Komt dat zien! in Turnhout! Club 1900!
Een hele avond Language is a Virus…

Cutting up two beat generations

Het concept van Language is a Virus is gebaseerd op de Cut Up theorie van William Burroughs. Wie echte vrijheid wil nastreven, moet de taal aan stukken durven knippen. Elke Grommen zet een hedendaagse cut up kunstenaar, de turntablist, aan het werk met de originele teksten van de Beat Generation. Jazzsaxofonist Steve De Neef jamt zich met DJ Courtasock een weg van de jaren vijftig tot nu en weer terug. Skratsh between two Beat Generations. Hedendaagse podiumdichters vinden in deze voorstelling de ruimte om hun spontaniteit te botvieren. Zij luisteren, voelen en kiezen “hun moment”. Wat er daarna gebeurt, is nooit helemaal zeker.

Deze avond in Club 1900 is gebaseerd op dit concept. Naast de bestaande voorstelling ‘Language is a Virus’, biedt Tune in Turn Out het jonge Turnhoutse dichterscollectief Collectief Dichterbij een podium. Zij brengen alvast een special guest mee: Freanne
Ervaren Antwerpse Rot Stijn Vranken brengt zijn vrienden- Sprekende Ezels mee. De late avond wordt ingezet met een rasechte New Yorkse jam sessie. Afsluiten doen we met jazz-funk-soul DJ’s als Mr. Crumbone, DJ Courtasock en The Consumptor.

New York, jaren vijftig op vrijdag 10 augustus 2007 in Turnhout? Check it out. Language is a Virus werd mede mogelijk gemaakt door een subsidie van de Stad Turnhout.

Deze ongelooflijke bewerking van “America” van Allen Ginsberg las Michaël Vandebril als uitsmijter op 15 juni in de Walvis. Dankjewel.

brussel ik heb je alles gegeven nu ben ik niets meer
brussel nul euro 15 juni 2007
brussel ik kan mezelf niet langer verdragen
brussel wanneer breken we dit café af
brussel ik voel me niet goed val me niet lastig
brussel wanneer zal je je dichters waard zijn
brussel waarom zijn je bibliotheken vol met tranen
brussel wanneer zend je je zonen naar de grote stad
brussel ik ben ziek van je waanzinnige eisen
brussel wanneer valt hier de avond
brussel wanneer valt hier het gras
brussel wanneer kan ik in de supermarkt ginsberg kopen
brussel ik kan niet leven van de poëzie
brussel wat moet ik doen
brussel ik weet niet wat te doen
brussel ik weet niet waar naartoe
brussel ik weet nog minder hoe
brussel maar ik ga als ik kan
brussel er moeten andere redenen zijn
brussel ik trek me er niets van aan
brussel ik weiger op te geven
brussel stop ik weet wat ik doe
brussel ik ben niet zot
brussel ik lees ’s morgens ook de krant
brussel ik drink vanavond ook goedkope wijn
brussel ik bid voor u
brussel ik spreek tot u
brussel de deejay is serieus
brussel de barman is serieus
brussel het publiek is serieus
brussel iedereen is serieus
brussel ik ben brussel
brussel ik ben tegen mezelf aan het praten
brussel stop

tijd voor het grote werk. Het resultaat dus van mijn blogexperiment:
Wie wil, is welkom op vrijdag 15 juni om 20u in café walvis in brussel voor een Cut-up-jazz-poet-turntable-performance.

met dank aan de fantastische Schurkdesign

Bob Dylan en Allen Ginsberg bezoeken het kerkhof met het onder andere het graf van  Jack Kerouac.

De scene komt uit de surrealistische film “Renaldo & Clara”, geregiseerd door Bob Dylan.

Zowel hijzelf, als ex-vrouw sarah én ex-minnares Joan Baez spelen mee in deze film. Leuk genoeg gaat de muzikale film ook over de driehoeksverhouding Renaldo (Bob) – Clara (Sarah) en Dylan vroeg overigens aan zijn vrienden Sam Shepard en Allen Ginsberg om enkele scenes voor hem te schrijven.

