passionfru it A LABOUR OF LOVE
Contents
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Letter from the Editor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.6 A Quiet Afternoon, Julie Young . . . . . . . . . . . p.8 I write in laybys, MK What . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.12 Music Edits, J. Garewitz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.14 Mosh, Dan H. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.18 Beethoven Time, Frank C. McClanahan . . . . . . . . p.19 The State of Mind Series, Kevin O’Connor . . . . . . p.20 Radioboy, Laura Jane . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.22 The night I fell in Love, Eric Dolan . . . . . . . . p.24 Pathétique/Apparition in the Woods, Cameron Page . . p.26 Headspace, Sirin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.28 1979 by Deru, Briana Hernandez . . . . . . . . . . . p.30 Concert Photography, Gioia Gerber . . . . . . . . . p.32 Playing drums, etc, Gareth Dylan Smith . . . . . . . p.34 A portrait of the artist, Ishani Jasmin . . . . . . p.37 Peace in a song on repeat, Eoghan Idler . . . . . . p.38 Sorry I messed up, Jacob Kimmel . . . . . . . . . . p.40 Poem about music, Hanna Ojala . . . . . . . . . . . p.41 La Cantante, Angelica Maria . . . . . . . . . . . . p.42 Go with yourself, Eoghan Idler . . . . . . . . . . . p.44 Out of step, WYYØM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.46 Sleep Sessionz, Safia Bugel . . . . . . . . . . . . p.48 Old Technology, Sylvia Morris . . . . . . . . . . . p.49 Dance with me, Sylvia Morris . . . . . . . . . . . . p.50 A dog at a rave, Jordan Rafferty . . . . . . . . . . p.51 Music Diary, Cori Bratby-Rudd . . . . . . . . . . . p.52 Sweet Serenity, JT Barnett . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.53 A review of Meg Myers’ ‘Sorry’, David Marallag . . . p.54 MELODY, Aria Daryadel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.55 Music video stills, Jody . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.56 Third Wheel, Mark AB . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.57 Where have all the Merrymakers Gone?, JT Barnett . . p.58 Why Settle 4 Someone, CP Harrison . . . . . . . . . p.59 Love + Music, Hannah Reinhardt & Noll Griffin . . . p.60 Tula Tala, Roezielle Joy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.64 Joan Jett’s Guitar, Michelle Denise Norton . . . . . p.65 Snowy Mountains, Eleanor Leonne Bennett . . . . . . p.66 The Sunshine-Rain Playlist, Moy . . . . . . . . . . p.68 I can’t see the atmosphere, Shea . . . . . . . . . . p.69 Music for Dogs, Adeeb Kasem . . . . . . . . . . . . p.70 Bonus rounds, Ishani Jasmin . . . . . . . . . . . . p.73
Contributors
Cori Bratby-Rudd
Hanna Ojala Safia Bugel
Frank McClanahan
Gareth Dylan Smith Roezielle Joy
Jo Gosling
CP Harrison
Mark AB
Eoghan Idler
Trudi Knight
Sylvia Morris
David Marillag
Gioia MK What
Dan H.
Adeeb Kasem Sirin
Eric Doaln
Eleanor Leonne Bennett Michelle Denise Norton
Julie Young
Shea
JT Barnett
Jordan Rafferty
Briana Hernandez Laura Jane
Jacob Kimmel
Hannah Reinhardt
Angelica Maria
Noll Griffin
J. Garewitz
Aria Daryadel Moy
KwesĂ
Cameron Page
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letter from the editor 6
Music has always been close to me, I think — then I think again, and I guess I haven’t really had time to listen to a new album since I started my degree, and I kind of wonder if I will. I’ve had a summer off for the first time in, like, two years? I say off, but I mean I have a job with twelve hour shifts three or four times a week and am sitting at home watching myself heal a lot. Things aren’t easy right now. When I was fifteen I decided it’d be a great idea to learn every instrument ever, which has led to a really impressive collection of things I know how to play a bit. I know how to play them enough, I think. I haven’t felt a lot like writing lately; I’ve mostly been recording old songs that I made when I was eighteen. I really hope it comes back to me. Creation is such a strange process, and not at all my priority right now because there are so many things to focus on and I don’t want to be a Creative, I want to be a Psychologist, but I also want to Create and how do you balance all that, you know? I keep meaning to get my paints out, or write a song, but sometimes things come and sometimes they don’t. I hope this didn’t bamboozle you too hard. I’m in a weird place. It’s not really a great place, it’s a bit lonely and dark right now, but I think the advantage to that is that I am figuring things out, if slowly and in a really spindly kind of way. I’m going to try to paint something today, and to record a few more songs this week. I hope to have an album out soon. Not that this is about me. No. This is about you guys. I always wanted to see how other people responded to music. When I was in my late teens I built friendships on music, on loving Radiohead, on sitting in queues from 8am till evening and sprinting to the railing. I recorded songs a lot, I saw bands at least twice a month. I’m not about that life anymore. I guess I’m tired, but I also have a community of people that make me feel warm inside in a more content and less restless way. Things are easier for me now. But maybe for other people, those years are their comfort zone, and I want to hear about that.
Ishani x
A Quiet Afternoon
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Julie Young
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Julie Young
MK What
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J Garewitz
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Dan H
Beethoven time has come again
Emotion potent sobbing chords Aiding a stranded heart restore Its anchor in abandonment; Music too splendid to relent
To all who spent too much before
They understood they would no more; Lush beauty strung extravagant. Beethoven covered for my tears
Before. I need him now today.
Stupendous chords to wash away The wishful thinking of the years
And hide the heartbreak I conceal In something anyone can feel.
