Maura's Illuminated Manuscript

It turns out a bunch of you are into Daft Punk's soundtrack for "TRON: Legacy". I'll allow it. But I still recommend in the strongest possible terms that you listen to Discovery. Be prepared to bop 'til you drop.

I apparently have never written about Ishkur here, and that's a shameful oversight. Who is Ishkur, you ask? Some wise guy up in Vancouver who, if memory serves, is a writer and/or comedian. He's a raver from way back. His real claim to fame, though, is his Guide to Electronic Music, now in its third incarnation. Warning: this site is a time sink! A rabbit hole! You will groove away the hours! It's beautifully done, and chock full of fabulous audio goodness. I miss the commentary from the v2 site, though.

In addition to the guide, though, he's put a lot of mixes on Mixcloud, typically two hours each, that each illustrate one of the absurdly many genres of electronic music. I've come back to them repeatedly over the course of the pandemic. Totally worth a listen, in my opinion. My most recent fave? "Secret Squirrel".

I've never met the man, but xaotica, who's also a raver from way back, knows him. That gives me reason to believe he's not a psycho killer. xaotica, by the way, founded the NWTekno bulletin board site, which is where I found out about my first local techno events.

I had a zappy appointment that I made six weeks or so ago. Since Ms. Zappy's office is quite a ways south of where I live and my son usually has my car, that meant taking two buses and a train, the last of which involves changing trains in the middle due to construction. I must say, my trip was a lot zippier than I planned for. Maybe it was an ordinary Sunday afternoon crowd, or rather lack thereof, but I had unusually good luck connecting between transportation modes.

Dinner last night with Ex's friend P, whom I hadn't seen in ages. Much chat about divorce - she's in the middle of her second - and my son. She has no kids, thank goodness.

While I was killing time before P's I hit Easy Street records and got Ray Of Light, Madonna's kinda rave album. About half of it is isn't bad. I like they ravey half, of course. Why am I even typing this? Because Madonna occupies a special place in my head: being a homosexual in good standing, I've felt the pressure to like Madonna's work. I'm old enough, however, to remember her saturation media bombing campaigns of the '80s and '90s, and I still haven't forgiven her for them. I never bought, begged, borrowed, or stole any item of Madonna merchandise before, and I'm glad I paid $4 for the album, used, natch.

To hell with DST. I went to bed at a reasonable hour last night and woke up at an unreasonable one.

I've been feeling I should write something, but I don't have much for you. How about Frivolous Cultural Stuff?

Novelist Nick Harkaway is best when he doesn't take things too seriously. That's a yes on The Gone Away World and Angelmaker, and a reluctant no on Gnomon. That last is a hard sci-fi tome, which is ordinarily the kind of thing I love, but it was somehow too much twisty plot and too predictable at the same time. I'll give Gnomon points for topicality, though.

The long-awaited version 3.0 of Ishkur's Guide to Electronic Music is here! Read the opinionated, wise guy text. Groove to the hundreds of minutely categorized tracks. Listen to his extended mixes on Mixcloud! This is a labor of love that was ten years in the making, and it's worth blowing several hours on.

I discovered a mix on Mixcloud that I may have heard live in person at Pink Mammoth at )'( last year. Pink Mammoth is one of my favorite places to dance during the day. Do I feel any playa homesickness? Maybe just a tiny twinge, but not nearly as bad as '17. In recent weeks I've come up with a diabolical playa plan that I actually have the skills to accomplish. I should discuss it with gfish and/or Barnaby Hoit.

This coming weekend: zappy, which was delayed by poor Ms. Zappy's detached retina, a BBQ, and possibly SAAND at the Monkey Loft.

It's been longer than usual since I last posted, but it's for a happy reason: the Tickler and I went to Portland as the festivities for my birthday, observed. The main event: Paul Oakenfold's show, which I'll get to below. But first things first.

I picked up the Tickler at her new place on the outskirts of Olympia. Naturally enough, it's a big house for one person, but she says it doesn't make a good party pad because it's on septic, not the sewer system. It's nice and quiet, though.

We stayed at the Jupiter Hotel, which I picked for its proximity to the show. I'd walked past it a time or two on other trips to Portland (a Vampire Ball or two?) so I knew it was a hipster joint. Yeah, you could say the whole city is a hipster joint and not be wrong, but it's particularly obvious at the Jupiter: apparently it was once what the Tickler called a "no-tell motel" that's been renovated and then some. There was a bright, mind-melting mural on one wall of our room, and there were weed-related amenities available. (The Tickler brought edibles, which I must say made the mural even more interesting.) They provide ear plugs, which the Tickler desperately wanted for the show, but she could have used them to sleep: the Douglas Fir, which is a live music venue, is right next door, and the hotel itself has thin walls and young, loud, hipster guests. I'd go there again, but as a tourist, not for business.

Portland is a better restaurant town than it has any right to be, so after I took a badly needed nap - I'd been awake since 0415 - and extensive discussion, the Tickler took me to Teote, a South American (read: Venezuelan) place. It's not the fanciest joint: they give you numbers. But they have a huge patio, lots of Latin American customers, excellent people watching - "queerdos", said the Tickler - and mighty fine penil served in Fiesta ware. I've discovered that I could eat their arepas until I pop.

The show itself? I have to tell you, I might have liked it better if I'd gotten more sleep beforehand. However, Oakenfold delivered the trance both old and new, as did his immediate opener, Portlander Jamie Meushaw. The Tickler is a lot less reticent than I am about shoving her way to the front and center of a crowded club floor. Hello, trans-related insecurity! We also had fun doing raver culture bingo: the dragon onesie, fluffies, a fake fur vest, a kilt, etc. But there was also the über-gay rhinestone cowboy; the short, sequined dresses; and the geriatric ravers even older than I am.

The club, 45 East, is a professional joint with good sound and lasers in the middle of a still-light-industrial part of town by the Willamette. Walking there was a little tricky because of a) an overpass where we didn't expect it and b) the tents of the homeless occupying the whole width of the sidewalk. The Tickler figured Oakie could have filled a bigger hall, and I think she's right. There wasn't room to dance at 45 East except for upstairs, which was noteworthy for its long benches against one wall that faithfully transmitted vibrations from the subwoofers to our nether regions. Ahem.

We stayed until the house lights went up, then took a Lyft to a concentration of the food trucks for which Portland is famous at SE 12th & Hawthorne. I had what I must admit was a mighty fine felafel; the Tickler, who's spent a fair amount of time in the Middle East, said it was properly green on the inside and remarked on the quality of the pita. You see what Portland is like? So yeah, we nommed outdoors at 0300; the gas fires couldn't ward off the chilly wind but the big tent they had could. We went back to the Jupiter and slept the sleep of the just.

Brunch today? The Tickler thought she'd been to Tasty 'N Sons, which a cow orker of mine had also recommended, but when we got there she realized she hadn't. No matter: it's fan-damn-tastic. Definitely worth the half-hour wait, which we put to good use by consuming some lovely cocktails. (Mine was necessarily coffee-based.) I had the chicken-fried pork with venison gravy, and I say with the authority of a child of the South that their biscuits were right on. So was the kim chi I ordered on the side.

Yeah, we went to Powell's City of Books because we were in Portland. What kind of Philistines do you take us for? Books I bought: 3. Books the Tickler bought: ≥ 12. Dropped off the Tickler, swatted her kinky kitty. Came home. Gonna collapse now.

I made it to the of Montreal* show at Neumo's, which is the perfect venue for that band and my favorite overall. They. Rocked. My. World! Old school. Front man Kevin Barnes has clearly been sacrificing fatted calves on the altar of David Bowie.

But first, naturually, the opening band, Locate S,1. This band has some serious technical chops and a whole lot of mostly eighties influences; they put me in mind of Elvis Costello, Genesis, Natalie Merchant, the Buzzcocks, and jazz. It makes them an excellent choice to open for of Montreal, and probably a band to watch. I only wish that the acoustics upstairs hadn't played havoc with the lyrics. (My feet were bugging me and I was low on sleep, so I mostly stayed up there.)

I'd never been to an of Montreal show, and I've since found out that what I saw was pretty typical for them, but not anyone else: giant puppets, mummers, furries, dancers in zentai suits (despite Neumo's stage being not that big), Isis wings, and Kevin Barnes prancing and dancing in '80s inspired drag, including sparkly red heels, complete with frequent costume changes. This was glam rock, dammit, with tighter-than-tight instrumentals & vocals. I'm so buying their new album EP, but I was happy to hear selections from Skeletal Lamping - my fave LP to date - and Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer?. There was some intense, non-stop energy on stage and in the room. Barnes was quite good at working the crowd, which was delightfully fruity as well.

Highly recommended. I left a little before the end because of my physical state, and I'm deeply ambivalent about doing so. This was magic, what rock gigs are supposed to be.



*No, the first word in their name is not capitalized.
**Yes, the comma is part of the name. Damn hipsters and their typography.

