Next Archive Previous Archive

27 Dec - 02 Jan 2004
14 Feb - 20 Feb 2005
07 Feb - 13 Feb 2005
31 Jan - 06 Feb 2005
24 Jan - 30 Jan 2005
17 Jan - 23 Jan 2005
10 Jan - 16 Jan 2005
03 Jan - 09 Jan 2005
27 Dec - 02 Jan 2004
20 Dec - 26 Dec 2004
13 Dec - 19 Dec 2004
06 Dec - 12 Dec 2004

latest comments

ragudave (COLLECTED NONFICT…): Jace et al, Give Scriptgenerator by Philippe Vas…
Alex (african mp3s up): Are these Gros Beat CDs purchaseable online somewhe…
satyricon (african mp3s up): Grammy winner last night... Best Contemporary Worl…
satyricon (Party People FYI): noticed BTTB is hosting a dj set of yours on the 15…
muggerwithknife (GRIME 97): this is pretty crazed. a few weeks ago 2 friends of…
V-M (MIDNIGHT COWBOY): I love that film, to me its about escapism and the …
blip (Party People FYI): You ship see Marboro at a festival I also djed at i…
Stan (MELT): What a beautiful little poem-like allegory-thing. …
jc (SENEGALESE EGYPTO…): toby- great link!, thanks for the correction. the w…
toby (SENEGALESE EGYPTO…): hey jace, hate to play the meme cop, but when i fir…


Powered byPivot - 1.20 RC (more patches): 'Arcee' 
XML Feed (RSS 1.0) 


words by jace. some mp3s & annoted photos from time to time.

vinyl rescue service


The oud. Lovely popular Middle Eastern string instrument.  Here's a track by a living master, Hussein El Masry. Sables Du Desert, the (1981?) vinyl LP I ripped this from appears to be very out-of-print, but El Masry, an Egyptian expat in Montpellier, France, continues to perform & release material on CD.  If you dig this, then I'd recommend investigating any solo work by him. Deep compositions, nimble playing.  He doesn't always sing but when he does, it's golden. His French website hosts pop-up ads.


Oh god,” snorted the Madrid bookstore clerk, “...Ray Loriga.” I was in Loriga's hometown, purchasing his novel Tokyo Doesn't Love Us Anymore. And the guy selling it made fun of me for buying it.

I haven't been able to locate a single Spanish person with good things to say about Loriga: he's vapid, he's a pijo, he likes shallow fame, he just writes about rich pijos having sex with each other, he's got a cheesy wrist tattoo and contorts himself adjusting the watch and cigarette to make sure it's visible in his publicity shots, he uses too much mousse which is to say you can't trust a man who spends both time and money to make himself look disheveled. Fair enough. But I wanted to find out for myself.

Justin had compared Tokyo to Philip Dick, which was good enough for me: on the basis of A Scanner Darkly (this is to say, willfully ignoring the fortysomething other novels he cranked out) Dick is one of the most exciting writers I've read in any genre in awhile, period. Hard to describe, but he´s good in a way that few are: the hilarity, the paranoia, the lucidity, the narrative charge & pacing, the souped-up druggy lucidity. The generosity. He believes in people, empathizes with undazzling frayed everyday people.

Why judge a book by its cover when you can judge by the first sentence? (Especially important to not judge Dick's books by their covers, which tend to be embarrassing science fictiony/fantasy if-someone-sees-you-reading this-in-public-they're gonna-think-you're goofy- and/or-a Trekkie- style drawings.) A Scanner Darkly begins: “Once a guy stood all day shaking bugs from his hair.” The way the rest of the opening treats poor aphid- and/or drug-afflicted Jerry not with no trace of topdown caricaturization or pathos is a refreshingly gentle, unassuming way for an author to relate to his characters, even burn-outs and potential burn-outs. If you haven't yet, my advice is to read Scanner before the movie debuts & Keanu steamrolls in.
     Aside: It's interesting to read Dick with Chandler in mind, boozy Raymond Chandler for whom the morally ambiguous terrain of LA is littered with abstract clues that eventually lead to a unified truth--a solution; and pill-popping Philip Dick, whose LA is hallucinatory, plural, personal in the way that one´s dreams or nightmares or drug reveries are personal--dissolute.
     alcoholic L.A. vs addict L.A.

(This started as a post about Loriga but now it's about coffee. Namely espresso. Particularly, caffeine. In my bloodstream. I realized that the bpm count of my recorded output was dropping steadily, hence the new year's resolution : drink coffee. Later I'll try to wrest my own attention span back towards the book I just read.)


Today is Día de los Reyes in Spain, aka National Blackface Day, where the Biblical three wise men (Santa surrogates to the secular) leave presents in everybody's shoes, one king being Balthazar the African. Even though plenty of Negroes populate Spain, it's just as common to find a white Spaniard in black greasepaint doing the honors. You'll see dozens of blackfaced Spaniards during this time of year: on TV, in parades, waving at children in malls, grinning over products in syndicated commercials, and so on.
      I know a lot of Africans here who wouldn't mind some extra cash around Christmastime, but I guess getting white guys to charcoal their faces is less hassle.

El roscón de Reyes is the typical holiday dessert—interesting only because in a land of exceptional pastries, it acts just like American fruitcake: leaden, dry, uneaten.

Conguitos, on the other hand, are a popular candy here any time of year. The tasty chocolate-covered peanuts aren't as black as white Balthazars, but they dance compatible shimmys.