https://open.spotify.com/track/1kV8AxtYItjuTBOBHEGmPH?si=c1127b376ba84ffa
Recommended if you like Gorky’s Zygoti Mynci.
Especially the album The Blue Trees.
Tag Archives: Euros Childs
glitch [2021)
Cobra and phases.
Emptying a sampler.
Pierre Henry.
Schaeffer.
Always Flaming Lips.
A twist on bass.
Fridmann.
The church of Michael Ivins’ hair.
Jazz odyssey.
He wrote this.
Straight up.
Bold start to Pauly Deathwish’s 5th album.
Stretching out.
Space jazz.
Squiggle.
Sonic Youth.
Watch for upcoming single.
Cleared.
Glenn Branca.
Bitches brew.
Live eviL.
Mercury Rev.
Grassy.
Hit to death.
John McLaughlin.
Tribute to Jack Johnson.
Steve Gadd slow nerve action.
Hendrix.
Chuckin’.
Television.
Tom and Richard.
Hippies cool at CBGB.
Makeover.
Bowery toughened.
Are you experienced?
Paul Simon never sounded this tough.
Or desperate.
Always too cool.
But the lyrics give him a run.
Into Radiohead.
Another COVID album.
The best.
Pauly Deathwish.
Headlines.
Zeitgeist.
Epstein.
McAfee didn’t uninstall himself.
Charlotte Gainsbourg.
Lady Godiva.
A dentist chair in Florida.
Soros’s scumbag Rubin.
Forgot a fuck.
Not for kids.
Not safe for work.
F-bomb Ferguson.
Plastic Ono.
Primal.
John Paul Jones keys.
Real.
Frustration key of E.
The pitched song.
Godspeed You! Black Emperor.
Remember this connection.
“Montreal Heartbreak”.
Pure perfection.
Repetition.
Bravery.
Transient random-noise.
Hal Blaine on Harvest.
Trying to make it pay.
Hotel to Tango.
Stopped in Oklahoma.
Back when concerts were played in Austins.
Tonight’s the night.
Neil in Ontario.
A Canadian pastiche.
Bowie low.
Cohen Quebec.
Visconti.
The cure.
Ivermectin.
Hydroxychloroquine.
Disintegration.
The only artist to review his own albums.
Because, you know, fuck it!
9/11 will come out.
Everything building to a head.
First Zeppelin album.
Black mountain side.
Jimmy’s eyes glowing magenta.
They tell me he’s evil.
Maybe.
But you gotta know the story of the blues.
I tried to sell my soul to the Devil.
But I am saved by the blood of Jesus Christ.
Jesus protected me.
Satan wasn’t buying.
Down in the basement of the Gunter Hotel.
I tried to sell my soul for the world.
But God didn’t let it happen.
Thinking it was bad enough.
Only through Jesus am I saved.
The worst among sinners.
Trying to gain the whole world.
Willing to forfeit my soul.
God is good.
And I can out-produce Jimmy Page.
Because God is my guide.
I have a dirty mouth.
Mary Magdalene.
Go and sin no more.
We’re in a fucking war.
We gotta put Jesus first.
On the battlefield.
Out greatest stealth.
Delta blues.
Emerald Mound.
Barbecue.
Poor.
Rural.
I don’t know how to make copies.
And my black neighbors don’t know how to use the internet.
Joe Biden can get fucked.
But me, I like women with big tits.
Alex Jones quote.
I relate.
I don’t wanna be a part of this sick cult.
We need God on the battlefield.
Mercy is waiting even for Jimmy Page.
Turn from the evil ways.
Recognize King Jesus.
The sky is crying.
Hound dog.
Muddy.
Wolf.
Flange.
Phase.
Straight Thelonious.
With Coltrane.
Miles.
Pre-electric.
Second jazz tune.
Straight off blues.
The Monk solo.
Dissonant as a motherfucker.
MTHRFCKR.
Acciaccatura.
Who, me?
Carnival.
Honing in.
D.
Watery solo.
Buttholes.
Kuntz.
Is a joke?
Weird Al.
The Residents.
Don Cherry.
Malachi Thompson.
Soprano trombone.
Roland Kirk.
Reeded brass.
Klang.
Straight jazz.
Philly Jo.
Watch for first cover.
Unpredictable.
Mercury Rev.
John Peel.
Straight into a QAnon song.
Reggae.
Durham.
CodemonkeyZ.
Flynn, in fact, did not go to jail.
Spy dub.
Bob Marley gets all conspiratorial.
Haiti.
Obama gets arrested at his own birthday party.
Strzok blocked on Twitter.
Army Counterintelligence.
A bunch of cunts?
Not Seth Keshel.
The real deal.
Tony Shaffer.
Counterterrorism.
Will the FBI be shut down?
Department of Justice is the very heart of the Deep State.
Rosenstein is linchpin.
Bill Barr was miss.
Cymbals Eat Guitars.
Each given a chance.
Lou Reed.
Rollerskate Skinny.
