my band journal (12)
Writing for The Death of Procris, a performance by Ellery Bakker at The Good Sheppard Chapel, Abbottsford
There are 4,000 or so people calling out my names, some holding makeshift banners and placards... Our names are spelled, scrawled, laboured over intensively. My favourite renditions of our names are the slight variations on the human alphabet, like the letter I's that are dotted with hearts, flowery daisies as the letter 'O'. They're horribly constructed things I don't really like but the numbers are thick to see our bodies and hear our voices tonight and the crowd is thirsty and something about this satiates me. Everywhere I look there's low quality wearable merchandise with our faces on it.
Picture: a dandelion, light through closed eyelids..
It’s not so much of a dangerous world as one might think.
That cool letter 'S' thing
Corporate ukulele muzak over images of crushed chrysanthemum.
Something between your teeth and it’s Spinach.
Something between your toes and it’s Sand.
A delicate nod to the untrained eye
Baby's upper hand
Singstar, crushed crab on the bottom of my shoe and the eye is like an obsidian goblet an animal dies with no vocal chords.
Madonna once explained that her MDNA Tour is about “the journey of a soul from darkness to light” and I wonder what colour or shape a tunnel might be or how tall or big the the tunnel is.
That haircut everyone used to have in the shape of a pile of handbags at the centre of a dance floor.
Crumbling shucked oyster scraps reinforced by appliqué of Baby Phat low riders
1,244 dead MMORPG players, their carcasses rotting something fierce and heaped the whole scene shrouded in mist on an island during the opening credits.
Now, I'm a woman at Bergdorf's or maybe it's it's Barney's, stroking something in a shop with sequins I think. I cant separate my son from his friends, my house from my car, a tree from light source.
(Scrawled in blue biro in really scary handwriting):
If you're reading this, I'm now a boy band. I have finally reached a level of dissociative plurality, essentially splitting. Me and my hot bodies. My sole integral person and being has fractured into a set of different identities, each being an individual with their own hopes and dreams. We play shows, break shit, fuck women, do drugs, drink, eternally rude boy.
Break shit. In hotels more often than not. Our voices are human-like, tonally organic, angelic. During this particular set, our voices congeal into a mass of cherubic docile tones, raising to a magnificent crescendo. On this cue, the figure Daniel rips his shirt off, revealing a human abdomen. The air is pregnant with human reproductive endorphins and sweat, most rising from the masses of sweaty matted hair. This moves the figure Francis to create a facial expression that could be interpreted as " amorous", "caring" or "ecstatic".
Hardcore boys. One of my identities yelled at our manager the other day, got really fucked up and caused some shit. Hardcore more often than not. Before we play a kick ass gig on stage we gather in a circle and bow our heads down. We sing emotively and are embraced by teenage girls who are fuelled pestillence. Our next song will be produced by 6 sound engineers.