I break of the edges of the last house in this street and hear children voice their tiny white voices. Under a clear sky, a sudden crack, wisdom smells of forgiving lives. There was the kitchen sink, and overthere the wall through which we could hear our neighbor’s laments. Late at night stinks. Eyes in your eyes. Naked fingertips waver over the skinlike fabric of her pants, her panties; a cardboard tube full of smarties explodes. Eye in your eye. Fourty years gone, and the pawnshop is still thriving. Yesterday Mr. Barnacle sold a Louis XV crystall glass full of tears.

The yelling started shortly after midnight. He wore the uniform of the Soviet army. He said, he lived in a train. She smiled wearily. We all know our Doctor Zhivago. Wait until winter comes. Tchaikovsky is perfect for skating. I always bring my cat, carry her in a fur bag. She keeps me warm and she purs in sync. That was what she said. But she was thinking of how to write a song about anger, and still be lovely and beautiful and sparkling like a dying star. A dying star, that is what she wanted to be in her next life. Or a twin star, together with Shakespeare. Roaming low in a jewel jet.

Pins of Arab origins on a false afternoon. I get out on the Pommer Avenue. See my shoes hit the pavement. Pavement is pale with cold. I fear to breath. It is so cold, it will slice my tongue, tear out my voice. Yet I feel reassured when I see my shoe hit the pavement. I could have died here today. You could have died here today. Both of us. The waiting hour strikes a windy road towards the river. Aren’t you cold? Alarm is a punishing effect. I weep the sky once more. A big ladytron smiles. Then, suddenly, you, and darkness fell on its knees.

Prince of Arabs pins fatigues. No entrance around here. Sit in an uneasy chair and wait. Annoyance squeeks. Water holes. Strange people in the kitchen. I flurry fish on Salomo’s flute. And wish those books behind me could shut up. Never your fingers on those pages. I you never. You knew that. Ferries cross the river. I could see them from my window. Winter came and my vision cracked from side to side. I used ducktape to restore the view. One night the wind was called ocean. It burst into my bedroom, covered me with the stars. I thought our universe was made out of black glass.

Chuckle chokes, or the misbehaviour of a necklace. Oranienburgerstrasse, view on the golden roof of the synagogue. The lovely girls smile at passengers. A black car with a tomato hat. I could see her now. My coffee had gone cold long ago, long before my ink had dried out. Still, the words of my letter hadn’t vanished. Then you came in, looked straight through me, probably didn’t look at me at all. The tropical plant behind me was truly beautiful. I was your book before we learned how to breath flames. Coffee stains. Satin cap. I should have ordered hot chocolate instead. Go to Africa. Reinvent 1943.

Tired of moving through layers of time, cheap beer and a harpsichord, I hide in this sofa. Tiny glue. Tiny city. Dead flies on the bottom of a coffee cup. Do you know at all what my hometown smells like? Or the rain when my hair gets wet? I under formers. I eyes covered. Gangrene. Headless Siamese twins lie back. Lie down. A dog comes for a wake up call. Wake up in the middle of the night. You not. You here. Puke on morning dew. Hangover appearances of new life drown luck. Hue bliss. I wish I could hide in my self. I wish I milk. But you no. You never no. A sniper love caused this fire.

The concept ‘public space’ has always annoyed me when it was used in combination with “sounds in” or “art in.” Main reason for this is the existence of the “public sector.” The public space is bureaucratic space made visible in myriad expressions of its rules, regulations, planning and maintenance works. An artist in public space is an underpaid civil servant, who got his job, because the bureaucrat could relate to the concept of “public space.”
The other reason for my aversion is that in a geographical sense it divides space in private and public. That is only two nominators for a lot of space. Logical result is they don’t say anything about space. Three of my Berlin recordings made me think of the concept again. 

