Tosh Berman's Blog, page 215
September 3, 2014
September 3, 2014
September 3, 2014
I remember Alan Wilson’s death, from acute barbiturate intoxication, because I was living in Topanga at the time. He wasn’t world famous, but famous in Topanga. He was a member of the band Canned Heat, and although I never actually met him, I for sure saw him at the local market. The only Canned Heat song I liked was “On The Road Again.” I like the minimalism of the recording. The consistent drum beat and the distinctive sound of the cymbal, with the additional tambura, which is an Eastern string instrument. It’s the blues, but with an unfamiliar presence due to the instrumentation. I first heard that song when I was in bed, around 3 O’clock in the morning. I had a transistor radio glued to my ear, and I remember this song, and it seemed so eerie and depressing at the same time.
When I have my moments of despair, the song comes to me from the back to the front of the head. Alan Wilson was a friend of despair as well. They found his body in the hillside behind the lead singer Bob Hite’s Topanga home. Wilson loved nature and preferred to be in the outdoors as much as possible. He liked to take his sleeping bag, and finds a nice tree and sleep there. It was reported that he had a hard time connecting with people, perhaps being on the Autism Spectrum. He was a passionate conservationist, and read books on botany and ecology. And of course, an academic on the subject matter of the blues.
It’s interesting that a man who was so removed from human interaction would have a love and understanding for something so poignant as the blues. Yet, his blues was something that I feel was close to the bone for him. To quote the whole song:
“Well, I'm so tired of cryingBut I'm out on the road againI'm on the road againWell, I'm so tired of cryingBut I'm out on the road againI'm on the road again
I ain't got no womanJust to call my special friend
You know the first time I traveledOut in the rain and snowIn the rain and snowYou know the first time I traveledOut in the rain and snowIn the rain and snow
I didn't have no payrollNot even no place to go
And my dear mother left meWhen I was quite youngWhen I was quite youngAnd my dear mother left meWhen I was quite youngWhen I was quite young
She said, "Lord, have mercyOn my wicked son."
Take a hint from me, mamaPlease don't you cry no moreDon't you cry no moreTake a hint from me, mamaPlease don't you cry no moreDon't you cry no more
'Cause it's soon one morningDown the road I'm going
But I ain't going downThat long old lonesome roadAll by myselfBut I ain't going downThat long old lonesome roadAll by myself
I can't carry you, babyGonna carry somebody else”
I find this song moving, because it seems to be a tight circle, where one can’t get out of its rhythm or structure. The actual drone of the music that is the foundation for the other instruments is relentless. The singer is in hell, and here in a small amount of words describes the landscape that there is no escaping from. Throughout my life I always find ‘chance’ as a ‘free from jail’ card, but here “On The Road Again” its permanent groundhog’s day, where and when misery matches with the solid beat. Endless.
I imagine Alan Wilson looking out to the stars, in his sleeping bag and thinking, at the very least, a limitless vision that must have been an escape of some sort. Now eternal sleep.
September 2, 2014
September 2, 2014
September 2, 2014
I can’t forget the night I met you. That’s all I’m thinking of and now you call it madness, but I call it love. Alone from night to night, you’ll find me. I’m too weak to break the chains that bind me. For one command, I stand and wait now, from one who’s master of my fate now.” It is like you never died, or maybe you’ve been dead for a long time. No one told me that you left the earth. They played your records and told me that these were recent radio broadcasts. The letters I read from you, till recently realized that they were not from you, but signed by another to give an appearance of your being near me. My dream is broken in two, but it can be made like new on the street of dreams.
You’re too beautiful for words. Alas, that is all I could offer. I started to paint because I feel that was my former language, where I can say things I can’t say, but can on a canvas. I often roam inside the Jardin des Plantes and when I go into the glass houses and I see the strange plants of exotic lands, it seems to me that I enter into a dream.
I wait patiently for a letter from you, but I never know if it comes from your heart, or if it is even real. When you last wrote to me you said “good night sweetheart, may dreams guide you.” Ever since then, I wait for the mailman to bring some news, but the bills and advertisement to the local shopping mall, just remind me how empty I feel. Will you not come back to me and give me some reason to keep on living? And I do live, but only to count the days since you have gone.
