"Mysterious cassette tape of area band found in hollow log."
WITH AUDIO!
Every once in a great while, an adult is given the rare chance in life to tap into their fast fading childhood curiosity. To solve a mystery, to gather clues, or at least to do something more intellectually stimulating than pouring liquor down your throat and watching television. Earlier this spring, as I was jogging at the Asylum Lake preserve in Kalamazoo's Winchill neighborhood, I happened across one of these moments.
As I trudged along trying, perhaps in vain, to get rid of the flour sack hanging off of my abdomen; I glanced down to my left when my eye caught a bright metallic object on the inside of a hollowed-out tree trunk. There it was, a real-world mystery in front of my face. Thinking it might be a hallucination, I stopped to investigate. I reached inside the log, and picked up a silver spray-painted cassette tape in a case. Once taped to the upper-side of the log, it had fallen into view - presumably just before I chanced upon it.
As I held it in my hand, the tape instantly reminded me of all the bands I've been in throughout the years, and all the cassette tapes I've recorded past bands' practice sessions on. There's something about holding a cassette tape in your hand that makes music more tangible . The single cassette tape was larger than the iPod I was listening to as I jogged. I'm beginning to wonder if kids my youngest brother's age would even be able to recognize it for what it was. Recording mix tapes, both of my own music and songs I recorded from the radio, was my favorite pastime before our family got the internet in the mid-1990's. The first cassette recording I ever made was recorded in the summer of 1994, shortly after school got out. My best friend Jon and I recorded two songs titled "Christian - Bold and Fat," and "The Tomato Soup man mines for Oyster Crackers." They were a capella tunes, accompanied by beating on pots and pans with my mother's wooden cooking spoons.
Then there's my high school punk band's rehearsal cassettes. There's the tapes I made when I got my hands on my first four-track, and even mixtapes my high school girlfriends made me. There's a giant box of cassette tapes in my closet, longing to be listened to after such long last. I'm sure you might have a few, too. There's a warmth captured on the magnetic tracks of a cassette tape, a familiarity of childhood. At least to me. To most audiophiles, the musical coloration of a cassette tape is like a pillow over the speakers. I like to listen to music on it's intended media. There was a period of time where music was made with the intent of it being listened to on a cassette deck, or with radio compression. Now we have these digital artifact-ridden, poorly-ripped, variable bit-rate, and multi-generational digital files we trade amongst each other all with the hopes we had from the beginning: to find the new sound that moves us. To grab a hold of an Artist's mind - just for those three fleeting minutes. If you're anything like me, music drives your existence. It's the sounds and the feelings and the emotion. The memories you associate with those sounds, and the feelings you work all week to chase for those weekends of freedom.
Well, someone made that music. Someone put it on that tape. Someone walked a half-mile into the woods to put it inside a hollowed-out log, and someone walked into those very same woods to find it. Someday, I'd like to find who made the music on this tape. I'd like to shake their hands for the good story, and I'd like to encourage them to live their dreams.
I made a digital copy of the entire tape, and I tried my best to clean up the quality of the audio. It was clearly recorded hastily, and without much knowledge or equipment. There's a big misconception that music is bad, or amateur, just because it isn't professionally recorded. If that's true, I should just give up right now. You have to make it from playing in your parents' garage to MTV somehow. There's a road that you take from point "A" to point "B," and that road is a long one.
So, instead of bore you with my personal story any longer, I'll give you a few highlights of the contents of the tape (I know you're all dying to know.) I'll host a few tracks on my SoundCloud account for as long as I can; and I'll update the streams if I find a better place to host from. I named the tracks myself, since I have no idea what they're called.
Here we go:
This first track is a low-key vocal track accompanied by a staccato-strummed acoustic guitar. The singer seems to be on the verge of finding his own voice in the crowd.
"Crown Set Down"
Silver Mystery Tape 01 Crown Set Down by DigiTHC
The Second track is a little more complete, with a keyboard thrown in the mix along with a drummer to tighten things up a bit.
"Cool Kids Clap"
Silver Mystery Tape 02 Cool Kids Clap by DigiTHC
The third track is probably the most polished, with a funny little skit on the intro.
