Sensitive Skin Magazine http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com Post-beat, pre-apocalyptic art, writing and what-not Mon, 24 Aug 2015 06:09:34 +0000 en-US hourly 1 Best of Enemies – A Reviewhttp://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/best-of-enemies-a-review-franklin-mount/ http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/best-of-enemies-a-review-franklin-mount/#comments Sun, 16 Aug 2015 21:19:20 +0000 http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/?p=7613 You’re watching live television coverage of the 1968 Democratic National Convention. Outside of the convention hall, the Chicago police are clubbing demonstrators asking for peace. Inside the convention, on the ABC News set, you see this: “Now listen you queer, quit calling me a crypto-Nazi or I’ll sock you in the goddamn face and you’ll... Read more »

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You’re watching live television coverage of the 1968 Democratic National Convention. Outside of the convention hall, the Chicago police are clubbing demonstrators asking for peace. Inside the convention, on the ABC News set, you see this: “Now listen you queer, quit calling me a crypto-Nazi or I’ll sock you in the goddamn face and you’ll stay plastered.” Who would ever say this on national television? William F. Buckley. Gore Vidal had just said, “The only crypto-Nazi I know is William F. Buckley.”

Vidal and Buckley were “debating.”

bestofenemies

1968: Robert Kennedy assassinated; Martin Luther King assassinated; the Tet Offensive stuns America. The Summer of Love was last year.

In that time, long ago, well before hand-held devices, there were three national networks: CBS, NBC, and ABC. Networks mattered. CBS and NBC were in close competition for ratings, and advertising dollars, and ABC was way back. Its ratings were so bad that the joke was that if the Vietnam War were on ABC, it would be cancelled in 13 weeks.

The two contenders, CBS and NBC, planned “gavel-to-gavel” coverage of the conventions. ABC executives, lacking funds, instead conceived an inspired marketing twist–debates between a “liberal” and a “conservative.” ABC called it “unconventional convention” coverage.

These debates and their meaning and fallout are the subject of Morgan Neville and Robert Gordon’s new documentary, Best of Enemies.

Neville and Gordon tell this story through bits and pieces of the debates and ABC news clips from the time (one choice example is marching bands in sunny Florida, “NIXON” banners draped across teenage girls’ bosoms), interspersed with interviews with ABC news executives (Richard Wald), media critics (Todd Gitlin, Frank Rich, and others), a retired talk show host (Dick Cavett), as well as a few personal friends and family members. Added to the mix are readings by Kelsey Grammer and John Lithgow.

The “liberal” in the debates was Gore Vidal, the man whose 1968 novel, Myra Breckinridge, featured a transexual hero. Vidal boldly proclaimed that all human beings are bisexual whores. Vidal was a blue-blood, grandson of a senator, whose family owned land in Georgetown back when it was “George Town.” Gore Vidal, a jetsetter whose best-selling novels funded the purchase of a villa 2000 feet over the Mediterranean in Ravello, Italy, a splendid location nowhere near the USA.

On the conservative side stood, or sat, William F. Buckley, from inherited wealth, but not quite “old” money. Buckley, a graduate of Yale, spoke like a caricature of a blue blood. His first literary success was an attack on atheism and liberalism at Yale. Buckley was a devout Catholic who attended Latin Mass until his death. William F. Buckley, who founded (and financed) National Review, a journal intended to create a conservative movement that would remake the Republican party into a truly conservative party–and save America.

Save America from what? For starters, communists and Gore Vidal. When ABC approached Buckley, he said would appear with anyone except a communist or Gore Vidal. Shortly thereafter, ABC hired Vidal.

In the first of the ten debates, Buckley exudes confidence, but is woefully unprepared. He’s just back from a sailing trip to Cozumel. Buckley trots out his polysyllabic superficiality and deploys nouns such as “balderdash.” Vidal is ready. He hired a research assistant. He even tried out his bon-mots on the ABC News crew. Vidal is snarky and vain, but compelling. Most of all, Vidal refuses to play the game that Buckley is accustomed to liberals playing, where the liberal acts like Buckley is reasonable, just a little misguided.

Debate after debate, his formula failing, we see Buckley become progressively more exasperated and less able to suppress his loathing of Vidal. At the penultimate debate, the subject turns to the violence outside the convention hall. Buckley defends the Chicago police for their “admirable restraint” and compares the demonstrators to Nazis. Vidal replies that the only “crypto Nazi” he knows is Buckley, at which point Buckley loses control and unleashes the above oft-quoted quote.

The barely suppressed violence is startling. But it’s not isolated. Buckley jokes about socking people. He advocates greater force in Vietnam.

Did Buckley deserve the “crypto-Nazi” epithet? I don’t think so—but I do think Vidal was on to something.

The Anatomy of Fascism, by Robert O. Paxton, discusses the fascist belief in the redemptive power of violence. Buckley clearly feels that violence is a viable option. But Buckley is not a fascist in the classic way that Paxton defines it (a mass-based party of committed nationalist militants, working in uneasy but effective collaboration with traditional elites). However, Buckley is sympathetic, and knows it—hence his strong reaction when called on it.

In one of Best of Enemies’ interviews, Buckley’s brother Fergus call William F. a “conservative Christian libertarian revolutionary.” Buckley was libertarian about capitalism, certainly, and later about drugs, but not about sexuality, or about civil rights; he opposed desegregation on the grounds that the “Negro” was not ready for civilization.

Buckley was a reactionary. That’s a cliché perhaps, but it applies in this case. Reactionaries are motivated by fear, and seek to restore a past that never existed. They didn’t like the New Deal back in the 1930s, and were deeply threatened by the ’60s with its hippies, peace movement, long hair and communes. It’s hard to know which bothered Buckley more, progressive taxation or personal freedom, but it’s clear that he thought that the changing culture was a threat to his inherited wealth and position. His tribe, white Christian males, was under siege.

Buckley sought to build a potent political movement that could take over the Republican Party and lead us back to a time before liberalism and income taxes. And he was instrumental in building that movement and helping Ronald Reagan get elected President.

Now that movement has devolved into an inarticulate, monosyllabic extremism exemplified by the likes of Sarah Palin (and exploited by Donald Trump, who may or may not be an agent of the Clintons, but that’s another story)–a virulent, radical strain that terrifies the Republican establishment, who, after all, simply want to be free to make money. They want these folks to vote for them, but not to run the party. Oops, too late!

Vidal looked toward a world of personal freedom, and a world in which America was no longer an empire. Vidal was an observer and a recorder. He accepted the world even as he critiqued it. That’s what his historical novels were about. His was essentially a modern point of view, a point of view that Buckley feared and hated.

