#celluloid lunch

[dustedmagazine]

Laughing — Because It’s True (Celluloid Lunch/Meritorio)

“Will She Ever Be a Friend of Mine” jangles like a long-lost Byrds tune, or maybe an out-of-print single by the Jayhawks. The Sadies, at their least bluegrassy, could sometimes pull off a similar trick, putting a psychedelic shimmer on exuberant country rock, and they’re certainly not alone. Big Star, certain iterations of R.E.M., Robyn Hitchcock and the Minus Five all come to mind as Laughing’s first LP spins. Still, to my mind, the touchstone above all others is Matthew Sweet’s Girlfriend, the most effortless and heartbreaking of the genre, full of yearning harmonies and indelible hooks and some mighty fine guitar work from one Richard Lloyd. Like Sweet more than a generation ago, Laughing nails power pop’s ease and inevitability, and that’s impressive. It’s one of music’s most difficult forms, not least because it should never look like you’re trying.

This is the first album from Montreal-based Laughing though its members are mostly veterans of other bands. Notably Josh Salter, one of three guitar/bass/singers, plays bass in Nap Eyes. Cole Woods led Winnipeg’s Human Music. Laura Jeffery, the drummer, was in Fountain. André Charles Thériault, the lone exception, hadn’t been in a band for over a decade when he joined.  What brought the four together was power pop and nailing its sweet but rowdy jangle-i-ness.

Well, mission achieved. Consider, for example, the single “Bruised,” with its yearning vocals (“When you said you didn’t care/I felt something inside me tear”), its rough slashes of guitar, its battering drum line, its seething harmonies, its spiraling licks. The song is nearly perfect in its roughed-up, cowlick-sticking-straight-up messiness. Barbs of dissonance jut out from its breezy choruses, like rusty wires in cotton candy; not too sweet, not too rough.

“Secret” is slower and more vulnerable—and it’ll give you a powerful jolt of Sweet-ish-ness, “You Don’t Love Me,” maybe or “Nothing Lasts.” The guitar rings like bells, the bass buzzes underneath, the drums shimmer and pulse. “Won’t you tell me something/no one else knows/let’s get as close as we can and put on one another’s clothes,” the singer intimates, echoing Girlfriend’s exuberant, “You can wear my clothes.”

That’s the final song, a silky comedown from bangers like “Easier Said” and “Sour Note.” It’s a nice ending to a near perfect summer album, which rocks and jangles and keens, balancing on a knife edge of hard and soft, joy and sadness, as all summer albums should.

Jennifer Kelly

[billlaotian]

[zippocreed501]

FROM THE B-MOVIE BADLANDS...

...images from the lost continent of cult films, b-movies and celluloid dreamscapes

Momma! Bad Mothers in horror movies

I've made a little packed lunch for you, my darling. There's a few potted meat sandwiches, a little piece of fruitcake, lemonade and a bone saw. You have a lovely day now...

Psycho (1960) Whoever Slew Auntie Roo (1972) Carrie (1976) Friday the 13th (1980) Mother's Day (1980) Aliens (1986) Braindead/Dead Alive (1992) Serial Mom (1994) House of 1000 Corpses (2003)

[daggerzine]

The Submissives- "Friend Named Betty” single (Celluloid Lunch)

This is the first I’ve heard by this Montreal bunch, but it looks like they’ve got a few other singles out. I was thinking from the name of the band it might have a bit of a punk flavor, but this is definitely more in the minimal pop side of things. In fact, if you had told me this was an obscure cut by some UK band on Rough Trade in the late 70s, I would probably believe you.

The guitars and voices happily clink along, while the rhythm section perfectly keeps up. This song has definitely piqued my interest and I want to hear more. And since their full album, Live At Value Sound Studios, comes out next week, I’ll be able to hear the whole darn thing!

This one came out of leftfield to me and I can always go with that. Heck, I played leftfield for a while.

[opera-ghosts]

Tenor Tom Burke as Mario singing an aria from Act II Puccini's opera 'Tosca'.

How pit lad Thomas Burke, ‘The Lancashire Caruso’, conquered the world but died in obscurity.

By Alan Whittaker

Few people today have heard of the tenor known as the Lancashire Caruso. But at his peak Tom Burke enthralled discerning opera audiences at La Scala in Milan and New York’s Met.

Although he was comparatively unknown in Britain, Dame Nellie Melba, one of the era’s great divas and a woman of formidable authority, heard him sing in Italy and insisted he appear as Rodolfo opposite her in a 1919 production of La Boheme at Covent Garden – a performance that earned him four encores at the end of Act One.

‘At last an English tenor with a voice of pure Italian flavour,’ enthused one critic.

Away from the opera circuit his lyrical voice and vibrant personality endeared him to packed provincial theatres in Britain who delighted in his repertoire of sentimental Irish songs and popular Edwardian drawing-room ballads such as The Minstrel Boy, Killarney, The Mountains of Mourne, Roses of Picardy, Mary, Because, Smoke Gets in Your Eyes, and You Are My Heart’s Delight. He was billed as The Minstrel Boy.

Tom’s career was as dramatic and turbulent as any opera storyline, and in the space of 20 tumultuous years he enjoyed wealth, fame and the favours of many beautiful women, only to sink into penniless obscurity as a barman in a golf club.

Tom’s early recordings are now rarities; crackling, scratchy remnants of the Celluloid Age of cylinders – as distant as the Jurassic Age from modern recording studios with their sophisticated electronic gadgetry.

But there is no mistaking the quality of the voice first heard at the coal face of a colliery entertaining fellow miners; the feeble yellow glow of helmet lamps for footlights and a huddled audience of intensely respectful coal-streaked faces sipping cold tea from tin cups, a mile underground and four miles from the pit shaft.

It was a voice that years later, when Burke was an international celebrity, intrigued King George V, not the most mentally athletic or artistically inclined monarch in Europe. After seeing Burke perform the King decided he would like to meet the singer. It was a command, not a request.

