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This past autumn, Roulette, one of Manhattans most venerable experimental-music venues, closed shop on SoHos Greene Street and reopened their doors in Downtown Brooklyn, joining BAM and the newly relocated ISSUE Project Room; together, they solidify the neighborhoods reputation as a destination for new music.
Just as its pointless to list the accomplishments of the Kronos Quartet, which is approaching its 40th anniversary, its impossible to describe the diversity of its repertoire, which has included far-reaching collaborations with everyone from Inuit throat singer Tanya Tagaq to sound artist Walter Kitundu to Noam Chomsky, Allen Ginsberg, and David Bowie.
Recorded music realizes a dream of pure magicbut at the same time the end and even the death of music itself. A Blakean paradox or mystical dialectic: Every phenomenon has a “good” and a “bad” (in some rough sense), an Emanation and a Spectre.
The summer of 1964. David Crosby and Jim (not yet Roger) McGuinn are sprawled side-by-side in an air-conditioned Los Angeles cinema, checking out the new Beatles flick, A Hard Days Night.
In a time of artificially inseminated culture, where half the poetry world and presses in America have been infiltrated by wannabe publishers and rock stars, I have foundat times rather suspiciously, motive-wisesome vague smattering of light through all the pretentious darkness.
Every note of the new Hunters EP, Hands on Fire, screams the following refrain: “Rock is back.” Hands on Fire slathers on the nostalgia awfully thick, no doubt endearing itself to fans who long for the salad days of 2001, when meat-and-potatoes garage rock was still fashionable.