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| | | creel pone (usa) #creelp evil cd ruth white “flowers of evil” compact disc recordable - the clock - 3:00
- evening harmony - 4:02
- lover’s wine - 2:57
- owls - 2:45
- mists and rains - 2:06
- the irremediable - 4:55
- the cat - 3:27
- spleen - 2:50
- the litanies of satan - 6:50
| ... back again after last week’s mishap (don’t ask) with an absolute corker of a creel pone - the setting of a set of poems by charles baudelaire to electronic instrumentation & vocal treatments, as realized by ms. ruth white in mid-1969.
a sampling of any of the text(s) below (baudelaire was heavy, man...) should tip you to just how creepy & dark the vibes emanating from within this record are exactly. ms. white’s posessed monotone-through-echoplex-through-vclfo-gate throughout is just bone-chilling, her howling synth & noise backdrops so perfectly capturing the “southern” essence of the text that it’s hard to believe that these poems weren’t conceived in the era they were realized here (the just pre-altamont “downer” hippie zenith), but in fact in the middle of the 19th century!
certainly a creel pone more on the psych-end of things, but nonetheless a bizarre and terrifying vision into futures past-future that should speak to the inner satanist. those who felt the “doomy” waves warping out of the warren jepson creel pone should follow suit herein... |
| | creel pone press release... |
| this creel pone edition includes:
1 x crystal-clear resealable polypropylene cd sleeve with a black / silver foil stamp affixed to the exterior
1 x single-sided six-color inkjet-printed hand-cut glossy-photo-stock booklet
1 x four-color inkjet-printed compact disc recordable in a high-density round-bottom cd sleeve
flowers of evil
an electronic setting of the poems of charles baudelaire composed and realized by ruth white
the clock (l'horloge)
the clock, evil, terrifying, inscrutable god whose menacing finger warns us, crying “remember! - throbbing pains will soon stab your quivering heart as into a target.
"pleasure will vanish like a cloud over the horizon, like a sylph vanishing into the wings of a stage. each moment is devouring some portion of that delight which is granted to every man for his season of existence
"three thousand and six hundred times an hour, the second whispers: ‘remember!' swiftly, with the voice of an insect, the present says: 'i'm already your past, and i have drained your life with my loathewme suckers!'
“remember! souviens-loi, o prodigal! esto memor! (my metal throat can speak all languages.) the minutes, 0 foolish mortal, are like ore from which the precious metal must be wrung.
"do not forget. time is a greedy gambler who wins at every turn of the wheel without cheating. such is the law. the day declines, the night deepens. the thirst of the abyss knows no end; the hourglass drains.
"the hour will soon strike wheu divine chance or austere virtue (your still virgin spouse) or even repentence (your last refuge), in fact all three will tell you, 'die, old coward. it's too late.'"
evening harmony (harmonie du soir)
now is the time when, throbbing on its stem, each flower sheds its perfume like incense. sounds and scents spiral in the evening air in a melancholy waltz, a slow sensual turning.
each flower sheds its perfume like incense: the violin trembles like a wounded heart, in a melancholy waltz, a slow, sensual turning. the sky is sad and beautiful, like a vast altar.
the violin trembles like a wounded heart, a tender heart that hates lhe huge black void. the sky is sad and beautiful like a vast altar. the sun has drowned in its congealing blood.
a tender heart that hates the huge, black void, is gathering from the luminous past, what dreams remain. the sun has drowned in its congealing blood, and like a glowing marvel, your memory shines in me.
lovers' wine (le vin des amants)
how splendid is space today. without spu's, bit or bridle, let us mount this wine like a horse and ride to heaven, enchanted and divine.
like two angels goaded by some delirious fantasy, let us pursue the distant mirage into the blue crystal of the morning.
gently balanced on the wing of the fleet whirlwind, in parallel desire, swimming side by side, we will fly, without rest or respite, straight into the paradise of my dreams.
owls (les hiboux)
in the shelter of the yews, owls stand in a row like foreign gods. their red eyes dart. they meditate.
they ,will remain, motionless, until the melancholy hour when the shadows push down the slanting sun and settle into place.
their attitude teaches wise men that in our world, tumult and strife are to be feared; for man, intoxicated by the fleeting shadows, is always punished for his desire to roam.
mists and rains (brumes et pluies)
late autunns, winters, springtimes steeped in mud, o drowsy seasons! i love and i praise you for enfolding my heart and my brain in a misty shroud, a cloudy tomb. in this great plain, where the cold south wind plays, where through the long night the weather-cock shrieks himself hoarse, my soul, far better than in the days of warm renewal, will spread wide its raven's wings.
nothing is more dear to my chilled and gloomy heart, 0 dismal seasons, queens of our sad climate, than the changeless aspect of your pale shadows... unless it be, on a moonless night, two by two, to lay our suffering to sleep on a perilous bed.
the irremediable (l' irremediable)
i - an idea, a form, a being, parted from the azure and fallen into the slough of some leaden stix where no eye of heaven can penetrate.
an angel, rash wanderer, tempted by the love of ugliness, lashing out like a swimmer in the depths of a huge njghtmare... and struggling (o fierce anguish) against a gigantic undertow which goes singing like a horde of madmen and pirouetting in the gloom.
an unfortunate man, groping futilely, seeking the light and the key to escape from a hole full of reptiles.
a damned man descending endless, bannisterless stairs, going lampless down the brink of a pit whose stench betrays its watery depths, where slimy monsters glare with great phosphorescent eyes that deepen the darkness of the night and make nothing but themselves visible.
a ship held in a crystal trap, icebound at the pole, seeking the fatal passage by which it reached that prison.
all these are clear emblems, perfect pictures of an unchangeable fate. they make us think that whatever he does, the devil does well.
ii - there is a dark and lucid exchange when the heart becomes its own mirror... a clear, black well of truth through which glimmers a livid star, an ironic beacon, a torch of satanic grace... man's sole relief and his glory... consciousness in evil.