Tom’s response was not the most courteous or diplomatic. “Tell the old bugger to wait,” he told the hapless royal emissary.

It was a stupid throw-away gesture but typical of Burke who carried an invisible coal wagon of smouldering contempt and loathing for the wealthy toffs from privileged backgrounds who seemed to control the destinies of working class people without ever working or making any contribution to society or caring about the plight of poor families.

It was an attitude carved into his character from bitter childhood memories. Tom was born in 1890 and brought up in the Lancashire pit town of Leigh, the eldest of nine children of an impoverished Irish miner. Like so many of his generation, memories of his childhood, often in relentless poverty, left an indelible scar that refused to heal. Bread and margarine as a meal, no milk for a pot of tea, slum housing in Mather Lane, four children in one bed, scavenging for coal on slag heaps during the pit strikes, the queue of disconsolate decent people at the charity soup kitchen and the sight of his mother Mary patching piles of second hand clothes by candlelight. Even in ‘good times’ meat was a luxury reserved for Sunday lunch.

It was a scandalous scenario all too familiar to hundreds of poor families but light years from Sandringham or Balmoral.

As a small boy, Tom acquired a love of singing from his father, Vince, who would sit him on his knee and sing Irish lullabies. He left school aged 12 and after a year working FULL TIME in a silk mill, he became a coal miner, joined Leigh Brass Band and learned to play the cornet. But singing was his greatest pleasure.

Vince and Mary were loving parents and with two wages now coming in decided to buy a second-hand piano. Mary pawned her precious sewing machine to help pay the weekly instalments.

It was a four-mile walk from the pit head to Mather Lane and by chance a music teacher heard Tom singing as he made his way home with a group of fellow miners. He liked what he heard and was instrumental in sending the 17-year-old to a singing teacher in nearby Atherton, who suggested Tom should enrol at Manchester College of Music.

To raise the tuition fees, Tom sold tripe in pubs, entertained customers by singing, and worked as a waiter. When he was 19 he walked from Leigh to Blackpool to hear the world-renowned tenor Enrico Caruso sing at the Winter Gardens. It was a wearying round hike of some 60 miles but it inspired young Burke to dream of becoming a professional singer.

He auditioned for the Halle Choir but was rejected by the musical director as ‘too ordinary’. The orchestra’s conductor thought differently and arranged for Tom to sing for London impresario Hugo Gorelitz, who was in Manchester searching for talented vocalists. He reckoned the raw young lad from Lancashire showed promise and after an audition Tom was given a contract, told to enrol at the Royal Academy of Music in London, and pay his fees by singing at various venues selected by Gorelitz. His voice coach was Edgardo Levi and he persuaded his friend Caruso, who had popped into the Academy for a chat, to listen to his pupil.

Whether Caruso was genuinely impressed or merely humouring an old friend is not clear but over a warm hand clasp he told the wide-eyed Burke: “One day you will wear my mantle, but first you must go to Italy. There you will find your voice.”

Burke took his advice and headed for Italy with his young wife Marie, who came from a well-to-do show business family. In Milan he learned the language, lost his flat Lancashire dialect, sang in several opera houses and once stepped in as a substitute for Gigli, the world famous tenor.

The Great War of 1914-18 saw Tom back in London and ready for military service but the Army authorities decided he would be far better employed entertaining the troops than slogging it out in the infantry.

Following his appearance opposite Melba at Covent Garden he made 14 records for Columbia and during the next decade became the toast of London society.

He appeared at Covent Garden in 1920, with Beecham conducting, and the composer Giacomo Puccini, who heard him at rehearsal, was so impressed he insisted Tom be given roles in two more of his operas. It seemed as though the world was at his feet for that same year he was offered £400 a performance – the highest offer ever made to a British singer – to appear in America. He and Marie set sail for New York.

Then the wheels came off. His agent had advertised him in the States as ‘Ireland’s greatest ever tenor’ – not the smartest publicity stunt when John McCormack was around, delighting packed theatres, and proving the nostalgic voice of Home to every Irish exile in America. It was the equivalent of attempting to pass off George Formby as the new Elvis.

The critics were unanimous and venomous. “John McCormack can sleep easily,” wrote one. There were concerts in small theatres but the £400 a night flow dried up and Marie, an accomplished singer, returned to England to raise cash. She appeared in the London stage production of Showboat with the incomparable Paul Robeson. But Tom’s philandering had strained the marriage and they were divorced.

Left to his wayward ways, Tom regularly made the headlines with his drinking and womanising. There had to be questions about his judgement. Would any sensible person pick a quarrel over a pretty girl with Jack Dempsey, the undisputed ex-world heavyweight boxing champion who was known as the Manassa Mauler? Or cross a Mafia boss in a dispute involving another woman; an altercation that left Burke in hospital with a gunshot wound and a compelling urge to get out of town?

A surprise offer to return to Britain with an engagement at Manchester’s Free Trade Hall with John Barbirolli conducting was gratefully seized. He couldn’t quit America too soon and left the next day leaving a pile of debt.

Back home he visited Leigh where he was given a rapturous welcome by the adoring mining community that spawned him, but London and the bright lights beckoned. He sang to a packed Albert Hall and toured the country enchanting provincial theatre-goers. It seemed The Minstrel Boy was back in business; his American experience an unfortunate hiccup. He could afford a flat in the West End, a Rolls-Royce and a butler.

But the self-destructive streak was never far from the surface. He quarrelled with Barbirolli, agents and impresarios, and even slated the people who queued at Covent Garden to hear him perform. “They are not music lovers,” he sneered. “They go to opera because it’s the thing to do, rather like appearing at Royal Ascot. Just showing off.”

His philandering lifestyle – revolving around booze, broken promises, and attractive women – made him unreliable and on many occasions he failed to turn up for singing engagements. As a result he was shunned by agents and theatre managers and earned nothing for a year. He was an outcast.