You’re my everything underneath the sun and moon. My only dream, my only reality - you’re the song I sing, and the book I read. When I say this to you, or write to you I sound so dumb, but if I can add Russ Colombo’s croon, then I think you understand my words, as it should be voiced.
I don’t know why I love you like I do. You appeared to be interested in touching me, only when we are dancing. How I long for the music to stop, and never take my arms off you. Tears without measure, my life seemed so wrong - and with a smile, you banished sorrow. But that is all changed, because together we will live in dreams. Even separately.
September 1, 2014
Autumn in Peking ARTBOOK | D.A.P. 2012 Catalog TamTam Books Books Exhibition Catalogues 9780966234640
Autumn in PekingPublished by TamTam BooksBy Boris Vian. Introduction by Marc Lapprand. Translated Paul Knobloch.Autumn in Peking takes place in an imaginary desert called Exopotamie, where a train station and a railway line are under construction. Homes are destroyed to lay the lines, which turn out to lead nowhere. In part a satire on the reconstruction of postwar Paris, Vian’s novel also conjures a darker version of Alice in Wonderland.Autumn in Peking ARTBOOK | D.A.P. 2012 Catalog TamTam Books Books Exhibition Catalogues 9780966234640
In The Words of Sparks...Selected Lyrics ARTBOOK | D.A.P. 2013 Catalog TamTam Books Books Exhibition Catalogues 9780985272401
In The Words of Sparks...Selected LyricsPublished by TamTam BooksEdited by Ron Mael, Russell Mael. Introduction by Morrissey.Sparks--the long-running duo of Ron and Russell Mael--are among the most respected songwriters of their generation, their songs ranking alongside those of Ray Davies (The Kinks having been a formative influence), George Gershwin, Cole Porter and Stephen Sondheim. Formed in Los Angeles in 1971, Sparks have issued over 20 albums and scored chart hits with songs such as “This Town Ain’t Big Enough for Both of Us,” “Cool Places” and “Never Turn Your Back on Mother Earth.” While their musical style has changed dramatically over the course of 40 years--embracing the British Invasion sound of the 60s, glam rock, disco (they teamed up with Giorgio Moroder for 1979’s “No. 1 in Heaven”) and even techno--their work has consistently stretched the boundaries of pop music and the song form. Sparks continue to break new ground: they are currently working on a project with filmmaker Guy Maddin and are soon to embark on a world tour. Now, for the first time, the Mael brothers have chosen their favorite Sparks lyrics (to some 75 songs), editing and correcting them for presentation in In the Words of Sparks. As James Greer--novelist and former member of Guided by Voices--comments, “Sparks-level wordplay is a gift, and more than that, an inspiration.” This book also includes a substantial introduction by fellow Los Angeles resident and longtime fan, Morrissey.In The Words of Sparks...Selected Lyrics ARTBOOK | D.A.P. 2013 Catalog TamTam Books Books Exhibition Catalogues 9780985272401
September 1, 2014
September 1, 2014
Adolf Hitler in October 1939, signed a “euthanasia decree” backdated to September 1, to his words:
“Reich Leader Bouhler and Dr. med. Brandt are charged with the responsibility of enlarging the competence of certain physicians, designated by name, so that patients who, on the basis of human judgment [menschlichem Ermessen], are considered incurable, can be granted mercy death [Gnadentod] after a discerning diagnosis.”
The program ran from September 1939 to August 1941, and 70,273 people were eliminated at extermination centers located at psychiatric hospitals in Germany and Austria. That’s the official termination of patients, unofficially there were 200,000 additional deaths.
The real issue with the authorities was how to do this with respect to economy and technology The key architect of the T-4 Euthanasia Program was Doctor Karl Brandt with great assistance from Philipp Bouhler, who actually organized and placed the system in place to eliminate the sick, the weak, the chronic alcoholic, and so forth. Like all men with a vision, he also wrote a book called “Napoleon - Kometenbahn eines Genies” (Napoleon - A Genius’s Cometary Path) Doctor Brandt was Hitler’s personal physician.
