releases, the theatre soundtrack and movie score on Elektra/Radio Moscow take a backseat serving the narratives they accompanied, although leaving enough space for Reininger’s imagination to roam, at one point producing some wild symphonic structures recalling Norwegian electronic mavericks Supersilent. His imminent solo studio work, Glossolalia, is a landmark work in his solo career and on a par with Byrne and Eno’s My Life in the Bush of Ghosts and Holger Czukay’s seminal Movies. To this listener, the effect is akin to being locked in a cinema multiplex where Reininger’s favourite movies are all running simultaneously on loop. Rifling through their back pages, however, one Reininger track leapt out and demanded incessant replay: his ‘Black Out’, on 1988’s Book of Hours (also LTM), is his drive-time radio hit that never was, a glorious, big-guitar-noise pop anthem that should have fronted the soundtrack to The Breakfast Club. (I know, I know, but that’s Tuxedomoon for you. To quote one of their favourite writers, William Burroughs, ‘everything is allowed and nothing is permitted.’)

These pinheads have been on the move (our title comes from their 1978 debut single, quite possibly then on loan from the San Francisco Examiner cartoon strip, Zippy the Pinhead) virtually since they formed. I first met them in London in 1981, when they were en route to Europe, fleeing, they said, Ronald Reagan’s Amerika. They settled in Brussels, finding a home with adventurous indie label Crammed Discs. Their time in Brussels and with Crammed, a relationship that continues, produced all but the first two of their albums, Half-Mute (1980) and the lauded Desire (1981). After 1983, when Reininger left the group to develop solo projects, Tuxedomoon was in a state of flux. Brown, Principle, Tong and Geduldig produced three further albums as Tuxedomoon: the classic Holy Wars (1985), followed by Ship of Fools (1986) and You (1987). Reininger re-joined in 1988 for a world tour, which produced Ten Years in One Night (Live) (1990). Tuxedomoon remained in stasis until a series of concerts in Israel, Italy and Greece brought them together again in 1997. The n, in 2000, remix wizard DJ Hell, in their words, ‘shook our tree’ with a suggested re-release and tour of Half-Mute, and triggered renewed activity that would result in 2004’s ‘comeback’ album, Cabin in the Sky. [For the record, the title has absolutely nothing to do with either the movie of that name or the music of Cab Calloway featured in it.] The reinvigorated Tuxedomoon were joined by Hell, Aksak Maboul, Tortoise’s John McEntire, Coti K, Juryman and Tarwater on what might, until their next studio release appears, justifiably be described as their late masterpiece.

The obvious question to ask Brown and Reininger, after twelve years of exile in Brussels and, today, settled in Mexico and Greece, is, why there?

Steven: Claustrophobia, after 12 years in Europe. The original idea of [collaborator, co-writer/founder of Nine Rain] Nikolas Klau and I was to move to Belize. In order to get to Belize from Brussels you must change planes in Mexico City. On landing there we both experienced the same sensation: ‘What are we doing in Brussels when we could be here?!’

I actually made it to Belize as per our plan. NK saw no need and remained in Mexico.

And Blaine: I usually answer this question by saying that ‘Greece chose me.’ In the nineties, I was working rather a lot with a Greek director named Nicholas Triandafyllidis. I was acting in his movies and composing the music. I found myself practically commuting to Athens. When circumstances became dire in Brussels in 1998 and I knew that I had to leave, Athens was the logical choice as the place where there was work for me. In staying here, I became more and more involved with the place and before I knew it I had a son here. In Athens I suffered the death of the woman I thought would bury me, I remarried, saw my son born, divorced, found new love, all of that. Life caught up with me all at once after so long in the event-free phantom zone of my chemical days in deadly dull Belgium. In any case, my post-Belgian career has been surprisingly varied. I have worked as a radio producer, played Agamemnon both here and in Caracas, played a lounge music show with a piano bar pianist from a seafood restaurant, crooned my way through an evening of Hadzidakis [Manos Hadzidakis, the late composer, singer and folklorist], sung in Greek before his adopted son and musical heirs and much more besides.

I am also happy to report that I have begun to incorporate Tuxedomoon and our activities into the fabric of my life in Athens. Why not? This place is full of talented people and great locations to work and play.

Two very different men, two very different countries, and two very different loads of cultural baggage, one Not Wanted On The Voyage, another secure in their walk-on allowance.

Steven: Arriving in Mexico with the intention to live there …was like landing on another planet. In a situation like this one must carve out a new life. You use the resources you have at hand to survive. What will you do in your new life? What do you know how to do? As a musician I had a certain amount of notoriety in Mexico and this helped me to form a

band. Playing music, if not actually paying the rent, allowed me to work and gave me some mooring, some stability in this new frontier.

Blaine: One remarkable thing about Greece is that, on the surface, it resembles any other European country. The general gestalt of things is not so different from, say, Italy. It is only after one becomes involved with the place and the people that one realizes how deep the Oriental influence runs, namely that of the Ottoman Turks and their attitudes on such varied things as the relationship between the sexes, family life in general and how much sugar to put in baklava. The influence of family on the average Greek’s life is difficult to understand for those of us from Anglo-American protestant cultures where extended family has been superseded by the notion of the isolated individual or ‘nuclear family’ alone against the world. Also, there is a deep suspicion of foreigners that runs back to the ancient Greeks. ‘Barbarian’ is a Greek word and idea, coming from the imitation of the sub-human speech of the people from beyond Hellas, ‘bar bar bar bar’. The ‘xeno’ in ‘xenophobia’ is likewise a Greek notion. It literally means ‘fear of foreigners’.

