Give, please. For me. Though they still owe me product for that Kickstarter thing. And Scott the DJ (in the green shirt in the above) is awesome, one of my favorites, always a !!! show, he has the best bed music I've ever, this week he played, after playing my favorite of his bed music behind a mic break, a vocal version of that bed music. Song below. So give.
- Theories of bed music. Some DJs use the same song for all mic breaks, others have a small rotation of songs (like Scott), others change theirs from show to show, some don't use any. Today, after years of thought on this (I think about this constantly, it doesn't surprise you to know) I would use the small rotation of constant songs. I would like to install a small rotation of bed music for this blog - I made this request a couple of years ago: does anyone know how to set up music that plays when this blog is accessed? The music would also need to shutdown (rimshot) when the few of you who actually listen to the music here click play on a youtube. Since this will never happen, I'm not going to taunt myself with determining the three rotating bed music songs.
- Kidding. Of course I have, do, and will always.
- Jim takes a whack at Shutdownarama.
- Soy huevon.
- terror and courage.
- We pledge allegiance to the concrete of Mega-Fortress One.
- Hollow inside.
- Kairoschlerosis.
- Linky Friday.
- October.
- There are still unique sentences to write.
- Walser, for those of you who do.
- This was put in my head yesterday (by WFMU DJ Mary Wing), woke up with it in my head this morning (and of course flashed me to Darling Buds):
RADIO
Tom Clark
Don’t hurt the radio for
Against all
Solid testimony machines
Have feelings
Too
Brush past it lightly
With a fine regard
For allowing its molecules
To remain 100% intact
Machines can think like Wittgenstein
And the radio’s a machine
Thinking softly to itself
Of the Midnight Flower
As her tawny parts unfold
In slow motion the boat
Rocks on the ocean
As her tawny parts unfold
The radio does something mental
To itself singingly
As her tawny parts unfold
Inside its wires
And steal away its heart
Two minutes after eleven
The color dream communicates itself
The ink falls on the paper as if magically
The scalp falls away
A pain is felt
Deep in the radio
I take out my larynx and put it on the blue chair
And do my dance for the radio
It’s my dance in which I kneel in front of the radio
And while remaining motionless elsewise
Force my eyeballs to come as close together as possible
While uttering a horrible and foreign word
Which I cannot repeat to you without now removing my larynx
And placing it on the blue chair
The blue chair isn’t here
So I can’t do that trick at the present time
The radio is thinking a few licks of its own
Pianistic thoughts attuned to tomorrow’s grammar
Beautiful spas of seltzery coition
Plucked notes like sandpaper attacked by Woody Woodpecker
The radio says Edwardian farmers from Minnesota march on the Mafia
Armed with millions of radioactive poker chips
The radio fears foul play
It turns impersonal
A piggy bank was smashed
A victim was found naked
Radio how can you tell me this
In such a chipper tone
Your structure of voices is a friend
The best kind
The kind one can turn on or off
Whenever one wants to
But that is wrong I know
For you will intensely to continue
And in a deeper way
You do
Hours go by
And I watch you
As you diligently apply
A series of audible frequencies
To tiny receptors
Located inside my cranium
Resulting in much pleasure for someone
Who looks like me
Although he is seated about two inches to my left
And the both of us
Are listening to your every word
With a weird misapprehension
It’s the last of the tenth
And Harmon Killebrew is up
With a man aboard
He blasts a game-winning home run
The 559th of his career
But no one cares
Because the broadcast is studio-monitored for taping
To be replayed in 212 years
Heaven must be like this, radio
To not care about anything
Because it’s all being taped for replay much later
Heaven must be like this
For as her tawny parts unfold
The small lights swim roseate
As if of sepals were the tarp made
As it is invisibly unrolled
And sundown gasps its old Ray Charles 45 of Georgia
Only through your voice