Frank McClanahan
volume 1 The A Side: Leap Year Day Left of Centre — Suzanne Vega Zoo Station — U2 Green Eye — Nav Katze Reality Used to Be a Friend of Mine — P.M. Dawn Diamonds and Pearls — Prince and the NPG 3 a.m. Eternal (Live at the SSL) — The KLF Fantasy — George Michael Tom’s Diner — DNA featuring Suzanne Vega Love Conquers All — ABC Time (Clock of the Heart) — Culture Club The B Side: March 14, 1992 Sowing the Seeds of Love — Tears For Fears Even After I Die — P.M. Dawn Pocket Full of Change — Rain Tree Crow Smells Like Teen Spirit — Nirvana Kosmos — The Paul Weller Movement That’s Entertainment — The Paul Weller Movement Heartbeat — King Crimson Exposure — Robert Fripp Postscript — Robert Fripp The Beautiful — P.M. Dawn
Kevin O’Connor
volume 2 The A Side Helpless Dancer — The Who The Real Me — The Who 5:15 — The Who Rise — Public Image Limited The Trap Door — Jules Shear Deep Sleep — The B-52’s The Magnificent Seven — The Clash The King Is Dead (live) — Go West Love Stinks — The J. Geils Band Promise — David Sylvian On Saturday Afternoons in 1963 — Rickie Lee Jones Act of Contrition—Madonna The B Side Flux (a big, bright, colourful world) — David Sylvian & Holger Czukay Love Will Tear Us Apart — Paul Young Kalimankou Denkou — Le Mystére des voix Bulgares Waiting for That Day — George Michael Waiting (reprise) — George Michael Hanging Out and Hung Up on the Line — Julian Cope To Serenade a Rainbow — P.M. Dawn Always Look on the Bright Side of Life — Monty Python
Ishani Jasmin
radioboy
how one wonky-eyed boy from Oxford made me comfortable in my own skin
I love all members of Radiohead equally. I adore Jonny’s modest warmth, Colin’s sunny disposition, Ed’s protective love, and Phil’s dapper cheer. I treasure what they each bring to the band, their importance as parts of a whole, their schoolboy camaraderie that hasn’t faded after thirty odd years. But there’s something about Thom Yorke. Something about Thom Yorke that helps me shine a light upon myself. I really love Thom Yorke. He was a boy who people said would never make it - he wasn’t conventionally beautiful, with his lazy left eye and sharp, angular features. He wasn’t charming, with his distaste for the common rockstar. He wasn’t in control, he wasn’t sure of who he was or who he wanted to be - all he knew was that he wanted to be a star. Where other artists vehemently denied that they ever wanted status - “I just do it for the music” - Thom was honest and did not hide his need for attention and a spotlight. He was, and still is, one of the most human musicians ever to reach such heights. Where media used his frosty exterior and neurotic disposition to try and make him seem less human, it only served to make him seem, to me, all the more full of a beating heart and red insides. I first began listening to Radiohead when I was a baby, my parents putting me to bed with Treefingers and singing Dollars & Cents to me - Kid A came out the year before I was born, Amnesiac a few months after I entered the world. I liked Radiohead my whole life, but they were too weird for me to ever love them. The lead singer wasn’t Disney-princehot, and his voice wasn’t smoothed out with autotune. The instruments clashed a little, haphazard horns and violent guitars. Thom’s vocals ranged from whispering to shrieking to rapping to wailing like he’d lost a lover. I had a few choice songs - the accessible ones like Creep, Fake Plastic Trees, Videotape, and Karma Police. Dan H
Reckoner is the song that changed my view of myself, and the world, and the band. I was hooked, at age 12, on it’s crashing-wave drums, elegant guitar, and soaring vocals. When my dad noticed my interest, he excitedly showed me the footage of the band performing the song in the series Live from The Basement. Phil was playing the heartbeat drums, Thom was on vocals and guitar, and the other three members weren’t swinging around guitars and bases like I was so used to. No, instead they had bottles filled with rice, a tambourine, and, in true weird Radiohead fashion, a lemon, and they were shaking along to the beat with wide smiles on their faces. Five men who I thought weren’t good enough because they weren’t suitable for front covers of magazines, five men who I thought were kinda weird because they were awkward in interviews and sat too close to each other and weren’t manly like the other rockstars I listened to, they were here and they were like me. They weren’t the people the world wanted. They weren’t enough, but they were so beautiful, writing these songs and sending them out to people like me who felt as if they were missing something. I was 12, and I already felt like I was missing something - I wasn’t skinny, I wasn’t pretty, my face was too red and my nose was too big and I was too loud and I wasn’t really happy with myself. But Thom Yorke had a wonky eye, and crooked teeth, and hair like the down on a baby bird, sticking up in all directions. And he didn’t look like a rockstar - he was wearing a polo shirt. But he opened his mouth and pure love came pouring out, and he sounded like a rockstar. He sounded like an angel. I’m now fifteen and I still feel some kind of comfort when I see Thom Yorke’s face. When I hear his voice transform from his rough British accent to a warm, legato falsetto. Thom Yorke, a man who sings about depression and love and the government and Heaven and Hell and capitalism. A neurodivergent man who gives precisely zero shits about gender roles and masculinity. Thom Yorke. A man who threw off every restraint he had and achieved what he wanted. Thom Yorke is unapologetically himself. He is blunt and cynical and warm and passionate and sharp and witty and impatient and loving and talented and middle-aged and agile and proud and depressed and manic and full of life and a really, really weird dancer. He’s such a weird dancer. But it’s like he has music thrumming through his veins, and happiness pouring out of his head, and he loses himself inside the cocoon the music makes for him, and if you watch him long enough he looks so beautiful. He can look so beautiful. If he can do it, so can I. Laura Jane