"Huge Moustache"
Silver Mystery Tape 03 Huge Moustache by DigiTHC
The Silver Mystery tape was filled completely on both sides with music, most likely recorded over the course of several days. If anyone wants a digital copy of the tapes, I will be more than happy to provide them; and I should have a copy on Archive.ORG as soon as I figure out the Intellectual Property situation.
*If you, or anyone you know, lives in the Kalamazoo area and has any idea who this music was created by, please drop me a line at TheNewScumProductions@Gmail.Com. I'd love to give credit where credit is due, and I'd love even more to thank them personally for such a good story. Not to mention a peek at some music no one else has ever heard before.
Drop me a line, it's always good to hear from people.
-Zachus
Showing posts with label kalamazoo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kalamazoo. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Monday, November 16, 2009
Fear and Loathing at the Inauguration of Barack Obama
It was an epic seventy-two hour excursion from Kalamazoo, Michigan to Washington, D.C. and back involving a fifth of vodka, a fifth of rum, six Blue Agave flavored energy drinks, half an ounce of high-grade marijuana, six pills of adderall,two hits of acid that I never took, two pills of ecstasy that turned out to be fake, and twenty-four hours without sleep. I was greeted with two cases of Spike Energy Shots, two shots of Maker's Mark, and an hour nap. Standing, late in the evening, on the briskly chilled streets of Washington D.C. on January 19th smoking cigarettes was a welcome relief from the piles of snow we'd left behind in Michigan.
Following my nap, we set out for the first bar of many in those two days in the Capital. As we sat around a pool table in some basement bar near Columbia Heights gingerly sipping our $9 Guinness pints, one could not help but notice the subtle thematic differences in bar culture that remind you how close to the heart of American politics you are. Instead of the working-class Michigan mix of Nascar/ESPN/Telemundo, the array of televisions were affixed on CNN/CSPAN/MSNBC. Rather than the pre-coital grunts of mid-IQ college students from Western Michigan University, the conversation was relegated to one topic only: the next morning's local attraction, the inaugural soiree of the 44th President of the United States of America.
We stumbled from the bar to a nearby hookah lounge and plotted the following day's events. As of eight the morning we left, we had assumed we were in possession of tickets to the gated area nearest the Capitol. Those tickets had failed to come about, so we were at a loss as to how we were going to gain access to this prestigious and highly-secure historical event. We decided to just get as close as we could, then find the nearest bar and watch the thing on television like the rest of Earth. At least we knew it was going down less than a mile away, and we could openly drink the large quantity of alcohol we had been in the habit of drinking that winter.
Following another brief nap, we showered and assembled for the subway ride to Chinatown for the walk down to the mall. Nearly eight already, we were surely not the early birds. Just out the door you could tell something was happening. The air almost seemed thicker with the improvised music of millions of people gathered in a tiny spot on Earth. As we crammed ourselves into the overly-crowded subway trains, I had my first "wow" experience of the day. I'm no stranger to big American cities, no stranger to the sights of a big group of people. The real experiences are the person to person, eye to eye experiences. As an elderly black woman demonstrated her well-adjusted subway skills simultaneously chatting, holding the rail, adjusting her glasses, and grabbing the collar of her Sunday-best grandchildren looked at me and smiled. All she said was,
"TODAY IS A WONDERFUL DAY"
I hiccuped and smiled, first of the day's caffeine, cigarette, weed, and whiskey still on my breath, and replied, "it really is, ma'am." I'm not usually one for such formality, but I figured it was right for the occasion. She smiled again, and nodded along, shuffling children by the shirt collars. I sunk back into my chemical haze, more of a historian drunk on the stories of the ages. What was so wonderful about this day? The first black president? A good thing, no doubt, but not the heart of the reason for millions to gather of all races. A good riddance to the eight years of frat boy politics? Also good, but not nearly the locus of the excitement. The true Jesus Christ of the thing, the true reason everybody came from all over Earth, Barack Hussein Obama, that's who. The guy speaks the English language like it's rolling out of a textbook. Compared to the spelling-bee flunkout before him, a sonic boom of exquisite articulation.
