Author: J T. Ramsay
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The road is a bleak, quiet place.
Cormac McCarthy’s Pulitzer-winning, Oprah-approved new novel The Road is almost comically bleak. I hope that he keeps reminding us how ashen and black everything is, and that the night is always the darkest night in history. Also there are no birds. There’s a mimetic point being made, sure, but man is it ever being driven…
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I might’ve considered Robert Fripp’s suit on Exposure myself.
I saw this second on Obtusity, a place I first learned about when handling most of Paper Thin Walls bullhorn duties. I think the first stuff I checked out there was their retrospective of Bjork’s entire videography. Pretty cool stuff, if you ask me. But the review that is spot-on at a dead run belongs to…
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I prefer The Bald Headed Soprano actually.
My review of Von Südenfed’s “The Rhinohead†is up today at PTW. Shortly after I filed it, my copy of The Wire arrived with Mr. Von Pseud Mag Editor and MoM on the cover. Yikes. To be completely honest, I’m more convinced now that featuring Mark E. Smith anywhere is a simple ploy to sell…
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This is the part of the game where the cards are on the table.
I just summed up my thoughts on Feist’s new album, The Reminder, in a parenthetical sentence over at Peanut Butter Words. Is milquetoast totally in this year? I’m glad Mike’s polling the electorate because I’m finding myself expressing my dislike for Feist in hushed tones as though I’m an early Christian worried about being punished…
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I just got off the phone with the psychedelic friends network.
I’m still trying to come back around to Ghost’s In Stormy Nights. I have a hard time believing that it’s been, what, three years since Hypnotic Underworld completely blew my mind and that I’m finding so little to hang on to with their latest record. Of course, as I drafted this, “Motherly Bluster” sounded more…