Go look at this band. www.dosfatales.com
Old brothers in arms.
POINT LINE PLANE
@ BERBATI'S PAN, 10 SW 3rd Ave, Portland OR
POINT LINE PLANE
@ EL COROZAN, 109 Eastlake Ave. East, Seattle WA
@ 7TH STREET ENTRY, 701 First Avenue N., Minneapolis MN
CAPTURED! BY ROBOTS
RIDDLE OF STEEL
@ BOTTOM LOUNGE, 3206 N. Wilton, Chicago IL
@ MIDDLE EAST UPSTAIRS, 472 Massachusetts Ave., Cambridge MA
@ NORTH SIX, 66 North 6th St., Brooklyn NY
@ NYABINGHI, 1229 Salt Springs Road, Youngstown OH
@ Rex's Bar, 344 West Gay Street, West Chester PA
@ Continental Nite Club, 212 Franklin Street, Buffalo NY
The first time you hear the thunderous, frightening and strangely pleasurable sound of Thrones, you'll feel like you've stumbled across a great hulking beast in a dark cavern. You can barely make out the outline in the darkness and the chilling echoes that amplify every snap of twig to eleven; but there is something monstrous there, and it's alive. You can feel and hear its chest heaving rhythmically. You can smell its rank dragon breath. And you pray to God you won't wake it, but you can't turn away.
That is what the Thrones are like to listen to. Talking to Joe Preston, the great architect of the universe of Thrones, is another matter. He's very friendly, sort of quiet and personable. Pretty cool for someone that's as close to a superstar of the Northwest punk rock canon as you can get. He answered a few questions for THE ODYSSEY via e-mail, when it was but a bright idea in one dork's head.
Do you ever get tired of being referred to as “formerly of the Melvins? Around these parts, Joe Preston is still synonymous with the Melvins; more so than any of the other bassists.
Hell yes. Almost every show I play some dude will come up and stickle me with Melvins questions knowing full well what the answers are. I got kicked out of that band almost nine years ago, and I have nothing whatsoever to do with them anymore. It has nothing to do with my present life. The end.
To me there’s a pretty big difference between your live shows and your albums. The songs on the albums have an atmospheric quality while the shows are very direct. It’s almost like two different bands, except for the fact that you can recognize the songs. Is this a conscious effort or just something that happens?
I think it just happens. I've always felt that live, I'm just doing covers of my own songs. I don't like to limit myself when I'm recording to stuff that I could do live, so I just try to do a version if I can. There's a bunch of Thrones songs that I can't do live, or I think they sound like shit when I do.
You have a lot of cool gadgets on stage. Were you always interested in creating music with drum machines and samplers or is it just a byproduct of creating music by yourself?
When I joined Earth, that was the first time I got to screw around with a drum machine, and I really liked it. Before that I had taken a couple electronic music classes, but they were pretty dry, and mostly trying to amaze students with the ways you could make pop music with MIDI. That kind of whet my appetite for electronic music by making me think of all the stuff I could do by doing the opposite of what they were trying to teach me. But, you know, I like Flock of Seagulls as much as the next guy, so whatever.
Getting back to the question, sort of, the gadgets are both a driving force and a byproduct of my writing style. I originally wanted the Thrones to have a drummer, but I couldn't find one that would work out, so I decided to go it alone because I knew how to program a machine, and I liked to as well. And I just built it up gradually as I could afford new stuff, adding synths and samplers. Some times I feel like I really painted myself into a corner, but I like being in a band by myself, and I can always play with other people if I feel like it.
Do you ever get lonely when you’re on tour by yourself?
No lonlier than I get at home. It's nice to tour alone, you don't have to put up with anybody's bullshit but your own. Sleep when you're tired, eat when you're hungry, decisions go smoother. The only drawback I've found is it's harder to adjust to touring with other people down the line. I've found that my patience is not what it used to be.
Do you ever sing to yourself in the van in order to make up new songs?
