This is the kind of Sound Poetry that I appreciate.
None of that facial gurning,throat straining, and spittle expectorating phonetics and lip vibrating nonsense. This is more in the found sounds with text form of the genre.
Its all processed through various modulators,synths and tape echo's,so much so it reminds one of early industrial music rather than Sound Poetry. A lot of this wouldn't have been out of place on any of the official Throbbing Gristle albums.
Calling this Sound Poetry automatically lumbers it with the 'Pretentious tag', which isn't entirely unfair.Especially as there's a quote from French intellectual Roland Barthes,of whom normal people would never have heard of without a 5G internet connection; and the young lady who provided the looped voice for the opening track is credited as 'Poet' ,Sharon Theson,rather than just Sharon Theson. Poets have a disquieting tendancy to add this epithet to their normal names.The only reason for this I can think of is a attempt for they to elevate themselves above the herd. You'll never find the ordinary blue collar operative entitling herself 'Welder' Marjory Dawes for example.....(I consciously tried to be non-gender in my role assaignment there.....won't happen again!).....In France this can be a nightmare.Once they find out that one has 'Artist' written as one's profession on one's tax statement, they virtually fall at your feet proclaiming you as a great 'createur' for all to praise. This sickening grovelling to even the worst Artist or Artisan,of which France is brimming over with, is so deeply embedded in French Culture that there really is no escaping it.Personally I dislike 'Artists' as much as I do Musicians, except non-artists,Dilettantes and non-musicians of course,to whom this blog is dedicated.
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3 comments:
THANKS>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
We've got a local character, wears brown leather chaps & a cowboy hat, goes by Mike 'the Poet'. I sat next to him at the bar and he read me a social justice type poem. It annoyed me so much I went home and wrote a poem about him.
In South Wales btw not Texas. There was another guy used to serve in a greasy spoon dressed as a Red Indian (as they were called in them days). Who knows?
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