SAMIZDAT

iSSUE 1 FREE
 Samizdat Zine

Issue 1 – May 2008

Adelaide, Australia
samizdat.zine@hotmail.com
www.myspace.com/samizdatzine

Samizdat (Russian: самиздат) was the name given to the process and
products of underground writing, publishing and reproduction of
suppressed and illegal material in the Soviet Union. Samizdat was used
to print liberal and sometimes very dangerous views and if caught the
publishers were often sentenced to lengthy prison terms. Etymologically,
the word "samizdat" is made out of "sam" (Russian: сам, "self, by
oneself") and "izdat" (Russian: издат, shortened издательство,
izdatel'stvo, "publisher")
This zine represents for me the manifestation of a thought I had about
six months ago. Originally we wished to call the zine New Current but
finally decided on the current title. I had a desire, an inclination, to
self-publish some of my thoughts, opinions and ideas. Maybe it was just
a desire to express myself.

I always liked the idea of expressing an opinion with printed words, to

argue lucidly (fingers-crossed) and maybe to inform and influence some
readers. But even if I don’t, and even if you disagree, on the other
side of the coin we’re still young and foolish and hope to learn
ourselves.

Herein lie thoughts, musings and possibly ambiguous sentiments and you
may call it an egotistic handprint but I really hope it doesn’t seem
that way. We’re works in progress, like our opinions, and certainly
don’t believe we know better.

MM

This first issue of Samizdat marks both an ending and a beginning. It is

the cumulation of an idea that I have been able to develop with my co-
editor, under the general concept that as a consumer and critic of
culture, one must sometimes also be a contributor to what is ‘out
there’. In that sense, the work published here will not be held on to by
us or repeated – it is now up to the other side, the reader and
disregarder, keeper and disposer, of this zine, to do with it what they
wish.

In another sense, however, it marks a beginning of an idea that may go

somewhere, nowhere, and anywhere. With critical response and the
promulgation of original thoughts by other people both in response and
continuation of the ideas expressed within these pages, perhaps
someone’s life can be enriched in some small way. Yours or ours.

Maybe it is the end, and maybe it is the first small step to something
bigger. At the very least it exists for this moment – a conversation
between us the editors and you the reader.

KS
 during my regular scour through the best
musty op-shops, perusing through the LP's I discovered something
special. Behind 'Kamahl', 'Tijuana Brass', 'Wales in Song' and the rest
of the usual trite records, the beguiling eyes of Paul Robeson caught my
attention. I hazily recalled hearing of him from my father, something
about an African-American singer who was repressed by the American
government, or something similar. After purchasing the vinyl out of
curiosity along with an uninspiring Joyce Cary novel and some nice
silver cuff links I didn't rush home. I wish I had, for when I played
the record months later I discovered something unnervingly sublime.
Lying on my floral sheets the scratchy record lifted those transcendent
Negro spirituals into the space around me, each gorgeous line rose into
the ether and then gently floated down, each unpretentiously followed by
another. Every syllable venturing from his lips wooed me and his
gloriously deep bass voice an incantation which seemed an honest vehicle
for a sad Negro history.

With an immediate admiration I wondered just why I hadn't

discovered this black singer earlier, for blues, gospel and folk music
own a large slice of my music collection. But after delving into his
history I wondered why anyone shouldn't know of this great man. So
here's me spreading the gospel of Robeson, hopefully some of you will
listen.

Born 1898 to an ex-plantation slave father,

Paul excelled exceptionally in academic life.
Graduating with honours from high school and
receiving an academic scholarship to attend Rutgers
University, becoming only the third African-American
to be accepted (the only one during his time there).
He was one of only a handful accepted into
illustrious academic societies and gave the class
valedictory speech. After graduating from Rutgers he
attended Columbia as a law student where he also
excelled and graduated in '23. Robeson was an
exceptional athlete in basketball, baseball and
track and field but was best known for his skills as
a footballer. He was twice named in the All-American
college football team (1917 and 1918), one coach
claiming Robeson to be the best player he had ever seen. Even more
amazing is the fact that he paid his law tuition fees at Columbia by
playing in what was then the equivalent of the NFL. But even his
athletic and academic prowess didn't stop him from being discriminated.
He was constantly targeted and attacked on the football field, and quit
his first job in a law firm after graduating due to racial
discrimination from staff under him.

