I’m playing at Pyramid Atlantic in Silver Spring, Maryland on 2 May 2015, in my Kantoendrato guise (my ambient alter ego). It’s a great bill, a fun, relaxing format, and everything starts at 8PM. $10 and well worth it.
Played a brief, but energetic, set on Friday, 27 February 2015 at Electric Maid in Takoma Park as part of the Baltimore SDIY group’s 2 day winter electronic music event. First go-round for my Kantoendrato alter-ego (to make PR a bit easier, I’m going to be going by Kantoendrato for my ambient and experimental electronic sets and by my given name for my storytelling work), and was delighted to work with alternating.bit for the set.
I predict big things for this collaboration in time.
I’m playing in this year’s Electronica Fest at the National Electronics Museum, in Linthicum, Maryland (near BWI Airport), on Saturday, 8 November 2014, in the 4:30-5:00 slot. The Fest is an amazing day-long celebration of electronic and electroacoustic music that runs from noon till ten o’clock and gives audiences an opportunity to hear a dizzying array of genres touched by the thrilling spark of electricity for a delightfully paltry ten bucks. The music ranges from the downright lovely to the down-home peculiar and the atmosphere just can’t be matched by anything else going on in the region. It’s a great Saturday for sound.
I’m thrilled to be playing with the inimitable Keith Sinzinger once again, this time as a participant in the Sonic Circuits Festival 2014, a three-day assortment of aural delights held from 3-5 October 2014 at Pyramid Atlantic Art Center, 8230 Georgia Avenue, Silver Spring, MD 20910. We’re on during the final evening of the festival, on Sunday, 5 October, performing under our collective monicker, Fast Against The Wall, in a playful set of peculiar noises, particular grooves, and happy accidents. We’ll be in good company, and the folks behind Sonic Circuits bring together the best audiences for new and experimental music in the area and the best performers. I’m always delighted by the variety and quality of the music Sonic Circuits puts on, and I am happy as a dang lark to be playing.
Come on out and listen!
Here’s a recording of my first reading of five little stories about falling in love with sound and electricity, to the accompaniment of digital sound and signal processing. I performed the pieces on Friday, 5 Sep 2014, as part of the Electro-Music 2014 Conference and Festival in Huguenot NY.
I’ve got a lot going on in the next four months—gigs booked in September, October, and November!
I’ll be playing at the super-amazing Electro-Music Festival 2014 in Huguenot, NY, a three day campout of unbelievable musicians performing, connecting, and collaborating up in the woods in NY state. It’s an immersive experience for musicians that’s just lovely and embracing and full of all sorts of electric music, played out in a great setting.
Last year was my first, and I just enjoyed the company and camaraderie, but this year, on Friday, September 5th at 5:30PM, I’m premiering a little work in progress, All Night Radio, a short cycle of spoken word storytelling on my love of noise set to the tune of digital modular synthesis.
On Sunday, October 5th, I’m privileged to share the stage with the thoroughly distinct and delightful Keith Sinzinger (aka Fast Forty) for the second round of our collaboration, Fast Against The Wall, as part of the Sonic Circuits Festival 2014, taking place from October 3-5, 2014 at Pyramid Atlantic in Silver Spring Maryland.
For those of you living in the DC orbit, I’ll be performing with chaotic synthesist extraordinaire, Keith Sinzinger, as “Fast Against The Wall” on Friday, 28 February 2014, in the second slot of the first day of the two-day Baltimore SDIY Group‘s Electronic Music Winterfest at Electric Maid, 268 Carroll Street, Washington DC 20012 (Across from the Takoma Metro Station).
The event opens at 7:45 each night, and tickets are just $10, with five diverse and electrifying musical acts in each. Fast Against The Wall is scheduled for the second set of Friday night, and there’s always amazing talent on stage for these events. The music ranges from noisy experimental to smooth dance grooves and whole worlds in-between.
I’ve been largely concentrating on beatless, long-form drone and atmosphere music for a while, but this is set to be a playful departure into herky-jerky grooveland and I’m really enthusiastic about the juicy, alien energy we’re conjuring up.
Be there if you can!
I’ll sign your cast and punch your ticket!
For more info about the venue:
Howdy, my lovelies!
I’m making a point to get myself out there in 2014, and to that end, I’m starting a pledge drive of a sort. I’ve been writing since…well, since always, almost, but I’ve been doing spoken word/storytelling performances, with and without music, for twenty years, keeping a regular online journal for thirteen years, making slow, quiet music, exploring strange new worlds, making silly videos, and otherwise sharing the things I love about being a citizen of reality, but I have to admit I’ve not done it in an organized, comprehensible way.