All the time, but I forget them as soon as I hear something else.
Do you ever sing other people’s songs in the van? If so, which is the most embarrassing?
Of course I sing other people's songs, doesn't everybody? I can't think of any that would embarrass me, but I'm sure I could embarrass somebody else with my singing. My mom, for instance.
There is a lot of slow, organic progression in Thrones songs. Sometimes it sounds as if you’re doing it freestyle. Do you ever make up songs as you go along?
Nah, it's pretty thought out by the time it gets programmed. It pretty much has to be. I've been tinkering with som song ideas where I hardly use percussion but use sound effects and swells as cues for changing parts. Whoa, that sounds crazy! Almost like what anyone who writes or plays orchestral music can do with ther eyes closed. Maybe I should stick to what I know.
The Thrones image possesses an eerie almost medieval quality. Plus the cryptic titles, lyrics and wild sounds are all very dark and mystical. What’s appealing to you about the image that accompanies the Thrones?
I'm not really aware of the image that I project, I guess, or I don't think about it much. I'm usually more concerned with my rate of hair loss or weight gain. If it seems that I'm putting across something that makes people conjure up images in their heads, then that's pretty appealing to me, I like to let my imagination run rampant when I read or listen to music. I think I 'd like that better than people thinking, "Man, that guy must drink alot of beer!" when they listen to the Thrones.
You seem to be a very good-natured fellow, and the Thrones seems to have a humorous side to them. Do you think it’s important to have a good sense of humor when making music?
I think it's important to have a sense of humor when you do ANYTHING. I think it's all fine and dandy to be serious about what you're doing, but if you can't laugh at yourself at some point, it just comes off as seriously stupid. To me.
Is Men’s Recovery Project a side project for you, or do you consider it an equal in your musical repertoire?
I'm not really even in MRP. I played bass for them in Japan and a few shows in New England and California, and I recorded most of an album with them, but it is primarily Neil Burke and Sam McPheeters, and they just asked me to help out at the time. They probably won't be asking me again, after my Gwynneth Paltrow-esque behavior on the last tour. MRP rank high on my list of bands who are coming from the right place.
From what I understand you play a lot of games in your free time. Are you playing anything currently?
I'm currently in the middle of Final Fantasy IX for the second time through.
You probably get a lot of requests from people who want you to cover something. What songs do people request the most?
"the message" bye Grandmaster Flash & the Furious 5, "Ramblin' Man" by the Allmans, "Say my Name" Destiny's Child. That kind of stuff.
Please consider covering the theme song from the game “Rastan.?(You can hear it here or here.
I haven't listened to it yet, but I'd probably do it for you. Tim Green played me some stuff he had recorded recently which sounded downright Nintendo-ish.
Are there any games you think The Thrones would be good for as a soundtrack?
Hmm. I don't know. Some of the instrumentals might work good in parts of RPG's or something "creepy", but I don't think most of my stuff would make for comfortable gaming as is. Maybe on something like Tony Hawk. I for one would be happy to listen to something other than ska and tagger metal while playing that. I mostly play Resident Evil type stuff or RPGs or puzzle games where I think the soundtrack is pretty important, but I also like really traditional electronic video game music like old Nintendo stuff. Nope, the Thrones would sound crappy on a video game, unless I wrote for one specifically, and probably even then.
If electricity disappeared tomorrow, what would the Thrones use to continue their career?
The skin and bones of my enemys.
Thank you Mr. Preston.
Look out for sunn39 THRONES "Day Late, Dollar Short" CD/2LP coming soon on Southern Lord
Keeping it cheap...
Totally recommend all of these albums.
UPCOMING SPECIALS ON WFMU:
Nora O'Connor + Jesse Sykes and the Sweet Hereafter
Saturday, April 16th, Noon - 3pm
on The Radio Thrift Shop with Laura Cantrell
Two of Americana's most interesting female vocalists stop by for a visit with Laura today. Nora O'Connnor, one of Chicago's most sought after singers will perform at noon. Seattle's Jesse Sykes and the Sweet Hereafter roll in at 2:00 PM for a live music preview of their performance
that evening at the Mercury Lounge.