Paul Robeson was also an extremely accomplished Thespian,

appearing on stage and in eleven films. His run of more than 300 shows
on Broadway as Othello was (as of 2006) still the longest Shakespeare
production ever, performing to over half a million people. What I'd give
to see him perform live. His singing achievements, which most people
know him by, sent him all over the world singing and became the first
person to bring the Negro Spiritual to the stage. He became versed in 20
languages, becoming fluent in 12 of them including Chinese and Russian.

His gorgeously deep voice was reputed to have gone as low as C

below the bass clef, considered by some to be the purest bass-baritone
to ever sing on the concert stage. My favourite Robeson recordings would
have to be the moving 'Shenandoah', the sublime 'Stealaway' and the
timeless ‘Ol’ Man River’; they never fail to make me close my eyes and
imagine that great man singing in front of me.

Now, I wondered earlier just why Paul Robeson isn't celebrated or

remembered justly. He was always a staunch civil-rights activist and
constantly fought against the injustices to the African-American people.
He even travelled and sung in Wales in support of the plight of the
Welsh miners. He travelled many times to Russia (they even named a type
of tomato after him!), claimed once to believe in the morality of
Socialism and admired Stalin (he was only human after all!). His regular
outspokenness and civil rights activism led the U.S authorities to
revoke his passport in 1950. Authorities at the state department said
that „his frequent criticism of the treatment of blacks in the United
States should not be aired in foreign countries”, his name was
retroactively struck from the All-American teams he played in 1917 and
'18 and his passport was only reissued after eight long years. At this
time also, his films and recordings were censored and for more that two
decades, one could not hear or see what Robeson had done. In 1956, in
the furore of McCarthyism, Robeson was brought in front of the House of
Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC). After claims of being un-
American and a member of the Communist Party he was asked why he hadn't
remained in his beloved Russia, he passionately retorted;

„My father was a slave and my people died to build this

country, and I'm going to stay right here and have a part of
it, just like you. And no fascist-minded people like you will
drive me from it. Is that clear?” (June 12 1956)

He then exclaimed that it was not he who was un-American but the
officials on the committee, another event I wish I had witnessed!

Paul Robeson was under surveillance by the FBI for more than 30
years until 1974, a year before his death. He rarely made any public
appearances in the last years of his life. Whenever I think of this
great man I naturally feel inadequate. Why aren't there more Paul
Robesons? Some people may believe that Howard Blair was, or at least had
the potential to be, Australia's Paul Robeson, but that's a whole other
article in itself. Was Robeson a freak, a one in a hundred million, or
just an exceptional product of his times? Or do we view his
achievements with our 'black' filter? That somehow, even as a negro he
became an intelligent, over-achieving, civil-rights zealot, this might
raise our opinions of him. And why are so many great people's potentials
hindered or even halted by authorities, institutions, governments and
tradition just because they think they know better? Or, to raise a
cliché, are they afraid of the truth? The wonderful, glorious, beautiful
truth that Paul Robeson ached to express, that Martin Luther King,
Harold Blair, Solzhenitsyn, Jan Palach and many others desired to
reveal. This all makes me wonder where our zeal, as students and
citizens, has disappeared to. Disappeared to regurgitated words on the
clipped wings of university publications, the flaccid liberal
conversations around a Starbuck's table and shallow platitudes in
uninspiring tutorials. Despite enormous pressure for him to give in,
Robeson still strained for his truth, and without our silver-spoon
privilege.

But I keeps laughing

Instead of crying
I must keep fighting
Until I'm dying
And Ol' Man River
He just keeps rolling along

I once saw a small snippet of a recording of when he visited

Australia, he was singing the above song (which he popularised), his
pursed lips were tensed in syllable, he softly rolled those beautiful
r’s and his monstrous athletic chest heaved with committed breath, good-
will and conviction. I implore you to listen to Paul Robeson (the state
library has a best-of CD in stock), research him if you're interested
and I hope you will, like I, take something good from the knowledge of
what this great man did in his lifetime.

MM
 White wine – Why whine?

