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Old 01.28.2023, 07:17 PM   #1
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NO.
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Old 01.28.2023, 07:24 PM   #2
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As these hammer blows keep dropping, I’m just grateful for the gifts we received and will live on as long as our cultural memory does.
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Old 01.28.2023, 10:05 PM   #3
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It's like....darkness has doubled. I mean.....lightning struck itself.

Fuck, I was looking up Television early today to see if they ever made an album past 1992.
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Old 01.28.2023, 10:11 PM   #4
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Wait....1949-1973??

Music Nazi, what you smokin?
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Old 01.28.2023, 10:20 PM   #5
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Wait....1949-1973??

Music Nazi, what you smokin?

Shit, I was obviously too grief-stricken to think straight. I'll ask a moderator to fix it.
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Old 01.28.2023, 10:45 PM   #6
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I think you can if you go advanced. But whatever.

The lyrics in Television were fucking great. And I know not everyone is a fan of "guitarchitecture", but I have air-guitared to Marquee Moon more than any other song.
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Old 01.28.2023, 10:50 PM   #7
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Originally Posted by Skuj
Fuck, I was looking up Television early today to see if they ever made an album past 1992.

In 2011, a bunch of artists donated songs old and new to Omoiyari For Japan: International Music Rescue Vol. 1, a compilation published to help the surviving victims of the brutal Tōhoku earthquake + tsunami. Television gave them a new tune, "Mistakes":

https://www.discogs.com/release/5003...c-Rescue-Vol-1

You can see there that Jimmy Ripp plays guitar, so that's post-Richard Lloyd (who quit the band in 2007) and the closest thing there is to a post-1992 Television release. Good luck finding that 2CD set, by the way.
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Old 01.28.2023, 10:54 PM   #8
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Skuj
I think you can if you go advanced. But whatever.

The lyrics in Television were fucking great. And I know not everyone is a fan of "guitarchitecture", but I have air-guitared to Marquee Moon more than any other song.

Mr. Robert Forster goes with "Venus":

https://www.theguardian.com/music/20...ng-of-all-time
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Old 01.28.2023, 11:02 PM   #9
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Awesome.
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Old 01.29.2023, 03:07 AM   #10
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https://www.rollingstone.com/music/m...on-1234670387/

"Went by the book stalls outside Strand yesterday thinking I’d see you as usual, have a smoke, talk about rare poetry finds for a couple of hours, downtown NYC racing by our slow meditations on music, writing - gonna miss you Tom. TV Rest In Peace." -Thurston Moore
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Old 01.30.2023, 06:54 PM   #11
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Tom Verlaine died on 28 January aged 73. Read Alan Licht’s 2006 cover story on the Television guitarist and singer free in our online library:

Out Of The Cool: Tom Verlaine interviewed by Alan Licht, The Wire 266, April 2006.

NB free access expires on 28 February.
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Old 01.30.2023, 11:32 PM   #12
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He Was Tom Verlaine

He awoke to the sound of water dripping into a rusted sink. The streets below were bathed in medieval moonlight, reverberating silence. He lay there grappling with the terror of beauty, as the night unfolded like a Chinese screen. He lay shuddering, riveted by flickering movements of aliens and angels as the words and melodies of “Marquee Moon” were formed, drop by drop, note by note, from a state of calm yet sinister excitement. He was Tom Verlaine, and that was his process: exquisite torment.

Born Thomas Joseph Miller, raised in Wilmington, Delaware, he left his parental home and shed his name, a discarded skin curled in the corner of a modest garage among stacks of used air-conditioners that required his father’s constant professional attention. There were hockey sticks and a bicycle and piles of Tom’s old newspapers strewn in the back, covered with ghostly outlines of distorted objects; he would run over tin cans until they were flattened, barely recognizable, and then spray them with gold, his two-dimensional sculptures, each representing a rapturous musical phrase. In high school, he played the saxophone, embracing John Coltrane and Albert Ayler. He played hockey, too, and when a flying puck knocked out his front teeth he was obliged to put away his saxophone and dedicate himself to the electric guitar.

