Showing posts with label Billy the Kid. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Billy the Kid. Show all posts
Friday, December 30, 2016
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
JOHN BRADLEY MEETS HENRY FORD & BILLY THE KID ~
A N D T H E R E B Y E V E R Y T H I N G
by John Bradley
L O N G H O U S E is very proud to announce a new book by John Bradley in their on going series of S C O U T book publications — other titles from the series have been by Kent Johnson, Janine Pommy Vega, James Koller, Bob Arnold and Lorine Niedecker with more in the works. An opening salvo at the front of the book by Patrick Lawler should provide ample cover for what the reader should come to expect.
And Thereby Everything
John Bradley
Longhouse 2015
First edition
John Bradley
Longhouse 2015
First edition
only issued in softcover
208 pages, perfect bound
illustrated throughout by Bob Arnold
with 150 photographs
with 150 photographs
"John Bradley is a conjurer of conjunction and conjugation. Indeed, he does “speak his spark” from Old West to sold-out Hollywood, from Firestone to Sharon Stone to tombstone, from assembly line to disassembled line. His “language is a noise, noose, nuisance nuptial,” and And Thereby Everything—is everything. Maybe this book is why there was a Billy the Kid (“boy-bandit-king”) and Henry (Fordlandia) Ford. Maybe this book is why there is America. “Every story undulates another.” It is a tour de everything—a mix of aphorisms and dialogues and surrealistic lyrics with tics and “gears of history” and letters and plays and chorales featuring the voices of Adrienne Rich, Tony Soprano, George Zimmerman, Jean Harlow, Harpo Marx, Joan of Arc, et al. Burstingly funny and fiercely brilliant, this is Aaron Copland for dancers with clown shoes. This is Jack Spicer with a 1000 false clues and no place to hide. This is a Sam Peckinpah film starring Jane Russell as Billy with a soundtrack by Cotton Mather. John Bradley opened up America (with its dreams and icons, its violence and capitalism) and poured it inside this “Confusion Matrix” of a book. This is an American opera—maybe the only true American opera—starring, with all their desires and damage, with all their excess and dreams, Billy the Kid and Henry Ford as America."
— Patrick Lawler
author of Child Sings in the Womb and
Rescuers of Skydivers Search Among the Clouds
We want everyone on a horse, and in a car.
The cost of a ride ~ $20
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Saturday, April 6, 2013
EARTH BOUND ~
True Noir, A Letter To My Friend, John
Once upon a time, long ago, I heard Jim Koller read a poem on NPR. I still remember how he spoke about screwing hinges onto a gate for his sheep pen. It sounded both practical and mystifying, somehow. This would be early 1970s in my cabin in the woods when NPR was on all day — classical show with Robert J Lurtsema in the morning (out of his home!), more classical music in the afternoon and then Susan Stamberg and the news. Jazz at night, even very good rock 'n' roll and some other talk shows. Some ethnic world music wonders. Maybe even the infectious "Car Talk" got started then? I lost track. NPR became larger and more predictable, even snooty, and I stopped listening except to snips and snaps. I've got to think some young poet is now going to hear you and your Billy the Kid sequence of poems when you're on the air. Just the way it should be.
Sorry to hear about the TK murder case. If watching all the tv show "The Killing" from Seattle has anything to do with (it does), and the recent rampage of assassinations by supposed white supremacists onto lawmen and the like (in their house doorways!), then count on the TK case is ripe with injustice up and down the legal ladder. No on can die anymore — we're either thoroughly ignored and gone, fodder, shoveled away, or a tool for other things. Things that assist careers or end them. Let's hope the law at least has their killer, and then wait and watch what others in control do with the killer and the case. It sounds to me like it can be closed and re-opened at political whim at this point.