Wedged between an article on a black, zealous civil-rights-

promoting, bass-singing socialist and another on deconstructing our very
existence and its experiences and emotions, you might say that this page
on goon is unworthy of its position. I'm going to have to disagree, for
without the stupor that goon has induced for us on many contemplative
nights in my co-editor’s shed, this zine, these articles and the ideas
contained within them may have never come to fruition. Goon is not given
enough credit and believe it or not, it has sometimes been attributed
with a rather derogatory reputation. Goon has a lot going for it;
firstly and most importantly, it's extremely cheap. Also, by drinking it
you're continuing a uniquely Australian tradition, and once you've wiped
the 'two-fruit' chunks off your cheek and French-kissed your friend's
Schnauzer, the inflatable foil bag doubles as a pillow. Who doesn't
cherish the memory of late-night lay-backs and that vile aftertaste? For
me, goon has never been undesirable and herein I will share with you
some of my goon wisdom. In this issue I'm writing about my current
favourite type of goon, the dry white, and I'll give you all a great
recipe to improve your goon-drinking experience.

When I was fifteen I used to drink red good like it was God's
nectar but soon realised that white goon was much more palatable. If you
prefer the sweeter dessert white then that's your own prerogative, but
personally I prefer dry wine. There are many dry white goons out there
and with a quick glance in one bottle shop I noticed many brands; Golden
Oak, Cellar Choice, Lindemans, Berri Estates, Kaiser Stuhl, Coolabah, de
Bortoli, Paddlewheel, Stanley and Sunnyvale. I must stress that I am
condoning the use of the budget goons and not the 'eastern suburbs'
goons which come in the more expensive two-litre variety, because at the
end of the day, if you want something more sophisticated than a goon
bag, buy a bottle. Berri Estates make classic, fresh, crisp, and smooth
in the dry white variety and personally I think this is superfluous.
Stick to the fresh or the crisp and you'll be fine. Paddlewheel is
budget but bollocks, Sunnyvale is also very cheap (I once found it at
$5.70 a cask) and for its price, quite palatable. But my ultimate
preference is Stanley's fresh dry white which chilled, could almost fool
you as a mediocre sauvignon blanc.

Goon punch: After years of pretending, practising and

improvising, this is a recipe which has served me well in many
situations. It's simple; find two casks of white goon (this shouldn't in
any situation cost more than $14), and the equivalent volume of lemonade
or lemon squash. Empty the goon and the soft-drink into a vessel which
will accommodate the necessary volume. At this stage, although the
mixture is drinkable, there are a few additions which can help. If
possible, purchase pineapple or tropical juice and add to taste, or add
cordial, bitters or whatever seems appropriate at the time. I once added
kirsch which created an amazing result. Furthermore, equal parts goon
and soft-drink can provide an ideal platform to add spirits. In this
mixture, a whole bottle (700 ml.) of white rum or vodka will be masked
easily and adds an extra hidden punch. Whatever you add from here is
open to your imagination, so experiment. Please enjoy your goon and
don't feel guilty for drinking it, it’s not as bad as everyone lets on!
 Jacques Derrida coined the term
deconstruction in the 1960s, the technique of making implicit
assumptions about underlying meanings and themes in thoughts, objects
and experiences by ‘taking apart’ aspects of them has become
increasingly prevalent and popular. In short, our experiences of life as
dictated by the people we meet, the art to which we are exposed, and the
surroundings in which we find ourselves, are constantly subjected to
rigorous examination.

Although Derrida’s technique and philosophy is quite specific and

complicated, the word deconstruction has, especially in scholastic
circles, has become synonymous with in-depth and often over enthusiastic
assessment of objects. For the purposes of this article, I have used
deconstruction in the sense that most people semi-incorrectly use it
today in order to impress others and fool themselves into ‘deeper’ yet
often more false understandings. This meaning relates to the over-
analysis and tenuous links created between a process and a result.

At first, uncovering the questions behind ‘the answers’ that a

work of art or experience of life may pose seems initially to both a
fruitful and honourable process. For instance, increasingly in a sphere
of modern art that pushes objective realities, it is a humanistic
tendency to understand the motivation and desire of an artist in order
to subjectify and value the work they may produce. How else could we
attempt to understand and reflect upon works such as Damian Hirst’s The
Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living, sold in
2004 for USD $8 million.

Damian Hirst

The Physical Impossibility

of Death in the Mind of
Someone Living (1991)

„Tiger shark, glass, steel,

5% formaldehyde solution,
213 x 518 x 213 cm."