To their credit, though, the Greeks are a pretty tolerant lot. They have an ironic sense of humour and are not easily shocked. This is perhaps because the volume level and physical animation of ordinary daily discourse would pass for physical assault and verbal abuse in England, par example. Anything short of nuclear explosion is seen as pretty tame. And naturally, without the proverbial Greek hospitality, I would not have done as well here as I have.

Here we should split them up to interrogate them separately about their work in their newly elected places of exile.

Steven: Our first trip to Mexico in ’92 was a vacation. We went back to Brussels with the idea of naming our musical group Nine Rain, a name derived by cutting up the Aztec calendar. At the time we had a group in Brussels called Steven Brown and Friends, which included Luc van Lieshout, Ivan Georgiev, Pierre Narcisse, Niko and I. Naming this group Nine Rain was the first step towards our moving to Mexico a year later and forming the Mexican Nine Rain.

By anyone’s reckoning, the ravishing Latin rhythms that carry the three Nine Rain CDs – Nine Rain, Rain of Fire and, now, Mexico Woke Up – are about as far as you might imagine Brown travelling from the baroque architecture of Tuxedomoon. (Or, given the contrary nature of man and band, maybe not.) It is not, however, Steven Brown and –

Steven: From the outset I’ve always been lucky to work with very fine musos, each with their own considerable trajectory. Although it is Niko and I and Alejandro [Herrera, Nine Rain guitarist] who come up with the musical ideas, it’s the band that gives them life.

During the period of stasis for Tuxedomoon, both Reininger and Brown established solo careers with a variety of independent projects, not least the latter’s solo albums, including Searching for Contact (LTM, 1987) and Half-Out (LTM, 1991). Meeting them again when Tuxedomoon played Madrid on their 2004 Cabin in the Sky tour, I had to reconsider Steven Brown as a ‘songwriter’, rather than the co-composer of the works of Tuxedomoon. I am still getting my head around this. Both men are, despite their exile, deeply (north) American composers; beyond the Ives simile, in Brown’s case I’d invoke comparisons with Van Dyke Parks, David Byrne, Stan Ridgway (late of the great Wall of Voodoo), maybe even Randy Newman and Brian Wilson.

Steven: I’ve always respected songwriters. There was a time when I fantasised about becoming one. (How thrilled I was when I met the grandson of Harry Warren in LA one time.) Still, from time to time I attempt to write a ‘song’. Ultimately, though, I think it’s my job to twist or bend or push the envelope. There are enough good songwriters in the world. But there is always room to explore between the cracks. Remember, we are the underground … beneath the floorboards of the mainstream rummaging through the debris of time and tradition, always looking for a new trick…

And are all his various hats in fact one and the same?

Steven: Yes and no. I do things with Nine Rain, for example, that I would be intimidated to do with TM. As for working solo, theoretically you have more freedom but in the end you have less because you are limited by your own talent or vision. Working with others gives you broader powers and opens up more possible horizons in spite of the inconveniences that invariably arise working with ‘the other’.

Despite the tumultuous personal events that he readily volunteers in interview, Reininger’s creative trajectory has been smoother than Brown’s. Since first ‘leaving’ Tuxedomoon in 1983, he has released a shocking (if only because I just sat down and counted them…) 17 solo and collaborative works under his own name. It’s impossible to choose a stand-out title, although his collaboration with Mikel Rouse, Colorado Suite (Crammed, 1984), which they toured live, remains the object of particular personal fondness for this writer. Glossolalia, however, seems to be a new departure for Reininger. Like the Byrne/Eno collaboration, and like Czukay’s dazzling widescreen juggling act with post-Can experiment and sources snatched from shortwave radio, TV and film, it sees Reininger cast as the mixing-desk circus ringmaster introducing a startling playbill of performers, styles and sources (Greek street scenes, dark cowboy laments, the mariachi chestnut ‘Cielito Lindo’ – ‘Ay! Ay, ay-ay!’ – wired, pulsing beat pop, mutant Kentonesque big band arrangements, electronic tone poems, broadcast exorcists, the voices of Tristan Tzara, John Cage, Jodie Foster and Anthony Hopkins, and then some) in a way that might, in an act of sheer journalistic desperation, be nutshelled as the disco remix of Cage’s Roaratorio.

Blaine: I am not really so familiar with Holger Czukay’s work, though I consider My Life in the Bush of Ghosts to be one of the seminal recordings of the late 20th century. It was on this work that modern music was invented, the use of sampled, ‘found object’ vocals and audio superimposed and montaged over dense electronic, acoustic and tribal rhythms, the pomo attitude and the ironic detached humour, all of these things appeal to me in ways that give me goose bumps. A correspondence between ‘Ghosts and Glossolalia is not imaginary, though I had stumbled upon this kind of thinking in my own mad musings around about the time Tuxedomoon began, ignorant of the fact that Eno and Byrne were working literally around the corner in San Francisco. San Francisco in the late ’70s was all abuzz with ideas and energy. I have always been one sensitive to being bitten by cultural memes, if you buy that notion. There were plenty of people working in just these sorts of areas. I got bit good by the pomo bug there in SF.

The way Glossolalia came about was strange. After my wife JJ died in 1998, and I recorded the songs I had been working on all through the late ’90s as The More I Learn the Less I Know, I felt somehow that I was finished forever with the creative approach that had brought about all of my solo work. I didn’t feel able to write songs again, for starters. I felt at home, in spite of myself, in that nihilist side of postmodernism, which says that ‘Art is such bullshit, the tackiest piece of mass produced garbage is better than serious art.’ What was really happening was a very deep and wrenching sadness, a reaction to a truly catastrophic loss, and a real need to re-define my personal identity. When I sat down to start ‘working again’, after first acquiring living and working quarters of my own, I had no idea where I would begin. I dug out my CD collection and started sampling with a vengeance. I decided to forswear my conscious mind and my ego as much as possible and use tried and true methods such as aleatory music techniques and philosophical assumptions to favour instinct over intellect.

