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H.P. Lovecraft
This nOde last updated February
20th, 2005 and is permanently morphing...
(3 Cauac (Storm
Cloud) / 2 Kayab (Turtle) - 159/260 - 12.19.12.0.19)

"All life is only a set of pictures
in the
brain,
among which there is no difference betwixt those born of
real
things and those born of inward
dreamings,
and no cause to value the one above the other."
- H.P. Lovecraft
As a marginally popular writer working
in the literary equivalent of the gutter, Lovecraft received no serious
attention during his lifetime. But while most 1930s
pulp
fiction is nearly unreadable today, Lovecraft continues to attract
attention.
In France and
Japan,
his tales of cosmic fungi, degenerate cults and seriously bad
dreams
are recognized as works of bent genius, and the celebrated French philosophers
Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari praise his radical embrace of multiplicity
in their magnum opus A _Thousand Plateaus_. On Anglo-American turf, a passionate
cabal of critics fill journals like _Lovecraft_ Studies and _Crypt of
Cthulhu_ with their almost talmudic research. Meanwhile both
hacks
and gifted disciples continue to craft stories that elaborate the Cthulhu Mythos.
There's even a Lovecraft convention—the NecronomiCon, named for the most famous
of his forbidden grimoires. Like the gnostic
science
fiction writer
Philip
K. Dick, H.P. Lovecraft is the epitome of a cult author.
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Magical realism already denotes a strain of Latin
American fiction exemplified by
Borges,
Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and Isabel Allendein which a fantastic dreamlike
logic melds seamlessly and delightfully with the rhythms of the everyday.
Lovecraft's
Magick
Realism is far more dark and convulsive, as ancient and amoral forces
violently puncture the realistic surface of his tales. Lovecraft constructs
and then collapses a number of
intense
polarities between realism and fantasy,
book and dream, reason and its
chaotic
Other. By playing out these tensions in his writing, Lovecraft also reflects
the transformations that darkside occultism has undergone as it confronts modernity
in such forms as psychology,
quantum
physics, and the existential groundlessness of being. And by embedding all
this in an intertextual Mythos of profound depth, he draws the reader into the
chaos that lies "between the worlds" of magick and
reality.
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Lovecraft himself "collectivized" and deepened his Mythos by encouraging his friends to write stories that take place within it. Writers like Clark Ashton Smith, Robert Howard, and a young Robert Bloch complied. After Lovecraft's death, August Derleth carried on this tradition with great devotion, and today, dozens continue to write Lovecraftian tales.
From the perspective of
hyperspace,
our normal, three-dimensional spaces are exhausted and insufficient constructs.
But our incapacity to vividly imagine this new dimension in humanist terms
creates a crisis of representation, a crisis which for Lovecraft calls
up our most ancient fears of the unknown. "All the objects...were totally
beyond description or even comprehension," Lovecraft writes of Gilman's
seething nightmare before paradoxically proceeding to describe these horrible
objects. In his descriptions, Lovecraft emphasizes the incommensurability
of this space through almost non-sensical juxtapositions like "obscene
angles" or "wrong" geometry, a
rhetorical
technique that one Chaos magician calls "Semiotic Angularity."
In this sense Lovecraft's magickal authority is
nothing more or less than the authority of dream. But what kind of dream
tales are these? A Freudian could have a field day with Lovecraft's fecund,
squishy sea monsters, and a
Jungian
analyst might recognize the liniments of the proverbial shadow.
But Lovecraft's Shadow is
so inky it swallows the standard
archetypes
of the
collective
unconscious like a
black
hole. If we see the archetypal world not as a static storehouse of
timeless
godforms but as a constantly mutating
carnival
of figures, then the seething extraterrestrial monsters that Lovecraft
glimpsed in the
chaos
of
hyperspace
are not so much archaic figures of heredity than the
avatars
of a new psychological and mythic aeon. At the very least, it would seem
that things are getting mighty out of hand beyond the magic circle of the
ordered daylight mind.
