November 30th, 2016
– You know how he tends to become at the last leg of hangover…
– Don‘t dare say son! I swear I can‘t take it anymore.
– Oh, no, Zigmund, I‘ll save you a kidney – you have on left, don‘t you? I‘ll to that this time.
– You better. You better, wise old man. Right?
– Yes yes, as you say, godwilling.
– Hey, both of you, something‘s coming!
– Look, a squirrel!
– Nah, Ziggy, somebody‘s bigger, I go check. Though duly noted.
Jozef smiles as he walks slowly to the hole.
– Damn this young one, he gets to talk, get it? I mean no offense, but I know you right through all the words, Woyzeck, right through all this time.
– I do, Zigmund, godwilling he‘ll tell us something. As he always does.
– How about godwailing, Woyzeck? It‘s not the real thing, isn‘t it?
– I guess not. Still, better than nothing.
– Why you go to the hole? I mean, after you stopped looking for oil, what do you do there? Haven‘t seen you bring back nothing. Or talk, ha.
– I talk.
– You do?!
– I do, not to the animals, sadly.
– What then?
– Well, it‘s difficult to explain…
– But godwilling, Woyzeck, godwilling.
– Fuck you, Zigmund.
– I wish.
– I bet you do, you drunk little shit.
– Ok ok, no need to rile up, old – wise – man, forget I asked. Josy there, he will tell with no greed.
Woyzeck sighs as he stands up and goes deeper into the desert.
– Who was it this time, Joe?
– You didn‘t see?
– Nope, was arguing with that cranky old man.
– Bout what?
– Nothing, that life, is all.
– Not left?
– A woman.
– From another desert she said she was. She said, if you look at the sky, you can see her eyes.
– Yeah, that‘s what she said, and when I asked what did those eyes see, she said, the dying of unmoving and the ascendance of the thirsty.
– Dude, Joe almighty, why is it that they all speak in riddles?!
– I don‘t know, maybe it‘s just us, who been here long, that have forgotten how to hear them.
– Yeah, right.
– Not left?
Zigmund spits like a camel.
– Here‘s a suggestion – how about next time you try and not indulge them poesies, just cut straight to the chase and ask them something simple.
– Like what?
– Like why the fuck we are here?!
Jozef starts laughing.
– Ziggy, my friend, how about I ask you the same?
– Why we are here?
– Not what I asked.
– Oh, sorry, my bad. Why the fuck we are here?!
– We are here, Joe almighty – by the way, do you like that name?
– Not your best. Think I‘d prefer Joe your highness.
– Ok, Johannes, as I was saying, we are here…
– Jozef! Zigmund!
– What the heck?!
– What‘s happening, Woyzeck?!
– Come here, quickly. Faster! Look, look! Not at the finger, you fools!
– Can‘t see nothing.
– Yes, Woyzeck, what is it?
– Don‘t you see it?! Further, meeting the horizon.
– Still nothing.
– Look, look there – a squirrel!
– O h m y g o d, couldn‘t have done one of your – dare I say – groundbreaking stand ups at the better time. Aplause, ladies and gentlemen. Johannes, drop the curtain!
– Why Johannes?
– It doesn‘t matter, father superior, don‘t lose the way for the path, or whatever the fuck that‘s supposed to be. I‘m done with y ‘ a l l for the night.
Jozef, having had not properly stopped stopped laughing.
– Ziggy, Ziggy, you haven‘t finished – so why we are here?
Zigmund strolling to the farthest end of the pole.
– For the fuck of it.
– Yeah, I will keep on indulging them their metaphors, Zigmund, ok with you?
– Whatver floats your boat, Joshy, if you get my drift.
– So what was that about Johannes, and who did you talk today to?
– Ah, not important, and – I did talk to a woman as a matter of fact.
Woyzeck, suddenly at ease.
– What was her name?
– Fatima, I think, or Athena, couldn‘t clearly make through the accent.
