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.

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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

New World Short Order (detained in the posh burbs)

this is the way back to the ghetto

Thursday January 22, 2004

NEW WORLD SHORT ORDER

Howdy. I neglected to tell youse about a rather amusing event that transpired the other day. Some bozoes of my acquaintance, musicians for whom I did a session came out here to bourgeois land Sunday to take me to a video shoot for their cd. They came in a beat up red car (important later). Also important to remember is that I decided to dress in my Matrix-influenced baddest drag for the occasion. I sported my long black leather overcoat, a pair of blue mirror shades, black turtleneck. Couldn’t have done better had I consulted “Osama’s Secret” terrorist wardrobe catalogue. We hadn’t travelled more than 500 meters down the road when a pair of newly-minted fascist cops from the olympic brigade decided this was our lucky day. Beat up red car in a posh neighborhood? Scowling mafioso in the back seat? It’s them, stavros! Oh, the arrogance. The leather lad in charge pulled us over by standing in the middle of the road and pointing his finger. You.

Continue reading “New World Short Order (detained in the posh burbs)”

Danton Bomb Scare, Mixing Cabin in the Sky

athpix0490

Peter P, Marc Hollander, and Coti K. listen earnestly to “cabin in the sky”

DECEMBER 31, 2003

urbi et orbi pope guido speaks

Oh, my friends, it grieves me. It grieves me so. Here some…3? 2? MONTHS! Have passed without a mundoblaineo update from me. Not to mention that the site itself languishes in neglect, covered with pixellated dust, reeking of cybernetic mildew. I beat my breast in remorse. I wail. I gnash my teeth.

Not only that, but the year is turning! 2003 becomes 2004 tonight and what will you do about it? What CAN you do about it? More on this later. What, you may ask, has old Blaine been up to all this time!??

First off, the play in which I played, strutted and fretted many hours upon the stage has come to a merciful conclusion. This was a tough one, folks. “Danton’s Death” faded off into theatrical history on the 2nd of December.

I should tell you that we had to interrupt play one memorable night for a bomb scare. Yes, folks, someone took the trouble of calling the Athens police to tell them that they had planted a bomb in the Theatro Amore. Just as I was getting ready to put down my baglama, rush backstage and change into my queen Victoria ballgown for the drag scene, the stage manager came in and turned on the lights. “we must evacuate the theatre” or words to that effect. We trooped out onto the sidewalk, some of us still in costume and makeup, others smarter, in street clothes, watched the audience fade into the night, waited as the police sent bomb-sniffing dogs into the theatre and then we buggered off home.

This was shortly after we had our power failure. A scant two nights before the bomb threat we played the thing out by battery-powered emergency lighting. It went fairly well until the last bit where we sang a Beethoven song “Rasch Tritt der Tod”. Without the digital piano to guide us four act-ores we had no idea where the tonal center lay. No, not even I. it sounded like the Schoenberg version. Or maybe 4 guys listening to walkmans singing along to 4 different songs.

During the run of danton, the intrepid Peter Principle and Marc Hollander came down here to Athens to work on the mix of the new Tuxedomoon CD. The title of this remains a state secret. We had some halcyon sessions in a pleasant little studio near the local river. We would take a break from our intense labors to chow down on some magnificent Cretan food. Truly marvy, gang.

Of course, much has been seen, said, felt, consumed, stapled and mutilated which will never find its way into these letters. That is as it should be. Suffice to say that 2003 was, by and large, a pretty good year for me. I have been working like 10,000 dogs (to quote a dear friend of mine) and that is marvelous. what joy to feel the jingle of change in my jeans! i’ve heard of that…money.

Let us try to forget for a while the march of the fascist morons intent on screwing up a perfectly good world with lots of fun things to do. Hell with ‘em. We can only wish that george bush and his brown shirted thugs and their cousins on the other side of the holy war would just zap off to hell in a foul-smelling cloud. No such luck. We have to endure their presence. No question about their reception in hell. George W. Bush has a private room already booked. The world situation is pretty scary,though. I hate to admit that I am more concerned about my mp3 collection. I guess when the new world orderlies come to the door to machine gun my old bones I will become politically engaged. It will be too late, though.

