KRAUTROCK.
My friend told me about this awhile ago in London. I’ve just watched it now.
It’s a pretty neat documentary on a music movement in Germany after the second world war that went on to influence a lot of things in music and art.
Whenever there’s a movement there’s always a group of over the top activists. Some truly great intelligent people. Fools using it to their own gain, and a million jumbo hot dogs hanging on with a head full of something, drugs, or something even worse, nothing…and drugs, their minds like stress balls, waiting to have a fools intensity squeezed into them. But I suppose that’s anything on some sort of grand scale. Hell, even within some high school clique. Or a group of hot shot ball room dancers, or big headed ballerinas, trying to balance all that bravado on those toothpick legs atop those pointy aristocrat toes.
For the most part, whenever there is a large group it is comprised mainly of Nimrods. But even Nimrods can move to the right rhythm and in the right direction……..to the edge of a cliff and right the fuck off. This doesn’t really have anything to do with the documentary, so I will move with the swiftness of an eagle and the wisdom of a snail, back into my shell.
Its six parts, but youtube pulled the fawkin audio on the sixth and final part. But its still good. As far as documentaries on certain time periods or movements go, the last part is always the least interesting as the movement becomes a parody of itself and the core of it either moves on or burns out. And do you really need some twit to summarize everything you’ve just seen for yourself anyway. So fuck part six. Even though I wish part six was there. I have a real love/hate relationship with part six, its a volatile one. I’m hungry for it, even though I know I don’t need it. I love you part six. I need you part six. I despise you part six.
(I wrote all the above before watching the documentary, and it really couldn’t be further off. Fuck yah.)
Sometimes I’m overcome with coincidences, sometimes in large groups. Tonight has been one of those nights. In the middle of watching this documentary I had a rhythm in my head, as i sometimes do. Different things usually bring it on, documentaries on music is a real cause. The rhythm went And i kept repeating, Piss, piss, gonna a have piss, piss piss, yellow yellow, ahhhh piss, piss. Over and over with some variations but equal intensity. I don’t know why that kept going in my head, I was heading to the bathroom, I had to rattle the cage, take a number two, that probably had something to do with it. Certain words take on a hypnotic rhythm sometimes. Its like a beautiful insanity and you can never quite capture it again. So I sat down and opened a book of poetry sitting on top of the the toilet. I turned the page and the title of the poem was simply PISS.
After I finished this documentary I checked my email. I get a thing called word a day where a word is sent to your email, it comes at about four am each day with a definition and origin. The word was kapellmeister, of German origin and meaning the director of a choir or orchestra.
I lay down, but I could not sleep, my large window to the outside with the blue blinds in front of it sits right above the head of my bed. I have a basement apartment, so half way through the center of the window is the ground where the grass grows and the people walk and the buildings rise. A perfect place for a diabolical criminal to come waltzing in, steal my computer with all its work, burn my life alive. I couldn’t help but think something was out there. Something staring at me. Some sort of supernatural force. It was four thirty and freezing. My head was already weighed with dumb thoughts about the future, the present leading into the future. The hopelessness, my inevitable doom. How everything I did was pointless. How all the things I wanted to do would probably take the next six years. And by then I would hate them. And how would i ever grow if i was stuck on this old shit that i cant even do. I cant take working for people, I hate that even more then this. Why am I whining like a fucking newborn, why work hard towards things I don’t want. Whats the fucking point and where do you get a gun. And at that, how could I even afford one. Its only going to get harder and worse, I’ll only have more obligations that I cant possibly fulfill. How could I ever support myself and how everything was going to collapse around me. I owe so much. Thinking about it all in a sort of lazy helpless depression with no real goal of acting upon the only sensible solution. And when there is a problem you must entertain all thoughts to find the right solution, and only a fool wouldn’t entertain the idea of death. All these thoughts that could be put into something more constructive, physics, devices to read the minds of cats, they have the answers stored in little pockets at the core of their brain stems, all this energy wasted on nothing. All these thoughts And on top of it, this supernatural thing out there mocking me. I couldn’t bring myself to look out that window. The panes rocked in the wind. Finally I could take no more, so i slowly pulled the blinds back. I kept expecting some person in a mask with a crow bar to be smiling at me. Or some creature with the head of a vampire bat, nine feet tall, crouched down just waiting. The blinds came back, and there sitting calmly in the wind a little tabby cat. He just looked at me, then let out a little meow. I said hey baddie, you scared me half to death. I tried to open the window to let him in out of the cold, i had some tuna in the fridge, I figured we could hang out, talk things over you know. But he took off. Probably one of the neighbors cats locked out. I kept checking for him in the night, but he had better things to do. And so did I, my thoughts gone for a little bit at least. I wrote this, more wasted time upon myself as that tabby runs around the streets with all the answers at that stem of its brilliant mind.
