interlude

I think it speaks for itself.  It's a sad song.

Flawless (Mouthbreather rules)

Nuestro amigo Raul Beltran de Mexico, que saco un Take It bien groovero con nosotros, "Ritmo Oscuro" (descargalo gratis en nuestro Soundcloud), nos trae un set increiblemente bailable. Efectos Narcoticos? Bailemos entonces!

Veltran piensa su musica como una herramienta instrospectiva, buscando la oportunidad de crear momentos para pensar, sentir y descubrir cosas diferentes
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Veltran thinks music as an introspective tool, and seeks the opportunity to create moments to think, fell and discover something different.

Our friend Raul Beltran from Mexico, who released a groovy and dark Take It with us, "Ritmo Obscuro" (free download), brings us an amazingly danceable set. Narcotics effects? Ok then. Let's dance!

Veltran thinks music as an introspective tool, and seeks the opportunity to create moments to think, fell and discover something different.

Check his social media:
instagram.com/veltranmx
@veltranmx
facebook.com/veltranmx

LOGPOD011 - Música de efectos narcóticos by Veltran

Classically Trained pianist (conservatory) turned misc. producer. San Francisco based studio.

Inspirations:

Brothertiger
Neon Indian / Alan Palomo
Beethoven
John Maus
18 Carat Affair
Lee Burridge
Gza / Wu-Tang
Wild Nothing
Ducktails
Ariel Pink
Herbie Hancock
Stan Getz
Bill Evans 
Phish
Wayne Shorter
Miles Davis
Brutalismus 3000
Grateful Dead
Wild Nothing
Joao Gilberto
Peggy Gou 
etc.

Gear:
Fender Stratocaster (custom)
Fender Telecaster (custom)
Languedoc copy (custom)
Mesa/Boogie Mark V
Fender Deluxe Reverb
Too many pedals to list
Ableton
Vintage roland synths
Neumann TLM-103
etc.

 

My feet are stuck.  Stasis.  Peace?  Perspective is the key issue to evaluate.  Not moving, so I've heard, is considered a loss.   When you aren't moving forward, making more, going faster, accumulating stuff, building a legacy or whatever.  What is the progress that is made in a closed system where nothing is really ever gained or lost?  If you don't move then you are breaking even.   If only I could lay claim to such a profitable enterprise.


My cheeseburger just spilled out onto my work clothes.  Why the fuck am I even eating this thing?  Well, that's easily addressed by performing a rudimentary financial analysis of my "banking affairs".   I just made that shit up because it makes about as much sense as the fucking bastards that rob us every chance they get.  No, every chance there is.  


It's as if this invisible hand that I speak of grabs my cock more than I do.   It takes from me.  My money.  My motherfucking means, man.  How am I supposed to find time to jerk off when all I can do is swim in a shit filled river trying to find that untouched kernel of corn that, if I'm lucky, will grow into a fortune.  Who am I kidding?


The goddamned power steering is going out.  I hope so.  Just don't take the A/C.  Holy shit, how did people live before freon?   Those pitiful bastards were only able to construct civilizations, destroy them, discover the eternity of the night sky, build beautiful poems and wreck horrible crimes, learn of the nature of circles and triangles and how to contain the power of the storm to be able to read at night, and I guess a lot of other shit.    


Who in the hell has been maintaining this road?  Perhaps a better query would be "Who the fuck hasn't?"  Isn't the drain on my paycheck and the tariff on my libations enough to secure safe and certain transport?  


Pudding is what I think of.  Boring. No vanilla wafers, no bananas.  Just crappy, brown, sludgy chocolate pudding.  Is there a better way to describe a building filled with mindless phonies that pretend they contribute to a cause?  How hard is it?  Tell me!


Sadly I ascend the stairs to my office.   


Blank stare.


Drool is gathering.  I want to shut the door so that i can let it loose.   It would be so nice to let something natural happen.  It's better than hacking everyone to pieces.   Isn't it?


If I hear one more fucking word about some fucking built like a tank linebacker or rocket arm or whatever sports star that is in some personal dilemma, trade deal, or "coming out of retirement" I'm going to lose my grip.  


I am an alien.


It's not that I don't belong.  It's that I don't belong here. But there are so few choices.


My world exists in what I perceive as beauty.   Beauty that tears me up, shits on me, enlightens me, empowers me and loves me. 


How shall I start my next report?   "Blah blah yadda v2.0 by Nimrod Smith".


Oh, that will do.   I'll make sure to cover all the action items in specific detail so the retarded mouthbreather that I have present to doesn't have to think too hard about the content of the "report" that THEY assigned to me.  


As I walk to the printer to pick up my latest communist newsletter, I feel the rush of getting caught.  Is this a crime?  No.  But to the nonthinking bastards of capitalism that fuels my fire and pays for my personal extremely ridiculous limits


What a joke.   One big throw your head back and laugh until you die joke.





For demos, bookings, or anything else:
logiarekords@gmail.com

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