A Final Thanks !!! I’m Buzzing !
3 hours ago
Friday, 4 November 2011
Deeply Philosophical Typography Rooms
Taking inspiration from sources such as the bible, existentialism, politics, and metaphysics, Kin-wahs' texts move and float around the room while asking us questions about existence. The videos take over the room and envelop the viewers in a constant stream of statements. So far, Kin-wah has created five installations; each meant to elicit a full ranges of emotions.
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Primal Scream, Richard Hell and Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry to Feature on New Mark Stewart Album
On 25th November, Mark Stewart will release a double A-side 7” single featuring the tracks ‘Children of the Revolution’ and ‘Nothing is Sacred’. Both songs are taken from the recording sessions of his forthcoming album, although they will not be included on the record itself.
‘Children of the Revolution’ is Mark’s interpretation of the T. Rex classic featuring dancehall, grime and dubstep artist The Bug. ‘Nothing is Sacred’ is a collaboration with Eve Libertine from anarcho-punk band Crass, Mark’s Pop Group bandmate Dan Catsis and German band Slope.
The Pop Group are a post-punk band that formed in Bristol in the late 70s. They are widely considered to be one of the groups that influenced the later Bristol sound that is heard in genres such as trip-hop and drum’n’bass. The band reformed last year for several live performances and also announced plans to record a new album.
Via
(Thanx Joly!)
'Working with Kenneth Anger, Lee Perry, Keith Levene and Richard Hell is like a dream come true. I have to pinch myself that it’s real and with the rest of the collaborators it’s all gone a bit Wizard Of Oz. Gina Birch is like a hurricane' – Mark Stewart
File reveals police view of drug squad raid on Keith Richards
For the Rolling Stones guitarist Keith Richards, this was his most famous drugs bust. He faced 25 charges in all, but in the true piratical spirit of rock'n'roll he walked away with just a £250 fine because it was obvious even to the judge that the police were trying to stitch him up.
That, at least, is the account Richards gives of his arrest in his recently-published memoir, Life. Johnny Depp may have modelled his portrayal of Captain Jack Sparrow in the Pirates of the Caribbean series on Richards, but the account in the Metropolitan police file of the raid, released this week by the National Archives, casts him in a somewhat less heroic role.
When the Chelsea drug squad raided his home in Cheyne Walk, London – just a few doors down from Mick Jagger's house – one bright Tuesday morning in June 1973 they found not only the expected collection of grass, cannabis resin, "Chinese" heroin, mandrax tablets, burnt spoons, syringes and pipes but also a .38 Smith and Wesson revolver, a shotgun and 110 rounds of ammunition. It would have seemed an open and shut case that should have attracted a hefty sentence, given Richards's famous record.
When the police arrived they found Richards and Anita Pallenberg, who they described as "his common law wife and a housewife", still asleep in their four-poster bed in their first-floor bedroom.
As Richards and Pallenberg were getting dressed, officers led by Detective Inspector Charles O'Hanlon, found a box full of drugs. The revolver was in a bedside cabinet and the ammunition in a nearby cupboard. In an upstairs bedroom the police also arrested the flamboyant Prince Jean Christien Stanislaus Klossowski, whom they described as "the self-claimed heir apparent to the Polish throne", but known to Richards and Jagger simply as Stash. More drugs were found in his room.
As soon as O'Hanlon challenged Richards about the drugs, he suggested they were "down to Marshall Chess" – the son of the founder of Chess records, the legendary Chicago blues label – who ran the Stones's own record label.
Richards claimed Chess was renting the house and they were just staying overnight after a late night finish to a long recording session. "It's got nothing to do with us. He rents this place. We only came here last night," O'Hanlon claimed Richards said. When the guitarist started to walk towards the bathroom, O'Hanlon said: "Keith, could you come back here?" "Mr Richards to you," came the reply. O'Hanlon insisted, however, that gold records on the walls inscribed to Keith Richards or the Rolling Stones painted a different picture.
Richards admitted he did own the house and that he didn't have a firearms licence for the guns. But he did try to get rid of some incriminating spoons which showed burn marks after being used to cook up heroin. O'Hanlon claimed that Richards had gone downstairs and "ordered a manservant" to bring him and Pallenberg some drinks. He then unsuccessfully tried to get the incriminating spoons from the bathroom to use to stir the drinks but was stopped by the police.
Richards said the revolver, complete with holster, was bought for him by a roadie named Leroy Leonard in San Francisco for $200 because he had just been to Jamaica and was advised he needed it for his protection: "There is some sort of trouble there and if you live there it's best for your own protection to have one. So I decided to get one together in readiness," he said, adding that he had only fired it once to test whether it worked. In his memoirs he claims the shotgun was an antique children's miniature made by a French nobleman in the 1880s. He says that at the trial the police tried to fit him up by charging him as though it were a sawn-off shotgun which carried an automatic year's prison sentence.
Richards says this was the only charge he pleaded not guilty to, and the police action so infuriated the judge that he gave him a £10 fine for each charge.
The police forensic report describes the weapon as a 9mm Belgian shotgun with a short barrel, under 24ins, that had not been used and was in poor condition. The report adds that despite the variety of drugs found the quantities were small.
At the trial Richards pleaded guilty to all the charges but one. As there was no evidence the weapons had been fired the only offence committed was not to have a licence for them – then a minor crime.
The minor nature of the offences may perhaps explain why the rock'n'roll hero escaped on this occasion with a fine rather than a Captain Sparrow-style victory.