Doctor Brandt was very much influenced by a German psychiatrist named Alfred Erich Hoche, who was very much against the psychoanalysis theories of Sigmund Freud, and was renowned for his writings about eugenics and euthanasia. He believed the health of society as a whole and that its weakest citizens must be eliminated for the betterment of the entire society. So in Doctor Brandt’s mind, this means that these poor helpless creatures should be granted a merciful death. Ironically Hoche, also a published poet, was privately critical of the Nazi euthanasia program, due to a relative of his that was murdered under that program. Nevertheless, Hoache wrote that the killing of the mentally ill and what he calls “mentally or intellectually dead” since birth or early childhood is quite suitable in one’s society. Basically he believed that “the killing of patents which he claimed had neither value for society, nor for themselves should be allowed.” As quoted Hoache “that perhaps one day we will come to the conclusion that the disposal of the mentally dead is not criminally nor morally wrong, but a useful act". The one day came with the arrival of Brant and Bouhler’s Nazi euthanasia program.
First of all the act of multiple killings was a great concern for both Hitler and Brant. For Hitler, he just wanted to know “what is the most humane way?” Brandt suggested the use of poisonous gas. Bingo! The headquarters for the T4 was the Gemeinnützige Stiftung für Heil- und Anstaltspflege (literally, "Charitable Foundation for Curative and Institutional Care"). In Germany, the theory of Eugenics was very popular. Basically the theory is to “advocating the improvement of human genetic traits through the promotion of higher reproduction of people with desired traits (positive eugenics), and reduced reproduction of people with less-desired or undesired traits (negative eugenics).” As Hitler wrote in his number one bestseller “Mein Kampf” : “He who is bodily and mentally not sound and deserving may not perpetuate this misfortune in the bodies of his children. The völkische [people's] state has to perform the most gigantic rearing-task here. One day, however, it will appear as a deed greater than the most victorious wars of our present bourgeois era. ”
What followed this was at first was compulsory sterilization for people who were chronic alcoholics, schizophrenia, epilepsy, Huntington’s chorea, and of course, “imbecility.” In 1939, the parents of a severely deformed child wrote to Hitler asking his permission for their child to be put to death. Hitler thought this was a reasonable request, and created the “Reich Committee for the Scientific Registering of Serious Hereditary and Congental Illnesses.” In charge was our good friend the doctor Brandt, Bouhler, and Viktor Brack. The three of them were authorized to approve applications from parents who wished to end the life of their deformed children. After awhile, the authorities totally forgot about the ‘guardian’ consent, and focused on killing children with disabilities. There was a law placed where all doctors and nurses had to report children being born with severe disabilities.
What they would do is to be contacting the parents to let them know that they must be taken to a hospital or center to receive ‘proper attention. ' They were executed by injection of toxic chemicals and then their deaths were recorded as pneumonia. Brain samples were taken during autopsies, and the parents are told that the samples will be used for medical research. A lot of the parents of the deceased felt better knowing that the program had a genuine medical purpose.
Next step was killing the adults. The first mass-killings of adults with disabilities were Poles in Poland. Then they killed or sterilized people in Germany. One well-known individual who was killed in Germany was Elfriede Lohse-Wächtler. She was a painter who suffered a nervous breakdown, and was diagnosed with schizophrenia. She was forced to have a surgical sterilization in the Dresden-Friedrichstadt woman’s hospital with respect to the Nazi eugenicist policies. Afterwards she never painted again. She was murdered with the majority of the other patients, with the official cause of death being “pneumonia with myocardial insufficiency". In actuality, she was gassed in an institution that was once noted for its humanistic traditions.
There was concern that the German public would not accept the killing of large numbers of Germans with disabilities, so Hitler told Bouhler that “the Füher’s Chancellery” must distance itself from the actions, in case anything goes sour. There was resistance from families, and once they suspected what was happening or about to happen tried to get their family member out of the hospital or transferred to a private medical institution, where the Nazis didn’t have any pull or influence. But at the end of the day, most of the doctors agreed to co-operate with the program, due to either ignorance, or agreement with the eugenicist policy, or more likely the fear of the regime. Nevertheless, it didn’t end in a happy note.
