NOV/ISSUE 4
by Alex Major
Nightwalker by Robin Merse I often wander the streets at night, eyes wide and heavens bright. And I walk until the morning calls, the songbirds sing and the moon does fall. But the sun forgets to rise at day, so I wander the streets farther away, until I’m in a place I do not know where night does come, but stars don’t glow.
a poem by Amber Settles There you are Lying on an open table Green cast and waiting But I know you’re in a vase Outside it’s all snow and black mush Ice chips melt down window panes It’s deserted and lonely I’m so new at this I need you He’s small and warm And perfect. I hold him tight to my chest. My lungs are on fire. All along I’ve known He’s you’re other half The only thing you left me Everyone tells me to come inside But when I get to that table Where you are waiting, Your arms open wide, I’m healed by your eyes. And in an instant You’re alive.
Safe by Leah Rose Cover my ears And draw what you lack For this is all that is left From our walls they destroyed And replaced with their Own. Mangled and bloody Our castles have crumbled No security Just wreckage Leaving us with Solace and warmth That were earned, Not given. So rebuild with crushed roses Morning breath And flood damage All things new that are Untouched Unseen Irreplaceable Yet vulnerable Like the wind in my ears That whistles through your Fingertips Or the warmth of your breath When you call out my name. The Spider amd I by Peyton Crenshaw crows crying in the backdrop we are at a standstill make your move tiny being but you won’t, you don’t are you afraid of another life crushing yours? As am I. Can I just lay in your web? Poison drips from your fangs and I’, so sure that you’ll destroy me first. but you won’t, you don’t we are at a standstill Weirdo Slit by Mathias Davey
art by Santiago Custom Arts
I will hold you the whole way down by Yoko Molotov two years ago we entered the fair grounds we bought the fare funnel cakes, hotdogs and cotton candy hand in hand we stepped inside the cart of the coaster fully knowing the climatic hills and exhilarating drops
that we were strapped in now, that there was no escapefully knowing that the track would end not with smiling attendants, but with mangled deathbroken rails into the abyss the cart smashing itself in an explosion of broken bones, gore and
were terrifying yet life affirming-
shattered hearts-
fully knowing
fully unknowing
the ecstasy and panic
of how long our ride would last.
A Plainview Living Room art by Chris McCormick by Taylor White You had better not set foot in a Plainview living room. No one lives in there. Leave no trace that you were ever here. The wood furniture exquisitely dusted and polished. The pillows perfectly fluffed and arranged. The Pharaoh’s tomb of modern domestic spaces. Linger for too long and risk the curse of Plainview mom. She asks nicely, directing you to the exit. Behind the flight attendant geniality she sees visions of quarantine sheets and anti-bacterial cleansers. Extra-Strength Resolve. You think Plainview mom bought this loveseat for sitting? No sir. You think this ottoman is for use by human feet? No sir. For display only. Glass frames, glass vase. Family pictures, plastic plants. Not a smudge or a print. No TV. No computer. No stereo. Electronics aren’t pretty. Cords and buttons and black plastic aren’t what guests want to look at. You can’t rock in grandmother’s chair. You can’t tell time with grandfather’s clock. Bookshelf: gold-painted aluminum and plastic. Glass shelves. Porcelein figurines. Precious Moments. Walls: off-white and beige. Liquidation art cottage paintings on the wall. Thomas Kincade all day. Kitten relief plaques. Resin wood Jesus piece. A small jar of dried flower pieces. She said it was potpourri, but it didn’t smell of anything. Candy dish with unrecognizable sugar samples. What brand is this? Doesn’t matter, you can’t eat it. This carpet is still so fresh and soft. The kind that wants you to take off your shoes. Fists with your toes. Don’t you dare though. She vacuums the whole thing once a day Don’t set your drinks down. No coasters. You better get that pizza back on the tile. You do that shit in the den. That’s Plainview dad’s room. He doesn’t care as long as you don’t disturb his movie. Dad’s trying to watch The Godfather. You want to talk, you take it to the kitchen. The dog knows she’s not allowed. She knows where that line is. She knows to keep her ass on the rails. Front door, kitchen, back door, outside. What if I put my feet up on the coffee table? Put down that World War II aviation picture book. Those books aren’t for reading. She has them arranged a certain way. She’ll know if you moved them. What if I sat down to play this piano? Nobody in the house knows how. What if I took a poop right on the carpet? We would have to move the couch to cover it. And just leave the couch that way. Do you think she’d notice? Ha ha ha. Did you touch anything? You better Endust that shit. Keep it clean. Keep it nice. You never know when those Better Homes and Gardens people might come by. They can see the room from the street. You want people to think we live like slobs?