Truth be told, I didn't really know a thing about Barack Obama outside "The Audacity of Hope," and I really don't still. Sure, his dad was Kenyan with a sob story, his rags to riches "live for the next generation" all-American mom, hot ivy league wife, trials and tribulations of youth, community organizer, Hawaii, blah, blah, blah. If Keith Olbermann said it, I heard it, and if he didn't then, well, I didn't. I don't want to pretend I know more than anyone else who got college credit for intro to poli-sci. I know what just about everybody else knew: when the guy speaks, people listen. Period. It was just the cult of personality behind this guy that made me wonder what we've all become as iconographers.
I stood there, jaw agape, as we walked up the subway stairs to the light at the end of the tunnel. As we went up, step by step, the first thing I saw was a man with Obama's face on his T-shirt. In his hand, he held a bottle of water with Obama's face on it.
"O-Bama water. Fi' dollas! Historic Event!"
bled to a cacaphony of
"OOOH-Bama! Get your t-shirts here"
"O-BamaBama, OBMAMABAMABAMA, O-0-o-o-oBAMA"
"O-Bama cups!" "Get your Obama coins! Real hand-painted brass! Twenny Twen Twen Twenty" "Obama, Obamabama, Obamaramaobama get your lasagna!"
"Buy our new Obama Brew- A hearty, American Pale Ale brewed in America only $7 a bottle!" "Obama! Obama! O-baaaa-ma, gonna kill O-saaaa-ma"
The beating of fists on the bottoms of five gallon drums.
The crackle of a protester's bullhorn,
"Barack Obama is going to Hell! America will burn in Hell! Your only eternal salvation is with the LORD JEEEEEESUS CHA-RIIIST"
"OBAMA AIR FRESHENERS! Two bucks, three for five!"
My favorite, though, was "celbrate this momentis ocasion with a elephant ear!"
The lovely barely-educated vendorfolk had made it from some backwoods Virginia hillbilly stronghold. A blonde television reporter points a microphone at a mounted police officer, and an ambulance crew carries off a man on a stretcher. Thousands of people ahead and behind us we stumble out to the daylight and see an endless mass of people walking, eating, talking, and all- every last one- smiling. As we grew nearer and nearer to downtown, and as the Starbucks became one every few blocks to one every corner, the crowd got thicker and thicker with the sound of choked breath anticipation, civic pride, and the smell of the vendors- food and body alike.
As we approached an area of sight-distance from the Capitol building, it became more than obvious there was something very big happening. Police cars everywhere, road-spiked barricades, men with machine guns, and giant television screens seemingly hanging in mid-air. Strangers embrace in tears. Tears for the joy of the future, perhaps, or tears of old memories that won't go away so easily.
Lost in the overwhelmingly existential nature of the whole thing, I floated about like the wandering drunk I was in tow of my friends Seth and Ally only trying to make sense of the whole thing. Why were we here? Why did we come? What was happening? What's with the commercialism of Obama's face? What mattered so much to so many people that day? Where are we going to get a place to sit and drink? So many questions, such minute levels of BAC. Not being burdened by a vehicle must be one of the best perks to the big city.
We found a place called RFD, where we took a seat at a four-top near the outside smoking area. As I wandered in and out between cigarettes and irish car bombs, my ears perked up right away. This guy is having YoYo Ma play at his party, dude. That's intense. We had racked up a significant bar tab by the time and at one point I was sure I saw a bong between Obama and Biden, but quickly realized it was a glass of water.
Then the man speaks and all is silent but for the clinking of glasses
"Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. they are serious and they are many they will not be met easily or in a short span of time but know this, America, they will be met"
I actually shed a tear. Just one, couldn't help it.
"That all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness"
"Time and again these men and women struggled and sacrificed and worked till their hands were raw so that we may live a better life"
"Know that America is a friend of each nation and every man woman and child that seeks a future of peace and dignity, and
we are ready to lead once more."
Ok, maybe two tears.
The clamor of the bar began to rise to a normal level following the speech and into the following speeches. Then, as the helicopter took off with George W. Bush, the entire bar let out a thunderous cheer. We paid our tab after a few more drinks, and went to the mall to survey the scene.