I’m knuckling down.
I’m consolidating and streamlining, trying out some new outlets, and working to make it easy for you, the folks who’ve encouraged my raconteurship over the years, and new friends who’ve just come aboard for the ride. I cut my teeth online at Livejournal, but unfortunately, Livejournal’s not what it used to be, so I’m going to be primarily posting new material on a few sites and making my LJ a private space for my friends and family. I’d also made a stab at using the blogger platform, under the monicker “bluestarlounge,” but I had a hard time getting traction there, so I’m concentrating on new modes.
I maintain an info site at joebelknapwall.com. You may notice that I now have a middle name, and I’m using it because it makes it easier to find me on Google and other search engines, for which “joe” and “wall” are awfully vague search terms. It’s all part of the whole “branding” thing, which make me scowl at myself, but if I can’t be found, I can’t get my work to new audiences. The site will continue to be a general news and biographical info site, with archives of some of my favorite material for various media, announcements of events, projects, and other useful data. My previous info site, joewall.com, now links into this site, with all of the original material, as well as new material.
To make it easier to keep up in the Facebook age, I’ve created a special Facebook page linked to my info site and my twitter account, at https://www.facebook.com/joebelknapwall, which is a simple one-stop-shop to get updates on all my projects, events, and twitter updates.
To find my day-to-day writings, stories, music, and other updates, I’m using several outlets, which I’ll list here:
• Twitter — https://twitter.com/joebelknapwall
I resisted Twitter for a long time and for the usual reasons, in large part because I’m fairly described as “verbose,” but it is a splendid platform for linking one’s work, sharing one’s favorite things, and otherwise honing the fine art of the perfect Dorothy Parkeresque one-line party zinger. My Twitter feed tends to be a bit surreal, often amusing, and it’s a great clearinghouse for letting people know what I’m up to right now. I promise it isn’t all just announcements of what I’m eating, wearing, or am mad about (well, there’s some of that).
• Tumblr — http://www.tumblr.com/blog/joebelknapwall
Tumblr is an excellent resource for sharing all sorts of things, from stories to news to photos to videos to music. It’s visually spare and simple, and a nice outlet for storytelling
• Medium — https://medium.com/@joebelknapwall
I’m a fan of what the developers of Medium are doing, which is to set up an adjunct to Twitter for more detailed writing, with a nice clean design and the additions of a system for collective curation of topics and a helpful tag on each post with an approximate time it’ll take you to read the posting. I’ll probably be simultaneously posting to both Tumblr and Medium, with Medium more focused on the shorter stories.
[See below] I’ve embarked on a new project, dubbed “Nowhere Joe,” which combines the pitch I made to a travel network for a travel program about going nowhere, or otherwise using the idea of travel to make everyday life more interesting, and a sort of household-hints journal loosely organized around the idea of living well on little money. It’s a bit different from some of the excellent sites out there on simple living in that it’s not a compendium of tips and tricks as much as it is a means of sharing the why of a humble, adventurous life. I’ll definitely share my own little methodologies, recipes, and shortcuts, but more than that, I want to cover the rewards of making the best with what you have on hand.
• Nowhere Joe — http://www.nowherejoe.com
I’ve also created a corresponding Facebook page specifically for the Nowhere Joe project, and you can find it at
https://www.facebook.com/nowherejoe. Like my professional page listed above, it’ll pass along my updates, links to new stories on nowherejoe.com, and relevant info. In addition, there’s a nice mechanism built into the site that will help you to share any post you found entertaining or informative—just scroll to the bottom of the post, and there’s little set of icons to share the post with your friends on a number of outlets. The green icon at the end offers an even more fully expanded listing of ways to share, so if you like something, pass it around!
[UPDATE 2017: I didn’t manage to get the Nowhere Joe project to go quite where I wanted to take it, and I was unsuccessful at generating an audience there, so I pulled back and have concentrated on this page, on which I’m sharing much of what I hoped to share on Nowhere Joe, and my solo ambient music page. Worth a try, though, I think, though ultimately it ended up as a distraction rather than a point of focus.]
The easiest way to keep up, if you’re on Facebook, is to “like” my professional Facebook page, https://www.facebook.com/joebelknapwall, which will get you notifications of things I’m doing, my Twitter updates, links to new material posted online, and listings of upcoming events and appearances.
Here’s my pitch—If you like what I do, and enjoy my stories, music, and other things, please “like” me on Facebook, “follow” me on Twitter, Tumblr, and Medium, sign up for my email list, and otherwise share share share anything of mine that you enjoy with anyone you know who might like it. It’s easy, it helps me to build an audience so I can eventually spend less time in my so-called “day job” and more time writing and performing and telling you stories.