Bananas by Leah Rose One time I got sick after eating some homemade peanut butter banana fudge ice cream. And I don’t mean like, my nose is stuffy and I have a cough sick, I’m talking vomit every 20 minutes for two days straight until your stomach literally implodes sick. I can’t look at a banana the same. I made it for Valentine’s Day last year. My boyfriend didn’t get me anything, but I was used to it. Something about the holiday being an invention of Hallmark for the greedy masses, hypnotized by capitalism and our country’s desire to constantly be showered in gifts and unearned love. Or something. Not that I was a Valentine’s Day fanatic, but I always thought it was a good excuse to do something special, and of course fuck each others brain out after a nice dinner together. “I mean you should fuck me everyday,” he laughed from his computer desk in the corner of our living room. “What makes today so special?” I was in the kitchen that overlooked our whole apartment, all my ingredients piled among dirty plates, old candles and incense, cat food, and the occasional fruit fly that hung around like the heavy smell in the air. “Could you at least help me clean this mess up? I’d like to make us a treat.” Our apartment had once been compared to a crack house. Worse actually. With school and work, it was hard to maintain a house I could be proud of when help was almost never offered. Each morning I’d wake to an empty bed, and every time I emerged into the living room, he’d chortle. “You’re really wearing that? I hope you didn’t spend too much of our money on it.” Said the boy who frequently stole from family. Two seconds away from the computer resulted in insults. I let him be and would enjoy walking to school alone. I had bought the bananas a week before, thinking I would take them for my lunch at school. That wasn’t how it worked out though. I was lazy. Chinese food on the way home sounded a lot easier than waking up 30 minutes earlier to pack a lunch. Each morning the week before Valentine’s I’d eye the bananas, swearing I would actually do something about them before they were completely rotten. Banana bread, banana muffins, banana ice cream, chocolate covered bananas, feeling like Bubba, the possibilities were limitless. Yet my time was not. Without any help, our apartment remained dirty while I worked and went to school full time. Valentine’s day was simply the last possible day before throwing them out. Their last chance at being something more than mush in our trashcan. “Baby I’m seriou-” “Well I’m busy. I haven’t had all these guys to play with in awhile and this is a really fucking good game. So leave it will ya? Why do you even need to make that damn ice cream? I’m not even going to eat any so you’re wasting your time.” He didn’t even look at me, which was probably a good thing. I’d grown quite used to a feeling I associated with his yelling. It started in my neck, quickly pulsing down to my wrists and fingers, leaving a sort of burning sensation that could simultaneously be found welling up in my eyes. Sadness grew to rage. For the 5 months we’d been living together, he’d barely moved. Everything was my fault, including his hunger for food other than what I made. So I picked up the bananas and ripped off the peels. I disregarded each one as they fell to the floor to the sound of guns firing in the other room and his endless cackling over a fantasy world he could live in without me. Each piece squished in my hands and into the blender they went. After the rest of the ingredients were in place, I looked into his room and grinned. With each pulse I pressed I imagined one step. One step towards throwing away my rotting clothes, one pulse for each picture I tore and memory I threw out. Our lives together were shredding away and I was in control for once. After setting in the freezer, the ice cream was ready right before bedtime. He was entering hour 4 of his amazing game with those friends he hadn’t talked to in awhile, so I turned the TV on low and slowly ate my treat alone. Valentine’s specials flooded the screen, channel after channel, but something was already brewing inside that gave me an uncomfortable sense of peace. The sickness was growing, and I knew this was going to be our last Valentine’s day together. I took a longer shower than usual that night, even taking the time to touch the parts he had neglected while the water continued to run. The next morning I woke up with my head on the toilet, vomit flaked in my hair and dried onto the walls. He wasn’t in our bedroom. Between bouts of sickness and retching, I quickly packed up my essentials and went into the living room. He was still on the computer. 8 hours later and he was still playing his game.
“I’m going to my mom’s house. I think I have the flu,” I muttered.
“Alright babe, be back soon and have fun. You know I love you, right?” He yawned without turning my way. “Right. I know.”