(I speak with the seriousness of a revolutinary voodoo priest with a blossoming side job as a stand up comedian with stage fright.)
On this site, whenever someone comes to it through a search engine it lets me know what was searched for to lead them here. Ever since I put the post up about Klaus Kinski I get at least three people a day, sometimes six, sometimes more, that come here searching for him. I’ve done posts on lots of famous people. Tons of directors, Werner Herzog, John Waters, Cassavetes, to name a few off the top of my head (Actually I cant remember their names being related to any searches.) Then there’s posts about Salvador Dali and about four pages of Keith Richards quotes for gods sakes. Once in awhile someone drifts in searching for these people. maybe one or two a day, maybe. No where near the amount kinski gets. He’s a legend. The latest top kinski searches that lead people here. Kinski Python.
Dennis Hopper Documentary.
I just finished reading the autobiography of Klaus Kinski. Kinski Uncut. He was a German actor. A prisoner of war, a raving womanizing loon. Some claim it is filled with half truths and downright lies. Growing up in poverty, he later made whatever movies paid the most. One after the other. He brags of sleeping with a women’s thirteen year old daughter, and her elderly mother. He rambles on and on about his sexual exploits, though some sound more like rape at times. The hookers, the prostitutes. And it gets a little old near the end, as he complains about not being able to see his boy enough. As though that love, if repeatedly expressed in these pages, will make up for his other mistakes (even though during this whole time he never mentions his first daughter who he never seems to speak too.) A mad, controlling, exploding animal. Outrageous and insane. He was most famous for making an arm full of films with Werner Herzog. He was a mad man, a great actor, a self proclaimed genius at love making. A real true blue psychopath.
Here are some of the better quotes in the book.
“But whenever I so much as touch her, she flinches in terror. After two hours of this torture, I rip off her blouse at one swoop, and the pear tits lose control. They actually do a Saint Vitus’s dance and shove their way into my mouth. We yank at our clothes, stumble, fall on the floor, gasp, yelp, shriek as if our lives depended on our getting rid of our clothes.
By the time we’re naked, we’re both crouching like two beasts about to pounce on each other. Then we do pounce, we dig our teeth into each other. We hit each other on the body. The face. The breasts. The genitals. Attack each other more and more violently. Sink our teeth in more and more painfully.
She pushes her abdomen up to my mouth as if performing a gymnastic bridge. She does a belly landing. Stretches her butt in the air. The cheeks gape apart, opening up her asshole and the gullet of her ravenous pussy-which snaps at my writhing eel like a feeding predator.
Sixteen hours later when I leave her apartment at seven A.M., there’s nothing we haven’t done.
A short time afterward I read in the papers that she and her husband have committed suicide.”
“She’s got to have it six or seven times a night. She barely talks, only when it’s absolutely necessary. Besides, I don’t understand her gobbledygook.”
“It might look as if all I do is loll around in beds and fuck. No way.”
“A wasp on the windowpane drives me crazy with its buzzing while I sit at the table by the window, staring at the sky. I open the window to let the wasp out, but it doesn’t fly away. For a while everything is silent. Then the wasp starts buzzing again and drumming its head against the pane. Bang! You’d think the wasp was drunk. Or doing this to get my attention. It wants me to deal with it. Perhaps it enjoys teasing. I should try as hard as I can to catch it even though I’m certain I won’t succeed. I should touch it, even graze it – without hurting it, of course. Brush its ass, and so on.
