God Bless This Army So Close to the Ground (how the Brutus)

Hi. This is about Brutus, which I recorded in spring of 2010 in London during my European tour:

EXALTATION:

O SON       PUT ME UNDER, NOW

IN CAMDEN, IN A GARDEN

BODIES      DOWN IN THE CANYON

LA MM

BRUTUS

Picture 3Some ass-hat on the world wide inter-web thinks I should lighten up already so I did but he would never know it because he is too preoccupied with tickling his misery and making fun in his pants;

You can see that it is just piano and vocal and a church. You can. And each one, for reasons, is not in the order:

Bodies

The clatter that (can) keep(s) me awake (for days). Originally something, and then this.  An end-time of eternal erotic entropy slowly awaits a sultry pair shut tight and stowed away. Perish and woe, but, like, sweet and loving. The chandelier of St. Giles rattled a verse here and there, but was silenced compassionately by the nice church people. For the remainder, however, it behaves and poses still in the middle of the aisle, awaiting its next command. Someone is napping in a pew. At the end, an old crotchet-crone bursts in, but not enough of a heartless bitch to make it on the recording.

In Camden, In a Garden

The day before St. Giles, my insides, clammy, and butterflies on my hands. Joe Pop, your Mum and Dad are away, leaving the music room a-brim with loneliness. I just need a go at her keys, an hour tops, I swear. Fo totes. He’s such a kind, spunky gal, the Joe Pop. I promise to take off my shoes and not lose my shit. So what if Herr Paltrow has croaked a sea of scales in this room? Fuck that noodle-faced twat! I’s gonna just run through these babies so I can at least sleep an hour proper. Suddenly, I am Petula Clark, head thrown back, cramming tea into my throat and purging conversation with my best mate. No! An hour proper. Get through these fat tittied mamas I have birthed and pampered for tomorrow.  Maybe rub one out, a fast juicy alien fetus plop, till Joe Pop can’t tell the difference: it’s a serious face, now. Now. Ooooooh…a cavernous tread across blacquered wood and strings that surely must bear on the hips the mounds of dead Coldplay skin. Thank me, they do, the strings freed of this unflattering muck, done for a wise penny but best released into a somewhere above our breathing space. I hope. Not in my lungs, dearest Lord. Shit. I will not get the hour proper in. Starstruck fat-boy can’t hold his shit. Really must, and to crank out the genuine fear; a panicked somnambulant in the Pop garden: the heart of Camden. Right here, first.

Exaltation

Sherry (engineer) and Melissa (assistant), setting up mics so fine in attention, the trustees confined to memories on the far wall can allow spirits from exterior London to chime in, ho-down. Focus and precision so early, and I feel heavier, tireder and hangoverer. Wah. But it all sounds darling. The piano is very bold and crochety, many times mimicking bells. I tried showing a funny trick to Sherry and Melissa by wailing into the strings, but nothing happened. St. Giles is open the whole time, and so is the outside. We are never alone. Harold Lloyd’s lil-known suicide attempt, kills 20.

O Son

St. Therese of Lisieux, the bulk of your sweet, surrendered existence oozes out of your mouth, drip to pen, and alternating through the now, the past, the Yet To Be. Death-bed musings that I watched on TV, weeping my skin off while mon petit bebe (MPB) stroked my back, home; the wide open hollow of St. Giles tosses me onto Therese’s delicate wingspan and onto mine own: Son of My Father (bristled, regret).

Put Me Under, Now

On the upper deck, sitting quietly by the window as Joe Pop, Kevin and Matt dish, discuss, dolls, all of them. All of them dolls, fresh from a high-rise party that contained a terrified widdle doggie, amazing calves, the violinist. I am relieved to remember. Brief interruption of jotting down, as I am pointed out to Parliament zipping by, skirt in hand, skipping her weight in puddles. Last stop, till one of the tube stops is closed. We move fast to another. Always grateful to those who can ignore me with ease. Let me slip by, away, away, away…you need me to need you to not need me anymore. Miss MPB, mon MPB.

Brutus

A heart-on long in the making. At Harmonwood, California, pining over battle hymns and creatures of American folklore, and wondering if any boys missed their boys to war, and what they would sing, and to whom they would sing, if anyone to anyone ever.  My sound in size is loud, yet insists on delicacy, patience and several variations on openly weeping. If he wants to paint me as a misguided elephant with a sore backhand, whatevs, glad he left.

Down In The Canyon

Salvia is sweet. It is legal and a friend of no one. But you take with you sad memories you’ve always wished for. Never having been in an actual canyon, a sulky cousin of “Brutus”, harboring desire and charm. Hudson, Pop, Josephine, Ingo all arrive with warm gooiness. More of that heart is more than halfway into the day and is anticipating the Wotever spectacle on Tuesday. You saw me naked, I didn’t care: they expect it, but again, whatevs. Cass can say no more, except perhaps gurgl gurgl.

La Mm

Street urchin, carry the cloud in your hand, bird in your throat. As I stood, sweat oozing from my face, neck, tits, belly, eyes, before Piaf’s grave, a menacing pack of 3 from America, thumbs up in front of the insta-click, no less. Gurgling spite in my chest, I wished nothing but bad, chest-carving approximations for these ugly, muck-ridden buffoons. I bring it from Perrlesshaysz to London and I let ‘er rip inside St. Giles, like a dumbed fuck.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dorian Wood Dorian Wood

Los Angeles-based singer/artist Dorian Wood is "armed with a vocal charisma that would befit a preacher and an experimental streak that would make avant-gardists swoon" (WNYC Culture). He has held audiences captive for years on street corners, in concert halls and performance spaces throughout the US, Mexico and Europe, carrying with him a sound that marries troubadour balladry with the avant-garde, both as a soloist and as a member of the 30-piece experimental orchestra, Killsonic. Dorian's latest album, Brutus, was recorded live at St. Giles-in-the-Fields in London, during his spring 2010 European tour. He is currently working on a new studio album, entitled Rattle Rattle, which is due for release next year. For more visit dorianwood.com.

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