Music like this hasn’t been made in 30 years.
Bowie would be proud.
The debris from the Nirvana signing.
The truly good bands.
Some Boo Radleys here.
Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci.
Beach Boys.
Good production.
Lee “Scratch”.
Black (Oak) Ark.
A disgusting record collection.
Mildew.
Lovingly preserved in filth.
Vinyl still good.
Cop shoot cop.
Strong statement against Antifa.
Dylan.
This guy is bold.
Deserter’s.
Amy Helm?
Rambo.
J. Spaceman.
Jack Fate.
Dylan tongue cheek.
Summer 2020.
BLM.
Only person to listen to this.
Pet Sounds.
Bellingham.
Fredonia.
SUNY.
Boces.
Wanker jazz.
Deep.
Boys peeling.
Give the anarchist a cigarette.
This is a fucked up record.
Calling David Lynch.
Gonna be hard for the Left to write off this guy.
Paradigm shift.
This dude troublemaker.
Name fits.
Trail of dead.
We know you, but do you know us?
Debord, eh?
Capitalism!
Soundgarden.
Chossudovsky.
Deep Pieczenik research.
9/11.
Space Force.
Satellites.
Leonardo.
NRO.
NGA.
And the beloved NSA.
More accurately: CYBERCOM.
Not yet split?
Nakasone double duty?
Architecture?
Who could bring down?
Two QAnon songs in a row.
Beatles.
White Album.
Magical Mystery.
Macca bass line.
Welcome to the revolution.
Sgt. Pepper.
Euros Childs.
Megan Childs.
Gorwel Owen.
Beautiful breakdown.
Bert Williams.
Good shit!
The jazz and blues build up into rock and roll.
Conspiracy songs.
Fort Meade on repeat.
780thC.
Army G2.
Cheyenne Mountain Alerts.
Air Force Cyber.
MARSOC.
Strobo.
Marquee Moon.
Big Pink.
Rhythm of the saints.
Tuatara.
Crime podcast.
Tettix Wave Accumulator?
The Supremes.
Berry Gordy trippin’ balls.
A Lisbeth Salander ballad.
Noomi Rapace.
FBI + CIA.
Both worthless.
But serves to delineate.
Interior and exterior.
Intel romance.
Smarter than Strzok and Page.
Richard Lloyd.
Too fucked up to catch Velvets.
I hear you.
It’s a bitch.
Rick Danko.
Thom Yorke knob twiddler.
Eno in Roxy.
Bogart.
The big sleep date.
Noir and chill.
Mulholland.
Breathless.
The harder they fall.
Shoot the piano player.
Doug Sahm.
We are here in San Antonio.
We are making the best of it.
Driving around.
Eating ZZ Top nachos.
Beer drinkers and hell raisers.
A real jalapeno.
Australia to steam like teapot.
Last song.
Spiritualized?
Joshua Tree.
Bono.
Epic.
Adam Clayton.
Comes with new iPhone.
An anthem like U2 ain’t written for a bit.
This is Dublin territory.
Sexy God believers.
Cigarette.
Irish whiskey.
A Guinness.
Cloves.
The wraparounds.
Luna.
My heroes.
Sterling Morrison.
And Jack Nitzsche.
But Bono can sing opera.
A good dude.
Needs to drop the carbon bullshit.
Global warming is giant fucking hoax.
Just like COVID.
The Edge knows.
Grow some balls.
Stop kissing the Pope’s ass.
This commie Pope is a fucker.
Jesuit dipshit.
Epic lift.
Pauly can play guitar!
Fucking hell!!!
Album builds up to last song.
Even last song builds up.
Fucking brilliant.
Glitch.
iTunes.
Spotify.
-PD
Bande a part [1964)
I need a word. Just a word. A word. To start it off. Nothing fits. Frustration? Yes, perhaps. Ferment? That might work even better. It is a feeling. I search for it on the Internet. I cast my net to the blog sea. Ahh, Valentine’s Day… Yesterday. How I wanted to write, yet I abstained. Abstinence. Discipline. Youthful anarchy.
I needed a word. As so I sought. Abandoned, abandonment, abstract expressionism. No. Alex Chilton, Anna Karina. Yes. After two films she was back. Here. Anne Wiazemsky? No. We will wait for her at the Tout va bien café.
Art house, arthouse, Astruc? Yes. Alexandre. caméra–stylo. A free-flowing style. Freewheeling. Big Star, Bilinda Butcher? Yes. Feed me with your kiss. Do you know how to kiss? With the tongue? That’s correct. You stick your tongue out and I will kiss you on the cheek.
So I found my word? No. I found Bob Dylan, Boise, bored to tears. A phrase. Bresson. Wiazemsky. No, not yet. But, pickpocket. Yes. Money. A big stack of money!
