Видео

I like it.

Don't know what this is, or why the algorithm offered it up, but was kind of cool.

The solid state Kingston had a pretty nice driven sound even without the tube amp driving it.

Great project! Kurt Cobain would have bought that rig for $$$$!!

Note: The average plate dissipation between the two EL84 tubes measured 15.78 watts.

Sounds great, Kris! ~Kristi

Busy guy!

AHHHH, help me find my way home!

Promo>SM

yeah that's cursed lol

The real deal!!

Here is the original MuseScore track (#10: theater organ) archive.org/details/LatestLatester/10+theater+organ.mp3 as well as the guitar demo from the time - #15: kitchen table.

Loved it.

Great for horror/ sci-fy soundscapes.

A basement jam if I ever heard one!

love this! just wish Kris would calm down! he's like an uncaged epileptic seizure volcanic earthquake! some one sedate that man! seriously, great set! will be back to loop this one to listen to as i write. thanks to everyone involved for posting this. a lot of talent on that stage. great time for all!

this was the beautiful moment when such moments came and went. like the kisses of hello and goodbye by lovers who never really came or went. this is that open space encroached by trees and bear-like shadows that whisper and howl out secrets that always seem sinister and alluring and always end up being deciphered as 'come here. come here. come here'.' Kris's works always amaze me. in two ways; the first, is their utter sheer brilliance of skill and insight, and second, in the utter lack of regard by all others except the most talented of artists. it is like rainbows for the blind. you just stutter and stare and can convey nothing to those that can not perceive it. sigh. well, here is another fun little masterpiece and i love it. sigh, i guess if he had put in more 'boobs' it may have gotten more than five views?

i remember this... i remember the days without end. when sleep was but the closing of eyelids but not the closing of mind. when time was the featureless constant of skinless melody of endless beat and beat and beat like the flesh of the ocean and there was no true real soulful pause; for gwad was under the skin and did all our sleeping for us. when thunder was a footstep and everything had its season, in its own self, like the wind, and the water, and the forgotten shadow. and youth lived in the faraway, and old age was a myth told by the earth which the worms ate and ate and ate, and the grass whispered you to sleep, and death was a play-toy of the ever-bleeding soul, and we would never die. we would never die. and we would never die.

feedback summer. hair and more hair and some extra special effect hair and licks for the beach ball bikini emergency squads in the quads and crashing broken glass background, "it's in the trees!" you have to love the sort of arrogant grace of youth captured here. yeah, there is the abundant skill and fleshing out of the moment of a new work and getting to peek over genius shoulder at the canvas of the moment, but mostly this is barefoot in the park fun as the satyrs' stagger out of the bush and wonder at the naked breath of the day and scour at the empty bottles, as the season drys up, and disentangles, and then masks its self, and weeps on and on, before the push and pull of the oblivious tides press and throaty caress, and we are left at the cliffs edge, to ponder, and to sit upon tired exhausted limbs, and wonder at the edge of sleep, at where the moment has taken us, and left us, and pardon our own selves, as we must, for the day finds us, in tatters for the better part of the shudder of the right, to live another day, despite the hallows of the night, and the marches there-in, which we must, as we must, forever alone, in shallows and mires, the pressing against the ebbing rip tides tulip edge letting go, and we linger at its kiss, and are left with; "don't ask me what the point of that was" for a tombstone of the afterglow, of another twilight bleed, into the full throaty solar eclipse, and then its done, and we shudder on, as far as we can go, for there is no we, just the singular entity of the the mind, full of the stags of the night, in full herd thought, and a twig snap! and gone, and forever alone, again and again, and we; as 'I' in monolith, sit and brood, and sigh, and hope sleep will release us a little, in the wake from slumber from the full crushing thud of the solidarity of the today's tomorrow, of yesterday's tomorrow, of tomorrow's today, of morrow's haggard happen-chance bleak needs of love, of love, in slumber, in kind, in hope, in horror, in want, in fear, in graceless eloquence of future shattered need, rooted in past remembered, skinned, posted, refrained, and forgotten, and distilled; unborn into the cracks of the next butterfly wing beat future shadow, crisp as autumn leaf fall, before the next sunrise unfelt kiss, dull beat of emptiness, and horrors of the same.

