Uneasy Temperament

Tomita PlanetsToo many factors play into this half-assed, quick-release, interception of a post focusing on Isro Tomita’s 1976 adaptation of Gustav Holst’s The Planets. So, I recently acquired a handy, compact, portable turntable (with external, bombastic speakers) from the loving wings of my thoughtful and supportive parents. The details and photo-proof of this most recent player (and my 6th, functional turntable… I live in a two bedroom apt, people!) will soon be chasing the setting sun (meaning, there is a post yet to follow), so my abbreviated attempts at “getting in and getting out” of yet another responsible-laden post will here again commence post-haste! So, I’m spinning this record on my portable player, see…

Saturn… and Tomita’s The Planets barely near scared the living sh!t out of me! I’m forever a lover of ambient, wall-of-soundscape, ethereal electro, and when the focus is something as deep-rooted as Holst’s The Planets, one assumes safety will eclipse the ever-impending danger… or so I would stupidly think. Mid-2nd-side, sh!t got real (and I paused my friendly, online game of Madden 2012 for the PS3), and stared at my newly acquired portable player in sheer, revolting, mannequin-induscing pain. My educated guess would point my accusing finger toward Saturn, track V… but no one can really say for absolute certainty why my otherwise controllable paranoia began to spike a red-lined fever, forcibly, and emotionally, removing me from my daily routine (if ever there was a track that conjured up the remorseful, uneasy, “put me out of my mystery” feeling of core-stirring horror, paralleling that of Gaspar Noé’s Irréversible, Tomita’s Saturn is without question, that track). One thing was for absolute, and unquestionable certain… Tomita is a salacious wizard, whose talents live far below the clouds of obscurity, and whose albums I’ll (very) soon be acquiring.

What Lies Within the Padded Walls of Insolence

PoeThere exists a place… a residual haven of deceit and soulless vigor, where puppies go unwalked, and children color outside the lines. There stands a damning fortress, high above the crescent flying of winged beasts, where needles pierce the grooves of curiosity, and terror and panic are served with chilled forks and a pleasing Malbec. Within this bastion of social awkwardness and mournful second guesses, pens run out of ink and toes are stubbed on the tables of frustration.

Horror MoviesEchoes of sharpened nails crawling down chalky blackboards reverberate amidst its walls in a seemingly never-ending dark wave of tone-deaf enthusiasm. Exhausted shrieks from drifting shadows recoil to an almost deafening growl, where the mist of hope lingers throughout the dank, stale air, never to be realized again. Few will enter… none will leave.

Lights OutBe cautious of its intentions, for its walls are painted with deceit and its floorboards carved out of bashful fibs. Seen only by those who share with its gruesome banalities, this lair of organized filth goes by the sadistic moniker, The Prudent Groove.

Happy Halloween, kids! (Insert maniacal laughter here)