I typed the letters 'y.e.s.' and pressed send. Five minutes later I woke up thinking 'that was an odd dream' but the phone was clutched in my sweaty left hand. I don't remember acquiring the skill of text messaging in my sleep, in fact I'm still surprised that my unconscious self was making decisions without me.
I tried to telephone and ask about the details of the plan thinking maybe I might like to think about this but he didn't answer, he sent a message saying 'get ready now', so I put my pants on and located my shoes. Next thing I knew I was sitting in a tent in Hyde Park watching Bill Callahan dance like a horse.
Bill Callahan has two dance moves, piaffe and the knee waggle, the rest of the time he's doing something akin to a hungry man singing into a refrigerator but don't let that idea stop you.
From the back the famous spiegeltent looks much like an ordinary tent, the kind hired for corporate functions when they want something round and ostensibly outdoors. From the front it looks like a movie circus prop but inside the floorboards flex under footsteps and eyes travel over velvet, mirrors and leadlight windows. I decided at once that I must live in the famous spiegeltent, and so I did, for about an hour.
Bill Callahan has a strange rhythm, like an old tree or your grandmother. It is soothing and terrifying to listen that man sing. Watch a dusk sky fill with bats. I kept wanting the light to fade, it was too light in there, too much dying light pouring in through leadlight windows. I wonder why the festival directors decided to run the night in that particular order? My other main problem was also non-musical, plastic chairs made of magic plastic that numbs the buttocks in record time. I wonder why the festival directors would spend so much money importing spiegeltents and Americans then find the worst plastic chairs in the world? I wanted to stand.
The drummer crawled rhythm, it is difficult to explain his style, loose, low and precise. He was painterly with his movement. I haven't much to say about the guitarist, he was playing guitar. The other night I sat in on a rehearsal with Belle Phoenix (much better now than is reflected in these recordings) where Spencer was playing guitar, I've a lot more to say about that guitar playing but Callahan himself is a different matter.
Callahan does what most musicians can't, he makes writing about his performance pale, pointless and callow. If you get the chance buy the ticket and take the ride. Stand if you can, in the dark forest of heads and shoulders trapping sounds and moments with small movements of your feet.
I tried to telephone and ask about the details of the plan thinking maybe I might like to think about this but he didn't answer, he sent a message saying 'get ready now', so I put my pants on and located my shoes. Next thing I knew I was sitting in a tent in Hyde Park watching Bill Callahan dance like a horse.
Bill Callahan has two dance moves, piaffe and the knee waggle, the rest of the time he's doing something akin to a hungry man singing into a refrigerator but don't let that idea stop you.
From the back the famous spiegeltent looks much like an ordinary tent, the kind hired for corporate functions when they want something round and ostensibly outdoors. From the front it looks like a movie circus prop but inside the floorboards flex under footsteps and eyes travel over velvet, mirrors and leadlight windows. I decided at once that I must live in the famous spiegeltent, and so I did, for about an hour.
Bill Callahan has a strange rhythm, like an old tree or your grandmother. It is soothing and terrifying to listen that man sing. Watch a dusk sky fill with bats. I kept wanting the light to fade, it was too light in there, too much dying light pouring in through leadlight windows. I wonder why the festival directors decided to run the night in that particular order? My other main problem was also non-musical, plastic chairs made of magic plastic that numbs the buttocks in record time. I wonder why the festival directors would spend so much money importing spiegeltents and Americans then find the worst plastic chairs in the world? I wanted to stand.
The drummer crawled rhythm, it is difficult to explain his style, loose, low and precise. He was painterly with his movement. I haven't much to say about the guitarist, he was playing guitar. The other night I sat in on a rehearsal with Belle Phoenix (much better now than is reflected in these recordings) where Spencer was playing guitar, I've a lot more to say about that guitar playing but Callahan himself is a different matter.
Callahan does what most musicians can't, he makes writing about his performance pale, pointless and callow. If you get the chance buy the ticket and take the ride. Stand if you can, in the dark forest of heads and shoulders trapping sounds and moments with small movements of your feet.
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