– Strange, that doesn‘t seem to have been a problem for you before.
– You‘re right. Maybe it was something else, like the noise of the desert.
Zigmund from the end of the pole.
– Don‘t need to shout, the pole is not that long.
– If we are going for the celestial names, my pick is Carmen. You wanna know why?
– We know, we know.
In unison say Jozef and Woyzeck, sitting down.
– Pass a whisky, Ziggy. Son?
The workers sit, sipping whisky from the bottle. From time to time moving closer to and farther from each other, as the night unanimously and relentlessly approaches their stomachs.
November 17th, 2016
Too much sunshine as three workers rest on an iron pole in a middle of an American desert.
One is polish, and, accordingly, goes by the name of Wozzeck, or, if more national, Wojciech. For
the sake of spelling economy and cultural integrity he will be referred to as Woyzeck.
Opposite of the jolly Pole, but still on the iron pole, sits his friend, companion and contradiction – a
Lithuanian welder, known by his national name Zigmas, whom, in order to humour his most read
writer, I will call Zigmund – keeping a Z for the aforementioned cultural integrity.
Walking in front of them we find a third worker, who, knowing neither his origin nor established
nominal preferences, will be called different names due to the requirements of situation , arising in
the course of a story.
For the inaugural naming I‘ll ascribe him name of Jozef – with a Z , the first reason being all too
often stated inclination for cultural integrity, the second, and much more important, the
elusiveness of historical – as well as metaphysical – meaning throughlying this name – the earthly
father of Jesus, the dictator, known for starving his broes and foes, the greatest propagandist and
last but not least, the most famous character of modern literature to have never had a chance at a
The reasons that brought – or, shall we say, collected – them here are of obscure nature to all of
Woyzeck thinks it is a duty that graciously befell them. To Zigmund it all boils down to simple
fuck knows, while Jozef neither questions nor cares to react to the underlying unknown of their
Whether it is related to the proximity of a black hole situated twelve times twelve yards to the side
of one end of a pole, is not clear. However it might be, the hole is there and has been so for as
long they remember. While the length of their memories might be quite untrustworthy – due to the
propensity, very workmanlike, of the trio to drink – the scope of the memories is vast and rich.
Woyzeck remembers having had poured oil, that he had found some few miles down the desert,
into the hole. Zigmund states that all the alcohol they‘ve come up with, was brought by and
through the hole. Jozef regularly finds some animals, at times even human ones, residing close to
the hole, and takes time to talk to them. Both Zigmund and Woyzeck are unable to understand the
languages the animals use, though they swear they see them, maybe just to assure Jozef his sanity.
If it‘s not obvious yet, Zigmund is short and stout, sporting a beard – the attribute he shares with
tall and and on the slim side Woyzeck and a round, but not fat, middle heighted Jozeph. The
physical differences in body compositions of workers are evenmoreso highlighted by the fact that
due to time and very little desire for upkemptness beards of the men are very alike: the sort that is
dense at the roots and rarified at the ends.
Jozeph, being the youngest of three, likes to refer to Woyzeck papi. Generally it is met with
unnoticing acceptance, though at times of hungovery anxiety Zigmund throws a small tantrum and
starts calling Jozef a bastard. Woyzeck, the most polite and intelligently inclined, refers to Jozef as
son, whenever he senses that the young one needs support, which – the sense- is the case quite
frequent. Zigmund, becoming the middle man, tends to vacate the conversation, and wait at the
hole for a bottle of cheap, yet priceless, whisky.
October 19th, 2016
“If there was a recipe for a dream team then the ingredients would probably just consist of Marrach , Bad Poet & Chtin Mara as with this collaboration they will for sure leave a long lasting psychological audio impression; in fact I was so impressed that someone needed to press me out – back to my normal human form.
Seriously what these three people had created here will be very worth to dump your ears in; it’s damningly original and with that comes not only joy, but also inspiration. These three collaborators are basically muses waiting for you to be inspired by!
