First of all, I am embarrassed. I was wholly under the impression, and indeed, entirely and utterly hopeful, that my fourth birthday would pass unnoticed, uncelebrated, unremarked-upon, and otherwise unobserved by my peers and associates, and certainly by the press (always eager to learn of such occasions, for they are equally eager to render the scenario into ridiculously detailed photo-essays and magazine layouts and distribute the leftovers among the gossip columns· and at any rate I donât want anyone looking on while I blow out the candles as I usually do so in the nude for reasons I wonât mention and so you can begin to understand why I donât like it to be a public affair). So there I was, free and clear of any undue attentions whatsoever, or so I thought, when Mr. Matzke sends an invitation to dinner to discuss the latest cricket matches, specifically the chances of our mutual favorites from Sri Lanka. Unsuspecting, I accept, and sure enough, I waltz into a trap. The cafŽâs been rendered into a pseudo-Roman bath and a hastily-assembled crowd of friends and industry people are there singing happy birthday songs in ten different languages. I hope my reaction was graceful. I hope no one was offended. But the moment the opportunity presented itself, I confronted Peter Matzke, demanding an explanation, especially because he knows my opinion about fetes in general, let alone one founded on me and my Special Day. To cover his tracks, he mustered up this weak excuse:
ãActually Lucas, I called you here for business purposes. Iâd like you to write a bit for my new book. Let us discuss the terms.ä
This was an unfair strategy. He knows my attention span is incredibly short. Changing the subject like that was bound to work. And so it did. Soon we were discussing the place that Cinema Strange held in the world gothic/black scene and various questions most naturally arose. Eventually, I had to do some Fundamental Explanations.
ãAnd another thing thatâs strange,ä Peter told me that night. ãHere is your fourth birthday, and yet Cinema Strange has been in operation for nearly ten years.ä
ãAh!ä I returned. ãNot strange. For there is Science at work, my friend.ä
ãScience?ä
ãPeter. You are a man of learning, I know. Perhaps you have heard of a system, a dual theorem, a practical organization of data, known as the 1, 2, 3s and the A, B, Cs.ä
ãThis rings a bell,ä he replied dryly.
ãWell, when it is observed that Cinema Strange, as a rule, operates under a rather altered version of space/time, under a rather unique bracket of physical laws, it follows that our 1, 2, 3s and A, B, Cs could mean different things than they might to Stephen Hawking or Elvis Presley.ä
ãHmm· tell me some more.ä
ãIndeed! In fact, that will be my article for your book!ä
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Letâs start with the numbers one through nine. I shall leave out zero because it reminds me of my time in utero, before I was born, before I could start accruing age by modern definitions, and therefore it reminds me of a frustrating time spent watching the clock, counting the minutes before I could really start counting the minutes until I could achieve legal drinking age.
The number one. Ichiban. This, often a highly symbolic number for many reasons in many cultures, is representative of one thing in particular, one standout concept that is ever-present in my mind as a Cinema Strange troupe member. Iâd like to have an island some day, and Iâd like to be king of that island and Iâd like to have a Cyclops dog as my sidekick. Iâd name him ãUnoä. Also, one is the number of months I predicted this silly band would be in existence back when we started. I was lousy at reading the tarot back then, and Iâm lousy now, so there you are.
The number two. Cinema Strange has two Ribiats in the lineup. This recurrence of name, and all it represents, is sufficient willful manipulation of physical laws to ensure that time does not flow in and around us as it would other people and places. Putting two Ribiats in the same room, I have often likened to introducing two black holes to each other. Rules will be broken, light will acquire mass, and time travel just may be possible. The only difference? Two collapsed stars would not likely be interested in writing rock songs.
Three. My age, at one point. In those days Cinema Strange had only released one album, I think, and we were using a drum machine. Iâve always been ambivalent about the use of electronic drums. On the one hand, they never miss a beat and can always be relied upon to play the song properly. On the other hand, they cannot be ordered to get you another cocktail or to give you a back rub after a hard dayâs work. Obviously we sorted out our priorities. We havenât used a drum machine in over a year.
Four band members, presently. We had four in the beginning also. Never mind the extra socio-political dynamics, never mind the extra mouths to feed, never mind there being more beds required per hotel stay· When there are four fellows in the troupe, thatâs three fellows available to shift the blame to when something goes wrong. And things most definitely go wrong. With two fellows in the band, shifting blame, although in a pattern that is quite predictable, can also lead to excessive and debilitating tension. Ah, wait. Shifting blame would be a socio-political dynamic, wouldnât it? Whereâs the drummer with my bloody dictionary? And another drink!
Five songs on the original Cinema Strange demo tape from 1994. Those songs were recorded on a four-track machine in our original drummerâs bedroom by Mr. Bob Reich. Alex was that drummerâs name, and he reminded me the other day that when I was doing the vocal tracking for those songs, the neighbors called because they thought someone was being murdered.