Alan Travis @'The Guardian'
Smoking # 114 (Nazi Alert)
Marine Le Pen, leader of the ferociously right-wing Front National in France and presidential contender, was also visiting Washington.She had been down to meet Republican presidential contender Ron Paul – but his office had cancelled the meeting. That wasn't going to stop Le Pen, who launched a Marine invasion:
Following lunch and surrounded by dozens of reporters, many of whom had flown to Washington from Paris to cover her visit, Le Pen purposefully trudged across the street to the Cannon House Office Building, intent on forcing a meeting with Paul and blaming the media and political pressure from the French government for the cancellation.Fantastic.
After several fits and starts on the corner as her advisers struggled with which door to enter, Le Pen quickly escaped through a security checkpoint and down a hall.
With Paul on the floor voting, Le Pen hunkered down for 50 minutes in his office, and a tight-faced Paul eventually pushed his way through the reporters, staring straight ahead as he was asked repeatedly why he was meeting with the controversial leader.
Following the meeting — alternately described as "quick" by Miller and "very interesting; we spoke at length" by Le Pen — Le Pen praised Paul, and her own National Front, on their economic policies.
Via
jayrosen_nyu Jay Rosen
Here's a case of listening only to the stupid, and then complaining that stupid is all you hear. adweek.com/news/technolog… Copyright and the Net
Here's a case of listening only to the stupid, and then complaining that stupid is all you hear. adweek.com/news/technolog… Copyright and the Net
David Lynch & 'Big' Dean Hurley The Stool Pigeon Mixtape
www.thestoolpigeon.co.uk
www.twitter.com/TheStoolPigeon
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Thursday, 3 November 2011
#OccupyOakland
Occupy Oakland demonstrators stand on top of a parked semi truck as thousands marched from downtown Oakland, Calif., to the port of Oakland, Nov. 2, 2011.
(Credit: AP)
Occupy Oakland protesters clash with police
OhMeadhbh Meadhbh Hamrick
well i'll be damn'd, the revolution is being televised: livestream.com/globalrevoluti…
well i'll be damn'd, the revolution is being televised: livestream.com/globalrevoluti…
The Movie Set That Ate Itself
A steady stream of former extras and fired PAs talked of the shoot in terms usually reserved for survivalist camps. The director, Ilya Khrzhanovsky, was a madman who forced the crew to dress in Stalin-era clothes, fed them Soviet food out of cans and tins, and paid them in Soviet money. Others said the project was a cult and everyone involved worked for free. Khrzhanovsky had taken over all of Kharkov, they said, shutting down the airport. No, no, others insisted, the entire thing was a prison experiment, perhaps filmed surreptitiously by hidden cameras. Film critic Stanislav Zelvensky blogged that he expected "heads on spikes" around the encampment.
I have ample time and incentive to rerun these snatches of gossip in my head as my rickety Saab prop plane makes its jittery approach to Kharkov. Another terrible minute later, it's rolling down an overgrown airfield between rusting husks of Aeroflot planes grounded by the empire's fall. The airport isn't much, but at least it hasn't been taken over by the film. And while my cab driver knows all about the shoot—the production borrowed his friend's vintage car, he brags without prompting—he doesn't seem to be in the director's thrall or employ.
I'm about to write the rumors off as idle blog chatter when I get to the film's compound itself and, again, find myself ready to believe anything. The set, seen from the outside, is an enormous wooden box jutting directly out of a three-story brick building that houses the film's vast offices, workshops, and prop warehouses. The wardrobe department alone takes up the entire basement. Here, a pair of twins order me out of my clothes and into a 1950s three-piece suit complete with sock garters, pants that go up to the navel, a fedora, two bricklike brown shoes, an undershirt, and boxers. Black, itchy, and unspeakably ugly, the underwear is enough to trigger Proustian recall of the worst kind in anyone who's spent any time in the USSR. (I lived in Latvia through high school.) Seventy years of quotidian misery held with one waistband.
The twins, Olya and Lena, see nothing unusual about this hazing ritual for a reporter who's not going to appear in a single shot of the film—just like they see nothing unusual in the fact that the cameras haven't rolled for more than a month. After all, the film, tentatively titled Dau, has been in production since 2006 and won't wrap until 2012, if ever. But within the walls of the set, for the 300 people working on the project—including the fifty or so who live in costume, in character—there is no difference between "on" and "off."
One of the twins admiringly touches my head. Before coming to wardrobe, I'd stopped in hair and makeup. My nape and temples are now shaved clean in an approximation of an old hairstyle called a half-box. All to help me blend in on the set. Only, from here on, I can no longer call it that. According to a glossary of forbidden terms posted right in front of me on the wall, the set is to be referred to as the Institute. Likewise, inside the Institute, there are no scenes, just experiments. No shooting, only documentation. And there is certainly no director. Instead, Ilya Khrzhanovsky, the man responsible for this madness, is to be referred to as the Head of the Institute or simply the Boss.
Khrzhanovsky greets me in wardrobe dressed in a black vest over a dark gray shirt, tousled 1950s hair, and decadeless Ray-Bans with a strong prescription. He leads me down one of the endless hallways of the Dau compound to the Institute and, en route, spots a female extra being made up in one of the many makeup rooms.
"Tear off her eyelashes," he says without breaking stride. "She looks like an intellectual whore."
"Well, that was the idea!" the makeup artist yells to his back.
"Sure," says Khrzhanovsky, pivoting on one heel like an ice dancer. "But try to make her look less whorish. Impossible, I know..."
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