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Herbert Bodily Functions vinyl cd mp3 500x500

This one goes out to RyGuy.

Your bodily functions will forever live on in our hearts.

Even the stinky ones.

Stinkyheart Memories.

Gross.

RIP buddy, see you at the big bagel in the sky.

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Click here to download Bodily Function in MP3 converted from vinyl LPs

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Within potato cannon range of San Francisco lies a mysterious city called Oakland. I know very little about this sparsely inhabited wasteland. Mostly what I hear comes from the empty mouths of shrunken old women at BART stations. They tell stories I wouldn’t believe in dreams.

From their tales I’ve gathered a few key pieces of information. Supposedly the low-lying areas are inhabited by an athletic tribe of raiders that frequently demolishes the city in response to the cruel conditions within the fiefdom. This active rebellion generally blossoms at the Foot Locker, where frothing marauders flood the storefront until the collective appetite is whetted with fresh pairs of pillaged Jordans.

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The women tell me that when these maniacs aren’t stealing mad hops they generally snooze and laze the days away in a bubble of malevolent California heat. From time to time they escape this fever to San Francisco in canoes fashioned from discarded Street Sheet newspapers. While in the city they practice the traditional Oaklandish religious rite of taking frothy red shits at the top of the Embarcadero Station escalator.

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There are other stories of which I’ve only heard in passing:

That the premium pumps at Oakland gas stations dispense a blinding blend of bum wine for two pents a gallon.

That women were outlawed within the the city during the 1970’s. Any of the fairer sex who mistakenly stumble past the outer boundaries are quickly captured, bound with fine silk strands secreted from the Oaklandish male’s prostate, and fed live to chomping Oaklandish larvae.

And that the people of Oakland still use Myspace.

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Adorable.

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But there’s a part of me that thinks all of these stories are simply fabrications to keep us gullible San Frannies out of a hidden paradise. If Oakland is populated solely by a pillaging, all-male, insect-hybrid mob then how did such a phenomenal lady-birthed album emerge from its murky depths? Had those hollow-faced women lied to me all along? Who’s controlling these hyphens? Where are my car keys?!

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Could it be that just across the frigid bay lies a city filled with brilliant artistic promise? A city of unparalleled beauty and personal freedom? Where the sidewalks glow, not dissimilar to the fashion of Billy Jean? Where people don’t rock rollerblades, unicycles, and Segways while listening to Maroon 5 on stock iPod headphones like it’s no big deal…because believe me it’s a huge fucking deal?

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One of these days, when I’m feeling particularly brave, I will hop in my much neglected automobile and drive across the big gray bitch that is the Bay Bridge. I’ll shift into fifth, crest through the fog, and the powerfully angelic voice of Merrill Garbus will blast my soul like Moroni’s trumpet. Within the city limits I’ll be stopped by a gang of breathtaking eunuch crossing guards who’ll fetch my spirit’s fleshy temple from the drivers side and hoist its bobbing limbs sunward. The pleasure of knowing absolute sound–sound so pure you could drink it, piss it, and drink it again–will truly be mine. And I’ll all have a good cry.

Because that’s what you do when enjoying a really happy surprise.

You cry.

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Click here to peep perhaps the best album of the year. And then purchase a copy of your own because this is a keeper.

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It needs to be pointed out that some portion of this album was recorded in Dolores Park in San Francisco. Where this happened.

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This is the music that vagrants hear as they sit on the sidewalk barking wildly at some unseen specter. It’s not that they’re crazy. We’re all a little crazy–there’s no difference there between them and us on that front. It’s that they’ve had their circuits fried. Their motherboard, their cpu, their neuronet processor. Somewhere along the line some sort of liquid or cheeky solid passed through their epidermis, through the subcutaneous membrane, beyond the skull, and on into the grey maze. The result is that they constantly hear the purely synthesized whisperings of Matmos.

See, we’re all just a bunch of electrodes, diodes, and Didos. Any of us could wind up sitting on a city street wearing a large, fur-lined parka on a hot summer day eating a hot dog out of an Asics crosstrainer. We really could. All it would take is a faulty fire suppression system and the correct head tilt and poof, you’re trying to sell one-way subway tickets to men in Armani suits under direction from the Supreme Balloon.

