the sourcerer: that rockabilly twang

Showing posts with label that rockabilly twang. Show all posts

Sunday, May 1, 2011

Sweat and tears.

So if you weren't at the Burn and you weren't at the Harley Davidson Club last night...

Them Tornadoes said on FB this morning that we rocked the club inside out. We certainly did.

I admit to having a bit of a fan crush on the Ferguson brothers - they're rockabilly stars after all. Dave was wearing one of my wardrobe favorites - the pin striped pant. Matt was there in his kilt. I've written all about them before, so suffice to say: it was a fantastic send-off.

I loved Peachy Keen.

And the girl fans.

If you ever wondered what the magic box of tricks looks like:

and twenty-four-odd harmonicas...

So long Dave and good luck.

You'll be missed.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Lonesome Dave and his magic box of tricks.

We went to see Dave Ferguson at the Granddaddy last night as the sun set. A true one man show. Nary a roadie in sight. There's a man, his voice and a harmonica. A flesh and bones beat-box. An array of tiny controls at his feet. He records live loops and then he layers and overlaps them to make songs. A silent projection behind him shows old blind blues singers, couples dancing swing, people clapping on a night similar to this one, lost in black and white.

Oh, what a crooner is he.

It always surprises me that there aren't hordes of girls throwing underwear, at least.

Watch the video to see how he turns a familiar song into something new. Last night it sent shivers down my spine.

Listen to some of his own great songs at myspace.

And if you missed him last night, there's one more chance to see him before he leaves for Europe.

Saturday 30 April at the Harley Davidson Club, 64 Canterbury Street, 9pm onwards.

Along with Them Tornadoes and Peachy Keen.

See you there!

You could tend a garden at night, only at night, pouring dark water onto leaves, and into the earth, like pouring midnight onto midnight. You could hold your soil-stained hands up to the moon. The stars would gleam on the bottom of the shovel. It would smell the same as a daytime garden - it would smell green, violet, red, white. But come back, in daylight. Come back, to see the colours without closing your eyes.
- Sean Michaels. Accompaniment to the song "Immune" by LOW. Said the Gramophone

Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent. And don't bother concealing your thievery - celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: "It's not where you take things from - it's where you take them to."
Jim Jarmusch (1953- )

You got very hungry when you did not eat enough in Paris because all the bakery shops had such good things in the windows and people ate outside at tables on the sidewalk so that you saw and smelled the food. When you had given up journalism and were writing nothing that anyone in America would buy, explaining at home that you were lunching out with someone, the best place to go was the Luxembourg gardens where you smelled and saw nothing to eat all the way from the Place de l'Observatoire to the rue de Vaugirard. There you could always go into the Luxembourg museum and all the paintings were sharpened and clearer and more beautiful if you were belly-empty, hollow-hungry. I learned to understand Cézanne much better and to see truly how he made landscapes when I was hungry. I used to wonder if he were hungry too when he painted; but I thought possibly it was only that he had forgotten to eat. It was one of those unsound but illuminating thoughts you have when you have been sleepless or hungry. Later I thought that Cézanne was probably hungry in a different way.
Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961) - from A Moveable Feast.