Hi everyone,

Domenic hear from El Alto, hoping you’re shoe box is safely hidden in a remote imaginary summer house with all the lucre you hosed out of Wall Street’s pen.  I got two traffic tickets this year. I promised myself I would save the tickets and make a lover eat them, demanding that she look at me with her cop sunglasses reflecting a lost continent of cheerful quack-quacks, as I rushed her to the elevator in the south east of our palace where an obsequious judge would cry in front of both of us, demanding that he be punished by having to witness a contest in which…anyway

We will have to wait till 2009 for El Alto’s ‘ The Long 18th Century’ to visit the earth from its safe recondite hiding spot. Our sound and our vast stash of horizontally-lift-delifting material, is still being culled from many similar sources of inspiration, as well as new special additions and subtractions from our lives. We promise an album that will be harder nosed in some respects with a few rodgered Rock nailers to spread over a cool unslept in bed— El Altoized to keep the seats in your car cold after hours of pissless mileage accrues….. Brian Dewan will be working on some of the album cover art, in collaboration with a concept especially developed for this first El Alto record in over 3 years.

Below, find a few albums that moved me in many ways this past year that I would like to share.  I have no preamble, or tie in to ‘current events,’ that kept me sanguine—towards/sur-–suspicious or otherwise, no rhapsodizing to ooozle you doods and doodets with. Represented below, are both new albums, as well as reissues. How many hours has music come to your rescue in the quotidian clammy drill of the winter/summer/winter clobbering this year?

Best…Happy New Year…

Domenic

Some top artist/albums for 2008

check out: www.myspace.com/elalto

1: Max Richter: 24 Postcards in Full Color

Some of the most inspirational piano music I’ve heard in a bazillion years. Places imbued with places of music…brevity sweeted and darkened by many forlorn components, including gossamer clinging feedback. Strong tableaus present themselves, and retire with nervy evaporation.   I understand that these compositions were suppose to originally be cell ring tones, elaborations of them, fusing the idea of music as art with this all too commercial aural bloop-poop… I don’t much care. I highly recommend this album by the German in England.

2. Kurt Vile: Constant Hitmaker

Dog ass Curtain Summer……now opening… can toss my pants at the mesk swallowing Hoover Beach Guitarist.  Trumpets and bikes hold you in July’s honest crotch…. I wish I wish I wish… catchy Jaddles, and beat up locker hope.  There is something AM Radio flipped and fingered with purulent reward in this hitmaker constant…  Accident great, but no fortuity in that….or so I say lifting myself from a ten year reverie that this dude’s songs always throws back in my my Orange Julius.  

3. The Oh Sees:  The Master’s Bedroom

4. The Silver Jews: Look Out Mountain Look Out Sea

5. Shugo Tokumaru: Exit

6. Sic Alps: U.S. EZ

7. Jonas Reinhardt: (Self Titled)

8. Tommy Jay’s: Tom’s Tall Tales of Trauma

9. Escape Mechanism:  Emphasis Added: “Yes, of course I do.”

10.  The Instruments: Dark Smaland (Sweet teawood and lambent woe levitating you into some pusillanimous/frigid new thing around forever….. falling

11. Tape: Luminarium

12. William Parker: Double Sunrise over Neptune

13. Juana Molina: Un Dia:

(Loved taking the train to Tigre (about an hour south of Buenos Aires) in Argentina this past October, listening to such peripatetically perfect masterpieces such as ‘No Llama,’  This song and man on the well named ‘Un Dia’ take you on very rewarding and never meandering expeditions that are both eloquent and pleasingly disorientating.  Something or someone always meets up with you midway or so during the walks of these tunes….these forces are snappy dressers and smell of pacified daysleepers dabbing long quills in long skinny pots of…………………………

14. Ignatz: 3

15. The Duchess @ the Duke:  She’s the Duchess, He’s…

16. Prisonshake: Dirty Moons

17. Deer Hunter: Microcastle

18. Stereolab: Chemical Chords (I never went ga-ga for any of their album, yet have always enjoyed

19. Eddy Current Suppression Ring- Primary Colors (I don’t care if they spell it ‘colours’…i’m not doin it…no way…….I’m that kind of secret jingo-thug!  A sweet door kicker of a downunder easy-path to….  that never needs too… The effortless, straight ahead riff-scorp and heap that get’s so full of warm ember claws, but keeps you 3 parts colder and trimmed away from any 1-2-9 tedium.