Ironically, the dreams and nightmares of both men have come to pass. The rich have never been richer. America is still an empire, more powerful than ever. But a large part of Vidal’s agenda, the tolerance of difference, in life styles, has also taken place. Investment banks celebrate diversity and have LGBT support groups. Corporate lawyers arrange pro bono asylum cases for the victims of homophobia in Third World countries.

The times have changed, and capitalism, in its almost infinite adaptability, now supports a wide variety of life style and personal choices–if you can pay for it. It’s not about traditional culture or the old tribe anymore. The new culture is Capitalism, with a capital “C,” and the new tribe is investors and the professionals who serve them. Best of Enemies is well worth your time if you’d like to know how this came to be.

Best of Enemies, directed by Morgan Neville and Robert Gordon; readings by Kelsey Grammer and John Lithgow.

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The Night I Fucked My Alarm Clockhttp://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/charles-bukowski-the-night-i-fucked-my-alarm-clock/ http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/charles-bukowski-the-night-i-fucked-my-alarm-clock/#comments Sun, 16 Aug 2015 20:29:59 +0000 http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/?p=7611 starving in philadelphia i had a small room it was evening going into night and i stood at my window on the 3rd floor in the dark and looked down into a kitchen across the way on the 2nd floor and i saw a beautiful blonde girl embrace a young man there and kiss him... Read more »

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starving in philadelphia
i had a small room
it was evening going into night
and i stood at my window on the 3rd floor
in the dark and looked down into a
kitchen across the way on the 2nd floor
and i saw a beautiful blonde girl
embrace a young man there and kiss him
with what seemed hunger
and i stood and watched until they broke
away
then i turned and switched on the room light
i saw my dresser and my dresser drawers
and my alarm clock on the dresser
i took my alarm clock
to bed with me and
fucked it until the hands dropped off
then i went out and walked the streets
until my feet blistered
when i got back i walked to the window
and looked down and across the way
and the light in their kitchen was
out

Charles-Bukowski-9230860-1-402

Charles Bukowski, from Love is a Dog from Hell: Poems, 1974-1977 (1977), Black Sparrow Press

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All This Life: A Novel by Joshua Mohr – A Reviewhttp://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/all-this-life-joshua-mohr-review-bernard-meisler/ http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/all-this-life-joshua-mohr-review-bernard-meisler/#comments Sun, 02 Aug 2015 21:19:32 +0000 http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/?p=7535 The cover illustration for Joshua Mohr’s terrific new novel, All This Life, offers a clue—no, more than that, a cipher—to the book’s heart. It’s subtle and you might not notice it, or give it much thought on first blush, but between the glowing capital yellow letters “THIS” and the glowing orange capital letters “LIFE” is... Read more »

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The cover illustration for Joshua Mohr’s terrific new novel, All This Life, offers a clue—no, more than that, a cipher—to the book’s heart. It’s subtle and you might not notice it, or give it much thought on first blush, but between the glowing capital yellow letters “THIS” and the glowing orange capital letters “LIFE” is a spinning progress indicator-you know, that grey thing with the spokes that turns around while you’re waiting for something to happen on your computer. Or when your computer is telling you it’s trying to make a connection. (Personally, I preferred the old school Apple graphics-instead of the spinning beach ball of death (SBOD), we had an old-fashioned anarchist bomb, and instead of the spinning progress indicator, a wristwatch. But I guess nobody would know what a wrist watch is nowadays. Until they buy an Apple watch, I suppose.)

“Connection. To be connected. To be bridged across any divides. To be plugged into a network. To be alive.” (pg. 290)

allthislife

All this Life: A Novel by Joshua Mohr.

Everybody and their brother is reading (as they should be) Ta-Nehisi Coates’ new book, The Beautiful Struggle: A Memoir, in which he speaks of the power structure run by those who “believe they are white” and its tradition of “destroying the black body.” But Mohr is speaking of an equally or perhaps even more pernicious attribute of our present day power elite, corporatocracy, plutocracy, oligarchy, lizard people, Evil Corp., whatever you want to call them-and the biotechnological gadgets/extensions of our bodies they practically force upon us (although of course they make it seem like a choice – Android or iPhone?): they are destroying not (just) our bodies, but our very souls.

Much has been written about the shocking and riveting opening scene of the novel. A 14-year-old boy (Jake) and his father, while stuck in traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge, watch in horror as a rag-tag marching band stops on the walkway next to them and, one at a time, take turns jumping off the bridge. Jake, a typical modern, Internet-tethered kid, who “literally always has [his earbuds] in,” films the event on his iPhone. His “movie” (both literal and in the old Prankster meaning of his life) almost instantaneously goes viral on Youtube (and soon Twitter), launching the plot into high gear. Mohr goes on to introduce a richly drawn, engaging cast of characters whose ultimately interlocking journeys find them meeting up again on the bridge for the book’s climax.

But why did those band members jump in the first place? Is it because the young members of the group are so disengaged from reality, due to the constant bombardment of social media, Google searches, email, etc., that they could only free themselves by destroying their own bodies? SPOILER: Jake is able to stop just short of this, by throwing his iPhone (and hence the ever-annoying Siri, and his false connection to humanity, freeing himself of his virtual shackles) off the bridge instead of his own body.

I found one of these characters, Rodney, aka “Balloon Boy,” particularly fascinating. Years before the book begins, while trying to impress his girlfriend Sara, Rodney takes a bad fall and suffers a serious head injury. The book takes place in 2013, so Rodney’s accident took place around 2007-that simpler, quainter time when the Internet was not in anybody’s pocket but restricted to computers, and Wifi wasn’t yet considered a basic human right, and practically no adult outside of the tech world had heard of Facebook. Rodney’s injury has left him with aphasia-a four-word sentence takes him “20 seconds to choke…out.” For all intents and purposes, he is stuck in the pre-social media time. His brain functions perfectly otherwise-he’s the same old person, inside-and he can communicate perfectly well, so long as he has access to pen and paper.

“He cannot communicate orally and yet he is able to write down everything, not only jotting recaps of each day, but even allows himself to write little one-act plays.” (pg. 96)

But nobody, including his ex Sara, his father or his uncle, seem to realize this. At first I found this silly-how could they not know this, after half a dozen years?-but then I realized that of course nobody knows that Rodney is still whole on the inside-not only is there never a pen and paper around when he needs one (remember when all intelligent people used to carry a pen and notebook with them at all times?), even if there was, who would have time to digest such an archaic form of communication, when instead you could watch, for instance, a porn video starring yourself, like Sara, or drink yourself into a comatose state, like his dad? So nobody else knows that Rodney is fine inside. Because he can’t interact in the “usual” way, he’s considered an idiot. Rodney is the pre-digital man, frustrated, who can’t make himself heard, even as he sees the bigger picture better than everybody else, a guileless and pure of heart modern-day Prince Myshkin.