August 31, 2014
"The Plum in Mr. Blum's Pudding" Poems by Tosh Berman (Penny-Ante Editions) Out in November
"The Plum in Mr. Blum's Pudding" Poems by Tosh Berman. Introduction by Kristine McKenna. Afterword by Ruth Bernstein. Published by Penny-ante Editions. November 2014.August 31, 2014
August 31, 2014
Power. I love power. There is something so beautiful about the nature of power in that at the end of the day, all that matters is… power. The people who tend not to like power are the one’s that usually are not fit in that position or have a role in power. Also oddly enough they appeared to be getting fucked on a regular basis. They’re almost wearing a sign around their neck saying “Kick me.” But also keep in mind in the role of society, you need these pathetic people, because they will always take abuse, and on times, thank you for it. They can usually survive due that they can always find another loser among the ranks that will help them out. One thing that weak people are good at is finding other defenseless people. What they share is their hatred of those who are entitled. In fact, it is virtually a mania for these people. The more that they express their hatred for the powerful, the more powerful I get. It is just like a broken water pipe during a drought. They blame the neighbor watering his lawn too much, but meanwhile they sheeply accept the real-power-to-be and actually become bullies themselves. It never fails, in that they are totally frustrated by those who control their lives, but they will take it upon themselves to make a fellow citizen feel the blows of their world.
It is usually the huge gesture that makes the powerless feel even more powerless. Public, almost random, executions always drive them batty. They basically run back to their shabby homes and frown in front of their computers. If you overload them full of rotten images, they usually become numb to them. Excess is my perfume, for another it can smell like shit. Nevertheless my role is intended to be an entertainer of sorts. Dishing out punishment as much as favors. My philosophy consists of keeping them guessing. It is sort of like being behind a mammoth recording mixing board, and you control the sounds in that room. More vocals, but to do that you just have to lessen the cello player’s input. He or she will complain, but when the moment seems almost too bleak, throws them a bone. They’ll gobble it down with pure happiness and a sense of regret.
They say power adds a certain amount of isolation. This is true. I have put numerous prisoners through solitary confinement, and the irony is, I too put myself in that state of mind. I basically like people to have sex with, and the ability to master their lives. This gives me great comfort at the end of the day. For Love, I have assorted animals that I am quite fond of. I never mistreat an animal in my life, because I know by their nature that they will, if they are given the opportunity, eat me up. On the other hand, people reason themselves for survival and therefore rarely strike back in a consistent method. If you consistently push and push a crowd or a group, they will eventually fight back. The thing is the fact that they are so frustrated and so full of false pride, they will do something quite futile, like using a useless weapon of some sort. Once they are doing that, then I can bring the army in and crush them. Not enough to destroy them, but enough for them to experience the power of my will.
I allow elections and a governing body into my reign of ‘pleasures. ' However, I make sure that they are either voting for Heckle or Jeckle. The best policy is to ensure that each party fears the other. Therefore a voter will vote out of fear for the other person, and they will never vote for what they desire. In a democracy, even a fake one like ours, people tend to vote in a negative fashion. They fear the other politician because so-of-so, but the fact is both parties are the same thing. Which again, by the end of the day, is intended to support yours truly. All I can say is let them hate (me) so as long as they fear (me). Whatever becomes of me, it will just be my body gone, therefore, and for all purposes, I live.
August 30, 2014
August 30, 2014
December 30, 2014
All artists aim at creating their own world. What makes them a good artist is their ability to be pleased with their vision when it now comes to life. I have consistently been intrigued with Victor Frankenstein, because he had a vision, and he failed. Decay is an interesting subject in itself. I often buy fruit, such as a banana, not to eat, but to see it die. Although technically fruits are dead when they arrive in your kitchen or at the market, but to me to see it in such a beautiful shape and then, over a short period of time, turn ugly, and ripe with goo, which is almost like blood, and it's a fascinating process for me. Frankenstein appears to be not that much into life, but more of watching the decay in action, and having that figure (his monster) commenting on the decay of life.
One of Doctor Frankenstein’s major influences was Paracelsus, who lived in Swiss Germany from 1493 to 1541. An occultist, but one who didn’t study from manuscripts, but from nature and life in front of him. He gave zinc its name, and also discovered that some diseases are rooted in psychological illness. With that inspiration, Frankenstein collected body parts from various grave yards, to see if he can bring dead tissue back to life. He eventually succeeds, but alas, his sense of the aesthetic and design was bad. The “creature” turned out ugly. Very ugly.
Seeing his invention come to life, and not to his liking, he flees the creature. In a true sense he’s the father who leaves the child, but even worse, he doesn’t provide for the creation that he created. Alone, Frankenstein’s “monster” demands that he makes him a mate, a female that he can be with. He does, but the “good” doctor destroys his creation, realizing that he started a new race. With that in mind, his monster swears that he will destroy him and anyone he comes in contact with. So what we are confronted with is revenge, stupidity, and passion to create something that wasn’t there before.