We finished with "The Killing" and two big seasons of "Wallander" this week. Ideal mud-season viewing. Barely no one cracks a smile in tons of episodes in a row, and now neither does anyone in "Top of the Lake" from New Zealand. In fact, the only 'normal' person in all of these shows — the realtor in Top of the Lake — he gets murdered, probably for smiling, as soon as we meet him. These are shows where people are miserable, wear the same clothes for weeks on end, never comb their hair or else pull it back severely, smoke lots of cigarettes, gulp down bottle after bottle, sleep on the fly, eat terribly, never look at a book, and only the Swede Wallander, living alone as a social misfit (with, I guess, a girlfriend next door) spends his free time on a 24-7 cycle of Be-At-Ready, swooning to classical music, walking his dog (man's best friend) and getting drunk. Id say, crossing the globe of hard crime theater, I'm most at home and invigorated by the Swedes.
In our own crime little theater here all last summer, with all the Sheriff's dept. in our house and visiting at all hours drawing a bead on the nonsense in the rural neighborhood, and we complying with nothing to hide, and nothing really came of it. All political. One chump after another trying to budge up the ladder, no one likes one another, secrets and lies. Sweetheart and I work best, it seems, now with all the old timers dead (or as Jim Koller said ten years ago when visiting us one more time, "You guys are now the old timers") at staying isolated in the hermitage, keeping our noses to the grindstone, tapping into social matters where it counts. Carson and Jocelyn will have a "baby shower" the end of May. Neither of us have ever been to one. Let's have a look.
The printer this week sent my proof for the new little book of prose poems (Sweetheart calls them "fables") completely backwards! It was impossible to get too upset and instead seen as a self-contained boo-boo by a professional momentarily out of whack, that we simply asked them, "Do over, please." They probably we're blushing and placing blame on their end as they had to in order to survive independently one against the other and together, no matter; they had a new proof in our hands within 48 hours. Looks good. We gave the okay to roll the presses after correcting a few typos, adjusting the titles, and brightening one or two of the maybe too many photographs. Too late now. It's part photo album. One more oddity in the secluded world of technology where no one looks at anything much any longer but a screen. We're noticing all libraries we've been in where we are the only ones searching in the book stacks. Come out for air into the high-ceilinged main assembly and its droves of people faced into computers. The book racks are thinning out to make room for more computer carols and terminals. It's only a matter of time books will be seen in libraries as a nuisance. We look very suspicious clomping in every two weeks with a big canvas satchel filled to the brim with CDs and books. Currently Patricia Highsmith, that Texas wreck, is our passion. We can't get enough of her. I just finished Strangers on a Train, returning after years away reading a lot of contemporary muck, to my once youthful wonder at reading when discovering a fine writer at work in craft, character, story and human psychology. No tricks. No compromising the story line. A writer who plows ahead, delicately. As if discovering along with us at the same time and yet being the creator herself. Spontaneity. Ah, what once the poet craved.
Real time — we still have snow up to our knees in the woods. In all towns, no snow, no mud. We look like freaks when we get to a town in our mud boots, thick pants, layers. Sweetheart has taken to wearing her mud boots out of here and sporting behind the seat fashionable wear to change into when she hits civilization. I, on the other hand, they get me as I am.
Say hello to Billy for me
all's well, Bob
True Noir, A Letter To My Friend, John
Once upon a time, long ago, I heard Jim Koller read a poem on NPR. I still remember how he spoke about screwing hinges onto a gate for his sheep pen. It sounded both practical and mystifying, somehow. This would be early 1970s in my cabin in the woods when NPR was on all day — classical show with Robert J Lurtsema in the morning (out of his home!), more classical music in the afternoon and then Susan Stamberg and the news. Jazz at night, even very good rock 'n' roll and some other talk shows. Some ethnic world music wonders. Maybe even the infectious "Car Talk" got started then? I lost track. NPR became larger and more predictable, even snooty, and I stopped listening except to snips and snaps. I've got to think some young poet is now going to hear you and your Billy the Kid sequence of poems when you're on the air. Just the way it should be.
Sorry to hear about the TK murder case. If watching all the tv show "The Killing" from Seattle has anything to do with (it does), and the recent rampage of assassinations by supposed white supremacists onto lawmen and the like (in their house doorways!), then count on the TK case is ripe with injustice up and down the legal ladder. No on can die anymore — we're either thoroughly ignored and gone, fodder, shoveled away, or a tool for other things. Things that assist careers or end them. Let's hope the law at least has their killer, and then wait and watch what others in control do with the killer and the case. It sounds to me like it can be closed and re-opened at political whim at this point.