I was fourteen years young and couldn’t even tell you what my favorite band was. Unlike scores of my peers who were devouring the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Sublime, Nirvana, Blink, etc; I was, for all intents and purposes, kept deaf to the rumblings of my musical generation thanks to the disease of roman catholicism. I sat nervously under this umbrella of repression as the prospect of high school in the fall initiated a torrential downpour of social and personal obstacles I simply was not prepared for. I despised my parents for having made me this way, somewhat socially handicapped and lacking identity, repeating prayers hollowly and masturbating confusedly to Girls Gone Wild commercials that graced my television once the channels seemed to stop caring. It did not help, mind you, that I was slightly overweight (finding out far too late that “hefty” was by no means a special design, but rather a necessity) and that I had kissed only one girl, once, at a middle school dance as Eric Clapton’s “You Look Wonderful Tonight” crept sadly out of the speakers and, by some grace of god, convinced an actual human to press their lips against mine. In short, I lacked an identity, a purpose, a life. Something was growing and pushing and fighting and all I could do, it seemed, was fold further and further inside of myself, embers of thought doused nightly by prayer as the world as a whole seemed to spin and not care. I needed something. And I got it In the form of a single instant message. A folder, titled “eric songs,” from an older cousin who always seemed to know how I felt, containing 1,000+ songs spanning hundreds of artists that had been suddenly thrust into my universe. Love, particularly its beginnings, is the most total and encompassing human emotion I have ever had the pleasure Here I met The Killers, The Strokes and The Shins - Streetlight and Jack White, Noah the Whale, Rural Alberta, Portugal The Man, Los Campesinos and every fucking band that shouted and screamed in ways that I couldn’t, that made sadness pretty and pitied themselves over jangly choruses and poisonous verse, frantic confessions on life and its truths. As years pass and experiences accumulate, music, like love, is not immune to fluctuations. “Scenes” develop, tastes change, old bands start to suck and new ones pave the way. I have evolved thousands of times since the moment Jenny Was A Friend Of Mine first blew through my brain, but at the core of my soul the release those songs offered, the company they provided, the friendship they gave and the love that they shared are as essential to me as any person or prayer. of experiencing. You are no longer alone - the burden of existence is held now by two, or, in the case of this miserable little fourteen year old, thousands of strangers with instruments. When I was in college I used to find corners of the campus where I could be alone to think, or write, or impress visitors (girls). I found my ultimate solace in the basement of Hobart Manor, a supposedly haunted old mansion that sat on the campus like a beautifully sore thumb, the sole architectural soul in this entire publicly funded wasteland of glass and brick. Accessed solely by descending down a curling set of stairs all but hidden by bushes, it was exposed to the world through arched stone beams, offering a harbor from weather and woe, a hideaway of sorts, a playground of thought - thick with cigarette smoke and all that I conjured. Here I would go to make decisions, the big ones, the scary ones, the ones that I knew would change the trajectory of my life, however slightly. I made a pact with myself and those stones: any conclusion reached in my paradise must be followed through, on penalty of exclusion from this solace.
Upon graduation, I feared that I may never find this space again, where decisions seemed final and I could lay safely. I adored my apartment but shared it with others (both lovers and strangers, all strangers in time) so I set my sights southward and drove to a beach, finding comfort as I always have in the ocean and its magnitude, a healthy dose of insignificance in the face of nature’s totality. It wasn’t until Asbury that I found those old stones - / the tattoos and bars and the sea of lost souls. / I walk on its beach once a week all alone, / I feel the sun set on my back and my toes, caked, / with sand and the sea, / I smile and breathe and let decisions make me. / I finished my walk today, / sadder than most, / the beach has its ghosts and I let them all in, / I remembered her smile and the way we would swim / through the hundreds of beachgoers - / leather for skin
I was quiet and frustrated, when will this end? When will she disappear, when will it mend? Is this how it is? Is this just my fate? I’m still that small kid staying up barely late and wishing for something to break through my skull, to wake up my senses and make me feel full. And then without asking, like eight years now prior, it happened. From the pits of my brain where it gets dark far too often, the music I heard shook me down to my core. Dentist, Mrs. Magician, I owe you my life. In that one sparkling moment, with the ocean in sight, the smell of the waves and a million cigarettes, you played your hearts out and made me forget the regrets and the memories bundled deep in my head, I lost myself fully in all that you said. You made me that kid, in love once again.
