Wednesday, November 30, 2011






I love collarborating with female artists.
All of a sudden one of the barriers is torn down. You immediately get closer to the song when you collaborate with a female. You put four or five guys in a room and something else is going on. There is some kind of hunter, competitive aspect in the air. Like with The Dead Weather, you bring Alison into the room and all of a sudden everything is instantly balanced. Who knows? You could chalk that up to sexuality or sociological outlooks or something - and the rudeness comes down like 90%. Guys will just start ripping and clawing at each other but you put a girl in the room and all of a sudden they're on best behavior. It's interesting... more here...


Tuesday, November 29, 2011


A vagueness comes over everything,
as though proving color and contour
alike dispensible: the lighthouse
extinct, the islands' spruce-tips
drunk up the milk in the
universal emulsion; houses
reverting ubti tge kist
and forgotten; granite
subsumed, a rumor
in a mumble of ocean.
definition, however, has not been
totally banished: hanging
tassel by tassel, panicled
foxtail and needlegrass,
dropseed, furred hawkweed,
and last season's rose-hips
are vested in silenced
chimes of the finest,
clearest sea-crystal.
opens up rooms, a showcase
for the hueless moonflower
corolla, as Georgia
O'Keefe might have seen it,
of foghorns; the nodding
campanula of bell buoys;
the ticking, linear
filigree of bird voices.