I was also able, for the first time, to surf the internet with a vengeance, to follow the tenuous golden thread all over the damn place, to seek resonances and correspondences for this particular glass bead game as far as I could follow and plow the results back into my work. In spite of those who want to turn the internet into some kind of paid theme park or a mundane entertainment medium, the net is about as close as we have ever come to a model of the collective unconscious. For those of us who know how to do it, netsurfing is like dreaming. What a wonderful tool! It is really the tool I have waited for my whole creative life. I could smell the outskirts of this data world before it happened. I used to turn on a shortwave radio, talk on the phone, watch acetate transparencies taped over a television, project slides on my wall in my own apartment in the ’70s, trying to mock up what I now know is the sort of multimedia environment we now have online.

The results which now began to appear in my work with the sort of mystifying certainty of dowsing for water pleased me, so I continued. Of course, like any other activity which involves serious surfing of the tao, gambling, for instance, ‘when you’re hot you’re hot’. And when you are not, you are decidedly not. When fortune favours one, one can seem to do no wrong, every gesture turns up a gem. When the winning streak runs out, the work is flat-out shit. Just the dreariest crap you can imagine. You just have to keep working.

Both men write and sing words in Tuxedomoon and, obviously, on their own recordings. Burroughs scores high in their lists of favourites, but for different reasons: perhaps the literary stand-off between sensibility and text, or sens (Brown) and matere (Reininger). Brown admires Burroughs’s fiction, particularly, I suspect, Cities of the Red Night (he has cast Burroughs’s occasional fictional alter-ego Audrey in at least one twisted electronic sea-shanty on Searching for Contact) while Reininger is more interested in the idea of the cut-up as a tool, and one which, in fact, you can play with on a random text generator he has installed on his website at http://www.mundoblaineo.com

As words tend to, their lyrics ground both Blaine and Steven in a cultural past. Ironically, their lyrics ground them in the country they left in 1980, or perhaps in their resistance to the cultural forces that led them to leave. As we’ve already had his musical pantheon, I asked Steven what books feature alongside Burroughs and Keats on the bookshelves of that Oaxaca farm.

Steven: Philip K. Dick, Guy Debord, Mexican mythology and history, Inventing the Aids Virus, Greek tragedies, Moby-Dick…

The inclusion of angelheaded hipster Philip K. Dick shouldn’t be too surprising here, nor that of Situationist Debord, author of Society of the Spectacle – nor, really, Moby-Dick author Herman Melville, for reasons we’ll get on to later. Inventing the Aids Virus, however, might deserve explaining. Its author, Peter H Duesberg, is a leading, dissenting, voice in the field of AIDS epidemiology, who argues that a complex combination of factors causes AIDS, and that HIV is a relatively harmless passenger virus. Duesberg further argues that HIV/AIDS is a political, economic and cultural construct, myth, even, and one that is killing people. Steven is what he, as one, possibly but not necessarily autobiographical, song on Mexico Woke Up, ‘Invisible Man’, prefers to call it, ‘queer’ (and, believe me, as a happily self-defined queer myself, I spent a fair amount of time wondering just what to call Steven Brown in this text). During his years there, Steven was one of the driving forces behind the formation of ACT UP Brussels, and you wouldn’t need to be Roland Barthes to decode the semiosis of his multiple-punning-or-not Half-Out. Call it polysemy, maybe…

Blaine is more a Tim Allen, Home Improvement, powertools kinda guy when it comes to words and, specifically, the cut-up and randomly generated texts.

Blaine: I have always been fascinated by the kind of insouciant word play found in James Joyce, William Burroughs, and Zippy the Pinhead. Non-sequiturs fill me with delight and I can’t get enough. I devised a few of my own systems to generate random juxtapositions and non-sequiturs in my pre-computer days, notably one which used dice and then special eight-sided dice and a table of my own devising. It is not so much that I am in love with the po-faced sort of verbal deconstruction of the Surrealists and Dadaists, it is just that I have always found this sort of stuff funny. Now, of course, I have stumbled upon a couple of very good random word-generating systems for my computer, one of which draws upon a database of words which I have lovingly loaded for years now. Fun for the whole family.

I structure my music, my words, my photography, my cooking, the same way, because I decided early on that the sort of inter-disciplinary virtuosity and synaesthesia proposed by Herman Hesse in The Glass Bead Game is true, is the purest expression of art and science there is. That is to say, I know that it is possible to express a notion in music, in art, in mathematics, in flavour, in terms of any and all human disciplines, without losing resolution since all knowledge and all information is connected at the source.

The relationship between Brown and Reininger is far more complicated than anyone outside their friendship can probably imagine or divine. They’re often painted as warring bosom buddies, but something far more profound holds this friendship together. I tried a joke on both of them, asking who was who in their post-punk production of The Odd Couple. Steven treated the question with the contempt it probably deserved, sending me a crisp ‘X’ in place of a reply. Blaine, however, always game for a laugh, allowed: Well, Steven would be Felix, if Felix were an arty slob. I am like Oscar, but I am compulsively symmetrical, if not neat.

Compulsively symmetrical or a-symmetrical, there is something that has kept these two geniuses circling each other for thirty years in what is known in astronomy as tidal locking, the gravity that keeps planets and satellites in tidy orbit. It goes beyond the giddying variety of genres they have plundered: write a list of them – gypsy airs, say, Debussy or Satie, fraudulent bebop, minimalism in the manner of Steve Reich, strung-out punk neurosis, prairie melancholia, twisted love songs, chamber works mixing whimsy and menace, heartbreaking melodies to make you go weak at the knees – and Blaine and Steven will simply add another to the list when you’re not looking.