Cameron Page
Sirin
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It feels like a void I’m glad I’m here I’ll walk and then stop
Briana Hernandez
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P l a y i n g Drums, I’m as Happy as a Pig in Shit
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My friend Alex friend mentions that a guy he knows through Facebook is putting a band together, and he suggests I audition to play drums. He thinks the opportunity might appeal because the bandleader is Dennis Willcock, original singer from Iron Maiden, and the guitarist is former Maiden axe-wielder Terry Wapram: the band is called V1. I am insanely busy already but Alex seems really excited for me, so I figure the worst that can happen is I’ll have one rehearsal, they’ll says ‘thanks, but no thanks’, and I can tell friends I briefly jammed with some guys who were once in band that became massively famous a short while after they left. I message Dennis through Facebook and he asks for examples of my playing, so I forward a dozen videos and audio tracks from the rockingest projects I’ve been involved with. He gets back to me a few days later, saying he’s shown the guitarist and they’d be happy to audition me. We set a date, I fly to south-east Asia for a work trip, and upon my return I meet the guys on an industrial estate in Welwyn Garden City. One of the first things I learn upon arrival is that I’m auditioning primarily because I am local; the other applicants mostly live in the Netherlands and Brazil – hardly convenient for a band based in Essex and north London. I set up my drums (Dennis was sure I’d feel more comfortable playing my own kit), greet Terry and Chas (bass player), and listen to the story of the band. V1 formed in 1977 (the year I was born), after Terry and Dennis left Iron Maiden –Dennis thought Maiden were going nowhere fast and Terry didn’t rate the other guitarist who’d just joined. V1 played all over London and recorded demos for an album with a drummer the name of whom no one can remember. Iron Maiden’s Steve Harris loved the band and the demos, and took Maiden to record in the same studio. V1 were offered a record deal, their management told them not to accept it and their career stalled. Iron Maiden soon took off (allegedly with a bunch of lyrics stolen from Dennis, but that’s a whole other story), Dennis became an antique dealer, Chas worked for the council and smoked copious amounts of weed, and Terry kept playing guitar in rock bands, none of whom you’ve heard of, while earning a living as a tradesman. They all have kids my age now, and Chas is even a grandfather. Due to significant interest on Facebook they are awakening V1 from a 37-year hiatus and plan to record the album they demoed in ’78 before touring the world at last. Lest I question their commitment to the rock and roll cause, Dennis tells me that, following his exertions on a one-off comeback gig with a stand-in drummer last year to test the water for the project, he needed throat surgery. His voice is back now and the only thing missing now is a reliable drummer. We set about playing the four songs I’ve practised much less than I would have preferred, and I remember I always hate and fail auditions, though I’m grateful that at least this one is loud. We play the songs ok, no better than that, then stop for a leisurely cup of tea. Chas insists on buying a round of Snickers as well. Caffeinated and sugared we play the songs again, and this time I feel able to stretch out more. Terry grins a few times in my direction and Chas and I lock in pretty tight. I pack up, resoundingly underwhelmed by my performance, and
contemplate the late-Sunday traffic back to London and the fact I’ve just wasted another afternoon hitting things when I could have put my time to better use as a dad, husband or academic. When my stuff’s in the car Dennis tells me they’ve all had a chat and they’d like to offer me the job. I can’t believe my ears! I tell them immediately I accept, text Alex to thank him for the heads-up, and drive home feeling like a teenager in love: I HAVE THE GIG PLAYING DRUMS FOR V1!!! So, just eight more songs to nail, an album to record, and a touring schedule to figure around my full-time job and family responsibilities. Marvellous. The band starts meeting for regular practices in Storm Studios on Holloway Road. Magdalena who runs the place is perpetually grumpy, and seems irked we show up to rehearse, but I can get there easily on the bus in under an hour, the price is reasonable, and – uncharacteristically for affordable rehearsal spaces – the rooms don’t smell as if people have been left for dead in there in pools of their own beer-induced vomit. Sometimes it’s managed by Eddie, who is more welcoming but constantly stoned, with a frustrating tendency to send each member of the band to a different room. Rehearsals go increasingly well, especially with the arrival of Dwight who will be performing bass duties live. The sound we make as a four-piece in that 20” x 10” room is phenomenal. The late-70s guitar riffs and rock-funk bass lines with the double bass drum pedal I dusted off specially for this make for a Very Rock Sound indeed. There are no click tracks, Autotune or backing tracks. This is raw, analogue classic rock. When the public eventually hears us (or even if they don’t) “V1 rocket’s gonna rock your house down!” The members of my new rock family say to me everything I most want to hear. Things like “this song needs plenty of cowbell” (this applies to more than one song), “we’re not going to tell you what to play – drums is your department”, and “where would you like your drum solo?” I have long maintained I was born 30 years too late; the music I most love to play – with big drums, lots of fills, badass riffs, awesome solos, and unashamed lyrics about sex and how great rock is – is unfortunately unfashionable these days. But V1 doesn’t care. They’re here to right the wrongs of 37 years ago, allowing me to play some fantastic music with three awesome guys who had a foretaste of fame and a powerful sense of purpose at a time when the music industry told the public that rock was righteous and drum solos were cool. To paraphrase Miles Davis, this might just be the best feeling I’ve ever had with my clothes on.