Broken heart. Ok, now we are getting somewhere. And how does a heart break? Neil? Love. CSS. No, not the computer language. Language? We are barely passing English class. Romeo and Juliet. Verona. Valentine’s. The world’s shittiest Starbucks. Right by my house. Trust me. I’ve been to Starbucks in middle-of-nowhere Arizona…in a fucking Albertson’s. No, Target. Maybe Wal-Mart. No more depressing than the one by my house. Sure, the buck-toothed high school senior was not much on the eye candy scale, but I am living in the same wasteland. Neu Mexique. The place where they tested the bombs. Long ago. Trinity. I have become the destroyer of worlds.
No, the other CSS. Tired of being sexy. That one. And Cary Grant. Yes, my jacket’s at the dry cleaner…and I don’t have any money…so I won’t take off my coat. Tou bi or not tou bi contre votre poitrine: dat iz ze question. Something like that. Claude Brasseur. What a brute! What a fucking asshole!! !
Chris Bell. The singer. The white one. Yeah. Dead. No. Cinémathèque Française. O-kay! Now we are getting somewhere. But I keep searching. The English classes are not enough. Maybe the Chinese will prevail. Sami Frey is betting Chinese: 5-2.
Cocteau. Yeah. We’ll sit in the car and listen to the radio. No, I’m not allowed to do things like that. Hey, how old are you anyway!?! Conlon Nancarrow? Yes. And the last time Michel Legrand on the big screen [English broken].
When it should be sad, the jazz kicks up impossibly happy. Happily. Hereusement? I don’t know. I am on the other side of the pond.
Crying. Depressed, depression, depress-o-rama. And then she feeds a tiger.
Doldrums. No. The other ones. Not the horse latitudes. Ennui. Yes. She is bored, but she doesn’t know she’s bored…until she’s not bored anymore. Euros Childs. No. Completely inappropriate.
Farfisa. Maybe. Pasolini. Frankenstein. Rasputin. Claude Brasseur. What’s your family name, Arthur? Rimbaud, like my father. But he’s dead. As I pump a bull’s eye into the midway target. Can I keep my chart? [Crumples and throws away.]
Leave no traces. Like the Situationists. No more poetry. Arthur Craven. Shitty family. It’s no joke. We need that money. I was in Indochina. Don’t fuck with me. Like Raoul Coutard.
Back to black and white. Truly a film noir. Série noire . Gallimard. Says so at the end. Dolores Hitchens.
Forlorn. Ooh! That’s a good one! Any catch? French cinema. French film? Harmony Korine. No. Later, later.
Henri Langlois. Yes. Now we’re back on track. A name. We needed a name. Like Tarantino. His production company. Like the car scene with Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson. Same thing. They’re talking about nothing. But they are incredibly rude. Crude. Blow a fucker’s brains out. 2.0
But the travesty is that Godard is forgotten in France. ;that Quentin is cooler than Jean-Luc. Quel dommage.
Howard Hawks. To Jean-Luc. And then who? David Lynch? Not very often. Too many misses. Same with Harmony Korine. But those two are as good as it gets now.
Balls. Giant figurative testicles. The Madison. Joseph Beuys balls. Wolves and coyotes and felt and fat and goldleaf. Heathen child youthful anarchy. La Düsseldorf. Klaus Dinger? Motorik.
Driving like madmen. Park on the curb…like Billy the Kid. Drive on the sidewalk. The Simca. Do wheelies…no, donuts. The mud. The giant spools for wire. Tightrope.
Lovelorn. Ooh! Nice!! Lovesick. Mauricio Kagel. Yeah, now we’re getting somewhere. Because, obviously, there’s a smokin’ hot girl out there in blog land into Mauricio Kagel. Good strategy.
We are Sami Frey, here at Dossier du cinema. We are Anna Karina. We are schmucks. We haven’t learned yet to embrace our inner Claude Brasseurs.
How ’bout that MØ chick? Yeah, like her! Except……………….monotony. Morose? Yeah, book it! Nerval. Hanging from the streetlamp. Certainly. Ophüls? Nothin’.
Psychogeography. Clichy. The Louvre in 9:43…surpassing Jimmy Johnson of San Francisco.
AND THE SUBWAY SCENE!!!
Regret, rejection? Yes. Print it. The man sleeping on the sidewalk. Teddy bear or TNT. Richard Hell or Richard Lloyd. Routine. Buy groceries. Aunt Victoria. Like the Queen. And a big pile of money upstairs with the door unlocked and just a jacket draped over it. 200 million francs perhaps. In 10,000 franc notes.
Silver screen. It has to be silver, you fucks! Spider Man does not qualify. It has to be Louis Feuillade. Jurassic Park does not cut it. Did you see her thighs? So white. Black stockings over your heads. Undo the garters. It’s like Le Petit soldat all over again, but this time the terrorists are up and walking around. That’s what terrorists do. They terrify. Burglers burgle. Etc. No torture…handcuffed to the robinet.
I don’t have time for this shit. Shortcut. Dying. “Cheat death on the other side.” J. Spaceman.
Someone to be nice to me for like five minutes and then I’ll leave you alone. This was Jean-Luc “Cinema” Godard on fire.
-PD
paulydeathwish 