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Jared Louche
19 April 2009 @ 12:44 am
The final break’s creeping in and it seems like there’s nothing that can be done to shore up the defences against it.

There’s another noise here that makes no sense and every time I try to steer myself near it it seems to slide itself further out of the realm of the graspable.

Sometimes there’s nothing to do about the dismal tide but throw the spear into the darkness and hope you hit something.

So, to that end, I’m starting to toss spears.

There are some refitted songs up on the myspace profile as well as a few old treats. The most interesting of them, however, is at the top of the chart as it’s not only my current fave, but it kicks the shit out of the rest of the noise I hear every day. It also kicks my ass on a regular basis. It’s a remix of Binary Nation by Latin Saint. He appeared to us as in a fever dream, his ax held aloft, clad in rust and wire. I could talk about him a lot, but the remix has all of the requisite fist instead.

I really dig the guy, and since there’s a new Chemlab record in the offing, it might make sense to pull the cat into the shitter and fuck with his world. Might be a good reason to fold in new meat to the thresher and make a dishonest woman of me.

We’ll see. Regardless, go and check him out at www.myspace.com/chemlab.
I’ll talk more in a second.

www.acidplanet.com/latinsaint/songs
www.myspace.com/latinsaint
 
 
Current Location: behind the E chord
Current Mood: samba
Current Music: Saints Below
 
 
Jared Louche
08 April 2009 @ 12:40 am
After years of the wrong signal-to-noise balance, the haze too thick to catch sight lines through, I’m in a deeply productive time for me right now. The chemical mixture of the hours and light-dark ratio, the perfect curve of the detonator coil all seem to be aligning in my favor for the moment. Nothing lasts, so I’m making hay.

I’ve just finished a strange project. This week I finished writing and designing a tour guide for the reopening of the Whitechapel Gallery, the oldest and most influential art gallery in London’s East End. The book’s geared for 4-to-12 year-olds, providing them with a fun and stimulating way to interact with the gallery space as well as begin to get a sense of how contemporary artwork’s made. It runs short, the pages chunky and some cut into, each one with a place to draw or write on and it comes with pencils, pens, crepe paper and stickers. The pages are all detachable too so you can rearrange them any way you like. It’s not tied to a specific exhibition but instead functions as a way to play with contemporary art concepts. It’s full of questions and challenges and moments of both levity and intellectual rigor..., well, for kids at least! It was a gas to create, allowing me to stretch out into new terrains where I could combine my passions for conceptual and contemporary art with my writing. It’s the sort of project that I’m hoping to do more of. So much to do. So little time left now.

At the moment it’s only available when you come to the gallery, but people have already expressed interest in getting copies when it goes into a wider printing. I’m gauging interest through the sites to see if it’s something that would sell online.

One of the other things that I’m going to try to do is spend a shred more time writing here and in other spots just for the outlet, for the simple pleasure. I’ve been writing a lot. For the first time in a long time I’m pitching with winds, the waves are rising and I’m fertile with the creative juices. Gravity’s broken off its chain under me and I’m pouring out material constantly. Seems to be on the rise. The fascinating this is that, for perhaps the first time in my life, I’m writing for me as opposed to for some supposed audience out there in the dark just past the lights at the edge. From the deep cut I’m bleeding out writing and artwork and music and I’m suddenly unrestrained. Virginia Woolf’s dictum was to get it all out, to get expressed without impediment, to do it without hate or pause or protest or obvious special pleading or any of the rest of that jagging around. She didn’t mean that the writer’s job is to write endlessly or announce and continue with a splash, but to get the real experience down: the private moments, the feel of the winter air cutting, the noise and the silence and the way smoke travels when it hits a gust of wind or the pleasure of listening to traffic knot and unknot. That’s where I feel like I’ve been heading for a little while now. I always knew the road, sometimes on, sometimes way off, but for the past year or so I can feel the hard shoulder pressing up under my feet, see the path as it stretches out towards the horizon. I’ve no idea where it’s leading, but I’m going there.

There’s a lot of music going on in and through me right now and I’ll talk about it next. There are a series of super-limited edition records that Plastic and I’ll be releasing very soon as well as the Prude record that’ll be coming out some time this year. There’s much to talk about, and if you happen to be in London over the next few months Plastic and I will be gigging a bunch at both open and closed events.

