"But there was nothing about the little, low-rambling, more or less identical homes of Northumberland Estates to interest or to haunt, no chance of loot that would be any more than the ordinary, waking-world kind the cops hauled you in for taking; no small immunities, no possibilities for hidden life or otherworldly presence; no trees, secret routes, shortcuts, culverts, thickets that could be made hollow in the middle – everything in the place was right out in the open, everything could be seen at a glance; and behind it, under it, around the corners of its houses and down the safe, gentle curves of its streets, you came back, you kept coming back, to nothing; nothing but the cheerless earth."
Thomas Pynchon, "The Secret Integration"

This is Ian Mathers' Tumblr. I live in Canada. I've written about music and other things for Stylus, Dusted, PopMatters, Resident Advisor, the Village Voice, and a few other places. Hi.



Nadja - “Mouths”

The thing about being in what qualifies for me as significant physical discomfort is that when the thought pops into my head, “ugh, this is the worst, I can’t deal with this, if it wasn’t going back to normal in a few days I don’t know what I’d do!” the thought that immediately follows that one is “you dick, you know people who are in this much pain, who are this restricted in their movements, or worse, every day of their lives.” Even if I didn’t know anyone dealing with chronic problems, that’s still a good thing to remember just in general. What’s a better example of the invisibility of privilege than the contrast between the amount of time I’ve spent thinking about my lower back in the past 24 hours versus the year before that? I hope I didn’t need a reminder not to be ableist, but I appreciate it nonetheless.

Also, since I’m not used to/am a huge baby when I’m dealing with pain, the subway/bus ride into work this morning was a bit of an adventure. I pretty much only got through the part where I couldn’t sit down by playing Queller at a suitably numbing volume, and it’s been ringing in my ears since.

I guess I didn’t realize I thought of this as a fall album until now. I think my favourite thing about Carl Newman’s lyrics are the way that I almost invariably register them first as clever, then eventually as so clever to be almost meaningless (which is always a bit of a let down) but then as so emotionally resonant as to be tremendously, personally meaningful. I can’t seem to skip any of these steps, but I also never get stuck at either of the first two.

The truth in one free afternoon…

I don’t know… I could say that I went up to them and said, ‘Cut the Nazi crap out. Shave that ‘tache off. That hat’s got to go. Ian, you need to be more existential. I’ll just sit at the back with my floppy hair and a stripy T-shirt that I borrowed from The Beach Boys. I’ll get Rob Gretton, the DJ from Rafters who tells me to fuck off every time I play Patti Smith, to be our manager and our fate will be sealed.’ I could say that but I won’t because it’s not true. It never happened. It should have done though.

Aphex Twin — “Flaphead”

Listened to Classics at mildly brain-pulverizing volume on the train home. It helped a little.