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Dutch Futurismo / Festival of Misfits

by Sándor Vály. Éva Polgár, Mikael Jurmu, Nea Lindgren

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1.
2.
MANIFESTE CANNIBALE You are all indicted; stand up! It is impossible to talk to you unless you are standing up. Stand up as you would for the Marseillaise or God Save The King. Stand up, as if the Flag were before you. Or as if you were in the presence of Dada, which signifies Life, and which accuses you of loving everything out of snobbery if only it is expensive enough. So you have sat down again. So much the better. You will listen more attentively. What are you doing here, crammed in like a lot of serious-minded crustaceans? Because you are serious-minded, aren't you? Serious, serious, serious unto death. Death is a serious matter, isn't it? One dies a hero's death or an idiot's death - which comes to the same thing. the only word that has more than a day-to-day value is the word Death. You love death - the death of others. Kill them! Let them die! Only money does not die; it only - goes away for a little while. That is God! That is someone to respect: someone you can take seriously! Money is the prie-Dieu of entire families. Money for ever! Long live money! The man who has money is a man of honour. Honour can be bought and sold like the arse. The arse, the arse, represents life like potato-chips, and all you who are serious-minded will smell worse than cow's shit. Dada alone does not smell: it is nothing, nothing, nothing. It is like your hopes: nothing. like your paradise: nothing like your idols: nothing like your politicians: nothing like your heroes: nothing like your artists: nothing like your religions: nothing Hiss, shout, kick my teeth in, so what? I shall still tell you that you are half-wits. In three months my friends and I will be selling you our pictures for a few francs." Poem: Francis Picabia
3.
Enemy Alien 04:57
Enemy Alien Standing on a high mountain I felt free I danced to the music the mountains make together But while I dance clouds hid the mountains and when they cleared I found myself in this deep valley where the clouds go walking among ghostly tree kszzziss saw kszzzziss saw with the hiss of a sawblade death comes singing kszzziss saw kszzzziss saw How about this one? Not much left of him EVERYBODY'S HUNGRY FOR. . . Not Fantastic They rarely come back when they're this far gone kszzziss saw kszzzzisss saw Papers Have your papers ready Any rags, any bones, any bottles today The same old question in the same old way DIG FOR VICTORY ksszzziss saw kssszzzziss saw Midday was dim I saw nothing Riverside 1698 No mountains 22 No way back 22 to the mountains I had lost ZOOM BOOM Opened by customs ZOOM BOOM Have your papers ready kksszzziss saw The round-faced official with his rubber stamp ZOOM BOOM Edinburgh Manchester The Isle of Man ZOOM BOOM kkszziss saw Says he's an artist kksszzzzisssaw That's how far gone he is Pure Rich Milk Nature's Finest kksszzzzissaw Poem by Kurt Schwitters
4.
Huelsendada 04:19
Huelsendada So, Huelsenbeck has put our feud in print -- HA HA So he sneers at my bourgeois home -- my child who cries, who has to be changed and fed So he laughs at my solid wife -- that she's no Anna Bloom So families are not dada -- HA -- neither is the future then So an artisr has nothing to do with kids, with homes, with Christmas trees And this is commitment -- HA -- this is communist art Well, art is not communist -- not bourgeois either It's no club and has no party line Not wild nights make an artist -- not drugs or manifestos It's art -- HA HA -- that's no secret The one who makes art -- he's the artist His one duty-to shape the stuff that comes to hand So he can't serve two masters -- Not art in the service of revolution Not revolution at all -- if it fetters art These Huelsendadas -- husks of artists -- have winnowed out the kernel So I spit back at you, Huelsenbeck But where you spit venom, I spit art I laugh at you -- HA HA -- I laugh at you HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA ha ha ha ho ho ho HA HO HO HA HO HA HA HO ho ha ha ho ha ha HO HO HO HO HO HO ha ho ha ha ho HA HA HA HA Critics Critics are a special kind of human being. To be a critic one has to be born to it. The born critic, thanks to the exceptional sheeepness of his wits, finds out exactly what it is not all about. He invariably sees, not the faults of the work of art, not those of the artist, but his own. The critic, thanks to the natural shee- eepness of his wits, becomes aware of his own deficiencies through the medium of the work of art. Critics resemble those well-loved men, the schoolmasters, although it is true the critic needs to pass no exams: critics are born not made. Critics do not have to give up their umbrellas when they go to an art exhibition. The umbrellas do, however, have to take an exam. Only umbrellas with holes are admitted to art criticism. The difference between artist and critic is this: the artist creates, the critic bleates. Poem by Kurt Schwitters
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Manifest 01:56
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Karawane 05:51
KARAWANE jolifanto bambla ô falli bambla grossiga m'pfa habla horem égiga goramen higo bloiko russula huju hollaka hollala anlogo bung blago bung blago bung bosso fataka ü üü ü schampa wulla wussa ólobo hej tatta gôrem eschige zunbada wulubu ssubudu uluw ssubudu tumba ba- umf kusagauma ba - umf Poem by Hugo Ball
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To Make a Dadaist Poem Take a newspaper. Take some scissors. Choose from this paper an article the length you want to make your poem. Cut out the article. Next carefully cut out each of the words that make up this article and put them all in a bag. Shake gently. Next take out each cutting one after the other. Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag. The poem will resemble you. And there you are—an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the vulgar herd. Poem by Tristan Tzara
8.
Chair de Réve Les oiseaux de nuit portent des lanternes allumées dans la charpente de leurs yeux. Ils conduisent des spectres délicats et dirigent des voitures à fines veines. La voiture noire est attelée à la montagne La cloche noire est attelée à la montagne Les morts traînent des troncs et des scies vers le môle Des goitres visqueux abattent les moissons sur les aires de fer Les anges atterrissent dans des corbeilles d'air Les poissons prennent leur bâton de pèlerin et dans des étoles roulent vers la sortie. Poem by Hans Arp
9.
FESTIVAL OF MISFITS If you are too successful, and have nostalgia for the days when you were not. If you are unsuccessful, and hope some day success will knock at your door. If you are too beautiful, and find men in the street are bothersome. If you are ugly, madame, and wish you were beautiful. If you sleep profoundly at night, and feel that it is a waste of time. If you suffer from insomnia, and have time on your hands. If you have teeth, and no meat. If you have meat, and no teeth. If you belong to the weaker sex, and wish you were of the stronger. If you're in love and it makes you suffer. If you're loved and it bores you. If you're rich, and envy the simple happiness of the poor. If you're poor, and long for la Dolce Vita. If you're afraid to die, or find no point in living. If you're a drunkard or teetotaler. If you believe in heaven or believe in hell. If you're satisfied wit the colour of your skin, or would rather change it. If you believe in yourself and are pleased with what you do, or don't believe in yourself, and wonder what you are doing and why then come to see the FESTIVAL OF MISFITS built by people who sometimes sleep soundly, sometimes don't: sometimes are hungry, sometimes overfed: sometimes feel young, rich and handsome, sometimes old, ugly and poor: sometimes belleve in themselves, sometimes don't: sometimes are artists, sometimes not. We make music which is not Music, poems that are not Poetry, painting that are not Painting, but music that may fit poetry, poetry that may fit paintings paintings that may fit....someting, someting which gives us the chance to enjoy a happy,, nonspecialized fantasy. Try it
10.
Kaspar is dead Oh no, oh no, good Kaspar's dead! Who now will hide the burning banners in cloudbraid and daily build a black mare's nest? Who now will turn the coffee mill in its old, old barrel? And who will lure the idyllic deerfrom its petrified paper bag? Who'll blow the noses of ships, parapluies, wind-udders, ancestral bees, ozone spindles, and who will bone the pyramids? Oh no, no, no, our good Kaspar is dead! Pious bimbam Kaspar's dead! The shark will rattle his teeth with heartrending grief when he hears his given name -- so I sigh on -- his last name Kaspar Kaspar Kaspar. Why hast thou forsaken us? In what form has your great and beautiful soul transmogrified? Are you a star? or a chain or water hanging from a hot whirlwind? or a transparent brick on the groaning drum of rocky BEING? Now our tops and toes dry up, and fairies lie half-charred on the funeral pyre. Now the black bowling alley thunders behind the sun, and no one winds up compasses and pushcart wheels any longer. Who now will eat with the phosphorescent rat at the lonely barefoot table? Who now will chase the siroccoco devil when he wants to fuck the horses? Now who'll explain the monograms in the stars? His bust will grace the mantel of all the truly noble men, but that's no comfort, no tobacco snuff for a deadhead skull. Poem by Hans Arp