But serially, folk. we surely don’t have to wait for the worm to turn to live like free-thinking people. We can make every effort to do so now. and…um… I forget. What’s on tv, George?

I will close. I wish each and every one of you, my precious little love bundles, a simply scrumptious 2004.

Ta ta for now

Blaine

Back to Griechenland

athpix0202AUGUST 16, 2003

Greetings culture fans. This is old uncle guido here, writing a belated update. I am sure you were all just jumping out of your skins wondering what I have been up to. or probably not.

at the moment I am back on the island of lesbos where my wee son ian and his mother athena live. i have been riding my bike and swimming and so forth. yes, it’s marvy here. yeah yeah yeah.

not so damn long ago me and the other tuxedomoons finished recording our new cd. this has been an epic journey. much of this material was written in cagli, italy 2 years ago. this time around we found ourselves in our old schlomping grounds the fine city of brussels, belgium. ah, bruxelles! ah belgique! ah, les frites! ah le mannekin pis! let me tell you it was most strange to find myself back there. i spilt a great deal of vitriol and moaned many moans over that desolate ville. stranger even was the fact that it didn’t look all that bad this time. there’s some mighty fine architecture thar. faded old whore of a 19th century imperial capital.

we set ourselves up in a suitably decaying rehearsal room with very high ceilings and a most delicious subterranean fecal vibe down by the gare du midi (which is not in the middle as you might think, but in the south of the city). and there you go. our friend and engineer coti k. came in, we set up laptop, amps, mikes, coffee maker and bob’s your uncle, hey presto, we were in the record biz.

this said, what remains to do is to mix the dang thing. we plan to release this beauty around spring 2004. yes, we will also play bruxelles on the 28th (?) of september, so make your travel plans now.

that’s about all i will inflict upon youse right now.

i greet thee from the sea

blaine

 

 

After They Seen Pareeee

Tue Jul 1, 2003 2:39 pm

bru025

 

“How you gonna keep ’em down on the farm
after they seen Pareeeeee?”

Popular WWI song

Greetings, sports fans

Here’s uncle guido back in Brussels. Since my last bulletin I have returned from
the united states and come back to Yerp. I linked up with the other bozoes from
Tuxedomoon and we did two very satisfactory gigs, one in Hasselt, Belgium and
the other at THE FABULOUS POMPIDOU CENTER IN PAREEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

Yes, you may say that Paris was a bit of a good time. I must tell you that after
our show we got a standing ovation from those noble Parisians. I can’t remember
when we have had a full-fledged standing ovation with the whole damn audience on
its feet. Moved me to tears don’t you know.

We were housed right smack dab in the heart of old paree, near the aging
shopping mall of Les Halles. The whole area is aging in fact. Interesting to see
how the former bad boy of architecture, that nasty old oil-refinery-looking
centre Pompidou with all of its exposed ducts and ventilation shafts recedes
into the background as its post modern scions around the world have multiplied.
The whole mirror-tiled free-flowing place looks increasingly quaint, in a word.

I suppose the main feature of Paris is architecture. (I exclude the hordes of
drool-inducing young women who prowled around in their summer undress). The
place is just lousy with great buildings and exciting urban spaces. Take the
pyramid at the Louvre, par example. Old I.M Pei succeeded in creating a postcard
worthy landmark so that Louvre Brand art is instantly recognizable around the
world. I don’t suppose it is widely known but under that pyramid is YET ANOTHER
SHOPPING MALL. Yes, it seems that almost no area frequented by humans these days
is free of the opportunity to shop. The space under that pyramid is magnificent
but the people occupying it have turned it into something that resembles an
airport, complete with x-ray machines, metal detectors and CCTV surveillance.
One may not smoke anywhere within its confines. Soon, earth will resemble
Heathrow airport. Marvelous.

All of that said, I take my leave of youse. In the immortal words of Gen.
Douglas Macarthur when asked what he would do with the sweater he got for
Christmas which didn’t fit
“I shall return”.