Nog één stukje om het af te leren:

Dit stukje documentaire uit 1989 gaat over Jack Kerouac. We zien Van Morisson voorlezen uit “On The Road”. Hij leest het stuk waarin Dean en Sal een optreden van Slim Gaillard bezoeken.

In deze documentaire beeldt Slim Gaillard zelf uit wat er die bewuste avond gebeurde.

‘… one night we suddenly went mad together again; we went to see Slim Gaillard in a little Frisco nightclub. Slim Gaillard is a tall, thin Negro with big sad eyes who’s always saying ‘Right-orooni’ and ‘How ’bout a little bourbon-arooni.’ In Frisco great eager crowds of young semi-intellectuals sat at his feet and listened to him on the piano, guitar and bongo drums. When he gets warmed up he takes off his undershirt and really goes. He does and says anything that comes into his head. He’ll sing ‘Cement Mixer, Put-ti Put-ti’ and suddenly slow down the beat and brood over his bongos with fingertips barely tapping the skin as everybody leans forward breathlessly to hear; you think he’ll do this for a minute or so, but he goes right on, for as long as an hour, making an imperceptible little noise with the tips of his fingernails, smaller and smaller all the time till you can’t hear it any more and sounds of traffic come in the open door. Then he slowly gets up and takes the mike and says, very slowly, ‘Great-orooni … fine-ovauti … hello-orooni … bourbon-orooni … all-orooni … how are the boys in the front row making out with their girls-orooni … orooni … vauti … oroonirooni …” He keeps this up for fifteen minutes, his voice getting softer and softer till you can’t hear. His great sad eyes scan the audience.
Dean stands in the back, saying, ‘God! Yes!’ — and clasping his hands in prayer and sweating. ‘Sal, Slim knows time, he knows time.’

Slim sits down at the piano and hits two notes, two C’s, then two more, then one, then two, and suddenly the big burly bass-player wakes up from a reverie and realizes Slim is playing ‘C-Jam Blues’ and he slugs in his big forefinger on the string and the big booming beat begins and everybody starts rocking and Slim looks just as sad as ever, and they blow jazz for half an hour, and then Slim goes mad and grabs the bongos and plays tremendous rapid Cubana beats and yells crazy things in Spanish, in Arabic, in Peruvian dialect, in Egyptian, in every language he knows, and he knows innumerable languages. Finally the set is over; each set takes two hours. Slim Gaillard goes and stands against a post, looking sadly over everybody’s head as people come to talk to him. A bourbon is slipped into his hand. ‘Bourbon-orooni — thank-you-ovauti …’ Nobody knows where Slim Gaillard is. Dean once had a dream that he was having a baby and his belly was all bloated up blue as he lay on the grass of a California hospital. Under a tree, with a group of colored men, sat Slim Gaillard. Dean turned despairing eyes of a mother to him. Slim said, ‘There you go-orooni.’ Now Dean approached him, he approached his God; he thought Slim was God; he shuffled and bowed in front of him and asked him to join us. ‘Right-orooni,’ says Slim; he’ll join anybody but won’t guarantee to be there with you in spirit. Dean got a table, bought drinks, and sat stiffly in front of Slim. Slim dreamed over his head. Every time Slim said, ‘Orooni,’ Dean said ‘Yes!’ I sat there with these two madmen. Nothing happened. To Slim Gaillard the whole world was just one big orooni.’

Meer Slim Gaillard, voor mocht de orooni tot de verbeelding spreken :

Uit 1946:

Een stukje documentaire over ‘Cut Up’ waarin Cut Up netjes wordt toegepast, zowel in beeld als in klank.