Witness by Rene Blansette
Sisters by Viva Whitlark The sky is grey. The sand is grey. The air around us is grey. It’s a peculiar color, a shade that permeates everything and manages to be no color at all while encompassing all of them. If you look long enough, you might see orange, or yellow or green, just a hint, in a swirl of sand from the dunes or in a broken cloud. I’m grey too, covered in sand and there’s grit in every last bit of me down to my soul. I don’t think the color will ever come back to my trousers, and I miss it; I liked them so much when I stole them off that clothesline outside Amarillo mostly because they were blue like my eyes. My sister’s eyes are still blue when she looks over at me, crouched down in the sand and nibbling at the cracked parts of her lips. I guess that means my eyes are, too. I never did see myself really, no mirrors to do it with and it was always dark when we ventured into towns, so the reflections in glass weren’t clear. People say we look just alike. We should, I guess, being twins, though I heard once that not all twins look the same, which makes no sense to me at all. What’s the use of being two parts of the same whole if you don’t look it? At least, that’s what I think. She thinks different. “They catch the rain in a barrel behind the saloon,” she says, tongue flicking out to lick her lips. It makes mine feel all the more parched, seeing hers. “Tonight?” I ask. It doesn’t really need to be spoken, but sometimes I like to speak anyways, though she always knows what I’m thinking. Our voices are the only thing different about us, mine deeper in the back of my throat and inside my ears. Maybe we sound the same when I can’t hear. I wouldn’t know. She nods and buries one of her hands in the sand, fingers twisting though the grains. She doesn’t say what we’re both thinking, that we have to go tonight or we’ll be in real trouble this time. Three days without water is too long. It’s one of those rules you learn, living out here in the grey. We learned it the hard way, and I had to drag her to the mud puddle I found under a rock by her wrists, her bones stark under my hands, for us to drink and lay panting in relief even though the water was more sand than anything else. We stayed closer to towns after that, though she didn’t want to. I did. I like watching the people sometimes, moving and talking though I can’t hear them. My sister, she prefers to watch the desert. I watch her now, her fingers moving restlessly as she stares at the town. Her serape is holding up better than my trousers, the woven stripes of red and brown and white still quietly vibrant against the grey, even though she’s kneeling on it without any care at all. She is always moving, one leg trembling as she sits as if she can’t bear to be still for long. Today she’s more restless than usual. Her hands give it away, fisting in the sand and rubbing it between grimy fingers. I am, too, but my restless is all inside, twisting in my gut worse than hunger. This town is different. We both know why, but we don’t talk about it; I want to, but she would just walk away from me and keep on walking, and one of us would die without the other there, so I can’t have that. Still. This is our town. Not by much, I guess. The desert is more home than anywhere else since we were children. I’m more familiar with the great span of sand and rock and tumbleweed than I am with this town, but something about the small line of buildings, all grey like the world around them, pulls at my insides. This is where we were born, this little nothing place. It killed our mother, having us, like there was just too much bundled together in the both of us for her to keep on living. When we were four, one of the ladies who fed us sometimes told us we looked just like her, though she hadn’t a picture to prove it. Maybe that’s why she died. One person split apart to make two of the same. Or maybe it was because we might look like her, but we are like our father, and he’s too much on his own. At least, that’s what the townsfolk thought, I think. They never took us in, not fully, because he wasn’t part of the town and that made us not fit, either. Daddy is made of spit and gristle and fire, as I remember him, a man with eyes like pitch and dusky skin from his Injun blood. I don’t remember much. His laugh stays with me, though, along with those black eyes, a great wallop of a sound that echoes no matter how small the space around him and drowns out any thought of quiet. It isn’t a happy sound, however loud it is, but a challenge to everyone around him, to dare and laugh louder while there’s embers kindling in his eyes. No one dared, when we were kids. And so they didn’t dare do more than give us little lumps of tack and cups of milk when they could spare, always out a back door like we were dogs. It took us three years to hate them for it, five to leave. We’ve lived in the desert ever since, running and walking as we please, wolves instead of whipped pups that eat when we can find edibles and sleep whenever we feel like it. There isn’t much out here for the eye to see, but there are towns close enough to eat every few days and steal from when we need. I figure we’ve seen more than just about anybody by now. We’ve seen territories that aren’t even proper states yet, wild lands where few dare tread. It’s been ten years of seeing and running to take us back to this town. My sister wouldn’t have come even now, but it’s been too long since we’ve seen water. I know she doesn’t want to see Daddy. I don’t want to speak to him, say, but I want to see him. I can’t help it. I have to know if his voice sounds like mine, only deeper, or if he’s been laid out for shooting too many fools over cards yet. He shot a lot that I can remember before we left. “If we take some jerky and bread, too, we can make it to the mountains by tomorrow night,” my sister says
