CONTEST HAS ENDED!
This contest went really fucking well, so thanks to everyone that entered. The fact that the entries were so good also means that picking a winner was a pain in the ass. I personally narrowed it down pretty quick, but then had to get a group of people to help pick the winner again. It’s the only way to keep things fair and… quite honestly, it was the only way to figure it out at all. A lot of the time there is an obvious winner, but, this time, people really went all out. It was probably the most difficult decision yet. Now, to announce the winner…..
WILLIAM REEVES!
…who edged his way through with the following sentence: “It matters not that the police drag us away, and our home, this once-beloved apartment, is barred from us… we have found our true homes, behind the eyes of those precious children, who will re-write tomorrow with their Fiery Blood!”
thanks again to everyone who entered.
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At this point, The Residents have been been around for a long ass time. Way before bands like Black Dice and Animal Collective were experimenting with avant-garde Noise Rock, these Bay Area mansterminds were laying the groundwork. Later they ventured off into such polarizing territories as haunting Leonard Cohen-esque croons and everywhere in between, throughout their extensive careers. Although they tentatively formed in the SIXTIES, creating a few “unreleased” albums, the group themselves don’t fully acknowledge anything as an “official” Residents project until the release of their Santa Dog EP in 1972. Since then, they have created an impressive output of over 60 different albums, film scores, numerous multi-media projects, constant reinventions, and have left endless influences and failed imitators in their wake. Retaining their anonymity for over 4 decades and with a consistent refusal to ever be interviewed, speculation, confusion, fascination, and intrigue have surrounded the group ever since their inception. As history goes, the name “The Residents” was actually adopted after the group submitted a reel-to-reel tape (later known as “The Warner Bros. Album”) to Warner Bros. Records and, due to the fact that no name was listed onfor the return address, the rejection letter that was sent back to them was simply addressed to “the residents“. By taking the focus off of the individual members’ need for recognition and egos, The Residents have always sought to place the attention back where it belongs: on the work, itself. The duality to this framework lies in the fact that The Residents are an extremely visual-oriented art collective; their most recognizable imagery being their trademark eyeball heads with tuxedo and top-hat aesthetic. Much more than a simple musical outfit, they are an assemblage of innovators, performance artists, and multi-media experimenters, constantly pushing themselves and searching for new and exciting ways to share their latest visions. Read the rest of this entry →
In this version of the non-existent biopic that no one is making for Daniel Johnston, they dress up the actor in a paint-speckled gray pocket-shirt, the front of which is tucked into a pair of gray draw-string sweat pants. The make-up department sets him up with those great eyebrows that would be the dominant feature of his face if it weren’t for his fantastically bulbous nose. The set director gives him all his characteristic props—the saintly attributes that disambiguate him from every other martyr of the stage: a chair with three identical water bottles, a guitar that resembles more of a ukulele when nestled into his torso, and a pair of converse. And of the actor’s props, the most outstanding is the pair of converse. They are pristine and blue, and say, “despite how he appears, he actually is slightly concerned with coolness”.
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