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The afterparty to the Bastard Art Gallery opening event was enlighened with an audio-illustrative diggin' set from none other but Carl Cryplant.
Carl travelled all the way West from his native village Mirwart in the Belgian Ardennes with two turntables and a microphone, cassette players and a synthesizer to trash the party. For the sake of history he recorded his set onto a good old & trustworthy C-90 audio-cassette for all you to play in your walkmen or car stereos while cruising the streets to pick up some girls or boys that went astray in this sick, sick world.
Since Carl is such a fan of the Bastard Art Gallery's sole artist, he decided to make this set into a kind of illustrative tribute of the recent projects on show. Each song represents one way or another some of the latest pieces, maybe they might even lift some of the veils that shrouds them in mystery....
You can download his Carl Cryplant's Diggin' Music Vol 1 on his podcast page, along with a lot of other Music in Volumes.
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TRACKLIST: Please Mr. Gravedigger by David Bowie naturally covered up with Muckraker by Rocket from the Tombs overfaded by It's not the Bullet that Kills You, it's the Hole by Laurie Anderson painfully beaten with Deeper Underground by Jamiroquai snapped onto ...Ja das ist Kunst! by Institut für Feinmotorik hit on with Down Down by Status Quo broken on the beat with I Will Follow Him by The Shirelles kinda trashed over with Garbage Dump by Charles Manson halfway joined by Invocation of My Demon Brother by Mick Jagger dropped into with Hide U, a mashup of Kosheen vs. Bomfunk Mc's (Freestyle Mix) masterslaved into As Long as He Lies Perfectly Still by Soft Machine overflown with Beethoven's Fifth Gold Digger, a mashup of Kanye West vs. Beethoven by RebelDjs beaten on the beat with It's My Party by Lesley Gore.
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With Carl Cryplant going wild behind the turntables, some of the audience in the gallery went pretty wild as well.
Instead of her pink tights and sneakers, Holly got on nude tights and high-heeled shoes. She ran down to the basement, climbed down the ladder and got into her skirt without anybody seeing her, and she sat there, alone, in the bowels of the Bastard Art Gallery, praying. We've seen what happens when men's desires are sublimated. They turn dark and twisted. It's not healthy to deny your lusts. She still remembered -especially now- what it was like to walk out of Jim's office, nonchalant and seemingly bored or distracted by demands. She would be nude beneath her proper grey skirt, keeping that particular secret like a card tucked away for a winning hand. (Not enough women wear stockings these days, and men seem to respond so well to that ridiculous bit of hosiery.) She'd duck into the conference room on the fourth floor and close the door against curious office boys and clerks. And wait for Jim there, his heart beating a little faster as the heady world of art dealing hummed around them. And then of course, she didn't mind turning around for him. She was always wet and more than happy to let him enter her after she'd come, squirming against his insistent hands all over. My God, he was like an octopus! And he was always primed for her after a session with his head between her legs. She'd lean against the conference table, spreading her thighs, feeling like some model in a magazine. Playing the roles men expect. Part of her liked that a lot, doing what those bimbos only act out. She played the slut well when she had to, something in her was excited as hell by it. It was about sex, but it was also about power.... using it, buying it - and surrendering it. She unzipped her skirt, let it drop, and he got the bra off with minimum fumbling. Her nipples hardened at his audacity. They'd either be fired or committed to the Mental Hospital downtown. Who had the power? Holly - or Jim?
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