* i and ii are reversed on this realization.
the cat (le chat)
i - a handsome cat., strong, gentle and charming, prowls along my brain as though in his own home. when he mews, we hardly hear, so tender and discreet is his tone. but. whether his voice is mild or vexed, it is always rich and deep. that is his special talent and his charm. this voice, which pearls and seeps down into the depths of my being, expands in me like a harmonious verse and delights me like a magic philter. it soothes the cruelest sufferings and is filled with every ecstasy. it needs no language to capture the deepest meanings. there is no bow that can sweep my heart, the perfect instrument, more richly drawing song from even its most sensitive string, than your voice, o mysteriuus, strange cat, in whom everything, as in an angel, is as subtle as it is harmonious
ii - from his blonde and brown fur comes a perfume so sweet that one night, i was caught in its balm by having caressed it once, only once. he is the familiar spirit of the house, judging, presiding, inspiring all things within his empire. is he magician or god? when my eyes are drawn, as by a magnet, towards my beloved cat and i obediently look upon him, i look into myself, and i am amazed to see the fire of his pale pupils, bright lamps, having opals, hypnotically fixed on me.
spleen (spleen)
when the low, heavy sky weighs like a lid on the spirit aching for the light... and when, embracing the horizon, it pours on us a black day which is sadder than any night; when the earth is turned into a dripping dungeon in which hope, like a hat, flutters blindly and bruises its timid wing and tender head against the walls and rotted ceilings;
when the rain, stretching down its long streaks of water, imitates the bars of an enormous prison... and a silent throng of loathesome spiders come and weave their webs inside our brains;
then suddenly... the bells swing angrily and hurl their hideous uproar into the sky like a band of wandering spirits who wail relentlessly.
and long hearses, without drums or music, move in a slow procession through my soul
and defeated hope bursts into tears
and the fierce tyrant angoish sets his hlack hanner on my bowed head.
the litanies of satan (les litanies de satan)
o wisest and most beautiful of angels, god betrayed by destiny and shorn of praises
o satan have pily on my long misery
o prince of exile who has suffered injustice and who, in defeat, grows even stronger
o satan have pity on my long misery
you who know all, great king of the underworld, ancient healer of human anguish
o satan have pity on my long misery
you who even to lepers and accursed outcasts, teach us through passion the taste for paradise
o satan have pity on my long misery
o you who through your old and powerful mistress, death, begot that charming insanity, hope
o satan have pity on my long misery
you who give the outlaw that serene and haughty smile that damns an entire nation thronging round the guillotine
o satan have pily on my long misery
you who know in what corners of the greedy earth the jealous god hid precious stones
o satan have pity on my long misery
you whose bright eye knows the deep arsenals where slumbers the race of metals
o satan have pity on my long misery
you whose vast hand guards the sleepwalker from the precipice as he strays on the brink of lofty buildings
o satan have pity on my long misery
you who, by magic, make supple the bones of the old drunkard, trampled heneath hooves of horses
o satan have pity on my long misery
you who, to console, man in his suffering and weakness, taught us to mix saltpetre and sulphur
o satan have pity on my long misery
you who placed your mark, 0 subtle accomplice, on the forehead of the vile and pitiless rich
o satan have pity on my long misery
y.u who turn women's hearts and eyes to the cult of the wounded and the love of rags
o satan have pity on my long misery
staff of the exiled, lamp of inventors, confessor of the hanged and of the conspirators
o satan have pity on my long misery
adoptive father of those whom, in his black rage, god the father drove from the earthly paradise
o satan have pity on my long misery
(prayer)
praise to you, satan, in the heights of heaven where once you were king, and in the depths of hell where, vanquished, you dream in silence.
grant that some day my sould may rest beside you under the tree of knowledge, at that hour when its branches shoot forth to grace your royal brow like a new temple.
charles baudelaire (1821-1867) was born in paris, france. his 163 short poems were published in three different editions under the title, les fleurs du mal. after the publication of ihe second edition, the minister of justice confiscated the book, and both the poet and his publisher were fined. six of the poems were condemned as "an offense against morality and decency." years later, near the end of his life, baudelaire said of the work, “... in this atrocious book, i put all my heart, all my tenderness, all my religion...”
to me, baudelaire's poems are of such unique power that they always seem to rise above the level of the personal and sometimes existential nature of their content. in this composition, i have attempted to parallel the transcendental qualities of the poetry through electronic means.
for the words, i used my own voice as the generator of the original sound to be altered or "dehumanized." this seemed practical since my experiments with the medium were too time consuming to have been easily accomplished with a collaborator.
to modulate my voice, i used a variety of techniques. changes of timbre were achieved with filters. tape speed changes were used to control pitch. into the shape of some words, i injected sound waves and white noise, thus changing the quality of their sound hut not the flow of their delivery. by adding reyerberation, i varied atmospheres and decreased or increased space illusions. to accent special words or phrases, i used controlled tape delays. choruses were created by combining slight delays with multiple track recordings.
the musical settings around the voice were made with music concrète materials, a moog synthesizer, other electronic generators and conventional instruments, which were usually altered electronically.
in the translations, there was no attempt to rhyme the verse as in the original french poems. i tried only to keep the language as direct and simple as possible, for i always found that the dominating power of baudelaire's ideas 'were in themselves of electrifying force.
ruth white
music and translations @ 1969 ruth white.
produced by ruth white. |
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