In an intriguing
Internet
document devoted to the Necronomicon, Tyagi Nagasiva places Lovecraft's
potent dreamtales within the terma tradition found in the Nyingma branch
of
Tibetan
Buddhism. Termas were "pre-mature" writings hidden by Buddhist
sages
for centuries until the time was ripe, at which point religious visionaries
would divine their physical hiding places through omens or dreams. But
some termas were revealed entirely in dreams, often couched in otherworldly
Dakini scripts. An old Indian revisionary tactic (the second-century Nagarjuna
was said to have discovered his Mahayana masterpieces in the serpent realm
of the nagas), the terma game resolves the religious problem of how to
alter a tradition without disrupting traditional authority. The famous
Tibetan Book of the Dead is a terma, and so, perhaps, is the Necronomicon.
Of course, for Chaos magicians, reality can coherently
present itself through any number of self-sustaining but mutually contradictory
symbolic paradigms (or "
reality
tunnels," in
Robert
Anton Wilson's memorable phrase). Nothing is true and everything is
permitted. By emphasizing the self-fulfilling nature of all reality claims,
this postmodern perspective creatively erodes the distinction between legitimate
esoteric transmission and total fiction.
Lovecraft thus solidifies
his
virtual
reality by adding autobiographical elements to his shared world of
creatures, books and maps. He also constructs a documentary texture by
thickening his tales with manuscripts, newspaper clippings, scholarly citations,
diary entries, letters, and bibliographies that list fake books alongside
real classics. All this produces the sense that "outside" each individual
tale lies a meta-fictional world that hovers on the edge of our own, a
world that, like the monsters themselves, is constantly trying to break
through and actualize itself. And thanks to Mythos storytellers, role-playing
games, and dark-side magicians, it has.
In _Foucault's Pendulum_,
Umberto Eco suggests that esoteric
truth
is perhaps nothing more than a semiotic
conspiracy
theory born of an endlessly rehashed and self-referential literature
the intertextual fabric Lovecraft understood so well. For those who need
to ground their profound states of consciousness in objective correlatives,
this is a damning indictment of "tradition." But as Chaos magicians remind
us,
magic
is nothing more than
subjective
experience interacting with an internally consistent
matrix
of signs and affects. In the absence of orthodoxy, all we have is
the dynamic tantra of text and
perception,
of reading and dream. These days the Great Work may be nothing
more or less than this "ingenius game," fabricating itself without closure
or rest, weaving itself out of the resplendent void where Azathoth writhes
on his Mandelbrot throne.
- Erik Davis - _Calling Cthulu_
There has been some speculation that Lovecraft believed
what he wrote to be true on some level, due to his descriptive
dreams
of "abductions" by beings he referred to as "night-gaunts," winged, reptilian
humanoids without facial features who sound suspiciously similar to the Galatur
or Gala of the
Sumerian
KI-GAL. His fiction, he believed, was in some way influenced by "revelations"
he received during these "dream-abductions," which is a very familiar story
to those who study the modern "
UFO
Abduction" phenomenon.
-
_The
Deep Dwellers_ by William Michael Mott
Why
Did The Chicken Cross The Road?
H.P. Lovecraft: They say
my head has been cut off, but the blind fools will soon know the eldritch
horror of the abominable Pukpuklathop who froths with loathsome
ecstacy
in
unspeakable
slime
beyond
the NOW OPENED PORTALS TO THE OTHER SIDE!!!
episode _Professor Peabody's Last
Lecture_ (vhs/ntsc)
from _Night Gallery_ hosted by Rod Serling
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psychedelic
entity H.P. Lovecraft (ca. 1967-1969)
LINER NOTES FOR H.P. LOVECRAFT'S H.P. LOVECRAFT/H.P. LOVECRAFT II
By Richie Unterberger
Like the stories of the author after whom they were named,
H.P. Lovecraft's music was spooky and mysterious, a vibe well-suited for the
psychedelic
times
when their two albums were released in 1967 and 1968. Their remarkably eclectic
balance of folk, jazz, orchestrated pop, and even bits of garage rock and classical
music, was too fragile and ethereal to keep afloat for any longer than that,
perhaps. It lasted long enough, however, for the group to gift us with two uneven,
occasionally brilliant albums that are among the most intriguing obscure relics
of the psychedelic age.
