Eileen Myles, “Menopause, The Musical.” (Last Myles quote, I promise.)
A lot of records come out of Brooklyn. Some of them are recorded in bedrooms or in garages, but most of them come from the knob-twiddling, mic-adjusting, reverb-layering hands of one of these four producers. You may not recognize them by name (yet), but trust us: you’re familiar with their work.
I’ve been writing a little about music for Brooklyn Magazine this summer. Yesterday, rounded up some of favorite producers based in the area. Blah blah blah.
Friday. I’m full, my housemate got in a bike crash, we both spent the day before in a hospital, but for different reasons. (“Your heartbeat is very, very slow,” said my doctor. “That means it’s healthy.” He is sending me to a cardiologist, anyway, but that’s because I insisted.) I had a double espresso, but I still want more. (“Limit yourself to one cup a day,” doctor warned. “One. Cup.”) My stomach is turning to acid. It’s OK. I’ll be in a car for the next maybe four hours. This is my new kind of adventure. Remember the way it was before?
Last night I had drinks with B at his new apartment — wooden floors, “No shoes!” screams the landlord, it’s a strange arrangement — and we were talking about courage, the possession of which is a righteous assumption on both of our parts. I’ve done crazy things, but I’ve never gotten hurt. You can’t say the same for him, who was committed to me totally when we knew each other, and then was steadily destroyed by a kind of wayward indifference.
As for ________, I’ve never been so comfortable around somebody. I could exist completely. Or lay on this floor; pull the mattress into the center of the room, play music from the overhead speakers (Amen Dunes, Love— reminds me of him. The title is a coincidence. “Calling an album ‘Love’ is the most punk rock thing you can do right now,” this musician once said.) Sometimes, I listen to Moondog.
It’s fucking hot out.
Went for a drive this weekend. Rented a car, forgot a toothbrush. Approx. 900 miles up to Vermont, through New Hampshire, around Massachusetts, and back home to New York City. Blueberries picked: two rows in one field. Couches slept on: two. Cheeses eaten: infinite (it was Vermont, c’mon). Buffalo: many .Houses visited built by the mother’s of heartbroken friends: one. More soon.