With this in mind, the desire to find appropriate and relevant

retroactive questions to art’s answers is obviously not entirely without
any substance. Obviously, many pieces of art transmit their message
through an underlying meaning. For instance, Solzhenitsyn’s One Day in
the Life of Ivan Denisovich is much less a work of fiction as it is an
autobiographical documentation of slave labour camps in the USSR. Hirst,
too, is perhaps trying to convey something more than an impression.
However, over-analysis goes beyond these motivations. Since Freud, the
idea of an author’s subconscious bursting its way through a medium, and
art and actions taking on elements unknown to the artist, has been
widely developed and popularised. Although it must be conceded that this
phenomenon can and often does occur, over-zealous application of the
principle can lead to erroneous conclusions.

The formulation of extreme hypotheses, that are often

entertaining and shocking, through over-analysis and deconstruction has
proliferated a movement of academia where even the most tenuous and
irrational links between artist and artwork, or person and experience,
are applauded. Writers such as Michael Drosin, who analysed and
subsequently applied a code to the Bible to ‘find’ words that predicted
the assassination of Yitzakh Rabin in 1994, have made their living by
pulling apart art and objects to find something more ‘interesting’ to
the greater public than the initial matter of communication.

Indeed, with such rigorous examination of art and life, any link,
no matter how tenuous, can be found through apparently legitimate means.
In response to Michael Drosin’s challenge: „When my critics find a
message about the assassination of a prime minister encrypted in Moby
Dick, I'll believe them.” (Newsweek, Jun 9, 1997) Brendan McKay found at
least nine such deaths ‘predicted’ by Moby Dick using similar methods.
(http://cs.anu.edu.au/~bdm/dilugim/moby.html)

However, it is crucial to maintain that a piece of visual art or

music, drama or literature does not potentially answer every question
and does not have infinite meanings. Not every tenuous link can be made.
There is a line that must be drawn from both practical and logical
perspectives. Indeed, from a purely logical viewpoint, if two artworks
have infinite meanings, they also potentially have the same meaning and
therefore become non-unique and artistically without merit. This,
clearly, is not an appropriate solution. The infinity of meanings is a
pernicious doctrine that is attractive only because it allows us to stop
thinking about the relative strengths and weaknesses of varying
interpretations.

As voyeurs of the artistic process and life in general, we must

evaluate the specific quality of an artwork or experience as we relate
to it to give it meaning. The easiest way of doing this is by keeping it
simple; to evaluate a piece of artwork or an object or thought on its
obvious merits and failures and the first impression it makes upon us as
an individual. All too often, our secondary impressions take over as we
ask ourselves of the relative value of an impression in accordance with
societal norms. This is demonstrated commonly in listeners disliking a
song only after the artist is revealed, delighting in a painting after
learning of its high sale price, or ignoring technology after its
workings have been grasped. The question must be posed – is something
more or less valuable to us as an experience because we should perceive
it as so? Does popular neo-surrealist drama deserve more merit than the
dandelion growing between the bricks of a terrace?

Indeed, the idea of ‘pulling apart’ thoughts, experiences, and

objects is destructive in the sense that it gives a false impression
that it is understood, and destroys both the mystery and possibilities
of meaning. By ‘finding’ meanings within an artwork, we lose the
potentiality of limitless intentions and also the simplest and most
beautiful meaning – the emotion in us as we experience something for the
first time.
 This notion is really an ancient one. The dichotomy between
classical and romantic, the rational and irrational, has long existed.
Is it better to know every element of something, or to simply enjoy it
as it is, a sensory impression that creates a stimulus of emotion? Is a
sunset more beautiful before or after you know what makes the sky glow.

To use a crude example, Richard Middleton wrote of The Animals

1964 song ‘I’m Crying’: „The cross relations in the ostinato (which is
melodic and harmonic) are the equivalents of blue notes, arising from a
conflict between melodic and tonal implications. The modal melodic
movement of the ostinato, with its minor thirds, clashes with the tonal
need for major triads imposed by the 12–bar blues structure.” Alan
Price, of the Animals, responded: „I wrote the music and Eric did the
words and we just threw it together in rehearsal in Blackpool.” But,
realistically, neither version will tell you what the song is like to
hear for the first time.

The late great Indian thinker Osho writes that if

one has truly been affected by an experience, one will
answer with an exclamation mark, not a question. In
questioning something beautiful, we are attempting to
understand it, to bring it back to a level to which we
can comprehend and feel comfortable. By questioning and
understanding, we possess knowledge about an item, and
put ourselves above it. Humanity’s flawed and typically
egocentric view of the world states that it is
unacceptable to simply observe and enjoy; one must
possess and understand.

Indeed, this concept of ‘not-knowing’ is fundamental to many

religions – Christianity, Buddhism, Taoism, Sufism, Zen – all require
that there is an element of a clear mind that is unpolluted with other’s
problems. Many prophets have commented that humans should be ‘childlike’
when experiencing life in order to recognise the beauty of creation.
Instead, we cannot help but judge life with external influences.

Deconstructing a thought, object, or experience that creates an

emotion, has the effect of destroying the initial reaction we have
towards it. This is not to say we should not question these things – in
fact, quite the opposite. However, it is important that we ask the
questions we want to ask to find the answers that we found in our
experience. To live by one’s convictions and have no fear in holding on
to the first and most pure experience of our existence.

After inquiring, I now know what makes a tree’s leaves turn

orange and yellow through autumn, why the sky is blue and clouds are
white. I understand what makes a minor chord, and how Monet went about
painting his lilies.

But that little part of me wishes I never asked those questions. I don’t
need to know the answers when the meaning is right in front of me.

KS
Forgotten...
 Abram Goldberg says:

„Oyvey! Don’t leave your stuff lying around! I still

can’t find my Led Zeppelin Yarmulke from the 80’s”
 The streetlights are denying darkness but the sun has retired
without informing me and after work my lazy shoes take me to a club. Why
I occasionally go I have never known, and whether it’s enlightening or
depressing is confusing. But I know I don’t fit in. “The bouncer is a
Sumo wrestler” sung Tom Waits, but this is no Waits-esque bar. He allows
me entry, the only control he has in his life, and I walk past the
smelly bathroom, giggling sluts and well-groomed cave men. A scotch and
soda is in my uncomfortable grip, I take a hit, need another. I feel
uncomfortable, why do I try so hard? Does it matter? I take another hit,
feels better, now I can observe. I never intended for this to be an
observational exercise, but everything seemed so alien. I was no native-
ethnographer here; sure I had been to clubs, vitamins in my system, been
a sweaty body in the throng and I had woken the next morn with good and
maybe somewhat false memories. But here, I had no fun, so I observed –
and in this way I felt better, superior and now I feel a little guilty
for that. Swallow another scotch. Buy another. A couple stands in front
of me, fifteen years older than most here (and I feel uncomfortable!).
They awkwardly observe the dance floor. Are they observing like me?
Maybe they’re plucking up courage, or lamenting their tattered youthful
years, or maybe they’re just fools. A big black hand reaches from below
for the empty bottles of Crown Lager. The older man speaks listless
platitudes into his wife’s ear (or maybe she’s a mistress, lucky girl!).
Now he leans forward. I swallow another malty mouthful. He removes his
left leg from pressing against her ill-fitting jeans and steps back to
glance at nothing behind him (he pre-empted this for something to do;
liven up his life a little the champion). He looks back at the dance
floor, scratches his chin, sips his beer, another platitude in her ear
(I bet she smells like air-freshener), and looks at nothing in
particular again. Finish off my scotch in one hit. This time I’ll get a
whiskey sour I think. There’s a big girl, self-consciously dressed with
her arms crossed around her midriff. Occasionally she plucks her top
away from her stomach. She looks lonely, she has a nice face, she waits
for someone, but no-one is interested. She’s probably already given up
hope. She plucks her shirt again, I concentrate on my drink. A group of
older single women dancing like embarrassing mothers. A balding, thirty-
or-so year old comes dancing up to them. He leans in and yells in their
ears, I wonder if he’s telling them he’s in his twenties. He coaxes them
with his peculiar yet common dance moves to join in on the choruses to
the 90’s songs that the asshole of a DJ is playing. The women love this
man, but they don’t know what’s hip anymore, who does? They call this a
whiskey sour? Cobblers. I Look into the mass of people moving below me.
One man dances with no expression on his face. I think he does this on
purpose, maybe he doesn’t want to look like a fool, but he wonders why
all the other guys that look like fools make breakfast for someone the
next day. I see a few guys who in another environment might look
different, ‘alternative’ and for that matter maybe worth talking too.
Sip with a grimace, why am I as bitter as some of my drinks? Fuck it.
One guys stands there with no-one but his pint. He pretends to text, or
even make a call occasionally then he pretends to be interested in
what’s playing on the screens above the bar. Wait, that’s me. Does
anyone really feel at home, comfortable and content with being here? I
personally only feel comfortable (or as close to as I’ll ever be), when
I’m by myself. Vodka and tonic; mouthful. Feel a bit warmer and
welcoming inside now. We’re social animals, yet we torture ourselves
whenever we are. Do we, all go to these sometimes-horrible cesspits of
immorality and awkwardness because somehow we like to suffer? Or maybe
it’s because billions of years of evolution is subtly nudging us in the
ribs and whispering “you know, it would be sweet if you got laid tonight
sport”. I wished my night had been different and I wish it hadn’t.
Finish my vodka in a hit, feel okay now but I’ll still only be cooking
breakfast for one lousy soul. Sweet dreams.

