Solo Art Show By Brad Hamers...
16 pieces....up until July 24th...at The Nest (1801 Northeast Alberta Street Portland, OR)
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Brad Hamers Live in Paris, France
Brad Hamers - Flat Yoke - Live in Paris, France - May, 2011
Video by Big Pauper
Brad Hamers Live in Munster, Germany
Brad Hamers - Traveling Back From The Fire - Live in Munich, Germany - May, 2011
video by noblonski
Brad Hamers Live in London
Brad Hamers - Bullets Thru Water (excerpt) - Live in London - May 2011
Video By Big Pauper
Big Pauper's OFFICIAL Modified Circuitry Website!
CLICK HERE!!!!
From Big Pauper:
Alright! It’s the launch of Big pauper Modified Circuitry. The last web site was evident of transition. Do I cut back hours at my day-job and rely more on the modified creations or do I play it safe, keep going to work like a good little cog and make my machines when I get around to it? Fuck it, the initial support for this venture has been astounding and this new wordpress represents my decided dedication to the art at hand. It will be a slow build getting everything up on here (photos, videos, examples), as well as getting plenty of lab time in, but hang in there, I hope to update things as frequently as possible with the new fresh shit.
What’s on the horizon for BPMC? Well, inspired by the recent commission from the Portland Retro Gaming Expo I’ve been modding as many obscure gaming systems as I can get my hands on. I’ve got a few new designs that generate blocky retro-gaming like visuals and sounds, kind of similar to the Folktek bug series. I like the idea of creating a/v glitch tools that process both audio and video. Check the store every now and then, I may be putting some one-off modified gaming systems up depending on their consistent stability.
I will be traveling with my new all-in-one live a/v performance this year and using a lot of home-made gear in the process. I hope to see you out there as I will be posting dates for the fall Euro and domestic shows shortly. If you are unfamiliar with my music/video work check out Circle Into Square/Fake Four or my Sound cloud. If you are interested in booking me for a visuals gig, a live performance, a lecture or a workshop feel free to hit me up in the contact section.
Thank you ever so kindly for your interest and be well,
Big fucking Pauper. 2012.
http://www.circuitbentvideo.com/
Another New Big Pauper Video! (censored version)
Video by Big Pauper
From an as-yet titled EP by Big Pauper available April 17th from Circle Into Square/Fake Four. (http://bigpauper.bandcamp.com) (http://djpz.com)
Director's Note:
"I realized the original wouldn't last long on Youtube so I had to figure a way to censor myself. It took some work getting the right scrambled porn look, and it's all thanks to my latest build of the fritz box. It butchers the original, but at least now you can kind of watch it on youtube.
(http://www.circuitbentvideo.com/portfolio-item/the-fritz-control-surface-v1-2/)
Being that dailymotion seems a bit sleazy I put the uncensored version up there, we'll see if it lasts. (http://www.dailymotion.com/video/k3hAJ0nWFgncbP2V1dZ)
Big Pauper's New Video for "Big Sick"
From the album, "Beyond My Means," available now from Circle Into Square/Fake Four Inc (http://www.circleintosquare.com/item/beyond-my-means).
Video by Big Pauper. (http://djpz.com).