now. All her thoughts are for leaving as fast as possible. I know it. I’ll do it, because I need her, but I think differently. “And then?” “I want to see a mine town. I heard outside the tavern in the last town that they want people to find gold. We find any, we wouldn’t have to steal for a while. Maybe get a horse and go see the ocean.” We’ve always wanted to see the ocean. It’s always been a little too far. My disagreement with her eases at the thought of it. I can’t imagine such water, and I’ve seen the big snake river in the south. Surely there can’t be more. “You figure that lady still keeps her food stored out back of her house?” She nods. “Lady like that don’t change, if she’s still living. We’ll take her for all of it. Get to the mountains. Go towards the ocean.” I nod, now. She sounds calm as she plans, maybe imagining some nice place in her head. Her fingers are still going, though. “Tonight,” she says, looking down at the sand in her hands. “Just in and out quick, like usual.” It won’t be, though, and there’s no way around that. We wait til it’s full dark to creep down to the edges of town. We’ve gotten good at this over years, so no one will see us. Not unless we want them to. Not that there’s anyone to see us now, the town is pretty quiet this time of night. The only lights are at the saloon, and that’s down on the other side of the street, where we can avoid them. My sister stops and crouches against a shed, leg trembling as she takes stock of the silent buildings. Usually, I’m down with her, close enough to be her shadow, close enough that sometimes people might think we’re the same girl. Tonight, though, I want to get closer, I can’t help it. I creep out in front of her before I think better and lean against the shed to stare down at the yellow lamplight from the saloon. Daddy should be in there, if he’s here. If he’s alive. I almost think I can feel him there, pulling me closer, that tugging in my stomach stronger now that we’re in the town and he could be so close. I just want to see. Just for a second. My sister’s hand fisting in the back of my shirt stops me from stepping full out into the street, just in time to fall back into the shadows as several men stomp by, boots loud on the packed ground. She’s glaring at me as we watch them pass, but I ignore the feeling of her eyes on my neck. Those men are angry. The stomping, the hands clenched into fists... they’re men looking for blood. I’ve seen it before. There are four of them, indistinct from each other in the dark, but all angry as can be. They’re walking to the saloon. I can’t help it. Twisting out of my sister’s grasp, I dart across the street and follow them in the shadows. I know who they want. I can feel it in my blood, in his blood, in the blood they want to spill tonight, and my heart is in my throat. I make it to the side of the saloon before my sister catches up to me, already peeking over the windowsill into the light. The brightness hurts my eyes. Her furious hiss hurts me more. “What are you doing?” “Daddy’s in there,” I say, looking around the room. “They’re gonna kill him.” “How do you know that? You’ve gone crazy,” she says back, grabbing my arm. I wrench it from her hand and give her a glare as good as I’m getting. “I know. We can’t just let them do it,” I say, angry as she is. “Why do you care what they do? Let them kill him, he needs killing,” she says, trying to grab me again. “He’s our daddy. He might need killing, but he’s ours, and we’re the only ones with the right. I don’t want to kill him, do you?” She’s real quiet now, and looks into the window. I haven’t seen him in the crowd yet, but watching her face, I see when she does. There’s a tightness around her eyes now that has nothing to do with the lights. Her lower lip is pinched, the skin cracking even more. Even outside, we can hear the men start to yell as they bust into the saloon. There are gunshots. Wood breaking. Glass smashing. Screaming, and light pours into the street as people burst through the doors and run away from the fight that isn’t theirs. I’m already through the doors and into the light without a thought. It’s my fight. He’s my daddy, ours, and I don’t care how small I am or how badly he needs to bleed for all the evil he’s done, and I don’t care if the clean desert smell on my clothes is going to disappear into sulfur and wickedness that will never really go away once it stains my trousers and my soul. There’s glass all over the floor, shining in the light of the oil lamps like stars, and everything looks like it’s on fire even though it’s not and I’m screaming now like I’m afire too with all the nothingness and everything burning all at once. My ears are ringing with the sound of that and gunshots. I’m the only one yelling now. There isn’t any other noise. I wouldn’t hear it if there was. I know now that sometimes not hearing is all you can do, but you can’t not see. Daddy’s lying on the new wood floor, first hardwood floor in town probably and all stained with blood now. One of the men is sprawled out
too. Daddy took his share, like he always did. He just didn’t take enough this time. I’m on my knees now in the glass beside him, trying so hard, but there’s so much blood and it smells like rot even though it’s fresh; he’s been shot in the guts. My hands are covered in them. I can’t stop this. The world is too big and there’s too much bleeding and firelight. I want him to open his eyes just once, search his face for it. He has lines I don’t remember around his mouth and his beard is shot through with white. His eyes won’t open, not even for a second so I can see the glittering black and watch him know me, and I’m not screaming out loud anymore but the sound won’t leave my hearing. I just want to hear his voice to hear if it’s like mine. To wash away the screams. To know he didn’t die alone. What I want doesn’t matter in a world this big, though. My trousers are ruined. I look away from them because that makes me want to cry, that they’ll never be big sky blue again, and I’m mad because I don’t want to cry for Daddy even though I should. The shock in the eyes staring at me makes me want to cry, too, so I look away from that. Tears would just be