The first one was made during the quarter final of the world championships football in Germany in the year 2006. Germany played against Argentina in the Olympic Stadium in Berlin. I knew the stadium from earlier visits to the games of Hertha BSC. I wanted to record the agitated unisono voice of 75.000 people shouting “Deutschland, Deutschland.” I wanted to record it outside of the stadium.
The second recording is of Barack Obama holding his speech at the Siegessäule in the Tiergarten district of Berlin in the year 2008. Unaware of who or what organisation had set up this event, I had claimed Barack Obama’s performance as an appearance at my Das Kleine Field Recordings Festival. Of course I needed to go there and document his concert. It was a disappointing experience. The sounds came from big loudspeakers. It reminded too much of television or radio. I decided to leave the crowd and walk into the park.
The third recording was made during the shortest night of the year 2011. It had to serve as source material. Four other artists would make recordings elsewhere on earth. Each one of us would make a composition using all the material. I had chosen the empty space opposite from the place where once stood the “Palast der Republik.” It was reduced to a nice green lawn. I had noticed that the temporary construct of the zone offered a center of tranquility. The recording was of a highly conceptual character. I sat on the very spot where once mass manifestations had taken place. I faced the site of a governmental palace of a country that didn’t exist anymore. I was recording ghosts.

Bringing in the concept of “public space,” brought to light a central theme in the three recordings. The theme is public space against private space.

When I went to the Olympic Stadium I thought I could walk up to the entrance, as I knew it from my visits to the Hertha matches. It is there where the gigantesque stadium manifests itself as a gigantesque acoustic entity. The world cup organisation had put up fences at a good kilometer distance of the normal entrances to the stadium. The olympic stadium was reduced in perspective. I started to walk around, tried to find a place where I could come nearer, but, at the end, encountered a barrier. The call “Deutschland, Deutschland” sounded from afar. The space, normally accessible to the public, was turned into private space, accessable upon payment.

The Barack Obama walk lead me into the park. I had my headphones on and went away from the big loudspeaker sound. I ended up on a kind of trail. On this trail I found a friendly policeman who blocked the way. I saw white tents behind him. That was the place where the future president of the United States of America would drink a glass of sparkling water. Also on this recording I arrived at the border of public space. The space I could not enter was private space, only accessible to guests.

When I sat on the wooden boardwalk that temporarily connected one side of the former Palast der Republik square to the other, I disappeared into the sonic density of the night. I was at the heart of the former German Democratic Republic, the DDR. Before 1989 it was public space. Twenty-two years later it was still public space. Before 1989 the public space was confined by a wall on its west side. That’s where public space hit on forbidden space. Twenty-two years later I found myself in a public space, where a great deal of Non-Europeans would be classified “illegal,” if they’d be there without a permission.

This observation made me think about the concept of “public space” again. In my naiveity I thought of “public space” as being freely accessible to the public, without any permission whatsoever. Apparently what we in our innocence call “public space” should read as “legal space.” It is space defined by the laws of a country. To discuss such a space suddenly faces you with five thousand years of religion and philosophy. This insight took me back to my initial aversion. By working in “public space” one supports and propagates the law. An artist becomes a state artist.

Semi-scientific, intermediate approach, a near death gunshot fired at the distance of my ears, part of a one-time serious illness that got covered by crumbs around the carcasses of pigeons and a holistic dance between barrels in the harbour of Caracas. Do You want to kill me, she asked. Her eyes big with Disneyan fear, a joke that would resound in a sleeping room, pasted by heroes whose sweet smiles I could not match. I kind home. But not for long. I breathe home. But not at here. Two corpses roll down the stairs. The love fight had begun.

My little life, a soldier of desire patted me on the shoulder. I low attic. Gum gone soon. Tiles and broken shoulders marked a tilted head, thoughts of vengeance dripped from the lips. I war zone. Suspirious suspicion followed a slow intake of warm air. Breeze and the fresh scent of washing powdered pullovers. Bathroom dolls in a bucket full of lard. I got mine last Saturday, didn’t even have to pay for it. How long will she stay there at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me.

A slow fill for dreams. Drawn into a tent, under a masqueraded moonless night. I supply you. A shirt tight to fit, waves of possession, while a car ride through the desert clouds my life. Sand in measures. No for the next fill. The woman in the train to Rabat yawned. I thought of camels. There was no limit to it. We looked at her in awe. Her mouth was so big it could take three pipi’s of rines. Her hair was shorter then our experience. Cover me with patience. Get in later.