Which, of course, leads the journalist to the next question: their longevity. Thirty years, on and off, is a long time for any band to continue working together, particularly when you consider the perversely uncommercial nature of the collective genius of Tuxedomoon. U2 take their tax registration off-shore; Tuxedomoon, you fear, still starve for their art.

Blaine: The in loco familias approach has helped us hold together all this time. I don’t think we know what people like about it. We just, like, do it, man.

Or Steven: Peter put it best I think when he said we reformed the band (after a seven-year hiatus) because nobody else was doing Tuxedomoon music.

Which hands us the next question. What is ‘Tuxedomoon music’? Was there a founding philosophy?

Steven: The founding philosophy of Blaine and I in the beginning was to take the electronic and experimental music we were learning at the time out of the staid academic halls and play it in the clubs where the real people were. Unwittingly, we were continuing in the tradition begun by the likes of physicist, composer and musician Wendy Carlos, who in the ’60s also wanted to take electronic music out of the hallowed academic halls of atonal serial dissonance and ‘make music that wasn’t ugly’. Or Warhol, who succeeded in dissolving the boundaries between high- and low-brow art. Our philosophy was born in the late seventies and out of our unique personal situation. The question could be asked: is this idea still valid today when anyone with a computer is an electronic musician? But trends come and go. In the ’50s the only way to hear the new-born electronic music was on tape. People would go to a concert hall and the composer would push ‘play’ on the tape recorder. Loudspeaker music, it was called. Quickly, people like John Cage realized this was boring and performance art was born. A direct parallel is the laptop crowd today. I’m always amazed to see an audience avidly staring at some nerd on stage staring down into his lap … top. The music may or may not be interesting, but there is nothing to see! And so like their ancestors in the ’50s, laptoppers now often connect video to their rig and now the audience can watch a screen. Today in the performance world there is what’s called Live Cinema. The video artist is ostensibly showing his or her work but part of that work is a live feed of what is being filmed onstage and so the actual process of recording is part of the overall performance, in part a Meyerhold idea of stripping away the artifice to reveal the inner gears at work. TM was doing this in the seventies through the work of Bruce Geduldig and Winston Tong. We like to think of TM as a style of its own, an entity that until now has rode out all the passing trends and fashions and remains true to itself.

But then again, como siempre, there is also Blaine: There are many unwritten rules and conventions in the Tuxedomoon working partnership, many of which evolved in the course of doing the thing. I do think that the initial form of it, the multi-media, unified field of art, synaesthesic entity, was there from the start. We have our roles in the composing, we deal in certain ways with money, with sharing writing credits, we sit in certain places in the van on tour. We function somewhat like a family, more like a collective, we think we are anarcho-syndicalists but we probably ain’t.

The, if you will, gluon that holds these two astronomical objects in balance is, perhaps, and paradoxically, the very thing they have spent much of their adult lives running away from: America. I will immediately problematise that observation by saying that ‘we’ Europeans have a habit of misreading (north) Americans, but despite their exile, there is a very ‘American’ voice in their work as composers and writers. I asked both of them if they weren’t, really, still singing the ‘body electric’ that Walt Whitman sang?

Blaine: I used to think that I was singing that glorious Whitman song, that Herman Melville, Alan Ginsberg, ‘land of the big shoulders’, Jack Kerouac, pure American cry of rugged individuality and the romance of the lonely highway through the desert of night. I realized only recently that what moves me is the paradoxical, the state of love/hate, bitter/sweet, Irish coffee/baked Alaska, take on reality. Thus, though I have the sight of the full moon on virgin fields of snow under astral mountains in Colorado forever lased onto my heart, I have been away so long and I am so heartily disgusted by what my countrymen have made of the place in the last twenty or so years that I don’t know where I’m from anymore. I retain two undisputably American qualities, my accent and my passport. The rest is uncertain.
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Or Steven: There’s a phrase by American expat writer James Baldwin that has always haunted me. It essentially refers to that intangible feeling of recognition, or of having something in common when looking at another American. Living abroad for over 25 years, I have always avoided Americans. Maybe part of that is self-denial, but in the end what does one leave one’s country of birth for, if not to start a new life freed from the past?

Still, there is ultimately no way to eliminate your roots. I think it’s true for anyone from anywhere, no matter how well you learn the local lingo or blend in to the local colour, you are always the stranger. As for Whitman, there was a time in my life when I felt the ecstasy of the promise for humanity he speaks of. Those days are few and far between nowadays, I’m afraid to say.

Steven has recently lived through what the glib journalist describes elsewhere as the short-lived people’s republic of Oaxaca, when the inhabitants of that beautiful city high in the Sierra Madre del Sur (since we’re here, John Huston’s Sierra Madre, in fact) rose up against a corrupt regime led by a corrupt state governor, chased the cops and army out of town, only to see their people’s republic smashed by the armed forces. It had a profound effect on a man who normally prefers to tend his cows and watch the weather.

Steven: I live in Oaxaca, Mexico, and for the last year we have been suffering through serious social upheaval, the city occupied by protesters for months, barricades on hundreds of streets, curfews, death squads, molotovs, the eventual entry of the military who then themselves occupied the city. Recently, there have been expositions of paintings and videos directly inspired by these events. Critics have accused artists of profiting off this difficult and painful situation. But I think it’s part of the artist’s work to absorb the environment and report on it, using the filters of the given artist ultimately providing a vision often far more important then the majority of official news reports, [like] Goya, Picasso, Genet…

I must say I have been very disillusioned with recent events here where I live, and for the first time have thought of moving somewhere else. But looking around it’s clear that most of the world survives under some form of totalitarian rule. Still, there are places where the repression is better camouflaged, like Europe.

For the time being, then, these pinheads are maintaining their coordinates.

Steven: Due to the ironic situation of recently receiving government financing for two projects here (one being Nine Rain), I will be staying put for another two years at least.