The thread pays out ahead .. ..
 
 
Current Location: untying a knot
Current Mood: precise
Current Music: tumble dryer
 
 
Jared Louche
14 March 2009 @ 11:53 pm
As some of you may know, a few years ago I had the pleasure of working with Mark Spybey (CAN, Zoviet France, Download, Dead Voices On Air and many others). I’ve been a fan of Mark’s organic and inverted music for decades, since the pummelling beginnings of Zoviet France. I always thought that it would be incredibly cool to work with him on a record of some sort. Never believed that it would actually come to pass, but the dream rippled on below the silvery surface.

We finally met years ago on the first sprawling Pigfarce tour I hollered for. He had no idea who I was, and despite my constantly sprawling drunkenly across his shoulders, we hit it off. Over the ensuing years we emailed back and forth about possibly working on a record together, but time always conspired to elude, ranging itself against our efforts. A few years ago though we finally managed to scare the days tight and I went up to spend some time ensconced in the gritty surroundings of the ex-urban Grim North link to work on the record in Mark’s studio. We also had the surprise pleasure of roping in Mark’s old terror couple, Robin Storey from Zoviet France, to play guitar and fluids and balalaika and bagpipe reed and dark circle. He was sharply minimal, the perfect insertion.

As Autumnal color gave way to frost, and crippling floods, the album wrote itself. Almost without bidding from us it unfolded its figure in the dusk in strange and unmediated segments. The disc’s called “the death of radio mars” and I’m as proud of it as I am of any of the records that I’ve ever released, even the ones never released such as the early Jackhammer Orchestra material.

We delivered it to Invisible and that’s when it hit critical third-rail flat line. They’ve yet to commit to releasing it or not, almost three years after completion, so it floats in the formaldehyde of picayune disinterest and predictable, conceptual conservatism. The passive aggression feels almost malicious.

While “radio mars” seized-up in the quicksand of the industry, the limbo of its non-existence stretching out of sight, Mark’s and my attention per force slewed elsewhere. While we engaged in other projects and records, the metal detector dowsing-rod of the mutating technological world snuck up on us.
What do I mean? I mean this:

http://blendetta.com/2009/01/listen-up-altered-statesmen

Blendetta isn’t the first, and certainly not the only place that I’ve seen the record being spooled around. Suddenly it just sprouted everywhere. I’m not sure how it managed to slither loose, but I’m fascinated that it did. I dig Blendetta’s scene a lot, and the Rock Star Journalism women that spawned it are sharp, visionary and long-time friends. They're not "cyber criminals" any more than I am or you are for downloading cracked programs or films or music or whatthefuckever. I’m attaching this link as opposed to any of the other places where you can find the record because I want to get them some added exposure. I also want the record to be heard, and this is a great way to do it.

“radio mars” is a glorious collab-spatter. It winks sidelong glimmerous, is divinely bruised and shucked by the uncivil blade. It flutters tatters ‘round the edges yet burns darkly magma at its core. On the other hand, it isn’t mastered and no final production was done on it. The album that’s in the link falls out of sequence and doesn’t contain all of the finalized versions of the songs that would’ve been on the actual release. There’s a host of imperfections that glare from the middle ground, smears of unmodulated lurching scree, and sometimes the sonic tectonic plates just don’t meet up. It’s unfinished in some very elemental ways. Yet it carries itself with the damaged grace of a film star at a cocktail party, years after her horrible, flaming pyre car accident, still elegant and captivatingly beautiful despite (or because of) the welter of scars across her face. In some aspects the spider web of fractures adds color and dimension, in others it simply detracts. Regardless, I don’t think, at this stage of the silly game that is the record industry, that this will ever be rectified. I see "radio mars" living out its existence this way, encased in binary amber, forever stumbling with one leg planted on the ground, the other waving pointlessly in the ethers.

Though neither illegal downloading or sharing of music bothers me as an artist, I’m not sure that I would’ve sanctioned the record appearing in the stream in advance of a more concrete release due to the inevitable conflicts. I certainly wouldn’t have sanctioned this imperfect version. However, since it’s clearly slipped its bonds and it seems that it’ll never be released, it’d be foolish of me not to celebrate it regardless of the state it exists in.