Thanks for reading,
Love, your pal, Joe Belknap Wall
I was bumbling aimlessly in the finished basement of my friend’s house, noting that he, like almost everyone I knew, had an air hockey table there, while I lived in an old log house with a basement that looked more like, well, a basement, when he and several of our friends gathered around the console TV that presided over the room. They sat in thrall on the tangled mass of the gold and rust-colored shag carpet, watching something.
“What’s that?” I asked, standing behind the group.
What it was, at least on the surface, was a rerun of the 1975 made-for-television horror anthology, Trilogy of Terror, though it was more precisely the single most traumatic thing I would see in my young life until I later found my sister’s worn copy of Hollywood Babylon II and read about the Black Dahlia murder. It was more or less a singly ridiculous scene in which a wildly over-emoting Karen Black is menaced by a hyperactive magical Zuni fetish doll with a steak knife, and as I stood there behind the other boys with my hand on my hip, I was on the path to several years of sleepless nights.
“What’s that doll?” I asked, and was shushed by the group.
“It’s a magic doll from Africa,” snapped Kurt, a doughy, haughty kid who’d managed to see most films before we ever heard of them and have a well-developed opinion and spoilers to share. “Watch what happens.”
I did, and what happened was that Karen Black, playing “Amelia,” was alone in her apartment, having an endless phone call, then was in her bathrobe, and the magical chain slipped off the magic doll from Africa, and then—
“Turn it off!” I said, my eyebrows raised as the tiny doll started to chase Amelia around her apartment, sawing at her ankles with the steak knife. “Can we watch something else?”
“Shut up, Joe. This is cool!”
Like someone being electrocuted, I was rigid with fear, unable to look away from the TV or break that jittery current of fright that held me transfixed. With a bit of forethought, I might have recognized the camp elements of the piece, but I was nine and it was the most terrifying thing I’d ever seen.
“Please, Scott, will you just turn it off?”
“You can go home if you want, dork.”
I did not do this. I watched it all, standing behind my friends, with a hand over my mouth and occasionally over my eyes.
Back home, I could not shake the thought of that little chattering doll with the steak knife. I assumed that it would be confined to the floor, being little, so I tried to stay off the floor whenever possible. I had a desk and a bunk bed, and I became a circus athlete, leaping across the room from my bed to the top of my desk when I needed something. My mother would hear the thump of my landings and would come into the room.
“Joseph, it’s after eleven o’clock and you need to be in bed, not crashing around the room. Get back in bed and sleep, will you?”
I hopped down from the desk, deftly bounding from the ball of one foot onto the ladder to my bunk bed, limiting the possibility of doll attack, and climbed into bed. My mother switched off the light and I protested.
“Ma, don’t turn the light off, please! I want to read.”
“It’s too late for reading. Just go to sleep.”
The light went out, and she closed the door behind her. The doll roamed below, gibbering and waving his knife. Sleep became something I experienced as the result of nervous exhaustion well after midnight, and I did not sleep soundly for months, until I worked out that I could use the protective rail that kept me from falling out of my bunk bed as a remote control.
I’d pick up the rail, which was essentially just a long, skinny board, and would lean out over the void beyond the bunk bed, steadying myself by wedging both feet between the mattress and the wall, and hold the rail out in the darkness, my upper body in agony from the strain of leverage, and swing it against the wall until I hit the light switch and bathed myself in the security of full illumination. As a working strategy, it let me sleep properly at last, free of the magic doll from Africa, until one troublesome night.
I lifted the rail, got in position, swung it towards the switch in the dark, and my feet slipped free from where I’d wedged them in. The rail lurched forward, hitting the light switch like a hammer, and there was a brief flash of light, then a buzzing, crackling noise from the wall. In the darkness, I could see the flickers of sparks across the room, and I smelled smoke.
“Dad!” I yelled. “Dad! Dad! Fire! The house is on fire!”
I heard a thump from my parents’ room, then stomping footprints and my door swinging open. My dad reached for the light switch and found it in ruins.
“What the—Goddammit, Joe-B, what did you do?”
“I was trying to turn the light on and I slipped and now the house is on fire!”
“The house isn’t on fire—it’s just sparks.” He fumbled around on my desk, found the lamp there, and switched it on. “How the hell did you manage to do that?” he asked. The switch plate and the switch were smashed, and the rail to my bed was on the floor.
“I was turning the light on and I slipped and broke it.”
“What were you turning it on with?”