Ode To The Grimmrobe. Kidnapped by paralysis to the eternal black sky, skin polished with raptures and the ointment of the harpie, the cramps that tie your bones to your body with unholy corkscrews, the giant eagle that lives beneath the soil and makes its nest from the shadows of the night, heavy strands of molten liquid hair roll down mountains of glass, onyx and dreams fuse electricity in random pastures, green eyed beasts in gardens of concrete and molasses dance with condemned children, doe eyed gremlins in pearl loincloths chant the chant that welcomes the apocalypse, your last breathe is not heard but amplified into the eternity of time, where it is kept in secret by loathsome creatures fit for nothing but humility and sacrifice, pungent stenches roll across burning fields of shattered insect carapace while rampaging juggernauts trample the stone into black diamonds, last minute goodbyes through windows on the razor's edge of fear, grotesque rhinoceros excrement sculptures built by lthe unfortunate who whimper the last holy rites through crudely fashioned mouths, tied to infinity by ropes of shame, lost in one continuous second of incredible regret, born away on a raven of dung and blood, whose gaping scream defiles innocence, a barren landscape filled with a cracking and collapsing, funnels of fire and oil that fill the air with torment and vitriol, the awful sound of the universe saying it's final prayer, knowledge and wisdom passing along on fleet footed black cats with tails of carbon and bone, faces whispering of nothing and an everything, so loathsome the earth itself turns black with shame, history digested in the great unholy stomach, where the black river meets the blood of time, there is no nothing, no something, there is only what there isn't, vacuums of mist and dust that bite and club your sanity, you are complete and forgotten, a final sacrifice by gods so ancient they have misplaced their temples and forsaken their pacts with eternity, funerals for demi gods that pass through solid stone, screeching unnatural white birds that breathe ignorance into the waiting mouths of sacrificial beasts birthing demons, bat faced men who once were something that gave too much or not at all or held on to things that were best left alone, children that never listened to their dreams, children that ate the forbidden fruit before their conception, doomed to lust after nothing, gasping at their own demented eagerness for a futility so damning, so insulting, so pungently abnormal, set down by a bottomless river and carried away by the people of phlegm, whose hands are like cats lungs and whose tread is silent and golden, sacred and forbidden, lustful beasts in quilts of despair reach for your soulless body and set you forth on a raft of tears on a lake of oil, so dark and deep, barren of shape or form or touch, sink slowly through it's depths, know that you are drowning in the remains of every human that ever lived, know that they are still alive liquid and damned, exfoliated of their pleasure, cured of joy, damned to smother you in a darkness so rich and fecund, feel every human memory in a journey that lasts forever, drown in the fathomless liquid of a billion forgotten dreams, there will be no awakening, the overwhelming collapse of sanity breaks your bones into splinters and your skin turns to mud and pus, sink further and further, so heavy and impossible, whisperings and murmuring from nowhere's abortions, gifts from ancestors who smell your soul, and laugh at your misfortune, the last of everything, curdled by your own blood, dissolving in the vast experience of humanity, you are blinder than the blind, your soul is crushed by a weight so impossible, so enormous, elephants spread across continents like the bed sheets of sleeping demons, mastodons spawning for the final time in rivers of stone, shaved away in increments so fine, hairline fractures in comprehension, neither floating nor sinking nor flying nor feeling, lungs filled with tar and bitumen and black bees of lust and deprivation, snakes that sleep fitfully in your stomach, nosebleeds that blacken your thoughts, that burn trenches through your skin, there is something else here, there is something moving, something cursed, something darker than possibility, something impotent of thought, something that multiplies, that feeds on anything, and nothing, something that hunts, something that knows more than it should, something that should not be there nor here, something that doesn't even know of its own existence, it wants to find you, to feel you, to touch and love you in an embrace sure to shatter sanity, a face that you know is impossible a form so immense like a spiders web of owl's dung and spice, the size of planets whose rumblings peel the stars from the sky, that shatter, sinking slowly around you smothered and bleeding, civilizations