EXO’s SCHEDULE:[BROADCAST] for program broadcasts and televised live programs, including music shows, [REC] for program recordings, [RADIO] for radio programmes, [SIGN] / [MEET] for fansigning and fanmeeting events, [PERF] for performance events, including concerts and festivals, [OTHER] for various other scheduled activities. This schedule will be continually updated.
EXO-K SCHEDULE(Last updated on 161031)
[PERF] Exoplanet #3 - The EXO’rDium in Fukuoka - 18:30 KST
[PERF] Exoplanet #3 - The EXO’rDium in Fukuoka - 18:30 KST
Cover artwork for ‘ALLELUJAH! DON’T BEND! ASCEND! by Godspeed You! Black Emperor
LP is pressed on 180 gram virgin vinyl at Optimal (Germany) and comes in a tipped-on gatefold jacket with printed dust sleeve. Also includes 7 inch vinyl and a 12x48 inch pull-out art poster. Front cover photograph by Charles-André Coderre
“Often we feel a communication gap between us and you. Playing the saddest rock and roll in these alienated beerhalls, we’re shy and clumsy with the words mostly but need to say this now finally or once and for all.
We live in rich countries - we got more kinds of kicks / entertainment than we need. Also, we’re gifted with access to so much information. "Facts” and knowledge… If you don’t already know that millions of innocents are maimed, starved, tortured, shot or exploded in our own name by our own politicians, then nothing we do or say’ll ever convince you…
There are millions of us worldwide who don’t want any more blood on our hands. There are millions of us who want to stop this murderous nonsense forever. Together we can tear their crummy monsters down. It’s not a naive daydream (there are more of us than them).
It could start happening tonight or tomorrow. (It’ll begin in the tiniest little ways.)
Please think on how to make it happen. These are urgent times. Find the faintest light there and run towards it slowly. When the call goes out, please march with other strangers / friends.
There’s a sweetness in clumsy efforts. Stubborn hope always trumps lazy greed. And gentle hearts tear vulgar castles down. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid.“
The Failure of One Small Community In Achieving Its Own Ill-Defined Dreams And/Or Goals
“And we were an army of dead women and men, shuffling pointlessly across and thru this glorious new century with all its interactive toys, internet prattle, electrified restraining harnesses, billion-dollar death rays, and supermax penitentiaries, and its goddamned evermore refined, irrational, and terminal economies of blood, misery, and slow fucking doom? And please know, or already understand, that this record is so fucking useless as a one way transmission - like all one-way transmissions need to cease forever for sure - in this already-existing mess of radiation, electricity and noise and clamor and lies.. And & So, and but some time somewhere some tiny action took root maybe, and none of us never heard about it yet, and the earth did its slow twirl in spite of me? And so we all woke up hungover, and always still more tired of, or more spooked or scared, and barely shuffled thru a little bit more? And while we were sleeping they even took our neighborhoods away, and everything turned into Disneyland and marionettes and chipboard and spit? No more lovely aimless strolls allowed, no more long wandering nights all burning with possibility, wonder, or joy - not here, no - not with the flashing cop car lightshow and park curfews and the whole “yeah you can live here, but you can’t live here, I mean you can pay your rent and to and fro a little but that’s about all bub, and don’t you forget it hawhawhwaw…”
And we learned the rules way too well, and they altered the way we felt and lived and breathed, even? And what about the story of us all abandoning each other, because we were too self-involved to figure out how alone we all really felt mostly nearly all the time? (Meaning that we all treated each other reallyreallyreally badly, man)?
(And crafted our own neurotic soap operas with our boring sad couplings and irony, television and cocktails?) And in our infinite weakness we figured everything was shit anyways so might as well get used to the smell? And we gathered in compromised halls that reeked of failure, distance and self-alienation? And so we never really met? And since we never met, we never schemed or planned or manifested the ruined dreams that didn’t have to be ruined at all? And never figured out how to counter all the bland agents of recuperation, who stole our brightest hopes always, and shot ‘em out of satellites at a buck-fifty-nine an hour? (And would you believe us if we told you that we built a machine that’ll bring all their fucking satellites the fuck down?) And the arguments for and against were never complicated but were certainly fucking complex? And we created slack factions, and made believe that we were seditionaries, but were too easily moved or else did not ever move at all? And never stormed the gates or walls? But crafted clumsy things with out hands, and those things were important to us, those clumsy abstracted towers and minarets we crafted with our own worried hands?
And built our own confused belief systems, which were endlessly and crucially beautiful in their small stubborn tangles of loss, worry, faith, and need? And made small gestures with our hands or eyes that were endlessly redeeming, and made us all sometimes almost believe in saints and/or angels? And daydreamed endlessly about living a little more quietly or a little bit louder for awhile? And almost always strived for a little more engagement with this falling/fallen world? Or hardened our resolve sometimes and bent our heads and backs into the task at hand and dug and built or erected? Or transmitted occasional epiphanies or urgent fears with photocopiers, silkscreens and CDR’s? And found answers sometimes in the empty places, like gangs of birds flying out of dead buildings, beneath the sun’s blind white hole? Like trees growing thru fences or an abandoned jar filled with a summer’s worth of rusty water out there behind the place where the heavy trains roll? And found hope in the idea of the futile gesture? And manifested sometimes with bricks in our hands? And built something here in spite of and will not let them take it from us so easily? So please, o’ please, let’s please figure out soon what exactly we can build here on this parched and fallow ground.
(Knowing all along, that sooner or later their bulldozers will come and tear it all down…)(But we can build it in spite of, and leave dusty notes about our journey’s behind…)
And resistances grew from tender places, and we fought the good fight whenever it staggered down our lonesome, twisted roads…“
- Efrim Menuck, supplementary essay to the record, Born Into Trouble As The Sparks Fly Upward