The band's none-too-stable personnel were about as diverse
as could be in the milieu of 1967 Chicago, not a city known for hatching top-flight
psychedelic outfits. Guitarist George Edwards, the leader of H.P. Lovecraft
if anyone was, had been a folkie in the early 1960s, entering the rock scene
in the mid-1960s on the Windy City's Dunwich label. He cut a single of the
Beatles'
"Norwegian Wood," as well as a cover (not issued until the early 1970s)
of Bob Dylan's "Quit Your Low Down Ways" with Steve Miller on guitar.
He also sang backing vocals on a couple of Shadows of Knight hits, yet by late
1966 was playing in a lounge jazz trio at a local Holiday Inn.
That experience did not go to waste, however, as another
member of that trio was classically trained keyboardist and singer Dave Michaels.
Michaels would sing backup vocals on the early 1967 single that served as H.P.
Lovecraft's debut release, "Anyway That You Want Me"/"It's All
Over for You" (added to this CD as bonus tracks). Essentially a vehicle
for Edwards, the A-side was a fair pop-rock tune by Chip "Wild Thing"
Taylor (which was a hit in the UK for the Troggs). The Edwards original on the
flip was actually a solo outtake from 1966, sounding like a raw folk-rock derivation
of Dylan's "It's All Over Now Baby Blue." Edwards and Michaels, however,
determined to form a more permanent and ambitious H.P. Lovecraft lineup over
the next few months. This eventually settled into the quintet of Edwards, Michaels,
guitarist Tony Cavallari,
drummer
Michael Tegza, and bassist Jerry McGeorge (who had been rhythm guitarist in
the Shadows of Knight). In late 1967, this lineup recorded and released their
self-titled album, a wide-ranging mixture of covers and originals that unveiled
a far more striking vision than had been apparent on the single.
The group's strongest asset was the superb dual harmony
lead vocals of Edwards and Michaels, showcasing Michaels' operatic four-octave
span with a blend reminiscent of the Jefferson Airplane. Michaels' multi-instrumental
virtuosity on organ, harpsichord, piano, clarinet, and recorder-often bolstered
by session players on horns, clarinet, piccolo, and vibes-gave the band a much
wider range of timbres than much of their competition. Their seeming determination
to plough different ground with every cut sometimes misfired, as with the too-cheerful
version of Dino Valenti's "Let's Get Together" and the hokey old-time
music of "The
Time
Machine." More often, though, H.P. Lovecraft devised a haunting
ambience
that lived up to their pledge on the back sleeve to make songs inspired by (author)
H.P. Lovecraft's "macabre tales and poems of Earth populated by another
race."
Most of the songs on H.P. Lovecraft, however, were not originals, but folk-rock covers. The Edwards-Michaels vocal blend was particularly stirring on their covers of "The Drifter" (penned by folkie Travis Edmonson, half of the duo Bud & Travis) and the folk standard "Wayfaring Stranger." Their debt to cult folk-rocker Fred Neil was expressed in a gutsy, hard-rocking version of that singer-songwriter's "The Bag I'm In," as well as "Country Boy & Bleeker Street," which combined two songs from Neil's mid-1960s solo debut album. "I've Been Wrong Before," by a then-little-known Randy Newman, had already been done by Cilla Black (who had a British hit with the tune), Dusty Springfield, and California garage band the New Breed; H.P. Lovecraft gave it a particularly mystical, enchanting reading.