“That’s what makes Balloon Boy feel so alone, all the swirling thoughts that can only clank around his brain like shoes in a dryer. Alone, with no way to articulate himself.” (pg. 94)

Thankfully, Mr. Mohr has found away to articulate our disconnectedness for all of us. Highly recommended. I could write more about it, but I don’t want to give away any more spoilers. Besides, I have to go check and see if I have any new Pinterest followers.

All This Life: A Novel by Joshua Mohr, Soft Skull Press.

–review by Bernard Meisler

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Drone Loops and the Signature of Blisshttp://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/loops-and-drones-and-the-signature-of-bliss-robert-c-hardin/ http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/loops-and-drones-and-the-signature-of-bliss-robert-c-hardin/#comments Thu, 30 Jul 2015 18:48:53 +0000 http://blog.sensitiveskinmagazine.com/?p=1858 Studio musician and arranger Robert C. Hardin on his search for the condition of euphoria in music: "It means suspensions and passing tones that linger like a last look at a secret crush from childhood. It means tracks that sparkle, drone and thunder all at the same time."

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The experience of bliss means different things to different people. For this frustratingly former arranger and studio keyboard player, euphoria is conditioned by the search for perfect sounds.

To me, bliss means the slow opening and closing of a comb filter over a deep sine wave bass. It means a touch of soft analog distortion added to individual tracks within a digital mix. It means the rich imperfections of real oscillators rather than the wave-drawn kind. It means slow-motion pads evolving over fast tempos and relentless drum programming. It means synths and strings instead of guitars and brass. It means major scales with raised fourths and minor scales with lowered sixths. It means distant cloud formations of warm noise. It means no lyrics and only the occasional vocalise. It means suspensions and passing tones that linger like last long looks at a secret crush from childhood. It means tracks that sparkle, drone and thunder all at the same time.

Classical music is my thought’s blood, and bop is its muscle, but these offer different kinds of fulfillment: They survey the full range of emotion, intellect and physical sensation. They are transcendent rather than merely blissful.

Simple electronic loops, drones and chord progressions might be what I happen to associate with bliss, but classical musicians who didn’t spend their lives in studios finessing three-minute songs for days can find the effect purgatorial rather than heavenly. Bliss, like each individual’s heaven and hell, is personal.

Years ago, two naive music journalists cornered Karlheinz Stockhausen and played him a few tracks by Aphex Twin and Ritchie Hawtin. They assumed he’d enjoy these because, to said neophytes, all electronic music was equally strange and futuristic. Besides which, the aforementioned artists actually cited Stockhausen as an influence. (Never mind that that’s like citing Shakespeare if you’re a writer.)

Predictably, K.S. hated it all because, as an obsessive-compulsive composer who began with rationalist serial music in the 50s, the premise of which is never to repeat anything, he found the endless loops, triadic harmony and simple lines deadening, actually calling one track “not music but kind of drug,” which of course he opposes to the kind of rhythmic and contrapuntal through-composed content that characterizes his music and, for him, signifies life and vitality.

Stockhausen’s own favorite composer is the laconic Anton Webern, whom K.S. once described enthusiastically as “on the verge of total musical integration. “Pause for a moment and consider the difference between a nine-measure through-composed bagatelle for string quartet — a piece in which nothing repeats — and a twenty-minute drone over a quarter-note pulse, rigid eighth-note clicks and periodic triads. In what dismal universe would K.S. ever like the music of Ritchie Hawtin?

K.S.’s description of their music as a sonic smart drug is fairly accurate in terms of its purpose. Take away their idol’s revulsion and I doubt Hawtin or R.J. would have a problem with the idea.

For Stockhausen, and for classical composers generally, the trick is to use rhythmic variety to simulate the vitality of a living thing. Said trick is intended to make one’s composition seem alive through an act of alchemy. To imitate conversation and interaction by giving individual lines melodic independence and yet combining them to create larger harmonic/formal unities. To use parallel and contrasting phrases to balance non-repetition with familiarity of structure. To create music that is both surprising and inevitable.

When Stockhausen condemned techno’s crushing repetition, he sounded like every composition teacher I’ve ever had — though they, unlike Stockhausen, were not avant garde composers, let alone world-altering pioneers. Yet I still need loop-based music in my life — particularly music that maintains a level of satisfying distortion.

=======

Perhaps people who spend their lives working at desks can become too distracted by the complexities of jazz and classical music. Perhaps for them, repetition and minimal content is necessary: they need the whisper of ecstasy to mediate the drudgery of their work. For most of my life, I haven’t had to work in an office. But when I have, certain repetitive and carefully mixed tracks have helped to create a distant and blissful distraction. Too much and I couldn’t focus at all; too little, and I’d feel devoured by the emptiness of my task.

One example: Typically, classical music wants clarity and transparency. Even Debussy, who is celebrated for transposing impressionist paintings into music, the blurred outlines of which become successions of parallel ninth chords ghosting over a sustain pedal – even he draws broad phrases and shapes to emphasize his sense of form. Whereas drones and loops avoid temporal coherence.

You might be familiar with the sound of a person singing the fourth tone of a scale, suggesting a suspension, only to have a guitar play the third simultaneously, creating a dissonance that seems to vibrate deliciously. You might also be familiar with the sound of a piano playing the third and fourth simultaneously. That sort of non-functional rub is usually treated as a linear passing tone in traditional music. In repetitious music, the rub between the two tones can go on indefinitely, which seems to erase the tension-release contour of musical structure, replacing it with the periodic tingle of a mild dissonance. It is not music but sensation. A shimmer in the water, a wooly mammoth’s hum that resonates with the sympathetic strings of the psyche.

Music by Arovane, Herrmann & Kleine, Transient Waves and Thomas Köner — this is the sort of narrowly defined thing that signifies bliss for me. I can improvise and track that sort of music myself, but that is a less passive experience. I reserve my efforts for through-composed music when I have the opportunity to compose.

§ § § § § §

A few examples of the kind of music I mean:

Monolake – “Ionized”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TpQt1buVwuM

Notice how the sounds have been placed precisely in their frequency ranges and in the stereo field, suggesting (spatially) a perfect merging of sculpture and interior design. Notice how, within that static room, the one sinuous, non-static thing is a low sustained sound with a comb filter that opens and closes endlessly, so that the sound rises and dips like a winged serpent. A comb-filtered drone is one of my favorite sounds and Robert Henke (a/k/a, Monolake) uses it unusually well.