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Eoghan Idler
sorry i messed up/can we run through that again? it’s 2013, first or second band practice: all the children in us are still alive in the kitchen building sandwiches from whatever we could scavenge our arms were thin siphons draining swimming pools from the parents’ houses we moved out of years prior all that chlorine had broken something made me stomach sick, corroded the pipes or at least that’s what i told you when i missed the downbeat hands too large, awkward moving over a fretboard from gwb’s second term, middle school, hitting hard the basketball blacktop shoes carried in one hand & the late night broadcast concert filled our living room it was really only yours, but i think for those hours we lived together fake audience shouting real joy we joined them on the leather couch, the hallway aisles dancing like the world had closed around only four bodies “is anything as strange as a normal person?“ in small air from small mouths turning against the spin of the earth stretching the day out in the velvet dress that will be too long two years from that moment too green for a warming world, forever blooming the music stopped & we started up again quietly, a car to the open area marked carefully with asphalt boundaries if we go in deep enough we might forget our way out if we stayed right then in the dirt by the reservoir
Jacob Kimmel
Poem About Music, Vol.2 Miles Davis is breathing in my ear. I worry, we are changing. I do dream and while I do, I smile. The only place I feel at peace anymore is in a train, any train, going anywhere. Anywhere away, always from, never to, I should probably worry about that too. I miss you and it means pain. I miss me more, or death or birth, never the stuff in between. I wish I were a piano, touched and full of possibilities. My left eye starts to leak and I close it, through the right it never looks as interesting. He stops breathing and I do too. White doves pass by, trumpets for throats, and the train reaches its destination. Silly is the word, but I have no ears anymore. Hannah Ojala
The first Spanish I learned was song. It woke me up on Saturday morning, smells like bleach and a day of cleaning. are the lyrics my uncle sang to me at the top of his lungs in his borrachera. So now when I speak, I laugh when people tell me I sound like I miss someone. That the tone in my voice is either in love or crying not to be left alone, Is all “sin ti, no me aguanto” “prométame que no me dejes sola,” I learned “te traeré el cielo” Before “can I go to the bathroom?” I cannot speak without singing. My tongue takes off like two feet to the rhythm, tries to dance with any hands that will hold it, clutches its chest and begs to be forgiven“mi vida te daré todo” I try to remember common phrases but they exist somewhere else. I assume the brain prioritizes the most important .parts of language. Perhaps I forget how to converse about the weather, but “no te vas” has become muscle memory“Please my love,– don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.” Angelica Maria
Ryker Harrison
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Eoghan Idler
out of step
It was a rainy evening, in late July, 2012. I had given a series of terrible exams, the results to which I had already foreseen - I was going to have to leave the prestigious college due to my terrible academic performance. It can be attributed to a variety of reasons. The one I usually gave to my folks back home was this – “I can’t do it anymore. I don’t like engineering!” And there was some truth in that statement. I no longer seemed thrilled at the idea of becoming an Engineer. But the truth, the whole truth, was that I had developed a dependency on alcohol. I had been trying to quit for some time then, but each time I was failing. The core issue, it seemed, was peer pressure. I HAD to hang out with my friends – all of whom happened to be heavy drinkers, but they somehow had a firm grasp on reality. Whereas for me, who was already burdened with depression and a great social anxiety, alcohol seemed like a great solution, pardon the pun, to all my problems. I needed a drink, as soon as I got up. And then a few more. It seemed impossible to quit. It resonated with how I felt inside – a sense of purposelessness. I had just returned after giving a Physics exam, which I was sure to flunk - flunk miserably. My friends were on their way to the bar, but as it was raining, and I felt a terrible cold coming on, I asked my roommate to get me a quarter of rum instead. And I decided to listen to some music. I was getting into Rage Against The Machine back then, and they had done this album called ‘Renegades’, which basically consisted of a few covers they did. One of them was the song ‘In My Eyes’, originally by Minor Threat. When I first heard it, something happened within the synaptical connections of my brain. Something triggered when I heard the lyrics – “You tell me that nothing matters. You're just fucking scared! You tell me that I'm better. You just hate yourself! You tell me that you like her. You just wish you did! You tell me that I make no difference! Well at least I'm fucking trying! What the fuck have you done?!” I was blown away. It felt like the lyrics were being addressed right to me. I decided to check out Minor Threat right away. See what they were all about. I heard their version of In My Eyes, and it was surreal. I felt my sense of purposelessness and unworthiness being assaulted. These walls I had built around me, to try and sever any touch with reality, began to crumble. I then heard their song ‘Out Of Step’. The lyrics had the same effect – “I don't smoke!!! I don't drink!!! I don't fuck!!! At least I can fucking think!” Excuse me! You can hardly blame me, if I felt a sort of catharsis overwhelm me. It was then I realized that by being in a perpetual state of inebriation, I was unwittingly giving up one of the greatest gifts to mankind, our ability to think. This sense of waking up, was augmented when I heard their song ‘Straight Edge’, which would set a whole new thought process in motion in my mind –
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“I'm a person just like you, But I've got better things to do, Than sit around and smoke dope, 'Cause I know I can cope! Laugh at the thought of eating ludes! Laugh at the thought of sniffing glue! Always gonna keep in touch. Never want to use a crutch!!!” That was it. I was done. I had quit and ended my brief, but toxic, affair with intoxication. Minor Threat was a sort of religious experience for me. Though Ian MacKaye, who was the vocalist in the band despises such exaltations, but I have to be as honest as I can. That was the beginning of my journey into hardcore punk music, and I realized it was more of a community. Discovering bands such as Youth of Today, Cro-Mags, Black Flag, Bad Brains. Bands which would forever alter my way of thinking and my perception of society and the role I play in it. I realized what it meant to be a punk - to go beyond definitions. To find your true identity, who you really are, and embrace it! That’s what hardcore is all about. Be the black sheep. Be grounded in a Positive Mental Attitude (P.M.A.)! In closing, I’d just like to quote the lyrics to one of my favourite songs by the Bad Brains, ‘Attitude’ – “Don't care what they may say we got that attitude! Don't care what they may do we got that attitude! Hey we got that P.M.A.! Hey we got that P.M.A.!”
WYYØM
Safia’s Sleep Sessionz
"That delicious dreamy feeling when one first wakes" - Lewis Carroll
1. Dawn - Unknown Mortal Orchestra 2. The Softest Voice - Animal Collective 3. The Island of Children's Children - Múm 4. Svefn-G-Englar - Sigur Rós 5. Kola (Lighthouse version) - Amiina 6. Faraway Swimming Pool - Múm 7. Alone in Kyoto - Air
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Sylvia Morris
A dog at a rave, Jordan Rafferty Daisy must be terrified of this almighty racket god help her ears god bless mine.
