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Cinespace nick maybury with stella mozgawa and grant fitzpatrick

sunday

8-23-09

Silent being old music dada arthouse courage despair performance time thievery . . .

it was with great speechlessness nick maybury left us a testament to other voices, other rooms, falsetto's and animal communication, a calling crowd with jaws dropped.

It was a long time waiting to hear again, and feel unfettered vision, and see what has become of performativity, when twitter shows, and web presence, magnifies, a lack of real expression, and when liberated one might become of banalities, and secret shows from long ago, it must be said oblivion eats every greatness, and so, as sydney mate proclaimed, I want you to do this show every day of the year . . . this . . . is what people need to hear . . . so long as whales beach on polluted sands, and 25000 people are dying of hunger, today and every day, so long as humans bring new humans into this warworld, and greedempire . . . let's have a song, a wail, a desperation, a material element to transform a chaos into something, something beautiful when words fail and only sound endures . . . and not even . . .

and I won't bother you so long with my adulations, as critique dissolves, the wrongness of green? It is unlikely any critique could capture my interest . . . as perhaps it is I, and only who concur, everything was perfect, as no art, soul, or human being were ever a crime in innocence with trembling hands that we might nourish a dying hope to another moment of possibility.

What is known, clearly and well, in hollywood---is nick maybury's prolific and diverse guitar abilities. But unknown it must not remain—that spectacle trumps talent, profundity, skill, and spiritual depth lacking in the two-dimensional interpretations . . .

what is it that moves you and why is no crime . . . no objectivity . . . no wrong or right . . .

but I for one will say the echoes of atavism . . . visions and sounds of dying ethnos, a killing world, a crying game . . . ancestral universal voices . . . of sacred realms were audible to me on these occasions

gibson show room january 22, 2009

february 09 solo show at cranes

and august 23 09 cinespace with grant and stella and a fantastical confection of fashion by moods of norway with stefan dahlkvist guesting into a trumpet piece . . . light shows . . . and film stills at a cinespace, renowned for fostering an arts scene outside the material realm, a place for music and art and dj's uninhibited by the pretensions of the greater state or world . . .

and that which speaks to me could not be said for all to speak

but what occurred will not fit words

and I hope will transpire again in the loving embrace of warm friends and the nourishment of artistic visions, telepathies . . . and when snake (john michael anderson) sings, how cruelly you treat your friends, remind yourself, music is forgiveness, transcendence, and peace, and let us educate ourselves against the banalities of war and greed lest the real world eat our souls.

And if you make it out for the next show, rocko of devil's orchestra may appear . . . and thunder from heaven may soon unfold with an extra voice, nick's voice a compliment to cam powell's incisive wail, and the long wait and all the minutes in between will be worth it . . . with so much beauty, sonic vision, disrupting the nihilisms of poverty on the streets of greedy america . . . and genocide in congo, earthmurder, let me tell you I won't stop crying or praying to my ungods for your relief, and I hope to hear nick maybury play soon and often as his vision corrects so much wrongness in my mind . . . and infects the ether with a sense of hope, after so many brushes with death and destruction.

If it were trip hop, blues, or psychadelica, or celtic, or world music, or chanting, or rock or industrial electro punk, I would be the last to know, and the stillness of a confused crowd, reminds us that courage to take the mask off realities and allow the theater of the absurd to live again, and perform catharsis, might be a neglected art in the futures of obscurity, and let the hearts in winter shake off the california permafrosts of our self-deceptions and unworldy vision.

Open again to david byrne's reverence for other worlds, other sounds, cultures, tonalities, wind harp played by nature, unbeknownst to itself, songs and magic

and only one law . . . love is the law . . . and the supernatural might be closer than you think

and forgiveness and utopia

dressed in manic and mad hatter moods of norway . . as laura marling's youthful wisdom, sings up things forgotten in age . . . and words no longer apply and it was dolphin music for the deaf . . . and hard of heart . . .

the juvenalia laughing in the face of age and war machineries . . . and melody a cure for any and all . . . and that we might never stop singing . . .

that antonin artaud might be locked in an asylum or van gogh, suicided by society, bob dylan arrested, or hindemith and shostakovitch deemed culturally off-kilter

degenerate art, disruptive to totalitarianism

censored

remember music is information

and could be revolution

which is why they'll kill the pirate bay . . . but song in your own mind will be ever free, whether in guantanomo

abu ghraib

auschwitz

or stuck in the sensory deprivation of the cultural brainwashing