Beulah Land

For around a year now I've been having these sporadic disagreements with my cigarette addiction. It's been happening more or less in a two to three day cycle. And, as is the case for most people my age who smoke, it's inextricably linked to my drinking habit. Usually after the second or third day of drowning my hangover in alcohol I'm ready to take a day or two off of everything. So I'm in the middle of that right now. It's especially fantastic as we've arrived in our Parisian flat on the 15th floor of probably one of the most hideous buildings on the face of the planet, in a section of town that is probably one of the tackiest urban areas on the face of the planet. I'm not exaggerating. The flat is owned by a friend of a friend's family and the organizing of our stay was more than a little complicated, especially considering the French tendency to leave out many important details whenever brokering anything more involved than a handshake. Such as directions to the building after we got off the metro or the fact that we would have to negotiate the key out of the tyrannical hands of reception once we arrived. The people who was generous enough to lend us the flat are a family of rich Iranians who fled to Paris in the late 70's at the start of the Iranian Revolution. Apparently they decided to bring their taste in grotesque home furnishings with them, as the entire flat is decorated in Louis XVII factory knock-offs with dusty moth eaten slip-covers half draped over them. There are about a
million individually framed, faded photos of the family, the overwhelming majority of which no one is smiling in. And in the living room is prominently displayed a gigantic portrait of who I can only assume was/is the matriarchal head of the household. The view is even better. It's like living in an Air video or those old stock films of the gangster era Las Vegas strip right before the casinos are all imploded. No one actually lives here. All the kids are grown up and the parents, or at least the mother, spends most of her time in Iran. So for the next three days I'm hiding away in the part of Paris everyone has forgotten about. I hope they don't decide to demolish this beautiful, ancient monstrosity while I'm inside.








Eric Copeland-Hermaphrodite




Eric Copeland is a member of Black Dice and Terrestrial Tones. Hermaphrodite is his first solo recording and precedes the new Black Dice record, Load Blown, which comes out in October. There are some familiar themes inside of Hermaphrodite. It overflows with the same textural emphasis and expresses the same penchant for Terry Riley style repetition I've been hearing from more than one direction so far this year. However, rather than wearing it emblazoned on its sleeve, Hermaphrodite's appeal is in its subtle, more intimate references. Sort of like a diary entry of referneces.

Don't get it twisted. I'm not suggesting that Hermaphrodite is even as contemplative as a Black Dice record. On the whole, this music is downright celebratory, yet another parallel to the work of Mr. Copeland's peers.