Llyn
Foulkes’ Machine
listen
to “Old L.A.”
You have to observe this
machine. The artist made it himself, for self-expressive purposes, during the
transition of power from Carter to Reagan. It is a formidable instrument, made
of horns & drums & tongs & bones & whatnot, all played barefoot
(like the organist of St. Martin-in-the-Fields) by the artist, at the Church of
Art in the Brewery, say, or even at California Plaza, in that vast outdoor
plaza which brings to mind Tiny Alice by virtue of so strongly
resembling an architectural model writ large.
What does it play?
Foulkes’ songs, of course. One about Topanga, one about Hollywood at 3 A.M.,
that sort of thing. They’re quite long and involved, really. Almost
epical, but that’s really more a frame of mind than a critical
assessment. Foulkes’ feet fly, dominant and tonic, bulb horns blare, in
various scales, a few SFX (same symbol as San Francisco International
Airport—ours is LAX, but they might change its name to James Stewart
International Airport, in which case it would be ex-LAX) off the burlesque
stage, a cymbal crash for emphasis, that’s all.