Brief van Neal Cassady aan Jack Kerouac (7 maart 1947). Jack Kerouac noemde deze brief “The Great Sex Letter” om de – voor de hand liggende – reden dat de brief enkel en alleen over Neals (bijna-) veroveringen gaat.
Het filmpje is fictief, het draait tenslotte om de audio:

(En, op enkele zinnen en het einde na, ook de tekst:)

Dear Jack:

I am sitting in a bar on Market St. I’m drunk, well, not quite, but I soon will be. I am here for 2 reasons; I must wait 5 hours for the bus to Denver & lastly but, most importantly, I’m here (drinking) because, of course, because of a woman & what a woman!
To be chronological about it : I was sitting on the bus when it took on more passengers at Indianapolis, Indiana — a perfectly proportioned (beautiful, drunk) gargled & stammered NO! (Paradox of expression, after all, how can one stammer No!!?) She sat — I sweated — She started to speak, I knew it would be generalities, so to tempt her I remained silent. She (her name Patricia) got on the bus at 8 PM (Dark!) I didn’t speak until 10 PM — in the intervening 2 hours I not only of course, determined to make her, but, how to DO IT. I naturally can’t quote the conversation verbally, however, I shall attempt to give you the gist of it from 10 PM to 2 AM.
Without the slightest preliminaries of objective remarks (what’s your name? where are you going? etc.) I plunged into a completely knowing, completely subjective, personal & so to speak “penetrating her core” way of speech; to be shorter (since I’m getting unable to write) by 2 AM I had her swearing eternal love, complete subjectivity to me & immediate satisfaction.
I, anticipating even more pleasure, wouldn’t allow her to blow me on the bus, instead we played, as they say, with each other.
Knowing her supremely perfect being was completely mine (when I’m more coherent, I’ll tell you her complete history & psychological reason for loving me) I could concieve of no obstacle to my satisfaction, well “the best laid plans of mice & men go astray” and my nemesis was her sister, the bitch. Pat had told me her reason for going to St. Louis was to see her sister; she had wired her to meet her at the depot. So, to get rid of the sister, we peeked around the depot when we arrived at St. Louis at 4 AM to see if she (her sister) was present. If not, Pat would claim her suitcase, change clothes in the rest room & she and I proceed to a hotel room for a night (years?) of perfect bliss. The sister was not in sight, so She (not the capital) claimed her bag & retired to the toilet to change —- long dash —-

This next paragraph must, of necessity, be written completely objectively — Edith (her sister) & Patricia (my love) walked out of the pisshouse hand in hand (I shan’t describe my emotions). It seems Edith (bah) arrived at the bus depot early & while waiting for Patricia, feeling sleepy, retired to the head to sleep on a sofa. That’s why Pat & I didn’t see her. My desperate efforts to free Pat from Edith failed, even Pat’s terror & slave-like feeling toward her rebelled enough to state she must see “someone” & would meet Edith later, all failed. Edith was wise; she saw what was happening between Pat & I. Well, to summarize: Pat & I stood in the depot (in plain sight of the sister) & pushing up to one another, vowed to never love again & then I took the bus to Kansas City & Pat went home, meekly, with her dominating sister. Alas, alas

In complete (try & share my feeling) dejection, I sat, as the bus progressed toward Kansas City. At Columbia, Mo. a young (19) completely passive (my meat) virgin got on & shared my seat … In my dejection over losing Pat, the perfect, I decided to sit on the bus (behind the driver) in broad daylight & seduce her, from 10:30 AM to 2:30 PM I talked. When I was done, she (confused, her entire life upset, metaphysically amazed at me, passionate in her immaturity) called her folks up emotion finding release in this young virgin (& she was) who is, by the way, a school teacher! Imagine, she’s had 2 years of Mo. St. Teacher’s College & now teaches Jr. High School. (I’m beyond thinking straightly). I’m going to stop writing. Oh, yes, to free myself for a moment from my emotions, you must read ‘Dead Souls’ parts of it (in which Gogol shows his insight) are quite like you. I’ll elaborate further later (probably?) but at the moment I’m drunk and happy (after all, I’m free of Patricia already, due to the young virgin. I have no name for her. At the happy note of Les Young’s ‘jumping at Mesners’ (which I’m hearing) I close till later. To my Brother

Carry On!