MM
 Romas Kalanta
1953-1972

„On 14 May 1972, Romas Kalanta, a nineteen-year-old student in Kaunas,

Lithuania, poured gasoline over himself and struck a match. The act took
place in front of the theatre where in 1940 the People’s Assembly had
staged its session to vote on incorporation into the USSR. Kalanta
subsequently died in hospital. His funeral sparked riots involving
several thousand students.”
(60)
Who enjoys the thrill of a personal challenge? “Certainly I do”, says
the man in his tweed coat, but the slight twinge in his voice is
powerful in its subtlety. He ponderously sucks on his pipe, all the
while dreaming of old Chopin, Kant, and Degas, playing a familiar
artistic melody that resonates in the fabric of his soul
(48)
His soul
(46)
Soon will come the new glories, he dreams it to be. But an awkward
shuffling reveals more than just the most heartfelt bravado. Surely his
smoky leather shoes and hashed walnut pipe are not as comforting as the
confines of his own knowledge – or is it not so?
(37)
It must be said, however, that the little old man in the tweed coat has
had many good years, the sort of years that cause a smile when
remembered, but sad eyes when recalled for too long. The sort of years
that made him feel like his dreams would never turn into regrets. No
matter...
(28)
No sad eyes, no smile today, the world surely is not as wicked as it
likes to pretend, and surely I am the world’s master, although I may
serve some of those who feel nothing. With a sigh, he tells himself that
he is the world’s master, although he himself can not help but judge a
book.
(22)
The room is far too large for the man, small and stout, yet the
emptiness is comforting, for it can be filled. “And potential is greater
than accomplishment”, thinks the man, (though his masters may disagree)
(15)
From this room, he chooses to speak his challenge to the world: “Do not
rest until the room is filled”, and in the resonance of his bravery he
chews his pipe, takes a sip from the warm mug to the right of him and
sits on what I believe is his favourite chair.
(8)
And yet somehow the little man in the tweed coat knows that the room
will never be filled, and part of him is happy. For without desire and
longing, we are but as lifeless as a tweed coat and walnut pipe. And we
know that every dust-covered book will only serve the create a thousand
more chapters. And there is no time
(0)

KS
„Blow your own trumpet.”
So, you’re running late for dinner at your girlfriend’s parents’ and you
can’t find you good tiepin? Afraid that your tie will fall in the
shepherd’s pie?

Use a teaspoon you fool!

It really is very simple; this is how you make a teaspoon tiepin…

Look through your cutlery draw and find a nice teaspoon. Many have
wonderfully quaint floral patterns, some are more minimalist, and it’s
up to your own taste which one you use.

TEASPOON
TIEPIN
Bend the ‘bowl’ back on the handle; it is important that the convex side
of the spoon is bent back.

There should enough gap between the ‘bowl’ and the handle so that it
fits snugly over a tie. If you think it is not bent enough and your
fingers can’t do the job, I use my teeth (don’t tell your dentist you’re
doing this).

Slide the clip over the tie with the handle visible and voila!

