Godspeed You! Black Emperor

I went and saw them play last night in Pomona,CA at the Fox Theater. I took a video of some of their 2hr 15min set.
Enjoy!

Robedoor

This is one of my favorite bands in LA right now. Robedoor.

I Smell a Mean Struggle

It is telling, the great divide between our fondest hopes and our own grueling reality. The chasm is always there, often more actual than...wait. Pretty girl. Uhhhh. Alright. Get it together, Wirtala! We have things to write here. But man. You guys should really see this one. I am rightly beguiled. But hey. Logical consequence? Shit. My nuts are all knocked out. Recent blow. A true connection. So. This other reality, this gulf that stands between Us and our Great Hope. It is there, my friends. No matter what we do, no matter what we scheme, we will never close the distance. This is painfully illustrated by last night proceedings. I tried to will myself into the Love of an eighteen year old girl and woke up next to a thirty-four year old man. Try as I might, I can cannot defeat the Ultimate Logic.

Such is life? Well sure.But hold on. Is this, indeed, life? This particular girl has been coming around for a while now, only when I am dead drunk and completely incapable of even very simple tasks and lo, I repeat the same idiot jokes and go through My fascination of Her and once more I ask her name and she says I know it and the whole thing just deteriorates and I finally loose my long-since-slipping hold on reality and hey, the Gulf is right there: expanding, burping, taunting and yawningly indifferent and I forget who I am and decide that why not? let's get into all of this mystery and into the chasm I dive! and ok, I'll see You on the other side. This little devil appears to me, in a fever like some kind Elf-Witch only in my most base, my most morally deprived states of consciousness. It is like a deep, very convoluted dream. It is fucking fucked up. She is my Black Swan. And I absolutely want her.

Well. good luck! Jesus. But we all know those morals are long gone, eh? I am not here to pull the wool over the Hardworldom's collective oculars. I am here, in fact, to spread the Gospel. And like any True Messenger, I am treading a precarious line. It seems that I am continually undermining my fondest hopes and my college-best efforts. But this is the the great chess game, and my intuition seems to believe it has the key to what's up and what is Wise. And It will summarily drag me by the throat through the River Styxx. my bloated body in its maw and pouring my very own bile down my own blistered throat and will surely set the buzzards all a'circle overhead, possesed by their mindless flesh-lust as IT achieves it's own Satanic Bidding. Intuition. We all obey some master they say.

Hey-ho! If anybody pays heed to all this, in the year, say, 2042, I would like a diorama crafted in the Museum of Natural History, right here in New York, depicting all of this. Me, nay, perhaps my very own stuffed corpse, glass eyes and all, clutching a half empty bottle of whiskey, wild-eyed, haphazard, an expression of disbelief bordering on some kind of mindless maniacal rage, in a stance suggesting some sort of misguided vigor, friend in the corner, shoulders shrugging, their expression somewhere between pity, futility, and utter horror of what's to come. A woman, just staring at me, thinking, "well, what?" all-of-it against a backdrop of the Magical Cosmos- shooting stars, meteoroids, the rings of Saturn- all of it, and some kind of ethereal celestial music stylings befitting of The Eternal Massacre Of The Gods, which, by the way, will be the title of this whole future motherfucking rendition of the Great Struggle. Is this too much to ask?

Very probably. However. The children of Today are the old people of Tomorrow. I'd like to think that our Children's Children will want to know this kind of stuff. I am not an absolute nihilist here. I do have a heart. I, too want to help our human race. If, indeed, they can reap the bitter wisdom that I have to give. Trust me, Future, I am here to help. Right along with all those dinosaur skeletons and space evidence at your discretion at that folky little museum. That incredible masoleum. The degenerate 4th dimension here, at your service. But shit, yo. We are here to ruin the future, here in 2011.Believe it. Fuck. The very twisted stylings of David S. Wirtala, circa 2011. Cool. Now.Let us kill him.

Here to help. So yeah, I am still here, all cylinders and remaining palpitations, hammering and pounding with questionable results and even more doubtful outcomes in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Fashionable place that it is. I am knee deep in this band. And we are going to lunge soon. Whack! Yeah. Not much more to say until the ship sails I guess. But our name is Control. Heavy, right?

Like I said, last night was a rough one, the absolute zenith of all my desire confronting me in my lowest state like that, but I am resolute in my task and am not so easily dissuaded from my own denial. Sorry, Lord. It's gonna take more than that. If I just back up a few more paces, if I can juuuuust manage to intuit the perfect angle I think I may just bridge it all. That little dude in Pitfall managed ok. Though he did get consumed by crocodiles on more than one occasion. But such is the price of the playing the game, eh?

