Hello. I can see you’re nervous. Just come right in and sit right down. Come right in and sit right down. That’s it. Yeah, see, that’s better.
I’ve got something for you. It’s not much. It’s not much. I’ve got something for you. Here. Hold out your hand. Hold out your hand. Here. Here. Here. It won’t bite. You’re safe here with me. You’re safe with me here. You’re safe.
Here. Here. Here.
Jawas don’t have much formal education; pretty much all we have to learn how to do in order to survive is harvest scrap metal. Sure, some of this involves learning certain safety practices while handling rabid droids, but for the most part it’s all pretty easy.
Autumn is a-coming in, and Jawa Warhol has it on good authority that in this season small ones go “back to school.” He has been told this has something to do with education. To that end, he offers up some synthesizer stylings–as a way to promote the general edification and moral welfare of small ones everywhere!
The upstairs rooms here get very hot, and contrary to the popular mythos, jawas are not especially fond of the heat. If you’d ever seen a jawa without his traditional hood, you’d know this. Jawas possess no pigmentation whatsoever; beneath our thick hood (ladies) we have (ladies) absolutely transparent skin.
To cope with the heat, Jawa Warhol succumbs to his intense craving for neo-classicism. Beneath his velvet blacklight poster of Yanni, he dusts off his long-neglected lollipopsichord. a traditional tattooine instrument that measures the variances of temperature in the blood and maps them to the chromatic scale. As another stifling summer night closes over him, the mournful sweeps in the singing of his blood drift through the pitch alleys of Lorain, Ohio. Perhaps, if you visit the city on the lake, you’ll hear him; outside his window, the strays in the neighborhood cluster, half-lidded and dripping slowly into somnulence as he plays…
William Hollingshead Loomis was the poet laureate of Collinsport, Maine in the late 1960s. He had a fondness for foreign cigarettes, which was how Jawa Warhol met him. Jawas are the e-bay of the universe; they scrounge through the dimmest, dankest galaxies, often gleaning incalcuable treasures that the “Tallies” (for this is how jawas refer to other, more vertically-adept humanoids) often give them good coin for.
The verse of William Hollingshead Loomis is often lauded by scholars for being the earliest example of the Obfuscatorian School, due to its obtuse density and adept meaninglessness. This is often attributed to Loomis’ fondness for Brazilian Dex, another foreign commodity sometimes proferred by jawas. Dextroamphetamines are widely known for tangling cognitive processes; a quick look at Loomis’ work bears this out. His most famous line, “gruff sundays flir wif biscuit ribbonage,” is a favorite of Jawa Warhol’s, and is accordingly tattooed on his withered black scrotum
Many in-depth psychoanalytic critiques of the verse of William Hollingshead Loomis remark on the almost hysteric dread of canes in his texts.
With a mouthful of fruity goodness, Jawa Warhol greets the Springtime. While he has yet to see the true signs of Spring flower in his beloved Lorain, Ohio (he always marks the first ray of Spring as the first warm night he sees a grown man hurtle down the craggy streets on a pocket bike), he feels celebratory, if not effervescent.
One of the reasons for his renewed joi de vivre is that he’s decided, on the basis of the attached track, that he indeed does have more flava than fruit-striped gum; he may, in fact, have the same tart flava as those beautiful little squares of plastic-like rubber he used to chaw upon when he was a boy–they were alleged to be watermelon-flavored, weren’t they?
Old Gregg
Do you love me? Are you playing those love games with me? I took Home Economics…
I’m sure many of you have run across the BBC comedy The Mighty Boosh, seeing as how Adult Swim has started importing it lately. And, if you’ve come that far into this, you might even recognize the character Old Gregg, a self-styled “scaly man-fish” with a peculiar gender differentiation issue…
Old Gregg was the keeper of the funk for a while, and to honor him, Jawa Warhol has unleashed some scaly man-funk on the world, and bid you to listen. So sit back, crack open a fresh Bailey’s, and enjoy the family funk.
The Mating Habits of Record Company Executives
I always start off trying to write a pop song. Despite the fact that I love composers like Stockhausen and John Cage, I think sometimes what I’d really like to do is write one good pop song.
The current selection bears that out. Despite the fact that spatially what you hear would be unusual for a pop song, the basic structure is very common. In fact, later on in the piece, the ending node also employs a common structure…even if that common structure serves mostly as a ground for a tsunami.
Some pretty spaced out Spanish guitar starts this one out–but you know I couldn’t leave it at that! Ominous and pretty at the same time, Mustard probably won’t become a club favorite, but it’s danceable–if you’re schizoid.
Mary recently managed to get her hands on the entire Twin Peaks collection, which I’ve been watching obsessively. Along with this collection was a wonderful sonic treasure; voice recordings of the dictation Federal Bureau of Investigation Special Agent Dale Cooper reads into his tape recorder during the series, addressed to “Diane.” While I’m not sure the actual music here has anything at all to do with Dale Cooper or Diane, I must admit there are some rather chill beats deep into this one–a bit of a departure from my usual sturm-und-drang approach…somewhat.
