| |
 |
|
 |
|
 |
|
|
|
 |
The sound of A Mountain of One is as big as the name - it is epic. Like the burning sun coming up over the balearics, or an enormous black crow landing on your shoulder while you stand on top of a desert mountain, tripping. This isn't meat and potato music, thank god (or maybe buddha) it is spiritual, transcendental, euphoric, almost theatrical but brilliant. For the last few months AMO1 have taken their swirling psychedelic rock on tour around Europe. Main man Zeben Jameson spoke to Moon Rocks about life on the road.
|
| read more>> |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| |
Transient hopes. |
|
| |
He sits and sways and slobbers down a bottle as a 70s mixed cd skips- stuck on the same song for the past twenty minutes. His blind-sighted eyes wander skyward through the grimy, rattling window and he allows his lids to close and mind to wander and he hums a disjointed tune entirely unrelated to the cyclonic stereo noise crowding the night. He has such a vivid vision of himself he tells no one about, even when luck would gift him a transient pitying sympathiser. No one except his silent tears and fears, personified thoughts and demons and the lame cat, his only companion, who madly massacres mice, were privy to his galactic wanderings. When he was a slip of a kid he mused to mum and dad about trekking the globe and finding some ‘thing’, something that remained, to this starry night, tangible but always a shade beyond explanation and realisation. His search was dragging now and it had taken more from him that he could bare to admit. So now he props in a torn vinyl seat on a bus bound for a fly-bowl town along the Highway 200, slopping tears and rum and fleeting commentaries to the disillusioned few along for the ride. The star-splattered sky goads his edgy, crazed mind and plunges him into a deeper, further down. The bus shudders to a halt and a form congeals from the bleary lights, looming over his limp, liquored body. Pulled to his feet, he notes only the husky screech of the cat and before the song can find its end he is face down in the dust, stinking of puke and piss and not worth a peso of anyone’s time.
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
 |
Increasingly we are told to live within certain social parameters, and increasingly we do. In a world of supposed freedom, there aren't many nonconformist subcultures left, riding the freight trains in the US however, is one. Shawn Lukitsch has covered thousands of miles of America and also Europe. He loves it so much he has collected together a programme of films that celebrate his passion and is touring them as The Hobo Film Festival. With any luck it will be coming to a town near you soon. He spoke to Moon Rocks about a life riding the rails.
|
| read more>> |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
| |
Fear at 30,000 feet. |
|
| |
Catching a flight is statistically safer than driving a car or even crossing the street. That’s a fact. You actually have more chance of being kicked to death by a donkey than being killed in an airplane crash. That’s another fact. Oh yes, I’ve done my research, I’m not some fool stumbling into this blindly. My eyes were wide open when I took my seat on the 20:10 from Heathrow to Chicago.
Most of the other passengers were still fucking around with the over-head lockers, while I ensured my seatbelt was securely fastened and began reading the laminated safety procedure card. I hadn’t even noticed the guy in the next seat until he coughed before speaking,
“Scared of flying?”
|
| read more>> |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
| |
The accelerating self. |
|
| |
Peering through the greasy windows, oil-smeared by a thousand nodding heads, I am hypnotised by the blurred shitscape smudging by like a Gerhard Richter scrape, an endless vanishing point of faecal slurry. Telescoping out, I ponder the keyed sov-ringed symbolism etched into the glass, like some pre-historic form of hieroglyphics gauged out by an artless Neanderthal desperate to imprint his mark on civilization, to codify his Being, to stamp his identity on the semiotic emptiness.
|
| read more>> |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
| |
Untitled. |
|
| |
Look! Over there at the man sitting at the table, writing by candlelight. Listen to that tune he whistles! Let’s get closer and see what he’s writing. Be quiet though, we mustn’t me heard. We don’t want to disturb his flow. I’ll whisper it to you, close your eyes.
I’ve been sitting here for a while now writing spider songs and whistling an ant leg tune. Seems like it’s been a while since I woke up before the afternoon, and I just thought that I would play a little one two three hip hop tip tap for my eight legged friends. I think I’m really starting to get the hang of this, but every time I look at the floor I seem to forget that feeling. I feel a longing for something else. I feel there is something that I have forgotten. Something… important.
|
| read more>> |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
xxx |