I’m often jealous that I have never created a character (besides myself) that either makes their own world, or at the very least, have some importance to the world out there. I never loved Robert Crumb, but I have consistently admired the fact that he presented a landscape that is so full of his characters, and even has a soundtrack attached to those images. Eros becomes one’s world, if they just focus and concentrate on making that world. I don’t accept a lot of his imagery, but that is perfectly fine, because one can enter or leave the entrance to one’s desire. There is always an exit, but unlike Victor Frankenstein, he didn’t make a proper exit for his invention.
The role of the dandy is to re-make the world into their own vision. This is sometimes not a workable solution, nevertheless, an adventure does come out of the process. The art of it is to embrace your creation, and feed and entwine oneself around it no matter what the cost is. For inspiration, I look upon Joan Blondell in “Gold Diggers of 1933. A citizen of the depression, she makes efforts to embrace a new career in illusion, which is the essence of show business - to make a world that really doesn’t exist, to actually exist. Every day, every hour - I work hard to exist, and I appreciate the spirit that wants to create, but again, it is the art of living. Some are masters, and some are just failures. But one can learn from both positions.
August 29, 2014
August 29, 2014
August 29, 2014
Very rarely has my father dealt with his memory of a place or time. He looked at the world as “now,” and history I think meant a lot to him, but he was a person who existed for the present. So one would never ask him what it was like being in a recording studio with Charlie Parker. My father is dead, and I’m curious to know these things now, for instance, what did Parker say or do in that recording studio in Glendale, California? To hold that much culture on one’s shoulder, one would think someone has a need to share that information. Alas, as time marches on, the faces and names get cloudy, but surely Charlie Parker is important enough to share that tib-bit of information regarding what it was like to be in a room with Charlie Parker.
It comes as no surprise that I feel like Pinkie in Graham Greene’s novel “Brighton Rock, which was also a wonderful film starring Richard Attenborough. I’m so full of anger, that I just take out - anything, anyone, anywhere. I want to destroy so I can be destroyed. My existence is so full of holes, that if you drew it on paper, you would need to have a mouse sticking his head through one of the cheese holes. Because that is what my life is like, Swiss cheese.
Then again I should relax a bit more. One thing that is important in order to live is to laugh. I sometimes forget how significant it is to be able to walk into a movie theater, hopefully a comedy, and just putting your angst aside and just laugh what’s on the big screen in front of you. What’s in back of you can wait till the film is over. The thing is, I project Pinkie’s face over everyone in the film. I laugh, but it is like swallowing air and it makes me sick to my stomach. I’m searching like a manic that there is some humor, either being said, or implied. For all I care they could be showing “Night and Fog” and I would be laughing my head off. I sit in the theater and I feel my scar on my cheek. I remember when I got into the fight, and he slashed my cheek. It didn’t hurt for some reason, and when I went into the bathroom to examine the wound, I was intrigued by the cleanness of the cut. I took my thumb and little finger on my right hand, and open the cut to see if blood would come out. It reminded me of a woman’s vagina, as I opened and closed the wound on my face. Thinking about the cut on my cheek in those terms made the pain bearable. It seemed like it didn’t happen. I often dream at night that I have a loose front tooth, or an open scar on my body that is bleeding in front of the public, and when I wake-up, I feel that those physical dreams are quite real. It takes me at least five minutes to recognize that I was dreaming and the fact is that I don’t have a loose tooth or a scar on my cheek. Yet, I play with my cheek, thinking that I have such a scar.
I wonder at times if I’m actually here or not. I often felt that I’m in someone else’s dream or vision of a life that is not exactly mine. Perhaps Charlie Parker didn’t exist, nor did my father. I feel I have seen something, and I can remember the scent of my father’s shaving cologne, but as one gets older the senses get duller, and you eventually just have a memory of having the experience of smelling such a scent. I imagine Joan of Arc, who heard voices from another world, as she knew the game was up, and had to face the bonfire, that she had no choice but to follow the voice that came within, and surely not from another source outside her body. At the very least, I have the physical copy of the album cover that my father did for Dial Records, which is the first time Charlie Parker has appeared on a disk. That’s real, and my memories are really a movie, as if it was directed and written by Preston Sturges.