And Blaine: True to my love of paradox, I am that strangest of animals—a nomad who hates to travel. Truly. I get antsy leaving a hotel I have been in for more than three days. Nevertheless, I cannot bear the notion of being in only one place on Earth for the rest of my days. I will stay in Greece as long as that is tenable, primarily because my son is here.

As for the future, the Felix and Oscar of post-modern art-rock intend to stick around, together.

Steven: Tuxedomoon will probably be our Cabin in the Sky for some time to come.

The last word has to go to Blaine: I will endeavour to maintain Tuxedomoon and its activities as long as possible and then some. If nothing else, it is the closest thing any of us have to a pension.

All available recordings by Steven Brown, Blaine L. Reininger, Nine Rain, Tuxedomoon and other individual members can be found at the following web sites:

http://www.crammed.com

http://www.ltmpub.freeserve.co.uk

http://www.independentrecordings.com

http://www.stilll.org

Cellphone Video, Tuxedomoon Tour

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Yes, my friends, having purchased a USB cable for my new phone, I have transferred my first series of cellphone videos to my computer, edited them suckers up and posted them to YOUTUBE! for your enjoyment. Go to this link and entertain yourself with these priceless and entertaining scenes from our middle-aged boy band’s life on the road. Or, if clicking a url is beyond you, you may see this selfsame video embedded in my MYSPACE profile. Oh, ain’t web 2.0 grand?

Yours for the viewing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hj1mKcz5QCE

Blaine

Back from Tour

Thursday, March 01, 2007

peter and luc in bruges

Well, my dear friends, I am now back home in Athens. The february 2007 tour of tuxedomoon is now officially finished. And what a swell tour it was, too. We had some good times this time around. We played a set composed of mostly new songs and this seemed to set well with the public. I think the notable gigs were the Nouveau Casino in Paris and the first two German gigs, Hamburg and Berlin, though they all went well.

We spent many days riding in a van, as one usually does on a tour like this. The middle-aged knees and butt were in danger of seizing up and ceasing to function but hotel room and roadside yoga helped me persevere.

I was very pleased to meet the many myspacers who now number among my actual flesh and blood friends. Rupert or no Rupert, this social networking stuff is a good thing.

And now here I am back home in the Big Olive, rolling in my sweet baby’s arms as the song would have it.

Also worthy of note is the pending release of two new solo cd’s from me. First is the soundtrack music from Elektra, backed with some tracks from Radio Moscow, out even now on James Nice’s Les Temps Modernes. Second is my new song cd “Glossololia” from friend Alain Lefebvre’s Stilll label. Look out for them.

That is all for now, my little chickadees.

Blaine

London, Show at Madame JoJo's

December 20, 2006

tower bridge

I guess it has been long enough. I guess I am over the experience of playing in London enough to post it up here on this blog. I played at this former transvestite bar in Soho called Madame Jo Jo’s on December 14, 2006. Nah, not so bad, and I thank Erik Stein most deeply for arranging said spectacular. I have always liked Soho, too, the area feels really charged, really exciting, like Times Square or Berlin Mitte. It’s just that England is just so damn….nasty. No, not really nasty, so damn, I feel so damn ambivalent about the place. On the one hand, England is the very source of the culture in which I was steeped like a germano-mexican teabag. England is the very cradle of the blessed English language which delights me so. There is this agressive hipness to London, this refusal to refer to any other place, a sense that London is not really part of the earth at all. It seems to be adrift on a dark asteroid, lit by a yellow sodium vapor sun.

Few places are so merciless to anyone with no money. The pressure to acquire in order to rise above the feculent swamp in which one’s fellows swim is great in London. Those that have in London have so very much, like their equivalent numbers in the United States. Those that have not, are really pitiful scum, are truly shit on someone’s shoes. This is where that agressive hipness comes in. The conviction that one has seen it all, knows it all, been everywhere is salvation from the sodium-lit asphalt reality that one has seen pretty much nothing except the local chicken kebab shop, knows very little, and has been nowhere of any consequence . There is very little support from the environment in the sense of the German word “umwelt” the world around. Here, in Greece, for instance, there is always that blue sky. Blue for all people, all day long. There is always that old sun rolling around heaven all day, lawd lawd. In England in winter, when midnight rolls around at 4 in the afternoon, you might as well hang your head and moan the blues.

Secure in the knowledge

security cam

And yet and yet. The world cannot seem to get enough of the culture this place spews out. I cannot help but lump england and america into one cultural behemoth, angloamerica, giving the world books and movies and music by the ton. It seems, though, that the true spirit of the place is found at its borders. The Closed circuit TV, dehumanizing insulting grey nastiness of the British frontier is the naked and awful face of the 21st century, my friends. No one does foul-tempered bureaucracy better than the brits. They have been at this “post 9/11” security state since the seventies and they have it down to a fine science. Fie. Enough.

Bicycle Demonstration

Saturday, November 04, 2006

Today I attended a demonstration of cyclists in Athens at Pedio tou Areos park. The aim was to show strength in numbers and ride to the Ministry of Transport to demonstrate in order to allow bicycles on the Metro among other demands. I had the most wonderful time. When I started cycling around this town 6 years ago, I felt like a lone freak, dashing around in between the cars, invisible, beneath contempt. How divine to find myself riding down Mesogeion and Vasilias Sofias avenues today, in the company of at least 500 of my cycling fellows. For just that little while, the bikes owned those main streets. I have noticed before that cyclists tend to wear these big smiles and today was no exception. Even when we arrived at the Minstry of Transport no one seemed to feel at all confrontational. Everyone was having too much fun.