Worse was to follow. He lost £100,000 – an enormous amount at the time – in the Wall Street Crash and in 1932 was bankrupt. By 1934 he was renting a tiny threadbare room; a washed-up, disgruntled has-been. The man who had taken Covent Garden by storm became a bookies’ runner, steward at a golf club, and a waiter.

He tried running a club in Leigh but a police raid and charges of illegal drinking forced its closure and Tom moved to Sutton, Surrey, where in 1969 he died aged 78.

A selection of the recordings he made during the 1930s with film of him entertaining soldiers wounded in the Great War can be found on YouTube including Puccini’s soaring Nessun Dorma, a rigorous test for even the most talented tenor. Tom’s version would have pleased the composer.

He is buried in the cemetery at Wallington, Surrey, and the inscription on his headstone reads: ‘Never have I heard my music so beautifully sung’- Puccini.

The glitzy, costumed world of grand opera may no longer remember the Minstrel Boy but for some time after his death a group of admirers in workaday Leigh would meet occasionally to play his records and, over a few beers, talk with pride about the local lad who became The Minstrel Boy and the Lancashire Caruso.

[noloveforned]

it's a holiday weekend here in the u.s.a. and i'm 'celebrating freedom' with my typical friday evening freeform radio on wlur. you can tune in from 8pm until midnight for the live fireworks. if you're celebrating elsewhere tonight you can always catch up with last week's show streaming on mixcloud.

no love for ned on wlur – june 28th, 2024 from 8-10pm

artist // track // album // label the double // dawn of the double (excerpt) // dawn of the double // in the red dom sensitive // r&d // leather trim // dinosaur city mope grooves // forever is a long time // box of dark roses // 12xu antietam // shively spleen // antietam // hoemstead surveillance // on my way // less than one, more than zero // celluloid lunch loose lips // here she comes // loose lips cassette // (self-released) laughing // easier said // because it's true // celluloid lunch hot tubs time machine // no thanks, google maps // fifty shades of marcus 7" // spoilsport moss lime // dreamboat // zoo du quebec ep // telephone explosion the pretenders // message of love // pretenders ii // sire birthday girl dc // house of cards // birthday girl ep // army brat oh, rose // that do now see // that do now see (remastered) cassette // antiquated future danny paul grody duo // hawk hill // arc of night // three lobed fuubutsushi // new flora // meridians // cached media kronos quartet and laraaji // daddy's gonna tell you no lie // outer spaceways incorporated- kronos quartet and friends meet sun ra // red hot organization yea big and tatsu aoki // the mind and the heart // the hand and the moon, pt. 1 // for practically everyone william parker, cooper-moore and hamid drake // processional // heart trio // aum fidelity joe henderson // afro-centric // power to the people // milestone rome streetz // what i'm used to // i been thru mad shit // bad influenyce previous industries // white hen // service merchandise // merge homeboy sandman // the place i want to be // rich ii // dirty looks maxo // same hoodie since '05 // smile ep // smile for me yaya bey // chrysanthemums // ten fold // big dada jimmie green // dance // eccentric soul- the shoestring label compilation // numero group the garment district // the island of stability // flowers telegraphed to all parts of the world // happy happy birthday to me advantage lucy // solaris // fanfare // eastworld smile too much // memorial park // ep two cassette // dandy boy lunchbox // heaven only knows // pop and circumstance // slumberland shonen knife // elephant pao pao // burning farm // oglio korea girl // under the sun // korea girl // asian man

[seekingstars]

To The Film Industry in Crisis - Frank O'Hara

Not you, lean quarterlies and swarthy periodicals with your studious incursions toward the pomposity of ants, nor you, experimental theatre in which Emotive Fruition is wedding Poetic Insight perpetually, nor you, promenading Grand Opera, obvious as an ear (though you are close to my heart), but you, Motion Picture Industry, it’s you I love!   In times of crisis, we must all decide again and again whom we love. And give credit where it’s due: not to my starched nurse, who taught me how to be bad and not bad rather than good (and has lately availed herself of this information), not to the Catholic Church which is at best an oversolemn introduction to cosmic entertainment, not to the American Legion, which hates everybody, but to you, glorious Silver Screen, tragic Technicolor, amorous Cinemascope, stretching Vistavision and startling Stereophonic Sound, with all your heavenly dimensions and reverberations and iconoclasms! To Richard Barthelmess as the 'tol’able’ boy barefoot and in pants, Jeanette MacDonald of the flaming hair and lips and long, long neck, Sue Carroll as she sits for eternity on the damaged fender of a car and smiles, Ginger Rogers with her pageboy bob like a sausage on her shuffling shoulders, peach-melba-voiced Fred Astaire of the feet, Eric von Stroheim, the seducer of mountain-climbers’ gasping spouses, the Tarzans, each and every one of you (I cannot bring myself to prefer Johnny Weissmuller to Lex Barker, I cannot!), Mae West in a furry sled, her bordello radiance and bland remarks, Rudolph Valentino of the moon, its crushing passions, and moonlike, too, the gentle Norma Shearer, Miriam Hopkins dropping her champagne glass off Joel McCrea’s yacht, and crying into the dappled sea, Clark Gable rescuing Gene Tierney from Russia and Allan Jones rescuing Kitty Carlisle from Harpo Marx, Cornel Wilde coughing blood on the piano keys while Merle Oberon berates, Marilyn Monroe in her little spike heels reeling through Niagara Falls, Joseph Cotten puzzling and Orson Welles puzzled and Dolores del Rio eating orchids for lunch and breaking mirrors, Gloria Swanson reclining, and Jean Harlow reclining and wiggling, and Alice Faye reclining and wiggling and singing, Myrna Loy being calm and wise, William Powell in his stunning urbanity, Elizabeth Taylor blossoming, yes, to you and to all you others, the great, the near-great, the featured, the extras who pass quickly and return in dreams saying your one or two lines, my love! Long may you illumine space with your marvellous appearances, delays and enunciations, and may the money of the world glitteringly cover you as you rest after a long day under the kleig lights with your faces in packs for our edification, the way the clouds come often at night but the heavens operate on the star system. It is a divine precedent you perpetuate! Roll on, reels of celluloid, as the great earth rolls on!