Its buzzing is so supersonic that I have to put my hands on my ears. This goes on for several hours. Whenever I remove my fists from my ears, the wasp starts it again, as if it were watching me and just waiting to fly headfirst against the pane. I try to hit it, but I miss. It hides. I know it’s watching me. As soon as I sit back down at the table, hoping that I’ve killed it or it’s flown away, the torture resumes. I press my fists against my ears until I’m certain that the wasp is finally fed up with tormenting me. But when I remove my fists, it starts all over again. This time it sounds as if the wasp were banging its skull against the pane more violently then ever.
I remain sitting for a while without covering my ears. While watching the wasp from the corners of my eyes, I pretend I’m not looking. In a surprise attack I rip the tablecloth – with the ink, the honey jar, and everything else – from the table and knock the wasp to the floor. The wasp is merely stunned. I tear a thread from the tablecloth and strangle the wasp. Then I incinerate it over the gas flame. As its charring body crackles and slowly fades out.”
“The hookers want me to autograph their tits and also their panties – right over their cunts. But I have to save my strength, and not only for performing. A girl has written me care of the Hotel Frankfurter Hof, asking to meet me. She goes to high school.
Without even knowing what she looks like, I’m obsessed with the thought of drilling this impatient swan.”
“A door opens in the brick dump, and a young female giant bends forward in the door frame. She has to bend because she’s truly gigantic – almost seven feet tall, and as broad as a heavyweight boxer.
Her stiff, horizontal tits are as huge as udders. Her arms are as strong as my thighs. Her hands could easily strangle me. Her strangely dark-blond hair, which reaches as far as her butt crack, is woven into a single braid as thick as a python. She’s got the hips and ass cheeks of a young mare. I can circle her thighs only with both arms. She must wear size fourteen shoes. Her pussy is as big as my head.”
“Even though she’s bent over, the giantess’s back is as high as that of a fully grown horse. Now I benefit from the Cossacks’ lessons: They taught me how to jump on a horse without stirrups or saddle just by grabbing its mane. I clutch her braid, and I’m on top of her in one fell swoop. She hasn’t budged. I mustn’t slip no matter what, for my spread legs, which barely envelop her hips, are high above the floor. If I sit down, I’ll have to repeat my leap every time.
I hold on to her strong braid with both hands and ride her like a jockey. She trembles. Her flanks quake like those of a thoroughbred. Not because I’m riding her, but because she’s having such powerful orgasms. I lie flat on her back-this is the end spurt-but my abdomen is working furiously. Goal! I bite into her braid and twitch on her trembling ass cheeks.
I’ve fallen asleep on her back. When I open my eyes, she’s still in the same position, bent over at the mirror. Once again we gallop down the course. Then I glide down to the floor.”
“Anything I don’t know she teaches me, anything she doesn’t know I teach her. She no longer wears undies, because I won’t let her. Never again. Not in the street. Not in the studio. Not in the restaurant. Nowhere.”
“I’m not talking about the Jesus in those horribly gaudy pictures. Not the Jesus with the jaundice-yellow skin – whom a crazy human society has turned into the biggest whore of all time. Whose corpse they perversely drag around on disgraceful crosses. I don’t mean the jabbering about God or the blubbering hymns. I don’t mean the Jesus whose moldy kiss frightens little girls out of horny dreams before their first communion and then makes them die of shame and disgust when they foam in the latrines.”
“My first woman is a veiled cyclist. She wears a black burnoose like a nun’s habit, and all I see is her ringed fingers on the handlebars, her bare feet in her sandals, and her coal black eyes. I call to her as if hailing a cab. She turns her head, narrowly missing a car. The drivers here must all be ex-camel drivers. I have her write the time and place on a scrap paper. She’s written ‘twelve midnight’ – that much I can read. The address is in Arabic, and I can’t possibly decipher it.
Finally I join the hash smokers on the dusty ground and listen to the storyteller. I don’t understand a word.
Then I heave a little girl to my shoulders: She can’t find her way through the teeming marketplace and so she can’t see anything. She’s not wearing any panties under her torn little dress. I can tell because her naked twat sticks to the back of my neck, which gets wet. The girl rubbing her clit against me as I caress her skinny thighs; the evocative movement of the storyteller; the hash, which is extremely strong in Morocco; the numbing air, spiced with indefinable aromas and a sultry stench; the monotonous Oriental music seeping in from all nooks and crannies like a narcotic; the voices whispering, murmuring, calling, yelling, yelping, laughing in the most disparate Arabic dialects – all these things might have caused me to miss my appointment with the cyclist. But the half-naked girl on my shoulders points to the crumpled up note that drops to the ground from my pants pockets.”