Ironically, this was the most sober of times I've spent in the Capital city. As we tread through the garbage of four million average-joe consumerist assholes, and watched from the muddied marble steps of the Lincoln Memorial as ducks fought with plastic bottles for space in the reflecting pool. We kept to the path around the boot-flattened hill near the Washington Monument, and read thousands of discarded fliers. Could one be so disappointed with his fellow citizens after having his faith restored in the human race just a few short hours ago?
So, what was so god damned wonderful about the whole thing?
Four million people stand in a park for eight hours to watch a guy talk, and then they leave a pile of shit in one of the thousands of port-a-potties. A big steaming pile of shit to remind us we're all a bunch of raving-mad savage beasts, leaving a wave of destruction wherever we go. The way I see it, no greater assessment of our national identity could have been made but in that moment where a man stood triumphant speaking of change and progress only to have his literal millions of supporters fall back into the same rut of petty argument, carelessness for their surroundings, reckless abandon of civility, and blatant disregard for anything but what's right in front of their face. The taxi ride home was nearly silent, and it is not possible to render the true scope of the ghastly scene to writing.
In Kalamazoo, the bar televisions were still on sports.
But all that's left from the box is audacious hope, anyhow, right?
Just saying.
-Z
Following my nap, we set out for the first bar of many in those two days in the Capital. As we sat around a pool table in some basement bar near Columbia Heights gingerly sipping our $9 Guinness pints, one could not help but notice the subtle thematic differences in bar culture that remind you how close to the heart of American politics you are. Instead of the working-class Michigan mix of Nascar/ESPN/Telemundo, the array of televisions were affixed on CNN/CSPAN/MSNBC. Rather than the pre-coital grunts of mid-IQ college students from Western Michigan University, the conversation was relegated to one topic only: the next morning's local attraction, the inaugural soiree of the 44th President of the United States of America.
We stumbled from the bar to a nearby hookah lounge and plotted the following day's events. As of eight the morning we left, we had assumed we were in possession of tickets to the gated area nearest the Capitol. Those tickets had failed to come about, so we were at a loss as to how we were going to gain access to this prestigious and highly-secure historical event. We decided to just get as close as we could, then find the nearest bar and watch the thing on television like the rest of Earth. At least we knew it was going down less than a mile away, and we could openly drink the large quantity of alcohol we had been in the habit of drinking that winter.
Following another brief nap, we showered and assembled for the subway ride to Chinatown for the walk down to the mall. Nearly eight already, we were surely not the early birds. Just out the door you could tell something was happening. The air almost seemed thicker with the improvised music of millions of people gathered in a tiny spot on Earth. As we crammed ourselves into the overly-crowded subway trains, I had my first "wow" experience of the day. I'm no stranger to big American cities, no stranger to the sights of a big group of people. The real experiences are the person to person, eye to eye experiences. As an elderly black woman demonstrated her well-adjusted subway skills simultaneously chatting, holding the rail, adjusting her glasses, and grabbing the collar of her Sunday-best grandchildren looked at me and smiled. All she said was,
"TODAY IS A WONDERFUL DAY"
I hiccuped and smiled, first of the day's caffeine, cigarette, weed, and whiskey still on my breath, and replied, "it really is, ma'am." I'm not usually one for such formality, but I figured it was right for the occasion. She smiled again, and nodded along, shuffling children by the shirt collars. I sunk back into my chemical haze, more of a historian drunk on the stories of the ages. What was so wonderful about this day? The first black president? A good thing, no doubt, but not the heart of the reason for millions to gather of all races. A good riddance to the eight years of frat boy politics? Also good, but not nearly the locus of the excitement. The true Jesus Christ of the thing, the true reason everybody came from all over Earth, Barack Hussein Obama, that's who. The guy speaks the English language like it's rolling out of a textbook. Compared to the spelling-bee flunkout before him, a sonic boom of exquisite articulation.
Truth be told, I didn't really know a thing about Barack Obama outside "The Audacity of Hope," and I really don't still. Sure, his dad was Kenyan with a sob story, his rags to riches "live for the next generation" all-American mom, hot ivy league wife, trials and tribulations of youth, community organizer, Hawaii, blah, blah, blah. If Keith Olbermann said it, I heard it, and if he didn't then, well, I didn't. I don't want to pretend I know more than anyone else who got college credit for intro to poli-sci. I know what just about everybody else knew: when the guy speaks, people listen. Period. It was just the cult of personality behind this guy that made me wonder what we've all become as iconographers.
