Issue X

EIC and Design Editor Eduard Abayev

Writing Staff

Jude Noel Austin Naamani Corey Burks Leah Rose Nick Layman Aleix K Basie Campbell Cory Cory

Promotional Team

Madelynn Erbe Peyton Crenshaw

front cover by Jeff Gaither back cover by Matty Fitzgerald art by Michael Dever

Is All There Is.

By Yoko Molotov Finally!

I realized time was passing and I was peeling off my own face.

It’s reality.

Because all along I’ve been frozen in photos and in my own busy busy thoughts.

I wrote this as a testament: “A good word follows one and follows another and follows, becomes the divine thought that will save my soul.”

I know.

It’s all been said before.

Reality, in the mirrorI paced!

Yes yes, I despaired.

That is me.

I smashed my face unrecognizable against the keys.

It can’t be stopped, I cannotwalking under the thinning trees, brown their true intent, the chlorophyll spent death a breath, a frost away Puking shows.

Puking to exercise those likely suspectsMy vacant eyes and browning leaves the reality.

My irisa dry well.

This day now!

Is all there is.

I’ll keep repeating it.

This day now!

Is all there is.

Black Moon

By Laurel Dixon

art

by

Tib

The moon turns black: scorched coin on the floor of the sky and my boots tap on the sodden concrete as I follow her past the velvet snake-rope into the hot rush of the bar. Glow-stick night.

Paper trappings gleam against the black ceiling while the dance floor writhes, the tip-tail of an animal wavering in the dim light. White t-shirts. Swift black tattoos.

Hands curled around mine, she comes close, Heat on heat, hips clumsy against mine.

Even as I miss him—as the black moon blooms and eclipses the dark of my eyes—I feel her soft palm: the pink inside of a jewelry box. It’s a bird against my cheek hollow, nesting.

It’s the first taste of hope I’ve had in months— her slick knuckles painting salt along my jaw.

art

On Love

By S. Knox Montgomery

by

But I don’t know what it is.

I love it. I want it.

Brad

Used to think it’s this thing, that binds everything, everlasting.

Older and wiser now, and not wanting to be a fool.

How foolish.

Porter

I want to jump in head strong, swim in the murky waters of love.

But I’ve also got this creature fear Pulling me below.

So, how to overcome?

How to make this more than a protest of loneliness?

Maybe love is more pragmatic than the romantic ideals of old.

Reasons to Eat Fast Food

By Kyle Thompson You cling to the single file of the fast food handout line because you know what goes on at the grocery store.

The chorus that greets you upon entering: babies crying and their nicotine deprived, cracked out mothers obliviously laughing in their drug utopia, while their drunken father screams at them both to stop.

All three voices colliding in whatever the word for the exact opposite of harmony is.

You know the stare of the autistic man running the U-Scan who makes you thankful that “if looks could kill” is just a phrase, you try to tell yourself he can’t help but look at you that way, but you wonder if maybe he’s just the one person who can see right through you to your core.

You avoid the canned soup aisle because of the lady wearing 2 coats and snowboots in the middle of august who spends all day counting the cans and putting them back over and over.

The young girl missing an arm by the deli section singing the national anthem at the top of her lungs.

The probably sociopathic boy dragged around by his well-intentioned father forced to shake everyone’s hand in an effort to improve social skills but he grabs your hand too hard and the forced smile makes you paranoid.

Not to mention the hordes of obese middle aged couples, who usually smell bad, and always take up the whole aisle.

Best to stick to the drive-through.

Maybe that’s what it takes to live outside this shell I’ve created.

Cause I’ve been fighting these demons.

They bother me still.

But what better way to fight?

Than with love. With Love. With love.

A kind of love that’s talked about for ages yet, and since to come This kind of love that’s battle-strong, tested and resolved.

It must exist.

I will it to be with all my heart And here it is for you to see.

art by Charles Burns

“The Night Sky” by Jeff Hamilton

The Cottonwood Curse

by John Beechem

photography by Danielle Elise Bartley

I write these words as a man determined to die. My life is one of pain, despair, addiction, and grief. To extinguish the spark of my life would be to smother a doomed flame, a flickering wick of grief trapped inside a human being.

Its cessation would be a mercy. Not only to me, but to those whose lives are intertwined with the thread of my own.

The doctors tell me I am a mortal case, and I believe them. Three years ago, a sojourn to a drier clime would bring me relief, if sometimes a stinging sunburn. Now it brings me nothing but frightened stares and bloody handkerchiefs. Consumption. The bloody lunged blighter grants her scarlet kiss to the just and the unjust alike, but I am more deserving of her greedy lips than any other, I’d wager.

In the grandstand, they situate themselves far from me now. I tire of staining countless linen scraps; now I simply tie a piece of silk around my face, laced with a touch of parfum to ward off the smell of manure. My family helped fund the construction of Churchill Downs, so even with my affliction, none dare turn me away.

Howard accompanies me. He oft reminisces about his boyhood labors in my father’s stable, tells me which colt to place a bet on when my mind is too scattered to decide, and is quick to fetch bourbon and tobacco

when the need arises. I allow him to take off his servant’s coat on days that it is warm, and we roll up the sleeves of our shirts, and watch the races together. Although he is a son of Ham, Howard has a keen mind, and a serpent’s tongue. He tells me God has damned me for the deeds I’ve done, and my crimes are so wicked, my life has become a hell on earth. “Just a warm breath compared to what waits for you, Mr. Bingham,” he often taunts. I am inclined to agree. Howard Freeman is a bastard in every sense of the word, but I’ve grown fond of him. He’s clever as far as bastards go, and in exchange for his care unto my death, I have written him the sum of $7,000 to be bequeathed from my will, one that will provide well for his wife and their brood, which now numbers nine if my memory serves. Indeed, it is my cursed memory that torments me.

The evil night that plagues my mind was almost half a decade ago. It was in the final days of the Southern Exposition, illuminated by crackling electric lanterns swarmed by moths, a Saturday evening among the dozens of new mansions built in the past few years. Mine stands tall in Belgravia Court, close to 4th Street for the convenience of our late cantankerous carriage driver, Howard’s father Philip. God rest his soul, he is among the departed.

I digress. Please pardon the chaos of these scribbles; their meanderings are evidence of a scattered mind. Lilian was with me that night, my golden haired wife, at the height of her beauty in her twenty-first year as I was entering my twenty-sixth. She was of Sanders stock, so her father and half her uncles were Kentucky Colonels. My father suggested our courtship, hungry for a large dowry, I’ve no doubt. He held me in contempt, the miserable old man, and knew the depths of my vices made me ill-suited for industrious work. My best hope, he always told me, was to charm a poor, little rich girl, one lonely and with a heart aching for loss. I followed his advice, and caught the eye of the young widow, Lilian Sanders, at a Wednesday night picnic, the summer before my consumption became evident.