corrupted by your misfortune, you are the destroyer, the apocalypse, the last one, the decider, the amplifier of oblivion, the gatekeeper to the vacuum, a library in a universe void of content, you are the end, the beginning and everything in between, look into a face that cant be real, know that it is happening, feel your last beats of consciousness enveloped in hands of gore and granite, a breathe so fetid the earth itself retches million mile carnivorous worms, the rotten plants from the abyss enfold your face, breathe in the vile pungent aromas of the foliage that thrived in the shadows of doom, roots that sucked the decomposed flesh of the ancient gods who dared to go beyond the dark, to embrace the abyss, binding you to the very earth, you are now one with the last vestige of gravity, a lung collapsing on the inside of a black and white rainbow, a smile that never existed, a sad face turned downwards into the ruins of life itself, glee from below, the smiles of broken glass and willow trees blighted with the pox, rivers that snap and tug at the soul, that follow your memories into pits of mischief and torment, dreams of vertigo that wake in reality, onyx towers where angels despair, wings clipped and stored in stone cabinets at the centre of the earth, their cries like mildew on the surface of the heart, teetering on the edge of an abyss into the other side, a meeting point in the middle on the side, where things don't belong in any dimension, where the dark is the light and yesterday is tomorrow and life starts with the final moment where the pinpoint of heaven is a dark spot that breathes so slowly that stone melts without heat and stars burst in ebony crescendos, dipped in excrement left over from the first thoughts, the dirt of time, fixed in still motion, regret blackens the skin, a cancer like snake wings spreads, soil ferments in grottos of fear, where timeless beings sleep with full awareness of your terror, their nightmares, beyond description, beyond horror, beyond anything possible, they fill your mind, they carry you to a place where you never wanted to go, where no human from the first thought, the first consciousness has desired to comprehend, where demons tremble in anticipation, or fear or loathing of your pronouncement, where bees dressed in angel leather bear messages of excruciation, their tongues serrated and decomposing, erupt gales of hate on black deafening winds of poison and plague that pour down your ears, grovel at the foot of monoliths devoted to demons and destruction, feel their wailing presence, their screams torment your last grasp of sanity, the dark is all encompassing a great smothering coat of shark skin and vomit, a pestilence grows out of the air, shapes like packs of dogs scamper around your ankles, tongues of acid dissolve skin, the earth is decomposing in sheets of transparent flesh, glimpses of the void, a vertigo that beckons with the screams of holocaust, the bowels of damnation open up in all their yawning glory, a dark so bright the retinas in your eyes freeze into stone, gravity so powerful your skull is crushed against your toes, your bones liquid and powder, black and green lights pulse from distances that don't even seem possible, remote possibilities of something else flitter around your peripherals, teasing and taunting, the sky closes in, all light dims into a hard core of bloated pulverizing certainty, the last minutes of radius, the last circumference as the sun despoils its logic and flattens into its final gasping throes, absorbing time into spirals of rejection and ejection, stars hide behind themselves, dislocating time and space, fear beyond reason, the universe shrinking, realizing your presence, your guilt takes wings, blackened cat forms feed upon it, snarling fits of disaster and collapse, the journey has only just become, the abyss beckons, the questions creep upon your soul, a spiral staircase into a dark so thick and viscous, like honey made by the wasps of the apocalypse, their demon wings beating the rhythms of eternity, your heart in its final despairing moments, suffocating in a gelatinous collapse of impossible weights that divide into infinite quarters, there is no escape, only an oblivion so immense it blocks outs time and consequence, embrace the doom, breathe in the dark, ensnare the creature and laugh at their broken smeared faces, you are the apocalypse, the final, the one, the only, beckoner of finality, beyond the boundaries of nothingness, the ancient ones wither and evaporate in molten clouds of damnation, poisonous veils of skin burnt beyond recognition, you are their mirror, a shard of a million apertures, a reflection that looks back through the agony of time, a signpost to ever lasting nothing, the eternal blissful vacuum, searching eyes in fields of charred shrubbery, smoke glinting through