Continue reading “Bicycle Demonstration”

Faster Internet

Monday, October 16, 2006

 

Yes, my friends, today I managed to hook up two new plastic boxes to my computer and join the fast set, surfing the net at a breath-taking 12 mb per second. This constitutes a vast improvement over my former speed of 64 kb per second. Just goes to show you, if you wait long enough, just about anything comes to greece. Now I can join the smart set downloading media in less than two days’ time, listen to music from the horde of bands who seem to come to my virtual door and become a youtuber.(analogous to couch potato).

For those of you kind enough to ask, yes I have managed to keep up the not smoking. How strange, though to put so much energy into an absence, a negation. I am very busy not smoking. I certainly don’t intend to resume. How very foolish that would be.

I even saw this movie “Thank you for smoking”. Thought it very funny. I thought it speaks volumes about the kind of amoral non-man we will become before long. No morals, no problem, what’s morals, granpa? Perhaps this is the Nietzschean superman, beyond good and evil?

I repeat, addiction equals control. Never mind your personal inability to shake whatever chemical or behavior has you by the snarlies. What is really evil is that one human would steal another’s very life essence, his time and the energy congealed in his money in order to perpetuate the delusion that the one doing the stealing can somehow live forever. What is the ultimate goal of greed if not to seek a reprieve from death? More time to get more things to be happier. Hah.

For you see, my dear friends, nicotine is not the first chemical which had me by those snarlies which I have been obliged to rule out of my existence. Not by a long shot. You can probably imagine the nasty stuff I shoved down my gob or into my arm or up my nose, from bottle, bindle, pharmacy. And, not to get all pious and strange, I thank God for helping me get past these toxic traps, for it is entirely down to him/her/it. I am a lucky dude, dude, that I am still alive and healthy with at least half a brain and my creative abilities intact. Damn.

oh well. It’s late. Time for sleepy bo bos. Outta here.

blaine

 

Third Cig-less Week

spr060837.JPGThursday, August 31, 2006

Well, I didn’t think I would keep a running tally like this, but what the heck? Tarnation, jethro! Am well into the third cig-less week, will start the fourth. I never thought this would be possible. My friends, I started smoking at the tender age of 15. My father, seeing that I would never stop stealing his cigarettes decided to just buy me a carton of L & M’s when he bought his weekly cartons of Raleigh straights and Bel Airs at the Cliff Brice gas station where they were cheap. Cigs in them days, chilluns, was about 35 cents a pack. Hell, gasoline was 24 cents a gallon. That’s GALLON, 4 plus litres. This is what happens, the world changes and you get older and you go on and on telling the young folks about stuff that bores ’em silly. Memories of a vanished world.

Way back when, my darlings, in High School in 1970 and on, we were allowed to smoke in the courtyard in the middle of our school. Somehow, then, as now, the more interesting people were smokers so I took up the habit with a vengeance.

And I have been lucky, my wee bairns, I have been to a doctor for a chest x-ray and all, and I don’t have cancer, and I don’t have emphysema or smoker’s leg or bladder cancer AND NOW IT LOOKS LIKE I WON’T HAVE TO GET THEM EITHER!

And the main thing is, the thing I despise about addiction, is not the poor suckers who have been exposed to toxic habit-forming chemicals and have been encouraged by the siren songs of omnipresent advertising to continue to consume those chemicals. Those on nicotine, heroin, cocaine, are so many hosts to the parasitical hell spawn men who seek to prolong their own lives at the expense of their fellows. And what does the man who continues to pursue material wealth long after his own needs are met for the next two million years want from his wealth but more time on earth? More life, suckers, and we’ll suck your souls from you like crawdad brains to get it.

Yes, testify, I’m talking about all the pushers in town, from tobacco to smack, to burgers, to missiles, western economics seems to have taken for its model not free or fair trade, no no, drug dealing seems to be the way forward for the capitalist dream machine, gang.

Well, I’m just happy that now, I don’t have to have a tracheotomy hole in my neck, I don’t have to walk around with an oxygen tank, I have been spared the gallows, my friends. That’s something to be a wee bit pleased with, no?

No smoking, First Week

Saturday, August 19, 2006

Nicotine patch on my thigh

No smoking, first week

Yes indeed, dear friends, it is now one week since last I lit a paper tube full of dry leaves, put it in my mouth and inhaled the vapours. Though I have been plastering my thigh with nicotine poltices, this week has marked the first period of any duration at all in the last thirty or so years that I have not marked the passing of each 5 minute interval with a cigarette.

I shall not keep a daily record of this activity, or non-activity, this cessation. That would get boring.

It is not so damn tough after all.
No smoking, 2 days in.
And so, and so, today marks the 2nd day of no cigarettes pour moi. Oh yes. For the first time in over 30 years I have made it through two whole days without a cigarette. Wearing that patch on my arm, drinking lots of roiibos tea, eating fruit. Not so damn bad. If it weren’t also so hot in athens. And if those wee green bugs with richard nixon’s face would stop lecturing me in trans temporal vibration language about semiotics and the steely flavor of musics.

more later

Time on my hands

Once again, we come to that pretty pass where ain’t much happening. Seems like only then is there time to fool around with websites and such. I have been tweaking and twiddling the layout, proving once again that this website is no great biographical work of avant pop art. It’s my hobby.

 

back blogs

Hello Ladies and germs. Finally found some time to look at the old website, decided to update my blog at least. Here are some of the fruits o’ my efforts.

July 11, 2005

Bulletin from Amsterdammed

Hello, my little chickadees. Miss me? I know it has been many moons since I have generated a wee missive like this, but hey, who counts such things among dear compas and friends such as we?

As is pretty normal these days, I am traveling around with tuxedomoon. This last session of my life as a singing baggage handler has taken me first to Amsterdam, then naples, then mestre, near Venice and now back to Amsterdam.

We are the guests of this sort of dada surrealist community group called the Illuseum. They are sponsoring a festival of events and exhibitions called “New Atlantis” to which we have been invited. We are conducting workshops and performing hither and yon.