"scuttle" by brad hamers
leaving this place
if i make it out alive
we made maps of our broken hearts
and crossed gods like straight shots of highway
back and forth until the rope burn caught fire
with the battered bush until the butter (& sacrament) makes its way back around (we made wounds for our salt, passed out in the pepper)
we made truck stop of our weight, heavy cravings and soft-soap (coaxable avidity, prayable appetite)
we made barrels and canoes of our capsized cruise ships, tug-boats and blow-up-rafts for all the debris that we would leave behind
i left like a bomb , always did
parts of me never to be sewn back on
we made pins of ours dreams, (near-space)balloons of our egos
and followed them
(would you jump off a bridge or waterfall because your friends were)
off the end of an unended map, we made rations of our empty hearts and passed out, abundant and pregnant in the pile left to divvy up (,while passing the potatoes, while passing out loaded)
we made x marks over the parts of ourselves left to auction up
(the whip slowly pronounces god) straight lines of small talk huddle to keep heavy (stay overcast or keep raining), part of me weighs in as the rain cloud i came in with
we made looped medical tape, drums breaks and tribal marks of the bruises from the chain
smoking on each other’s frenzy, i’ll pull on your amusement and you drag my corpse back on carriage, by way of animal like an ol fashioned past-time
good in the head
made sharp and stuck bleeding to hold up the other end of the map
we made highway of our naivety, our anxiety, game-trails and tree trunk
bartered with our ambition, (pirates in our own waves) whale sucking the bottom of trade-ships to replace the plankton ,(Dolichorhynchops)
manatee in the room, this emotion of hers was this close to being extinct
eating antiques from the trash
on the plank, sword in its back, under the microscope, preparing the sample, highways were our new game-trails, where we got lost most in the woulds
and would go back
to find others
jet-engine in the truck, made pinwheels for the gossip, held up my ripped-off sign, made it there through mud
made hut around the fire in my belly
fed dead ideas, prophets on minimum wage, extinct medicine men and out-of-print appreciation, also watered down reactions, stuttering in your needs and (snap backs)responses
and helped a few of them read letters
back to home
contact paper, cover ur head like textbook, continuous home, looped memoir, carriage wheel and readable brand, nod to your label like a black eye and infamy, like quality product that will go out with an encore
bang the steering until the ideas see green
sleep your way up the future by dreaming up the latter
cleats in the suture, all dirt dancing on the edge of a wound
couldn’t climb free(dom) of dumb or the mountain, its way out of longing to give oneself up
to one another, to the afflicted condition, and no conviction, the carriage pulls a screen, the scream pulls up blood, the root reaches seed, hits the conceit like a cracked egg losing inkling, all corn saluting kernel, all suspicion with a spark, parking in the nucleus, no Standing signs and block the box fines,
we made ancient maps of our hard earned feelings and coastline of our climax like disaster
she came like a split in half ship (a hand radio lost its juice) , her cracks let out every floor at once, every passenger left in her, the same, whether dishwasher or captain, high chief or behind a color camera, like a feather from a shot bird, falls the same from a roof with no resistance as a mortar, with no resistance, if the common air was worth our five sense, (passed down) nicked off the picked off target like candy apple, props on our head, heavy as a bowling ball, falls like pins from the map, at the same speed as her anger, we caught up in thin air, at 3 cents a bite, both dropping at the same pitch, tee-pee off a cliff, no resistance, what if we pulled this rug, pull your air out, cat without a bag and all, one heavier head tied to a thousand weightless bodies, will we all fall and / or land the same
we made maps of our predictions
beaker glass of our weigh(way) to duck behind time, break deep and sink in it
will we make enough wake to remember the propeller
will leaving behind pop cans and plastic bags be enough to take, all the see, worth carrying, away with us, will the six-pack around our dinner’s neck sport support like sun beams, will the leaving hit (bottom or)the horizon when eye wrap my light around it, we shared a hundred watt head, let every moth smack it across its jaw
we made maps of the black and blue
built ships in the hurt
we made broken hearts to leave in
like debris left floating in the
dinner we know we need to eat
tomorrow
tomorrow floated by like hollowed out logs
like parts of the wreck to make raft of
we made breaking
like old twigs
for new fire
like overwhelmed hands
with decks pointing upward
ships sent out to make map
the lines
i draw out
and follow
for leaving
title: scuttle (submarine: anchor that pulled us apart ) take a long hard look at your pen
if i make it out alive
we made maps of our broken hearts
and crossed gods like straight shots of highway
back and forth until the rope burn caught fire
with the battered bush until the butter (& sacrament) makes its way back around (we made wounds for our salt, passed out in the pepper)