Generally, Henke’s mixes reveal a level of finesse I find lacking in most who work in that style: Sound design, engineering and minimal arranging — all are satisfyingly correct. The purpose is to create static sonic objects — the sound equivalent of Calder’s “Stabiles” — but to do so as precisely as possible.

============

Here, Transient Waves use traditional instruments and a layered vocalise to create a track that makes use of a drone with glittering resonance filter sweeps:

Transient Waves

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oP9z2ADNELM

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Ulrich Schnauss – “Wherever You Are”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jn604M1IfDk

Ulrich Schnauss has a more mainstream style than I prefer, hasn’t attained a certain sophistication in sound design, and is sometimes unimaginative in terms of harmony and structure (as much of the shoegazer-influenced plinkerpop from that period tends to be), but this track has a lot of the characteristics I’m talking about:

1. Pandiatonicism, or white-key harmony: the use of diatonic scales in non-tertian ways, forming clusters and quartal/quintal chords instead of triads. Arovane does this systematically from the beginning, but in Schnauss, it’s the slow accumulation of parts that changes the harmony from tertian to pandiatonic. Whether he knows it or not, the simpler harmonies toward the bottom and their slow clouding with dissonance is a mirror of the overtone series.

2. The entire arrangement is structured to imitate the slow opening of a cutoff filter. Doing that literally is almost a cliché in post-Basic-Channel dub and techno, but with Schnauss, what creates the sound is orchestration: The constant addition of higher frequencies and registers with each added part.

3. The use of drones and clusters to create the sound of shifting overtones and mild dissonances that rub ever-so-gently, creating a sound that is hypnotic in its iridescence.

4. The deliberate addition of soft analog distortion to digital signals to give the overall sound that characteristic warmth.

I also have wistful memories of listening to Schnauss in 2001 before the second WTC Tower literally fell in front of me; before I came face to face with Shiva devouring the blesséd fallen; before galleries, museums and music stores closed all around me, and musicians, artists, choreographers and writers began to migrate to Montreal, Berlin, Paris, and Denmark; before the world divided into factions, erasing for decades that feeling of euphoric potential, which had fueled and galvanized our lives the moment before.

============

Here are Ryuichi Sakamoto and Fennesz employing a repetitive but more sophisticated version of that idea almost ten years later:

Fennesz, Sakamoto – “Abyss”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MCEnP_AWh0Q

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Here’s a far more sophisticated track by Arovane, who worked with pandiatonicism almost exclusively, not only in terms of harmony but in the melodic tendencies implied by linear parts:

Arovane: “Pub – Summer – AMX 1″

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WbfZhSECq3U

Do overlook the asinine image and description attached to the track, as this was the only instantly playable copy I could find short of uploading it myself.

This piece is the most effective of the last four examples because it avoids cliché tropes of happiness and opts for a self-sufficiency that has its own trajectory — which lends more depth to one’s sense of bliss, engages one’s intellect more actively, and steps deftly past the shallows and gaudiness of post-Love-Parade euphoria.

============

This track is even simpler and more repetitive than the Schnauss, but Hermann & Kleine are more eclectic and tasteful than he (and better musicians, as those who have heard Christian Kleine play solo guitar will attest):

Hermann & Kleine – “Wonder”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kLv_3B_H31gfmt=18

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One last track:

Arovane’s last composition as of 2004:

“Goodbye Forever”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgUCo0iu4t0

§ § § § § §

As a young classical musician, I couldn’t have listened to any of this without wincing or smirking, without craving silence. But becoming a studio musician and playing with PIL has changed me forever. I’m now able to enjoy repetitive music, especially when it is free of parasitic hooks.

Pop music is parasitic and clings to the memory. Blissful music simply dissolves.

I don’t want to have to remember simplistic ideas inadvertently. I want only to enjoy glimmering static landscapes while they last, and bask in the pearl-shade permutations of their passing.

Then to emerge, refreshed, to ride the snake of waking life.

–Robert C. Hardin

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Unfinished – A New Translation of Vladimir Mayakovsky’s Poem Fragmenthttp://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/unfinished-new-translation-of-vladimir-mayakovskys-poem-jenny-wade/ http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/unfinished-new-translation-of-vladimir-mayakovskys-poem-jenny-wade/#comments Sun, 19 Jul 2015 22:59:45 +0000 http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/?p=7526 Unfinished, a poem fragment by Vladimir Mayakovsky, discovered in M’s papers after his suicide in 1930.

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Unfinished, a poem fragment by Vladimir Mayakovsky, discovered in M’s papers after his suicide in 1930.

Любит? не любит? Я руки ломаю
и пальцы разбрасываю разломавши
так рвут загадав и пускают по маю
венчики встречных ромашек
Пускай седины обнаруживает стрижка и бритье
Пусть серебро годов вызванивает уймою
надеюсь верую вовеки не придет
ко мне позорное благоразумие

mayakovskydeathmask

Mayakovsky’s death mask

Does she love me? Doesn’t she love me? I’m wringing my hands
and scattering my broken off fingers
the way you pull petals from wayside daisies
and release them into May
to know your fortune.
Let haircuts and shaves uncover grey hair
Let the silver of years proclaim itself in masses
I hope I believe that shameful good sense
will never come to me.

–Vladimir Mayakovsky, translated by Jenny Wade

Sensitive Skin 12 available here in PDF format here for just $4.95, or get the full-color print version via Amazon and select bookstores.

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The Third Man­ – A Reviewhttp://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/the-third-man-a-review-by-franklin-mount/ http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/the-third-man-a-review-by-franklin-mount/#comments Mon, 06 Jul 2015 02:35:21 +0000 http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/?p=7520 I hurried over to Film Forum the other day (first day of the run) to see the 4K restoration of The Third Man, the great 1949 film directed by Carol Reed. Why rush to see a 65-year-old movie, especially one I’ve seen at least ten times already? What makes the long trek in from Brooklyn... Read more »

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I hurried over to Film Forum the other day (first day of the run) to see the 4K restoration of The Third Man, the great 1949 film directed by Carol Reed.

Why rush to see a 65-year-old movie, especially one I’ve seen at least ten times already? What makes the long trek in from Brooklyn worth the time and effort?

The restoration, and the chance to see it on the big screen, provided the justification. Now, sometimes restorations seem to serve as an excuse for film geeks to congregate and listen to talks given by people vaguely connected to the movie, such as the grandnephew of the director. Or to sell an expensive new DVD. Excuse me, I mean Blu-Ray, throw out your DVD, you need the new Blu-Ray. But this restoration turned out to be more than just run of the mill.

