"in this present day world of tame, dumbed-down, derivative, throwaway culture there are few artists creating genuine in the moment. fortunately we have writers like danny baker who slice through barbed-wire banality. he fans the flames of intuitive-stream-of-consciousness in the grand tradition of henry miller, neal cassady & thelonius monk.
there is no 'technique' to this kind of creation other than to give the muse reign. let the mind roam free. there are illogical turns of phrases that jerk the reader's head from the relative comfort of circular thought. in quoting gut-bucket bluesy homespun then swerving off the charts intellect that takes the monster to new heights, there's a surrealist quality to the work though i would never slap that to the page. his work can be densely abstract for a few lines then socked into absolute clarity- impressionistic word salads stripped of acknowledged definitions.
baker improvises behind a strange soundtrack that seeps through border radio static while wielding unquestionably superior vocabulary. poetic bombs scatter any allusions to literary theory- operating beyond the realm of ordinary consciousness as well as communication yet plaster ivory with shards of essential information that will open the perceptive reader to infinite possibility in each click.
there is no contingency plan or predictable outbursts here. there is no public spectacle imposing one way out on bewildered audience. hyper-paranoid nerve collage rifles through the pockets of time- going for the throat of herd mentality while slipping contributions to needy individuals.
white-fisted fingers on ribbed wheel braced for inevitable wild ride that lays down pure inspiration without looking both ways for supposed criterion..."
(culled from intro to death in the key of life)
Worth A Thousand Words
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