romance - THE RECORD

Pillow Talk at Antioch

Her smile, that’s what cued me in. Was it a smile that was specifically targeted for me or was it a smile she prepared for all customers? After all, I dropped by Current Cuisine just for the soup.

It was the summer that I graduated from Antioch and I was basically extending a co-op in Yellow Springs. I was living in a shack on High Street. An extension cord from the main house brought me heat and entertainment from a radio. Water was heated on the oven and brought back to me in a deep pot for my daily bird baths. It wasn’t a sexy existence, but it allowed me to embrace the town of Yellow Springs that I found rather elusive during my three year Antioch stint. I was helping a guy build a house and I was, oh-so occasionally, writing articles for the Yellow Springs News under the wise tutelage of Amy Harper, then editor of the News.

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Taking the SOPP to Bed

By Levi B. Cowperthwaite

The first time my sweetheart and I shared a dance was during a party in the romance-inspiring Dance Space. The music was blaring, the bodies were sweaty and spinning, and my now-sweetheart and I were dancing with a respectable, torturous distance between us when she leaned in close and whispered in my ear, “Can I grind with you?” My libido’s response?: Oh. Hell. Yes. We didn’t start dating until almost a year later, and she was actually probably yelling (rather than whispering) to be heard over the music, but it was such a sexy, sweet moment (and satisfying dance), that when I think of it today, I feel everything I was feeling in that moment: sexy, desirable, giddy, hot.

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Power Chords and Blast-Beats Pound the Walls of the Union

By the CCNWSS (Jeremie Jordan)

About eight years ago Reversal of Man proclaimed that “internet and indie-rock are killing hard-core.” Certainly Dayton’s own once prolific extreme music scene has since reached a very stark low. With punk rock bars and venues closing their doors, all-ages shows practically ceasing, veteran hipsters moving away or settling down, and the attempt of major labels to cash in on the pseudo-post-heavy watered down trendy music that passes as punk, metal, and hardcore, the younger bands in the local scene that have any ties to, or play any true form of these styles are very far and few between. Once upon a not so distant past, Dayton was synonymous with creative and ground-breaking music. Our city was known for the quantity of quality music that emerged in the nineteen nineties with such gems as Brainiac, The Breeders, Guided By Voices, The Amps, Twenty-third Chapter, and countless others leading the way and bringing much attention to the energetic scene. The past few years, however, have been marred by bad luck, tragedy, and loss of resources. Continue reading Power Chords and Blast-Beats Pound the Walls of the Union

The Dried Baby Organ Dispensary

Welcome to the Dried Baby Organ Dispensary. Here at the D.B.O.D. we pride ourselves on collecting and recommending only the freshest of jams to smoke your babies to.

Telepathe- Farewell Forest EP
[ The Social Registry :: 2006 ]

In the dead of night, deep in the forest; in the shadiest of groves, the neglected, lost souls of this earth gather and cause a mighty din. And not in an A.A. meeting kind of way. This is sheer debauchery, a feast of sin even. It is urgent and sensual, incomprehensibly dark and devilishly alluring. Like swimming through the folds of the velvet blanket of night, and drowning, and sinking into it, endlessly…… And then waking up inside of a jack-o-lantern. Awful, demonic creatures are dancing around you in circles and laughing beautifully. Everything seems fluid and starts to blur, and you find yourself lost but comfortable, and the shadows creep over your mind like a coma. And then you wake up again, alone in the rain. The wind is blowing and the leaves are falling and you are staring at the face of eternity. It looks kind of like movement stuck inside of an aging polaroid photograph and…. then it’s gone. That’s it, party’s over. The way the details of a dream slip away from you as you watch the sun drift up over the horizon, it just goes away.

Fujiya & Miyagi- Transparent Things
[ Tirk/Word and Sound :: 2006 ]Fully krausened. Chic and funky enough to turn David Bowie’s head. I have a creeping suspicion that these people work at the cloud factory.

