posted by Caroline Picard

I got this note from a friend of mine who runs a small low-fi record label called Colonial Recordings. I thought it might be of interest….


Hello!  I wanted to send a note to say:

a) I’m still working on the first Contras tape reissue.  I have all of the files digitized and sounding as nice as they can, but am still working on the art.  Not working in an office  sucks for one reason: no more unlimited access to the photocopier.  Still, I should have something ready for you all sometime next week.

b) I’ve set up a couple of Soundcloud pages, both of which let me post a set amount of audio.  One is filled with recent bootlegs from shows groups Jess and I are in (it’s updated after each show).  The current crop has sets from the Contras, Motorcycle Money, the Science Jerks and Cosine.  The second one is going to be for bootlegs of shows Jess and I have gone to but were not a part of.  Right now there’s a tape collage thing I made for our friends in Radical Dads, and a set from the CPP’s Chris Andersen’s new comedy rap group, The Happy Rappies.  It was just set up today, but I’ll pad it out with other recent tapes, and will update it as new shows happen.

Both pages are set up so that you can download MP3s of the posts if you like, or just stream them.  The Colonial-centric one will be updated over the weekend with tonight’s Shamblers set (should be good– the slowest song we do at this point is a cover of Bodycount’s “Copkiller”), which’ll knock out the oldest one… you get the idea.

There’s also a full recording of what is still my favorite show of 2010 over here:

http://soundcloud.com/february-13th-2010

moore

/////// Anne Elizabeth Moore to read at The Parlor Tuesday, November 11th* ///////

*Please note the change of date! To make sure that everyone had the opportunity to vote, The Parlor postponed its regularly scheduled reading by one week. November’s reading will therefore take place on
the second Tuesday of the month, November 11th.

All readings take place at The Green Lantern 1511 N. Milwaukee Ave, 2nd Floor (www.thegreenlantern.org)

For more information, please visit www.theparlorreads.com or contact theparlorreads@gmail.com

Born in the town of Winner, South Dakota, Anne Elizabeth Moore was first published at the age of 15, when a national youth literary magazine printed a poem about her feelings. In the two decades since, Moore’s work has been published in The Onion, the Chicago Reader, Bitch, Tin House, Stayfree!, The Progressive, the Journal of Popular Culture, and Punk Planet.

Moore began self-publishing, with a fanzine by and about people named Anne called AnneZine, in late 1993. Since, she has created over 30 single-shot zines on topics as significant as pie and as meaningless
as international coffee shop chains. Despite dire warnings from her financial advisors, she continues to self-publish whatever of her work she feels would just work best in a cute little hand-bound format.

For several years, in addition to the daily grind of writing for, editing, and publishing Punk Planet, Moore was the series editor for Houghton Mifflin’s Best American Comics. Moore is the author of Hey Kidz, Buy This Book: A Radical Primer on Corporate and Governmental Propaganda and Artistic Activism for Short People (Soft Skull Press, 2004), Stop Reading This: A Manifesto for Radical Literacy (Seattle Research Institute, 2004) and Unmarketable: Brandalism, Copyfighting, Mocketing, and the Erosion of Integrity (New Press, 2008)

The Parlor is a monthly reading series, hosted by Chicago’s Green Lantern and sponsored by Bad At Sports Podcast.

————————————————————————
also coming up ———————————————————————————————————————-

GREEN LANTERN [FIRST EVER!] FUNDRAISER 2008
NOV 22ND 12NOON-1AM
FEATURING SILENT AUCTION, CREPE BREAKFAST, COCKTAIL HOUR

& LIVE MUSIC
                       W/ JOAN OF ARC, THE LANTERNS & LOWLAND.

joan

To celebrate the path we’ve laid thus far, to celebrate our first ever grant from the Illinois Arts Council, to look to the future, The Green Lantern Gallery is proud to announce its first-ever fundraiser. There
is a host of events in store on November 22nd.
      From 12 – 9pm, we will hold a silent auction, featuring (among others) the works of Carl Baratta, Deb Sokolow, Matt Tetzloff, Daniel Anhorn, Jason Dunda, Brain McNearney, Youni Chae, Esteban Schimpf, Samia Mirza, Angee Lennard, Rachel Niffeneger, Peter Hoffman, Dominique Enriquez, Jerome Acks, Kaylee Rae Wyatt, Jeremy Tinder, Accra Zuberi, Kevin Bright, Gisela Insuaste, Angel Otero, Chris Schreck, Michelle Jane Lee, and Caleb Lyons. Additionally, The Cowgirl Creamery (CA) has donated a gift basket for its artisan cheese, music labels Colonial Recordings (NY) and HeWhoCorrupts (Chicago) have also donated a gift bags with their wares and music.

