FOTHOU​-​Time To Play

by FOTHOU (Fall of the House of Usher)

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04:07 video


FOTHOU's leader, Christopher Cunningham (aka Neverwas, Sync66, Moribund Veneer, and El Peludo) has enjoyed a long musical career as a guitarist/producer/composer/songwriter; collaborating on stages and in studios with many artists, including Marianne Faithfull, John Lurie’s Lounge Lizards, The Contortions, Gavin Friday, Boukman Eksperyans, Omar Farouk Tekbilek, Issam Rafea, Katell Keineg, The Golden Paliminos, Marshall Crenshaw, Richie Havens, Wayne Horvitz, John Zorn, and The Saqqara Dogs . A NYC-native, Twin Cities transplant, he composes for and leads several group projects, with FOTHOU being his current main squeeze.

from Chris:
This is FOTHOU's second release. I'd like to thank all the people involved in making this happen; the musicians, my family, the inspiration of the vibrant Minneapolis music scene, and the most thanks to the one most high.

photo of kids playing: Henri Cartier Bresson "Seville, Anadulucia" 1939


Other Chris Cunningham links:


released October 24, 2016

All songs produced by Chris Cunningham for Ecstatomatic Prods.
Birdcall, Novemba, and Al Fatiha all copyright 2016, Ecstatomatic, BMI
All rights reserved.


all rights reserved



FOTHOU (Fall of the House of Usher) Minneapolis, Minnesota

FOTHOU (Fall of the House of Usher) is:
a dark, resinous, and brutally elegant master shot of musical possibilities— lifting (with a vengeance) from many of the world's deepest groove pockets- East, West, and North African, 80's No Wave skronk, early 70's Miles, Sun Ra, and Good Old New Orleans Vampire Funk— and creating a unique and soul-twisting brand of high energy, postnational slipsync. ... more

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Track Name: Flying High
Flying High - M. Gaye

Flying High in the friendly skies, without ever leaving the ground

Rest of the folks are tired and weary, and have laid their bodies down

I go to the place where good feeling awaits me, and it’s bound to forsake me-

So stupid minded, so stupid-

But I go crazy when I can’t find it.

In the morning , I’ll be all right, my friend-

But soon the night will bring the pains, the pain, awful pain -

Flying High in the friendly skies, without ever leaving the ground

Ain’t seen nothing but trouble , baby-

Nobody really understands.

And I go to place where danger awaits me, self destruction’s in my hand

So stupid minded.

But I go crazy when I can’t find it.

Well, I know, I’m hooked my friend- to the boy who makes slaves out of men.

Flying High in the friendly skies, without ever leaving the ground

Rest of the folks are tired and weary, and have laid their bodies down
Track Name: Faces (Walt Whitman)
Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1855.


SAUNTERING the pavement, or riding the country by-road—lo! such faces!
Faces of friendship, precision, caution, suavity, ideality;
The spiritual, prescient face—the always welcome, common, benevolent face,
The face of the singing of music—the grand faces of natural lawyers and judges, broad at
the back-top;
The faces of hunters and fishers, bulged at the brows—the shaved blanched faces of
orthodox citizens;

The pure, extravagant, yearning, questioning artist’s face;
The ugly face of some beautiful Soul, the handsome detested or despised face;
The sacred faces of infants, the illuminated face of the mother of many children;
The face of an amour, the face of veneration;
The face as of a dream, the face of an immobile rock;
The face withdrawn of its good and bad, a castrated face;
A wild hawk, his wings clipped by the clipper;
A stallion that yielded at last to the thongs and knife of the gelder.
Sauntering the pavement, thus, or crossing the ceaseless ferry, faces, and faces, and faces:
I see them, and complain not, and am content with all.

Do you suppose I could be content with all, if I thought them their own finale?
This now is too lamentable a face for a man;
Some abject louse, asking leave to be—cringing for it;
Some milk-nosed maggot, blessing what lets it wrig to its hole.
This face is a dog’s snout, sniffing for garbage;
Snakes nest in that mouth—I hear the sibilant threat.

This face is a haze more chill than the arctic sea;
Its sleepy and wobbling icebergs crunch as they go.
This is a face of bitter herbs—this an emetic—they need no label;
And more of the drug-shelf, laudanum, caoutchouc, or hog’s-lard.
This face is an epilepsy, its wordless tongue gives out the unearthly cry,
Its veins down the neck distended, its eyes roll till they show nothing but their whites,
Its teeth grit, the palms of the hands are cut by the turn’d-in nails,
The man falls struggling and foaming to the ground while he speculates well.
This face is bitten by vermin and worms,
And this is some murderer’s knife, with a half-pulled scabbard.
This face owes to the sexton his dismalest fee;
An unceasing death-bell tolls there.

Those then are really men—the bosses and tufts of the great round globe!
Features of my equals, would you trick me with your creased and cadaverous march?
Well, you cannot trick me.

I see your rounded, never-erased flow;
I see beneath the rims of your haggard and mean disguises.
Splay and twist as you like—poke with the tangling fores of fishes or rats;
You’ll be unmuzzled, you certainly will.
I saw the face of the most smeared and slobbering idiot they had at the asylum;
And I knew for my consolation what they knew not;
I knew of the agents that emptied and broke my brother,
The same wait to clear the rubbish from the fallen tenement;
And I shall look again in a score or two of ages,
And I shall meet the real landlord, perfect and unharmed, every inch as good as myself.

The Lord advances, and yet advances;
Always the shadow in front—always the reached hand bringing up the laggards.
Out of this face emerge banners and horses—O superb! I see what is coming;
I see the high pioneer-caps—I see the staves of runners clearing the way,
I hear victorious drums.
This face is a life-boat;
This is the face commanding and bearded, it asks no odds of the rest;
This face is flavored fruit, ready for eating;
This face of a healthy honest boy is the program of all good.
These faces bear testimony, slumbering or awake;
They show their descent from the Master himself.

Of the word I have spoken, I except not one—red, white, black, are all deific;
In each house is the ovum—it comes forth after a thousand years.
Spots or cracks at the windows do not disturb me;
Tall and sufficient stand behind, and make signs to me;
I read the promise, and patiently wait.
This is a full-grown lily’s face,
She speaks to the limber-hipped man near the garden pickets,

Come here, she blushingly cries—Come nigh to me, limber-hipped man,
Stand at my side till I lean as high as I can upon you,
Fill me with albescent honey, bend down to me,
Rub to me with your chafing beard, rub to my breast and shoulders.

Music written and arranged by Chris Cunningham
Poem by Walt Whitman (from Leaves of Grass- 1866)

Vocals: Joe Horton
Guitars: Chris Cunningham
Bass: Chris Bates
Drums: Greg Schutte
Baritone Sax: Cole Pulice
Tenor Sax: Jared Jarvis
Alto Sax: Ivan Cunningham
Flute: George Adzick
Trumpet: Noah Ophoven Baldwin

Recorded at Bathtub Shrine Recording and MCTC studios, MPLS, MN
Engineered by Greg Schutte and Chris Cunningham

painting: The Temptation of the Victor by Ernst Fuchs— 1949

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