Just look at these people. They were once law-abiding, God-fearing citizens that paid taxes on fairly nice houses. And they didn’t eat out of garbage cans while receiving auditory transmissions of over 17,000hz.

Take a look at Frank here.

Hey there, Frank.

He was once a respected firemen for Baltimore Engine #9. That is until he responded to a kitchen fire on Fleet Street shortly after lunch time on a clear summer day. The fire turned out to be nothing really, just a small grease deal he and the boys quickly subdued. Afterward, Frank and his crew took the time to unwind in the air-conditioned kitchen and hit on the sexy raven-haired mama who phoned in the emergency.

In the apartment next door two 9-year-olds, whose mothers were both out working minimum wage as baggers at Safeway, popped a can of WD-40 in the microwave on high for 10 minutes. They just wanted to see it dance, just like their previously tested compact disc of Drake’s “Thank Me Later” had, but their hypothesized effect couldn’t have been more wrong.

The resulting explosion vaporized the microwave, pulverized the wall separating the two apartments, and shot the WD-40’s red applicator straw, along with a good amount of the industrial lubricant itself, right down a tear duct on Frank’s unshielded face. It settled nicely between his two lumpy hemispheres without leaving a single outward indication of  injury.

He was never the same after that day but no one, especially Frank, could explain why. That little straw didn’t show up on any of the CATS, MRIs, or what-have-yous at John Hopkins. Everyone figured Frank just lost his nerve at the explosion, it rattled his cage, sent a screw loose.

But that WD-40, along with the applicator straw, went to work at crossing all sorts of wires through Franks brain, literally.  Now he spends his day wearing a Halloween fireman costume while spraying his hose into the orifices of any unlucky soul who happens to cross underneath the deadly 242-volt light post at the corner of W. Fayette & N. Hanover.

Despite the loss of family and friends, Frank still feels blessed thanks to the continuous loop of “Mister Mouth” that guides his conscience.

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Meet Muriel, former curator of French Culture at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.

Oh hi Muriel.

One night Muriel stayed particularly late reviewing and cataloging the new additions from the Fisher Collection. She’d spent all day on the phone with Jean-Paul Sartre regarding the works of Alexander Calder and had completely forgotten to take in lunch and dinner. A diabetic since early childhood, Muriel needed to get a quick snack to boost her blood sugar.

Unfortunately for Muriel, the café at the MOMA was closed and she found herself without any bills or change for the vending machine. She quickly locked up her office, grabbed her things, and disembarked at 11:13 with a very light head on a snack-finding mission.

However, at every corner store she came to the story was always the same—cash only and no ATM. At the fourth shop she, beginning to see dancing silver snowflakes on her periphery, even resorted to begging. The cashier took no pity on this Yves Saint Laurent-drenched bourgeoisie and sent her hiking.

Wandering without aim, Muriel eventually stumbled upon the Carl’s Jr. at Civic Center Plaza. She had barely teetered through the doorway when a large Oreo shake struck her upon the right temple, demolishing any balance left in her system. She took one good gallop to the left, countered hard to the right, and collapsed miserably like the Maginot line.  There she rested in a diabetic coma as the result of blunt sugar trauma.

The fast food brawl that produced the ballistic Oreo shake quickly subsided–it’s rumored that cashier Crystal Ruiz was messin’ around with Carl’s Jr. patron La-a Johnson’s baby daddy right out in the open. But Muriel remained on the floor for a good hour while hungry San Franciscans inelegantly clomped over her body to fetch Frisco Melts. During that time the runny Oreo slurry, packed with all types of supposedly manmade fillers, slowly filtered into Muriel’s ear. This unnatural goo ate through the drum, devoured the brain stem, and continued to engorge itself on the entirety of her cultured brain.

Now Muriel is known as Madam Tenderloin: Meat Pleaser of Knob Hill. She does her darnedest for man or beast in beat with the neverending intracranial soundtrack of “Les Folies Françaises.”

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>>>CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD SUPREME BALLOON FROM VINYL

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There are albums that make you want to cry. There are albums that give you the giggles. There are those that slip on a pair of dancing shoes and do the Charleston across your new living room rug.

And then there are albums, like S.T.R.E.E.T.D.A.D., that will give you scary weird dreams.

Now, I understand the connotation that this album will put you to sleep is a bad thing. No artist wants to imagine an audience getting the nods during their wicked guitar solo. But I’m not saying that this album will put you to sleep. I’m saying that if you happen to have this playing while you take a quick weekend nap, in between raves perhaps, it will recharge your chi with some wicked weird REM.

Here are some dream scenarios you may encounter while cuddling up close to S.T.R.E.E.T.D.A.D.:

– You find yourself running an afterschool swimming program for inner city kids. The pool’s located in an indoor gymnasium, the kind with the retractable wood floors. It’s poorly lit and smells strongly of feet. The turnout, as usual, is small–the boredom becomes oppressive.

Suddenly, Marvin Gaye shows up wearing short red trunks and ready for a swim. He’s clearly too old to be swimming with junior high students but you let him in because, after all, it’s Marvin Gaye. Marvin hops on the diving board, does a couple of pumps on the end, and takes an incredible 100 yard leap straight into the other end of the monstrous pool.

You run to check and see if the security tapes caught this fantastic feat. Joy abounds once you see the Beta machine’s rolling. However, this joy quickly fades once an attempt is made to retrieve the tape and show it to local news stations. The tape crumbles upon human contact, and with it your hope to spread the word of this suddenly very tall tale. No one will ever believe you about Marvin’s magnificent aquatic hop. You want to die.

– Your dream starts on an impossible tall escalator–so tall in fact you can’t see the top. It’s rolling upward with you perched on one of the unnecessarily sharp steps. There’s suddenly a strong vibration felt through your feet and hands. You look up just in time to see a huge block of sharp Wisconsin cheddar cheese bounding down, down, down.

The knife-like stairs begin to grate this behemoth as it approaches your position. This happens slowly at first, but quickly confederates with each step passed. Once the cheese block reaches you it isn’t a block at all but a finely grated cheddar blizzard. This blizzard knocks you clean off of your feet and down to the bottom of the escalator, where you roll helplessly over the incoming stairs–helplessly in a big pile of grated sharp Wisconsin cheddar cheese.

The heat of your friction against the stairs melts the cheese, turning it into a frothy gloop of the nacho variety. You continue to roll like a Donkey Kong barrel at the bottom of the escalator. Finally, the nacho cheese of your own making becomes too deep and you drown in the Queso Sea.

– You find yourself lying on the floor at a !!! concert. Everyone’s laughing at you because your legs don’t work. Everyone. Is. Laughing.

>>>Click here to download S.T.R.E.E.T.D.A.D. at 320 kbps

Tracklist

A1 Story Of The Whole Thing 4:56
A2 Dad, There’s A Little Phrase Called Too Much Information 7:25
A3 This Bum’s Paid 4:49
B1 Hair Dude, You’re Stepping On My Mystique 4:20
B2 The L Train Is A Swell Train And I Don’t Want To Hear You Indies Complain 12:15
B3 “My Two Nads” (Dad Reprise) 4:40


There’s a big bucket of everything going on in this record. Carlos uses up to 48 “Dolbyized” tracks (including electronic/quasi-classical/ambient music composed and performed by Carlos along with environmental recordings including surf, birds, frogs, lightning, wind, rain, and anything else Mother Nature can cook up) at any given point in this monstrous psychoacoustic experiment. The whole effect simultaneously soothes and challenges the old noggin’ in the most curious way.

Here’s a simple way to describe it. Take one of Walter Carlos’ traditional early-electronic Moog pieces and mix it with one or two discs from the Environments series. Make sure they’re smooshed together nicely then board ’em on Willy Wonka’s Psychedelic Boat Trip.

Only attempt in the company of a responsible adult. Or a frog bong.

Sonic Seasonings is a Double LP with four different “songs”, which are as follows:

Side 1: Spring (22:09 Minutes)

Side 2: Summer (21:31 Minutes)

Side 3: Fall (20:56 Minutes)

Side 4: Winter (20:31 Minutes)

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Click here to download Sonic Seasonings from vinyl at 320 kbps

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