color and sound, part one

Was antisocial in the art studio, working out my frustration of the day into a hunk of stoneware clay, cutting away at the excess, wrapping it up for the night. It's a good refuge, enough of a friendly hum, a good place to be introverted among others. Still feeling melancholic, checked email, indulged in retail therapy at the Best Record Store in Clevelandia and shot the breeze about sundry bands and was outed on my cinematic wussitude. Some people hang out at the bar when they need to be out somewhere, I hang out here because it's inevitable that I'll hear some good tunes and run into someone I know.

Tunes acquired:

Zambian psych lo-fi as heck, but the songs are there and so is the heart. Some homies diss on the whole kitsch of non-westerners playing western music, but there's something I totally love about this.

The new record didn't even have the sticker on it yet, and comes with a hearty endorsement from Phil Anselmo but this sounds like a band my dad would like in the best way. It's a little less heavy than some of the old stuff, but it's been spinning in my car all weekend and probably will continue to.

the first song has lyrics about flowers in our hair which is kind of cornball but it's Dead Can Dance so it's completely different. A little more synth-heavy than previous outings, but it's fabulous for those introverted nights when I want to burn incense, light candles, read books and paint and hang out with the cat. Lisa Gerrard's voice is incredible and Brendan's has grown on me too.

Next morning, me and one of the gardeners drove a pickup truck out to the burbs to pick up humus and the fall colors were gorgeous even in the rain. I actually like driving a truck, go figure, maybe it's that Appalachian blood or something. Stopped by an estate sale two streets over where there was lots of stained glass and funeral home stuff (those glass sconces and the velveteen kneeler), lots of statues of angels and Virgin Marys and crucifixes and the Infant of Prague and then, since it's my neighborhood, kitschy Christmas decor, arty photos of male nudes and Klimt posters. Everything's half off so I walk home with a silky crazy quilt, a candelabra heavy enough to kill someone and a small stained glass window for the kitchen before heading over to the college radio meeting and so Randal can hook me up with tunes for the fill-in slot I do that night. To be continued.