streams of shadows, the silhouettes of the final army snickering at impossibility, dining on shadows that stain the heart and disembowel without reason, stares that leave footprints and viruses that speak the tongue of the ancient one, from mouths of thistle and cartilage, see the pox dance in the residue of the nightmares of eels and leeches, liquid gemstones caught in the throat of three legged horses chained to planets burning epochs in the blink of an eye, populated by civilizations that dared to believe the light was the source of eternity, that befriended malice in the fishhooks of time before eating the dead in the final supper, despoil the fallen angels, cast their wings into the fire of consumption, ashes flutter butterflies of displeasure through pinpricks in floors of diamonds and excrement, doorways that beckon, rooftops that collapse under fields of glass and the confessions of demons, their tears of acid and gloom crushing corridors that stood in the glow of the power of creation, foundations that supported the birth of the gods and their duel faced offspring, the judgment makers, the keepers of the gate flee before the final tide of granite, and the bowel mouthed children who bear them along on their tiny pig's hands that weep misfortune, leaving trails in the bloodstream of vipers, ride the whale drowning in solid steel, speak with the broken warrior dressed in quicksand armor, duel with dinosaurs on the edge of the precipice, rats dancing the dance of invocation at the final equinox to a tune that flattens waves and quenches fires in distant galaxies, wolverines captured by mutants in stocks of quicksilver and pumice, black lungs and questions swimming across lakes of infinite blank meniscus, a surface like a mirror that freezes all in an embrace of denial self loathing, that curdles birth, death and the ever-after, increments of time, sliding through mysterious doorways guarded by leopards with gorilla heads and snakes eyes, teeth that sing the songs of the ancient sirens, beckoning you into the hole, the whole, and the end, peer into the abyss and take the last impossible breathe, leave yourself behind in the final twinges of light, spasms of the final photons that grimmly resist torture by black faced mutes in cloaks of liver and savagery, floors of anguish slippery with an awfulness that taunts gravity, transform to the vacuum, embrace the null, salvation lies at the end of the black rainbow, be welcome in the last burial, look into the void for the last time, anointed and announced, the final journey awaits as the bat faced raven strains on million mile leashes fashioned from boils and starvation, a saddle hewn from the leather of mythological creatures and nightmares in desolate places, it awaits your grotesque unrecognizability, a saddle so high it could be touching the roof of time, its fetid odorous and infectious cataclysm, a holocaust born on winds from nowhere, climb into stirrups with agonizing slowness, see planets born and contort, vanish in annihilating certainty, flash fires in the forest of time, ascend as the planet becomes the void, be carried away from all that is knowledge, by the creature called Doom, the creature of the Void, the nightbird of the eternal last breathe, the knife wound in the heart of all that has happened and will happen, the messenger of nothing, the bearer of the tides of damnation, you are its eternal final ride, its final passenger, cloaked in the misery of your destiny, surrender forever to journey in the darkness, a vertigo that dissolves your physicality in nauseous ebony waves as the great wings begin to beat, clearing the void of nothingness, the journey into the outer limits of language and comprehension has begun, breathe final breathes of shattered glass, into lungs lifeless and forgotten and hold that last desperate thought that the rest of the journey will last forever and that it will be empty and meaningless, doomed to ride alive and knowing, through eternity on the great fetid animal through the mighty and malevolent Void to the last place left in the universe, the place that whispers on dark breezes talk of from mouths that catch the eye in flashes of blunted teeth with voices parched of hope, voices that speak of a place even darker, a place where hope has been buried in the decomposed remains of all existence, a place that was never formed that is damned to exist only for one person only, and you are that person and you will inhabit that place in eternal torment, in darkness and filth and fear and regret and pain and insanity, ageless and non existent, feeling nothing but an internal everything that will spiral down forever through your conscious damnation, blind and truly forgotten, on a place that nothing dares to whisper, a place you know they call..sunn0)). —SELDON HUNT
Thanks to Thee Bogg for unearthing this gem.