When you don’t need music to fuck, you know it’s real. I forget to adjust the volume. I forget I am even here. Real love means forgetting. Means forgetting you like the lyrics. Means forgetting you have friends. I love passion more than my passion. She is my passion. When she’s gone, I think of what I will do when she’s gone. But I’m in love so I forget to think. I forget to lock my car. My computer is gone. What’s a writer without a blank page?
I don’t care.
“I can’t go on road trips without music, I get migraines.” I remember telling her on our first date. But today we drove for three hours and I didn’t notice anything. R.i.p. my personality. Will she love me when I don’t think of anything but her? If my poems are only about her voice, her eyes, her lips, her coconut smelling hair, and her strawberry taste?
I wake up
and the only thing I notice is that she is not in my arms. I go to the beach and my only goal is to find a heart shaped rock. I get bored, so I’ll carve us wands out of sticks. I haven’t listened to music in a month, and I haven’t even remembered to miss it. When my life became music, I didn’t need it anymore. Music is someone else’s emotion. A melody designed to make me feel. I cannot take any more feeling. I’m at my capacity. I’m in love with my lover, I don’t have time to listen to music while we fuck. I’m a realist. I know it’s temporary. Music will come back. This feeling; it might not last. Her voice is my speaker. I think she gave me synesthesia, I hear music in silence and I see color in her voice.
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I honestly do not remember how I came across Meg Myers’ album “Sorry.” It was either because it was on the front page of a music app, or because it was released on my birthday in 2015. Either way, it was what I may have needed at the time. We start off exuding some sneeze just think about chorus.
with “Motel,” where Meg Myers showcases restraint to save it for later tracks. doesn’t go through, except this one is it, she does sound like she’s holding
Being the title track and her carrier power from the previous track, with mixed feelings just make a mess on the Meg Myers blurs the line between who’s the song all the more somber.
her soaring vocals, while You know how it is when a more rewarding. When you off a sneeze during the
single, “Sorry” releases the restrained an unapologetic croon (ironically), as floor. Should you or shouldn’t be sorry? right and what’s right, which just makes
After the pent up emotions comes “A Bolt from the Blue,” with its dance-y and vibrant tones, which could only remind me of 80′s club music. Jam to your heart’s content, and you should probably hook this up at the next party you’re going to, and see if others wouldn’t get in the mood. Then we move further with “Desire,” where the rock genre just works with her very well, combining brutally honest (and somewhat suggestive) lyrics with subtle musicality. It’s as sultry as it sounds, and it could turn on a few senses if listened to at the right place at the right time. Deeper goes “I Really Want You to Hate Me,” which I could only describe as a creeping crescendo and in a counterpoint with a free-falling voice. How does that work? I don’t know. But it did. The calm before (and after) the storm, “Parade,” gives a breath of fresh air, which, although I would dismiss as not having that much brilliance, is a clean respite from all what’s happening (and will happen). A righteous pacing and mellowing down. Then, just when you thought things couldn’t get any different, Meg Myers delivers “Lemon Eyes.” With surprisingly catchy punk vibes, the track is as playful as a midday playground within a park. Did I say catchy? The song would physically look like a baby destroying the toys you’ve just given, and not just because of the lemon eyes imagery, but the song is what you could call cute (except I obviously didn’t want to call it that because it wouldn’t do justice). Bringing out again powerful ballads is “Make a Shadow,” where we see more vocal prowess exhibited gracefully. I believe this is where her appeal lies: being able to set the stage for a peaceful ambiance, only to surprise you and confuse you dumb with awe-inspiring vocals, and make you think which is actually better. Here comes the kicker: “The Morning After” is an adult’s lullaby, which conjures nostalgia and is the kind of song you would listen to on a rainy day, contemplating on pretty much everything. It will make you think of the things that you’ve done, but that’s pretty much it. It wouldn’t force you to regret or praise them; just really remember them for the sake of remembering. She closes down with “Feather,” luring you back in to listening the whole album again, for a never ending cycle of aural bliss. You’d want more, but listening to it again is worth it, anyway. As you can see, 11/10 would listen. She is taking alternative to a whole new level literally and musically. Please give yourself the privilege of listening to Meg Myers. P.S. I listened to the album once during this process and without prior listening to earlier material. I love her now. Also (was) a great birthday gift. For me, of course. P.P.S. She’s really pretty.
David Marallag
you’re the words that i nurse in my room and rehearse until finally the melody is perfect
you’re the music i write ghost written by my mind simple chords that play off my emotions though my voice isn’t soft i feel you’ll still get lost in my buried sense of direction
from bitter to sweet to so sad your eyes weep you will never predict where i’m going each day’s too different each passing minute every second
so don’t you stop to blink
Aria Daryadel
Jody
Have you considered that the necklace he delivered wasn't silver, that it's pewter cost two dimes and an old nickel, twisted up in slots and dropped into a black felt box and weathering you green Do you believe he broke his two left feet traveling the silk ribbon to bring you back injection-molded ultimatums, well, let me laugh the loudest You're his friend and my friend too, though you've never played your list to cloak a covenant between just us bloodletting rituals in jest I don't want to make you nervous, so I'll try to get away from him if I can fucking help it Please consider spending time between your internship, the nation's capital, your famous friends, their invitations to the free verse slams and drunken nighttime ciphers, the hookahs on the privileged decks, the tip top of a podium emblazoned with the fancy text that reads, "valedictorian" somewhere in this mess of solicitations my name and his, we're present But between us two, don't open up the third wheel instant message You're my friend but he's my paint, and he can't be without some bright purpose to the point of court ordered restraint I don't want to make you nervous, but I'll never be alone again, I'll always be commuting
Mark AB
You probably know “Flagpole Sitta” from Harvey Danger's 1997 debut album Where Have All the Merrymakers Gone?, but nothing else. It's the one that goes, “bah, I'm not sick, but I'm not well...” You know, the song from Peep Show. Well as it turns out, that's actually the least good song on the album. It's been almost 20 years since I first heard this masterpiece, and it still blows me away every time. The brilliant lyrics are what set this one apart from other great alternative rock albums of the 1990s. Memorable lines run from the clever, “run from nowhere, nowhere follows you,” to the biting, “save your little wheelchair empowerment films.” Sean Nelson's impressive vocal versatility is also worth noting, with gravellyvoiced, rocking tracks such as “Carlotta Valdez” and smooth-voiced, hit you in the feels tracks like “Wrecking Ball.” The most amazing thing about this album is that most people don't seem to remember it. They remember the hit single, if anything. Do yourself a favor and listen to this album from start to finish. Pay attention to the lyrics throughout. You will not be disappointed. It's everything that was great about the 90s and nothing that sucked.
