Before the former Colonial Bank in Euroa, Victoria, the Melbourne Flâneur, Dean Kyte, confronts the image of himself in the form of a fellow refugee from modernity.
Occasionally in mes flâneries, I meet the image of myself, bemisted in the palimpsest of signs. I turn a corner at random in that grey hedgemaze of clouds which is our labyrinthine reality and find an anachronistic icon reared high against the sky, holding itself aloof above the fog of everyday ways we stumble and blunder through.
I love the statuary that old architecture makes, these dépassé neoclassical deities mutilated by time. I remember seeing a painting by Russell Drysdale once—“Hill End”, painted in 1948, the portrait of a dilapidated bâtiment abandonné. Two storeys of wounded brickwork, a peeling plaster peau, two doors to nowhere and a wroughtiron balcon, like a jetty projecting into air, presented the proud proue of its profile to the pitiless chastisement des éléments australiens, a fulgurant hellciel of merdescent orange grimacing under the bloodmauve nuages.
Such is le flâneur, heir apparent to a vanished patrimony, un visionnaire de l’invisible. Rimbaudian dreamer in search of his bohemia, he goes, battered bateau ivre, réfugié de la modernité, holding the holes of his tattered dignity together, this aristocrat of the gutter, as he stumbles parmi les épaves, le nez en l’air, his eye anchored in the stars.
Undulant Ulysse, I port my only arm, la rame de la caméra, à l’épaule. And like Albert Ryder, pale cavalier and blue pilot across many a dark, moonlit bar, je vois—là-haut! là-haut! —my eternal home, au-delà des nuages qui passent, marvellous vagabonds like myself.
I remember being affected by the vermiculated detail of the end brickwork of the façade, abutting nothing, in the Drysdale, as though a whole row of these hôtels had formed un rue-mur parisien, a barricade against the barren Australian hellscape, and now only this last brick existed in that invisible wall, fort of imported European sophistication and tradition, an antique stumblingblock, a toe of that colossus, les restes melted into airy ruins.
Classy electronica with a sense of humour. PostModern Escape Artist is one of the best-kept secrets on the web. You know what I mean? I know what you mean. Dean Kyte
Nicki Minaj meets Jada Fire in freestyling, rhymebusting orgasmic girlfight mindporn. A mistress of metaphor, MasterPiece massages your most erogenous zone. Dean Kyte
The perfect soundtrack for a long train ride at night. Lounge back against the cushions, tune into David Creese’s eerie dream plays, and zone out, rocked by the rails in a hallucinogenic experience. Dean Kyte
Poet Douglas Kearney and composer/producer/drummer Val Jeanty link up for a a compelling LP that feels like the written word come to life. Bandcamp New & Notable Mar 30, 2021