“In Rome Marlon Brando bangs away at Sherene’s door every night. He’s filming some piece of garbage and lives in the same pensione as Sherene. I hope she finally opens the door and lets him in so I can attend to other twats. But she never does open the door, and the next day I have to fuck her in her dressing room at Helios Studio.”
“It’s mainly journalists who booze and chow down in the castello. A German newspaperwoman pukes on a Chinese rug because her googly eyes were bigger then her stomach. She then writes in a glossy mag that I gobble caviar by the spoonful.”
“We hop into our Maserati and dash over to George’s, the most expensive restaurant in Rome. After the meal I smash all the plates and glasses and pay for the damage – it’s worth it.
Mario Costa is dead. Just as I prophesied.”
“Herzog sticks to me like a shit-house fly. Now I hate that killer’s guts. I shriek into his face that I want to see him croak like the llama that he executed. He should be thrown alive to the crocodiles! An anaconda should strangle him slowly! A poisonous spider should sting him and paralyze his lungs! The most venomous serpent should bite him and make his brain explode! No, panther claws should rip open his throat – that would be much too good for him! No! The huge red ants should piss into his lying eyes and gobble up his balls and his guts! He should catch the plague! Syphilis! Malaria! Yellow fever! Leprosy! It’s no use; the more I wish him the most gruesome deaths, the more he haunts me.”
“On a street in Paris, a dog eyes me, and I can’t help crying. What did I do to the dog?”
“The German government writes me that it has awarded me the supreme distinction for an actor: the Gold Film Ribbon. What gall! Who gave those shitheads the right to award me anything? Did it never occur to them that there might be somebody who doesn’t want their shit? What filthy arrogance to award me – me, of all people! – a prize! What does this prize mean, anyway? Is it a reward? For what? For my pains, sufferings, despair, tears? A prize for every hell, every dying, every resurrection? Prizes for death and life? Prizes for passion, for hate and love? And how did you shitheads intend to hand me the prize? As a gift? As a favor, like those tasteless hosts that the pope distributes like fast food? I’ll kick you! Or do I come submissive, whimpering? I’ll kick you again! And there’s not even a check. It’s outrageous!”
“When we were shooting Nosferatu, I brought him (Herzog) a pair of white slacks from Yves Saint-Laurent in Paris. Who knows what he did with the Yves Saint-Laurent trousers? In any case, he’s still sporting those unwashed, sweat-stained, fart-soaked rags – and he’s just as recalcitrant and he still stuffs his face like the garbage can he is – without ever picking up the check.”
“The other Frenchwoman is hysterical and is still resisting long after I’ve stuck my dick into her pussy and shot. She’s married, and during the fuck she babbles about “rape…..adultery……scoundrel….” Yet her bodacious butt sticks out so hornily that she can’t want anything but adultery.”
“Herzog who’s producing the film, also wrote the script – and he wants to direct it, too. I promptly ask him how much money he’s got.
When he visits me in my pad, he’s so shy that he barely has the nerve to come in. Maybe it’s just a ploy. In any case, he lingers at the threshold for such an idiotically long time that I practically have to drag him inside. Once he’s here, he starts explaining the movie without even being asked. I tell him that I’ve read the script and I know the story. But he turns a deaf ear and just keeps talking and talking and talking. I start thinking that he’ll never be able to stop talking even if he tries. Not that he talks quickly, ‘like a waterfall’ as people say when someone talks fast furious, pouring out the words. Quite the contrary: His speech is clumsy, with a toad-like indolence, long winded, pedantic, choppy. The words tumble from his mouth in sentence fragments, which he holds back as much as possible, as if they were earning interest. It takes forever and a day for him to push a clump of hardened brain snot. Then he writhes in painful ecstasy, as if he had sugar on his rotten teeth. A very slow blab machine. An obsolete model with a nonworking switch – it can’t be turned off unless you cut off the electric power altogether. So I’d have to smash him in the kisser. No, I’d have to knock him unconscious. But even if he were unconscious, he’d keep talking. Even if his vocal cords were sliced through, he’d keep talking like a ventriloquist. Even if his throat were cut and his head were chopped off, speech balloons would still dangle from his mouth like gases emitted by internal decay.
