agressor ([info]agressor) rakstīja,
@ 2005-01-13 14:16:00
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Mūzika:psb - you only tell me you love me when you're drunk

chinballgirls, ballchingirls
komūna ir izklīdusi. s-dienas ir beigušās un nedēļas vidus ir bijis tāds kā vēl nekad manā dzīvē. rīt jau piektdiena, nedarīto darbu kaudze līdz kulei, telefonā pie missed un received calliem tikai darba numuri. drīz jārīko safilmētā materiāla skatīšanās, es jau nojaušu kā tas beigsies. slimības lapas, ballantine's, zvērēns, dī, gt, šampanietis, soļanka, tullamore, riteņa atklāšana, rosols, un puisītis, kas sit riekstus smilškastē ir tikai nekas salīdzinot ar to, kas izdarīts otrdien, trešdien. prāts atmirst, iedomājoties, kas notiktu, ja komūna pie kāda mājās savāktos weekendā, nevis nedēļas vidū. es fakin' esmu norēcies bez iekšām, bez iekšām ir tā, ka filmējot kādu notikumu viss beidzās ar to, ka pēkšņi kamera nokrīt un filmējās galda kājas, griesti, aizkari vai istabas čības, skaņa ir tikai ņirgšana četrās oktāvās. gt vakarnakt manām chevy atslēgām uzdāvināja atbilstošu breloku. nesaprotu kā var būt nelaimīgi cilvēki, es tādus nepazīstu


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[info]waits
2005-01-13 15:29 (saite)
Holy shit. That was the most fucked up, debauched, amoral shit I’ve ever seen. Jesus Christ, I’m glowing now, I feel so fucking alive. Fuck me.

There was this old granddad dude sat onstage in an old granddad armchair, wearing a fez cap and playing a miniature drum kit. Then, on the other side of the stage, there was a dude playing an elongated double bass/cello THING. And in the middle was this dude wearing a bowler hat with a white greasepaint face and the most beautiful accordion I have ever seen. It was a decadent accordion, green like the eyes of a Tamara de Lempicka heroine, with sparkly diamante bits chucked in for good measure.

And, in a better falsetto than Klaus Nomi, the dude in the bowler hat was singing about how he likes to choke little boys and girls and show them his porn collection. He was singing about Auntie Mabel, who was a whore with a plastic leg and a body part that rhymed with ‘chick’. He was singing heartbreaking end of the night, end of the party, smoke rising lonely songs that only clowns are allowed to sing. He was singing happy prancy little songs about Masturbating Jimmy and his pint and a half of cum, strumming merrily on a ukulele the colour of dark blue night before the dawn.

There was a jubilantly cheeky song about being the one who nailed Christ to the cross. The chorus, which went ”bang the nails in! bang the nails in!”, practically demanded audience participation. With perfect dramatic timing, the drummer put a tambourine upon his head while the singer went ”you see that crown of thorns upon his head? Well THAT was MY idea!” and then back into the chorus, which culminated in the drummer taking two pink and yellow plastic mallets to his drum kit, bashing in the nails, or the mallets, till the kit was mashed into the floor.

In fact, as I peeped through the railings, holding onto them tight and spying on all the big people, I regressed to a point of scatological childhood where you’d ask if it was OK to eat your brother’s poo because nobody had told you any better. A place where you knew, also, that when your mum covered your ears, it was because there were adult, forbidden things happening.

I felt like I was on the edge of two worlds where no morality had yet been instilled and also where every morality had been instilled and someone on the other side… someone was making jokes, the punchlines of which I “wasn’t old enough to know” and it felt good to feel so innocent and so dirty all at once. It felt good to feel so free to be absurd because these guys were so much further across the line.

They sang a song about a yellow angel. Suddenly here were life-threatening puddles of chilly, cholera-infested water. Here was consumption and despoiled maidenhoods in the Folies-Bergère. Here onstage were three men conjuring the bright and gaudy colours you’d have to make to make to keep yourself going when you’d been reduced to a mad cow with no teeth sitting with your fanny in the dirty puddle, laughing and flashing your bright green drawers. And coming out of a past filled with influenza and polio and smallpox, here was a band who cared enough to dress up and lie to you.

They even had an interval, wherein a dude stood at the front by the stage with a tray of Loseley ice cream! I felt old and small and taken out of myself with wonder. And if it had left me feeling like this was something to be picked up and set aside at the end of the performance then maybe I’d be writing it off as something that’s nice enough for a weekend fling. But this went so much further. Fuck, this made me glad I dressed ritually and for theatre in matching pearl bracelets, wine red velvet dress with pearls and sequin flowers threading down one side, big wine red leather boots and fishnet hold-ups. The sensation of my fleshy thighs spilling over the tops of my hold-ups as I knelt, knees slightly apart, at the top of the auditorium? That was as much as part of the performance and my experience of it as the inflatable sheep or the giant saw because the Tiger Lillies opened up countless spaces for theatre and absurdity and punchlines and performance devoid of the post-millennial ego in my own life.

(Atbildēt uz šo)

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