Tom “To Live And Shave In LA” Smith has remixed the record in its entirety too, but that’s a mind-boggling link for another night.

So, there it is.
Now you have it. Toast it. Enjoy it in all its stumbling imperfections. Spin it. Virus it. Blare it. Bask it. Burn it. Web-thread it. Review it. Pass it around as much as you like.
Welcome to the future.
 
 
Current Location: everywhere all of the time
Current Mood: altered
Current Music: mine
 
 
Jared Louche
07 March 2009 @ 10:47 pm
I see you, in the spinning mass of charred metal and spider-webbed safety glass, flipping, flipping, flipping, flipping through smooth space.
 
 
Current Location: in the memory chip
Current Mood: closer
Current Music: the sound of breaking glass
 
 
Jared Louche
07 March 2009 @ 09:58 pm
The black Sikorski has been following my Escalade for the past three nights. It's been a serious weight on my head and on the gas pedal. Been getting speeding tickets like shit collecting flies, but they've yet to see the shadow above me. Fucking cops.

I can tell he's a prolific hunter, but I can't tell if I'm the meat yet.
 
 
Current Location: on the road
Current Mood: weirdweird
Current Music: rotor blades
 
 
 
Jared Louche
16 February 2009 @ 01:39 am
"this is truly beastly music brought to the highest, most refined point!"


 
 
Current Location: celestine
Current Mood: spattered
Current Music: Stravinsky, in Berstein's hands
 
 
Jared Louche
08 February 2009 @ 12:41 am
Phalaris, the capricious and bone-splinteringly brutal Greek tyrant of Sicily, was the originator of a demonic and almost mythic device called The Brazen Bull.

Cast and hammered out of 1000 pounds of sheet bronze, the eight foot-high Bull was created as an excruciating means of execution. Hollow inside, with a hinged door built into the middle of the bull’s back, criminals, the occasional Christian and those foolish enough to have spoken out against Phalaris would be pushed inside and the door locked tight with a thick bronze peg. Wood was heaped high beneath its belly and a fire then set alight. The drum of its body quickly became intensely hot, conduction producing blistering temperatures across the length and breadth of the Bull’s body. The victim inside asphyxiated on clouds of his own flesh searing while he roasted to death.

The fun for Phalaris didn’t end there though and the last aspect of the torture device was perhaps the most fascinating and disturbed. The architect of the Bull had constructed an ingenious and intricate system of metal tubing inside the head of the beast. Like a convoluted trumpet cross-bred with a French horn, the wide bell fit inside the interior of the bull’s mouth pointing out. The mouthpiece extended down into the body of the Bull somewhat. Discovering a possible source of fresh air as well as a way to yell for help, the Texas-style slow-roasting Bar-B-Q victim would scream frantically through the tubes. Beautifully, the prisoner's shrieks were then converted into sounds loosely approximating the bellowing of an infuriated bull. Kenny G, eat your heart out.

Dinner and a show!!

In fact, Phalaris often set the Brazen Bull blazing at orgiastic feasts to entertain and shock guests as well as to present a harrowing object lesson to statesmen of what their fate would be if they didn’t deliver unto Phalaris his due. So that 'nothing unseemly might spoil his feasting', Phalaris made sure that aromatic herbs and spices were heaped in on top of the victim so that as the trapped morsel roasted, great plumes of scented smoke would rise in spicy clouds like incense from the beast’s maw, perfuming the room and masking the smell of flesh burning. And what celestial music. When Phalaris was finally unseated by Telemacus, there are conflicting reports of what befell the vicious tyrant, but one version has it that he was actually forced into the Bull himself and roasted. Fitting, and quite possibly tasty too as Phalaris was fat and well seasoned from endless feasts of exquisite meats, herbs, nuts and fruits.

Next week; the Rectal Pear.
 
 
Current Location: in the pit
Current Mood: full of it
Current Music: crackling fire
 
 
Jared Louche
16 January 2009 @ 10:29 pm
Lewes Arts Lab presents:
3rD: Experiments in Darkness, Distortion & Delight.

