Should you ever have the need to sing about a rat in the sewers of your veins nibbling at the hanging tree in you, or of a charred corpse in your cellar, call Fred Friction.
That's what I did.
I was scoring Blind Cat Black, a masterpiece of Turkish surrealism, with my friend Matt Fuller. It's a book-length prose poetic sequence by Ece Ayhan, translated into English by Murat Nemet-Nejat (a Turkish Jew who lives in Hoboken and sells antique Oriental rugs to support his poetry habit).
And we came across this amazing piece of language! Check it out!
*
That's what I did.
I was scoring Blind Cat Black, a masterpiece of Turkish surrealism, with my friend Matt Fuller. It's a book-length prose poetic sequence by Ece Ayhan, translated into English by Murat Nemet-Nejat (a Turkish Jew who lives in Hoboken and sells antique Oriental rugs to support his poetry habit).
And we came across this amazing piece of language! Check it out!
*
The Secret Jew
Lidless, one of the devils, he is pulling out with my streetcar money. From time to time, going downtown like this, I feel sad and shaky. In the hotel I sleep in his (my Corpse's) bed. When his hair keeps growing jet black like that what is it that my live body begrudges and I try to give to him. With my large beefy hands. A sharp spur. Odor of sulphur. A scarred copper-branded ass. In the sewers of my veins, there, a rat. It nibbles at the town and the hanging tree in me. Crazies, rats, male rats, share (you must share, children) a charred corpse. In the cellar. There were no little words of loving him, these keys on his belt (warden, lover!) couldn't be little cooing words of loving him. I ran away, scared, not to meet the porcelain doll. To meet him. That would be my going back to the Lexicon of Torture. The widow plant of the idiot forests eating up joy, the poppy hatred of seven years, the silk hand with cowhide gloves doling out inheritance. He doesn't want to be buried, he says. He is cold. On the back platform of the streetcar the young devil on fire disappearing. I am picking out my spectacles from the swamps of my envy. After the arsonist’s fire the brother of my Ex-Mistress (my Corpse) who disappeared. He can be recognized by the delicate insect-eyed family mask covering his coarse face. That guy. Why should I sob anyway. He loves easily, passes his hand below the belt of my vault, forgets easily what a secret Jew I am.
Lidless, one of the devils, he is pulling out with my streetcar money. From time to time, going downtown like this, I feel sad and shaky. In the hotel I sleep in his (my Corpse's) bed. When his hair keeps growing jet black like that what is it that my live body begrudges and I try to give to him. With my large beefy hands. A sharp spur. Odor of sulphur. A scarred copper-branded ass. In the sewers of my veins, there, a rat. It nibbles at the town and the hanging tree in me. Crazies, rats, male rats, share (you must share, children) a charred corpse. In the cellar. There were no little words of loving him, these keys on his belt (warden, lover!) couldn't be little cooing words of loving him. I ran away, scared, not to meet the porcelain doll. To meet him. That would be my going back to the Lexicon of Torture. The widow plant of the idiot forests eating up joy, the poppy hatred of seven years, the silk hand with cowhide gloves doling out inheritance. He doesn't want to be buried, he says. He is cold. On the back platform of the streetcar the young devil on fire disappearing. I am picking out my spectacles from the swamps of my envy. After the arsonist’s fire the brother of my Ex-Mistress (my Corpse) who disappeared. He can be recognized by the delicate insect-eyed family mask covering his coarse face. That guy. Why should I sob anyway. He loves easily, passes his hand below the belt of my vault, forgets easily what a secret Jew I am.
*
We already had the crusty old Ozark Merchant Marine Pops Farrar reading this entire piece live, backed by improvising musicians playing homemade instruments on an abandoned hippie commune in central Tennessee.
And, just like I always say, "Class, it's good when you can get the father of an important indie rock musician with an Ozark drawl, reading Turkish surrealist poetry backed by improvising musicians playing homemade instruments on an abandoned hippie commune in central Tennessee."
And, just like I always say, "Class, it's good when you can get the father of an important indie rock musician with an Ozark drawl, reading Turkish surrealist poetry backed by improvising musicians playing homemade instruments on an abandoned hippie commune in central Tennessee."
But sometimes that's just not good enough! Sometimes, you need more!
See, we have this rule we set for ourselves in scoring long poems. You have to score every word of the poem in the order it appears. But, once you have scored a longer stretch of the poem, you can backtrack along the way and picked up choice bits you have already scored and do something else with it.
See, we have this rule we set for ourselves in scoring long poems. You have to score every word of the poem in the order it appears. But, once you have scored a longer stretch of the poem, you can backtrack along the way and picked up choice bits you have already scored and do something else with it.
How is this for a choice bit?
In the sewers of my veins,
there, a rat.
It nibbles at the town
and the hanging tree in me.
Crazies, rats,
male rats, share
(you must share,
children) a charred corpse.
In the cellar
Yeah! What do you want to do with that? Say, score it as sung text over a twangy guitar figure, and have Fred Friction sing it? Yeah!
So, we did that.
Twangy guitar figure by Matt Fuller, recorded in his sister's garage in Hollywood, sent to me on a guitar tape, set to melody by me in the car somewhere. Singing by Fred and me recorded by Meghan Gohil in the Senate Building in St. Louis, just off Forest Park. Drums, bass, and swirly keyboards added at Lij's Toy Box in Nashville, years later.
Then I went and made a movie to the score, and Kevin Belford made a seriously trippy video miniature to this piece.
Free mp3s for the people:
Yeah! What do you want to do with that? Say, score it as sung text over a twangy guitar figure, and have Fred Friction sing it? Yeah!
So, we did that.
Twangy guitar figure by Matt Fuller, recorded in his sister's garage in Hollywood, sent to me on a guitar tape, set to melody by me in the car somewhere. Singing by Fred and me recorded by Meghan Gohil in the Senate Building in St. Louis, just off Forest Park. Drums, bass, and swirly keyboards added at Lij's Toy Box in Nashville, years later.
Then I went and made a movie to the score, and Kevin Belford made a seriously trippy video miniature to this piece.
Free mp3s for the people:
* "The Secret Jew"
Lyrics by Ece Ayhan and Murat Nemet-Nejat
Lyrics by Ece Ayhan and Murat Nemet-Nejat
Music by Flatrock
Performed by Pops Farrar and Flatrock
* "In the Sewers of my Veins"
Lyrics by Ece Ayhan and Murat Nemet-Nejat
Lyrics by Ece Ayhan and Murat Nemet-Nejat
Music by Matt Fuller and Chris King
Performed by Fred Friction with Three Fried Men
*
To commemorate the release of the new Fred Friction debut solo record Jesus Drank Wine, I'm doing a little series of posts devoted to Fred's contributions to Poetry Scores. Also in this series:
Fred Friction sings "Cheyenne" w/ Three Fried Men
Fred Friction and Pops Farrar on backing vocals
Fred Friction, spoonsman, in a jailhouse ensemble
Performed by Fred Friction with Three Fried Men
*
To commemorate the release of the new Fred Friction debut solo record Jesus Drank Wine, I'm doing a little series of posts devoted to Fred's contributions to Poetry Scores. Also in this series:
Fred Friction sings "Cheyenne" w/ Three Fried Men
Fred Friction and Pops Farrar on backing vocals
Fred Friction, spoonsman, in a jailhouse ensemble
*
Sewer shot from the journal of a trip to Mumbai.
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