Fur coats, a monkey in the arrival hall of Linate. She loosened herself from the wall. The embrace was unifying breath. The next window was a little park with beheaded plastic children. We smoked a revolution. A beard from Yugo-Slavia. Walnuts in pocket rooms, houses, whilst a fig tree bend to ashes. No sleep. I tug you. No sleep. No more brain patterns in seismic waves. Cool coffee. Only if you want it. You look the same as you. One day in front of smashed shop windows. Big bald Bulgarians. She looked like one of those tarot card women. The image is hurts.

Donkey cart ride on your name is Toto, disappear over the hills. Dry earth, carved feet. Then, fifty years later you crown. I hit it. A rectangular thought leans over a brook. Daffodils define my thought. I rest my case with a Turkish butcher. Long legged memories. You were so beautiful. A yellow pear of satanic origin appears in the hand of Hölderlin. I hide honey. Over the bridge into the dusted land we go. We throw our shoes in the rivelet. Rush’o'lay. Dwindle and escape. This little car belongs to you.

Sicily was never thought of. Oranges minded. A loud market day, wacky, humid, splits and eyelashes: petrol gaze, petrol skin. Olives in an open hand. Spit on the floor. Hang your jacket next to mine. We look warm together, even if you evaporate just at the other side of the mountain pass. A bar on the highest point, lost in a shortsighted day. The valley girls pick flowers. A smile of alabaster. Breezes. Vapors. Judge me, as long as you can. I free ill. Another market, another climate. We have never been here, even if we wanted so loud. Kill. I smile.

Descend, go underground, enter the sewers. The sounds of dripping water, running water, echoes from traffic rumble close in on you. Rats follow their runways. They know of each others existence even if they are miles apart. An invisible communication system that exists parallel to our languages.  I listen hard and try to understand the computer language he talks about. An invisible floating continent has come into existence. Thoughts get transported by interfaces. I take another sip of the three euro wine. The bourgeois food lays to wither in garbage containers. A nightly walk to the backyard, stand on your toes, fill the backpack with lumps of salmon that have just come back from their expiring date. The night is freezing cold. No fun. The bus driver is the last of the disciples. I take the free place next to the front exit. It is as warm as the last warm breath of a night’s out in a bar.

Waking up was the only way out of the prison. I had returned to it again. Convicted of being a drugs dealer and a murderer. I knew I had sold the drugs. I knew I had killed someone. I could feel it. But I could also feel the doubt. I knew in the backyards of my mind that someone, some organisation had implanted the thought and the feeling into my consciousness. I was guilty of not being guilty and there was nothing I could prove. Guards took pleasure in hitting me on my head, more then once. I had walked up to them with a smile, an innocent smile. They responded with sadistic smiles. The guards were uniformed. There were nine of them, maybe ten. The worst thing about the dream was the feeling of despair, of not being able to communicate. The sense of utter greyness. Salo.

Existence in between snapshots of a daily routine when the ritual looses all meaning and the next steps lead from the kitchen to the toilet and back to the room again. Thoughts land on rock hard bottom. No succes. No feature. The writer I have come to love so much looses landscape in describing it. I follow.  I know Venice very well. I could have known her better. But that happens all the time. That’s why we build stations and harbours. We need to drown in our desires every now and then. It hurts. The pages of the book bring me back to prison again. This time my name is Giacomo Casanova. I am in a dungeon and the only thing I can see is the blue sky.  I watch it for eight hours without moving. I put down the book and get dressed.

Shoes scrape grit from the sidewalk. I follow the dark tubes that connect invisible destinations. Sit in a train that carries memories of a frivolous era. Berlin and your transvestites, hookers, writers and junks; Berlin and your turdy brown memory on the yellowed pages of a book by Isherwood. And all that faces, smiles, stubbornness, attention sucking TV screens with news and images for the illiterate. I am an illiterate. I am a mongoloid. Note to self: write on writing. The best thing of leaving the U at Hermannplatz is the ascension on the automatic stairs. Street life disintegrates. We are all poor and will for ever be so. Currywurst, Asia food, a bottle of beer. Traffic lights in a grim pittyless sky. I follow footsteps, my own footsteps. I am on my way to my bicycle.