i love how ian does not put down time but instead beats kurt and kris back into it; i love how you can hear the cigarette lighter and drawl on the cig as the video plays and is recorded off the tv by party or parties unknown; i love how kris looks like a game show designated 'cute' girl waiting to turn cardboard numbers or letters or smile at what may have been a joke; i love how kurt shuffles papers like a political steward who is still wondering if their ass just got tweaked; i love how everyone is drunk driving the riff right off a cliff and then back up again and and off again and up again; i love how this is what grown men do when no one calls the cops; i love how on loop you can actually make out the lyrics and really begin to wonder where the hell those cops are? i keep thinking, 'the kids are alright'. it's like standing on a porch in the pitch dark, puzzled at the low distant howl, then watching the bugs hitting the light above the garage door, then a yawn half frozen at a growl much nearer now, and puzzled frown again. there is a good song here. on the fourth listen i actually stop watching and start listening. it's a good pop song. nice rift and beat. good semi-twisted lyrics. by the sixth loop through the song comes through clear enough to make me smile as i realize it's both a cool song and a sort of jab at what could have been a tv theme song. there's some wicked tongue in cheek and the rift and bass line and drum beat is nice. for a jam working out the mechanics this is sweet. nice catchy hook and good transfer 'pop' riff between the refrain bars. still think of this as a sort of dark spoof on 70's sit-com shows themes. well, a little more twisted but you can see the blonde pony tail girls come bouncing down the staircase as the dog swings tail and barks as the credits end and there is a cut to commercials of a blonde pony tailed girl coming down a staircase to the dulcet of a barking dog. there is a good song here. it starts out like a 747 arching over your house as a wing bursts into flame and then the other wing falls off; but it then hits the catchy pop bridge that leads into the moody craggy refrain. the more i listen to it the more it reminds of early The Jam; the really good stuff. yeah, i like it.

so, Kris sends me a link to this video because i always nag him for vids. and then he emails and asks if i had seen it yet, despite my comment and thumbs up click above. so, here i am adding a second comment as the first one apparently blends too well into the white page. sigh. here we go... so, i get on this bus. and the guy next to me says, 'hey, buddy. get that guy over there with the lama.' and he nudges me and nods over to my right. sure enough there is this man sitting quietly and passively and a looking a little non-nonchalant bored with life and next to him in the aisle seat is a lama. i blink a few times and then lean across the aisle and move my head around the lama, trying to look past it's back and chest and then over its shoulder to see the guy more clearly. 'so... this your lama?' i ask the guy. the guy looks over at me and blinks and the lama does the same. then the lama raises it's head up high and stops chewing its cud and speaks to the guy behind me in the window seat and says, 'jey, buddy. this your obniouzious human?' gwad. how i hate lamas.

'Mr. Watson - come here - i want to see you". a video showing the plumbing normally hidden in the walls. speaking of walls, always found Kurt's windows to be odd. they look like they were designed to be used as gunfire ports in face of an attack on the house it's self?! nice laid back moment of search and wander. Kurt is always positive and aggressive in seeking out the next twist of the moment. and Kris is there, as anywhere, like a Kerouac adding weight to the passing by, adding a tag of constant reflection seldom shared, but to a blessed few. and Ian is being Ian, meaning he is bringing all the stuff that matters in life, like an astronaut hauling up the Earth behind him on a long heavy rope, wherever he goes. there are moments that are magic and people live for those, but this is one of the moments that matter, and this is what makes life matter. this is not the filler, it is the substance of life lived. sad how we can only really see that when we can no longer reach out and have it as our own any more. when death takes it and memory lisps into shades. and we all talk in asides, instead of conversations. happy birthday K & K. thanks for the video.

this is what it would sound like if Salvador Dali made a cell phone dial tone... for the Earth. a sort of ramshackle perversion instrument of dialectic diatribes... with kisses. what i love most about the Same songs i have experienced, and almost survived, is that they are like every war corespondents highlight reel; a lot of blurry closeups and a lot of smoke and shattered mirrors in badly lit areas that almost remind you of your bedroom... on a Tuesday. there is a Nietzsche shoulder scratching to the Same songs if taken without the prescribed strong drink. a bunch of talented musicians sort of indifferently tearing up the talent for ciggie papers and paper razors to cut swans out of the sky with a smugness of indifference and a strong taint of mind altering abstractions left on a doorstep for the milkman to ponder over and scratch his shoulder and leave a wet brown paper bag that the dog will not go near. it is the most potent of litmus tests; find a girl who will dance to this and marry her ass!

kris, ...♡