I don’t know.
All of this made me laugh. Thurston Moore avoids being interviewed by riffing on the objects of the apartment he shared with (his then-spouse) Kim Gordon. He talks about his label Ecstatic Peace. He shares the old zines he made. He refers to the Beastie Boys as “legendary jerks.” He praises Michael Gira of the Swans. He showcases his files. He tries to give the director or cameraperson (?) a Sly Stone record. He grips an SST coffee mug, which hey why don’t I own that? He frequently praises Raymond Pettibon. He frequently worries that Ms. Gordon wouldn’t want him to be showing all this shit off. He frequently gets facts wrong. (Nick Cave is well known to be Australian). He discusses his bookshelf. He literally shows his dirty laundry. He plays a little piano. His tongue is always in his cheek. He eats shoe grapes. He fibs drolly. He is charismatic. He calls a suspicious Lee Renaldo about “Sonic business.” (Mr. Renaldo is watching Spinal Tap; both agree it’s a “very sad film”). He makes a case for Sonic Youth as a kind of pre-internet curatorial force. He makes me laugh.
The controlling idea, I think, is not supposed to be about the performer, but the listener. The performer is always going to dominate and control the whole experience, but as much as you drain expression out of the performance, it’s still going to be completely dominated by the performer. You can get people to sand off those portions of the performance that maybe allow the individual more access and the listening experience to have more to it. If it’s all about the performer’s idiosyncrasies and emotions, then there is no room for the audience. Some audience members might like that kind of music, but take something hyper-emotive, like Janis Joplin, and I’ll think, Ok, Janis, there is no room for me in these songs, so I’ll just turn this off and listen to something else.
From an interview with Will Oldham (Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy) in the new issue of BOMB.
And Oldham’s latest video, which I would probably totally hate if I didn’t love it so goddamn much:
Clarice Lispector interviewed Antônio Carlos Jobim in 1968. Lovely, even through the strange wonderful estranging filter of Google translate.