In half a dozen months we were wed, and in a display of wealth worthy of Midas, Lilian’s father paid for the construction of our home as part of her dowry. I also received a quarter of the home’s value in cash, in part to pay for our furnishings. I put the remainder into an account, a little nest egg for the both of us, to use when we would start producing heirs of our own. This would provide for education at the university, finery to distinguish their level of birth, and other trappings of wealth in this so-called Gilded Age. This excess was evident that night at the Exposition. We were newly-weds out for a night time stroll. Our ears were piqued by the sound of a melodious guitar, one plucked by skilled and nimble hands. A young black man in a bright blue suit, his eyes twinkling with the mischief of a dandy, was playing “Oberon”. It was a song he played often and well. His father had been one of Justin Holland’s apprentices. My wife stopped, and we turned to listen. His gaze caught Lilian’s eye and he bowed his head. The tune abruptly switched, and he strummed a song with lyrics sprung from cupid’s heart. He had a mythical talent, to be sure, but all the pluck of the gods as well, to make such a bold display before my own wife.

In a flash of hot anger, I pulled Lilian away from him, and we walked down Park Avenue to meet my bookie, Charles Dorsey. He owed me money for a wager I’d made on a ball game between Louisville and Cincinnati; the local boys lost (as I knew we would–I had made specific arrangements) and I was about to collect a tidy sum. Lilian was annoyed by my gambling habit, but it made her secret love of the poppy less damning, so in a tenuous truce, we had long ago agreed to discuss neither. However, she began to protest as we left the guitar player far behind.

“Damn you, Robert!

That boy was splendid.

Why don’t you ever want to stop and listen to the world for a moment?” Her anger was palpable, if a bit silly.

I sighed, and pulled a pocket watch from my black vest. I flipped its gold lid, checked the time, and explained, “Dorsey said 9:00 P.M. It’s a quarter to the hour, and I find it prudent to collect on my wager before his other debtors come calling. Forget the darkie; I’ll get Howard to play his banjo for us tonight.”

“I’m tired of Howard’s songs,” she sighed, and looked behind us at the colored Casanova.

I tugged harder, and he was soon lost from view.

At the stroke of three, I awoke, and felt my bed empty. Lilian and I slept together every night. After I satisfied my masculine desires, with an empathic rapidity, I would roll onto my back and sleep. If I woke to fill the chamber pot, Lillian would be asleep, curled away from me. Tonight, she was absent.

I pulled my robe on, and grabbed a pistol from my bureau.

Where had she gone?

I found them in the billiard room. The cries of their beastly coitus could be heard from the

library. The room had a lock, but as master of the house, I carry a skeleton key with me at all times. In case a member of weaker sex is to find and recover this journal, I will spare your fragile heart the details, but let it be said, their debauchery would have made Bacchus and Venus proud.

The pair stopped, their eyes turned toward me. The young musician turned from my wife and faced me, pulling his blue breeches back on and tying his belt. His arousal made this a difficult task, to say the least.

My wife made no attempt at modesty, and laughed cruelly.

“Guitar ain’t the only thing he’s good at.

Is that pistol even loaded?”

I remember nothing but my vision flooding red. In a moment, my ears were deafened by the crack of the pistol, and when I opened my eyes, Lilian’s blood and brains were spread upon the pool table. I looked at the smoking gun in my hand, and felt a moment of dread. Then, the dark machinations of my mind began to turn, and I thought of a scheme.

I struck the guitar player’s face with the butt of my pistol. Abraham Greene; I would learn his name when I read the newspaper the next morning. The boy fell to the floor, and I picked him up by ruffled collar.

“You’re coming with me, Orpheus.”

With the barrel of the pistol in his back, I directed Abraham to the door. I kicked him down the steps, and looked at the bemused crowd that was gathering on the walkway in front of my home. They were strolling by, revelers who left the Exposition and were on their way home. “This man slew my wife!” I roared.

“He came into my home, raped my darling Lilian, and with his lustful thirst slaked, put a bullet into her head. What say ye, gentlemen, ye sons of the Confederacy?” A few turned away, shaking their heads, and cursing. Half a dozen young men looked up at Abraham, their liquored eyes glazed with bloodlust.

A member of the local constabulary, soaked to the gills but with a yeoman’s constitution, came up to us both.

“This one’s not fit for the courtroom.

We’ll handle this.”

We formed a mob, and marched north to the Floral Terrace. To the lynching tree. Someone had grabbed a rope, and then the dandy’s face was wrought in a coward’s acceptance of death. He cried and wailed, calling for his mother, staring at me with pleading eyes. In minutes, we reached the tree, a tall cottonwood.

I grinned, poking him in the chest with the pistol’s barrel as the rope was tightened around his neck. The constable threw it over one of the tree limbs, and a trio of brawny men pulled Abraham high into the air.

His death did not take long. When it was over, when I was certain, I fired a pair of shots into the air, and returned home. I told Howard to allow the magistrates to enter the estate, and arrange to have Lilian’s body taken away. I made arrangements to contact her father.

The following five years were spent in bleak misery. After Lilian’s death, I spent much of her father’s fortune in the brothels. I was intelligent enough to protect myself against Nature’s punishment for fornication, but tuberculosis came to me instead. In the remaining years of my life, I vowed, I would have a lifetime’s worth of experiences. I traveled down the Mississippi in an opulent steam-ship, sailed near Cuba and the Bahamas, drank a crate’s worth of absinthe, smoked hashish by the pound, and gambled my life’s fortune away. It did nothing but numb the pain which inevitably would return.

And so I waited for my life to end.

Three days ago, I began to hear the tune of Oberon played from outside. I would shut my bedroom’s window, but the song never stopped. Even with the bellowing of a trumpet in my parlor or the roar of an elephant, most likely, nothing would push the dreaded melody from my mind.

But this night, I have found it. I have traced its source, in the light of the full moon, to that tree in Floral Terrace.

I walked the blocks north in my bed-robe, my pistol to protect me from scoundrels, and my journal to record my observations. As soon as I viewed the blonde leaved-tree, the sounds of Oberon ceased as if a conductor had willed it.

I stared up into the branches of the tall cottonwood. Somewhere an owl hooted, and a bat flew from its arboreal perch, into a cloud of bugs basking in Luna’s glow. I saw Abraham, hanging. I see him now. No longer corporeal, his spirit glows a dim blue. Abraham’s clothes are tattered, but his face is no longer tear-streaked. He looks down at me, impatiently.

In front of the trunk, someone has placed a pile of black lilies.

For me, I realize.