a waste of water. But even knowing this, when I catch a glimpse of my face in the window I see that I’m sobbing, precious water running down my face from eyes like pits against the black of the night, so blue now that they’re rimmed with red. There aren’t any tears on my cheek when I grab my face, though. My sister. She’s crying, still out in the dark, staring through the glass at me instead of Daddy, looking away just like I am. Looking at me. My tears that should be are pouring from her eyes, and her desert dry eyes are mine, now. It’s funny how a single moment can change everything there ever was that you knew. I’m kneeling on the first wood floor I’ve ever touched in ruined old trousers with blood on my hands and the shell of a man I don’t know lying beside me. For the first time in my life, my sister isn’t beside me. I want to see the ocean. Nothing else matters. I get up and walk out of the saloon. I can’t hear anything now, it’s all gone silent. The lady with the water barrel and hardtack lives near the outskirts of town, so I head that way. My lips still want to split apart from thirst and my throat is burning with it. The stars in the sky aren’t near as bright as the stars I saw in the glass. When I get to the water barrel, I drink like a fool, water running down my hands and my face and washing away the blood that’s black in the dark. I drink until my stomach wants to burst with it. “He’s really dead.” My sister’s voice is scratchy and full of tears. I don’t look at her, just wave her to the water barrel to drink her fill. “We need to get tack if we’re going to make the mountains tomorrow.” She nods a little and dips one hand into the water, but doesn’t drink. “Get to the mountains. Go see the ocean. Come on,” I say, because it isn’t what she’s thinking. I don’t know what she’s thinking. “He’s really dead,” she says again. Then her face crumples all at once and she’s crying again, leaning on the water barrel to hold herself up from falling on the dirt. “There’s nothing for us here,” I tell her before I look out at the desert. The vastness of night seems much larger with the town lights behind us, and all of it is black and formless. I want to be out there so bad I can feel myself trembling with the need to run. “And you’re wasting water crying like that.” “Nothing,” she whispers, and puts her face full in the barrel, gulping down water as she remembers her thirst. Get to the mountains. Go see the ocean. There’s nothing for us here. art by Jake Emberton
METAL
mondays
Photography/Styling: Franey Miller Model: ChloĂŠ Bell Makeup/Hair: Rian Miller Assistant: Ben Bass
Saturd
ay, Nov
. 23:
Plastic Crimew ave Sy Lowe S ndicat utherl e w/ and & 7pm Snow S nake
Buy & Sell Vin Record Players a 2001 Frankf Mon - Sat: 11:00 Sun: 10:00 a
nyl, CDs, Books, and Accessories fort Avenue 0 am - 10:00 pm am - 6:00 pm
. 29: Friday, NoStv ore Day)
d (Blk Friday/ Recor ey Records) Head Cleaner (Gubb release show Wet Dollars, Andy Matter & Ten ravado Adventure, New B
1pm
i never met you be4, third adopted cousin from my momas side. if were a good girl I’da showed you my ride. but our love is not right, cus you only live in my dreams...Ur there all the time. There i’d see U dancin’ around town, searchin for the right taste. But in the horny morning, U should stay. join me in a cloudy purple room. darlin i warned U of the afterlife in ‘84, yet i was breathin b4 U were ever born i could see it in your eyez; U had not been satisfied in a long time. U said U need it so bad. i said I wanted U 2, but our love was neva had beUtiful cousin in the purple skirt suit. 4eva sleepin in purple satin and matching shoes. U gave me Ur number once and i called U too late. when i meet U in heaven, our love, angels will appreciate (and they can come 2.)
*not actually by Prince
Fat Bunny by Kennedy Schuck
re
e’ Hi w
and we are totally cops How would you describe Stabler to an alien?
Austin: Have you ever really looked at the back of your hand, man? Trippy right?
What are some local groups you’ve found inspiring or influential? What about more recognized groups?
A: I really fell in love with Python and Rattletooth in high school. Bands like SSD, Charles Bronson, and any band that uses varsity font also rule. L8k: One of the first hardcore shows I ever went to was Reign Supreme, LetXDown, Black Birds, Python, Rattletooth maybe some others and that night solidified my interest in hardcore and the hardcore in my city. Anything powerviolencey, grindy, groovy, fasty, dbeat/blastbeaty is normally skippin’ up my alley. xBRAINIAx FOR SHORE.
What got you interested in hardcore in the first place?
A: I was very fortunate to have an older brother to get me started out. He took me to my first hardcore show at the Compound when I was 13. It was completely nuts and I had a blast. That experience coupled with my Dead Boys cd and a 7 Seconds tape really did it for me. L: The Offspring and Suffocation. Since I was 4 I’ve been playing an instrument. Friends of mine took me to my first show (that wasn’t Family Values Tour) at the Brick House when I was 12. I really liked the idea of being who I was and playing music that was angry and fast and loud emotionally, I knew it was a place where I didn’t feel as awkward. I totally still feel really awkward every but it’s like a place where you matter without having to really say much if anything. I love music, I love the way hardcore does music.
Word on the street is you’re breaking up and then reforming? Why the change?
A: Well for me its mostly to get away from the SVU theme that I felt so locked into for the past 2 1/2 years. Aside from that, I feel that our style and aesthetic changed and that we just aren’t the same band anymore. It’s time to start fresh! L: Pulp Fiction/thematical shift (JULES). But not really, I’d love to do the Miserilou Twist’s intro as our intro but we’re currently feuding about it. Stabler’s not even on SVU anymore, if he’s ready for change, so are we. Maybe we’ll do some True Blood shit, ChrisMelCore.
Why
is
SVU
the
best
Law
and
Order?