I stood there, jaw agape, as we walked up the subway stairs to the light at the end of the tunnel. As we went up, step by step, the first thing I saw was a man with Obama's face on his T-shirt. In his hand, he held a bottle of water with Obama's face on it.
"O-Bama water. Fi' dollas! Historic Event!"
bled to a cacaphony of
"OOOH-Bama! Get your t-shirts here"
"O-BamaBama, OBMAMABAMABAMA, O-0-o-o-oBAMA"
"O-Bama cups!" "Get your Obama coins! Real hand-painted brass! Twenny Twen Twen Twenty" "Obama, Obamabama, Obamaramaobama get your lasagna!"
"Buy our new Obama Brew- A hearty, American Pale Ale brewed in America only $7 a bottle!" "Obama! Obama! O-baaaa-ma, gonna kill O-saaaa-ma"
The beating of fists on the bottoms of five gallon drums.
The crackle of a protester's bullhorn,
"Barack Obama is going to Hell! America will burn in Hell! Your only eternal salvation is with the LORD JEEEEEESUS CHA-RIIIST"
"OBAMA AIR FRESHENERS! Two bucks, three for five!"
My favorite, though, was "celbrate this momentis ocasion with a elephant ear!"
The lovely barely-educated vendorfolk had made it from some backwoods Virginia hillbilly stronghold. A blonde television reporter points a microphone at a mounted police officer, and an ambulance crew carries off a man on a stretcher. Thousands of people ahead and behind us we stumble out to the daylight and see an endless mass of people walking, eating, talking, and all- every last one- smiling. As we grew nearer and nearer to downtown, and as the Starbucks became one every few blocks to one every corner, the crowd got thicker and thicker with the sound of choked breath anticipation, civic pride, and the smell of the vendors- food and body alike.
As we approached an area of sight-distance from the Capitol building, it became more than obvious there was something very big happening. Police cars everywhere, road-spiked barricades, men with machine guns, and giant television screens seemingly hanging in mid-air. Strangers embrace in tears. Tears for the joy of the future, perhaps, or tears of old memories that won't go away so easily.
Lost in the overwhelmingly existential nature of the whole thing, I floated about like the wandering drunk I was in tow of my friends Seth and Ally only trying to make sense of the whole thing. Why were we here? Why did we come? What was happening? What's with the commercialism of Obama's face? What mattered so much to so many people that day? Where are we going to get a place to sit and drink? So many questions, such minute levels of BAC. Not being burdened by a vehicle must be one of the best perks to the big city.
We found a place called RFD, where we took a seat at a four-top near the outside smoking area. As I wandered in and out between cigarettes and irish car bombs, my ears perked up right away. This guy is having YoYo Ma play at his party, dude. That's intense. We had racked up a significant bar tab by the time and at one point I was sure I saw a bong between Obama and Biden, but quickly realized it was a glass of water.
Then the man speaks and all is silent but for the clinking of glasses
"Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. they are serious and they are many they will not be met easily or in a short span of time but know this, America, they will be met"
I actually shed a tear. Just one, couldn't help it.
"That all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness"
"Time and again these men and women struggled and sacrificed and worked till their hands were raw so that we may live a better life"
"Know that America is a friend of each nation and every man woman and child that seeks a future of peace and dignity, and
we are ready to lead once more."
Ok, maybe two tears.
The clamor of the bar began to rise to a normal level following the speech and into the following speeches. Then, as the helicopter took off with George W. Bush, the entire bar let out a thunderous cheer. We paid our tab after a few more drinks, and went to the mall to survey the scene.
Ironically, this was the most sober of times I've spent in the Capital city. As we tread through the garbage of four million average-joe consumerist assholes, and watched from the muddied marble steps of the Lincoln Memorial as ducks fought with plastic bottles for space in the reflecting pool. We kept to the path around the boot-flattened hill near the Washington Monument, and read thousands of discarded fliers. Could one be so disappointed with his fellow citizens after having his faith restored in the human race just a few short hours ago?
So, what was so god damned wonderful about the whole thing?