Tomorrow is the day of all Souls. I will see Lilian in Hell, but I never want to see Abraham again.

art by Matthew McDole

Throwing Up Someone Else’s Blood

by Taylor White

art

by

Matt

Minter

I was walking home from Akiko’s karaoke bar when I came across a dead body in the alley.

I liked walking through alleys after leaving the karaoke. The dark and quiet was a welcome escape from the noise and lights. I felt good: elated and exhausted. Drunk and stumbling, ears ringing and head full of ‘70s radio hits, I nearly tripped over the dead man’s leg.

I apologized and dug through my pockets for a bit of cash to give to him. I found a crumpled, faded dollar bill and held it out. Once again I said I was sorry for disturbing him. He didn’t move or speak.

I don’t know if it was the alcohol messing with my vision, but when I caught his face in the ambient street light I saw a shriveled desiccated mummy. I leaned in closer, thinking ‘surely what I think I see is wrong’, and as I did the body cracked and ruptured as if pulled apart from within. Another second and it exploded, disintegrating into a cloud of dust. I was too drunk to pull back, and I just ended up on my ass with a face-full of that shit.

I was up close in this guy’s face when he popped, trying to see if he was a real mummy or what. My eyes, nose, and mouth were caked in his particle powder. It was all over my clothes and in my hair. With eyes shut tight I sneezed and coughed and gagged. Through all that I think I ended up getting more mummy dust inside than out. I could feel it filling my lungs like two vacuum cleaner bags. All the way home I hacked like grinding meat gears.

The next morning I woke with a stabbing headache, blood oozing from my mouth and gluing my face to the toilet rim. My throat felt like I swallowed glass. I tried to stand and the world spun around me. My body whined with aches and my skin was sticky with fever sweat.

I couldn’t afford a doctor and I was too scared to look up my symptoms on the internet, so I brushed it off as a hangover or some bad chicken from the night before. I took some aspirin and cleaned myself up. I still felt awful, like I had been run over by the flu train, so I wrote the day off and slept.

I woke up later that evening, still aching and sweating, to a powerful hunger. There was nothing to eat in the house besides the chicken from yesterday. I said ‘hell no’and threw it away. Then I went out for shawarma.

I couldn’t stop eating. I had to order three entrees and the deep-fried couscous and the hummus plate.

Finally, after emptying my fourth basket of pita bread, I felt satisfied. While I waited for the guy to come back with my debit card, I felt a tickle at the base of my throat. Like something was lightly stroking the inside of my airways. I coughed into a napkin to try to bring it up, but I got nothing but bits of brown mucus.

The coughing started to get worse, so I ran to the bathroom. As I coughed I could feel something actually inside my lungs squeezing up my windpipe. It squirmed spastically. Not from my hacking but on its own!

I ran out of the restaurant, completely forgetting to sign for the bill, my hands over my mouth. I tried to stifle my coughs with my hands, but they were loud and powerful and blood was gushing from my lungs. It leaked from my mouth and between my fingers, leaving a red splatter trail on the floor of the restaurant and the sidewalk outside. People were staring at me. Embarrassed and confused, I ran home. I had to stop twice to vomit blood and falafel into the grass. I felt guilty for it because I knew someone would come outside and see this horrible mess in their yard and get pissed about it. And what if they were watching me? They’d run outside and yell at me like I was another drunk asshole puking on their lawn. I just wanted to get home. I could sort it out there.

At home, things weren’t any better. I threw up more blood, painting the inside of the toilet bowl a dark red-brown. Long after the food was emptied from my stomach, I kept throwing up blood. More

blood than I ever thought could be contained in a single person. Whatever it was in my windpipe that was squirming came up on the last heave and plopped into the toilet. I watched it bob to the surface, and I was looking at a human finger. It twitched back and forth in a continuous ‘come here’ motion.

I shot to my feet, as if the finger might leap from the toilet and dig its way back into my mouth.

Frozen in fear and disgust, I didn’t know what to do with it. Should I flush it? Should I keep it in a tupperware? Bring it to a doctor? While I contemplated my options, I felt more squirming in my windpipe.

They were more fingers, and one by one I coughed them up into the toilet. A stream of blood and digits. It looked like I had a full set here: eight fingers and two thumbs. A right hand and a left hand. They danced in the bloody toilet as if they were playing piano or typing on a keyboard.

Then, a low hum began in the core of my chest, a constant vibration far below my own vocal cords. It rose in pitch from a bass drone to something resembling a human voice. But it sounded incomplete, froggy, damaged. Air was being drawn into my lungs by this horrible sound as I stood silent and helpless. Then, the sound exhaled. It formed words as it did so: “Leave the fingers. There will be more of me.” A stale wind blew past my mouth and nose from deep inside me, stinking of mold and rot.

The next few days were an endless barrage of gorging on expensive food, vomiting blood and bits of guts and organs that I was pretty sure did not belong to me, and coughing up toes, eyeballs, teeth, and a tongue. The voice in my chest commanded that I leave it all in the toilet and let it stew. Once, just once I moved to flush it all down, and I was wracked with severe choking spasms. It was as if my lungs were twisting themselves like wringing out a wet towel, in an attempt to force themselves out my own mouth. After that, I obeyed the voice.

The pieces in the toilet bowl arranged themselves into a face. It wasn’t completely a face, more like a face sculpted from spare parts, like someone trying to be cute with the fruit salad. Like a Mr. Potato Head, but instead of a potato he was a pile of bloody, pulsing guts. The eyes stared blankly, without lids, rolling in directions independent of each other. The teeth silently chomped at the open air, and the tongue wagged obscenely at me.

I asked the voice in my chest all sorts of questions, feebly trying to find some meaning in all of this. But it never responded. It talked only when it wanted to, and then it was only to belch orders at me. I wasn’t allowed to go to work (which I didn’t mind) or shit in the toilet (which I did). Work fired me after a week of call-ins and my shit ended up clogging the shower drain. Of course, I wasn’t allowed to call the landlord. Any time a friend called the voice commanded that I tell them I was busy. I couldn’t leave or call for help or do anything I wanted. All I could do was puke blood and pieces of someone else’s body.

Whatever it was inside me was working its way out slowly, and couldn’t afford to be disturbed. I wondered if it would let me live; if I could piece my life back together. Or would I die here? Already my body was looking wrecked. I was pallid and thin, filthy and crazy in the eyes. My skin was painfully dry and pulled tight over my bones. Body fat and muscles were disappearing. I think I was being consumed from the inside out.