Yimmering and yammering here. And absolutely inconsiderate. We have all of this fresh blood in the mix and I have not poured a single beverage.This is intolerable. I apologize. Not my style. Christ. Look at you guys. You are withering right in front of me. I've turned a blind eye to your thirst in the pursuit of my own truncated eloquence. But no more. Alright. George, welcome! You are a noble man, and a fine addition to our tribe.It has been too long, has it not? Glad to have you here. I am searching the bar and...well, I think gin is in order. Gin and grapefruit juice. I'm putting a little triple-sec in as well, I'm just not exactly sure why. This is your first Hardworld cocktail, after-all. A very, very special occasion! This is why it is thirty-two ounces. Jacob, you are abroad, so I am giving you a taste of Bitter Freedom: a seven and seven. Also thirty-two ounces. That converts to some unknowable quantity in your surroundings. How is all that going, anyway? Shanghai? I admit to a bit of envy. What? Oh, it's cool enough. But the idea of Asia is sounding pretty enticing these days. To me, the Big Money and probably even God himself. You are, de facto, in the Current Fashion. Anyway. On with the drinks! Jeff, I have a bottle of champagne, well chilled, expressly for you. It is refreshing. It is divine. What? Oh, you're totally welcome. Anytime! This is a time for such things. Convivial offerings. Overflowing cup and what-not. We are Hardworlders, after-all. Way more secretive than the llluminati. Boring! Passe, all of that. Genuine deep mystery, right here. Fit for proper secrets, OUR lot. Ok. Joel. I have not forgotten about you. I saved the best. Believe it. So here you are! Hold on a second, this has to be delivered. Alrighty! Three bottles of Grey Goose delivered to your table by a beautiful Russian femme! She will never let your glass get even remotely half-empty. If she does, then let me know. Trust me, she understands the repercussions of such a failure.

Alright. Pardon me while I take a whiff of this stuff. I really should clean house. These whipped cream bottles are close to avalanching.

So, the events of the day. Egypt is revolutionizing, What? Oh, it's right here. Light on up. Sure, I'll take a hit. Wait. Your enthusiasm is infectious. What? Sure, it's cool but now what? Do they democratize, do they elect? It's all fun when in revolt but now that the deed is done where do they go from here? Man. Getting a little confounded here. But that's cool.

And we are all kind of like plants, right? Wait. Planets right? Shit. we're like both. Hold on. (exhales) Oh yeah. I totally feel it. I'm one with both. plants, planets, Earth, Cosmos, God, 3-D movies, ramen noodles, cheese, urinating in public, facebook, all of it.

But back to this girl. Maybe she is just some sort of brain-stem projection of mine. Maybe she just exists in my own grotesque fantasy. A Creature from my Black Lagoon. Wirtala and his Black Swan. It is a very strange place, this wellspring. Wouldn't drink from it! . But this fantasy projection.. is not beyond doubt. I have never laid eyes on her with my real mind. She could even be MORE real than real, even. Fucking Platonic. The never changing Real Shit, yo. Hell, even a fucking underlying symbol, as Monsieur Beautrilland would have it. But hey! Shit. Alright. Hardworlders, I can feel the gears clunking and the jake-brake jamming the Universe into the appropriate Logical Gear and, yes, I am still here in Brooklyln and even am, in fact, a little frightened by the whole motherfucker. Where's it going to end?

Where indeed?

Who knows? Since I'm dropping names here, I'll tell you who knows: Slavov Zizek. But I have no recourse to that Slovenian super-trust fund of absolute knowledge. Man. That motherfucker. . He will give me no advice, he will not be my own private Merlin. Trust me, I have made advance after advance after advance. And that totally blows, 'cause now is the time for a man like that in a capacity like that for a a dude like me who just happens to be me. If he could just be swayed to tend to me, perhaps I could begin to make cogent, well thought-out decisions. Why won't Zizek agree to be my handler?

That son of a bitch. Anyway. Enough of all these digressions! Your time is valuable. and I am here getting too drunk too early here on this Sunday here in fashionable Williamsburg, Brooklyn. And Wright just got here along with Jeremy, my post-fantasy cuddle buddy. And hey, guess what? We're gonna eat some tacos. Do not fret, do not wring your hands, I'll order you guys a spread worthy of your great reputation. You will see and understand how the Real Gods dine. Believe it.

Shit. Strangely, I went to the Real Mexico. I laid in the sun. I tasted tacos beyond my reckoning. It was borderline trans-dimenional...A taco fantasy of sorts. Unicorns. And lo, a reckoning did go down. These things do not happen in a vacuum. Shit reverberates. Even in sunny Mexico, it is, indeed, a Hardworld.

One may even venture to say, especially in Mexico. But fuck, pontificating just gets me stuck in strange spots. My abilities are already hitting The Wall. And I am not an elegant creature. My blood is already carelessly imprinted nigh on just about fucking everything. There is , truly, a bad Moon risin'.

And this Hardworld has got me by the balls, guys. Jesus! I am just blindsided and shit I'm all-aghast and brainlessly righting myself against my own self. A blitzkrieg cauldron of contrary idiocy! A venerable hail of bullets cloaked in various impurities. The world may be against me, but I am it's staunchest ally. But I digress. Understand, I guess. I am using this fucker as a certain sort of therapy.

And it all gets ever so much more strange, and ever so much more twisted. Jesus! The Falcon has made the kill shot, and the flames are intruding from all directions. Me, I'm just hanging, enjoying this moment and this fine view. But the Emperor is here too, and man, he is Lame Company. No matter. Part of the Bargain. So hey, let's relax and make a home here. A throw-pillow here, a Monet there. The coziest little imminently exploding fully-operational battle station in the Universe. Fuck it, why not? I have a round of drinks ready. Let us celebrate. Cheers!