I got the intro SKU of Ableton about a year ago, plus a little, used MIDI keyboard, intending to - wait for it - make music. I did some introductory stuff, and a year went by, a year of feeling guilt and shame at all the creative projects other people were doing.

No more. I'm well into putting something together, and I'd like to take it to Diesel Bleeper, who by the way has released something of her own.

But as you'd imagine, that intro SKU is pretty crippled, and to do real stuff without tormenting yourself you need more cash. I should have some coming from the gummint soon.

Friday: dinner & rekkids with m'boy. If I don't play Rumors and Aja for him, he won't hear them.

Yesterday: a beautiful day of little projects I'd been putting off, mainly for beautification.

• Did all of my nails for the first time in months, in obnoxious pink for spring.
• Re-dyed my much-loved and much-abused "hippy bag", which is an older Coach bag and therefore beautifully designed and made.
• Hit the Hill because I had time to kill and I wanted to pick up a used CD of Soundgarden, again for m'boy. Sure enough, I found a copy of Superunknown*. Or rather, another one; I know I used to have one and I'm not proud to say I must have gotten rid of it at some point.
• Had a couple of beers at the Wildrose and chatted with the cute zaftig blond who tends bar there. We both lamented how unnecessarily dead Seattle is during the winter. I brought up Pride, natch - it's Christmas for the 'Rose - which is bound to have extra meaning given the current political situation. I gently reminded her that we're all in this together.

Last night: Techno from the Sweatbox crew, starting with Dane Wilson. It was some sweet acid stuff with some lovely eye candy - ahem, but I was pretty tired despite napping earlier. I caught the last train north out of Sodo station at 0037. Moral: If I'm going to do that, don't eat dinner so early and maybe caff up. I'm geezing out, mayunn.



*Fun fact: I believe that cupcake_goth and I were at the same Soundgarden show at Bumbershoot in 1990, more than ten years before we met. I know I went to a Bumbershoot show of theirs in the early '90s; I just can't remember which year.

It's fun to think about what might have happened if I'd met her then, but it's probably best that I didn't, given that I ran headlong away from myself a little more than three years later when I met the future Ex. I can't imagine cupcake_goth being pleased about that, and besides, she had her own stuff to deal with back then.

My son asked me last night, "Have you ever heard of a musician called Prince?" Clearly I'd neglected his musical education, so I remedied that right away. Oddly enough, I used to be way more into Prince than I am now. I annoyed grad school housemates with how much I played him. He wasn't my culture hero - for that matter, neither was Bowie, as you could reasonably expect - but he brought the Funk to rock like no one else, and that was why I loved him. I gather that he managed that in part though successfully fighting the music industry's racism. What the old white guys running the industry did to Nile Rodgers in the '70s Prince did to them in the '80s. Sweet, funky karma.

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Heaven help me. I've paid for OKCupid and gotten back on the horse with dating sites in general. I guess running into M at Hot Flash Inferno affected me more than I thought. Sure, I have women I'm dating, but do I have someone I can call when I'm feeling down? No. Am I living alone? Yes, except for the lumpy teenager behind me. Q.E.D.

I suppose that if I do find Ms. Right, the kiddo's living situation is going to get changed again. He may or may not be genuinely thrilled about that. So far it hasn't been as bad as I expected. He'll usually do what he's told, but he must be told, and he often does it wrong. So far he isn't making good use of his quarter off school.

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ETA: I gave Inga the big, black Lelo Smart Wand her first serious use last night. The results weren't mind-blowing, but they were the most promising of any vibe I've used to date. In Inga's defense I must say that I quit early due to ick-induced fatigue. Clearly more research is needed.

OK, the long version: for the party that the Siberian Siren is throwing imminently, she wanted the table that her sweetie AJ assembled in a storage space in a building the SS manages. That means the table was six blocks from her swank new place. Okey doke, so last night the SS borrowed an SUV, and secured the services of a gay dude and me.

The table is tall (AJ, who does most of the cooking, is 6'.), heavy, and non-decomposable. The gay dude & I took one look at the table & SUV together and thought, 'Uh oh.' We gave it the old college try, but there was no getting the table into the car. Luckily, it has wheels. Good, solid steel wheels.

Six blocks of pushing, steering, breaking stuff, and giggling later, the SS & I weren't sore, but we were nearly deaf. Those wheels were loud. It's a good thing Capitol Hill residents expect quiet after 2200.

I promised the SS I'd drink all her booze tonight because a) I earned it last night and b) since the Siren doesn't drink much anyway because she's the Worst Russian Ever.

Unrelated music squee: Of Montreal, the whole Skeletal Lamping LP. Oh. Em. Gee!