ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND WEBSITES, SOON TO DIE

Did you ever make a website, upon first having the internet, just to have a website? I did. This was much before any every-day-people-blogging came along, and certainly before you could get to know somebody over the internet by searching for a profile. Building a website, for me, was a way to extend your existence (as it still is for many people, of course). And even though I didn't really know what I was going to put on it, I was determined to have one.

Inspired by small independent Canadian rock bands (such as Svelte) to make a space of my own, where I could create my own scene and there was plenty of room, I made a website on Geocities in 2002, three years after they were bought up by Yahoo. If you're so inclined, you can go take a look at the old thing. It's un-cluttered, it's pretty clean. Looking back, it was the launch-pad for a lot of my current e-designing habits: I still love the minimalist white page with black lettering, I still post pictures at the top of articles for no-one in particular, and I still use song-lyrics as headlines.

Anyway, Geocities is closing it's doors on October 26th. I can't fathom why: surely Yahoo can afford to keep a bunch of hokey, old websites standing? According to some Q&A they have posted, the corporation has "decided to focus on helping [their] customers explore and build relationships online in other ways." Of course! Clear away all that self-expressing, amateur crap to make way for a new social-networking revolution, why didn't we consider that in the first place?

I don't know if I can find the right number, but that basically means that a bucket big enough to hold Mars filled with personal websites are going to vanish into thin-air in one month's time. Isn't that fucking sad? Sure, people have the opportunity to save their websites, to download all their old files and HTML layouts and put them up somewhere else, but who is actually going to do that? Nobody has that time. Most people, like me, have embarrassing, modest websites that they don't deem deserving of redemption. But embarrassing, modest things should be preserved, shouldn't they? Yes, one may argue that there are typically non-profit websites like Archive.org that spend time maintaining dusty or done websites, but they won't cover everyone.

Who will preserve our e-History when we're gone?

LET'S MOVE TO THE COUNTRY

It's weird to be back home after six days away on the road. I'm sitting back in my room, looking at all the junk I have around that I truly kid myself into believing I need. It feels to me like everything I needed was in my two bags, or somewhere else in the van. My backpack with 6 shirts, 4 pairs of pants, numerous under-garments and toiletries, while the other housed my books, laptop, camera, Rubix cube and various wires for media transferring. I think I could've lived like that for awhile, but by the end of the trip I was certainly itching to do some laundry.

I've started writing about the tour in spurts, when I remember certain details or how things went about going on. It was a really fun time, and taught me a lot of things about making music, being in a band, and doing it all independently at that. It was definitely a step that had to be taken, and it will be interesting to observe exactly what influences it will have on the four of us as a working whole, creatively and otherwise. It'll probably take me a solid week of writing-- whenever I have time-- to achieve any sort of coherence, to make anything worth reading from an outsider's perspective. But I'll get there.

THE FIRST TOUR

Though I have no doubt any of the places we're going to be this week will be as glamorous as to have dressing rooms such as the Isabel Bader Theatre, I'm ecstatic about the shows ahead. We leave tomorrow around four in the afternoon and probably won't be back until Monday. In that stretch of time, we'll spend about one day sleeping, two hours eating, and nine hours playing music. But we'll also clock in at twenty hours combined driving-time, which will be the core of the tour. The possibilities for how we'll spend that time are limitless.

ANOTHER DREAM

Back in June or July sometime, I had a dream involving a female friend of mine. For privacy reasons, I won't disclose her name. And she's not a close friend of mine, necessarily, though we've had a few fun times together. I remember this dream very vividly, and that's why I'm able to go recite it's moments so acutely. I don't know what it means, and part of me doesn't care. Maybe you can tell me more. We're on my bed, and... well, I guess we're having sex and I'm at her from behind or something. This is a crude but important detail. If you know my room and the way my bed is positioned, you'll see why this point matters.

My window is wide open without a screen. The blinds are retracted completely and the sky, from what I remember, is overcast. At some point I catch something coming closer and closer to the window. Something flying. A tropical parrot comes flying into my room and I catch it between my thumb and index finger. Instead of the bird squishing and subsequently squawking at me, it folds itself like an accordion, so it's as thin as a piece of paper. "Look Tina, it's a parrot," I exclaim at my friend. She just mutters something with a wide smile.

I looked behind her and on the bed were two turkey vultures, cocking their heads back and forth.

ROPES

ROPES
Like a spider I zoom in on your words
A piglet goes to dirt
Windows I’d like to gaze upon
Oh but not yet
(Think very carefully about
the first question he asked you)

Could you feel the weight was being lifted
As my attention drifted
Felt the shrinking it was all right
Oh but not yet
(Think very carefully about
my running around in circles
while trying to break some paper)

Been unsuccessful up to now
But you know some paths they bend just like a bow
And you know I’ll kick myself if I’m the cow
And you know has anyone ever spoken to you about very much resembling
Oh! Sinéad O'Connor
Oh! Sinéad O'Connor
Oh! And that singer turns me on
Oh! Of her I'm very fond

Like a ball I’ve been bouncing on your floor
Won’t be asking for more
Until you lay me on the table
Oh but not yet
(Think very carefully about
my making small advances
while asking an alarm to call)