The Third Man

The restoration brings everything into a sharper focus; the shadows are darker, the contrast between light and dark is more vivid. The Vienna of The Third Man is closed in, damp, strewn with rubble, stuck in its history as a former imperial capital, its grandeur diminished, all shadows and angles, filled with sad people eking out meager livings, and haunted by the Anschluss and the nasty business after that. Reed shot many scenes at skewed angles, and this technique heightens the unease. The restoration somehow makes the skewed angles more skewed. The expressionist cinematography, by Robert Krasker (Academy Award for Best Black and White Cinematography, 1950), reminds us of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and Nosferatu, but Krasker takes us a step further here.

Anton Karas wrote the score and played the music. His zither playing (Reed discovered him in a cafe shortly after arriving in Vienna), conjures up the atmosphere of depressive and treacherous Vienna in a way that eludes explanation. I never really wanted to hear zither playing before the first time I saw this movie, and I can’t say the desire has cropped up much since that time. Except when watching The Third Man. The moment we see the instrument’s strings, moving to the theme, this powerful film begins to exert its grip. Again, the restoration makes its quality felt, as the clarity and precision of the sounds are beautiful, not just the music but the dialogue and echoing footsteps as well.

The protagonist is an American writer of pulp Westerns (The Lone Rider of Santa Fe, etc.) with a drinking problem, who falls in love too easily, and who goes by the improbable name of Holly Martins (Joseph Cotten). Martins has come to Vienna to write for a medical charity founded by his old friend, Harry Lime (Orson Welles), who seems to have met an unfortunate end, and who, we soon learn, appears to have been up to no good at all. At Lime’s funeral, we are introduced to all but one of the main players: Anna (Alida Valli), Lime’s grieving girlfriend; Major Calloway, a British military police investigator (Trevor Howard) and his subordinate, Sergeant Paine (Bernard Lee); as well as the strange and unsettling group of mitteleuropäische and Balkan schemers around Lime: “Baron” Kurtz (Ernst Deutsch), Mr. Popescu (Siegfried Breuer), and Dr. Winkel (Erich Ponto).

In spite of Major Calloway’s suggestion to Martins that he “leave death to the professionals,” Martins refuses to believe that his old friend is a scoundrel, and commences an inept but dangerous investigation. As Martins blunders along, trying to fix a world that refuses to be fixed, Lime’s friends in turn each play Martins like a violin. Soon Martins finds himself under threat, and Major Calloway decides to open his eyes. “This isn’t Santa Fe. I’m not a sheriff, and you aren’t a cowboy.” And Lime’s racket, a perverse reversal of healing, is ghastly.

Graham Greene wrote the screenplay, based on a novella he wrote first, originally not intended for publication. In it, Martins and Lime were English, and Popescu was an American named Cooler. The change in nationalities in the film reflects Greene’s views on Americans. Greene, a MI6 agent as well as a novelist, viewed the decline of the British Empire and the rise of the American one with dismay, and Americans as either bumbling or calculating. A convert to Catholicism, Greene viewed our world’s state as God’s will, and any attempt to interfere as futile and likely to be destructive. The correct way to live is to uphold one’s duty, no matter how unpleasant. Like Major Calloway.

In Martins we get Greene’s idea of an American intellectual, a writer of dime novels with titles such as Death at Double X Ranch. Well meaning, but clueless, Martins’ investigation gets a witness murdered. He is the classic naive American, who wants to be loved and thinks everyone in the world is an American inside, just dying to get out. Greene would develop this theme further in The Quiet American (1956), long before the world would hear of My Lai. Lime is Martins’ flipside: the venal and amoral American, who exploits the world’s miseries and misfortunes for profit.

The only important player not introduced at the start is Harry Lime (Orson Welles). Welles’ entrance comes over halfway through the movie, when light from a window chances upon his face, and from that point on, he owns the film. Welles’ face goes from blank indifference, to mild surprise at his own lack of discretion, to an ineffable expression that is somewhat a smirk, somewhat a sympathetic smile, but not quite either.

This Orson Welles is not the slim young man from the Mercury Theatre; he’s put on a few extra pounds since his War of the World radio broadcast days, but he’s not yet the bloated, self-hating shell of A Touch of Evil. You’re not likely to see a more charming and articulate sociopath. Welles himself wrote the best lines of what is a very smart screenplay, the famous “Cuckoo Clock” speech:

“You know what the fellow said—in Italy, for thirty years under the Borgias, they had warfare, terror, murder and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland, they had brotherly love, they had five hundred years of democracy and peace—and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.”

Brilliant and unforgettable, one of the all-time classic snippets of cinematic dialogue. Who cares that it’s not even true? The Swiss are forever pointing out that they didn’t even invent the cuckoo clock. No one cares.

It’s worth remembering that Welles was slumming to make this movie, and even went awol during the filming, and had to be tracked down. After The Magnificent Ambersons, Welles was persona non grata in Hollywood, at least as a director of anything he might want to direct. This was a “pay the bills” assignment. A great mind, relegated to the sidelines. And you can’t take your eyes off him.

The film is set just as the Cold War was getting underway, and our project to save the world, still continuing, was just getting started. So much of what would go so wrong was foreshadowed by this simple noir set in a Central European capital. Diluted penicillin is nothing compared to Agent Orange, and what are Lime and his racketeers next to Halliburton? If you think you see a precursor of our adventure in Iraq, to rid the world of an evil dictator, bring democracy to the Middle East, and make a lot of money doing it, you’re right.

The Third Man (1949) – Directed by Carol Reed, screenplay by Graham Greene, with Joseph Cotten, Trevor Howard, Alida Valli, and Orson Welles as Harry Lime. Cinematography by Robert Krasker. Music by Anton Karas. A Rialto Pictures Release. Restored in 4K by Deluxe Restoration, on behalf of Studiocanal, from a fine grain master positive struck from the original negative,

Showtimes: Playing at Film Forum in NYC through Thursday, July 9. Opening at the Nuart, Los Angeles, Friday, July 3, through Thursday, July 9. For other showings around the country, through the end of August: http://www.rialtopictures.com/third.html

The Third Man, review by Franklin Mount

Sensitive Skin 12 available here in PDF format here for just $4.95, or get the full-color print version via Amazon and select bookstores.

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Nostalgia and Heartbreak in Kim Gordon’s ‘Girl In A Band’ ­ – A Reviewhttp://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/kim-gordons-girl-in-a-band-%c2%ad-a-review-by-jc-gonzo/ http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/kim-gordons-girl-in-a-band-%c2%ad-a-review-by-jc-gonzo/#comments Wed, 01 Jul 2015 04:11:12 +0000 http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/?p=7515 I began and finished Kim’s memoir in the NYC subway, catching glimpses of her life and self­reflection between hectic transfers, rushing to make my next engagement. I missed a couple of stops, too focused to be bothered. G​irl In A Band​was engrossing. A photo in the book of Kim riding the subway some decades ago turned reading into an experience.