L: Olivia Benson, Elliot Stabler, really the whole casts’ character development is so side stage beyond their witty attitudes, they’re all shrouded in mystery, and in that way it’s genius. 15 seasons and counting, same story line and it’s fucking brilliant. After totally identifying with the quips they fire, you may see a character break down and that wall you came to identify with them is momentarily shattered and you’re like fuck yeah, no totally, dude. You’re watching a TV show. You know how when you watch some Law and Order episodes and you’re like dope, that’s kind of tight what that criminal did, he’s totally rich now, cool and he didn’t even really kill anyone, I could totally do, I would maybe too. SVU is like non-stop battery against rapists, sexually expressive murderers, child pornographers, school bullies, abusive parents, human trafficking, domestic violence, truely disgusting crimes which you certainly (hopefully) wouldn’t want to reenact but for real yourself. It almost makes a part of the law and of the government okay or even understandable when it breaks boundaries, not really but kind of. Almost like a glimmer of hope that in cases like these, even if the law is broken by the law makers, it was broken for a fucking good reason. I, for one, would definitely be alright with seeing a rapist, child abuser, etc. go to prison even if the law was broken or bent to get him/her there (I understand that this kind of double standard, that sex crimes or crimes against the helpless should be weighed more heavily than others even to the point of bending or breaking the law, is totally ridiculous and it’s something I don’t really believe personally but it’s more understandable, especially to viewers, that someone committing an atrocious crime, penetrating privacy, using it to instill control, be sought after more viciously for persecution than someone robbing a bank. Murder is murder though, fuck all of that). Granted, this is a stretch of imagination. SVU is totally crop cream of the L&Os but really all of them are kind of ironic or contradictory if you think about punk and hardcore except for the fact that this scene definitely promotes equal rights of women and anyone else, preaches togetherness, puts a foot down in stance against injustice, etc. However, Stabler bends the law or breaks it for personal gain, vengeance, the protection of others; he takes the law and uses it to do what ever he wants for the most part ignoring the useless bits. He walks his own path. Also, the steel gaze. Christopher Meloni could totally be frontman for a hardcore band too; he’s all worked out and beefy, he’s pissed and hides emotions, loves being violent to release tension. Excuse my broad generalizations, misrepresentations, shitty explanations and rambling.
Any insane show or tour stories?
A: Well we’ve only played out of town once and it was insane. I got really drunk in Bloomington and puked off the side of the highway that night. A lot of it got on my shoes. There might be a picture. L: There is a picture.
keep an eye out for the new-n-improved Stabler to drop a fresh-a$$ 7”
Focus by Custat
Hi, we’re and we are a band from Lexington, KY How would you describe The Elsinores to an alien? Very poorly.
You have been a solid group in Lexington for a while. How has the Lexington scene helped you create your sound?
We have always been a pretty self contained unit, but it has been really great to meet new people who are interested in what we are doing over the past few years- ultimately, being a part of a scene anywhere has more to do with what you give that what you get, and we have always tried to be proactive and involved in as many way as we can. The more you put in, the more you will get in return.
Who are some of your favorite Kentucky groups to play with? Cross, Globsters, Quailbones, Jovontaes, Thirties, Wretched Worst, Sonic Altar.
Who are some of your major influences?
We all have different tastes, but there is a common thread that includes the weird end of the SST catalog (i.e. Huker Du, Meat Puppets, etc.), and a lot of the early British Post-Punk (i.e. Wire, Joy Division, Siouxsie, etc.)
What would you say makes the Lexington scene unique?
There really aren’t any two bands doing the same thing, which is awesome because any time you go to a show, you get a mixed bag (and get to enjoy several different types of music. I would also like to point out that for the size of the town, there are a TON of good bands here.
J. Marinelli, a big part of West Virginia’s music culture, recently joined you as the drummer. Do you think this will influence The Elsinores’ sound, and if so, how?
Obviously when you bring another person into the mix, it is going to change the dynamic. That being said, we have always been on the same page with J (even before he was in the band), so asking him to play drums just seemed like the natural thing to do because we share a lot of interests (musically) and get along really well. Even just in the past couple of months of practice with J, we have been able to expand what we are doing, and it seems like things are moving in a really interesting direction, and we are beginning to expand our boundaries.
Joey, how does it feel to not sing and drum at the same time anymore?
Good- I am also starting to incorporate no input electronics into our songs, so things are getting a little more textured (think “Modern Dance” or “Dub Housing” Era Pere Ubu in terms of auxiliary electronic sounds). Also, I would like to point out that J is a much better drummer than me, and has opened a lot of doors rhythmically.
Do you have any especially cool memories from tours or certain shows?
Look for their new LP Dreams of Youth on Karmic Swamp this Winter
We went out on the Pier in the middle of the night in St. Augustine FL, on our first tour in 2011, and it was Jake’s first time going to the ocean, so it was a pretty cool moment for all of us. Then we listened to the same Cure tape like 300 times while we watched Jake play S.K.A.T.E in the middle of the street all night. It’s always the little things that we seem to remember the best and end up bringing up over and over again.