Four million people stand in a park for eight hours to watch a guy talk, and then they leave a pile of shit in one of the thousands of port-a-potties. A big steaming pile of shit to remind us we're all a bunch of raving-mad savage beasts, leaving a wave of destruction wherever we go. The way I see it, no greater assessment of our national identity could have been made but in that moment where a man stood triumphant speaking of change and progress only to have his literal millions of supporters fall back into the same rut of petty argument, carelessness for their surroundings, reckless abandon of civility, and blatant disregard for anything but what's right in front of their face. The taxi ride home was nearly silent, and it is not possible to render the true scope of the ghastly scene to writing.
In Kalamazoo, the bar televisions were still on sports.
But all that's left from the box is audacious hope, anyhow, right?
Just saying.
-Z
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Psychophantic Sedentary Symbiosis
I pulled out my headphones in line at the grocery store to pay for my groceries (mostly booze,) and the girl checking my ID made the mistake of asking the now ubiquitous question: "what are you listening to?"
"Bible of the Devil"
"Oh" (She picks up the bottle of Tequila, looks at the rum) "I guess this explains it"
"No, that's what the limes are for"
:Total Shock and Confusion:
She was nice, but totally terrified of the fact that I might not believe in god. Totally put off. I'm just another guy in the store buying booze, but the fact that I said Devil in public whilst wearing sunglasses suddenly makes me the enemy of the fucking state.
Yes, I drink. That's why I came to the place with shelves of liquor. Drugs, booze, cigarettes, sex, gambling, lying, cheating, cursing, motorcycles, yes, all of it. I have a definite sour taste for the law, and for a majority of society and their stupid pallid incompetence. I've been in rock bands for more than half my life, and I've done done more drugs than most people can name. I've traveled the world, and all anyone can ever say is "how?" Easy. Work hard, play harder. I've read the satanic bible as many times as the real one, and the bible of the devil the band is named after the codex gigas, which IS A CHRISTIAN BIBLE. Do these people forget that you'd have to believe in God to believe in the Devil? I am an ATHEIST! I don't believe in fairy tales of any kind!
Everybody else gets caught up in shopping at whole foods, balancing their lifestyle, and marching the straight and narrow right on to the collection plate at megachurch. Idiots. We're all going to die, and Horus will not be taking us to get our hearts weighed, much less will Jesus stand in robes judging our every life choice. Jesus, contingent on existence, would most likely not care. What a forgiving chap, right? When we're all rotting in the ground, the ground will not care how many shots of tequila you took two hours before work.
Religion is stupid. Just a thought.
Stay tuned for updates from the road. I'm leaving Kalamazoo for a while.
"Bible of the Devil"
"Oh" (She picks up the bottle of Tequila, looks at the rum) "I guess this explains it"
"No, that's what the limes are for"
:Total Shock and Confusion:
She was nice, but totally terrified of the fact that I might not believe in god. Totally put off. I'm just another guy in the store buying booze, but the fact that I said Devil in public whilst wearing sunglasses suddenly makes me the enemy of the fucking state.
Yes, I drink. That's why I came to the place with shelves of liquor. Drugs, booze, cigarettes, sex, gambling, lying, cheating, cursing, motorcycles, yes, all of it. I have a definite sour taste for the law, and for a majority of society and their stupid pallid incompetence. I've been in rock bands for more than half my life, and I've done done more drugs than most people can name. I've traveled the world, and all anyone can ever say is "how?" Easy. Work hard, play harder. I've read the satanic bible as many times as the real one, and the bible of the devil the band is named after the codex gigas, which IS A CHRISTIAN BIBLE. Do these people forget that you'd have to believe in God to believe in the Devil? I am an ATHEIST! I don't believe in fairy tales of any kind!
Everybody else gets caught up in shopping at whole foods, balancing their lifestyle, and marching the straight and narrow right on to the collection plate at megachurch. Idiots. We're all going to die, and Horus will not be taking us to get our hearts weighed, much less will Jesus stand in robes judging our every life choice. Jesus, contingent on existence, would most likely not care. What a forgiving chap, right? When we're all rotting in the ground, the ground will not care how many shots of tequila you took two hours before work.
Religion is stupid. Just a thought.
Stay tuned for updates from the road. I'm leaving Kalamazoo for a while.
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