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I began and finished Kim Gordon’s memoir in the NYC subway, catching glimpses of her life and self ­reflection between hectic transfers, rushing to make my next engagement. I missed a couple of stops, too focused to be bothered. G​irl In A Band ​was engrossing. A photo in the book of Kim riding the subway some decades ago turned reading into an experience. I had her scrawl a star on it as an autograph when I caught her book tour stop in Albuquerque. Her scathing take on the gentrified, current ­day NYC as compared to a more opportune past reshaped the urban landscape I was navigating. Memories that were not mine sparked introspection as an artist in my mid­-20s. I compared and contrasted experiences, resources, eras, histories, perspectives, as I often do when learning the details of an hero/ine’s burgeoning sense of self. It asserts a time and place, a context for my own growth in a digital age where culture’s past, present, and future are simultaneously ingested. Kim paints a transgressive Southern Californian landscape, a seedy New York City, and small town quaintness through her and her contemporaries’ output. Charles Manson, psychedelics, low ­income living, shifting art world climates, and some good fortune serve as an undercurrent through her bi­coastal track.

kim-gordon-memoir

As she’s mentioned along her book tour, a principle of her unconventional memoir was “no sex, drugs or rock’n’roll,” which is not completely true and perhaps tongue ­in ­cheek to diffuse certain expectations. Drugs, sexuality, and fast living all play a large role for the Sonic Youth frontwoman but its presentation is perhaps more mature than what nefarious tell­ all rockstar memoirs typically bring. G​irl In A Band​ is a vulnerable and intimate view of Kim’s life, offsetting her otherwise distant and mysterious air. Childhood conflicts and triumphs intrinsic to an artist’s process are catalogued, her immediate family life and the origins of co­dependent tendencies examined. Performance artist Linda Montano stresses the influences of childhood throughout her career, conducting interviews and performances that asked others “what was your relationship with…” or “how did you feel about … as a child?” Sex, food, death, anything would be up for discussion, all being equally relevant. In the early chapters Kim opens up about her schizophrenic brother in a both loving and biting light as his electric charisma was set off by sadistic tendencies and general instability. “I worshipped my brother […] But he was vicious to me throughout our childhood…” Kim recalls. Each tidbit that informed her now informs her listeners exploring her repertoire. Teenage and 20­something romances with various emerging stars are a fun highlight of the book. So is her retelling of the early days with Thurston. Of course, this will lead to heartbreak and we are granted a private window into Kim’s speculation on how or why their 27-­year marriage recently came to an end. She asks many questions, trailing off on open­-ended speculation familiar to a grieving lover. “Why did I trust him, or assume I knew anything at all about him?”

I was in NYC to attend the Hacking Feminism symposium at The New School and to take a look at the controversial Bjork exhibit at MoMA. Bjork’s V​ulnicura​record documents a
post­breakup emotional arc filled with questions similar to those asked by Kim. The cultural space for women is slim, leading to a history of unfair and unwarranted comparison between disparate artists. However, it was hard to ignore this odd synchronicity I was experiencing between the unfiltered aching from Bjork’s voice and Kim’s words on the page. Ultimately, their brave laments draw us into humanizing self ­portraits. “People pay money to see others believe in themselves,” Greil Marcus stated, a quote Kim uses to frame her own introduction into performance and fearlessness. Kim carries a sense of pride that allows her to recount her faults, tragedies, and insecurities so that she triumphs. Along with this comes a self respect that steers her critique on the countless seminal alt figures she’s crossed paths with. For instance, Courtney Love and Kurt Cobain. Kurt is a recurring figure in the book, a timely ode although she’s done so in the past by doing things like appearing in Gus Van Sant’s L​ast Days.​ Press driven by scandal honed in on the harsh words given to Courtney but mostly overlooked its context and Kim’s conditional praise given to the difficult musician she once collaborated with. She pays her cautious respects to Lydia Lunch, repeatedly. The only portion that felt more like bad­ mouthing than deserved judgement was her notorious statement on Lana Del Rey, as deciding the level of which another woman understands feminism takes a good deal of assumption.

Still, if anyone’s an authority on feminism in music culture, Kim is high on the list. The riot grrrl corporate theft that happened with 90s pop divas and the adopted “Girl Power” slogan is recounted along with the struggles of being in the spotlight. “I didn’t want to […] act out the role of an imaginary female, someone who had more to do with them than with me.” The politics of entertainment, female agency, visibility, and exploitation are suggestedly more complex that what audiences may receive. Kim’s rise as a fashion icon surprised her, as her unusual take on assemblage didn’t fit with any of the trends through the 80s or 90s until she set them herself through a co-­owned label, X­Girl. The athletic fits and ringer t’s they brought to the table appeared to define an era of indie rock precision with a touch of nonchalance. The male gaze directing choices on Sonic Youth’s image or even how they took positions on stage is discussed, the scrutiny was intense and expectations were high. Her own look comes through, leading to even more of a focus as a female amidst a group of men. “There was a popular look at the time, ­­the vintage dress, the makeup ­­that just wasn’t me, nor was that the way people dressed in the art world.”

Personally, I find the term “queer” includes a broad sense of outsider status, a spectrum of non­heteronormative thinkers who are allies regardless of their sexual orientation. Kim and her surrounding universe have been there for queers in the philosophical and sexual sense. NYC based performance artist Penny Arcade stated in an interview, “The queer world was built generation by generation on a tradition fueled by a sense of responsibility to pass on history and information.” There is a looming doom about the commodified art/music world that creeps through. Danger can be lacking in today’s venues, though not totally erased. NYC like the rest of alternative culture was bought out, something Kim and Penny and many others have noted. As a young artist looking for a place as romantic as my hero/ine’s pasts, I was initially frustrated with the lack of solutions offered. But, haven’t they offered enough? Kim and company have provided spiritual solutions throughout their careers and at some point the new generation must forge their own path. Despite the cultural landscape being different, there’s much to be gained from hearing the previous generation’s voices. A frightful ignorance emerges with tuning out the past, as Penny Arcade also said “…the mono­generationalism that has supplanted the inter­generationalism of former decades is appalling.” For example, a Sonic Youth tour with Neil Young accounts for a valuable portion of the book, clearly a pivotal moment for both their careers.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4a2st3lNztA