Yet the finest song H.P. Lovecraft ever did was the group
composition "The White Ship." The six-and-a-half-minute opus had a
wavering, foggy beauty, with some of Michaels' eeriest keyboards, sad dignified
horns, lyrics that fit in well with the albumís constant references to
drifting and wandering, and even the ringing of an "1811 Ship's Bell"
(by Bill Traut). In yet another stylistic
twist,
Edwards and Michaels put their lounge jazz chops to good use on the suave but
moody "That's How Much I Love You, Baby (More or Less)."
By the time H.P.Lovecraft II came out in September 1968,
the group had replaced McGeorge with bassist singer Jeff Boyan; moved from Chicago
to Marin County; and shared bills with Donovan, the
Pink
Floyd, Procol Harum, the Jefferson Airplane, the Buffalo Springfield, Big
Brother & the Holding Company, and other top psychedelic acts. Their music
had become more psychedelic, but also less
focused
and more self-indulgent, sounding at times like an
acid
trip starting to go awry. This prevented the album from being the equal of its
predecessor, though at its best it still packed quite a punch.
Michaels' keyboards in particular were moving into gossamer
spaciness that undoubtedly made H.P. Lovecraft a good match for sharing the
bill with Pink Floyd. (Not released until the 1990s, the Live May 11 1968 album
proved that H.P. Lovecraft, unlike many psychedelic bands with mighty ambitions,
could execute their complex arrangements well in concert.) "At the Mountains
of Madness" was certainly a highlight of the group's psychedelic free flights,
skittering close to, but never falling into, an abyss of menacing distortion-ridden
chaos,
with especially acrobatic vocal tradeoffs. "Mobius Trip" gave the
lounge jazziness of "That's How Much I Love You, Baby (More or Less)"
a far, well, trippier gloss, its vocals evaporating into the mist at the end
of the verses, its lyrics soaked in disoriented hippie euphoria.
More disorganized outings like "Electrallentando," however, indicated that the drug experience might be getting the better of them. "Keeper of the Keys" had a pseudo-operatic vocal so stentorian that it was difficult to tell if it was over-reaching earnestness or parody. (The forty-second Zappaesque link "Nothing's Boy," by the way, was written by radio wordjazzmeister Ken Nordine, who also provided the spoken narration.)
For all its ephemeral weirdness, H.P. Lovecraft II looked
back to folk music with its radical psychedelic reinterpretation of Billy Wheeler's
"High Flying Bird," the early folk-rock classic that had been recorded
by Judy Henske and the Jefferson Airplane. There were also adept close-harmony
covers of "
Spin,
Spin, Spin" and "It's About
Time,"
both of which utilized Michaels' flair for classical-flavored keyboard lines.
The latter of these had especially Airplane-ish vocalizations and almost tortuous
shifts of musical settings, veering between dissonant psychedelia and strident
strings. Both songs were written by Edwards' friend Terry Callier, the folk-jazz
singer whose cult was small enough to make Fred Neil's following seem huge.
(Callier, incidentally, had recorded "The Drifter," as "I'm a
Drifter," in the mid-1960s, prior to H.P. Lovecraft; Edwards would co-produce
a half-dozen of Callierís tracks in late 1969.)
Although H.P. Lovecraft were well-received on the psychedelic
concert circuit, neither of their two albums sold well enough to make the charts.
Edwards has recalled (in Ptolemaic Terrascope magazine) that the second LP was
something of a
rush
job, without as much time for writing or recording as they would have liked.
Dissension and the pressures of touring caused the band to split in 1969. Although
Edwards and Tegza did re-form the group in 1970, Edwards left before their album
came out, by which time the band were simply called Lovecraft, and bore little
musical resemblance to the H.P. Lovecraft of the 1960s. A final Lovecraft album
came out in 1975.
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psychedelic
fusion
entity H.P. Lovecraft
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