On the last day, I lay motionless and atrophied on the bathroom floor, covered in someone else’s blood. The pile of organs in the toilet had crawled out and pulled itself across the floor with its fingers. That Mr. Potato Head now had something of a face. It was no one I recognized; as if seeing the face of a celebrity or politician would somehow make the situation better. But at least now the teeth had gums and lips. The eyes had lids, and long, stringy hair flowed from the top of the mass of organs. It whispered to me that it was done with me and it was leaving. It left just enough of itself behind in my lungs to turn me to dust when someone came by to take a look.

The mass of organs and hair pulled itself to the door, leaving a trail of fresh blood on the way. With great effort, it extended a muscled pseudopod to grip the doorknob.

Then it crawled outside. I tried to curse it; to shout “I hope you get eaten by a dog!” but all that came from my lungs was a series of coughs accompanied by an eruption of dust.

s a v i n g a u g u s t

by Jesse Riley

art

by

Jesse

Lucas

We celebrated her birthday here, we had cake, presents, and we sung to her, even though she was completely asleep. I was sitting at the corner of her bed in one of those terribly uncomfortable wooden chairs. I sat there counting the hundreds of thousands of tiny particles it must take to compose a soft, beautiful face like hers. And her mother sat beside her on the bed, unraveling a present “Oh, August. It’s a Cd of one of those loud bands you know I hate” Her mother would then look down at her unresponsive daughter, completely pale, dressed in a blue gown, and then tears would develop in the corners of her eyes. I begin biting my bottom lip, wondering if August even wanted to be saved.

For the past few days I have slept in this same chair. Her mother would always get a cot from a nurse around ten “Grayer, won’t you trade me tonight?” she’d ask. “That’s okay. You need the rest more than I do.” She then bends down and pats the top of my knee “August is a lucky girl to still have a friend like you” she says.

“Yea, we’re best friends.”

But honestly, we weren’t friends at all anymore. In middle school we were, but things changed when we went into high school. We fell into different groups, the kind of groups that don’t really speak to each other and the kind of groups that don’t really like each other.

As August’s mother laid down on the cot, she reached for August’s hand and laced her fingers within hers just before she shut her eyes. I stared at August’s cracked lips and wondered if they’ll ever crevice another smile. I memorized the way her hair looks golden underneath the fluorescent light above her head. I had to savor each little detail, just in case I never see her again.

I started thinking about the Fall of eighth grade. August had begged me every day after school to take the long walk home by the train tracks. She pulled onto my sweatshirt by the two strings and puffed out her bottom lip “Grayer” she said in a sad voice “It’s only a few extra minutes and if you come over today we can play my Nintendo 64!” I remember mom told me she would be late getting home from work anyway “Okay, but just today. Just this one time!” August grinned as a gust of wind blew her blonde hair behind her shoulder “You’re so gonna thank me.”

I followed August over this steep hill. While we ran down the hill August said “It’s simple now” and she pointed to the train tracks ahead “we just follow those tracks home.” When we reached the train tracks August stepped onto one of the metal rails and began walking a straight line. I walked along beside her on the ground. I listened to her fumble her fingers through the pocket of her jacket until she pulled out a pack of cigarettes “Want one” August said while tearing off the clear wrapper. “August” I snapped at her “Didn’t we just watch a boring video in health class about the harm smoking tobacco does to your body?!” August pulled out a cigarette anyway and held it in-between her fingers. The cigarette dangled there while she spoke “Yea but, the way I figure, chances are I’ll die of something else” and she paused to light her cigarette “besides this is only my second cigarette ever. Kinda taste good.” When I didn’t respond, August broke the silence “It’s like this thing I read once, maybe it was in a book but I’m not sure” she takes the cigarette from her mouth and continues “The people who want to die, never die.”

“So now you want to die?!” I said. August laughed. She doesn’t laugh very often but when she does its soft and colorful. It’s a laugh that if you’re not laughing in return, then you’re at least smiling. “No, at least not today” August said.

Before I could open my mouth we heard the whistle of an oncoming train behind us. August stepped off the metal rail and grabbed onto my hand. The cigarette smoke was slapping me in the face as she dragged me off the train tracks. She turned me around though, when we were only a few feet away from the train. As it came barreling by she lifted my hand up against hers, all our fingers were pointing out into the air and we followed the trail of the train with the tips our fingers. I don’t think I’ll ever forget how clearly I heard her whisper over the rumbling of the engine “Isn’t it fun to trace trains?”

My mind rushes back to reality when August’s mother begins to snore. The television up in the corner of the room is quietly playing an old television show. I bend my head into my stomach and push the palms of my hands into my eyes. I need to sleep, but I can’t. I feel the hopelessness and the quietness slowly engulfing

me. It’s a terrible combination that rarely happens to me, when wanting to cry collides with dying not to.

I turn my head toward the door. A small streak of light is creeping underneath it.

On the back of the door hangs August’s brown leather jacket. It’s the same frayed jacket she wore that night. It’s the same frayed jacket she wore when I piled her into my car and it’s the same jacket that begins to make me relive the entire night all over again.

I was drug to this party by my friend Marcus. It was the last party of the summer since school started in two days. Most of the senior class was going to be there. When Marcus heard about it he begged me to go.

When we rang the doorbell to a house we didn’t know, we could only hear the muffled sound of blaring music on the inside. But when a lady with short black hair opened the door, she smiled and said “Come in, beer is on the table.” And she didn’t lie to us, at least five six packs of beer were on the kitchen table, no shit! I grabbed a beer and turned toward the living room. That’s when I saw her there, sitting on the couch wearing a blue dress and a brown leather jacket. The color of her dress matched her eyes perfectly, and August didn’t ever look lovelier. I sat down on the floor directly in front of her. For the most part I only listened and watched. I watched as she would swing her hair behind her shoulder as she took a drink of her beer. I remember thinking how extraordinary that is. I wondered how a girl can swing her hair back and take a drink of beer at the same time could be so attractive, but it is. It’s in these weird and odd moments that people become extraordinary, even if it’s only for a brief second.

Then august left, I don’t think she even noticed who I was when she stepped over me and opened the door to the bathroom.

I kept watching everyone. This was my first party and I wanted to savor each little thing. I want to memorize it, just in case I never go to another.

Then we heard the awful crashing sound erupt from the bathroom. Everyone stopped talking and looked at the door. The boy August was sitting beside stood up and said while laughing “Babe is everything okay? You didn’t fall in did you?” but august didn’t respond. The boy inched is way toward the door until he was directly in front of it “Babe? Answer me” he said. Still no reply. He then pressed his ear on the door to see if he could hear anything… nothing. He stood back and yelled “I’m coming in!”

After he kicked the door in a lady yelled “My fucking door! Dad is gonna kill me.” But the look on this boy’s face made everyone’s heart sink, the entire house fell silent. He stepped backwards as his eyes widened to the size of baseballs. The boy dug out his car keys from his pocket and yelled out “Tyler, get your jacket!

We’re leaving.” As the boy rushed out everyone else stood up and closed in on the door. I couldn’t see anything but when I heard this lady yell “Don’t let her die in my fucking house!” I was frozen with fear. I don’t remember very clearly after that. The only thing I remember is rushing her to my car and driving her to the hospital. I held her hand the entire way as I kept repeating “Don’t you fucking die, August. Don’t.”

I stopped the car directly in front of the doors of the hospital. I shoved two arms underneath her armpits and drug her inside screaming “Help her! She needs help.” This nurse quickly came to me and yelled for help. Two other male nurses came and took her out of my arms. I stood there weightless as I watched them carry her lifeless body away.

I was sitting in the corner of the lobby when August’s Mother came in. She started beating on the desk and yelling about her daughter. The lady in front of her calmed her down long enough for a doctor to come out. He stood as still as a statue and looked August’s Mother directly in her eyes “Your daughter overdosed. She isn’t doing so well.,” and the doctor looked away for a moment, nearly like the words were caught in his throat “We can’t get her to wake up.”

Now I look back up at august. Balloons are still touching the ceiling and presents are still wrapped in the corner of the room. I reach out and grab her other free hand, lacing her fingers between mine. I begin to realize how oddly beautiful this all is. That right now, I realize August is again, Extraordinary.

As I close my eyes and lean my head backward I feel the tears developing in the corners of my eyes, but just before they can fall and splatter little earthquakes, I whisper to August “Happy birthday.”

art by Yoko Molotov

LEED CERTIFIED by

Sarah

M.

Moeding

“Hosta Has Been Hacked” by Thomas Murphy

“To be honest, you guys, I’ve already forgotten the safe word.”

Blank stares.

“The safe word?” Bill chuckled. “This ain’t no S&M parlor.”

They all laughed. Jeffrey looked around, settling his gaze on the pile of conduit at his feet. He was out of his element, with this crew of pipe insulators from Minnesota, the Local 34. A paper pusher from New York, his company wanted him here, in Fridley, a suburb of Minneapolis, overseeing the completion of their 13th location, LEED certified, and all that jazz. They said it was because they didn’t want to cut corners, but he knew better.

They just wanted him out of the city for a couple of months.

His partner, Clare, a seemingly robust man from Jersey (the English-owned Jersey, not the storied American New Jersey, birthplace of Sinatra, Springsteen, beleaguered home of the Jersey Devil and Jackson Whites) had gone positively batshit two months ago and had shot and field dressed his family, decorating himself with pink guts like a nuttily-named Kentucky Derby winner, before striding naked onto the busy avenue they lived on, putting the same antique percussion pistol he’d used to kill his family into his mouth and firing.

He was right. It wasn’t an S&M parlor.

“Password.” He forced a smirk. “I meant password.”

Bill, the alpha of this crew of hardy men, clapped him on the back and shook his head with a wry grin. “You big city people. Always perverts.”

He wrote the password down on his clip board and tore the bit with his writing off, handing it to Jeffrey.

“There. Keep that in your pocket.”

Jeffrey walked over to the alphanumeric keypad on the door, a the appropriate information. There were three soft beeps and Bill was right. It wasn’t an S&M parlor.

It was going to be something much, much worse.

door made of a foot of steel and rubber, and pressed out the door opened, slowly, on hydraulics.

by Basie Campbell photography by Beau Kaelin

HOW DOES YOUR EXPERIENCE AS A TEACHER EFFECT YOUR FILM HOW DID YOU INTERACT WITH INDIVIDUALS WHO APPEARED IN THE FILM? MAKING AND/OR HOW DOES TEACHING EFFECT YOUR FILM-MAKING? I covered this a bit when discussing the differences on being in I suppose there are several elements at play here. In general, becoming a teacher has been a huge boon to my scripted film projects. I regard my fellow faculty as a veritable casting pool - many of the regular players in my films are colleagues. Teachers are essentially actors - you play a role when you’re up in front of students that is scarcely who you really are. They tend to be naturals for my projects because it’s just switching from one facade to the next. But as to how my avocation influenced Kora, that’s a bit different, for in the absence of a script, I didn’t need actors. Instead, I’ll credit my specific discipline to aiding my focus. I teach Biology and AP Biology, and as such, the sciences, especially the biological sciences, encourage observation skills and curiosity about one’s surroundings. I feel it would be naive to assume that doesn’t lend itself to skill behind a camera. On the flip-side, filmmaking is very much a hobby. In fact, I’m not a tremendous fan of the term “filmmaker,” for I feel most people who label themselves as such are just out to make a name for themselves (akin to calling yourself a rock star just because you play a guitar, or a chef, because you like to cook...). I don’t make films to support myself, and likely wouldn’t want to. I believe you should do what you love for your family and friends, not a boss or a paycheck. Digression aside, I regard creative expression as one of the biggest priorities in my life. And I try to convey that to my students. The biology classroom can lend itself to creative outlets just as much as the art classroom - it’s just up to the teacher to make that choice, and most don’t I’ve found. Part of my opening day talk with new students is assuring them that they will have such opportunities in my class, for I value the bygone art of imagining and taking the time to express one’s personality (not to be confused with expressing an opinion). That, I regularly discuss travel with my students as well (for the opportunities to travel dwindle with the onset of age and added obligations to jobs and families), encouraging them to get out of the microcosm of Shepherdsville, KY, if only for a couple of weeks, because there’s no other way they’ll be able to see their lives in a new light. I didn’t have such focuses early on in my teaching career, and admittedly, such changes might come about with experience, but I feel that filmmaking has led to that positive focus in my classroom.

I DID A PIECE WITH WILLIAM BRYAN RAGLAND A FEW ISSUES AGO AND WE BRIEFLY DISCUSSED KORA. HOW WAS IT WORKING WITH WILLIAM AGAIN, AND WHY DID YOU CHOOSE A SINGULAR SOURCE OF MUSIC FOR KORA? I love working with Will. The average person might look at the two of us and think we’re on completely opposite ends of the spectrum, but when it comes to tastes in films and music, and more importantly, creative expression, I think we’re pretty simpatico. During the scoring for both Symbiosis and Kora, I would make a trip into town just to listen to his live-scoring in his studio. There is just something about listening to his music at an organ-rattling volume as he dreams it up that makes all the pieces of imagery in my head come together. The two of us had been casually chatting for years about how we needed to collaborate on a film in the vein of Godfrey Reggio’s Qatsi Trilogy or the nonnarrative films of Ron Fricke (Chronos, Baraka, Samsara). When I realized that I had the potential to film something of that nature during my upcoming trip to China, he was down in an instant. So he had the context of the type of project I was doing from the start (as opposed to any other composer where I would have to loan them those films to use as a reference). Will is one of the most versatile musicians I know and I knew it was within his ken and ability to incorporate Eastern sounds within his own music to complement the film - specifically his style in the vein of his Cosmonaught or Misc, Etc albums. I also felt it was best to stick with one predominant composer, for if the film switched musicians every several minutes, then it could detract from the imagery on screen. For the project to work, the music and visuals needed to sync in perfect harmony, and we both felt in the end that they do. Ultimately, our process was this: first, I would look over the imagery I wanted to edit and suggest a rough length and tone (the only time he felt he couldn’t capture what I’d suggested was we asked Tony Robot of Ultra Pulverize, aka Chris Vititoe, to guest write a piece). Next, Will would generate a piece or two, if not more, and send them to me. From there, I’d listen them on loop until I knew the beats by heart and edit the footage accordingly. Finally, I’d run the edit by him and the two of us would debate whether the segment was too long, too short, etc. Often it would seem like a splitting of hairs, but for a project of this nature, the addition or subtraction of a few seconds really does make a world of difference. In the end, we both felt the final product was the best work we’d each done and were left with only one question: what project should we do next?

DID YOU WORK WITH OR CORRESPOND WITH ANY CHINESE OR TIBETAN FILMMAKERS DURING THE MAKING OF KORA? No. I would have loved to had I met any, but outside of Hong Kong, Chinese filmmakers are few and far between...at least those making projects outside of the government or CCTV’s watchful eye.

DID THE CONCEPTUALIZATION OF KORA LEAD YOU TO ASIA OR DID ASIA LEAD YOU TO THE CONCEPTUALIZATION OF KORA? The latter. sense of awe returned in that rather nirs for my

As mentioned earlier, China imbued such an overwhelming in me in 2011, I felt the need to bring back that awe when I 2013...which I suppose it almost seems strange to think than bringing back baubles and cheap trinkets as souvefriends, I brought back an emotion and a state of mind.

the city vs. countryside, but for the better part, I stayed back from the moment I was endeavoring to capture and just let it happen. I shot 35mm film for years before I caved in and bought a digital camera, and as such, learned that you really can blend into the background and become invisible when you have a camera blocking your face,provided you allow that to happen. Most individuals who were in the film were oblivious to my existence, despite the fact that I stick out like a sore thumb in that culture. For the other individuals who are clearly interacting with the camera, typically the case was they approached me, out of inquisitiveness, as I was filming something else. Once I explained what I was doing, they were usually pretty receptive to letting me add them to my collection of Chinese curiosities, so to speak. I’m also glad I started out in 35mm, for training yourself on a camera with only 24 shots teaches you the discipline of making each shot count, as opposed to regarding every image you capture as dispensable. I treated every image in Kora as a 35mm still image, in terms of composition, angle, etc. and feel that what I captured benefited from this guideline in a long run.

WHAT ARE THE ADVANTAGES OF A CINEMATIC WINDOW INTO A CULTURE USING SYMBOLISM AND UNSPOKEN INTERACTIONS, RATHER THAN TRADITIONAL VERBAL STORYTELLING? I find that it allows me to focus with greater magnitude on atmosphere and emotion. My primary goal with Kora is to do one thing: to instill a sense of awe. In an era where the average American has a cell phone that doubles as a computer with access to the wealth of the world’s knowledge, we often forget that there’s still mystery to the world. And I don’t mean in the theological sense as to: “What lies beyond this plane?” or any form of Fortean explorations. Merely, there are eccentricities to cultures that we don’t realize exist. When I first visited China in 2011, I was enamored with the culture, largely because so many elements were altogether new to me. It was as if I’d stepped through the looking glass into a totally different world, and was intrigued by event the slightest minutia, because to me it wasn’t routine. Daily chores and rituals to the Chinese were a source of fascination for me, and so I chose to try and present the culture in that same light within the film. I didn’t want the film to be a traditional documentary, for that would reduce it to a travelogue. Rather, I wanted to restrict the audience’s view of the whole in such a way that they feel like invisible travelers in this foreign realm, and are filled with a sense of wonderment at the end of their journey.

WERE YOUR HUMAN SUBJECTS INDIVIDUALS WHO FIT A SOUGHT AFTER CHARACTER OR IMAGE THAT WAS VAGUELY CONCEIVED OF BEFORE SHOOTING, OR WAS EACH INDIVIDUAL FOUND WITHOUT A PRECEDENT ROLE AND BROUGHT IN ELEMENTS OF UNIQUE PERSONALITY? Very much the latter. As I mentioned above, I wanted to bring back the wonder of China with me, but as to how I was going to do that, I was clueless and chose to work it out once I got there.

In addition, to plan out any shots ahead of time would have been ill-advised. Where directors like Godfrey Reggio or Ron Fricke had tremendous advantage over me when it came to their filming Koyaanisqatsi or Baraka and Samsara, respectively, is they had time and money. They could afford the luxury of staying in a location for a week or two for a single shot, whereas I was living out of a backpack and constantly on the move. That is another element of Kora that I feel separates it from the rest - it’s very much a film of sheer serendipity. Not a single shot in the film was planned. Every image you see was captured in the moment, and it was pure chance that I lucked into the beauty that I did.

Early on, I foolishly sought to create the film in a no-budget mimicry of Fricke’s style, but I soon learned that would not work. Point in case: on my first day of “filming” (I put that in quotation marks because loosing myself in China was my priority, not going to China to make a film) I went to the Temple of Heaven in Beijing. It’s a gorgeous structure and I loved the idea of capturing it with a bit of time lapse. Problem #1: it was smoggy the day I went, so I could either pay to come back another day or just settle for a static shot. Problem #2: it was crowded as hell and there was no way I was going to get an open window for a clear shot. Then I backed up and realized that the essence of that moment was those people getting in my way to pose for cameras. I began to film people posing for other cameras instead, and so all you ever see of the Temple of Heaven in the finished film is what little pieces of it you see out of focus behind people posing.

It felt very true to that moment in time, because as you view the film, you’re thinking, “Move out of my way,” as well as realizing, as I did, what a bizarre ritual it is to have a picture taken of yourself standing in front of an object to prove you were there.

That then became my rule for filming while I was traveling; I sought to capture the character of that fragment of time, that point on Earth. In short, I woke up each morning and went out in search of what I didn’t know I was seeking. China revealed its soul to me through happenstance. If I went back ten more times, I would likely capture it ten different ways. Kora is just one of countless experiences that China could have offered forth to share.

Additionally, in the end I had nearly 33 hours of footage that I whittled down to an hour and eighteen minutes (Will and I agreed before I began editing that the film should be the length of a standard CD). I could easily edit a variety of permutations for the film if need be, but the outcome, as it exists, is the right one.

IN MANY SCENES YOU ARE SHOOTING ON BUSY STREETS WHERE SUBJECTS ARE LESS INDIVIDUALIZED AND INSTEAD FRAMED IN A HOLISTIC VIEW OF MOTION AND LIFE, LENDING A FEELING OF CHAOTIC ANONYMITY TO THE VIEWER (AND PERHAPS TO THE FILMMAKER?) IN OTHERS, SUBJECTS ARE GIVEN A MORE INTIMATE FOCUS, THEIR EMOTIONAL EXPRESSIONS ARE SINGLED OUT AND MAGNIFIED. COULD YOU GIVE AN IDEA OF HOW THAT DICHOTOMY OF INTERACTION FEELS AS A FILMMAKER? (HOW DOES THE CONTRAST IN METHOD EFFECT YOUR PERSONAL RELATION TO WHAT YOU CREATE?) A lot of what you mention is, I feel, one of many interpretations of the imagery on screen. Ultimately, it’s all an extension of my experience in the country. There’s no intentionality behind the sensation of chaotic anonymity within the noisy, mephitic din of the metropolitan areas - that perception is merely the reality of that location.

I merely strove to objectively capture all that I encountered, free of staged arrangements or a skewed perspective that’s borne of a desire to make a viewer feel predetermined emotion. The viewer is truly seeing that world through “my eyes” as I perceived it firsthand. As such, not only does this level of voyeurism allow the viewer to vicariously experience this alien world, but it’s also incredibly personal for me, for I regard it as an extension of myself.

FILMS WITH LITTLE TO NO DIALOGUE OR SPEECH CERTAINLY HAVE AN ESTABLISHED INTRIGUE, A MANIPULATION OF SENSORY FOCUS, AND ENABLE A DISTINCT ALTERNATIVE TO HOW MODERN VIEWERS PROMINENTLY PROCESS FILM. DO YOU/DID YOU PREFER SHOOTING IN URBAN INDUSTRI- PERSONALLY WHAT LED YOU TO MAKE KORA IN THIS WAY? has probably been covered more than once in previous anALIZED ENVIRONMENTS OR NATURAL/RURAL LANDSCAPES? This swers, but... my main intention was not to sway the viewer into

I enjoyed both for very different reasons. The cityscapes were accompanied with an element of convenience. If my Mandarin fell short, the odds are great that there would be an English-speaker nearby. That, and the cities felt almost more bizarre than the countryside;a refraction of the reality I’m accustomed, too. City life is still city life, regardless of the continent, but all elements were a permutation of the familiar, often accompanied by an aspect of novelty (from poor English translations of signs to odd variations of name-brand foods). However, once you get out of the city, away from the droves of other laowei (the Chinese slang term for “foreigners”), then it just becomes you, the road and what crude language skills you possess. In short, traveling alone in that kind of environment really forces you out of the comfort level you create for yourself in your daily life. Basic tasks, like trying to find camera film or a bus that will take you from one location to the next, become an adventure. That, and if you’re traveling on your own in some of the obscure villages as I was, you’re already a novelty to the locals. When you factor in my being 6’6”, blonde and covered in tattoos, I’m a goddamned anomaly to those people. And as such, it wouldn’t take long for several folks to approach and satisfy their curiosity by inquiring about why I was there. I’d explain the best I could with my crude Mandarin skills, and a short conversation later, I’d easily find myself being shown around town. They’d show me off to their friends, proud that they’d discovered me - their source of fascination and entertainment for the day. These are the people who really appreciated that I’d gone to the effort to learn the language, who were impressed that I’d taught myself what I knew, who were humbled that I wanted to capture their way of life on film, and who laughed at how crazy they thought it was that I was traveling by bus, bike or even hitchhiking all alone in ridiculously remote areas of the country. In the city, you don’t get such a reception, for foreigners and tourists are all too common. But in China obscura, you become a celebrity...or a circus freak...but either way, you don’t go unwelcomed.

regarding China in one particular way. It, like all cultures, has a mix of good and bad. There are segments within Kora that are as beautiful as other segments are horrific. I endeavored to treat all these elements of the culture equally, and found the best principle to adhere to to ensure that happened was edit by visual, not subject. My strict guideline was that every single shot in the film not only had to have a visual connection to the shot that preceded it, but also to the shot that would follow it. The resulting product flows effortlessly from one subject to the next, not only making it hard to discern distinct sections within the film, but also allowing for subject material of a variety of natures to blend together. Fog-shrouded temples complement smog-ensconced skyscrapers. Labyrinths of artwork for sale in metropolitan markets are seen as wildly confusing as an ancient maze built for an emperor. Rivers of neon reflective off of well-polished cars in Beijing’s business district flow to the irrigation canals of the rice terraces of Yunnan. In short, I wanted to represent everything - to have those who knew from experience through their travels to point at Kora and say: “That’s China.”

After the initial premiere of the film, I found that such was a summation by those few in attendance who’d traveled to the country.

But it was offered forth by an audience member: “The film depicts what a Westerner would find eccentric or worth noting, but how do you think someone who was born and lived in China would react?

Would that person be offended or enjoy it?” I had no answer, for I really couldn’t begin to guess. So I took the film to a Chinese friend of mine who’d missed the premiere and watched it with her.

Afterwards, I posed the question to her. She explained, “I can’t answer that question very easily, because it’s not a question about the movie for me. I watch Kora, and I’m seeing an extension of myself. I can’t be offended, because I’m not offended by myself. I am happy to be who I am, and that film is me. “ That complement alone told me that Kora succeeded in being everything it needed to be.

art

by

Tib

OU IC ARE TYLY? S U M R E H WHAT OTD WITH CURREN a INVOLVE cals in

WHO CAL

ARE ACTS

SOME YOU

LODIG?

Another Mi ake, ing vo ng by the o So d White ns Of Mest m ’ I i w o o aper, g n e t r h ger, Damaged dusa, Vaderbomb, ReCh Rig d we’ ully we’ll be n a d n a b igGo f l od e a d s, p t n o e e De An H m ad, Whips/Ch ag risis, Al lian. re the ains, Ordeno l athan, Youn name Civoi play out befonext year. r Of stoked aboutg Widows and I’m Leviready t year or early solo projreal this new Xe of the have two otherch is black rxes album.

Also I akarabru, whi E R, which WHAT INSPIRED YOU TO MAKE ects. S nd A T E L I se project. SU CH DANCEABLE metal a to be a noi DARKWAVE? happens Being bored as shit.