We finished with "The Killing" and two big seasons of "Wallander" this week. Ideal mud-season viewing. Barely no one cracks a smile in tons of episodes in a row, and now neither does anyone in "Top of the Lake" from New Zealand. In fact, the only 'normal' person in all of these shows — the realtor in Top of the Lake — he gets murdered, probably for smiling, as soon as we meet him. These are shows where people are miserable, wear the same clothes for weeks on end, never comb their hair or else pull it back severely, smoke lots of cigarettes, gulp down bottle after bottle, sleep on the fly, eat terribly, never look at a book, and only the Swede Wallander, living alone as a social misfit (with, I guess, a girlfriend next door) spends his free time on a 24-7 cycle of Be-At-Ready, swooning to classical music, walking his dog (man's best friend) and getting drunk. Id say, crossing the globe of hard crime theater, I'm most at home and invigorated by the Swedes.
In our own crime little theater here all last summer, with all the Sheriff's dept. in our house and visiting at all hours drawing a bead on the nonsense in the rural neighborhood, and we complying with nothing to hide, and nothing really came of it. All political. One chump after another trying to budge up the ladder, no one likes one another, secrets and lies. Sweetheart and I work best, it seems, now with all the old timers dead (or as Jim Koller said ten years ago when visiting us one more time, "You guys are now the old timers") at staying isolated in the hermitage, keeping our noses to the grindstone, tapping into social matters where it counts. Carson and Jocelyn will have a "baby shower" the end of May. Neither of us have ever been to one. Let's have a look.
The printer this week sent my proof for the new little book of prose poems (Sweetheart calls them "fables") completely backwards! It was impossible to get too upset and instead seen as a self-contained boo-boo by a professional momentarily out of whack, that we simply asked them, "Do over, please." They probably we're blushing and placing blame on their end as they had to in order to survive independently one against the other and together, no matter; they had a new proof in our hands within 48 hours. Looks good. We gave the okay to roll the presses after correcting a few typos, adjusting the titles, and brightening one or two of the maybe too many photographs. Too late now. It's part photo album. One more oddity in the secluded world of technology where no one looks at anything much any longer but a screen. We're noticing all libraries we've been in where we are the only ones searching in the book stacks. Come out for air into the high-ceilinged main assembly and its droves of people faced into computers. The book racks are thinning out to make room for more computer carols and terminals. It's only a matter of time books will be seen in libraries as a nuisance. We look very suspicious clomping in every two weeks with a big canvas satchel filled to the brim with CDs and books. Currently Patricia Highsmith, that Texas wreck, is our passion. We can't get enough of her. I just finished Strangers on a Train, returning after years away reading a lot of contemporary muck, to my once youthful wonder at reading when discovering a fine writer at work in craft, character, story and human psychology. No tricks. No compromising the story line. A writer who plows ahead, delicately. As if discovering along with us at the same time and yet being the creator herself. Spontaneity. Ah, what once the poet craved.
Real time — we still have snow up to our knees in the woods. In all towns, no snow, no mud. We look like freaks when we get to a town in our mud boots, thick pants, layers. Sweetheart has taken to wearing her mud boots out of here and sporting behind the seat fashionable wear to change into when she hits civilization. I, on the other hand, they get me as I am.
Say hello to Billy for me
all's well, Bob
photo from:
The Incredible Shrinking Man, a 1957 science fiction film directed by Jack Arnold and adapted for the screen by Richard Matheson from his novel The Shrinking Man. The film stars Grant Williams and Randy Stuart.
Monday, December 3, 2012
BILLY THE KID ~
(JOHN BRADLEY)
Signed limited edition $15.
Unsigned $8.95
(International orders kindly inquire)
order here through Paypal with free shipping
~
More of John Bradley published by Longhouse and available in limited unsigned editions for purchase ~
Buy these with Paypal (includes shipping)
What is Borne (2010)
Amongst the Turks (2011)
Fordtopia (2011)
(JOHN BRADLEY)
(click on image to wow it)
Three color booklet of new poems
by John in fold-out splendor.