      In order to show our thanks, each participating artist has been encouraged to take 20% of donations generated through the auction. (After all, The Green Lantern would be nowhere were it not for their
talent & support).
      From noon-1:30 there will be a crepe breakfast with mimosas in exchange for donations.
      From 6-9 there will be cocktail party to close up the auction.
      From 9-1am there will be a live music show featuring Joan of
Arc, The Lanterns & lowland. $12 entry fee. $25 includes all you can drink bar and music. $30 includes all you can drink bar, music and annual membership.

There is no better time than today to look toward the future.

posted by caroline picard

this poster was made in a limited edition by super star Mat Daly

 

Anytowne, UK – AD 700 (#3)

September 30, 2008

posted by Caroline Picard

this was originally published in one of our zine’s “THE ARCHIVE”

Written by Peter Speer

ANYTOWNE, UK – AD 700 (#3)

I’d hitched a ride on an oxcart with little to my name—a lumber log, a gypsy lamb, assorted trinkets.  My cloaked chauffer, more troll than dwarf, and more dwarf than woman, drove with a liberal whip, her bearskin smock undulating Turkishly in the damp Spring eve.  We’d stopped for a grog-nip under a sloping knoll’s shadow, the rising moon catching a fleeting nap behind a passing cloud.  My feet were numb in the cold, and I’d begun to grow tired.

At first I paid little heed to the rustling in the branches, to the flocks abandoning their stately perch.  I saw a fox, then two, then all manner of varmint scampering from the outlying brush.  Their pace quickening with their numbers, an escalating stampede, a rising tide of fur and claws, darting with alarm from their secret homes.  A putrid wind followed them from the forest, the air itself expelling an urgency in its exit.  It groaned, howled and spit, roaring past, parting the weeds, loosening my footing.  It smelled of rot, semen and cinnamon: the musk of spell-craft.  I spied my driver high above, atop the hill, incanting in tongues, her hideous complexion bathed in an emerald moonlight.  I was paralyzed.

Sun-flares erupted in the periphery, my knees gave out, my shoulders fell fast.  My tongue felt suddenly huge, alien, hostile.  My stomach quaked, my throat heaved and I cried out with everything I still commanded: a primal rattle that left me hoarse and gasping.  I tore at my clothes, certain they were in flames.  I ripped at the grass.  I wanted only to slow its whirling.

Then earth grew deathly quiet and shook!  Monoliths rose from its surface all around, perfectly formed and set, growing to extraordinary heights, radiating a womb’s warmth and rotating with the cadence of my slowing heart.  I could not close my eyes, I could not stop from drooling.  Indeed, though I knew myself poisoned, and felt my mind scurrying like so much local fauna, this was no fantasy!  I was at once awash in the helpless surrender of a complacent invalid, beholden to the supernatural spectacle unfolding around me, and yet focused with sober intensity on the rising rhythms approaching from the dark of the wood.

Dun!  Dun!  Dun-dun!  Dun!  It snapped me back to the ground.  I could feel the chill of the dew.  It grew louder: DUN!  DUN!  DUN-DUN!  DUN!  A fog hung low and crept towards me.

I was immobile, lying on the field, rigid, panting, staring upwards.  I saw myself running in the heavens, regressing in years as I passed the stars: now old, now young, now an infant, now a spark.  I felt the shaman woman’s chanting trickle down my spine as my life passed before me, constellations warping around my visage in the ether.  Explosions of color, patterns forming and collapsing on one another, shadows dancing everywhere.  I shook uncontrollably, and as I shook florescent vapors radiated from my joints.

I rolled onto my chest and managed to rise to my knees, vomiting violently forward in the darkness.  The bile simmered on the lawn, and I followed its steam upwards, my eyes catching the seething void beneath an earthen hood.  If I could have run I would have run, but I don’t have to tell you, dear friend, that it was hopeless.  The druids had already arrived…