At the moment, the BD In The SR has numerable fingers in various fires. This tends to be the case, due to the chaotic and seemingly random nature of this project. As I write, I’m listening to a double-cd project, Twin Infinities (Feel God About Your Body), which we recorded in 2014 and which will be released by some fine Europeans whenever they get around to doing it, which we are told will be sometime in the not very distant future.
There are a few more releases sitting around in the dank basements of various labels waiting to be unleashed. The Reason For The Season Of The Witch has been languishing in the “Coming Soon” pile of a very nice netlabel for about a year. We inquire about it’s status from time to time and get no response, but we really like the label – they’ve put out a couple of duds for us over the years – and we’re sure they mean well. Another label, with whom we’ve released one little split cassette, is sitting on a cd titled Sweetheart Of The Ashvamedha. This shaman provided cover art for that, a decidedly uninspired bit of watercolor blah, which we eventually decided was total shite. We redesigned the cover, sent the new and wildly disturbing images to the label and we’re sure they’re rushing to the printer right now.
We have a project in the can titled Fear Of A Sacred Planet, that has been held up because of technical problems with the tracks. It’s a minor issue, really, which could easily be fixed if anybody actually bothered to do it, which nobody has done. Eventually.
Delays and hold-ups have hindered the release of My Goddess Has A Crazy Bush, the multifaceted and splendorous various artists compilation we organized to promote our appreciation of natural things in their natural state. That fabled gathering of minstrels should be hitting the bricks within days, unless it already has. I hain’t checked my email in a while – no internet access here at the Hollar House, due to the pastoral setting – so I’m not up to date on the thing. We were going to wait until the release to start working on the follow-up, but then we got antsy and then unexpected delays happened, so we’ve already called for and are anxiously awaiting contributions for My Goddess Has A Crazy Bush Volume 2: Escape From The Fallen Planet. That one will be released via the Bandcamp, Soundcloud and other online music pages and sites of the bands and artists which participate, a weird and possibly stupid method of release which we came up with while dozily enjoying the masturbatory afterglow one day. The no-label, decentralized nature of the release appeals because, as much as we love labels and appreciate all they do for us, we also love working directly with other creative types for the benefit of all. Having the participating parties release My Goddess…2 directly to their fans means that we all get exposed to each others’ audiences who will hopefully find new bands and artists to love and support. Unless nobody sends a track, which has so far been the case.
Ya know, while we’re on this subject, we have gone to great lengths to get some female artists involved in this thing. Pleas for submissions have been sent to over a hundred female-fronted acts in many different genres to no avail. There is one female voice on the soon-to-be released first installment of the My Goddess… series – which will be an on-going thing, by the by – but only one and the point person for that group, the individual who provided the track, is a dud(e). Women are half the goddamn population, for fuck’s sake, there should be more distaff voices on this comp. Why female artists don’t jump at the opportunity to celebrate their love for our very Mother earth and their own hirsute crotches is beyond our comprehension. It seems to tie in with our on-going troubles getting womyn involved in BDSR. This shaman has always sought females for the band, to balance the energy and bring the zucchini-bread, and there have been a few who passed through and added great things, but not enough. (Italian Ice, our Ambassador to the Third World, has been with BDSR from almost the beginning and her participation has always been greatly appreciated, but she does tend to spend a lot of time sampling the various entheogens of distant jungles which is vital, but which means she isn’t around as much as we might wish.) Seriously, we invite women to get involved fairly often and they inevitably say “Yeah, sure”, but don’t show up. Vexacious.
But anyhow, we hope some chicks contribute to the second installment. Honestly, at this point, we hope anybody contributes to the second installment and that includes us, since we haven’t done anything for it yet either.
Oh yeah – another thing we’re working on is a split cassette with Signalbleed, a noisy artist from the obscure backwater village Luray, VA. We finished our side months ago. Signalbleed actually spends any time at all working on music, so his side is taking longer, which is fine because we agreed to do the cover art and then didn’t do a goddamn thing for a season. We did finally get inspired t’other day and the partially-completed image is somewhere in this room, possibly in that pile of dirty clothes, and will be completed some happy day. Then the whole thing will be upgraded to the status of ready-to-be-released-but-not-released-yet.
We are in preliminary talks with a label to release a cd, Raw Power Of Myth. This is a label we hain’t worked with before. They have expressed interest, but do not seem overly eager, or maybe the recent holidays interfered with their attention to these matters. Hopefully, they like the tracks and decide to put the disc out.