Eavesdrop
Adelaide University Unibar:

Male 1:
I heard that you can only call
champagne ‘champagne’ if it’s from France

Male 2:
No, you can only call it champagne
if it’s from the champagne region of France

Female 1:
...what’s Omni then?
 MIX TAPE (SIDE A)

 Max Richter – Shadow Journal

It’s hard to describe the music of Max Richter. The closest

description reads; „Max Richter combines chamber music with ambient
recordings, spoken-word pieces and experimental electronica,
creating a distinctive and beautiful blend of the traditional and
the futuristic”. This track, spanning more than 8 minutes includes
spoken notes from Kafka’s diaries, echoing electronic drum-beats and
ethereal violin refrains. Let Richter accompany you in the upcoming
wintry days with his minimalist Arvo Pärt-esque compositions.

 Blind Willie Johnson – Dark Was The Night, Cold Was The Ground

This blind bluesmaster’s haunting vocals will give you goosebumps as

his slide guitar echoes each line. One of the greatest, his crackly
recordings from a time almost forgotten but which influenced modern
music profoundly.

 Monsieur Camembert – Dance Me To The End Of Love

A „gypsy fusion” band hailing from Sydney, Monsier Camembert perform

wild, swinging, fun gypsy songs. This cover of Leonard Cohen is done
brilliantly; the squeeze box lulls you into a dream, swaying as if
waltzing in your black-suit, favourite tie and of course your new
teaspoon tiepin. They are playing at the upcoming Adelaide Cabaret
Festival, incidentally playing all Leonard Cohen covers! Don’t miss
them for they are amazing live.

 Dead Combo – Rumbero

I know, little about this band. They are from Portugal and I found
this song on a compilation. They play all instrumental stuff, and
you can check them out on MySpace.

 Les Hurlements D’Léo – Poèmes

A tremendous French alternative-rock band with lots and lots of

traditional French influences. Beguiling violin and accordion, and
when a woman sings in it always gives you a hard-on no matter what
they’re singing about.

 Sam Cooke – Cupid

I know it’s corny but I like it. Sam Cooke is one of the greatest
soul singers and even though the words in this song are cliché, his
voice and his melody-writing skills are superior.

MM
 MIX TAPE (SIDE B)

 Beirut – Nantes

Drawing on influences from French Chanson and Eastern European gypsy

melodies, Zach Condon has found popularity with his latest project after
a number of experimental albums, including a lo-fi album at age 15, and
a doo-woop album in homage to Frankie Lymon & The Teenagers at 16.
Simple melodies and simpler words are greater than the sum of their
parts. This album also has home-recorded film clips for all tracks
available online or on DVD.

 Mikelangelo & The Black Sea Gentlemen – A Formidable Marinade

Gifted songwriters and competent musicians play black cabaret with

elements of Balkan culture and 19th century mystery. However, the real
beauty lies in the lyrics: “In your body I’ll dream of things/like
geese, and mustard, and cabbages and kings/thermoses full of chocolate
sauce/men who live on only remorse/sodomy is not just for animals/ human
flesh is not just for cannibals”. Brilliant.

 The Herbs – What’s The Time (Mr. Wolf)

Best known from the Once Were Warriors soundtrack, this song stands
rightfully on its own as a reflection of the Maori culture and the
Reggae and folk influence on modern New Zealand music.

 Orange Juice – Rip It Up

Amongst the post-punk bands that received widespread recognition such as

New Order and Depeche Mode, Orange Juice fell through the cracks but
managed to record this dancefloor gem and driving song that is second to
none from the era. Hear it before some DJ remixes and ruins it.

 Sufjan Stevens – Casimir Pulaski Day

Another prolific musician, Stevens hopes to release a full-length album

documenting narratives for each of America’s fifty states. On
‘Illinois’, he tells historical stories and folk tales from the region
with precision and passion that reflects a real humanistic interest and
fervour for communicating his and others’ experiences through song.

 Carla Bruni – Quelqu’un M’a Dit

Heiress to millions, supermodel, current husband to French president

Nicolas Sarkozy, it is hard to go past the hype that this woman can
create. Nevertheless, somehow, these songs stand on their own. It’s not
brilliant music, the vocals have moments of imperfection, but at the
same time it is breathtaking. If not for musical value, don’t tell
anyone you bought it and just enjoy with a candlelit dinner and bottle
of wine.
 KS

SAMIZDAT contributors
The helpful…

...and the not so helpful

Mārtiņš Medenis & Karlis Stemsands

 „The first thing God
created was the journey,
then came doubt,
and nostalgia.”
- Niko, Ulysses’ Gaze

cамиздат
2008