Read between the lines and G​irl In A Band ​will take you past the even-­tempered delivery. Kim states her interest in “disguising subversion under a benign exterior” several times, whether it be discussing a Sonic Youth album cover, another band like The Raincoats, or even just a fashion sense. Radicalism can exist and thrive in this state and infiltrate with greater efficiency. She describes the cover of D​aydream Nation​ as a trojan horse and it seems she’s operated much of her life this way. We are all probably as tired of hearing the “what’s it like to be a girl in a band” type question as much as she is, and while this makes Girl In A Band​ a fitting title, her interest in male bonding is also a huge factor. “Male Bonding” was even a potential name for Sonic Youth. Her V​illage Voice ​diary column “Boys Are Smelly” was an observational account of touring with Sonic Youth in the center of male creative exchange. “In retrospect, that’s why I joined a band, so I could be inside that male dynamic, not staring in through a closed window but looking out,” she claims, and her style of writing holds that perspective as the Sonic Youth years slide by and lead us back into her ailing marriage. She is as compassionate as frank when it comes to her and Thurston’s divorce. The memoir feels spurred by this jolting event, and although gratified by the behind-­the­scenes details I can’t help but wonder how differently her story might have been told. Would it have been told at all? Her admiration for Coco, her daughter, is endearing and are the most heartfelt pages of the book. At one point she secretly watches her teenage daughter performing in a band and we catch glimmers of hope for a bright future.

–Kim Gordon’s Girl In A Band, review by JC Gonzo

Sensitive Skin 12 available here in PDF format here for just $4.95, or get the full-color print version via Amazon and select bookstores.

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Goodfellas – 25th Anniversary Restoration – A Reviewhttp://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/goodfellas-25th-anniversary-4k-restoration-review-franklin-mount/ http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/goodfellas-25th-anniversary-4k-restoration-review-franklin-mount/#comments Fri, 26 Jun 2015 04:46:03 +0000 http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/?p=7512 Spoiler alert: This movie is fairly violent, it’s well over two hours long, and everyone has already seen it.

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Spoiler alert: This movie is fairly violent, it’s well over two hours long, and everyone has already seen it.

New York, June, 1970. We see three men in a car, driving somewhere late at night, and the car is making a knocking sound. The driver asks, “What’s up? Did I hit something?” “Maybe you got a flat.” Not quite. We learn the knocking is coming from a man, thought killed, but still alive and kicking,in the trunk. Time to finish the job.

We soon find that this kind of thing is routine for these guys. Part of the fun, even, for at least two of them. These men are the three main players: Jimmy “Jimmy the Gent” Conway (Robert DeNiro), Tommy DeVito (Joe Pesci), and the film’s anti-hero, Henry Hill (Ray Liotta). We will shortly meet the man who oversees the lot, Paulie Cicero (Paul Sorvino).

goodfellas

Flashback to the anti-hero, as a boy, in East New York, 1955. “For as long as I can remember I always wanted to be a gangster… To be a gangster was to own the world.” Voiceover, yes, but it works, as it functions as part of the story, not as an exposition device to do the audience’s work for them.

We see the Mob lifestyle and its incredible attraction, starting with the thirteen-year-old Henry Hill’s job, parking the wiseguys’ cars at the cabstand across the street from his house. “Wiseguys would pull up and Tuddy would let me park their Cadillacs… I was part of something… I belonged.” His teen fashion statement, presented at the front door, showing his new suit and shiny shoes to his mother. “What do you think? Aren’t my shoes great?” His horrified mother looks him over, finishing with the shoes, “You look like a gangster.” That’s the point.

At that time, there was little check on organized crime, back when J. Edgar Hoover denied the existence of the Mafia, and the “G-man in a G-String” (Vanity Fair, ca. 1993), preferred investigating a handful of Communists to cracking down on hordes of mobsters. “It was a glorious time. And wiseguys were all over the place. It was before Apalachin and before Crazy Joe decided to take on a boss and start a war.” A visit to the Copa doesn’t involve waiting in line or playing a cover charge. Hill and his girlfriend enter through the back door and proceed through the kitchen, in a long, single take, now almost as famous as the opening of Touch of Evil. Henry tips everyone twenty bucks along the way (and $20 was real money back then), and a waiter places a table on the floor, in front of everyone else. “For us to live any other way was nuts. To us, those goody-good people who worked shitty jobs for bum paychecks … were dead. If we wanted something we just took it.”

And it was all done dressed in expensive suits, shirts with exaggerated collars, loud ties, and really shiny shoes.

But we soon see that there is not a lot of honor among these thieves. This is not The Godfather. A restaurant that catered to gangsters is taken over by those same gangsters, “busted out,” milked dry, and burned to the ground. We see double-crosses, and hits on those who enabled big scores. There are killings over minor insults.

Hovering in the background, keeping it all together, lurked the threat of death. “Murder was the only way everybody stayed in line. You got out of line, you got whacked. …. Shooting people was a normal thing.”

But the threat of being whacked is nothing compared to a bigger if far less glamorous force, the federal government, which can protect and send a witness anywhere, without jail time, under a new name, the only price being, “I have to wait around like everyone else. Can’t even get decent food…right after I got here, I ordered some spaghetti with marinara sauce, and I got egg noodles with ketchup. I’m an average nobody. I get to live the rest of my life like a schnook, a nobody.”

So, why “Witness Protection Program”? After Apalachin, after Vilachi, even the aging FBI chief had to admit that there really was a Mafia. In 1970 Congress passed the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act (RICO), which included provisions for protecting Mob turncoats by setting them up with new identities far away from the scenes of their crimes. On some level, the powers that be, who had allowed organized crime to flourish, decided that this thing had to come to an end. Too much power. This country is not big enough for both of us. The prosecutions took a decade to really get going, starting in the ’80s, and it’s no accident that this occurred just as the United States was embarking on its love affair with the stock market. Apply RICO to Wall Street? That’s oppressive interference with the free market!

And so wiseguy after wiseguy is sent to federal prison for long terms, and the remnants adapt by getting lowkey. No more attracting attention. No more shiny suits and shoes. Gym clothes, even shorts, become the preferred fashion, and it’s not a statement.

Scorsese’s choices for the soundtrack are brilliant. He didn’t hire a composer, it’s entirely found music. His only rule was that the song had to comment on the action onscreen “in an oblique way” and must have existed at the time.

The music progresses from pleasant, happy, upbeat ’50s schlock to the dark and ironic music of the late Sixties. We first hear Rags to Riches, followed soon by Can’t We Be Sweethearts, backing up the allure of the gangster life to the young Hill. The speed at which the songs come increases as the movie becomes darker. We see Hill dealing coke (and snorting his share) behind his boss’s back to the tune of Gimme Shelter. Sunshine of Your Love plays while Jimmy contemplates a killing. (The look in DeNiro’s eyes in this scene alone is worth the price of admission.) Monkey Man serves as background for paranoid (but well-founded) fear of a helicopter, and the insanity of addiction. We hearLayla while children playing under a highway discover two victims of a hit in their Cadillac, propped up in the front seat for all the world to see, bloody faces on display, blood smeared on the sticker.