about

Dutch Futurismo’s Festival of Misfits is a welcome addition to Ektro Records’ series of releases by Hungarian-born artists and musicians Éva Polgár and Sándor Vály. Working with Nea Lindgren and Mikael Jurmu, Polgár and Vály enter the soundscapes of Spanish seashores, streets, flats and ateliers, where their music takes an unpredictable course. The procession of whimsical improvisations, peculiar solutions and impossible circumstances was recorded with a single microphone. Performed on instruments built from scrap materials from streets and dumpsters, Dutch Futurismo brings together Arte Povera and Dada. While impinging the obvious conventions of making music, Dutch Futurismo’s unruly approach also taps into the Cagean tradition of widening the horizons of what is perceived as music in the first place, as each sound on the album lives and breathes according to its own unapologetic logic.

Dutch Futurismo’s Festival of Misfits celebrates the 100th Anniversary of Dada by reciting poems and proclamations of Dadaists Kurt Schwitters, Hugo Ball, Hans Arp and Francis Picabia.

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released April 9, 2020

Composed By Sándor Vály, Mikael Jurmu, Éva Polgár

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Sandor Valy Finland

Sándor Vály (1968) is an audiovisual artist born in Hungary and currently living in Finland and Italy. Vály’s art is characterised by conceptual and philosophical dimension, which he uses to operate in the field of contemporary art. His work ranges from music to cinema, performance art and literature. Vály creates holistic works of art that form extensive entities ... more

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