Been unsuccessful up to now
But you know some paths they bend just like a bow
And you know I’ll kick myself if I’m the cow
And you know has anyone ever spoken to you about very much resembling
Oh! Sinéad O'Connor
Oh! Sinéad O'Connor
Oh! And that singer turns me on
Oh! Of her I'm very fond

Written by Spencer MacEachern
© 2009 Nosebleed Noise (SOCAN)

CHAPTER ONE: YOU ARE WORTH YOUR WEIGHT IN GOLD

On the evening of April 29th, accompanied by a few good friends and even more acquaintances, I went to go see Elvis Perkins in Dearland at the Horseshoe. Up until the day of the event, even though I'd seen him a few years ago and was blown away then, I was a little skeptical about this show. I was slightly less enthused over Dearland (the album) than I was about Ash Wednesday, which is an album I hold very close to my heart.

But as mentioned I got really stinking into the record that day. I listened to it until I discovered every nuance, every kept secret, all the little creases filled with blood and spilt liquor. And I fucking loved it! Now I can't remember why I was unsure about Perkins putting on a good show, I can't remember a cent.

Wearing some paisley shirt under a suit-jacket and a bright orange toque, I scoped him out during the opening band's set: he was talking to the merchandise guy, seeing if he had some extra cash for a drink. So I asked what he wanted and bought him some whiskey. (After the set he would come up to me and offer me a drink, though it wasn't as nice as the one I bought for him-- understandably.)

The set was glorious! He seemed to be in good spirits, even though he's somewhat hard to read, and his band was having a lot of fun. He played alternate versions of most of the Dearland record and only two or three from his first record. And apposed to having twelve-string acoustic-string-- what he toured with before-- he was armed with a string of five electric/hollow-bodied guitars, most notably a Fender Starcaster! What a bizarre guitar... upon seeing it I realized why exactly they decided to stop making it back in the early '80s. The lack of material from Ash Wednesday along with the no-acoustic instruments upset a few of the people I had gone to see the show with, but they enjoyed what they got. I think by the end of the show they understood that Perkins is the type of person who wants to keep you guessing as he goes along. That's one of my favourite things about him!

I think by the end of the night I was pretty famously drunk, which was cool by me. It was a very inspirational set.

PUSHING MOUNTAIN COUCH POTATO BLUES

Fuck I've got so much to tell you, it's ridiculous. Life-changing events, dreams, moments, stories. I need to sit you down in my backyard over a cup of green tea and just go, but there's not enough time. I have decided that this is the summer of Spencer. Before you judge that sentence as being conceded and self-centered, wait until I explain myself. A vague re-cap, to be deconstructed and explained in full:

// Perkins in Dearland at the horseshoe.
// the song I wrote the next day while watching Will & Jeff paint a house.
// the keg party that started it all, and forgetting my hat/ring.
// obtaining all Talking Heads LPs on vinyl from the new store in Markham.
// 'high hills' ep release party at the Horseshoe.
// my 23rd birthday presents: new microphone, new camera, and a pair of underwear.
// getting drunk with Harrison & Simon, holy fuck/jesus christ tears.
// "change my hair-style so many times now."
// David Byrne.
// the rest is noise & arboretum (thank you Eunice!)
// NINE (9) new Woodward Company songs, including untitled three-part suite/sweet.
// fake blood at wrongbar for nxne, that night, etc.
// making signs, fabulous yawn solo show, the release of 'this machine...'
// falling in love and saying hello, falling out and saying goodbye.

I'm in Chicago right now: big open eyes taking it all in. What my memory won't retain my camera will, thankfully. Hopefully today I will find the Chicago Music Exchange (as referred by Graham) and get my ukulele re-strung by a professional. Then songs might start coming!

Here are some lyrics to an old song that I recently re-visited and added to, the title of which is at the top of this entry:

Pushing a rock all the way to the top
My palms are bleeding from the blistering rough
And agreed are my feet it’s no easy feat
Keeping me company on this journey
The couch absorbs the sound of you getting back to me
I do not see it until the morning
I was in the kitchen honey cleaning up the sink
My blood and all your breadcrumbs
My cart’s broken wheel lies abandoned in the field
Couldn’t leave it a land-mark made sure it was concealed
And my horse well he tried he stomped until he died
So it’s me only me up on high
The sound of passing cars is what you need to fall asleep
Not for some country mouse like me
I was in the backyard honey burying my head
Curse words muttered at the worms
I caught a rattlesnake sneaking on by
It’s highly improbable but try as you might
To that I just grinned don’t expect to win
But I’m never simply never going home again
When my brother I told him and the clothes I was folding
He smiled cheek-to-cheek saw the devil’s weight I’m holding
Nearly fucked it all when mum wept bet dad doesn’t know yet
Now it’s me only me until the end
The kettle whistles out I cannot hear what you just said
Something about the steps I’ve lead
I was in the high hills one time tripping over you
When I stray far from my house I’m bound to lose
I caught a grizzly bear roaring about you
It’s going to rip her heart out it’s true
Well I kept up my chin she isn’t an option
I’m never simply never going home again
by spencer maceachern
© 2009 nosebleed noise (SOCAN)


Here's a Richard Swift video that sums up exactly how I'm feeling. We'll talk again soon, and that's a promise.