New song “A Tribute a True a Work of a Art (post-punk version)” from Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 4

This song launches the fourth album, right after William seemingly kills himself right at the end of the previous album. I made this song, along with about four others of this album, during the last stretch when Udio was usable.

You could tell, unfortunately, that Udio was involved in the production of this song, because the composition is far more complex than what Suno 6.0 produces, even when you directly remix the original Udio song. That was due to Udio allowing the generation of 30-seconds-long segments at a time, and letting you extend the song in either direction as you pleased. No service allows that anymore, not sure why. You can hear the entirety of the original Udio song, not the Suno remixes, at the end of the video.

Review: Prime Cut

A 1972 lurid crime thiller that I only found about because of my ongoing obsession with 70s Sissy Spacek. This was Sissy’s first feature film, in which she starred alongside Gene Hackman (who’s always compelling) and some older guy I had never seen before.

Sissy started with hopes of becoming a professional songwriter, but it didn’t pan out that way. Because she moved in the right circles and her cousin was a professional actor, and also because Sissy was mind-meltingly beautiful, doors soon enough opened for her to star in films. Prime Cut was filmed relatively shortly before Malick’s Badlands, which would make Spacek into a cult actress for independent filmmakers (eventually working with Robert Altman, David Lynch, and others), and also would make her the subject of infatuation for I’m assuming thousands of people worldwide. I’ve only been enamoured with her since I truly awakened to her existence about two weeks ago, but on my search for clips, I’ve read the words of poor saps who saw her back in the seventies or eighties and have never been able to forget her since. I hope my case eventually passes, as it feels almost like rubbing salt on a wound at this point.

Anyway, this is a movie that simultaneously tries to make selling young women (likely teenagers) a terrible thing to do, while also having Sissy paraded naked, with her delightful little body and titties out for our viewing pleasure. In one scene, she’s dressed in a beautiful see-through dress in an upscale restaurant; for some reason, the same man who saved her from sexual slavery decided to dress her up and parade her around in a dress that clearly displays her tits. I’m not complaining about any of this, mind you: I like when movies cater to my desires, and I absolutely wanted to see as much of 70s Spacek as humanly possible, including her pretty tits. The hypocrisy just irks me the wrong way. Ultimately, though, I suppose the movie is not apologetic of the fact that it caters to one of men’s most basic fantasies through the ages: that of rescuing a gorgeous, innocent princess from worse men, then keeping her to yourself so she can carry on your bloodline.

Now, this movie is a six or a six-and-a-half at the most. We’re treated to editing that repeats the same things over and over without much movement (driving cars, loading weapons, shooting, a combine chase). Some dialogue is plain dumb. There’s also not much to the plot beyond an out-of-town “detective” rescuing a gorgeous princess, then fighting the evildoers who captured her.

Things I appreciated: the sense of inhabiting the 70s was wonderful. Those cities from fifty years ago. The general ethnic homogeneity to the extent that they had to invent slurs for the Irish. Gorgeous upscale hotels that you can hardly imagine existing anymore in that form. The beautiful Midwest stretching from horizon to horizon. Quaint 70s fairs full of happy, fit young people who didn’t grow up on smartphones. Better times.

Some of the characters were memorable in their little details. Hackman’s role was of a nasty crime boss who sold fresh girls as cattle, and placing him in the plains of the Midwest instead of a city like Chicago gave him a peculiar air. He was also named Mary Ann for some reason; not sure if that was ever explained. His brother was a greasy guy who always wore a wife beater and constantly had a sausage at hand from the industrial butchery where he worked. I can’t say I liked seeing him, but he was memorable.

Now, Sissy’s character. A girl raised in an orphanage seemingly dedicated to providing fresh meat for the sex-slavery circuit. In a monologue, Sissy tells the protagonist that growing up, she used to make out with her best friend at the orphanage (another girl), pretending that one of them was a man. That she even put on a low voice to sell the act. She said she imagined how a grown man’s hands would feel roaming all over her. Naturally, she falls for the protagonist the moment he rescues her, and for the rest of the movie she gets led around as she experiences the wonders of an upscale restaurant and a fair with childish innocence. There’s a moment in which the protagonist and his crew are dealing with a couple of dairy farmers in a pointless exchange except for the fact that Sissy is in the background eating cotton candy with delight. She also looked mesmerizing in her white dress.

So, to anyone reading this (not sure why anyone would read a review of a random movie from 1972, let alone one written by me), watch this movie if you’re interested in inhabiting the 70s for a while, or if you’re afflicted with a burning obsession with 70s Sissy Spacek that prevents you from sleeping properly and fills you with ungovernable despair because you didn’t live through the 70s and were unable to meet the perfect creature that Sissy Spacek was during that limited span of time.

Some photos of the movie. And by “of the movie,” I mean of Sissy Spacek in the movie, which is why I watched this to begin with.

Life update (09/15/2026)

I’ve been cursed to be the kind of human being that suffers for impossible things. I’ve never genuinely wished for a particular car, a good job, a marriage. I suffer because I wasn’t born as someone else; because I didn’t grow up during a particular decade (particularly the 1970s, for a long time now); because I didn’t get to meet certain people, if only to have a five-minute conversation with them.