[goodbysunball]

Best of 2022

Here it is: my yearly summation of the small labels working through rising costs and punishing manufacturing delays, the artists making music unafraid of chance, and the freaks supporting all of it in spite of the daily consequences of a ruling class increasingly detached from reality. Lots more that deserve accolades from more prestigious publications, and I'm sure they'll get 'em, but these are records that were inseparable from certain points of my year, including now. Yeah, they were all kinda my favorite at one point, and could be again tomorrow, but Kilynn Lunsford is #1 for a reason. Glad to be back at shows, however sparingly, experiencing all the awkward camaraderie and room-silencing/room-flattening performances that come with them. It all feels more necessary than ever. Up and up in a world of lava. Happy New Year, everyone.

LP

Kilynn Lunsford, Custodians of Human Succession (ever/never)

Joe Colley, Deformation of Tone (Total Black)

Kitchen's Floor, None of That (Petty Bunco)

Thomas Bush, Preludes (Mammas Mysteriska Jukebox)

Hissing, Hypervirulence Architecture (Profound Lore)

Tim Goss, Afterfly (Penultimate Press)

Carla dal Forno, Come Around (Kallista)

Rose Mercie, ¿Kieres Agua? (Celluloid Lunch/Jelodanti)

Incipientium, Belastning (Förlag För Fri Musik)

Siobhan, Body Double (Nostilevo)

7"/12"/Cassette/CD

The Body & OAA, Enemy of Love CS (Thrill Jockey)

Brain Tourniquet, s/t 7" (Iron Lung)

CIA Debutante, "The Punch" b/w "The Garden" 7" (Digital Regress)

Cube, Proof of Bells CD (H&S Ranch)

Darksmith, Imposter CD (Throne Heap)

Gaoled, Bestial Hardcore 7" flexi (Iron Lung)

Greymouth, Twilight Furl 7" (Kashual Plastik)

Horrendous 3D, s/t 7" (Black Water)

Incipientium, Inhuman CS (Kashual Plastik)

Primitive Man, Insurmountable 12" (Closed Casket Activities)

RRR Band, s/t CS (Petty Bunco)

Sprite, Epic Sundry CS (Tropical Cancer Rort)

Stomachache, Hiss Noise Whir CD (Lagniappe Exposure)

R.I.P. Young Slo-Be

Rap

42 Dugg & EST Gee, “Thump Shit”

BandGang Lonnie Bands, Scorpion Eyes (Anti Media/TF Entertainment)

Denzel Curry feat. Key Glock, “Walkin (Remix)”

Earl Sweatshirt, SICK! (Tan Cressida)

Lil Durk & Gucci Mane, “Rumors”

Maz G x GuttaFoe, “Win Some, Lose Some” - what is going on in Milwaukee

Starlito & Troy Money, Cheap Phones & Turkey Bags (Grind Hard)

Billy Woods, Aethiopes (Backwoodz Studioz)

Young Slo-Be, Southeast (KoldGreedy / Thizzler on the Roof)

Z Money, Back 2 the Blender (self-released) - thx @raygarraty

Pictured: Angels of Mons

Live shows

The Body at 529, Atlanta, GA (May 17)

Primitive Man, Mortiferum, Jarhead Fertilizer, Body Void & Elizabeth Color Wheel at The EARL, Atlanta, GA (May 20)

Brain Tourniquet, Excavate & Thirdface at DRKMTTR, Nashville, TN (July 16)

Reeking Aura at the Brickyard, Knoxville, TN (November 11)

Bitchin Bajas, Maspeth & Angels of Mons at the Pilot Light, Knoxville, TN (December 11)

Five songs that made my daughter dance every time they hit the deck

Bitchin Bajas, "Quakenbrück" from Bajascillators

Can, "Halleluhwah" from Tago Mago

Rose Mercie, "Cats and Dogs" from ¿Kieres Agua?

Träden, "När lingonen mognar (Lingonberries Forever)" from Träden

YL Hooi, "W/O Love" from Untitled

[still-single]

a top ten albums of 2022 by Doug Mosurock

Roller — Offed CS (Radical Documents)

Tha Retail Simp$ — Reverberant Scratch: 9 Shots in Tha Dark LP (Total Punk) / room-silencing beef with Daniel Romano (no label ever could)

Limousine Beach s/t LP (Tee Pee)

Long Odds — Fine Thread digital download (self-released / Bandcamp)

Rose Mercie — ¿Kieres Agua? LP (Celluloid Lunch)

Non Temps Plus — Desire Choir LP (PPM)

Jeff Parker — Mondays at the Enfield Tennis Academy 2xLP (Eremite)

Weak Signal — War & War digital download (Colonel)

Charles Stepney — Step on Step 2xLP (International Anthem)

The Soft Pink Truth — Is It Going to Get Any Deeper Than This? 2xLP (Thrill Jockey)

hear all ten on this week’s Heathen Disco, New Year’s Night 2023. chirpradio.org

[53951683139]

I wrote a add in paragraph for the great Gatsby for my English class. Can people pls give me constructive criticism? I would first like to say that I have never considered myself a good writer so try to be nice if u can?

idk i googled Tribune 1922 to try and find ads and found this

I tried to add as much unnecessary description as possible

Also I’m pretending his train was at about 6-10 (sunrise) instead of 4

I think I did a decent job if I say so myself

Start of Chapter 3:

I wandered through Pennsylvania Station, the rising sun seemed as though it was electric bolts coursing through my eyes and into the back of my head. I slunk away from those glass panels, made into a prison by the wrought iron bars, forcing a weightless fragility. Should some street rat or one of the suited wall street men through a rock upwards the glass might come shattering down, but those wrought iron bars would continue to hold the thousands of travelers prisoner in its inflexible arms. I shook my head to knock myself back into active consciousness and looked with utter confusion at the Tribune sprawled across my lap; J.C.Penny promised new dress ginghams, perfect for summer, the American Bank inquired about my money’s safety, Ford’s one-ton truck was on sale for only $540, not for long though. I turned the page to a woman pointing directly at, her ink eyes staring through my soul, “J’Accuse” the words screamed in bold font, causing a shiver starting at my feet and traveling though every inch of my body. I threw the newspaper at my feet, had it suddenly lit on fire, prompting a sheepish girl with round spectacles that overwhelmed her unassuming face to stare audaciously at me with pointed blue eyes, while a crowd only looked sideways at me, pretending they did not notice. Embarrassed, I slowly reached to my feet to retrieve the newspaper, like a guilty child who knew his parents were waiting for him to return from boarding school with his report card preceding him. Opening it slowly, cautious as though the woman might jump out at me with her pointed nail like a sword, instead I half-laughed seeing that it was a movie, made by Abel Gance, promising the greatest climax in celluloid. The sheer absurdity of my abject terror to a movie advert was increased relizing this woman had nothing for her to j’accuse me of. I rested my shoulders back on the unforgiving iron of the bench to try to ease the heartbeat trying to break out of my head. As I let my brain wander through the open meadows of my mind, I smiled faintly. Last night still felt blurry and far away, like some distant childhood activity where details flow in and out on the waves of memory, but it had an air of pleasentness that I could not place. I was starting to piece the events together; Tom hit Myrtle, her blood flowed across that tapestry of faux luxury, I left the room about then, I think, McKee was in the elevator too and we made plans for lunch…

With the suddenness of a crash I couldn’t breath, everything narrowed into a cramped space as I fell to my knees choking for breath, each one feeling more ragged and desperate than the last. The world swirled around me into one of those new abstract paintings that disfigure reality. My throat clamored unsuccessfully for air, like Tantalus reaching for the taunting fruit so close to his head. My eyes wer pushed through a dark tunnel, fleeing from the disfigured world. Every breath took tremendous effort to gasp, I was drowning in an invisible sea, and the water was filling my lungs as I gasped and fought for each short hesitant breath.

As the world recentered and my breath regained some semblance of consistency, I could see a crowd gathering around me, murmuring incessantly, thousands of morbidly curious voices pushing closer, shoving me back into that disorienting painting. The burning taste of some stong whiskey from the sheepish girl’s small metal flask brought me close enough to reality to leave the crowds and head into the chill morning outside the train station. I was still gasping, struggling to maintain my lungs, grasping anything that’d hold me as though I was dangling over Niagara falls, every breath taking all of my focus to control and not slip back into that suffocating sensation. That memory, it had to be fake, some drunken invention. But just the thought immediately worsened my state so I repressed it until acknowledge it properly.

Once I had made it back to my humble house, like a molehill in the presence of great mountains, my thoughts still stuck in a thick, disorienting, mist. I collapsed onto the bed with a Gin Rickey in my hand and fierce determination to regain my composure completely. I let my mind wander back to that drunken night, there they were, all of them; Tom and Myrtle, Catherine, McKee… McKee. He stuck in my mind like “On The Alamo” and sang that one line over and over, and in all my dreams it seems I'll go where the moon swings low. I closed my eyes allowing the drunken remembrances to march back, like war weary soldiers, different men then those who marched on the battlefield with bloodthirst glory in their eyes; Tom and Myrtle, the blood, the elevator, then… It couldn’t be, not even in my drunkenness, I wouldn’t of, couldn’t of… But even with the intense shame, it was intensely alluring to recall… I don’t know what I’m saying, of course it was an awful thing to do, but… No that ridiculous, I’m stronger than the musings of a diseased mind. I have never given in to those perverted thoughts, those twisted daydreams that torture my closed eyes in moments of weakness.

Firmly I scolded myself and drifted into a restless slumber till a sharp knock, like a crack of thunder bombarded my door, reverberating off every room till it raced in and out of my ears. Like a somnambulist, I migrated slowly towards my door, grasping at couches to prop up my half-dead figure. At the door, a frighteningly correct butler, middle aged with a sturdy frame wrapped in a suit that had never seen a wrinkle in its life, looked straight at me in unspoken disapproval. My clothes from last night had embedded into my flesh and were peeling out as I struggled to stand upright, propping myself up with the doorframe.

“Mr. Carraway,” the butler said in a respectful tone that was painfully discordant, “Mr. Gatsby wishes for me to deliver this invitation.” I stuttered out a half thanks, lost in a haze, a deep fog shrouding my thoughts. The butler handed me the note, putting it in between my fingers to ensure it stayed in my hand and did not flutter to the ground as he removed his hand. He nodded in that almost sarcastically polite way and turned to leave me staring at the innovation from my elusive neighbor.

Yeah that’s it. Idk not awful I hope

[bandcampsnoop]

6/11/24.

There's no shame in Teenage Fanclub worship. They engaged in Big Star worship and so on. I can't seem to get enough of bands who have their own take on the guitar centric power pop peddled by early Teenage Fanclub releases.

Montreal's Laughing must love the Fannies, and I Was A King. They must. They probably love Dinosaur Jr. and The High Water Marks too.

Celluloid Lunch Records (also based in Montreal) is releasing this gem that was mastered by Mikey Young.

[ghostbustershq]

Unsung Heroes: Ghostbusters II's Pastrami Sandwich Guy

As has been mentioned countless times on our 300+ episodes of the Interdimensional Crossrip podcast, when you watch a film that is so rich with detail enough, you notice something new almost every time. And so, after viewing five-million three hundred and one of Ghostbusters II, I’d like to present to you the unsung hero in the corner of the frame who now cracks me up every single time that I see him…

Ladies and gentlemen: Pastrami Sandwich Guy.