JT Barnett
Why settle 4 someone who can't stand the T.V. Forever until my love is through, I, I ain't gonna walk with u Kinda took me by the robba No matter of fact, I do I do not anymore Rendezvous, Mary's house U Dirty words and after me do u do ? This year I can't stop thinking ‘bout Kinda took me by the raw, I'd make this woman wanna treat a man, A Whatever, become a star when u can have the water they drink why Didn't U Show how U hurry along with U here, when U here Now U ain’t, Now I’m gone CP Harrison
Roezielle Joy
1.
Under the same Sun – Ben Howard
2.
Yellow – Coldplay
3.
The World Is Our Playground and We Will Always Be Home
4.
Luna – Up Dharma Down
5.
Cherry Wine – Hozier
6.
Hiwaga – Up Dharma Down
7.
Dahilan – The Benjamins
8.
In Darkness – The Sun Manager
9.
Everglow - Coldplay
– Up Dharma Down
Michelle Denise Norton
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Eleanor Leonne Bennett
The Sunshine Rain Playlist 1. Kingfisher - Phox 2. The One You Say Good Night To - Kina Grannis 3. Crave - Haunt 4. Tonada De La Luna - Marta Gomez 5. Like A Dream - Francis and the Lights 6. Landscape Escape - Odd Beholder 7. Love Club - St. South 8. Torch Song - Priscilla Ahn 9. いつも何度でも / Always With Me - Kimura Yumi 10. The Moon Song - Karen O 11. ख्वाबों के पिरं दे / Khaabon Ke Parinday - Alyssa Mendosa and Mohit Chauhan 12. Aruarian Dance - Nujabes
Moy
I can’t see the atmosphere, But there are moments I can hear it, Moments where I am soothed by invisibility; Music notes stroking my hair and twisting between my curls, It is euphoric to be calm; To let the hidden become still rivers, As waves pulse from.. EverywhereThe trees are singing and the sky is surfing, Every mountain reflects the music, And watching the beats soar from Rome, it seems, I am warm on this frozen river.
Shea
music for dogs: towards a psychosociology of music
‘Is music a universal language?’ Everything hinges upon this seemingly innocuous question. The
ethnocentric view would have pleasure in consonance be a biological instinct, and pleasure in dissonance be degenerate. The West has worked hard to maintain the status quo, looking to science to legitimate the existing institutions—in 1959, musicologist Deryck Cooke popularized the idea that major keys are inherently happy and minor keys inherently sad, as natural properties of music; On Spanish and Slavic music, which use minor keys for happy music, Cooke concluded that ‘rustic people were inured to a hard life and didn’t expect to be happy’ (Ball, 2010). In 2009, Fritz et al., based on a study of a single tribe (the Mafa tribe), concluded that the emotions evoked by Western music are universally evoked, and that consonance is universally preferred to dissonance (they ignored existing evidence to the contrary, like Cooke; in addition, they used spectrally manipulated music to test for the pleasantness of dissonance, which means dissonance was not controlled for). A more parsimonious explanation of Fritz et al.’s findings is that the Mafa tribe either shared Western musical tastes or that they were intelligent enough to interpret what Western music means to Westerners. In 2010, Bowling et al. maintained that major keys universally meant happiness and minor keys sadness — they came to their conclusions, however, by equivocating speech patterns with music. Recent research by McDermott et al. (2016), on the other hand, supports what has already been known to composers and ethnomusicologists, that the reactions of Westerners to consonance and dissonance is not universal, but culturally relative: ‘the Tsimane rated consonant and dissonant chords and vocal harmonies as equally pleasant’. ‘Good’ and ‘bad’ are culturally relative. Abandoning notions of good and bad, we can only discuss the ‘effects’ or ‘uses’ of music. This emphasis on effect and use is also promoted by Deleuze and Guattari (1972/1977) for whom works of art are machines: machines that plug into both the machinic unconscious and the social machine, which has people and technology as its parts. Damasio (1999) locates ‘core consciousness’, the baseline of consciousness, in a part of the upper brainstem called the periaqueductal gray, or PAG for short; The PAG is responsible for the production of emotional states—our baseline of consciousness is emotion. Damasio conceptualizes other functions of consciousness (such as memory, language, abstract reasoning, etc.), which require the cortex, as ‘extended consciousness’. If core consciousness is obliterated, extended consciousness is obliterated as well, but damage to extended consciousness leaves core consciousness intact, though possibly impaired.