I haven’t the foggiest idea what he’s talking about, except that he’s high as a kite on himself for no visible reason, and he’s enthralled by his own daring, which is nothing but dilettantish innocence. When he thinks I finally see what a great guy he is, he blurts out the bad news, explaining in a hard-boiled tone about the shitty living and working conditions that lie ahead. He sounds like a judge handing down a well deserved sentence. And, licking his lips as if he were talking some culinary delicacy, he crudely and brazenly claims that all the participants are delighted to endure the unimaginable stress and deprivation in order to follow him, Herzog. Why, they would risk their lives for him without batting an eyelash. He, in any case, will put all his eggs in one basket in order to attain his goal. No matter what it may cost, ‘do or die’ as he puts it in his foolhardy way. And he tolerantly closes his eyes to the spawn of his megalomania, which he mistakes for genius. Granted, he sincerely confesses, he sometimes gets dizzy thinking about his own insane ideas – by which, however, he is simply carried away.”
“I once asked a Gypsy girlfriend whether she ever went to the theater or the movies, and she replied: ‘When I was fourteen, two men fought with knives over me. One stabbed the other to death. I touched the dead man: he was really dead. The other was really alive.’ That’s the difference between make believe life and real life. Mine is real.”
The above video is from a documentary Werner Herzog made that detailed their working relationship. It was called My Best Fiend. You can watch it here.
Just watched this web show by the stalker girl from Flight of the Conchords, Kristen Shaal. It’s not the best thing ever, but sometimes its the best thing ever. The premise. When Penelope (Kristen) first gets her period she realizes she can talk to animals. Specifically her pet alcoholic bird Ruby. They tell her that in order to save the world she needs to kill Senator Stone. So she embarks on her mission along with Kyle the Orphan.
Episode four is a weird music video. I’ll put it at the end.
THE MUSIC VIDEO:
This is one of the greatest movies ever made. Clint Eastwoods character was and always will be a fighter. But he had to leave boxing. There were to many rules. So now he fights in factory parking lots for money, his only companions, his brother and a beer drinking Orangutan named Clyde. He won Clyde in a fight at a zoo.
The director has only made three movies. This, the sequel, Any Which Way You Can and one other movie where in order for Tony Danza to get his grandfathers inheritance he has to watch an Orangutan for a week. Trouble Trouble.
That’s a career.
The man is a genius.
By the end of filming for Any Which Way You Can the Orangutan died…..Under mysterious circumstances. I’ve always wanted to make a detective movie about it. The raging jealousy, his drunken behavior and womanizing. Every one had a reason to kill that damn ape. But only one had the guts.
Me and my friend Cousins came up with another idea once too. Its the son of Clint Eastwoods character in the movie. All he wants to do is be a fighter like his dad, but hes no good. So all he does is drink and watch the movie Every Which Way But Loose, while shadow boxing. (Which makes no sense, a character set in reality, born to an acknowledged fictional character. perfect.) He then goes out to bars and fights. But he always loses. He has a stuffed monkey he pours beer on named Timothy. He uses a Ouija board to speak to his father, but can only get a hold of Clyde the Orangutan. He’s wasted.
Something like that.
Hamsters doggedly seek to instruct
By example how humans are fucked:
Upon wheels they can’t climb
They run only through time
On fast-forward to auto-destruct
Ethan Coen.
A poem by Ethan Coen. (writer/director.)
SUCH SWEET SORROW
if there were times
I slighted you
I’m sorry now
There weren’t more.
So many times
I fought with you
But, sadly, never
Broke your jaw.
Some days, I know,
I failed to show
You what you meant to me,
However it
is hard to hit
That frequently.
I wanted wine and roses and
You gave me marcs and thorns,
And also marks of black and blue
And shiny cuckold’s horns.
I do regret
The way I let
You always get my goat,
But don’t repent
The time I spent
With hands wrapped round your throat.
I would have loved your laughter,
Was it not at my expense,
And hope you will hereafter
Be amused by hell’s torments.
So should we meet
Upon the street
You should know why, instead
Of hailing you
With love, I do
So with a hail of lead.