Pastrami Sandwich Guy commands about a minute worth of screen time. And he chews both his sandwich and the scenery through the entirety. From first frame of celluloid to last, it literally doesn’t matter to this man that the world is coming to a cataclysmic end and chaos reigns around him — he’s finishing his deli, dammit.

With what looks like a delicious pastrami on rye in hand, Pastrami Sandwich Guy epitomizes New York. He does such a great Marx Brothers-like job of listening and watching the action unfolding around him, but the entire time won’t put down his sandwich and certainly won’t cease his slow and methodic mastication. Ben Stein informs us there’s a shell around the museum they can’t dent (holding a photo of Libby’s pedestal)? Pastrami Sandwich Guy observes but continues eating. Hardemeyer is thrown out of the conference room? Pastrami Sandwich Guy tracks him out the door then returns back to lunch. It’s hilarious.

And the best part, as the entire office gathers at the window to watch the sky grown dark with an eclipse and a vortex seemingly swallow the sky whole, who is absent? You guessed it, Pastrami Sandwich Guy can’t be bothered.

Just a brilliant unsung performance by someone probably just making a scale day rate. So who was this mysterious sandwich loving man? I’ve begun my quest to find out.

Best I’ve been able to figure, Pastrami Sandwich Guy got his time under the lights on Thursday, April 27, 1989. The INT. CONFERENCE ROOM scenes were pick ups toward the very end of production on The Burbank Studios lot. For reference, principal photography of Ghostbusters II had wrapped on Wednesday, April 5th. But about a week of pick-ups occurred later in the month, mainly to finish out the final showdown with Vigo.

As we’ve learned over the years, a cameo featuring Eugene Levy as Louis’ cousin Sherman was cut from the film at zero hour, and with it a huge plot hole of Louis asking his cousin to release the Ghostbusters. Not only that, but Hardemeyer receiving his comeuppance by being sucked into the slime wall around the museum had also been cut. This brilliantly rescripted scene smooths out the absence of both plot points, putting the onus on Mayor Lenny to need the Ghostbusters released and also having Hardemeyer thrown out all in one swoop.

Traditionally, only those with speaking or featured roles in the film receive end credits, so it’s tough to figure out who played our sandwich-eating hero. I did some digging into the GBHQ production archives and also came up pretty empty.

While David Margulies (“Mayor of NY”) and Kurt Fuller (“Hardemeyer”) are typed onto the call sheet, several of the actors in the scene are written in as last-minute additions. Ben Stein is written on the call sheet as “Public Works Official” as is Erik Holland and Philip Baker Hall both as Fire and Police Commissioners. My only guess here is that, because these were pick-up days, the cast of players outside of Lenny and Hardemeyer were in constant flux. Most likely, Ivan Reitman had to call in a handful of favors to his friends to come play that Thursday.

Why do I think that’s the case? The first thing filmed that Thursday was a pick-up shot with a dock supervisor witnessing the arrival of the Titanic, played by long-time Ivan Reitman friend and would-be Stripes star Cheech Marin. Who is also written by hand onto the call sheet.

So the best I can figure is that Pastrami Sandwich Guy was a family friend of Ivan’s, background player from Central Casting, or was someone close to the production who stepped in to fill out the scene. Outside of someone out there identifying him, or getting my hands on a Day Out of Days or other production materials that may have shown who this wonderful man was on the day, it will remain a mystery. But whether we know his real name or not, the man is brilliant and deserves a curtain call.

Anyone out there know who he might be? In the meantime, check out the clip below to enjoy Pastrami Sandwich Guy - long may he enjoy lunch.

[daggerzine]

Laughing- Because It’s True (Celluloid Lunch)

Canadian quartet who seem to be making a real splash with this, their debut record. I can see why as the songwriting on this record is pretty darn strong.  You’ve got some nifty guitar workouts (think J. Mascis or Built to Spill’s Doug Martsch), as well as, some countrified twang, and then there’s straight-up hooky, melodic stuff like Teenage Fanclub has been doing for decades.  

It looks like Josh Salter, Cole Woods, and Andre Charles Therriault all switch off on guitar, bass, and vocals; while Laura Jeffery handles the drums (and adds in vocals of her own as well). These four seem to have really melded together quite nicely in this band.

First cut, “Easier Said,” is one of those nice little guitar workouts, while “Bruised” takes TFC righteous harmonies and weaves ‘em into a nice little package.  “Narcissist Blues” is another great pop number on here, while “Garden Path” heaves its muscle around from the beginning, and “You and I” is light, nimble, and jangly.

So yeah, they’ve mixed it up quite nicely on this record and you , dear reader, are really gonna dig this one.

www.laughingonline.bandcamp.com

[whyisthebreadbleeding]

Just friends. That was all. 

Didn’t stop him from picking out his favorite pair of undies - pale blue polka-dots with a bit of sweetheart lace. 

Black panties? Well, that just means you’re a slut!

“Ow, ow ow—” Nikky wiggled slightly, trying to get his arm through the strap so he could uncatch the other strap, or lace or whatever, from one of the pins keeping his hot curlers in. One, two —  the brunette huffed softly — free! — let the straps settle on his shoulder, smoothing it down he— 

...It was on backwards. He scrunched his nose and crossed his eyes before he glared at the mirror. Nikky wiggled the silk slip up to his shoulders, turned  it around the right way before shrugging his arms through the straps. Soft white fluttering against pale skin. He took a half step to the right, twiring to face the vanity. Grab a bobby pin just before the song ended. All his makeup was sitting in a celluloid tray next to his ipod; the candles burning - vanilla, and something bourbon julep iced tea - necklaces hanging from the decorative knob on the mirror; (but that was all costume jewelry, the expensive pieces were in the vault—)

The things he didn’t want to look at. 

Nikky hummed softly, settling down for a half moment to finish touching up his foundation. He wasn’t going to use lead - he didn’t care much for products marketed to vampires at all. That left him with a blend of covergirl and some halloween clown paint. ← him if he expected anything out of today. 