Six songs on the EP that Danny Ribiat and I recorded in 1996, after starting the band up again. We recorded those tracks with Erik Richards and Mark Hashimoto, and those men had incredible patience dealing with a couple of desperate musicians crawling into the studio from the sewers like half-drowned rats, trying to reproduce rock songs with barely-adequate electronics and with no idea how it would turn out. Well, who would have thought then that in 2004 weâd be spoiled and pampered corporate sell-outs with manicurists and professional dog-walkers on the payroll?
Seven people in the tour van, usually. Band plus Matt Pee (our documentarian), plus the driver plus the road manager. I think the largest road posse we ever had was in Mexico City. On that trip our own group was at six, and then the promoterâs group was at about seven or eight, and so we were thirteen or fourteen people wherever we went. Restaurants, Aztec temples, to and from concert halls· But despite our formidable and intimidating appearance to onlookers, Mike Ribiat still managed to get kidnapped four times.
Eight girls per show. This is the average number of women I see trailing behind Danny Walker, our extraordinary drummer. He is almost certainly drugging them and engaging in some sort of mind-control technique, but that doesnât make him any less of a man, in my opinion. Just more of a criminal. Even so, it cannot be denied that he has some remarkable animal magnetism. After all, he had to somehow draw the girls close enough in the first place, in order to hypnotize them.
Nine species of fruit fly detected on or around the fruit salad at the last Lanthier family reunion held in the northeast United States a few years ago. This is not directly related to Cinema Strange except that I often think that if we were to ever have a Cinema Strange reunion party, assuming that we disband at some point and for long enough to warrant such an occasion, then I should like to have a fruit salad served (of course) and I wonder if it would attract more than nine species of fruit fly by the end of the day. Then I wonder if there are more or less than nine, what does that mean when the data is compared with the Lanthier family reunion? Would a lower number portend someoneâs death? Would a higher number indicate that one of the C.S. members is pregnant? Perhaps this is indulgent speculation, but then, I am a spoiled little child accustomed to such luxuries, you see.
Right, the numbers have been dealt with, and you can now start to glimpse the High Scientific Realm of Cinema Strange and perhaps begin to picture the universe that we sculpt around us and the one that sculpts us in return.
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The letters A through Z are easily depicted. Here I shall use a poetic verse form, and illustrate the characters by taking a close look at the animal kingdom. This is rather a typical Cinema Strange approach because we are often delighted by soft, fuzzy creatures, and easily entertained by rhyming schemes. It is why the person driving our tour van must wear a bunny costume and ideally have a background in hip-hop music. Nothing soothes and lubricates the rigors of Life on the Road better than a cute little man-sized rabbit rapping at us like a bitch funky sex machine. And so, without further ado, the Animal Alphabet.
Animal Alphabet
Alligators can bite, but they cannot kick-fight.
Bears of all sorts enjoy full contact sports.
Chimps arenât too bright. For example, they donât understand the lever/fulcrum mechanical principle.
Demons in hell enjoy torture quite well.
Eggs come with shells. Isnât that swell?
Frogs like the water and get eaten by otters.
Grasshoppers speed their way through the weeds.
Hermit Crabs do not, in fact, like loneliness.
Iguanas donât wanna be put in the sauna.
Jackals have hackles all black and brown spackled.
Kangaroos in the zoos wear kid gloves and shoes.
Lions will eat pork chops in a controlled scientific environment.
Mongooses hate snakes that bite their cabooses.
Newts are cute.
Orangutans can be trouble if they manage to form a gang.
Pigeons donât use their beaks for a sculpture critique.
Quails never fail to refuse bread that is stale.
Rhinos run fast and emit foul-smelling gas.
Shrews hate to lose and are quick to accuse.
Tortoises, if employed as servants, make proud butlers.
Ugly Ducklingâs used to chuckling and his knees are always buckling.
Voles are like shrews but they donât mind losing and feel awkward accusing.
Wolverines are nasty and mean. They also tell jokes that are foul and obscene.
X-Men arenât real. Itâs just a comic book.
Yaks donât like nonsense; they only like facts.
Zebras would make lousy babysitters. Their hooves are inadequate for holding baby bottles or tucking a child into bed.
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After reviewing the staunch science that governs the Cinema Strange Project, Peter Matzke asked if I felt that such chaste adherence to divergent rules isolated us from the rest of the European black scene, and perhaps even from the rest of the world. Did we truly feel a part of any scene? Did we really earn all those funny-looking university degrees, printed in crayon, and adorning the damp walls of our headquarters? Were we sincerely scientific in our approach to the universe, or simply arcane court jesters using Latin names for bugs in the name of art? Did we regard our music seriously, whatever its inspiration, or were we just selling snake oil, and making fun of those who bought it?
I reassured him, and I hope to do the same for you, gentle reader, with these words from my 2004 calendar, culled at random from one of the pages: Saturday, October 16th· ãThe Election of John Paul II to the Pontificateä. Keep that in mind, along with the 1, 2, 3s and the A, B, Cs, and the world will be your strangely cinematic oyster.