White Crime - Ruining America

It's almost 2010, a year that just looks and sounds fake. Around us the world is devolving into cesspool of subterranean common denominators, all out for number one and trying to stomp the rest of us into cracks in the pavement. So what's left to do but dress up some buckets, turn up the bass and ride rockets into the next decade? Raw expression is transformed into something melodic and disconcertingly catchy, but the dark side never really veers too far off the cliff. Flashbacks into an era of black-clad, eyeliner superstars and next thing you know the lights have gone out and industrial fittings are breaking at the seems.

White Crime is getting down deep into the root of the problem. Exploitation, indulgence and absolutely no mercy. These songs long for days of excess, obtuseness and oblivion. They're elemental in approach and execution, taken down to the base, veering on the edge of nothingness and pointing straight for your crystal heart. --Brad Rose

New band consisting of Brad Rose and Eden Hemming Rose; white c20s with white lettering in white plastic cases (which is very hard to see in the pictures). Limited edition of 40. This tape is sold out. Check Tomentosa in the U.S. or Boa Melody Bar in Europe if you want one.

Sparkling Wide Pressure "Reborn in Action"

Frank Baugh revels and fights, spits fuzzy flames of antifreeze. In the glow of the embers of morning, stars squeeze light from the annals of history. Under the blankets, toes trade steps. The truth can be found in those moments when the whole world stops for just one tiny event, or when it stops for nothing at all. Whispering in our ears, breathing the frost of November and the life of March, whispering, whispering these little changes into view... It's 1988, your boombox is turned on low. You're laying on your bed, watching the clouds herd themselves outside your window with just the tips of tree branches to push off of and you can feel your heart lift, the full body knowledge of the power of this purring music. There is no more fight, no more pit, just sweet fruit and juice.







Black or white c35 tape with snips of Frank's painting glued on, wrapped in glued, reused paperboard sleeve. "Insert" has painting by Frank on the front and words on the back, attached to the sleeve with a brad. Limited edition of 45. This tape is sold out. It may still be available through Tomentosa in the U.S. and Boa Melody Bar in Europe (see links below).

Future Compilation

In formation, a tape compilation of music based on/inspired by the poem "Roosters" by Elizabeth Bishop:

At four o'clock
in the gun-metal blue dark
we hear the first crow of the first cock

just below
the gun-metal blue window
and immediately there is an echo

off in the distance,
then one from the backyard fence,
then one, with horrible insistence,

grates like a wet match
from the broccoli patch,
flares,and all over town begins to catch.

Cries galore
come from the water-closet door,
from the dropping-plastered henhouse floor,

where in the blue blur
their rusting wives admire,
the roosters brace their cruel feet and glare

with stupid eyes
while from their beaks there rise
the uncontrolled, traditional cries.

Deep from protruding chests
in green-gold medals dressed,
planned to command and terrorize the rest,

the many wives
who lead hens' lives
of being courted and despised;

deep from raw throats
a senseless order floats
all over town. A rooster gloats

over our beds
from rusty irons sheds
and fences made from old bedsteads,

over our churches
where the tin rooster perches,
over our little wooden northern houses,

making sallies
from all the muddy alleys,
marking out maps like Rand McNally's:

glass-headed pins,
oil-golds and copper greens,
anthracite blues, alizarins,

each one an active
displacement in perspective;
each screaming, "This is where I live!"

Each screaming
"Get up! Stop dreaming!"
Roosters, what are you projecting?

You, whom the Greeks elected
to shoot at on a post, who struggled
when sacrificed, you whom they labeled

"Very combative..."
what right have you to give
commands and tell us how to live,

cry "Here!" and "Here!"
and wake us here where are
unwanted love, conceit and war?

The crown of red
set on your little head
is charged with all your fighting blood

Yes, that excrescence
makes a most virile presence,
plus all that vulgar beauty of iridescence

Now in mid-air
by two they fight each other.
Down comes a first flame-feather,

and one is flying,
with raging heroism defying
even the sensation of dying.

And one has fallen
but still above the town
his torn-out, bloodied feathers drift down;

and what he sung
no matter. He is flung
on the gray ash-heap, lies in dung

with his dead wives
with open, bloody eyes,
while those metallic feathers oxidize.


St. Peter's sin
was worse than that of Magdalen
whose sin was of the flesh alone;

of spirit, Peter's,
falling, beneath the flares,
among the "servants and officers."

Old holy sculpture
could set it all together
in one small scene, past and future:

Christ stands amazed,
Peter, two fingers raised
to surprised lips, both as if dazed.

But in between
a little cock is seen
carved on a dim column in the travertine,

explained by gallus canit;
flet Petrus underneath it,
There is inescapable hope, the pivot;

yes, and there Peter's tears
run down our chanticleer's
sides and gem his spurs.

Tear-encrusted thick
as a medieval relic
he waits. Poor Peter, heart-sick,

still cannot guess
those cock-a-doodles yet might bless,
his dreadful rooster come to mean forgiveness,

a new weathervane
on basilica and barn,
and that outside the Lateran

there would always be
a bronze cock on a porphyry
pillar so the people and the Pope might see

that event the Prince
of the Apostles long since
had been forgiven, and to convince

all the assembly
that "Deny deny deny"
is not all the roosters cry.

In the morning
a low light is floating
in the backyard, and gilding

from underneath
the broccoli, leaf by leaf;
how could the night have come to grief?

gilding the tiny
floating swallow's belly
and lines of pink cloud in the sky,

the day's preamble
like wandering lines in marble,
The cocks are now almost inaudible.

The sun climbs in,
following "to see the end,"
faithful as enemy, or friend.

If you would like to contribute, email me at eden at digitalisindustries dot com. Length should be less than 10 minutes; deadline is the beginning of August.

The North Sea "Sweet Boxing"

Brad Rose plays some beautiful analog synthesizer mindfuck games and makes it purr, spit, and fight.



The engine revs but doesn't turn over. A siren begins to sound. There are beetles in a soft red coffin - beetles in soft red cotton.



Space age stones are thrown. The car idles and bugs clog the gears. Turn to gum, churn with the rest. A flying saucer comes to pick up the mess.



X: "The last thing I remember is bright lights and a strange noise."

Y: "There's blood coming out of your ears."




c33 wrapped in (soap-and-water washed) milk plastic, secured by ribbon. edition of 32.

This tape is now sold out! Copies may be available from Tomentosa.

Good times coming

The North Sea wrapped up in milk cartons and ribbon.

Sparkling Wide Pressure snaps.

One of Laura Ortman's awesome bands gets in the spirit.

Caethua brings some meat and honey.

The sky turns dark and Pefkin emerges.

Two Fascinating Finds

The primal precursor of Animal Collective.

A poem that is just begging to be turned into a song.