He wasn’t as pale as cousin Dorian

It was just an invite for … coffee? 'Dude' had suggested ice cream, though, and he wasn’t really sure why…? But he was kinda looking forward now to pistachio. Damn. Not that that mattered to him. It wasn’t a date-date. A - friend-date. Even if ‘dude’ was kinda (pretty) hot (no he wasn’t gonna ask what sort of nickname that was, he wasn’t even American). Tall, dark, mysterious. Ugh. He just needed friends, that’s all. He couldn’t keep bugging poor Honey for company, even if he felt a tug of guilt not texting as often as he should. Friends. Non-murderous buddies. Purebloods had weird fucking ideas of ‘fun’, and he was more than happy to talk to literally anyone else. Where the fuck was his eyeliner pencil—? 

But if he had to be honest with himself, he knew he was still kinda-sorta-really hung up on Ahmed. That ‘don’t text me again’ remained a shrine on his phone, untouched. ‘I want a man by my side, I hate that ‘Fatima’ - that’s all you do is hide!’ … No lipstick. That’d be coming on too strong. Gloss was fine for these sorts of occasions, right..? Maybe coral? 

Dating sucked.

Making friends — sucked. He didn’t want to do more than lunch with his work colleagues, and he so did not want to go back to school right now or try to force himself into those cliques or whatever. (Right side looked pretty even to the left and he was pretty alright with that.) He reached into his drawer and fished out a pair of nylons, taking a moment to tug them on (god, fucking, claws). 

He wasn’t going to apologize. Not to the girl he’d almost punched at the club the other night after her boyfriend bought him a drink. Not to the poor guy he’d almost accosted at the campus (Seriously?). Not to cousin Feliks for fucking existing. Not to Edmund fucking Rockefeller and his stupid white teeth and his equally stupid, punchable face and the two weeks the spent in San Salvadore on the Côte d'Azur. Or his mum for borrowing her card for that trip and lying to her about why he needed it. Her cold demeanor lately said enough. 

The dhampir leaned back against the chair, letting his attention meander back to the mirror (damn fine). ..What else was he going to do, sleep for another week? Summer just started — he leaned back slightly, but the music was the only thing he could hear. Merri and mum were (probably) sleeping still. He kept his potions in the false bottom drawer and maybe he could argue, these things keep him functioning. 

The things he didn’t want to deal with. 

Nikky contemplated his reflection for a moment, his vision glazing over slightly … something he was forgetting. Or — whatever. It mustn’t be that important. Mum wasn’t gonna be happy if he left without letting her know, but it was whatever, whatever, whatever. 

He reached up and started pulling the pins out, tossing them into a creepy ceramic fruit dish (the jewelry holder had been a gift but it’d felt more like a threat—); carefully unspooling the curlers from his hair (shame on you ♪) ..and setting them back in their holder. It took a while; spritz with setting spray, gently brush out each curl, spritz again. But the soft halo of deep black framing his face was worth it.  

Besides, ‘dude’ said he wanted to talk about plants. Mum had taught him in the first place; and he felt pretty confident in figuring out what the mage(?) wanted. It was kinda sweet. …He was probably straight as all get out. They always were. Probably had a nice girlfriend, too. Damn, Aphrodite. He plucked a gold chain from another dish, a moment to fiddle with the clasp - a single ruby star settling between his collar bones. Nikky pushed back from the table, shrugging the yellow dress over his shoulders. Didn’t stop him from choosing a summery print, a floral pattern on the skirt piece. He’d gotten this in Honolulu when he— when — 

So Friday night, Holy Ghost, take me to your level — show me the one I need the most, I need the most,

Nikky closed his eyes as he fiddled with the buttons, swaying slightly to the music. One foot in, two steps back. 

“..Wish I knew you when I was young — could have got so high; now we’re here it’s been so long; two strangers in the bright light—” 

He fluffed his inky locks out and fiddled with the dress collar a moment before he glanced back at the mirror, shoulders sinking slightly. 

Ah. Whatever.

Ready? Ready. 

Cardigan, clutch, keys - blow the candle out, turn off his ipod. Phone? Phone. Nikky darted out the door, shutting it quietly behind him. 

He’d return a moment later to grab a pair of white kitten heels from his closet before finally heading out.(x)

[noloveforned]

my son just finished third grade and the university just finished spring term which means it's officially summer! i'll continue producing a radio show tonight and every friday night on wlur from 8pm until midnight and we'll continue with our jim white theme through most of the summer.

for those of you that can't stream in realtime, you can check out last week's show on mixcloud and find its setlist reproduced below!

no love for ned on wlur – may 17th, 2024 from 8-10pm

artist // track // album // label jim white and marisa anderson // aurora // swallowtail // thrill jockey rose mercie // sweet place // ¿kieres agua? // celluloid lunch bad bangs // palace // out of character // blossom rot autocamper // blanche // blanche / budge cassette // safe suburban home ducks limited // when you're outside // when you're outside digital single // carpark phil and the tiles // not today // double happiness // legless gee tee // drag race mag // prehistoric chrome // nailbiter ramones // chain saw // the 1975 sire demos // rhino tuff bluff // do you feel it? // tuff bluff // snappy little numbers les savy fav // world got great // oui, lsf // frenchkiss old 97's featuring exene cervenka // four leaf clover // too far to care // elektra eli winter, tyler damon and sam wagster // davening in threes (live in chicago) // a day behind the deadline // three lobed rosali // rewind // bite down // merge l. eugene methe // hours // maybe tomorrow // grapefruit tilth // four corners more // rock music // round bale the messthetics and james brandon lewis // three sisters // the messthetics and james brandon lewis // impulse! peter brötzmann and paal nilssen-love // ant eater hornback lizard // chicken shit bingo // trost luke stewart silt trio // baba doo way // unknown rivers // pi sathima bea benjamin // i'm getting sentimental over you // memories and dreams // ekapa tha god fahim and oh no // art official // berserko // nature sounds yaya bey // chasing the bus // ten fold // big dada lionmilk // lagoa azul // sauna saudade cassette // (self-released) rapsody featuring bee-b // dnd (it’s not personal) // please don't cry // jamla gipson [the matelot] // elohim // rivers of babylon // forward is the mantra blu and nottz featuring versis and scienze // creme of the crop // gods in the spirit ep // coalmine system exclusive // carry on // click // mt. st. mtn. comité balnéaire // station des iles // split screen (split cassette w/ walk home drunk) // hidden bay the avocados // brandi // by the end of the night 7" // yay! parsnip // turn to love // behold // upset! the rhythm fidel // downey, california // fidel // (self-released) soft covers // every week // soft serve // little lunch nerdy girl // casa nova // twist her // no life