Easy for me to understand why I have, for most of my life, yearned to be someone else. Born with a screwed-up brain. Tormented by intrusive imagery even as a child, before I had any business knowing most of the things I was being shown. Born with a pituitary tumor that was discovered late and that permanently fucked up my body. Grew up through trauma and neglect. Merely being awake involves a baseline of psychological and physical discomfort that never goes away.

I depend upon the moments every day when I can distract myself from my consciousness to be able to endure being myself for yet another day. Most of the time that involves losing myself in daydreams. Sometimes that involves writing stories, creating songs. Reading doesn’t do much for me anymore, not with my kind of vivid imagination. I don’t create things because I want to be known or because I want to leave beautiful things for others. I make things because I’m compelled to do them, and because that allows me to forget I’m myself for as long as their production lasts.

A weight that I’ve been carrying all my life is my obsessive nature. I doubt regular people feel even an inkling of how that’s truly like. When my brain switches on the obsession for something, I live and breathe it every day. I think about it even if I don’t want to. I have to consume more details about it, and being impeded from doing so feels like mental torture. Most of the time the subject of my obsession is some topic or project, which proceeds to consume most of my waking life. Sometimes the obsession is a fictional person. I fell tremendously hard for Cormac McCarthy’s Alicia Western for whatever reason that my brain won’t entirely share, and she remains one of the main subjects of my daydreams to this day.

The worst subjects of spontaneous obsessions are, by far, real humans. I got it so bad for Joanna Newsom back in 2010-2012 that listening to her albums (mainly Ys and Have One on Me) felt like the sole connection to beauty in this world. Throughout the day, I wondered what Joanna would think about this or that. And to this day I can’t think of Joanna Newsom, let alone listen to her music, without being dragged back emotionally against my will to that period in my life in which she felt like the sole salvation that existed from the ever-present risk of losing my mind.

I’m not sure what sparked it, but somewhat-recently I asked ChatGPT to recommend me movies from the 1970s, a period that as I mentioned, I’ve felt the absurd ache of wishing I had lived through while conscious enough (and I didn’t experience it at all, as I was born in 1985). I’m not entirely sure how to explain it. The 1970s felt to me like the last chance we had as a civilization, perhaps as a human species, to be real. As if there was a turning point that could have gone in the right direction but instead we ended up in the image-obsessed, cocaine-fueled 80s. Even as a child I felt that pull. There were photos from the 70s in homes of relatives in which people seemed more alive than what I was experiencing in the 90s. It felt like they were able to be idiosyncratically themselves. It still feels like that when I listen to music or watch movies from that era. Likely this is just one of my delusions, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling that way.

The request for movies led me to Nicholson’s Five Easy Pieces. I realized soon that it had been a clear inspiration for McCarthy to produce his last two novels, which he started writing or at least researching in the mid-to-late seventies. That led me to figure out what other movies McCarthy had appreciated. That led me to Terrence Malick’s Days of Heaven. That led me to Malick’s Badlands, starring Sissy Spacek. And now I’ve been cursed again.

Fifty-three fucking years ago. Somehow feels like yesterday. Badlands led me to Altman’s 3 Women. To the godawful Welcome to L. A. Just to be able to experience whatever was captured of this creature during the 70s. It’s not just the beauty, that somehow appeals to me perfectly. It’s every single detail: her voice, her little expressions, her mannerisms. Something in my brain is telling me “this is the most special being you’ve ever encountered.” And as a 41-year-old man, I have to suffer because I can’t go back in time and just talk to her for five minutes. Why I had to be born so late and as myself.

This is going to be one of those nights in which I close my eyes and wish earnestly that I don’t wake up again. And I’ll surely wake up to endure yet another day as myself.

New Song “Piss in the Mouth of the Lord” from Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 4

Second song of the Suno 6.0 era, going through my unrendered set of song lyrics for this latest part of William’s story.

This one had an interesting pre-production stage: I had assumed I was going to pursue the default post-hardcore with dark punk route for this song, but when I swept exhaustively through my list of genres, this unorthodox combination came up (funk rock with candombe), and it was just the right kind of unhinged and angry to fit. I briefly also considered making it an art pop with progressive rock piece, which would have chased after “Bohemian Rhapsody.” I’m happy how this song eventually came out. Quite the difficult lyrics to conceptualize musically in a way that would fit them properly.

New song “Hermit Hemisphere” from Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 4

I’ve bitten the bullet and decided to create my first new Odes song from the fourth album on Suno 6.0. I’ve genuinely explored alternative services and models, but none are up to par even with the original Udio, so I’m all out of luck when it comes to keeping my previous workflow. But I’ve made it work with Suno 6.0, I think. I’m quite happy with how “Hermit Hemisphere” came out.

Covers of “The Burning Heart Inside Your Throat” from Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 1

I’m remaking my old Udio-era songs with the new Suno 6.0, which is terrible for making songs from zero, but amazing at remixing them.

This song, the first album’s closer, is one of my favorites from William’s middle-school era, but the quality of the audio was so bad that it hurt to listen. Now that we’ve gotten the boys in the studio again, the song can finally be listened to in all its magnificence.