Sorry for the sloppiness of this post…. I am…

(Tunes, name that, you. Please)

                                                                                                Domenic Maltempi

                                                                                                                12-20-2008

                                                                1:

Lying into the umbrella share

                                                                                An incompletist over-endowed everyday

                                                                                Against best wishes

                                                                                  Begins to unload all the unexploded blue marble

                                                                                                                Teafins, spilling onto saucers from      unsuccessful oceans

                                                                                                You can glue us back together again

                                                                                                                We will never be able to lie as we did that summer of the potato tot fire

                                                                                                                                                                Improving ourselves

                                                                              Learning to smile like a doctor’s small son  

at a jolly invalid

                                                                                           Hiding behind heavy damask curtains

                                                               His mother trying to hang herself in an uninvented garden

                                                                                                                                                                                That keeps turning blue

                                                                                                                                                                                  So bang on the garden’s side panel

                                                                                                                                                                                                Eat its jewels with your squinting hands

                                                                                                                                                                                               Diagnosing the baglady’s serendipity

                                                                                                                                                                                                Proved hard for the limpid mentalist

                                                                                                                                                                                                It would be another 111 years till Dan Bricklin

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Would invent the spreadsheet

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Lunging over the defogger skeptics

                                                                                                                                                                                                                I managed to sloppily write a message of love

                                                                                                                                                                                                To a carpooling brunette in the backseat

 a former acquaintance of my songbird’s sales woman

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Ricci, Leonora

2.                Drying convincingly for trauma victims

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                That repelled the very possibility of unsaturated bodies

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   I hoped in my own squalor beamed way   

for another chance to get fired

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Fired in front of every gum smacking mogul

at Overcast Visitations LTD

Across eight presidential campaigns, since Jimmy Carter’s successful run in 1976, I’ve never seen such collective determination by the liberal left to think only positive thoughts about a Democratic candidate. Indeed, some of the present fury may stem from a certain embarrassment at their own political naivety. In fairness to Obama, beyond the vaguely radical afflatus of his campaign rhetoric about “change”, Obama never concealed his true political stance, which is of the center-right. In every sense of the phrase, he can say to his left critics, “I told you so.” And indeed he did.

from A. Cockburn’s Diary of 12/7/08

I had wavering jitters at the booth that Nov 4th day, but now I’m very very glad that I voted Ralphie Boy….beacause this dude is for real all right……and no boy-idiot sure….but it’s the same old gnarly routine on the same old ugly stage in K-Sreet Land.

             Weekend Team/Weekday Team/Broken Hearts of Pet Lovers

By: Somewhere Maltempi

11-22-08

                                                The weekend team was an inert globule of joy
                                                                enforcement power

                                                                   They had none

                                                Cocktail Vivian, Terrence Punch

                                                                Invalidate an order just for fun

                                                                                No refund warnings in insouciant tone

                Stale rankouts and amateur star spasm directors

Playing shake the Soda Kingdom

in an emergency lit concourse hallway

                                                                 Uninspired terms of abuse

Wafted through rooms

that never had a water color by Turner

hang on them

for dear new life

 wet storm contrition nails

 painted hobby drunks hammering

                                                                These walls were matchstick connoisseurs compared to R

                                                                These walls were upset, but knew a new childish adult would

                                                                Draw on where its heart might be

                                                                 Warming under discount moat of spackle

                                                                An afternoon dying

                                                                Recalling the way you’re father always threatened you

                                                                                When he tried to teach you something

                                                                The driving lesson in the community college parking lot                

The one that made you enjoy walking

 more than you ever had before

 pillow on fire

old roommate dreams you accidently collided with years later

                                                Years later

                                On mushrooms

 with a stolen car incident and a kite that wouldn’t work

                                                Same parking lot

R was the only weekend team member to make a woman like

Dr. Ellida eject her equipoise loudly

                With pert

                Snappish concern

“We’re sorry, I’m afraid you’re credit card information is no longer valid

You will have to speak to the weekday team between 7 AM to 3PM

                                Our time

I want you to know that we don’t encourage customers like you

To buy our products.”

                                Leave it to the Captain to make up the part about the weekend team

                                                Still laughing as the independent vacuum cleaner

                                                   Teased the pets with heartless busy perfect movements

                                                                IZZYNEES AS OOZUNAL

                                                (Spanak Finger Backyard Drilldex for you!)

                                                          By: Dom Maltempi

                                                Written in the exciting times of the true beginning of the end of the shit-worlders Traipse through the rotting creamy corpse of the ……but the data shows that these fluctuations are cannibal roses that bulls have been known to throw at Matadors still peeling themselves from the sound bits of ebullient applause…..but how will the end bleed

and on what Da-dra?…..ok my little children pray?

                                                     Does anyone need a hand that has a hand feeding them?

                                                            Dappled sweetly nectar skin

 playing with their burning tongues                                                                                                                                                             

                                      open up

                                                open up

                                                 zomblicks get their cash infusions 

                                                        Unky Screwyou’s unbuckling to improve us

                                                                        He will make you love your walls

                                                                        Raze them for the better all

Sacrifices are for sacrificed ones

Need not be some comely new diviner

                                                                                    Or a captured neophyte forced to quit

After the free lessons expired                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    credit lines will move for necks

2.                                                                                 Bendy legs and jokey suitors                

                                                                                  moves of slack faced propped

Protector-intruders

                                                                                         feed all the hyperventilating

                                                                                                     glibby boiler plate asseverating

                                                                                                            for snoozy recharge sooty hustle

                                                                       relax those post underworked muscles

                                                                                            razed to crumbles

For rich coffin-cakes sucked down with gritty mugs of tampered fog

                                                                                                    for quailing index beauty harlots

to part

                                                                                            their miracle musky legs

 in Dow-Dax-neeky 400 quakes

                                                                                                            Moody Moody how will you grade?