N.L. Cassady

Een gedicht, ode aan zijn minnaar. Ginsberg beschrijft zijn homoseksuele behoeftes zoals alleen Ginsberg dat kan. In 1968 werd “Please Master” geschreven. Tom Lanoye is er niets tegen.

De tekst vind je hier:

(Ik vraag me wel af hoeveel verdwaalde internetbezoekers ik vanaf vandaag op deze blog ga mogen verwelkomen …)

Please master can I touch your cheeck
please master can I kneel at your feet
please master can I loosen your blue pants
please master can I gaze at your golden haired belly
please master can I have your thighs bare to my eyes
please master can I take off my clothes below your chair
please master can I can I kiss your ankles and soul
please master can I touch lips to your hard muscle hairless thigh
please master can I lay my ear pressed to your stomach
please master can I wrap my arms around your white ass
please master can I lick your groin gurled with blond soft fur
please master can I touch my tongue to your rosy asshole
please master may I pass my face to your balls,
please master order me down on the floor,
please master tell me to lick your thick shaft
please master put your rough hands on my bald hairy skull
please master press my mouth to your prick-heart
please master press my face into your belly, pull me slowly strong thumbed
till your dumb hardness fills my throat to the base
till I swallow and taste your delicate flesh-hot prick barrel veined Please
Mater push my shoulders away and stare in my eyes, & make me bend over
the table
please master grab my thighs and lift my ass to your waist
please master your hand’s rough stroke on my neck your palm down to my
backside
please master push me, my feet on chairs, till my hole feels the breath of
your spit and your thumb stroke
please master make my say Please Master Fuck me now Please
Master grease my balls and hairmouth with sweet vaselines
please master stroke your shaft with white creams
please master touch your cock head to my wrinkled self-hole
please master push it in gently, your elbows enwrapped round my breast
your arms passing down to my belly, my penis you touch w/ your fingers
please master shove it in me a little, a little, a little,
please master sink your droor thing down my behind
& please master make me wiggle my rear to eat up the prick trunk
till my asshalfs cuddle your thighs, my back bent over,
till I’m alone sticking out, your sword stuck throbbing in me
please master pull out and slowly roll onto the bottom
please master lunge it again, and withdraw the tip
please please master fuck me again with your self, please fuck me Please
Master drive down till it hurts me the softness the
Softness please master make love to my ass, give body to center, & fuck me
for good like a girl,
tenderly clasp me please master I take me to thee,
& drive in my belly your selfsame sweet heat-rood
you fingered in solitude Denver or Brooklyn or fucked in a maiden in Paris
carlots
please master drive me thy vehicle, body of love drops, sweat fuck
body of tenderness, Give me your dogh fuck faster
please master make me go moan on the table
Go moan O please master do fuck me like that
in your rhythm thrill-plunge & pull-back-bounce & push down
till I loosen my asshole a dog on the table yelping with terror delight to be
loved
Please master call me a dog, an ass beast, a wet asshole,
& fuck me more violent, my eyes hid with your palms round my skull
& plunge down in a brutal hard lash thru soft drip-fish
& throb thru five seconds to spurt out your semen heat
over & over, bamming it in while I cry out your name I do love you
please Master

Beat That!

Wat nu?
Tijdens mijn jongste YouTube scan stootte ik op dit filmpje.
William S. Burroughs raadt ons aan Nike schoenen te kopen.

Tempting .. but no ..

Meer losgeslagen goeroes uit de jaren zestig?
Bob Dylan maakt dan weer reclame voor lingerie. Ieder zijn voorkeur natuurlijk …