. issue VI : vii .

by barathron

. artist : the beastles .
. album : (meet) the beastles; ill submarine; & let it beast .
. year : 2013 .
. label : self-released .
. grade : o for outstanding .


I remember falling for the Beatles from the hallowed halls of Best Buy; cathedral stalls without used ceiling space miles of aisles of wooden slopes and plastic grave markers.

You remember when 2 Live Crew had to do a congressional hearing for the legality of sampling musical cuts? Who else did they call up? (CONNOR SEZs: Zappa went, I think TuPac as well, is that the interview where he explains that his poetry is a mere reflection of a nature and that it is not his own actions? As a bard he is involved-in, but not the hands?)

You remember when Tipper Gore and her backing band the hologisfits PMRC (info highway hitchhike type … Parents Music Resource Center; BONUS, read the story “PMRC” by Daniel Mueller [I’ve only ever seen it in the collection How Animals Mate, but surely it’s no Ocean Fulla Bowling Balls rare grade, and if you’re at the Marcy Avenue stop, smell sex and candy]) had a BUNCH of musicians on Capitol Hill (wasn’t even close to Nerd Prom), debating the CONTENT of modern music: the bottom line now, of course, is that the RIAA lobby (and not the vestibule) has a different set of stickies and they look like a DRM and not a Parental Advisory Explicit Content.

And the biggest cliché of all: the issue of any individuality within humanity as a race, within humanity as a community, within humanity as a pestering scourge, a swath of space.

At the risk of undertoe stubbing a trace in the sluice fundamental rag pick and bone that has been surging to the forefront of the topicality, let me offer this. No matter who has been talking recently, the baking oven of weather that occurs in cycle around our part of the country, the one that we experience every summer and all of the things along with the days have broken. The cycle of moisture from the melted glacial caps is now intermingling with the seawater and within the atmosphere’s water. These are things that are real.

The actions of any of the microscopic organisms that flourish like bacteria upon this marble in the sea of nibbling infinity appetite spread has no place forefronting and wailing within the licked wounds of time.

Personal identification as fluid choice is against the realm of current sociological understanding. Gender being lightyears behind sexuality, race lags along under a flourishing of culture.

I don’t understand the state of music today nor the state of humanity. I don’t understand why we haven’t gotten close to the peak of evolution. BRUTAL HONESTY, “the modern world” is never catching up to itself, it’s just letting the older modernisms die off. We aren’t getting growth, any addition, we only subtract from the whole, trim off as-it-were.

As these voices dry to silence, feeble and frail, slaughtering generational hordes of these civilized creatures, these earthlings realmed; the monstrosity that is humanity, animal flexible plus, that is what brings about change. Dancing with emotion is perception, and without the emotion things become facts almost automatically. SOMETHING EVERYONE CAN AGREE ON, EVEN THE BOSS WHO LEAVES NO PAPERWORK FOR YEARS AT A TIME.

I don’t want to talk about why the Beastie Boys were played on WHFS but not WPGC when I was growing up. I don’t know the call letters for the Maryland and District stations of the 1950’s, nor the West of the Mississip’ KWXYs that played “Urban Top 40” instead of “AC Top 40” (which KXRW Cathedral City would’ve shown no crème anglaise filling, no translated española). There are reference specific to be made but none I want to, even offhand, just name, stand and deliver: Suzette Hackney’s special essay to The Washington Post is almost a Led Zeppelin of punable opportunity, right off.

The discussion I wish we were having is comical outside our realm of reality but unfortunately not of action; beings from other planets, solar systems, biology and how they truly could be different than (homo sapiens sapiens?) greater than, less than, equal to. I’m not gonna say a thing about Venutians, Martians, Sirens of Titan, or disenfranchised Plutonians, either.

I learned long ago well enough to be afraid of everything, be wary of every second you have left alive; when your death comes, it’s up to you how much pain will be involved. The reward for dying peacefully in bed is to die a junkie; hallucinations of half-sleep, the thorazine chrome specter.

Let’s get serious about who owns, then.

Again, we have existed in the world of the mashup for a while. Bottles and cans just cr-p in your hands. About a decade ago DJ Danger Mouse had notoriety with the Grey Album; an album that no one was supposed to have, so it, indirectly conversely presto cadabra invisible crutch, was available. Marketing ploy by EMI or simple pop wave, (CONNOR SEZS: “Jay-Z, I’m sure, had NOTHING to do with any of this, seeing as how the Carta-er fought the release tooth-and-nail and released his latest commercial effort with an actual televised commercial in sure high fashion style, vanity fair filter lens), the Grey Album showcased two musical giants side by side in the true manner of the mashup that was perfected by such acts as Girl Talk later on and heretofore known as Mixtape Sound Collage.

Kidz Bop is a Now That’s What I Call attempt to keep these popular songs running throughout history. Top 40 past proves Top 40 present, time and again; most often coupled with new media.

Oh, commercial, we will miss you as we knew you.