[indiejones]

OF 1963: THE YEAR THAT CHANGED MEENA KUMARI FOREVER! ... OF 'OPERATION MEENA KUMARI' IE THE 'OPERATION CHINESE WHISPERS' !

Pradeep Kumari once, in fact many a times, described Meena Kumari as "the nicest person he'd ever met" & "a veritable angel on earth". Even going on to add, "I don't think there is any person on earth who couldn't fall in love with Meena Kumari".

The media narrative around Meena Kumari was always very sober & dignified & respectful. Till 1962.

You see Meena Kumari was always a very big star, from 1952 (& 'Baiju Bawra') yet not in a league of her own, but in the very top rung with 2-3 other actresses.

But her cinematic career took on a whole different trajectory in 1961, when the film 'Bhabhi Ki Chudiyan' released, & "The Bollywood Goddess" was born!

In many expert & mass assessments till today, one of the greatest performances by a female on celluloid, in history ever!

This was followed by 1962, with 3 more legendary performances in 'Main Chup Rahungi', 'Sahib Biwi Aur Ghulam' & 'Aarti', & March 1963's 'Dil Ek Mandir', & within a gap of exactly 2 yrs & 5 Films, 4 of which are in The Forever All-Time Top 50 of Indian Cinema, Meena Kumari had gone from sure-shot No. 3 Of All Time, to, the most likely 'FOREVER NO. 1 ACTRESS OF INDIAN CINEMA", infact challenging the WORLD NO. 1 tag too!

Such was her craze & hold on public imagination then, that Filmfare did something they've never ever done for anyone else till today ever! - They nominated her in all the nomination slots for 'Best Actress" that year, as a mark of salutation, & as a statement indicating the "Crowning of Bollywood's First Queen nee First Female Megastar"!

Wonderful. But scary.

The reason this was or atleast should've been very scary & a warning sign for Meena Kumari, is that 'Bollywood Estt' or 'Deep state Bollywood', & the faction or rival groups that control it, akin to the criminal underworld, if we know anything till today, doesn't give free lunches, & extracts much more than it gives! .. If they were heaping away so much free historic praise upon her, were impossibly unlikely to try leave anyone even with the potential to overrule their dictat or narrative hold over the masses, & were sure to quietly bts extract more than their pound of flesh too!

AND A RANSOM WAS SOON PLACED ON HER REPUTATION, WITHIN THE FRATERNITY, WITH REGULAR REWARDS FOR THOSE THAT SUCCEEDED!

And that's when, mysteriously enuf by 1964, Dharmendra entered her film life, & via it, her life in general! Film magazines all of a sudden sprang to life, & news of "the crazy uncontrollable affair btwn Meen & Dharam" made it to all film headlines, to be continued in same vein for good more yrs thereafter. Stuff like "Dharmendra arrived at a airport one night all drunk, & upon being stopped, shouted, "Oh but I must get back to Bombay, I must. Meena is waiting for me!" were actually splashed all over the next morning's papers. Even further, of things like how Meena got so agitated in a outdoor shoot seeing her Dharmendra not sitting with her on way to the location, & having gone by another entourage car, stopped her car, & went to the middle of the road, sat on the road & started loudly repeating "Where is my Dharam! Oh where is my Dharam!", were being read by the Indian masses & classes on a daily basis now on. Going a step further, they even created fist fights & slapping incidents btwn the 2, & how she'd be regularly restraining her lover from brawling in drunken fights over her, were now the new norm. They then, took it to a tangential emotional plane, by renaming her "The Tragedy Queen", even in real life, equating her performances with some necessary strain in her own life. People began regularly being witness to Dharam entering Meena's room everytime, & leaving w/o fail in a sobbing state, & when asked about this reaction, saying things like "I just cant help it!". They even went after her husband,labeling her a wife-hater, & of how he egoistically once refused to hold Meena's purse, got publicly enraged at being called Meena Kumari's husband, etc etc. And how his secretary'd manhandle Meena & refuse her freedom. All false!

IT WAS THIS RELENTLESS MEDIA WAR DIRECTED AT THE COUPLE, WITH NOT A SHRED OF EVIDENCE TO SHOW FOR EVEN ONCE, THAT TOOK IT'S TOLL ON KAMAL OVER COUPLE OF YRS, FORCING HIM TO DECIDE TO LEAVE MEENA'S LIMELIGHT, TILL THIS OUTSIDE MADNESS CONTINUED.

Anyone with half a assessment, can see how Kamal's entire professional life,revolved around & was devoted to making her wife the best!

This was the final straw! & Meena took to drinking to numb herself to the world, determined to not lose & to continue working at her best. Do you know, 'deep state' even took away her most personal possessions, in return for her continuing career!?

Sadly,she didn't have the arms or tactfulness of Rajesh, to carry on next 18 yrs, nonetheless managing good 6-7 yrs within this 'golden solitary confinement Bolly jail' at the top!

(Watch Polanski's 'The Tenant'(76), for better feel on how this troll/suicide army works!)

Of the supreme sacrifices, India's legends made, to leave us awe-inspiring cultural history & worldly life lessons too.