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being the first ever entry by unsong, that is me, in a (vain?) attempt to elucidate on the records of my audio work i hope to release in the near future, and perhaps even to find another avenue by which to vent myself upon the heedless and ungrateful general pubic. all questions, response, bile, hate mail, flattery and unashamed adulation to: firstname.lastname@example.org
trying to describe a creative endeavour is like trying to thread an oyster through a keyhole (if you get my meaning).
to be atypical is perhaps the only goal worth striving for. and i don't mean merely quirky or odd for the sake of being odd. being self consciously weird is as easy as being shocking, and both, when exhibited for no other reason than 'because', are as fucking tedious as each other. but you knew that, you're an intelligent, discerning individual aren't you?
must try harder. s.m.p.
atypical: producing work regardless of logical progression, musicality or continuity, proceeding with what sounds right, abandoning what doesn't. so far the unsong methodology seems to be quite that simple. these pages are likely to show a similar way of working; piecemeal, spastic and often unintelligible.
i am, to quote the late, great john lydon, "just a cunt trying."
it is my firm belief that far from home taping being the problem, it is in fact musicians that are killing music. it is within your power to stop them.
a jar of cheap curry sauce: "115g of tomatoes." the whole jar only boasts 100g how is that possible?
on the forthcoming unsong release 'the frailty of angels, the treason of people' (mac14) the following sound sources were among those used: electronically generated tones, hair removal equipment, dostoevsky, processed field recordings, disassembled voices, domestic appliances, deodorant, florescent lighting, stolen sounds.
soundster, dronevendor, unsingersongwriter, purveyor of bewildering and inappropriate audio.
yesterday i saw two completely separate though strangely related personalised car number plates. in the morning i saw 'mum', and in the evening 'dad'. perhaps it's just me but the fact that so much disposable income should be given to those willing to be defined solely by their procreative misdemeanours seems a crime of chance too monstrous for words.
a man jumped into a river; where was he when he jumped? in the river? no, that was after he had jumped. in the air? no, that was while he was jumping. on the bank? no, that was before he had jumped.
i think memorabilia sounds like a disease.
my recently hired wide screen television, cleverly designed to show the same utter shit, though bigger and wider, has started to shriek with piercing feedback whenever the cable box is switched off. jesus. everyone and everything is a wannabe avant garde musician.
is a fly when it spins?
recommended: (audio) 'edit for unconsciousness' -cd- by scott arford & randy h.y. yau / (comestible) ostrich steak marinated in red wine / (visual) people falling over / (sensorial) hot bath
reviled: (audio) soundtrack of our lives / (comestible) pickled onions / (visual) another fucking starbucks/ (sensorial) cat shit at bedtime
this weekend i obtained, from the ruins of a demolished local pub, two metal beer kegs. i intend, of course, to use them in future recordings. while one appears to be empty, the other still contains what sounds and feels like roughly a quarter of its now no doubt rancid guiness. any suggestions as to how to remove the aforementioned beverage without me either losing an eye or redecorating my room with it will be gratefully accepted. answers on a postcard/email: email@example.com