You really should just hear it with your own ears, but as you are clearly still here with me, let me try to explain a bit what you could expect when going for this very interesting release. It’s pretty weird, but it’s a very cool kind of weird, they call it ‘trip-step’ but it’s hard to define what and if there is a real genre out there covering such blend of thrilling stuff.
I’m not entirely sure who is responsible for what on this release, making it basically a bit like the three musketeers; all for one and one for all. I guess the bad poet is providing the vocal narrative within these tracks. Think of the awesomeness of the story telling of Linton Kwesi Johnson’s ‘bass culture’ but then entirely played out in an autistic aural scape in a psychologically twisted, probably psychotic artistic brain. Think of brilliance that is fairly touched and coughed up by a world of imagination. It is pretty much the best you will probably hear all day!
The bad poet voice has this calmly over it, sophisticated, insane, coming from all kind of ways, whispering horniness and details about voyages of surviving with anxiety. His words seem to be manipulated with machinery, making it even more paranoid and fun; I’ll tell you that it will be a very exciting listen when you tune into this collaboration of the brilliant (or insane?) muses.
Music wise you will be in for such a original ride. think of unexpectedness, raw freedom, manipulations, poetry. Schizophrenic beats, sexiness, super round belly of bass, a blend of love, a touch if passion, sickness, psychotic epic episodes, artistic darkness, a wonderful curse, deep distress, hyped up freaky moments, whispery times, rhythms to die for, bass to fall on your knees for. Dirty thoughts, horny horns, whooping buildups, low lying voodoo vibes…. The list goes on & on…
The artists provided some track details that I would like to share with you, as I believe they are quite helpful in getting an idea of ehat they are about.
“‘habitus poeticus’ on eternal male poet obsession with parts of female
body and the imagined physics of its potential for delivering the existence
from its conflicts.”
Music wise you could expect drum, rhythm and super sexy weirdness drooling over hour glass shapes with out of the blue round sounding bass that are setting the shapes and sizes of the obsessed and imagined body parts. It’s like listening to real life fantasies popping up out of the poet’s mouth accompanied by dominant whooping horns and thrilling undertones. What could and would the poet and friend do to something they are so obsessed with if they ever get the permission to engage in these feelings? Somehow I see them here channeling the characters of Clockwork Orange.
‘*in lexus eternum’ – is about dealing with anxiety and panic (lexotanil is ananti-anxiety drug).*
This track is a marvelous tool for people who do not suffer from anxiety to actually go through an anxiety episode in music form. It’s of course a must hear (being insanely intense and a somewhat educational experience). From the beginning you can hear the anxiety kicking in; you feel the fear of opening the door and stepping into the world that waits outside with its people. It gets expressed with carefully brought frightening details making you feel like a panicked person looking left and right from paranoia.
Luckily the pills are kicking in (making the world smaller as it is) and they sound so cool and jazzy; the drug is like a blessing making the anxiety going away. Like this the music is ready to face the night and nothing will stop it until a panic attack kicks in once again and you’ll wake up from an unconsciousness state somewhere on a unknown floor. Don’t poop your panties as this insane psychedelic psychological jazz attack is intensive and cool at the same time!
“‘amor sonus’ – based on opening theme of e.varese’s ‘arcana’ and build around the story of his life (including quotes i found of his)”
It is like an autistic psychedelic story told by voice, brass and drum. It’s bringing a wicked feel into its storytelling of the highest order, think of a energy that is sleek and full of slick brewing horn sections. Material that can be easily used for blowing up the premises with miraculous drumming and melodious surprises that roll exceptionally! It’s dope for the aural lovers!
“‘de corpora mali’ – of body as space/place for things that are alien, but also can transform it.”