“The rail from my bed.”
“Why on earth were you turning it on with the rail from your bed?”
“I didn’t want to step on the floor.”
“I didn’t want to step on the floor.”
It’s not my fault. It’s that damn doll and Karen Black that did it.
“Kiddo, you are a piece of work,” he said, and went out to the garage to get tools and a replacement light switch. He installed it without shutting off the circuit breaker, taking care not to ground himself, screwed the assembly in, and cautioned me.
“I don’t have a switch plate, so be careful with this until I can go to the hardware store tomorrow. What’s on the floor, anyway?”
“It’s from that movie.”
He rolled his eyes, ever so subtly.
“You could have left, you know. No one made you watch that dumb thing.”
“I know, but I just couldn’t.”
“Like driving past an accident, I guess.”
“Get to sleep, Joe-B.”
“Would you leave the light on?”
He rolled his eyes, left the light on, and closed the door.
I leaned out, over the edge of the bed, scanned the room for dolls, and retreated to the safe harbor of my blanket, secure for at least one more night.
© 2013 Joe Belknap Wall
I grew up in the age that preceded the ubiquity of screens, and one of the absolute and unquestionable rules in our household was that there was to be no television in our rooms, ever. We were already wild-eyed radicals in that we’d pull out the TV guide from the Baltimore Sun at our Sunday dinners and each pick out our four hours per week of programs, at least before we finally wore my parents down and killed that experiment in utopian media regulation. I’d pick Lost In Space, Quark, and my other science fiction camp atrocities, my siblings would pick out their own indulgences, and it’d all be marked off in the book with a highlighter pen.
I chafed at the restriction, and my solution was to sneak out to the yard sales and buy old TV sets, then hide them nearby until the middle of the night, when I’d slip out and drag large wood-clad sets to the front yard, carefully attach them to a net, haul them up onto the porch roof, and push them in through my bedroom window. I’d hide each with great care, and I felt like a super-spy in the process, like I was getting away with something grand and noble.
Only thing was—my father could smell television.
Each of my illegal sets would be swiftly detected and my ability to watch Lucan and the delectably snarly Kevin Brophy from the privacy of the tiny embedded closet in the modern bunk bed my dad built himself would be taken from me, time and time again.
“Son, you know I’m going to know when you’ve got a TV.”
“How is what I’d like to know.”
“Eerie powers, Joe-B. Eerie powers.”
I read a lot, largely because there was no TV in my room, and I came to the conclusion that he was hearing the high-frequency whine of the flyback transformer, so with the next set, I carefully packed blankets and clothes around it until there was nothing but a screen exposed in the depths of my closet. Had I read more, I might have learned that insulating a TV set filled with vacuum tubes was not the best course of action, but we live and learn, and when I left it on one afternoon before heading downstairs to root through the National Geographics, I was again caught.
The smoke alarm shrilled, polyester smoke roiled, my father dashed by with a bucket, and then there was a bang from upstairs.
I suspected I was in trouble, but kept mum.
“Is there anything you want to tell me?” he asked, after stomping down the stairs, looking at me with his eyes narrowed and the loops in his handlebar mustache unwinding from sweat.
“About why there’s a burning DuMont in your closet?”
“There’s a burning DuMont in my closet?”
“It has been extinguished.”
I tried hiding the TVs in the basement, in the attic, in the shed where we kept the cracked corn and mash for the chickens, but he always found them.
Somewhere along the line, I dragged home a boat anchor of a shortwave radio, a black crackle-painted metal box of phasing drifty gorgeous chanting from the Vatican and smart-sounding Deutsche Welle broadcasts and strange farm drama from the BBC World Service and a whole lot of interesting noises that came ricocheting around the ionosphere, which my father approved of as a ham radio operator and a general radio enthusiast. I’d listen and I’d drift off with the monstrous thing warm by the bed like a fireplace with the little glowing coals of tubes showing through the perforated vents, lulled to sleep by the voice of the electromagnetic spectrum, and he never knew when I had a TV again.
Years later, he admitted that he did not, in fact, have eerie powers, but just a keen nose for the scent of hot, dusty vacuum tubes cooking in bakelite sockets, and couldn’t distinguish between the boat anchor shortwave and, say, a smart little turquoise plastic RCA set hidden not in the closet, but in the space behind the built-in drawers in my bed. By then, though, TV had lost its luster for me, so it was largely a hollow victory. The smart little turquoise plastic RCA set stayed cold more and more often, I read and I listened to strange propaganda in peculiar tongues instead, and the world came to me every night.
© 2013 Joe Belknap Wall