Name: The New Old Men - Do The Beefy Shake by JJ Sonick
Duration: 2 min 36 s
Description: The New Old Men (myself and Karl Eifrig) fulfilled Badass Beefy from New York's request for a song titled "Do the Beefy Shake".

The New Old Men (myself and Karl Eifrig) fulfilled Badass Beefy from New York's request for a song titled "Do the Beefy Shake".

The New Old Men - Do The Beefy Shake

BLANC is made up of two buddies (Peter and Magali) who like to sing, make music, and make funny faces. This is our first original song. You can find us on youtube at youtube.com/blanctheband

Enjoy!

The Rose Peddler's Blues

Pookie

BLANC is back! And in case anyone was wondering if we learned anything at all about audio engineering in the last 2 years... now you know. We did not. (We like to think our aesthetic is 'charmingly rustic.') As always, please like and share! You can also hear it on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1083VXmm1R8

Written & performed by BLANC. (BLANC is made up of Magali Ferare and Peter Dietrich and one very sad and overworked microphone.)

I KNOW (BLANC original)

Where once was a city of lesser ambition but greater vibrancy we catch glimpses of a smoldering crater amongst fumes of industry. At its heart, a spire, so tall, so baroque, so architecturally unsound yet defiantly standing. As if it had once exploded into being, it shoots myriad walkways from itself that curl up into what resembles a high concept wireframe of an actually inhabitable cityscape-to-be.

I grab your hand and we go down one of the walkways. It’s as if entering a spiderweb that hasn’t even the decency to snare you. It just taunts and warns of a spider somewhere. Everything is both an underpass and an overpass. We’ll never know how we stand.

Everything is cold to the touch, everything is cold to the EAR. Ringing pipes, clamoring catwalks, bellowing surfaces. We walk not though a city, but through a leviathan of metal alloys, who’s stomach growls as a banshee haunts, for we are the indigestion.  If not for petrol and diseases, we’d be the sole organic matter, you and I. And with the sky red and the clouds black, the winds gone and the rain sulphuric, I’m not even sure how we manage to stay that way.

Yet we march on. There are no clocks here. The stars we cannot see. The city is eternal, static, desolate, unchanging. And with day and night no longer distinct and a destination meaningless, time becomes but a device of self-cohesion. If not for the succession of thoughts, I fear we would dissipate into forever.

But lo, we’ve come upon an opening. As if cut into the fabric of our sight itself, the cave mouth smiles at us. An impossibly smooth detonation carved this into being… loose pipes and sparking circuitboards line the sides. We fearlessly enter, the strangeness showing promise in this land of despoilment. At the end of the snaking passage… a room.

In a world where everything is either hub or cockpit…. A simple room. A living room, in fact. We greet long-lost brothers: wood, dust, mold! Cobwebs! We walk along the creaking wooden floor, every creak an otherworldly delight, to a sheet-covered apparition, and pull the sheet away to reveal… the most missed of all brothers… furniture! Ottomans, divans, fainting couches, coffee tables, armoires, sofas, armchairs, a darling china cabinet. All antique, all gorgeous, all functional only in the amount one is willing to invest in them. Form over function. What a relief. All awaited here, covered in sheets, as if surrendered to their ghostly fate. Ghosts in the upholstery.  

Liar-Upghostery

A materializing spaceship firing scintillating arpeggios at an indefinable nomad, a sanskrit mirage of a metropolis, a sky with an atmosphere so sulfurous the sun is a hazy impression, and moons standing in euclidean symmetry orbiting a drama with no witness.

Alphabets Heaven - Arka

As one FBI agent might have it: That's a damn fine cup of experimental oddness. Labyrinthine minimalism, mind-bending apocalyptic space rock, Lynchian jazz, musique concrete, Wickerman folk and the darkness from the hearts of beasts and machines. 

The New Old Men - Do The Beefy Shake

JJ Sonick

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