This one is filled with deep expression, dark undertones & worldly barks of slow mysterious banter. Think of electrocution through bass and walking through the mountain like an elephant. Yes, that’s right: Walking THROUGH a mountain. It’s like hearing an grotesque alien unfamiliar with the boundaries that we experience here on earth.
“‘argumentum humanum’ – of continuous dark blue history of human movement around the existential hole, which is – being disconnected and yearning for community.”
Uh… I mean this description should probably tell you all that you need to know! You are dealing here with indescribable (but hearable!) awesomeness at its original finest! Highly recommend to tune in / download freely through any of the following options:
September 12th, 2016
“Piano Attic is Martinas Rakshtinas aka Martin Rach`s another issue from the year of 2016 (Late Autumn Quartets, Winter Quartets,Fall Quartets were issued before it). The Lithuanian musician’s 2-piece composition, especially the title track used to draw upon piano-driven experiments where are represented a pile of broken, ragged chords being subjugated to the force of electronic algorithms. The soundscape is a slow-motion one where any of the chords used to have enough free space around to be amplified and progress into another second of time. Of course, because of that the issue is slightly lethargic and even dreamy. It is built on a simple base, where the keys are disguised by electronic effects at a part extent. In a word, the title track is a case of the transmission and modification though sounds. The second track The Portrait of a Lame Man starts off differently with faint glaring droning being saturated with skipping “errors, which later will be complemented by lone piano chords. By listening to it one can see ghosts coming from the attic, from the slots of an old piano. The more you listening to it the more you can hear the music sounding like a dropping piano, which in turn is transposed and as if moving further and back spasmodically. In a word, the result is intriguing and playful. ”
July 25th, 2016
“As the title suggests explicitly the whole consists of 4 compositions. It is a notch in a series of seasonal quartets. It’s a peculiar issue where different and intriguing facets and methods in music are juxtaposed against each other. Martin Rach, the artist from Lithuania uses various instruments (metalophone, zither, kalimba, bongos, Korg Volca bass) and at times special treatments for those ones. More profoundly, improvised noise, droning scalloping and ambient hisses are the follow-ups to lone string plucking the outing started with in fact. Furthermore, there are represented a bunch of grey, superimposed areas of sound thereby providing two folded sonic appearances. The issue comprises some definitive turns – from exquisite stringed and glockenspiel-tinged arrangements (at least they used to sound in that way) to rough and strident synthesiser-based shows (at Raving Threads); from new weird-esque folk tunes to pummelling yet variegated noise beams to ear piercing droning (at Root Architexture). In spite of it throughout the course the listener can perceive the determined direction on these diverse elements. Indeed, it is not chaotic it is expertly built up. It is a pre-eminent issue indeed.”
April 16th, 2016
February 19th, 2016
January 10th, 2016
December 14th, 2015
October 17th, 2015
All the languages identify me. Even the loving ones. Especially the loving ones. Devour me, unidentifiably inclined. Must use words without language. Must demand for words outside languages.
Otherwise, hands down, neck down – you can’t see me in my sands. Oh, you violent lovers and haters, brothers and sisters, mothers, fathers, friends who are too sober to lose your tongues in the foreign border zones.
When I close my eyes, I see war. When I open them, you nail me where you want me at. Between war and martyrdom I’m neither torn, nor released.
Switch that light, get me a rainbow that changes all the colours. Inverse inverse. Ride it, my pony.
Fucked up by wars and stalked naked by your knowing where I am nailed at, I lay onto concrete roads and pavements. The leaves of weed that crack it, enter me, unidentifiably inclined, through my holes, light and dark ones, ease up into my bones – I know the sky for a moment (….) it rains.
Won’t close my eyes for the warlords, half close them for the lovers and the haters, that – for reasons unintelligible – have disguised themselves in the drops that drop the rain.
I know the sky.
Through the weed pupils I am a master of unidentifiable inclinations, declaring now – once and for naught – the time of no one, which will be unlanguageable and date-free, thus exempt from murder and caress, that permeats all thornless things.