Boards Of Canada- Trans Canada
Highway EP [ Warp :: 2006 ]

There’s this Mogwai song that says that if stars had sounds then they would sound like Mogwai. Eh. I’m going to disagree and say that I think that if stars had sounds then they would sound like Boards Of Canada. Really though, it sounds like stars; stars exploding, or stars making love, you know, all that general kind of star stuff that stars do. I had a vision one time when I was tripping that in the future I would mate with a very tall, purple alien woman who could float. I mean, you know, it probably wasn’t a woman at all, I mean it was an alien and all that. But you get the idea. Anyways, I love Boards Of Canada. Although the music is almost exclusively digital, there is something about it that is more organic than dirt. Vibrating, breathing, neon tinged dirt. All over you. It sizzles and glitches like a robit in an acid bath as it interfaces with the hardware of your soul, and it will teach you the songs of the stars. Two thumbs up.

Time-Tested Quality Blends
White Magic- Through The Sun Door
EP [ Drag City :: 2004 ]

Some strange pastoral romance, written in blood and scattered about the plains for the wind to find. The wind found it, and recited it to the hills, and sang it to the sky, and screamed it across the deserts. And someone just happened to be there with a recording studio. It’s like magic and shit! The music on this album conjures the feeling of a train swaggering across some green, vast expanse. These are songs of love, transfiguration, and departure. Think Joni Mitchell worshiping Baphomet for roughly ten years and smoking just enough punk rock to get really dirty in it. Really an absolutely remarkable album. Straight-forward enough to be widely accessible and crafted with enough innovation and skill to please even the most pretentious of ear drums, I feel like I see most people enjoying this recording. I’d also like to use this space to plug White Magic’s forthcoming first ever full length release, “Dat Rosa Mel Apibus�?, available November 14th. Don’t worry, you folks at Drag City can just send me a check later.

Ivan Knows Best….

OOIOO- Taiga [ Thrill Jockey :: 2006 ]

Wood Pipes:
It’s raining candy in the jungle, and all the tigers are turning neon colors like fruit stripe gum. But, really though, who the shit is this crazy fucking Japanese woman and why does she keep screaming?! Is it Lisa Frank? Does she have any opium? No silly, it’s just Yoshimi P-We from the Boredoms. And as to what the shit she is screaming about, I have no idea, I think it’s Japanese. But regardless of what language it is it’s wild and I think that I like it a lot. I feel like Hansel and Gretel at the same time on some crrrraazzzy rainforest spaceship made out of candy. Is Yoshimi some kind of wicked witch or something? Maybe, but whatever, this spaceship tastes hell of good. So where are we going, anyway? Well, to the funky rainbow colored dancehall built on clouds and reggae. Duh……..

Ivan:
This ceedee attracted my attention immediately given the fact that it began with an actual staccato of drum beats; this almost caused me to actually move somewhat on my seat. Quickly, however, came the horribly sad whining high pitch voice of a young woman. This complaint, though short, was immediately overwhelmed by two to four lines of response by strong low voiced women.

Another portion began with the unmistakable sounds of a galloping horse, followed to the best of my imagination by those of a screeching frog. Then some clear rhythms managed to catch my attention, basically the line sounded DA DA DEE DEE, DA DA DEE DEE, DADADEESEE, DADADEEDEE…The rapid succession of rhythmic sounds eventually compressed and produced in me a feeling of confinement and resentment. I was expecting the DA DA DEE DEE, to become as expected DA DA DA, DEE, DEE, DEE…DADEE, DADADA…But this expectation was for nought. This cede did certainly make an effort to communicate something important to its audience, unfortunately I could not begin to understand what that might have been.

Having thought a few minutes since this last sentence I do come to the conclusion that such a ceede’s raison d’etre might indeed be to demonstrate to educated and long-lived listeners that they are clearly unable to cope with evolution in the musical world. I, however, intend to expose myself further to such art in order to determine exactly what these shiny round objects intend to do to our civilization.