He lived twenty-eight minutes from where I was raised. We could easily have sauntered into the same Wawa on the Wilmington-South Jersey border in search of Yoo-hoo or Tastykakes. We might have met, two black sheep, on some rural stretch, each carrying books of the poetry of French Symbolists—but we didn’t. Not until 1973, on East Tenth Street, across from St. Mark’s Church, where he stopped me and said, “You’re Smith.” He had long hair, and we clocked each other, both echoing the future, both wearing clothes they didn’t wear anymore. I noticed the way his long arms hung, and his equally long and beautiful hands, and then we went our separate ways. That was, until Easter night, April 14, 1974. Lenny Kaye and I took a rare taxi ride from the Ziegfeld Theatre after seeing the première of “Ladies and Gentlemen: The Rolling Stones,” straight down to the Bowery to see a new band called Television.

The club was CBGB. There were only a handful of people present, but Lenny and I were immediately taken with it, with its pool table and narrow bar and low stage. What we saw that night was kin, our future, a perfect merging of poetry and rock and roll. As I watched Tom play, I thought, Had I been a boy, I would’ve been him.

I went to see Television whenever they played, mostly to see Tom, with his pale blue eyes and swanlike neck. He bowed his head, gripping his Jazzmaster, releasing billowing clouds, strange alleyways populated with tiny men, a murder of crows, and the cries of bluebirds rushing through a replica of space. All transmuted through his long fingers, all but strangling the neck of his guitar.

Through the coming weeks, we drew closer. As we walked the city streets, we would improvise ongoing tales, our own “Arabian Nights.” We discovered that we both loved the work of the Armenian American composer Alan Hovhaness, our favorite work being “Prayer of St. Gregory.” Examining each other’s bookcases, we were amazed to find that our books were nearly identical, even those by authors difficult to find. Cossery, Hedayat, Tutuola, Mrabet. We were both independent literary scouts, and we came to share our secret sources.

He devoured poetry and dark-chocolate-covered Entenmann’s doughnuts, downed with coffee and cigarettes. Sometimes he would seem dreamy and faraway then suddenly break into peals of laughter. He was angelic yet slightly demonic, a cartoon character with the grace of a dervish. I knew him then. We liked holding hands and spending hours browsing the shelves of Flying Saucer News and going to Forty-eighth Street and looking at guitars that he could never afford and riding the Staten Island Ferry after three sets at CBGB and climbing six flights of stairs to the apartment on East Eleventh Street and lying together on a mattress gazing at the ceiling and listening to the rain and hearing something else.

There was no one like Tom. He possessed the child’s gift of transforming a drop of water into a poem that somehow begat music. In his last days, he had the selfless support of devoted friends. Having no children, he welcomed the love he received from my daughter, Jesse, and my son, Jackson.

In his final hours, watching him sleep, I travelled backward in time. We were in the apartment, and he cut my hair, and some pieces stuck out this way and that, so he called me Winghead. In the years to follow, simply Wing. Even when we got older, always Wing. And he, the boy who never grew up, aloft the Omega, a golden filament in the vibrant violet light. ♦

—Patti Smith, The New Yorker, January 30, 2023
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Old Yesterday, 10:20 AM   #13
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That shit was dope. (Patti's obit)
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Old Yesterday, 11:12 AM   #14
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fuuuuuuck!

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Quote:
Originally Posted by Rob Instigator
That shit was dope. (Patti's obit)

ffffff. supermoving. got me choked up. she's a beautiful writer, and this one was real.

Quote:
Originally Posted by hirsute_biped
As these hammer blows keep dropping, I’m just grateful for the gifts we received and will live on as long as our cultural memory does.

yeah. he's playing in my head *right now*

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Originally Posted by The Soup Nazi

fuck. sorry man... i know you feel this one probably more than most
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Old Yesterday, 11:33 PM   #15
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Originally Posted by !@#$%!
fuck. sorry man... i know you feel this one probably more than most

Thank you. Yes, this is not "just" another rock & roll loss for me. It's personal.
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Old Today, 07:08 AM   #16
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Too much, this one. This one hurts. I’m in denial still.
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