My talk on anomalous music, “Music from Elsewhere,” was recorded by Morbid Anatomy, and is now available on their Patreon site, here. I’ll be doing another talk, with different music, April 27 at NYU, as part of the Profane Illuminations series organized by Strange Attractor Books.

An experiment: a stereo picture in gouache and ink. As usual, you can click to enlarge.

Some sketches of Aunt Dodo, for an upcoming comic strip.

The Muses give me some poetic advice.

THE MUSES SPEAK

If you write about your feelings,
We will throw potato peelings.

If you start to air confessions,
We’ll urge psychiatric sessions.

If your work becomes too earnest,
We’ll suggest that it be furnaced.

If your work becomes too solemn,
We will turn our spinal column.

If your yawp becomes barbaric,
We will mock you as hysteric.

If you opt for sentimental,
Our attack will be ungentle.

If your work is understandable,
We will punch you in the mandible:

Life is never comprehensible;
Finding sense is indefensible.

The idiosyncratic poet and cabaret performer Maurice Mac-Nab had a short but appreciated career in Paris in the 1880s. He was known for his deadpan delivery and limited vocal range; it was said of him that he could sing only three notes, but each was flawless. My translation of his poem “The Fetuses” is a paraphrase respecting the formal constraints of the original: tercets that alternate masculine and feminine rhymes. It’s rather long; here’s the beginning of it.

THE FETUSES
(Maurice Mac-Nab, 1886)

Some large, some little, some bizarre,
And some quite normal, here they are,
Each in its own transparent jar.

You see a few who, smiling sweetly,
Hands laid across their bellies neatly,
Were born into the world discreetly.

And then again, some seem to jeer,
Their gaze aloof and cavalier,
Although with eyes that will not clear.

And then still others, folded double,
Appear alarmed that you might trouble
Their blissful alcoholic bubble.

Their faces may look dissolute,
Their bodies soft as rotten fruit,
But still, the fetuses are cute,

As they rock gently in aquatic
Security, serene, phlegmatic,
So tranquilly aristocratic.

And notice every little nose,
As swollen as a blooming rose:
From all the drinking, I suppose.

For barred from glory, love, or choosing
Whatever makes our lives amusing,
They pass their days in constant boozing…

The Best of Le Scat Noir is now available! It collects memorable gems from the online journal edited by the ebullient Norman Conquest, in a large, full-color trade paperback. I have a number of pieces in it, as do many others, to wit: Paulo Brito, Paul Kavanagh, Erik Satie, Samuele Bastianello, Alice Pulaski, Pink Buddha, Yuriy Tarnawsky, Jason E. Rolfe, Eckhard Gerdes, Harold Jaffe, Tom Whalen, Darlene Altschul, Madalina Tantareanu, Sheila Pell, Samantha Memi, Opal Louis Nations, Alphonse Allais, Francisque Sarcey, Carla M. Wilson, Terri Lloyd, Mercie Pedro e Silva, Georges Hugnet, Norman Conquest, Paul Rosheim, Carol White, Michael Leigh, Nile Southern, Mantis Man, Tom Bussmann, Edward Lear, Mark Axelrod, Adao Iturrusgaral, Jim Johnson, Rick Krieger, Pippa Anais Gaubert, Rebecka Skog, Frank Pulaski, Jim McMenamin, Gail Schneider, Franciszka Themerson,  Raymond Queneau, Georges Perec, Italo Calvino, Tom La Farge, Theodore Carter, Nick Frost, Farewell Debut, Quixote, Robin Wyatt Dunn, Allan Bealy, Angela Pankosky, Brett Stout, Uwe Taubert, Iacyr Anderson Freitas, Desiree Jung, Andy Koopmans, Jim Meirose,  Russell Helms, Peter Payack, Adrienne Auvray, Gelett Burgess, and Eugene Ivanov.

You can find it at Black Scat Books!

A cheerful little song about antisociality. I often performed it in the ’90s, with Carol Benner playing a lively pizzicato obbligato on viola.

From a projected book of my verse, here’s a translation of a song by the surprisingly prolific Jules Jouy (1855-1897). The problem was to translate the lyrics as closely as possible, within the original meter and rhyme scheme. It’s a paraphrase, but (I think) comes closer to the original than a literal rendering could.

THE FUNCTIONARIES
(Jules Jouy, 1888)

The man, retiring for the night,
His mellow candle brightly shining,
Inspects the blankets for the sight
Of insects, faithful to the lining.
He beats the bedding, on and by
The corners, where the bedbug tarries.
He massacres, with practiced eye,
A multitude of functionaries.

The woman, baring all her curves,
Explores, with resolute precision,
Her skin, where, sampling his hors d’oeuvres,
A flea lies just outside her vision.
She scans her faultless silhouette
With many muttered commentaries.
Upon her beauty, the coquette
Is hunting for the functionaries.

The toddler shakes his golden locks,
And lifts his hand to scratch within,
For that is where elusive flocks
Parade across his tender skin.
The toddler, with a nervous air,
Complains about his “adversaries,”
And in his thick and curly hair,
He fattens up the functionaries.

Another piece from my student days: a jaunty march for nine instruments, or some combination thereof, made up of ostinati. I performed it a few times back then, especially as a string quartet. Here’s the title page, flute part, and oboe part: