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Noah DeSmit

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angry space kids

Noah DeSmit, Robert Perry – Paradigm

What was you first music memory?

Noah DeSmit: My first music memory is singing in church. However, I have very strong recollections of my dad playing Celebrate by Rare Earth very loudly in the house when I was little. Parliament Funkadelic and Michael Jackson also featured many times while growing up. These memories are stronger in my mind than the hymns at church.

What’s your craziest touring memory?

Usually the crazy moments come from strange audience members. I’ve seen a guy in nothing but jean cutoffs and a mesh shirt wield a fly swatter and swing it in the air like it was his national flag during battle. There’s the guy whose entire shirt was an LED equalizer that lit up to the beat of the music. I think my favorite was the kid who wore a banana suit the entire night, never stopped dancing and looked like he was having the most fun he’s ever had in his life.

What’s your most neurotic habit?

Tapping fast beats with my toes. Just the toes, not the entire foot. Many times I don’t realize it’s happening. It looks quite odd to someone else as I’m essentially wildly wiggling all of my toes. I would guess the bpm of the beat in my head to be at around 150-155 bpm. This is pretty strange to me since I don’t produce anything at the speed. Most of my music is 118-124.

Since starting in music, what has been your most frustrating moment?

Most of my frustrating moments come from the lack of musical understanding and education found in the event-goers of the cities I’ve resided in. I remember one night, I was playing a deep house track. The track had been in the Top 10 at Beatport for more than two weeks. I mean, we’re talking about killer tune that most likely millions had danced to that month. Needless to say, when a bright-eyed attractive young woman walked up and asked for a Rihanna song, I was bummed out.

If it were possible, who would you open for?

For the longest time I would have said Joris Voorn. Truly a master. However, after playing out so many of their tracks and listening to their music at home and in the car, I would now say Benoit & Sergio. Especially after seeing them at Movement last year. Their ability to make you feel and move at the same time is unmatched.

Have you ever been in a fight?

A friendly fist fight with a dude based on a set of predetermined rules, sure – but nothing ever serious. I try to keep violence as the absolute last resort, only participating when there’s no other recourse. My reasons are not altruistic. I like staying out of jail and I’m the opposite of a large, powerful and intimidating figure.

What’s the last movie you cried watching?

My last proper cry during a movie was a few years ago when I watched In America. I think it came out in 2002. When Mateo dies I barely kept it in. But, at the end, when Johnny says goodby to Frankie – I definitely lost it. Powerful stuff.

What would you say to your first girlfriend?

Maybe something like, “You made the right choice in ending it. Cheers for that!”

What’s the grossest thing you’ve seen McFly do? (Editor’s note: McFly is Noah’s cat.)

The catnip treats were pretty gross. One day, I brought back some catnip-flavored treats from the store for him. When I got home, I gave him a few pieces of the new snacks. He was stoked. I went into the other room for a couple minutes until I started to hear the terrible sound cats make when they’re… throwing up. I walked into the living room and discovered green puke in about eight different places around the kitchen and living room. There were literally eight bright green spots of chewed-up catnip treats spread about the apartment. I was a little worried about him, but he recovered and seemed to be OK. It goes without saying, I keep it simple and don’t buy those anymore.

[Paradigm.]

How’s it supposed to feel?

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Racks — not that kind

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I had been increasingly frustrated with ill-fitting spot I used to stash my LPs. The only record rack I liked online was $168, which is pretty steep for me, since I’m a writer earning writerly wages. All the other options were dingy wire contraptions. Milk crates is one irrevocable step into hipsterdom I’m not especially eager to make.

So I spent most of my day off driving around — to thrift stores, to Best Buy, to Target — trying to see if anywhere else sold something that would work. They do not. Also, fun fact, Salvation Army (probably the best thrift store near me) is closed on Sundays. I should probably know that.

Eventually I asked the lady at the record shop, where I was picking up Donuts, how she stored her records. She sent me to Ikea, which apparently has a shelving unit that fits records perfectly.

Anyway, all that to say, today reminded me of this video, about searching through J. Dilla’s old vinyl that’s just sitting in milk crates in a storage unit in Detroit. I wonder who pays for the storage unit.

L’Aérotrain

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[Exsonvaldes.]

In my life I’ve had my doubts

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I’ve listened to barely anything else since Jason Molina died.

Your look when you’re older

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Thom Yorke

Atoms For Peace – Before Your Very Eyes…

Brrrringgg. Walter woke and slapped at his cell phone. The ringing continued. When, through the sleep in his blinking eyes, he managed to get his screen in focus, there was nothing on it. The ringing melted into buzzing. It was steady; there were no gaps like his ringtone. Walter put the phone down and dropped his head into the pillow. The tinnitus ringing continued.

It’d been 13 days now. Tinnitus woke him up and tinnitus hummed him through the day and tinnitus made him afraid to try to sleep at night. Someone had installed a vuvuzela in his eardrum. He compensated with a whirring box fan and some music (Pandora) from his cell phone at night. During the day, the buzzing threatened to swallow conversations and concentration.

Walter hadn’t subjected his ears to concerts. He listened to music — on the rare occasions when he turned it on — at an appropriate volume. He could count the times he had used in-ear headphones on three hands. Wikipedia claims 20 percent of 55 – 65-year-olds cite its symptoms. How did 47 years of careful, conservative living land him in the worse-off 20 percent?

At work, Madge babbled bubbly about some new protocol. A new shortcut key. All Walter could hear was ringing. He wanted to answer the phone. He wanted to click Stop. He wanted to stab a screwdriver in his ear and hear, even momentarily, silence. He wanted the doctor — appointment on Tuesday — to tell him this was temporary. He said, “Nice. Got it, Madge.”

[Amok.]

I’m not rompin’ around

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I don’t know about my dreams

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Matthew Woodson

James Blake – The Wilhelm Scream

Walter often recited of the expression, “cut off your nose to spite your face.” But he didn’t spite his face; he spited his nose. It was long. It had a crook. The tip had stuck out of the water during his baptism 35 years ago. It still felt different – that last half an inch exposed to the whistle of the wind with the rest of him submerged. That last half an inch crawling with the bacteria of sin.

The power sander out in the garage called to him. He could make this all right. He could grind his way, half an inch, into heaven.

His nose wasn’t the only thing he thought about cutting. Sometimes Walter imagined lopping off his hands with a cleaver. Maybe he’d bleed out. Maybe he’d pass out but eventually heal, living the rest of his life with stumps to poke and prod at a keyboard with. Almost certainly he would be fired, left to starve to death, but probably unable to literally feed himself anyway.

Trying to picture picking up a chicken nugget annoyed him, so mostly he daydreamed about setting himself on fire. He would bring a red canister to the gas station and fill it with gasoline and he would pour that gasoline all over his body. The smell would sting his nose. The damp, dark spots on his clothes would spread. Then, he would use the fingers that he had decided not to chop off and strike a match. For a few moments, he would just let the match burn, staring at it. Eventually he’d hold it close to the fumes coming off his clothes and catch flame.

He knew from something he’d read that once your skin burned the heat wouldn’t hurt. Your muscles don’t have a mechanism for feeling that sort of pain. Walter figured he could last to that point, when his outside was charred. He had two qualms. One, without another fuel source, like the wood piled beneath witches, could the human body sustain a fire, or would it just peter out? Is muscle tissue flammable? Two, what exactly would kill him, if anything? All those witches died, so surely this is a viable means to death, but exactly how did they go? Did the flame eventually melt the lungs and prevent breathing? Did the heart stop functioning? Perhaps at a certain pain threshold the life switch disengaged?

Once it becomes a goal, extinguishing life can seem difficult. For example, a bullet through a brain sometimes doesn’t penetrate the right folds and the person can go right on living, just, you know, retarded probably. Failure at suicide seemed to Walter the most shameful possibility in the entire universe. So he kept clacking away at his keyboard with his fingers, inserting mortgage foreclosure data to scrape by some sort of living, too afraid to even attempt what he considered the only out. Every once in a while he rubbed the tip of his nose with the back side of his palm, sniffling slightly.

[James Blake. Matthew Woodson.]

I was riding, I was riding home

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sparrow

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds – Push The Sky Away

I spent a month in Shanghai living on Sigh’s couch and trying to convince her roommates to play badminton with me. The Dutch one kept putting the accent on the last syllable (badminTON) and using it as a verb (badmintoning), which made me giggle. The American pretended to be interested (he had a racket and birdies), but then would suggest we go to his cycling class or whatever the fuck exercise group he joined. I didn’t seem able to convey that, no, I actually just really like badminton.

I eventually played with a Belgian girl who shaved half her head and worked in fashion, designing stylish baby clothes or something. I remember she was excited because she’d just sold a line to some Russians. She was awful at badmintoning, as she also called it, also to muted giggles. I get annoyed playing people too far below my skill level because I feel like a dick for winning but don’t want to insult them by blatantly not trying. In between sets she sat cross-legged on the blue court and drank from a water bottle.

This girl talked incessantly. In the two times we hung out, I said maybe 50 words, with her more than content to fill the hours with a repeating cycle of stories. Mostly she talked about guys hitting on her, sort of in a complaining tone since she had a fiance back in Belgium. But she led them on pretty severely, so she either was unaware of the signals she gave men, or — more likely — enjoyed the attention and then humble-bragging about it later.

Like I mentioned, we hung out twice. The other time I came over thinking we were going to play badminton, but she wanted to go to dinner first with some friends. She couldn’t find the key to one of her bikes (it ended up being in Sigh’s apartment, in the Dutch guy’s room), so I rode her bike and she sat on the rack behind me. In China, there’s a lane on the far edge of the road for bicycles and motorized scooters. I pedaled under streetlight-illuminated night for about half an hour. The lights in Shanghai are purple-hued and magical and surreal — they feel like watching a movie set in Shanghai, except you’re actually there. Two of her friends were moving back to Europe the next day, so no one had much interest in talking to me, let alone speaking in English. I pedaled back in the eerily beautiful Chinese lights, her voice trailing behind us into the darkness. She begged off badmintoning that night since she’d had too much to drink.

I took two things from this experience: 1. I can’t play badminton now without thinking of the bastard word badmintoning and giggling, and 2. the American roommate’s birdies. I stole them across the Pacific in my luggage.

[Push The Sky Away.]

When we first met I was glad to be your pet

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