Cateye by Custat
HI, WE’RE
AND WE SMELL LIKE POT How would you describe Great Floods to an alien? //Old as hell, loud as fuck.
Hardcore songs have always gotten shit for being so brief. Why do you think this happens? Why do you continue the tradition? //Most people don’t understand punk or hardcore. The message is in the speed and urgency and violence. We have a lot of noise and ideas to share and don’t want to waste time with dynamics.
What other bands have you all been in?
// Sealing of the Tribes, Countermeasure, Cast From Eden, Antikythera, Cadaver in Drag, Lo-Fi Devastator, Year of Desolation. It is a really long list. We are pretty old.
What are some local groups you’ve found inspiring or influential? What about more recognized groups? //Locally: Aphids, Empiria Vultura, Bandoleer Prison, Voyage of Slaves, Skull Avalanche, mAA’s, Madame Machine, Skin Tone, All Dead, Blood Planet, Weird Girl, Neighbor.
//(inter)national acts: The Birthday Party, Jesus Lizard, Minor Threat, Unsane, Pig Destroyer, Converge, At the Gates, Mission of Burma, Cephalic Carnage, The Saints, Suicide, Death, Shellac, Refused, Mclusky.
Any other styles you draw from?
// We all come from technical death metal and grind backgrounds. This was really our attempt to quit trying to “wow” people with science and make music that is legitimately brutal and intense.
How hard is it finding time for music, family, and work?
// There is always time for family and music. Fortunately, I work in an environment with people that I consider family and they have better taste in music than anyone else that I know.
What’s the best way to keep it Poor Ugly Thrashy? //Abandon the superficial. Yell about it.
Sean and Tyler over at Modern Cult Records give us their top four album picks for the month Heldon - Interface (Superior Viaduct) Imagine a house band for the refugees of the dystopian underworld city depicted in George Lucas’ early freaky future film, THX 1138 and you may be somewhere very close to this. First released in 1977, Heldon’s 6th record is an uncompromising amalgam of sequenced synth blurps and blots, an inventive live rhythm section and the serrated laser guitar work of leader, Richard Pinhas. A Philosophy major, French native Pinhas melds a heavy Fripp & Eno fetish with an even heavier yet sly and dynamic rhythmic onslaught to create this touchstone of electronic rock fusion. Just reissued on vinyl by the wonderful Superior Viaduct label with the original reptilian commando coverart intact. Fans of King Crimson, Chrome, Tangerine Dream and Throbbing Gristle take notice. Listen for an ironic twist at the end that leaves me chuckling every time. Wise ass.
Robert Wyatt - ‘68 (Cuneiform)
Prior to his prolific solo career, Robert Wyatt was the drummer for pioneering Canterbury powerhouse, Soft Machine. The tracks on this archival release are demos that were made primarily solo with Mr. Wyatt multitracking himself during a time of transitional inactivity for the Softs. “Chelsa” is a psych pop number with prominent organ and a plaintive vocal written by Robert and Kevin Ayers, RIP. Song two, “Rivmic Melodies”, is an 18 minute suite full of dada whimsy. The alphabet is certainly given an arresting treatment. Other themes briefly touched on include: being a black man and being exposed to a crowd. There’s even a nifty Spanish-sung bit. “Slow Walkin’ Talk” is a strong, short tune featuring bass by none other than Jimi Hendrix. The final track, “Moon in June” is an early take of what would wind up on Soft Machine’s Third. More stripped down but certainly not brief at 20 minutes, this is the highlight for me. One can hear Robert spreading his wings and discovering ideas he would mine for the rest of his career. And what a career it has been.
Carlton Melton - Always Even (Agitated Records) The fourth album from this instrumental space/psych-rock band from northern California. True to form this album doesn’t stray from their usual dichotomy of synth drone and riff-heavy psych jams. Featuring special guest John McBain (early Monster Magnet/ Wellwater Conspiracy) on guitar. The album opens with Slow Wake”, a swirling synth and guitar effects piece. “”Keeping On” is a kraut-rhythm driven piece, with the guitars riffing and wandering over top. “Spiderwebs” sinks you into Spacemen 3 dream state with a dark undertone. “Sarssen” sees the band on a space-rock wind-up, built on driving, repetitive drums and eerie keyboard textures. Guitars bring the piece to climax, wailing through the drone. “The Splurge” closes the album out in a dissonant, post-rock dirge. Interestingly, they record all their albums in a geodesic dome.