we made truck stop of our weight, heavy cravings and soft-soap (coaxable avidity, prayable appetite)
we made barrels and canoes of our capsized cruise ships, tug-boats and blow-up-rafts for all the debris that we would leave behind
i left like a bomb , always did
parts of me never to be sewn back on
we made pins of ours dreams, (near-space)balloons of our egos
and followed them
(would you jump off a bridge or waterfall because your friends were)
off the end of an unended map, we made rations of our empty hearts and passed out, abundant and pregnant in the pile left to divvy up (,while passing the potatoes, while passing out loaded)
we made x marks over the parts of ourselves left to auction up
(the whip slowly pronounces god) straight lines of small talk huddle to keep heavy (stay overcast or keep raining), part of me weighs in as the rain cloud i came in with
we made looped medical tape, drums breaks and tribal marks of the bruises from the chain
smoking on each other’s frenzy, i’ll pull on your amusement and you drag my corpse back on carriage, by way of animal like an ol fashioned past-time
good in the head
made sharp and stuck bleeding to hold up the other end of the map
we made highway of our naivety, our anxiety, game-trails and tree trunk
bartered with our ambition, (pirates in our own waves) whale sucking the bottom of trade-ships to replace the plankton ,(Dolichorhynchops)
manatee in the room, this emotion of hers was this close to being extinct
eating antiques from the trash
on the plank, sword in its back, under the microscope, preparing the sample, highways were our new game-trails, where we got lost most in the woulds
and would go back
to find others
jet-engine in the truck, made pinwheels for the gossip, held up my ripped-off sign, made it there through mud
made hut around the fire in my belly
fed dead ideas, prophets on minimum wage, extinct medicine men and out-of-print appreciation, also watered down reactions, stuttering in your needs and (snap backs)responses
and helped a few of them read letters
back to home
contact paper, cover ur head like textbook, continuous home, looped memoir, carriage wheel and readable brand, nod to your label like a black eye and infamy, like quality product that will go out with an encore
bang the steering until the ideas see green
sleep your way up the future by dreaming up the latter
cleats in the suture, all dirt dancing on the edge of a wound
couldn’t climb free(dom) of dumb or the mountain, its way out of longing to give oneself up
to one another, to the afflicted condition, and no conviction, the carriage pulls a screen, the scream pulls up blood, the root reaches seed, hits the conceit like a cracked egg losing inkling, all corn saluting kernel, all suspicion with a spark, parking in the nucleus, no Standing signs and block the box fines,
we made ancient maps of our hard earned feelings and coastline of our climax like disaster
she came like a split in half ship (a hand radio lost its juice) , her cracks let out every floor at once, every passenger left in her, the same, whether dishwasher or captain, high chief or behind a color camera, like a feather from a shot bird, falls the same from a roof with no resistance as a mortar, with no resistance, if the common air was worth our five sense, (passed down) nicked off the picked off target like candy apple, props on our head, heavy as a bowling ball, falls like pins from the map, at the same speed as her anger, we caught up in thin air, at 3 cents a bite, both dropping at the same pitch, tee-pee off a cliff, no resistance, what if we pulled this rug, pull your air out, cat without a bag and all, one heavier head tied to a thousand weightless bodies, will we all fall and / or land the same
we made maps of our predictions
beaker glass of our weigh(way) to duck behind time, break deep and sink in it
will we make enough wake to remember the propeller
will leaving behind pop cans and plastic bags be enough to take, all the see, worth carrying, away with us, will the six-pack around our dinner’s neck sport support like sun beams, will the leaving hit (bottom or)the horizon when eye wrap my light around it, we shared a hundred watt head, let every moth smack it across its jaw
we made maps of the black and blue
built ships in the hurt
we made broken hearts to leave in
like debris left floating in the
dinner we know we need to eat
tomorrow
tomorrow floated by like hollowed out logs
like parts of the wreck to make raft of
we made breaking
like old twigs
for new fire
like overwhelmed hands
with decks pointing upward
ships sent out to make map
the lines
i draw out
and follow
for leaving
title: scuttle (submarine: anchor that pulled us apart ) take a long hard look at your pen
Friday, April 13, 2012
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Broke As Me. (Tom Waits Beat Tape). by Big Pauper.
"This is "Bad As Me" by Tom Waits remixed track for track (in two and a half weeks time) by Big Pauper (Circle Into Square, Folktek) on some serious blowing-off-steam lighthearted i-wanna-feel-good-n-have-fun beat tape shit. This album was a creative exercise in rapid fire beat construction. While the two and a half weeks it took Pauper to create this isn't exactly light speed, it sure beats the seven year duration it took him to complete the "Beyond My Means" LP.