Both signed and unsigned editions.
from Longhouse
by John in fold-out splendor.
Both signed and unsigned editions.
from Longhouse
Signed limited edition $15.
Unsigned $8.95
(International orders kindly inquire)
order here through Paypal with free shipping
~
More of John Bradley published by Longhouse and available in limited unsigned editions for purchase ~
Buy these with Paypal (includes shipping)
What is Borne (2010)
Amongst the Turks (2011)
Fordtopia (2011)
Monday, August 27, 2012
COWBOY ~
The Sons of the Pioneers
Billy the Kid
Billy Joe Shaver
© Matt Lankes
Mary McCaslin
It doesn't matter where you were born when it comes to the west — scholars have Billy the Kid born in an Irish neighborhood of New York City, as was Walter Brennan born of Irish immigrants in eastern Massachusetts; and Cisco Houston born on the east coast but raised in California ditto the Sierra Nevada climber Clarence King came out of posh Newport, Rhode Island (what's he doing here? Well, when I hear western songs I see mountains). Emmylou Harris is a southern belle; and Mary McCaslin, with a melody sure of the west, was born in Indianapolis. Patsy Montana's real name was Ruby Rose Blevins, pure Arkansas. Likewise the other Arkansas wonder Johnny Cash. Chicago's Frankie Laine was born Francesco Paolo LoVecchio, enough said. Of course both Bob Wills and Billy Joe Shaver are T-is-for-Texas; as Cowboy Jack Clement is Memphis, Peter La Farge all Southwest. June Carter Cash was born in Virginia and country music via the Carter Family at the age of ten. Marty Robbins was born outside of Phoenix, though I believe he was born with a golden voice.
Gene Autry
"Canadian-born Robert Nobles spent part of his childhood in the Arizona desert, for which all lovers of Western music may be thankful. As "Bob Nolan", a founding member of the legendary Sons of the Pioneers, he gave us some of the finest poetry and most satisfying melodies in the history of the genre. The words to one of his early compositions, concerning the tumbling leaves of autumn, were misunderstood by 1933 radio fans of the Pioneer Trio, many of whom wrote in to request the song about the "tumbling weeds." Nolan did a quick rewrite and thus was born a cowboy classic. The Sons of the Pioneers recorded the song for Decca in 1934 as one side of their very first release, but it was Gene Autry's 1935 cover — with his slightly different arrangement — that earned the gold disc and brought Nolan's work to prominence. Later that same year it also served as the title for Gene's first starring feature film for Republic Pictures."
~ Jon Guyot Smith
from Gene Autry, Sing Cowboy Sing
(Rhino Records)
No offense, but we prefer Bob Nolan and the Sons of the Pioneers version :
~ Jon Guyot Smith
from Gene Autry, Sing Cowboy Sing
(Rhino Records)
No offense, but we prefer Bob Nolan and the Sons of the Pioneers version :
The Sons of the Pioneers
Emmylou Harris
Billy the Kid
Billy Joe Shaver
© Matt Lankes
Cowboy Jack Clement
Mary McCaslin
It doesn't matter where you were born when it comes to the west — scholars have Billy the Kid born in an Irish neighborhood of New York City, as was Walter Brennan born of Irish immigrants in eastern Massachusetts; and Cisco Houston born on the east coast but raised in California ditto the Sierra Nevada climber Clarence King came out of posh Newport, Rhode Island (what's he doing here? Well, when I hear western songs I see mountains). Emmylou Harris is a southern belle; and Mary McCaslin, with a melody sure of the west, was born in Indianapolis. Patsy Montana's real name was Ruby Rose Blevins, pure Arkansas. Likewise the other Arkansas wonder Johnny Cash. Chicago's Frankie Laine was born Francesco Paolo LoVecchio, enough said. Of course both Bob Wills and Billy Joe Shaver are T-is-for-Texas; as Cowboy Jack Clement is Memphis, Peter La Farge all Southwest. June Carter Cash was born in Virginia and country music via the Carter Family at the age of ten. Marty Robbins was born outside of Phoenix, though I believe he was born with a golden voice.
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