So. Let me tell you. I’ve been flat out lately, which is why this is first thing I’ve written in awhile. As I mentioned previously, I’m organizing a crazy weekend of music and art in downtown Peterborough, New Hampshire called The Thing In The Spring. This involves a shit-ton of screenprinting, and not much time for sleep. I am right in the middle of a project I wanted to finish yesterday, but last night, I took a break.

I went to Amherst, Massachusetts and saw Han Bennink and Peter Brotzmann. Mark won’t be happy about this because I told him about it minutes before I left, but in my defense, the man is usually up on this kind of thing. Anyway. It was a beautiful drive down; windows open, back roads, slightly tuned. We arrived unscathed and took our seats, trying to ignore the musty aura coming from my vest. What followed made me glad that we had taken those back roads and opened ourselves up a bit.

All I could do was stare. Stare to try to catch some ripple, some disruption so that I’d know if this were some kind of illusion. My eyes hung on their movements like laundry from abandoned apartments. It was actually happening. Right in front of me. These guys are fucking monsters. Slashing and gripping the air in bursts of feedback and cacophony, and then, all of a sudden, pulling everyone in closely. When it quiets down, you’re disoriented, but in that special way that lets you know you are experiencing a new perspective. They weren’t necessarily waiting for each other. Here and there, Brotzmann would take it down, and Bennink would crash and rattle, weaving a heavy, pulsing blanket up around everyone’s chin.