I have been riding an old (circa 1920) bicycle around. this place is bike heaven. As you know, there are bike paths, roads really, everywhere with their own set of traffic lights and street markings and all. There is real bicycle traffic here; you have to be on guard just like driving a car. There are hundreds of thousands of bicycles on the road every day. Wow.

Today was old Blaine’s 52nd birthday. Way hey. Happy birthday to me. I’m not getting older, I’m getting…..um…well, I AM getting older. I frantically do yoga and ride a bicycle but nothing will persuade that old grim reaper to turn back the clock. Who gives a shit, finally? You don’t scare me, ese! As james whale sings in “gods and monsters” “Grave where is thy victory? Death, where is thy sting a ling a ling?” hah.

Pretty good birthday. we played for this public dinner on a footbridge over a canal. there were lots of people from the local community eating on the bridge. we played as the sun set. Pretty good.

Will go back to Athens in about a week.

In the meantime, I remain ever yours, faithful unto the end, like an old dog sleeping at your feet by the fire, humping your leg until you hit me with a newspaper, I crap on the carpet and you must put me down at last.

Yours for all time

Blaine leslie reininger
Born July 10 1953 at 3 am in Pueblo, Colorado, U.S.A.

April 7, 2005

Back from Bushland

Hello my little chickadees. Here’s Blaine, back in Athens after our glorious return to Homeland America, Estados Unidos. If you ain’t aware already, Tuxedomoon went to San Francisco for the entire month of March, 2005. While
there we jammed furiously with an eye upon a new cd. This work will continue later, fiends.We played two shows in
San Fran, one in Mexico City and one in Lost Angeles.

At that point, we upped stakes and flew to New York where we wowed ‘em at the Knitting Factory and the Tribeca Grand Hotel. Of course, when we tell people that we played in the lobby of an enormous and luxe hotel where formerlyonly derelicts tread, they may think we have joined the Holiday Inn and cruise ship circuit. None of that.

Now, back in greece, the impressions fostered by this return are too many to process. In any case, we have a bunch more shows in Spain and Portugal. We even have one in Italy. Then we are finished, 14 April.

Suffice to say, I grew weary of the 8th grade principle’s office atmosphere of the current United States. Shuffling yet again through the checkpoints set up by the Sicherheitsamt of the Office of Homeland Security
(Heimatssicherheitamt), it struck me that we would all be better off if we dressed and
acted as they treat us. As mental patients. Think about it, a bathrobe and slippers would be themost security-friendly uniform, no fumbling with shoes and belts andjackets, everything to hand for those anal probes for contraband. Also, had we all spent time in jail or the nuthouse, we would be handier with the plastic cutlery enforced throughout the secure zones of our airports. Who can deny that a little Thorazine would render the whole experience of air travel in modern America
just that little bit less stressful? I already noted that a way to smoke a cigarette undetected by closed circuit television taught to me by a former mental patient has proven most effective.

And don’t get me started on smoking in New Bushland. Standing outside any given cafe, restaurant, home in America, puffing away with the other lost souls in the cold and the rain, handing out cigs to the many homeless desperadoes who shuffled past, I began to long for Greece, where one does not feel as if there were a school nurse always in his pocket, keeping him in line. In fact, in Greece, smoking is compulsory for men over 6 years old. Failure to smoke in a public place is punishable by a fine.

There you go, amici, a short bulletin on a Sunday afternoon. Hope you enjoyed it.

I lavish love upon all of your unlined and youthful brows.

your working boy

Blaine


Crucifix Acupuncture.

an ode to Albrecht Hirche

I’m standing there in berlin, dressed in black

That ennio morricone music playing,

TWANG! I raise my black stetson,

Lights come up, music swells,

I swagger down off the stage to meet my enemy.

I am super baaaad.

Baddest thang on two continents.

I am in hog heaven, grandma.

One of the best moments in my damn life, yer honor.

Then, I am sitting under the seats in a mattress-striped rolling stones suit

Not smoking. Rauchen verboten. Should be smoking. Virtually smoking, then.

Next, I am riding a no-speed bicycle with flat tires around and around and around

Praying “dear god, don’t let me fall off this thing”.

I dismount and whip out my blazing git-tar

Whoooo! Get back Loretta, I am Johnny B. Goode his own self,

I playsLucille”

Whoo! Y’all kin fry a egg on my “Lucille”.

Hot rats, bwana! Bop ‘til youse drop!

Before I know it, I am lying in a coffin with a radio clutched over my crotch.

I hear Mozart’s requiem

I practice being so triumphantly dead. Dead in a Mozart manner.

I see my own state funeral and all the earnest mourning over my illustrious passing.

“He was a simple man….a brilliant man…great, in a word”

Boo hoo hoo, so elegantly sad like a black rose in a dog’s mouth.

Or something.

Long black nylon hairs from the lead actor’s wig fly up my nose.

(left there from his previous occupancy, I suppose)

My hands are pinned to my sides. I cannot scratch my itch.

I try to enter an itch-free universe by chanting mantras.

It is not working.

All of these mystic moments brought to you by Albrecht Hirche.

All of these and more.

Come to give me stories to tell when I thought they was all told, officer.

Lay apostle of the first and last church of rock n’ roll.

Brother in arms.

Whoa!

Atom eye bitch tits.

Lunch poet.

Genius cartwheel

Crucifix acupuncture

Shanti, shanti, shanti.

Blaine L. Reininger

Athens, Greece

2005

Ode to Albrecht Hirche

Crucifix Acupuncture.

an ode to Albrecht Hirche

I’m standing there in berlin, dressed in black

That ennio morricone music playing,

TWANG! I raise my black stetson,

Lights come up, music swells,

I swagger down off the stage to meet my enemy.

Iam super baaaad.

Baddest thang on two continents.

I am in hog heaven, grandma.

One of the best moments in my damn life, yer honor.

Then, I am sitting under the seats in a mattress-striped rolling stones suit

Not smoking. Rauchen verboten. Should be smoking. Virtually smoking, then.

Next, I am riding a no-speed bicycle with flat tires around and around and around

Praying “dear god, don’t let me fall off this thing”.

I dismount and whip out my blazing git-tar

Whoooo! Get back Loretta, I am Johnny B. Goode his own self,

I plays “Lucille”

Whoo! Y’all kin fry a egg on my “Lucille”.

Hot rats, bwana! Bop ‘til youse drop!

Before I know it, I am lying in a coffin with a radio clutched over my crotch.

I hear Mozart’s requiem

I practice being so triumphantly dead. Dead in a Mozart manner.

I see my own state funeral and all the earnest mourning over my illustrious passing.

“He was a simple man….a brilliant man…great, in a word”

Boo hoo hoo, so elegantly sad like a black rose in a dog’s mouth.

Or something.

Long black nylon hairs from the lead actor’s wig fly up my nose.

(left there from his previous occupancy, I suppose)

My hands are pinned to my sides. I cannot scratch my itch.

I try to enter an itch-free universe by chanting mantras.

It is not working.

All of these mystic moments brought to you by Albrecht Hirche.

All of these and more.

Come to give me stories to tell when I thought they was all told, officer.

Lay apostle of the first and last church of rock n’ roll.

Brother in arms.

Whoa!

Atom eyebitch tits.

Lunch poet.

Genius cartwheel

Crucifix acupuncture

Shanti, shanti, shanti.

Blaine L. Reininger

Athens, Greece

2005

Bulletin from Amsterdammed

Amsterdam bridge

July 11, 2005

Hello, my little chickadees. Miss me? I know it has been many moons since I have generated a wee missive like this, but hey, who counts such things among dear compasand friends such as we?

As is pretty normal these days, I am traveling around with tuxedomoon. This last session of my life as a singing baggage handler has taken me first to Amsterdam, then naples, then mestre, near Venice and now back to Amsterdam.

We are the guests of this sort of dada surrealist community group called the Illuseum. They are sponsoring a festival of events and exhibitions called “New Atlantis” to which we have been invited. We are conducting workshops and performing hither and yon.

[pe2-gallery class=”aligncenter” ] P6230039.JPG[/pe2-gallery]I have been riding an old (circa 1920) bicycle around. this place is bike heaven. As you know, there are bike paths, roads really, everywhere with their own set of traffic lights and street markings and all. There is real bicycle traffic here; you have to be on guard just like driving a car. There are hundreds of thousands of bicycles on the road every day. Wow.

Continue reading “Bulletin from Amsterdammed”

Back from Bushland (tuxedomoon return to san francisco)

sanfran0568.JPG

April 7, 2005

Hello my little chickadees. Here’s Blaine, back in Athens after our glorious return to Homeland America, Estados Unidos. If you ain’t aware already, Tuxedomoon went to San Francisco for the entire month of March, 2005. While
there we jammed furiously with an eye upon a new cd. This work will continue later, fiends.We played two shows in San Fran, one in Mexico City and one in Lost Angeles.

At that point, we upped stakes and flew to New York where we wowed ’em at the Knitting Factory and the Tribeca Grand Hotel. Of course, when we tell people that we played in the lobby of an enormous and luxe hotel where formerlyonly derelicts tread, they may think we have joined the Holiday Inn and cruise ship circuit. None of that.

Now, back in greece, the impressions fostered by this return are too many to process. In any case, we have a bunch more shows in Spain and Portugal. We even have one in Italy. Then we are finished, 14 April.

Suffice to say, I grew weary of the 8th grade principle’s office atmosphere of the current United States. Shuffling yet again through the checkpoints set up by the Sicherheitsamt of the Office of Homeland Security
(Heimatssicherheitamt), it struck me that we would all be better off if we dressed and acted as they treat us. As mental patients. Think about it, a bathrobe and slippers would be themost security-friendly uniform, no fumbling with shoes and belts andjackets, everything to hand for those anal probes for contraband. Also, had we all spent time in jail or the nuthouse, we would be handier with the plastic cutlery enforced throughout the secure zones of our airports. Who can deny that a little Thorazine would render the whole experience of air travel in modern America
just that little bit less stressful? I already noted that a way to smoke a cigarette undetected by closed circuit television taught to me by a former mental patient has proven most effective.

Continue reading “Back from Bushland (tuxedomoon return to san francisco)”

let it snow

February 12, 2004

Just about to give up on this uneventful day when the sky opened up and it began to snow. This was not just a wimpy little dusting, but a big sloppy blizzard with fat wet flakes billowing down. I need not remind you that this is far from common in Greece. I hear the cars honking down on the avenue. Panic is no doubt ensuing down there. I smirk secretly to know that the ever-aggressive drivers of this town, who stop for nothing and no one have met their match in the strange frozen water from the sky. Ha. Honk at that, bozoes! The lights of the city reflecting up on the snow lend a strange light to proceedings, something like sunrise on one of Saturn’s moons.

I took some photos of the snow on the lemon trees. Lemons are hardy and tenacious little devils, they hang onto the tree until the last, unlike their orange cousins who drop off and rot away if not harvested. This may not be news to some of us, but to a boy from Colorado like me the snow is less mysterious than the behavior of citrus trees.

Speaking of Colorado, I want to call your attention to a recent addition to my site, a photo gallery dedicated to my recent return to my mythic and strange home town, Pueblo, Colorado.

PUEBLO GALLERY LINK

Damn. Wish I could just post the photos I just took. Perhaps you are lucky that I can’t.

yours

Blaine