14 internationally renowned artists, filmmakers and musicians from Lewes, London, Brighton and New York come together on one cold, dark winter’s night to explore darkness, distortion and delight and set fire to our collective imagination:

Viv Albertine: (ex-Slits) solo songs.
Jared Louche & Marc Plastic: Ten one-minute Extinctions.
Pimmel: Music for Massed Fuzz Organs.
MSG: Ambient noise.
Nick Collins: Super-8 film.
Haydn Cottam: live, 3D action painting.
Ben Edmunds: silent comedy.
Steve Geliot Installation: The Compton Effect.
Andrew Poppy (ex-PTV): And The Shuffle Of Things.
Psychophallic Horses: Bearded ladies.
Roger Riley: Super-8 projections.
If You Suspect It, Report It: the ultimate road movie.
Zerocrop: psychopathic pop music.

Inspired by Andy Warhol’s Factory and The Exploding Plastic Inevitable in the late 1960s, Lewes Arts Lab was set up in 2007 by Tom Mugridge, Mark Robertson and Andy Saunders to create a platform and audience for new live and experimental art, enabling live artists to test work in progress or improvise in an uncensored environment free from the crushing constraints of commercialism and art funding.

3rD is Lewes Arts Lab’s third and most ambitious project to date. Jared Louche,
experimental poet and frontman of Chemlab, joins the Arts Lab team for this production. 3rD draws in artists from far afield, including Andrew Poppy from Psychic TV, Chris Cutler (ex Henry Cow), Viv Albertine (ex-Slits) and Zerocrop from London as well as film makers, painters, performance artists and other trouble.

--------

This is going to be a fascinating event and the sort of thing that I haven’t had a chance to be a part of for ages. It’s reminiscent of events that I used to organize in the States back in the 80s that covered the conceptual map. The process of creating the night has been circuitous, but even in the incunabula it has been stimulating, challenging and leavened with the willingness to incorporate anything if it’ll add to the spectacle.

Please feel free to pass this along to anyone that might be interested in coming or that knows anyone that might be interested in coming. London Clan, there is talk of three different vans coming down for the night. If you are coming and need transportation and a place to crash, get in touch soon and we’ll work something out.

We have beautiful posters available too. If you can put them up anywhere and want some just drop me a line and I’ll set you up.

Come check out the profile: www.myspace.com/lewesartslab

3rD will be presented at:
The Foundry Gallery, North Street, Lewes
Saturday 31st January 2009 | 7.30pm–midnight
Tickets £8/£5 concs | Licensed bar
 
 
Current Location: across the keys
Current Mood: 3D
Current Music: something cracking
 
 
Jared Louche
12 January 2009 @ 12:39 am
I just discovered that the Napoleonic “tendon” rests in New Jersey. What an anticlimactic station to rest in.

After Napoleon Bonaparte’s death on the unfeasibly small island of St. Helene in 1821, his vindictive physician cut off and secreted away the regal organ during autopsy. It was handed off and smuggled into France by the corrupt chaplain Abbe Vignali, thus setting in motion the royal pecker’s bizarre peregrinations across the continents.

Parts of his anatomy have long circulated through the seamier corridors of Parisian collecting: slices of bowel, molars, and ribs, even sections of the bloodied autopsy sheet itself. The Abbe Vignali also managed to smuggle Napoleon’s death mask off of St Helene’s, but the piece de resistance was unquestionably the cock. After his death in 1916, the Vignali Collection went on auction. The already much-storied penis was described in the catalogue as “a mummified tendon excised from the post-autoptic body of Napoleon”, and from then on his member has been known in collector circles as “Napoleon’s Tendon”.

Irritatingly, it was not preserved in formaldehyde as so many other odd artefacts such as Rasputin’s gargantuan member are. Though passed around Europe after his assassination as a sexual aide of totemic strength, the veracity of Rasputin’s member remains in grave contest. Napoleon’s, on the other hand, does not, its veracity almost certain. Having been exposed to the desiccating power of the elements, however, it has fared poorly and looks, by all accounts, like a strip of dried leather, or beef jerky, about the thickness and length of a baby’s finger. Sorry, Josephine, we hear it wasn’t much more impressive in its original and undesiccated heyday and was, in fact, the butt of countless jokes in the UK.