If one goes to the beastles dot com (when publication strikes I am only to guess at the state of the codex union), already the website faces take-down requests, mirror sites, notices, and eventually the most dreaded dead still-life image of all: the ‘technical difficulties’ sign. The government seal here, the deep blue and the bald eagles feathered to the talons holding enshrined by the laureling tribute, and then the black type on white. (CONNOR SEZ: Are you sure you just ordered that at the search bar, lil’ one? I’m gonna have to clearance your IP, OK?)

In this age, off-the-air is not the friendly archaic test patterns with some imagery of the natural world intact (NATIVE AMERICAN symbolism! EAGLES E PLURBUS TALONS A ARROW’D BOLTS AND ELECTRICITY SIGN_FIED, records? laserdiscs? Stags and that shattering audio TONE, broadcast system key’d johnny one note). No, often today the site is blocked by one single sentence entity for the privacy of your browsing eyes: it could not be loaded due to fill-in-the-blank.

When “your country of origin” ‘says so’ is becoming popular.

For now, let’s review Palmer Eldritch before we know what is disease and what is cure, what is living and what isn’t. Believe me, I’m just as confused as you are, but at least I’m not Chris Berman’s commencement speech.


Listen to as much as you can, but if your time and trouble only allow you to pull a few of these from the abyss:

“Can’t Buy Me Rhymes” feels the joke out into the nervous system. I still have not identified the “rhymes” sound bite, and yet the misplaced choral intruder feels more natural than stilted, as if to say the pasteurization process with the titular patchwork gives a creamy adventurous goo rather than jagged discontent, well, mash-up. The skins have been left in for the proper amount of fiber and texture, and the wax has enough difference to hold up.

“Move Prudence” and “Beastles Flying In The Cut” is the joke of opposites attracting a great noise (Eminem paired with any pop princess: “Oops…”/”My Name Is” was an early personal favorite on the over-dropped call letters for WHFS). This model home still has the shine; it doesn’t even looked lived in half the time. I can listen to it because the cross references satisfy me in a guttural greasing. The familiar beds the uncharted, for me, with buoying buried shorelines of lap, dogging, grain by grain of shifting sand on tempo or percussion. (When I say I adore all the songs [no easy feat for my Beastly partiality], I adore all of the songs: “Electrified Kite,” “Looking Down the Barrel of a Gun.” My ears rose gelato’d, frozen into my body the Beatles, the beat pleasurable above any other sonic boom even though I couldn’t tell you whether this one was Paul’s Boutique or Not.)

My own attraction is laughable. The Grey Album is how I memorized the little Jay-Z I have. And I’m intercontinental when I eat Beast Toast.

I could tell a story of never liking the Beastie Boys particular, never latching to suckle. I could tell a story of association later on that made the band distasteful in nostalgia. The fact remains, I never got into the Beastie Boys. The top reason: the vocals have always destroyed my brain. I’m not without a sense of humor. I love comedy. The Babe Howard is my favorite Stooge (quitcher crying, Junior, and you, too, Duck). I have not yet endured a Yoko Ono solo, but usually I find myself drawn to all music. When I say all music I include the definition of folk art, which seems to be ‘unpolished art.’ When I say folk music, I literally mean folk art; the definition is the mentally ill audible in the streets mumbling mashy.

“Do You Want To Know An Intergalactic Secret?” is all of these things. The hooks, the cooks of Star Trek: TNG and the Beastie Boys and the Beatles and it’s beautiful and it is also a bit left-field. Full Ryker lines. I hate “Intergalatic.” Okay, that’s maybe strong, but again, not to make melophobic (which is Gertrudin’ alert me a bunch right OVER HERE), I like a LOT of music. There is very little music that causes me physical pain (and yes I mean physical actual cringer cat), but the Beastie Boys has had that ability.

{Have I discussed Pearl Jam’s “Bugs” or my reaction to the Emergency Broadcast signal as a child? I hid underneath a cushion; I attempted to cover my ears and endure the experience of the sound instead of thinking to turn off the ability of the sound itself. I blame that on Thriller, perhaps. Vincent Price was like Shrieks and Creaks in my brain as a four-year-old, scaring me and chasing me and Michael Jackson throughout the dancing dead. Hold the irony train, please.}

Turning the mirror onto nature, a countenance more Little Rascal(s) and endangered; leather football helmet and a cheeroot sneer donkey’s bray that I hear in the Beastie Boys represents my own nasal featherweight silhouette.

“Intergalatic,” one of the last songs of the Twentieth Century, full of the metallic and mechanistic engine sounds of the smartphone startup, gets a serenade of flamenco finger picks and doesn’t miss the beat.

Here’s to you finding some of these songs, or any of your favorite Beatles songs, plopping onto the internet and finding a few covers, ambles and perambulations (and) going for it.

Here’s to the fanfare for the common man, becoming common descent, condescending the spiritual self to contend with living here on the earth, soon to become the wetlands of swamp.

by Perkus Tooth