We just finished recordings for a new one, The Celestial Life Of The Savages. At this moment, we haven’t determined the order of the tracks or which ones will be left out of the final version – certainly that one ridiculous, fifteen-minute drone will be an out-take – and we haven’t even started thinking about art. That one could be a Bandcamp release. Too soon to say.
Celestial Life is pretty much raging, reverbed, fuzz-guitar-heavy cock rock. Recording it was fun and we stand by it, but even as we were laying down tracks, we were thinking “After this, we gotta do something more varied”. Now, hearing Twin Infinities, which is all over the sound map, we’re getting inspired. Whatever happens next will be a schizophrenic salad of sonic slaughterhouse scraps. We started a project a couple years ago with the working title, The Hero With A Thousand Feces, which went the wrong way and was discarded. Now be the time to pick up the concept again.
We have barely started to accumulate material for a big, long concept piece –one of those single-track, seventy-five-minute slabs we do so well – which we’re calling Turning Trickster. Those huge pieces are a shit-load of work. It will get done, but it’ll be a while.
Goddamn. Sometimes, we here stuff we recorded some time back and are amazed. It’s impossible to really appreciate the work until sufficient time has passed. When we first record it, we’re too caught up in the creation and refining to have any ability to just sit back and hear it. Enough time has elapsed for this shaman to listen to Twin Infinities without any personal attachment. It’s good work. It’s a solid body of sound-art.
What else? Well, the laundry. Thinking about replacing the fucked-up passenger-side door on the little red truck. We haven’t played any shows in a long while – we wore out our welcome at every venue in town that was willing to let us play. Maybe we’ll find a performance space we’re allowed into sometime in the near future, but not necessarily so. Recent attempts to get a gig have not been fruitful.
Our taxidermist is dressing up some roadkill for us. No doubt those pieces will be incorporated into BDSR in some way. Stage props or some shit.
That’s about it. There’s possibly something else going on, but it escapes.
A couple years back, I was working in this bar/restaurant, far and away the most incompetently run business I ever worked for. The owners had no idea what they were doing. It was amusing at first, then it just became normal. It was a pretty easy job and it worked with my schedule and working there meant BDSR played there occasionally. I had a friend in management who pulled strings to ensure that I got paid every two weeks and that my paychecks cleared at the bank, unlike some other suckers who worked there. And I spent a few hours every shift roaming the internet, blasting music in the kitchen. I discovered quite a few bands that way, though the only ones I can think of off the top of my head are Flied Egg, Speed Glue And Shinki, Acid Eater, Popol Vuh, Ash Ra Temple, Saddhu Brand and Sleep. Eventually, the horrible toxicity of the place and the people got to me and I quit. The business has since gone under.
I started painting houses with my father. Among the conditions of employment with him is you have to listen to conservative talk radio. I hate conservatives and talk radio as much, if not more than, the next shaman, but I needed a job and painting was paying quite literally double what I was getting before, so I put up with it. After a few hours of Glenn Beck, all I wanted to hear was Glenn Beck with a sucking chest wound. Barring that, silence. Just nothing.
Then I got suddenly sidelined into another restaurant job. Seriously, completely unexpectedly, three different people who worked at the place approached me within five days and suggested that I apply. The restaurant is the Little Grill and I work there now. I’ve actually worked at the Grill off and on since the late ‘80’s, mostly off. I got fired there in ’92 or so and didn’t go in for over a decade. I worked there briefly in ’06, until I walked off two minutes into a shift because walking off seemed like a better option than stabbing a co-worker. And I didn’t go in for a few more years. Until people started coming up to me a year or so ago and telling me they thought I should apply, I figured I’d never go in again. I certainly didn’t think I’d ever work there again. But I know a sign when I see one and, while painting houses was paying off in the short term, there were no benefits and when my dad retires, it’s over. So another gig was wonted and the Grill is a collectively-owned and democratically-run restaurant, so it seemed like I’d have a greater chance of influencing the direction of the business and determining my own working conditions than I ever had working in the standard/normal/fascist-type of restaurant that I’d always worked in before.
(I have learned that the collectively-owned and democratically-run business model isn’t as wonderful as I might like it to be, but it’s still better than anything else.)