After the Vignali Collection went on the block, it sallied forth between collectors across Europe, England and the US, many of whom showed it off with morbid glee, the center-piece “tendon” basking luridly in the spotlight. It was displayed in its own hand-tooled, Moroccan leather case that could be tied shut with long leather straps, all of it surmounted by a gold crest. The article itself nestled on a charming bed of crushed blue velvet, thus highlighting its diminished yet still alluring qualities.

In 1969, after a series of failed auctions, the Vignali Collection was broken up in hopes of increasing the potential for sale. The jewel in the crown, Napoleon’s organ, of course, was snapped up in a trice. Cheaply too, selling at about $2,100. It was acquired by the famed and deeply strange US Army urologist, Dr Lattimer, who had a pretty weird personal history himself. Dr. Lattimer had already amassed a unique and ghoulish museum of his own that he guarded covetously, seldom showing it. It included such darkly attractive items as Hermann Goering’s suicide vial and strips of the leather seats from the Cadillac in which JFK was assassinated in Dallas. ooooooooEEEE. My kind o’ fella.

After his death in 2007, the collection became the property of his stodgy children who currently have no plans whatsoever for The Tendon, or any of the other articles for that matter. It resides in straightened circumstances in a suitcase beneath a bed in a spare bedroom in their home in Englewood, New Jersey. Another great collection of fabled historical oddities and rarities fades, consigned to the dark and ignominious recesses of suburbia.

My next question is, where’s Napoleon’s death mask?
 
 
Current Location: not NJ
Current Mood: dazzled
Current Music: "Hitler's Cock" Angry Samoans
 
 
Jared Louche
02 November 2008 @ 11:23 pm
Though I can’t imagine that you haven’t heard this one already, the joke about the Republican senator who thought having an inexperienced, inarticulate, gun-totin’, moose huntin’ God fearin’ race baitin’ fear monger as a running mate was a good idea, but the latest in this chapter is the radio pranks from CKOI in Montreal. Two guys managed to call up Palin’s office and get right past her staff and speak directly to her. When ensues is one of the greater segments of comedy.

Some of the more egregious and hilarious moments to listen for are when he mentions that he has been following the race with his “Special American Advisor Johnny Halliday” who’s a French pop icon and has as much to do with politics as I do.

The name of the song that Carla Brunei, Sarkosy’s wife, is supposed to have written for Palin translates as “Lipstick On A Pig”.

Towards the end of it all he tells Sarah that he loved the documentary they made of her life called “Hustler’s Nailin’ Palin”. She clearly can hardly understand what the interviewer is saying and just nods along in star-struck awe even though the clue is staring her right in the face. There has been no documentary made of her life yet, though the material for it is being compiled right now. The guy’s making up the name of a possible Hustler magazine porno flick.

The PM of Canada is in fact Stephen Harper,
The PM of Quebec is actually Jean Charest. I wish that we could hear what names the guy makes up for both men, but he’s not using their real names.

Even when the pranksters aren’t dropping in obvious-as-a-falling piano cues for her to pick up on, it’s clear that she has no grasp of how to handle herself in the face of established political figures. She has nothing substantive to say and hardly manages to bumble her way through the “interview”. She lacks the faintest shred of intellectual rigor and political acumen.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UMV0LKlVj8I

Events like this remind us what a wonderful materials resource for the Stewarts, Lettermans and Lenos she has been. Events like this also show us what a Roveian, hatred-leavened, politically backward-looking McCain-Palin presidency would look like.

On the topic of intellectual poverty and the recent and abhorrent trend in my country that fears intellectual acuity and reviles reading, there are these:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/stefan-sirucek/sarah-palinif-you-dont-re_b_135760.html

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/10/27/AR2008102702438.html

And then there’s the concern about 2012, and do not tell me that it’s not possible. Ridley’s comments about the phoenix-like return of Nixon is chillingly apt, and if you think that Rove, Kristol and the rest of the “she winked at me" crew aren’t going to try to groom her I’ve got a bridge to nowhere to sell you. Cheap.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/john-ridley/the-tragedy-of-sarah-pali_b_139774.html
 
 
Current Location: right here
Current Mood: fascinated
Current Music: laughter