Remixes were constructed using the original songs, other Tom Waits material, a recent Tom Waits interview on NPR, 60's japanese gangster flicks, the occasional czech new wave flick, a bunch of instruments & a couple of stacks of records/tapes.
Short n' sweet, this record was created with nothing but the utmost respect for Mister Tom Waits & all sampled artists. It is unauthorized & unaffiliated with Anti Records.
Now BUY "Bad As Me" at http://www.anti.com/ .. and love that shit.Tom is back!!" ..-Big Pauper
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
an excerpt of 'Strikethrough' by Brad Hamers
cop canister to the head
cry me an aluminum funnel
oil me a sharp but slippery sentence
stop me before ‘demands’
crop me out at the creamery
grab as many free condiment packets as you can
police beanbags to the head
the media was (a) hit (late) bruised and changing color
smoke makes the best protest
the medics form a line
at the grapevine all the way back from the telegraph
arms stiff from holding up out-dated math (and symbol)
rubber bullet to the head
runner full of what he said
(the vine) pulled a capsaicin on a starting gun
(we’re)bummed down to standing up
no-vote first through the bottom line
really, put my socks on my hand ?
okay the river wants to vote for the damn, half the creek only makes noise because it won’t give in, where clinton lands capital letter first through the support beams, like lobbyists ain’t sunlight, (and microsoft word can really read the bible) or both sides ain’t the same coin,
red line under my name, pig blanket over my head, cry me an oil drill,
both baskets are in it to make money,
kiss me a wallet, show me receipts
one flash grenade to the chest
two words away from a sound
a thousand steps back
and another country later
molotov breadbasket to a cop
every tear to my head
this puddle of rips
forms a pond
and swamps
every ipad afire
tear gas canister to the head
be dead on a bright light, the vacuum on a camera
attract all the moth you can,
until you lose your clothes
then farm
a hundred riot police later, when we become immune to pepper spray
some white-shirt scarecrow still hold their perch
as if they wasn’t just props
as if thanksgiving weren’t only dinner
i ate 3 states and a southern half of another
threw up like a parachute over Cayuse territory
landed like scotch tape on a rip in the dollar
thrown off the Blue Mountains
white flag first
red and black after that
linguistically independent
no one understood
understand my face to the ground
...
(TO READ FULL POEM..CLICK HERE!!)
cry me an aluminum funnel
oil me a sharp but slippery sentence
stop me before ‘demands’
crop me out at the creamery
grab as many free condiment packets as you can
police beanbags to the head
the media was (a) hit (late) bruised and changing color
smoke makes the best protest
the medics form a line
at the grapevine all the way back from the telegraph
arms stiff from holding up out-dated math (and symbol)
rubber bullet to the head
runner full of what he said
(the vine) pulled a capsaicin on a starting gun
(we’re)bummed down to standing up
no-vote first through the bottom line
really, put my socks on my hand ?
okay the river wants to vote for the damn, half the creek only makes noise because it won’t give in, where clinton lands capital letter first through the support beams, like lobbyists ain’t sunlight, (and microsoft word can really read the bible) or both sides ain’t the same coin,
red line under my name, pig blanket over my head, cry me an oil drill,
both baskets are in it to make money,
kiss me a wallet, show me receipts
one flash grenade to the chest
two words away from a sound
a thousand steps back
and another country later
molotov breadbasket to a cop
every tear to my head
this puddle of rips
forms a pond
and swamps
every ipad afire
tear gas canister to the head
be dead on a bright light, the vacuum on a camera
attract all the moth you can,
until you lose your clothes
then farm
a hundred riot police later, when we become immune to pepper spray
some white-shirt scarecrow still hold their perch
as if they wasn’t just props
as if thanksgiving weren’t only dinner
i ate 3 states and a southern half of another
threw up like a parachute over Cayuse territory
landed like scotch tape on a rip in the dollar
thrown off the Blue Mountains
white flag first
red and black after that
linguistically independent
no one understood
understand my face to the ground
...
(TO READ FULL POEM..CLICK HERE!!)
Sunday, January 8, 2012
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