I am happy to announce the booking of SUPERSONIC FESTIVAL, 9th July in Birmingham UK. The set I will be adding is:
Merzbow vs Stephen O'Malley (Sunn 0)))/Khanate)
Please see the Supersonic Website for more information.
This year's SuperSonic Festival, staged in Birmingham, UK, at the Custard Factory 8-9 July 2005. It's a two-day event run by Lisa Meyer and Jenny Moore of Capsule, the driving force behind the UK's most cutting-edge music events.
SuperSonic happens yearly and attracts a multitude of attention from all corners of the UK and further afield - there really isn't another event like it in the UK that mixes such a prolific blend of artists.
"The Supersonic festival at the Custard Factory was one of the most ambitious and eclectic I have ever had the pleasure of playing at in the UK. The only thing that I know of that compares would be Sonar in Barcelona for diversity, setting, presentation and sheer love of music."
Strictly Kev - DJ FOOD
Friday 8th of July Capsule will join forces with legedary HOUSE OF GOD to bring two rooms of the best Techno/D&B/Jungle mash-up with special guests playing alongside HOG residents.
Shitmat (Planet Mu)
+ more tba
July This year will see three stages of live performances, art installations, film programme, video bingo, karaoke and most importantly cake.
Rother & Moebius (neu!/cluster/harmonia)
Jesu (Hydra Head ex Godflesh)
Black Galaxy vs Kreepa (ex Napalm Death/Scorn)
Merzbow vs Stephen O'Malley (Sunn 0)))/Khanate)
Brian Duffy and Modified Toy Orchestra
Barbara Morgenstern + Robert Lippok (To Rococo Rot)
Martin Creed (Turner prize winner 2001)
David Cunningham (ex Flying Lizards)
Outhud (members of !!!/Lcd Sound System)
Dance Disaster Movement
Noise Noise Alore!
Granine + Stuart Braithwaite - Mogwai Dj set
Tunng (Static Caravan)
Khonnor (Type Records)
'dotb on ice' featuring live performances in an ice cream van from Dreams of Tall Buildings/PCM
Commissioned by Capsule and Wolverhampton Museum and Art Gallery
Film programme by 7inch cinema
TICKETS ON SALE FROM MAY
Friday only £7
Saturday only £20
Combined Friday/Saturday £25
Previous acts have included COIL . DJ FOOD . LCD SOUND SYSTEM . THE BUG . V/VM . LUKE VIBERT . ZX SPECTRUM ORCHESTRA . PRAM . SENOR COCONUT . SPEKTRUM .
BRITISH MURDER BOYS . see 03 / 04
Now you can listen on demand to SUNN O)))s performance live at the 10th Roadburn Festival 09 April. A short set of only 45 minutes ends with a bit of choas and vocals from the bears.
Here on Dutch National Radio 3voor12. Stream it with realplayer.
Lineup: Tos//Moogs, Greg//Guitar, John//Electronics, SOMA//Guitar
Thanks to everyone who has supported this small Ideologic mailorder. Appreciation also to my lovely wife Anne for helping whilst I was out of the country. We have updated what is available in stock, and should have more of the following sometime real soon:
Velvet Cacoon "Genevieve" CD
Girth "Living in Truth" CD
SUNN O))) "White2" CD
Boris "Dronevil" 2LP
Ginnungagap "Remiendre" CD
OM "Variations..." LP
Pharoah Overlord "#3" CD
...+ more gems
No reservations, just check back here for announcements.
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