                                                                                                         flunk the corpses

                                                                                    bonus torches will celebrate incinerations

                                                                                      you know those ashes need new ways to get a pay day

                       3.                                                                            Commuting scarecrows

                                                                                                             mash their perfect teeth

                                                                                                     into a wet paste of prayersqueeze

                                                                                        for dividen-ded angel-squeak

 endings endings bells and cheers 

Check out the snoozed-news for new alarming data jingles

tightly closed mouths feed us                        

                                                                                         breifcased Brutus sardine-Ceasers

                                                                              Gauntly-juiced regalia floats 

                                                                                            held aloft by servant kings

                                                                                    one day reversals followed by disemboweling

                                                                            tickling knives can’t cut the papery tumors

                                                                                stand in stand ins…discount codes

                                                                        Retirements meet CDOs

big returns and bigger dirt scoops funneled into holes

4

                                                            keep them idle, catching up

                                                                                            keep them grinning with the next top

                                                                                                 humiliating this or that at 8 or 9….

                                                                                                talking robes and singing night caps

                                                                                                        the land of rewind-it-right was cloned

                                                                                                        from merry-merry storied what what….

                                                                                        Foment worthless rows between spurious foes

                                                                      we can step in asset shit storms with equanimity

                                                                                because those blue boots are hitting towns

                                                                after an abyss gets bored

                                                                         its baby jaws reform with brio

                                                                 bitting at the newest low point

                                                                        terra-gotcha—nadir-stompers

                                                                    while the others fought themselves down

to me-squashed cadres

                                                                                    lips wet enough to blow a screwy trumpet

                                                                                  Blue squad boots

                                                                        have promised to make the stink not stink

                                                                         but the roots stay sinuous

 fetid wallops swinging freely

                                                                         back to a time where Galen humored 

a need for leaching   

                                                                                                such oozy succor

                                                                                         saysoothers at the Hill

                                                                                    you will know

                                                                                    lend

                                                                         pissy wind for Auntie Sandstorm

grooms the ruins, dusts the mints

                                                                                you can fail if you are handpicked handsome

                                                                              proud we were to fight for Pickled wisemen

deep freeze a fire built up

when we were too young to hide

from all the knowledge we would need                         

                                                                        running down the scarring faces

of

our bloody hero head cases

                                                            and their bank-bum-buddy’s mouthpiece 

What does it mean to be a proud liberal in the year 2008/2009 licking her fingers and petting our backs?  It’s not that I simply detest the more recent understanding of what liberal means (and not just by the vituperative tongue of some no-nothing wingding who thinks there might be socialism in her cereal, and and that Wall Street backs sneaky Marxists…) no…but the whole sclerotic status quo feel-good do nothing la-la land with a snarling bite that you must let into you’re yawning mouth because you have no option FDR-SPEAK ventriloquism…squishy self-righteous…defined primarily by what it is not, applauding itself for not really working towards a more democratic, participatory democracy…et cetera…..

I suspect the recently deceased Studs Terkel, if he was still a-kicking it around this mundi, would have approved what Norman Mailer wrote once to Playboyyz magazine: “I don’t care if people call me a radical, a rebel, a red, a revolutionary, an outsider, an outlaw, a Bolshevik, an anarchist, a nihilist, or even a left conservative, but please don’t ever call me a liberal.”

Europeans awed that a woman wedded to creationism and a big fan of shooting wolves and polar bears from helicopters might be one step away from the Oval Office should remember that the very popular Ronald Reagan – another western governor inexperienced in international affairs –  sat inside the Oval Office for eight years, having publicly affirmed on more than one occasion that he believed the Final Judgement would occur in his life time, probably in Megiddo.

I don’t watch many movies. I haven’t noticed a pattern of me doing this. In fact, I only had a vague idea of what this film was about. There were a few scenes that really smashed me up…where the man Jean Dominique is already paralyzed and mute and all that…. He rediscovers the love of his children, his daughter preying for him every night in a quiet pious way, his son wiping saliva from his inert but warm cheek. I do love to immerse myself in a  feeling that predominates or subsumes all else; but try not to let this happen without being fully aware of the possibility of just immiserating myself with a temporary glib satisfaction. There is a beauty of course in things heavy winged, crippled flight,  brocaded sighs that fasten you to a temporally richly emotional place, crestfallen, doves in the dry well, an overbeat chest leaning on a motionless loving shadow, pumping dark light.