The downside of the Grill is that I work with people who have shitty taste in music, which I am forced to hear. Ani Difranco, Rising Appalachia, Mavis Staples, Elliott Smith, Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings, Chet Faker…it goes on and on. Endless, gutless, homogeneous, over-produced, slick, boring, commercial, unimaginative diarrhea dribbles out of the house speakers from open to close. I bitched about it until I got tired of being the guy who bitches about the music all the time, then I just started thinking of it as a way of building my powers of endurance. See, I have a real hard time with music. I like what I like, but I fucking hate almost everything else. Popular music makes me want to kill people, specifically, the people who make popular music popular, which is a lot of fucking people. I can’t stand it. I’ve ended friendships over it. You like Bruce Springsteen? Fuck you. Music I hate is really painful for me and it’s everywhere all the time.
So, for a while there, I was painting in the morning, hearing Glenn Beck preach the love of Jesus while making rape jokes and promoting the destruction of the planet and the continued financial brutalization of most of the people on it, then going to the Grill where I was barraged with Sylvan Esso and Parov Stellar. It was like an auditory hell that just kept going and going and all I wanted was to not hear anything.
Then, one day, I realized that I didn’t like music. I knew I had once liked music and I was still kinda digging most of the music that I was making (see the BDSR Bandcamp for examples), but I had no idea what music I liked. I didn’t have a cd player and I’ve not gotten around to downloading a thousand hours of mp3’s to an Ipod or whatever, nor do I expect to since mp3’s sound like utter shit, especially when played through a dime-sized speaker on an Ipod. The tape player in my truck finally quit working a few months ago. I didn’t have any format for hearing music that I liked or time to listen to it. I was aware that no longer listening to music wasn’t a great thing, but I didn’t get around to doing anything about it.
Today, after several hours of some of the above-mentioned tripe, mixed with some goddamn showtunes, for fuck’s sake, I went to the computer and cued up The New Geocentric World Of Acid Mothers Temple. It was the only thing that I could think of that I distinctly remembered liking that was carried by the bullshit, corporate music service we use, which is Spotify. “Psycho Buddha” roared out like the bomb on Nagasaki and ripped through the space for possibly seven minutes before one of the co-workers turned it off. So I slashed her throat wide open. No, of course I didn’t slash her throat. I am a southern gentleman and there were witnesses.
After work, I drove straight to Roses, a crappy little department store that has somehow managed to keep going despite the fact that there are two Wal-Marts in town (fuck Wal-Mart) and bought a cd/cassette player. Then to my storage unit where I got a stack of a hundred or so cd’s. I’ll get the rest tomorrow.
When I got home, I put in Rudimentary Peni’s Archaic EP. For relentless negativity and senseless hate, nothing beats Rudimentary Peni and Archaic EP is their most pure and elegant release. Every track on it is a shrieking, bludgeoning paean to violent despair. Check out this lyric:
Conception is a crime
The guilt and sentence lie
In crematorium flame.
That’s the whole song. It repeats a few times. The whole bloody thing is that nihilistic and bleak and it never fails to make me laugh. Next, I dropped in Letters From The Earth by the No-Neck Blues Band and that’s been rolling while I been writing.
Music is important. I’m sure I’ll go in tomorrow and be greeted with Guided By Voices or some other drivel, but I’ve reconnected to what I like and there’s another hundred or so cd’s in storage. Oh, and there’s that crate of tapes and cd’s that I’ve traded other bands for.
By the way, BDSR trades with other bands, so if you wanna swap, hit me up.
I have any number of different ways to feed my spirit. A few days ago, I took my daughter to some woods and we climbed a mountain. It was something I needed and she was pretty obliging about it, considering she really wanted to go play at the Children’s’ Museum. I pray daily, attend services at the church of my choosing, converse with like-minded friends about spiritual matters regularly and get off into the woods alone to meditate and commune with my Maker. I read books about the many and various ways people have tried and continue to try to engage in relationships with the mysteries of life here in the Zone of Middle Dimensions. Creating art and music are also spirit-feeding exercises.
I’d forgotten how much I need to just listen sometimes. I need to listen to silence and to the sounds that are made by nature. Even the incidental sounds of people and machines have their beauties. But I also need to listen to the created sounds of musicians from time to time and I’d gotten away from that.
Feed your spirit.
Brown Hat the Espresso Shaman
The pun is always intended.