“Bring me some cereal”
– Wood Pipes

Broke

by Marjorie Jensen

As tautological as it may sound, Chicago is an expensive city. Between only the most essential groceries and envelopes marked “Antioch Business Office,�? unexpected bills found me miles from my “current mailing address.�? My pithy checks signed by the President of the Newberry don’t cover half of these costs. I had to find a second job. I wasn’t surprised.

The second store within a few blocks of my apartment with a “Help Wanted�? sign offered Caitlin and I jobs moments after turning in our applications. I am now an exhausted employee of Jimmy John’s sub shop. In fact, I have to leave for work in exactly two hours. Do I like it? It offers me something that the Newberry doesn’t: working-class people.

Now, I’m not implying uneducated. Some of the kids go to various colleges in Chicago. Most are just refreshingly down-to-earth. Take Kenny, one of our delivery drivers (read bike messenger with subs), informing us about where the elastic in his boxers had begun to separate from the rest. Davorah, our manager, asked him to clean the lower racks of the cold table (where we make our subs).

“I told you about my underwear,�? he replied, unwilling to bend over. It breaks up the monotony.

JJ’s is open late on the weekends (by late, I mean until 5am) and we are on Division Street (read one of the most expensive bar districts in Chicago). My Friday nights are spent listening to the mantra of my manager, Matt: “bathrooms are for customers only,�? to the rich, drunken “douchebags�? with popped collars. He changes the CD to Mindless Self Indulgence and sighs as they ignore him.

These are the kids who couldn’t afford to take most of the “public�? programs offered at the Newberry. We have a master schedule in the Development Office’s ‘S’ drive in the computer network. The ‘Sacred and Profane: The Art of the Tale’ workshop that I would love to take is 8 sessions for $160. I couldn’t afford it. I’m only at Antioch (and the Newberry) thanks to lots and lots of financial aid.

I invite my fellow Fellows to visit me at JJ’s. Some do, bringing me cigarettes and hugs. They are sad that I can’t go out with them. But they understand and are encouraging, calling my JJ’s uniform sexy. I appreciate that white lie. Caitlin is a riot to work with. We dance in the ‘back of house,’ as it were. Others are reluctant.

“I didn’t know if you would feel comfortable with me visiting you at work; seeing you in a subservient position like that,�? said Laura from Beloit.

Really, it’s okay. I’m used to it. I’ve been working-class all my life. It does make for a strange relationship with the academy. Higher education is generally run by and for rich, white men. I chose Antioch, in part, to try to escape the elitist mentality of many institutions. Even our radical, left-wing haven has its literati and men earning drastically more than women. A microcosm, truly.

My Wednesday nights belong to the events at the Newberry. We held a pleasant reception for the Book Fair Volunteers. John Notz, the chair of the Fair that has been going on for twenty years, spoke briefly. He was proud of the work they had done- theirs was the only program that reached out to Marx’s proletariat. He hedged around that term, instead calling them:

“Those people who come to buy their year’s worth of romance novels for a few dollars.�? Not the educated elite. Not those who have the money or cultural capital (as Bourdieu would say) to attend most of the events. Not those who receive Gala invitations with themed giving brackets (ie. Lords and Ladies being higher donors than the Knights and Damsels at the Elizabeth event).

The following Wednesday held the opening of ‘The Aztecs and the Making of Colonial Mexico’ event. I have been preparing the RSVP list, name-tags, signs, and various other internish projects for over a month now. The names on that list include the General Consul of Mexico, many members of the Board of Trustees and friends (read large donors) of the library.

I sat behind the check-in tables, anxiously awaiting 323 people that RSVP’ed. We didn’t make enough name tags. Many not on the list arrived, complaining about their name not being in the alphabetized collection spread out in front of us. We put out more chairs frantically. Eventually, David Spadafora, the President of the Newberry, took the mike to introduce the General Consul.

“We have not had sufficient contact with the Mexican-American community of Chicago,�? he began. He continued, explaining that this event was an attempt to bring much-needed diversity to the library. The first step in solving any problem is admitting to it. The second is discussing it. I encourage students to come to the library, be part of the program and part of the solution.