tell me everything you know about blast beats.

Okay.

"A blast beat is a drum beat, primarily used in forms of extreme metal, made with rapid alternating or coinciding strokes primarily on the bass and snare drum."

"Early blast beats were generally quite slow and less precise compared to today's standards."

"Typical blast beats consist of 8th-note patterns between both the bass and snare drum alternately, with the hi-hat or the ride synced."

"There are a number of different types of blast beats and variations within each type that make for a rather large arsenal of rhythmic textures and moods."

"If you need even more speed then try hitting the bass pedal twice in rapid succession."

"Listen to "Overkill" by Motorhead."

"The gravity blast involves playing a basic Euro-blast pattern on the kick and cymbal but using a one-handed roll technique using the snare's rim to create what sounds like a two-handed drum roll with only one hand."

"Make sure you stretch a bit before doing it for long periods of time because your hands might cramp up."



"its the same with blast beats as it is with running, you start out slow to get the technique in and get used to the motion and as you go on you can do it longer and longer and when your at a point where you can do it long (your choice) you can start working a little with speed."

"1. Blast Beats
the coolest drum beat ever created, used primarily in death metal and grind-core."

"Praise and worship the blast beats! They are Gods! and so are the people who play them."

whirlwind

days, these. Very old and true-hearted buddy up from Durham, NC, steering a black pick-up through the wilds of upstate and interior PA with a ladyfriend in tow to end up finally, wonderfully, crashing in the cordorouy-covered spare bed for four days, led to this, in roughly chronological order: a midnight dinner of soba noodles and sesame dressing; a drive down to the isle of Manhattan for lime popsicles in the Ramble, glorious vegan mock turkey mock thanksgiving dinners in the village, west, a ride uptown to revisit the tortorous youngster years with gloriously bereft sing-alongs courtesy of ani difranco, a ride down to Harlem to find friends and lovers stoop-sitting like profesh; informal contest to see how many watersports jokes can be made in one delirous midnight car-ride north, to home, with the company of deep-fried mock chicken and terrible kwikmart coffee and john darnielle belting in full-on stereospectrumstereophonic sound, busted sub-woofer be damned; no sleep, and no sleep, and no sleep, the best vegan chocolate cake in the world, and loading said buddys arms up with rubyfruit jungle, play it as it lays, white noise (brown, didion, delillo, respective) because it's good for her and she'll thank me for it later.

And now that the house is quiet save for the whirring of fans and the slow drip of sweat down my neck, it's time for book-cracking and brain-recovery.

go time

 

for reals.

a gnome

 

for you. Quotidian statuary from the Birch Haven RV Park.

"Art always

has to do with cosmogony, but it exposes cosmogony for what it is: necessarily plural, diffracted, discreet, a touch of color or tone, an agile turn of phrase or folded mass, a radiance, a scent, a song, or a suspended movement, exactly because it is the birth of a world (and not the construction of a system). A world is always as many worlds as it takes to make a world."
-- Jean-Luc Nancy, Being Singular Plural

the summer of salsa and strikes

 
freedom fries

 
fine form

 
infinite and free flowing condiments

 
forever.

backyard conversations

in flagrante delicto
H: "Ants are totally the proletariat of the insect world."
E: "Right! I mean, people are always going on about 'worker' bees, but all they seem to do is go out and fuck plants. They're really, like, the courtiers, the lumpen."

resistant bliss

Last night: post-marraige party, red-velvet cake and a crowded house for two equally brilliant friends, one who spends his time arguing with evolutionists, another who has recently made the decision to quit grad school, after a few degrees, to dedicate herself to writing without the deadlines and committees. This clock

presided over the ceremonies, and sheet music from the Romantics was mounted prominently on a synthesizer, and folks all around were all smiles.

Woke up this morning to a counter-London-pride zine, scanned in PDF, in my inbox, sent by a dear old friend who's there, now, rageful and right-on. Excerpted, below, at length, from the zine's introductory mock letter from Boris Johnson, Mayor of London:

"I am delighted to greet all you picaninnies, I mean LGBT’s (is that with an
apostrophe?).You are indeed my favourite weirdos, I mean minority. You shop till you drop, and you lead the pack in the partying stakes. You drink even more than Eton boys do! And our commonalities do not stop in the bunk bed. Your community displays the best of our city’s character: our capitalism, our greedy dynamism, our sick sense of humour, and our distaste of all things foreign and misshapen (unless we can buy it or eat it!).

But Pride is more than just a party – it is our opportunity to show the world how Great Britain is once again. We are an Empire of diversity, tolerance, and goodwill,
encompassing now even the perverted and the freaks. You are our beacon – we go in
your name to war in Afghanistan, Iraq and soon maybe Iran. We thank you for
helping us liberate these places and spreading the pink pound, I mean the human
rights. Soon we can go to these warm sunny places and buy more things and party
more and maybe even have a bit on the side! How hilarious, what a laugh.
Together we can bring back the myths, legends and fairytales of the Old Orient, full
of senses, spices, flavours, and colours. You can contribute to our dream your talent
in dressing up. Gay men make the sparkliest moors, and it is heartening to see
coloured people, too, integrate themselves and join in our own cultural traditions of
blackface."

And for g-d's sake, if you haven't already, please read both Lisa Duggan's The Twilight of Equality: Neoliberalism, Cultural Politics, and the Attack on Democracy, as well as the Winter 2008 edition of Radical History Review, an issue entitled Queer Futures, which takes the homonormativity bit and runs with it. Do it!

"step on the cockroach"

Pancake Mountain, where have you been all my life?



A full-on cable-access revolution, forthcoming. Or maybe we're just breeding a better hipster (get 'em young! recruit! recruit!).

All that aside, M.I.A. should be here, in the guest bedroom, right now, and I could teach her how to "sweep a floor," and "bake a cake," as well as "put it in the oven".

Move-swap 2008.

More?

BIDITY!



Found while learning chords. Favorite comment on clip:

"I may only be 13 but this touched me when I first heard it. It makes me forget everything bad I;m not afraid of school, my friends or my family tearing away. This song should do that to all people deserving"

I feel that.

thieves?

Had a dream that Ghost Mice played a rooftop show and then stole my dresser and my favorite wooden chair.

I awoke bereft and disillusioned, though everything in the bedroom was in its proper place.

ostracism, girl pirate

Brief, to share -- found at Last Vestige Records, Main Street, Saratoga Springs, NY, yesterday, after buffalo tofu and before muscadet, fireworks, and father-daughter Irish folk songs:

Kathy Acker + the Mekons, Pussy, King of the Pirates
The Red Krayola, s/t
The Faint, Danse Macabre Remixed
The Duke Spirit, Cuts Across the Land

for $23.98. That's, like, cheaper than mp3s that you pay for! And I've got the cover art! And the liner notes! Oh My God!