1258842

70s hash brother

Jordan on sleazy vocals, sleazy bass
Alex on harmony vocals, production, percussion, synths

Get loaded, get laid

Psychedelic folk about a housewife that fumes her clean white self to madness.

Edith inside. Going inside. 

I made it with Charlie Swingle.

There is me on voice, synths, noises, guitar, bass, ukelele, produce the fucker lo fi and naught else but the infinite.

n 

Charlie on drums/percussion, production assistance, mood mediation, muse-role and infinite instrument loaning and dealing with vibes I forgot to stroke and poke.  

It's from 1969, 1995, and 2011 all at once. 

Edith's Going Inside

dance song about getting real punchy

but

do not really beat your wife, you bastard

I made it with David

BMW (Beat My Wife)

Newspaper

Interview with Fletcher Garcia

Never Have Sex with an Indie Rock Fuck!

guitar radio manipulation oylsint beat bass and keys improv

Puff

Nerve agents

Girm

Jordan Asfari - kiss.m4a

The Dance of Male Birds Factory Replicated

Time has a Funny Way of Killing Your Lovers

Experiments with sounds and thoughts/ drifting from sometimes grisly sometimes groovy noise(s) to electronic excursions in the minimal synth tradition to the zonked out 84 funkadelia of a sexual robot, and from free improv, which is not always dissonant, to rock music. By rock I mean psych and punk and freakout lizard shit. 80s sounds. Sounds I am unsure of. Origins mysterious. Make ones with friends. Lo-fi to almost not lo-fi, depending on the day. Folksy, sexual, having to do with psychedelic mishaps and surrealist outrage, lyrics pointing fingers at either something elephant-like in the room or nothing at all...point to a space that lets you groove in the outfield. Weirdopop. Moons. Loss of virginity. Transforming into a beer can after death. Nostalgia from 80s wash-ups- coked out and liable to let their cute melodies wreck into ear-damaging layers of feedback. Psychedelic is the word. I'm interested in the trashy and the elitist and avant-garde kidney pool. We can groove to a dumb movie then talk zoology over a mescaline meadow, sunday in the land of wet ladies. Wife beating. A Beegees and Human League glue-together by the pseudo-angry methedrine flow of a sensual man. An opinion- mine. Make recordings with anyone. Anyone can make music and anyone should. If they feel like sounds or vibrations do anything at all. Shake your ass to music. Smoke to it, or drink, or take ecstasy. Fuck to music. Cry to it and laugh. Get angry to it. Pump your fists. Go to sleep to music. Use music if it has anything to do with you, and use it as a product of YOU. Do it if you want. The sloppy no-nothing guy who can't pick a guitar could still be the one to write the damn fine melody of the century and make a damn find sound. Is that a guitar or a chicken? You might ask the nonmusical musician. Is it a jeep a drill or a grand piano? Try it out. Discouraged? NO! Just use intuition. Use ideas to induce passion to induce colorful landscapes of sound that record and spread your ideas...the subtle ones...the living, child, tree, devil, mystic, violent, loving, fucking, banging and clanging and eating and fire-enamored ideas. Revisit that fire. Revisit that wheel and create the tire in order to follow the leader and become the leader as well. Work together. But discern enough to say fuck off to the sounds and ideas that the hearts knows are poison. Use your own judgement. In summation, I have an idealist fantasy, or perhaps real
 its goal; It's time for a brand new movement, don't you think? One with suits, with panning, with women wild, with men fat, with sound you can smell and the sonic model of hell. Bring back the feeling. Pierce through the ceiling. Every sound that moves a molecule - appealing.

 I suggest. Never sit still. 

Jordan-Asfari

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