So why see Goodfellas again? Because this film demands to be seen on the big screen.

Goodfellas (1990), directed by Martin Scorsese, screenplay by Martin Scorsese and Nicholas Pileggi, with Robert DeNiro, Joe Pesci, Ray Liotta, Paul Sorvino, and Lorraine Bracco.

–review by Franklin Mount

Sensitive Skin 12 available here in PDF format here for just $4.95, or get the full-color print version via Amazon and select bookstores.

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Poetry Month Release Reading at Bowery Poetry Club, 5-17-15http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/poetry-month-release-reading/ http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/poetry-month-release-reading/#comments Sun, 24 May 2015 22:20:41 +0000 http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/?p=7508 To celebrate the release of Sensitive Skin #12, the Poetry Month special, we had a reading at the Bowery Poetry Club in NYC. About half of the published poets were able to make it. It was a lot of fun, but if you weren’t there, here’s the next best thing. (Thanks to Hal Hirshorn for... Read more »

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To celebrate the release of Sensitive Skin #12, the Poetry Month special, we had a reading at the Bowery Poetry Club in NYC. About half of the published poets were able to make it. It was a lot of fun, but if you weren’t there, here’s the next best thing. (Thanks to Hal Hirshorn for filming it.)

NormanBPCReading-5-17-15

John S. Hall reads Owls.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_M4HxH7AnAg

Ron Kolm reads 8th Street Station (Yin-Yang).

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sOgO4rCLQ8U

Your host, Bernard Meisler, recounts an amusing subway anecdote that happened on his way to the show.

Pete Simonelli reads What Friends Say.

Bob Holman “reads” an extemporaneous version of Sing This One Back to Me (which is completely different than the version that appeared in the magazine.)

Sparrow reads (very slowly) Poetry Toys. Way to make it last Sparrow!

steve dalachinsky talks about blow jobs and Mayakovsky then finally reads the perfect child.

Wanda Phipps reads Swallow the Evidence.

Max Blagg reads Some of My Friends.

Rob Hardin reads For an Infant in the Throes of a Fatal Condition.

Rebecca Weiner Tompkins reads Landscape with a Bear in It Somewhere.

Carl Watson reads Kiss of Kind.

John Farris reads Call Up.

Norman Douglas reads off on grand boulevard.

Michael Carter reads Suspect Device.

To wrap it up, Steve Dalachinsky reads It Is Not Here on Earth What I Am Seeking by the late great Jack Micheline.

You can read all 30 poems and check out the beautiful artwork from our Poetry Month special here. Now be nice and go buy a copy – – yeah you, I’m talking to you – see that link below? – go ahead and click it and you will be delivered to a garden of earthly delights.

Sensitive Skin 12 available here in PDF format here for just $4.95, or get the full-color print version via Amazon and select bookstores.

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Poetry Month, 2015http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/poetry-month-2015/ http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/poetry-month-2015/#comments Fri, 01 May 2015 18:19:04 +0000 http://sensitiveskinmagazine.com/?p=7498 Poems by John S. Hall, Bonny Finberg, JD King, Emily XYZ, Marc Olmsted, Jack Micheline, Jose Padua, Michael Randall, Ron Kolm, Pete Simonelli, Sean Flaherty, Bob Holman, Hal Sirowitz, Sparrow, steve dalachinsky, Wanda Phipps, Eddie Woods, Max Blagg, Larissa Shmailo, Rob Hardin, Rebecca Weiner Tompkins, Ron Richardson, Carl Watson, John Farris, David Rattray, Norman Douglas, Sharon Mesmer, Taylor Mead, Michael Carter, Vladimir Mayakovsky.

Art by Rick Prol, Charles Gatewood, Justine Frischmann, Stephen Lack, Justin Clifford Rhody, Marina Loeb, Ruby Ray, Hal Hirshorn, Dennis Gordon, Charles Schick, Ted Barron, Joseph O’Neal, Leslie Hardie, David West, Peter Shear, Evelyn Bencicova, Chris Bava, Tom McGlynn, Clinton King, Samoa Moriki, David de Biasio, Jeff Spirer, Jean-Christian Bourcart, Daniel Kolm, Kym Ghee, Liz Kresch, Jonathan Cowan, John Lurie, and Henner Schroeder.

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What a Poetry Month it’s been! Special thanks to Winston Smith for the back cover. Here’s links to all 30 posts:

April 1 – John S. Hall and Rick Prol
April 2 – Bonny Finberg and Charles Gatewood
April 3 – JD King
April 4 – Emily XYZ and Henner Schröder
April 5 – Marc Olmsted and Jonathan Cowan
April 6 – Jack Micheline and John Lurie
April 7 – Jose Padua and Liz Kresch
April 8 – Michael Randall and Kym Ghee
April 9 – Ron Kolm and Daniel Kolm
April 10 – Pete Simonelli and Jean-Christian Bourcart
April 11 – Sean Flaherty and Jeff Spirer
April 12 – Bob Holman and David de Biasio
April 13 – Hal Sirowitz and Clinton King
April 14 – Sparrow and Samoa Moriki
April 15 – steve dalachinsky and Tom McGlynn
April 16 – Wanda Phipps and Chris Bava
April 17 – Eddie Woods and Evelyn Bencicova
April 18 – Max Blagg and Peter Shear
April 19 – Larissa Shmailo and David West
April 20 – Rob Hardin and Leslie Hardie
April 21 – Rebecca Weiner Tompkins and Joseph O’Neal
April 22 – Ron Richardson and Ted Barron
April 23 – Carl Watson and Charles Schick
April 24 – John Farris and Dennis Gordon
April 25 – David Rattray and Hal Hirshorn
April 26 – Norman Douglas and Ruby Ray
April 27 – Sharon Mesmer and Marina Loeb
April 28 – Taylor Mead and Stephen Lack
April 29 – Michael Carter and Justin Clifford Rhody
April 30 – Vladimir Mayakovsky (translated by Jenny Wade) and Justine Frischmann

Sensitive Skin 12 available here in PDF format here for just $4.95, or get the full-color print version via Amazon and select bookstores.

Lie-WinstonSmith_600 Poetry Month

“Barking up the Wrong Tree (LIE)” © Winston Smith 2008

Sensitive Skin 12 available here in PDF format here for just $4.95, or get the full-color print version via Amazon and select bookstores.

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