I had liberated the last one with a big chain gnawer. A relic from defenseless years when Alsatians got jacked off and the bar owner’s son locked himself in his room. Him and his mount of porn video’s. His sister found out she was pregnant after three months. I had a damn fast bike. Columbiadamm in rain, sunshine and fog, forcing other cyclists to stop motion. Then it got stolen and I had to travel to the east of the city, where I met fog again. Fog and night and memories from a vanished country. Margot in Santiago. Me on a slow train to Minsk. Me on a slow bike. On the Columbiadamm I got forced to slow motion. Kids with black eyeliners waited in the melting sun for the doors to open. I read the name on the billboard. The only name I can read is written on the facade of Tempelhof. Speer und Er.

Now I am lucky again to ride over the landing strips. They are so wide that they ridicule every notion of progress. My legs move, but I am a tourist in a landscape that uses me as its pivot. Dutch ice-skaters on the horizon of a four hundred year old painting. The grey sky is an empty empire. All houses are subject to its mood. A few hours earlier, going up the Hermannstrasse hill, I took a closer look at the cinema. OFF and NO was written on the billboard over the entrance. The beautiful thing about it were the replaceable red letters. There will come a day that you can buy them at the flee market. There will come a day that flee markets no longer exist. At the other side of the cinema was a graveyard. I couldnot use the bike in its highest gear. Something went clunck, made the chain hickup. I don’t like such things. Resign and be a freewheeler. Resign and everything will get lost in the end.

An other aspect of ‘Ranch’ is the use of cassettes I found in obsolete cassette players, amongst which a beautiful pink sony radio-cassette player. The found tapes were all recorded in the last century. A third component is a quartet of commercial tapes I was given, all four of them a reminder of the glory years of the humble cassette: albums by Joan Baez, Waylon Jennings, The Beach Boys and Judy Collins.

The fourth ingredient is a cassette with a reading on it. These types of cassettes were very popular in the last century. They provided manuals for a better life, a better economy, a better mastering of language, a better way to present yourself in public space, but also recordings of meetings, talks or telephone conversations. The qualities of a cheap and easy to reproduce medium as the cassette were used to its maximum effect. The tape I found was a reading of a Zen Master’s wise words.

When listening back to the recordings, all of which the result of a different mix, I couldnot help noticing that I had captured a moment in the newest history of the West Coast. This didnot happen because of my composing skills, if at all I have any. It is a simple result of the radio voices, the dated music and the snippets of the book by the zen master that got destructed or highlighted, but also mixed with the more intimate sounds of my recordings (that in fact could have been anyone’s recordings).

I connected three walkman to a fourtrack and used the fourtrack as a mixer and a player. In this way I could do a mix using four different sources and record them at the same time on my Marantz. All the twenty tapes of ‘Ranch’ carry the recordings of a different mix. The tape will cost you 7 Euro and will be available at the shop, or at my concerts.

Monday 11. March, I will get back moving, a series of performances, a talk lay ahead of me.

10. March 1.30 pm ( pacific time) presentation/talk/mini-concert with special appearance by The Artistocatz at Warnecke Ranch, Sonoma County. Live transmission via Radio On
Some more information, address, ecc.

11. March, Brutal Sound Effects Festival #73 The Lab, San Francisco, U.S.A.

12. March, The Uptown Nightclub, Oakland, U.S.A.

13. March, Composer Spotlight, Jack Straw Productions, Seattle, U.S.A. (talk)

14. March, Chapel Performance Space,Wayward Music Series,  Seattle, U.S.A.

15. March, Record Room, Portland, U.S.A.

17. March, “50 Years of Cassettes” , Silent Barn , New York, U.S.A.

18. March, Spectrum, New York, U.S.A. duo with Andrea Parkins

Thanks for passing by.

140 characters is all I can afford, right now.

The cassette comes in a custom made cardboard package with  X-Ray pictures on the front and back side. The inlay is a high quality color print, plus a written piece of paper with the basic liner notes. Every copy has a different X-ray.

Price 8.00 Euro, available through staaltape at staalplaat.com or directly from the shop.

In how far this is an Audiozine, is of course to be judged by the listener. It was my intention to combine elements of essay-writing, travelogues, documentary and, in this case, docu-fiction.

If to some of you it still sounds like music, well, then let it sound like music!

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