Earthless - From The Ages (Tee Pee Records)
Third studio album from this psychedelic rock trio from San Diego. Drummer Mario Rubalcaba has a long resume including Louisville’s Metroschifter, Black Heart Procession, Hot Snakes and Off!. No time is wasted as the first track jumps immediately into a Hendrix / Son Seals-style heavy blues jam that doesn’t let you off the hook for a full fifteen minutes. You get a chance to catch your breath on “Uluru Rock” as the band settles into a slower, even heavier jam reminiscent of Robin Trowers’ Bridge of Sighs. At about the ten minute mark the band switches gears as guitarist Isaiah Mitchell melts faces with a blistering solo followed by another blistering solo before the whole thing crashes into hum and feedback. “Equus October” is perhaps the most subdued piece the band has ever recorded. The guitar wanders over Om-style bass and crashing cymbals. “From The Ages” closes out the album with another scorching, all-out heavy blues jam. Earthless doesn’t really cover any new territory on this record, but they do deliver as few bands of this genre can.
Manual Kites is the acoustic answer to Alex Major’s Electric Kites, and it really goes all in when it comes to unplugged. Despite the nature of acoustic projects, tracks like Phantom Pocket Phone Call and She’s Not Afraid to Die pack an unexpected punch. The experimental lo-fi tracks and tin can robo-vocals on Centipede Supermoon bring up obvious Ariel Pink influences, while still managing to create its own haunted graffiti on the walls.
Anne or Jon by Salad Influence saladinfluence.bandcamp.com
ALBUM REVIEWS
Hollow Truth by Gangly Youth ganglyyouth.bandcamp.com
ALBUM REVIEWS
ALBUM REVIEWS
ALBUM REVIEWS
Centipede Supermoon by Manual Kites gravityhouserecs.bandcamp.com
Lexington (super?)group Salad Influence, composed of Ma Turner, Joey Elsinore, and Paul Eldred are creating some of the best noise you can make. The Devotional pop with post-punk sensibilities on Anne or Jon are exceptional and damn near classic. I really think you oughta buy one of these at their next show, because you should also be seeing them live. Salad Influence is perfect 3 AM music, the kind you put on just before you fall asleep with your lamp on.
Louisville crew Gangly Youth have been off the map for a bit, but not without reason. Their first full length LP, Hollow Truth is one smooth listen, like an aural beer. Standout tracks 1984 and What’s Yr Weirdness? seal in the indie style with a sprig of “I can’t quite put my finger on it”. They’re equipped with an infectious sound, and I can’t keep my toes from tapping. Coming super soon on Sophomore Lounge Records. Expect a tour.
Black Horizons by The Revenants reverbnation.com/revenants The longstanding Louisville band The Revenants has a bit of everything for people who like to add “death” or “black” prefixes to their listening libraries. They’re thrashy enough that the hardcore kids don’t get bored and Jason Revenant can bust out a Kofffin Kats howl right before the black metal gnashing and keyboards kick in. The only thing that might not sit well with purists is how ecclectic the album gets. But fuck them. Be at the release show with Stonecutters and OHLM November 1st at Haymarket Whiskey Bar.
Rude Weirdo are some of the rudest weirdos I’ve listened to in a long time. I used to be really in to Dog Fashion Disco and Tub Ring so hitting play for me was like going back in time. We Are Whores is a great example of prog-weirdness that really kicks away the playpens you wanna put Rude Weirdo in. We are Whores doesn’t fit in easily, which in addition it’s freakzoid craftmanship, are the defining characteristics that make it an enjoyable listen.
the Southern Hoosiers of Great Floods have been absolutely tearing it up lately and I couldn’t be more pleased. Holding your own in Louisville hardcore is not a fucking cakewalk. This three track pak of downloads hits hard and fast but leaves me not tasting as much blood as I had hoped. More blood, more brains please. I’m stoked for whenever these guys drop a longer release. Until then, live shows are where it’s at.
Dirty Water/Pull Me Apart by Mote moteband.info Indie-noise influences run amok on this two song release from Louisville’s Mote. I don’t wanna say Sonic Youth, but to ignore such a prime factor would be a disservice. However, Mote are not imitators or one-trick ponies. Effects-heavy tremolo and glorious surf twang on Dirty Water bring Lexington group Jovontaes to mind. Get ready for 7” release on Ultimate Drag this December or download it on Bandcamp today ya nerds.
submit your albums to tobacco.zine@gmail.com
ALBUM REVIEWS
Friends with Vultures by Great Floods reverbnation.com/greatfloods
ALBUM REVIEWS
We Are Whores by Rude Weirdo arenoisepollution.bandcamp.com
ALBUM REVIEWS
This stuff is right up my alley and Cher Von is one creative and talented lady. Lots of mouth music and a beautiful folk-soul fusion with lots of disregard for traditional structure. Anyone who claims to be a fan of experimental music best head to bandcamp right now and prepare to be very pleased. Tracks like I Tend to Lie and Banyan Tree make me yearn for the folk music from a time or dimension we’ve yet to discover.
ALBUM REVIEWS
Banyan Tree by Cher Von chervon.bandcamp.com
tobaccomagazine.net
all cover art by Ryan Reisert