Tierro with Bridget Law is an incredible psychedelic band with no albums recorded, or at least I have no idea where I can buy them. You may find some of their live recordings on their facebook page or on youtube, there are some tracks on reverbnation too. This Rock & Rails performance in Niwot was something else.
The songs of warehouse flies
The size of a homemade atomic bomb
Must follow each other seamlessly
Especially of those perched on __________’s nose
(How much, s/he thinks meanwhile,
Would it cost to remove a hair on Saturn)
How much does the manner of singing
Obliterate the soul
How big is the soul of a fly
(The smaller the creature the bigger the soul)
How many of them do you need
To cover the shadow of a vacuum dweller
[The best artists only care about
Pleasing the Great Architect of the Universe
But some are beyond the best and
Beyond the universe]
Heavens were pregnant with the flutists of Azathoth devouring a dragon once in a millennium
Later the angels used to urinate on Harappa and Babylon to chew the strings of the harps
The muses especially Calliope loved to play with rats and motel pillows
Good tea was an embittered enemy of Venetian lute music
The musicians threw the instruments into the canals stones at the listeners on the banks
Now let’s celebrate the horrors of the country we happen to live in
The freedoms of not being happy wastebaskets and dumpsters
Brimming with artistic sensibilities and rainbows and holy shit and the moon
And the smells of eternally young horses that can emanate several shadows and souls at once and
A collector of evil faces which she nonchalantly folds
And keeps in one of her thousand closets
Along with dusty tax papers and books in the language
She isn’t going to use anymore, she comes,
She who precedes silence barefoot,
With a simple note or just a sound or a soul
Of a wind lost in that closet, a sound endlessly twisted
Like the tail of an extremely happy dog.
Each ear, she knows, is blocked.
Each verb, she thinks, is a silly joke.
You can never tell how a saxophone
Full of sleepy hamsters would behave
In a posh retirement community
Where dogs translate the words of the residents
Into something the elements can understand
Where the winds devour devastated eyes of the angels
And dog-eared walls
Just look at the holes in the face
Of each one you meet
If the blues had parents, they would be watching us,
Throngs of them, everywhere from the walls of Memphis;
Their shadows would be long enough to share
Between the spirits of the musicians who are not quite dead
To be satisfied and complacent in the light.
The otherworld is impatient and averse to concocting ambushes.
Mice and frogs become sky dwellers each winter,
After the earth has burned her wine towers down
And extinguished chocolate cellars.
Times like that, I have no idea about mythical ladders,
but exquisite fingers of rococo musicians,
Simpletons to be loved forever,
Are an ideal treat. They always hold something to breathe.
People usually don’t pay much attention to the fact that, according to Borges, About 1944, a reporter from the Nashville, Tennessee, American uncovered, in a Memphis library, the forty volumes of the First Encyclopaedia of Tlön.
Who cares indeed.
34 photos here on flickr
The difficulties of blowing trumpet
Drastically increase for people with equine heads,
But sleep is only a mild disaster for trimmed manes.
Of course, musicians tend to forget the shoes on the roofs
Of the buildings they fail to forgive.
Do horses forget the hooves in the rivers
They cannot cross?
When snow women ride deer
It is too much for any bird
And the heart’s desire is to
Peck out each key from each harpsichord
The wind and the sun might seem
More ancient than flutes and drums
Invisible as the silliest ghost of
A wiped out tribe
Music is like bones
A procession of skeletons that would make
Amateur tarot readers laugh like charlatans
No they would rather consume pure
Abominable sugar which constitutes the surface
Of all the oceans, would rather chant
The words and numbers of their passwords
They haven’t changed for decades
I forgot my sneakers in a trumpet-infested country
Where unshod horses guard the toothbrushes of the residents day and night
I placed my soul between my heels in order to keep it soiled to no avail
But in the guts of each grand piano there is a frog looking for moonlight
Which never comes with the territory and sounds timidly leave
The times when no one is going to write a jellyfish manifesto
What I miss is random almost random landscapes
Trimmed horizons overthrow the gaps between ramshackle mansions
I can’t find a crack in the sky nor food for a foot
I take heed of the lakes insane like butterflies and sunflowers
Radio stations are crumpled masks for divine sleep
Flat tires and hiccups blow up each asshole I love
Evaporate manifold puddles that soon become their eyes
I am to hear rare drops of water inside the roadkill
Good music always means death to the listener