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Some even live without a cortex — for example, hydranencephalic patients, who are born without a cortex (Merker, 2007). The cortex, even if it may be active, is in itself unconscious—it requires extended consciousness to activate it in order for the information it harbors to become conscious (Solms, 2013). Most of the cerebral cortex is called the ‘association cortex’, because it stores associations which have been learned via associative learning; its function is analogous to randomaccess-memory, or RAM, in a PC, and information in the cortex tends towards becoming automatized (towards ‘automaticity’), i.e., towards become automatically active without the need for becoming conscious (Solms, 2013). Like all art, music affects us so powerfully because it produces states of consciousness from the baseline upwards. But why should one sound bring us happiness and the other sadness? For music is ultimately sound, the vibration of air molecules. The question of music is also the question of sound. Without knowing it, Ivan Pavlov (1897/1902) conducted the first scientific studies regarding the psychology of music. The dinner bell which made Pavlov’s dogs salivate was music for the dogs— sounds which produced emotional states. We intuitively feel certain music to be happy or sad because we have been classically conditioned to do so since shortly after birth—since this conditioning began very early in life, it has become heavily consolidated in our long term memory; ditto for the pleasure and unpleasure of consonance and dissonance. There is nothing inherent to music which separates it from the dinner bell of Pavlov’s dogs; if one classically conditions a dog from shortly after birth, one can write a symphony for dogs. Cocteau (1930) wrote that ‘Satie wanted to make a theatre for dogs. The curtain rises. The set consists of a bone’. All art can be summarized by this metaphor: a bone for dogs, not to chew, but to observe with longing. Every popular song, no matter how ‘rebellious’ its marketing campaign, (punk, metal, hip-hop, and psychedelic music), follows the same structure and preserves a sense of consonance in the whole, thus producing a sense of familiarity and facile pleasure. In other words, a piece of popular music is not listened to in consideration of the piece as a whole, since the whole is accepted a priori as conforming to the standard pattern and harmony; it is listened to for its parts, which, within the confining limits of a pre-determined structure, are allowed a degree of variation: ‘no stress is ever placed upon the whole as a musical event, nor does the structure of the whole ever depend upon the details’ (Adorno, 1941). In contrast to popular music, serious music is as much about the structure of a piece as about its details; all the details are significant—instead of being interchangeable parts in an a priori structure, the parts of a serious piece build the piece’s structure (Adorno, 1941). Whereas the structure of popular music is rigid, the structure of serious music is motile (there is movement in serious music, even in drone music, which seems to go nowhere). There is no universal structure which is repeated in every piece of serious music—there are a variety of structures, there are inventions of new structures, there are even pieces which attempt to escape structures altogether. The most important implication of Adorno’s sociology of music is that ‘structural standardization aims at standard reactions…The composition hears for the listener. This is how popular music divests the listener of his spontaneity and promotes conditioned reflexes’. Popular music, by its familiarity and accessibility, is easily automatized, thus the ideas contained within popular music, both in its homogenous form and its pseudo-individualistic content—in the most ‘rebellious’ music, the faux rebellion which in the end only means a hedonistic lifestyle, but always a tacit, placid acceptance of bourgeois ideology, just as in ‘straight’ music—become automatized as well.
If one wishes to resist, one must decondition oneself by embracing dissonance, difference, and deconstruction. The succeeding vibrations of air molecules build temporal structures—like a text or an institution, a psychological or metapsychological structure, not a strictly physical one. Such structures may either be confining, or they may produce that space beyond affect in which one may become cognizant of ideas, the connections between ideas, and the gaps between ideas; a space in which, instead of our associations becoming automatized, we become able once again to see the traces of our memories, and our imagination begins to weave new fabrics of reality.
Bibliography: Adorno, Theodor W. (1941). On popular music. Studies in Philosophy and Social Science, IX, 17-48. New York: Institute of Social Research. Ball, P. (2010). Does a minor key give everyone the blues? Nature. doi: 10.1038/news.2010.3 Bowling, D. L., Gill, K., Choi, J. D., Prinz, J., & Purves, D. (2010). Major and minor music compared to excited and subdued speech. The Journal of the Acoustical Society of America, 127(1), 491. doi:10.1121/1.3268504 Cocteau, J. (1930). Opium: The Diary of His Cure. (M. Crosland, trans.). London: Peter Owen Publishers. Cook, D. (1959). The Language of Music (Oxford paperbacks). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Damasio, A. R. (1999). The Feeling of What Happens: Body & Emotion in the Making of Consciousness. United States: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt (HMH). Deleuze, G., & Guattari, F. (1977). Anti-Oedipus. (R. Hurley, M. Seem, & H.R. Lane, trans.). New York, New York: Penguin Books. (Original work published in 1972). Derrida, J. (1978). Writing and Difference. (A. Bass, trans.) Chicago: University of Chicago Press. (Original work published in 1967). Fritz, T., Jentschke, S., Gosselin, N., Sammler, D., Peretz, I., Turner, R., … Koelsch, S. (2009). Universal Recognition of Three Basic Emotions in Music. Current Biology573–576. doi: 10.1016/j.cub.2009.02.058 Merker, B. (2007). Consciousness without a cerebral cortex: A challenge for neuroscience and medicine. Behavioral Brain Sciences, 30: 63-134. McDermott, J. H., Schultz, A. F., Undurraga, E. A., & Godoy, R. A. (2016). Indifference to dissonance in native Amazonians reveals cultural variation in music perception. Nature, 535(7613), 547–550. doi: 10.1038/nature18635 Pavlov, I. P. (1897/1902). The work of the digestive glands. London: Griffin. Solms, M. (2013). The Conscious Id. Neuropsychoanalysis, 15(1), 5–19. doi:10.1080/15294145.2013.10773711
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Ishani Jasmin