ALBIE MASON IS

by Eduard Abayev

S

ARE THERE ANY OTHER MUSIC STYLES YOU’D LIKE TO WORK WITH? Man, honestly, I’d really just like to do a fun ass crust band. Or thrash. Either way, it wont happen unless I write and record it all myself at home.

This is Louisville, afterall. Everybody wants to be in a band but nobody wants to be in a band.

ANY

OTHER

VITAL

INFO?

Yeah, I got a puppy this month and I was going to try to release my new album today. Dude is a lot of work and he keeps me busy as shit, so I’m pushing it back as I’ve not really had much time for myself at all lately. Expect soomething soon.

WHAT OTHER MUSIC OR ART INSPIRES YOUR PROCESS? I’m more inspired by the world around me and the idea of escaping it. And for this project, its a reflection of the happiness I experienced in my youth, or at least the sounds that I am trying to create--stem from those days that will stay permanently attached to my memories.

On the other side of that coin, the “lyrics” I write come from the blood, sweat and tears of adulthood and the man I’ve grown to be, daily struggles and idiots I am forced to be in contact with everyday.

But to simply answer your question: Excessive cigarettes, excessive alcohol--preferably vodka--and getting black out drunk, excessive Tom Waits, Trent Reznor, black metal, pizza, my cats and the recreational usage of stuff I “shouldn’t be doing,” says the world I want to escape. As if they know how some other persons life should be lived.

Fuck you.

I’ll do what I want.

Alright, anyway, some of that you cant call art or music but all of the above sure as fuck set my mind right and inspire my process more than anything.

Hence the project name.

My life is a fucking mess, but at least I’m aware, unlike a lot of shitheads I run into.

CHECK OUT THE MESS AT THEMESS502.BANDCAMP.COM

HOW DID YOU CHOOSE THE NAME? The original line-up was myself, Ben Allen on bass, Daryl Cook on guitar, and Mikey Turner on drums. Ben and Daryl wanted to start a hardcore band and asked Mikey and I (Matt) to join. Daryl wanted to name the band Wretched Thirst and I suggested that the name should be Wretched Worst instead. It was supposed to be a joke, but Mikey took charge and decided that was our name. We grew into the name over time.

WHAT ARE SOME MUSICIANS OR ARTISTS THAT INSPIRE YOUR SOUND? Obvious inspirations include bands like Wolf Eyes and Hair Police. With Wretched Worst’s music, the idea process has generally come from listening to film scores from the 70s and 80s, I’ll bring a repetitive theme to the band and let them roll with it. Several films have influenced the Wretched Worst vibe, in particular the films Leptirica and Alucarda. And most definitely the films of Jim Van Bebber.

WHO

ARE

SOME

OF

YOUR

FAVORITE

LOCAL

GROUPS?

Ben Allen has an electronic project called Live Island that I like a lot. There’s Mikey T’s projects, Warmer Milks, Cross, and now currently Ma Turner. Trevor Tremaine’s projects Attempt and Jeanne Vomit-Terror are both insane and cool. And Robert Beatty’s Three Legged Race and all his Resonant Hole projects are killer.

by art

Eduard Abayev

by Matt Minter

CHECK OUT WRETCHED WORST AT WRETCHEDWORST.BANDCAMP.COM

WHO

IS

INVOLVED

IN

WRETCHED

WORST?

The line-up has changed repeatedly over the years. I mentioned the original line-up above.

That lasted less than a month, we played one show and Mikey T. left to reform Warmer Milks. After that the line-up changed to myself, Ben Allen on drums, Daryl Cook on guitar, and eventually Thad Watson on bass. That particular version of the band lasted for a while, then Daryl decided to step down and Joey Tucci took over on guitar.

With Joey in the band we recorded the Worse Than Jail LP and cemented the sludge and death vibe that get’s associated with us. Ben Allen evetually stepped down on drums and now Jason Schuler currently drums for us. Other noteworthy mentions include Jamie Adkins who played guitar for a brief period, and Brian Osborne who was our insane stand-in drummer on several tours.

ARE IN

ANY OTHER

OF YOU MUSIC

INVOLVED PROJECTS?

Thad has been doing Kraken Fury for a while, it kind of shifts back and forth from harsh noise to country and western ballads. Joey plays in Kraken Fury occasionally and also plays in Attempt. Jason played in Cadaver in Drag throughout their entire run and currently does a solo organ project called Heavy Sleeper. I just released a bandcamp page and cassette of a project I worked on for a few years called Guilty Feelings. It was sort of inspired by the Manson Family Jams and private press records from the 70s. Ben Allen plays guitar and synth on it and Trevor’s wife Sara O’Keefe sings.

WHAT ARE

ARE SOME THINGS THAT WORSE THAN JAIL?

I guess most of the stuff I come up with in drawing and music is what I consider worse than jail. Worse Than Jail has become an all-encompassing name that categorizes the horrible, alien world I’m creating. Like all of these terrible things are happening in one place and the music and illustrations are documentations of these events. I guess in reality what’s worse than jail is probably being trapped in an inert situation where my life is not moving forward in any way creatively. Like being trapped and wasted at a shitty party, when I could have been home working on some cool shit.

by E duar d Ab ayev

HOW DID PLAYING YOU TWO START TOGETHER?

We were baptized together in 1994. We began to play music together around 2010, which eventually led to The New Shitbirds.

If it wasn’t for this , we’d still be playing Green Day covers.

WHO ARE FAVORITE SOME OF YOUR LOCAL ACTS? Anyone who’ll play with us.

Along wi th First Haze, BLOOD PL AN ET , Voodoo Economiks, Isolator, Holocaust Acti on Figures, and maybe Whit Does Squirrel Bae Reaper. it count?

WILL A

YOU EVER NEED PLAYER? BASS No, it might actually make us sound good.

WHAT INSPIRES THAT SHITBIRD SOUND? Kentucky Gentleman, Cigarettes, Garage Rock, and the lack of musical talent.

A TRAILIS THE NAME SHITBIRD FE RE RENCE? BOYS PARK ER

For fuck sakes, we did not get our name from Trailer Park Boys.

It’s a long story but we first came up with the band name back in high school when some 13 year old’s at the skate park rode by calling us “Shit Boards”. Which we believe refers to people who just hang out at the skate park and not actually skate. Fortunately, we mistook the insult as “Shitbirds” and began to call ourselves as such. So eventually when the time came to name the band it just seemed natural to go by this. But of course after creating our first two tracks “Dirty Pictures” and “Giffterbu” we decided to Google the name only to find that some band in the 90’s already went by it.

So put two and two together and you’ve got “The New Shitbirds”.

WHERE DID SHITBIRDS

THE

OLD GO?

Who cares?

In 30 years, we’ll be The Old Shitbirds.

YOU ALL PHONE RECUSE A A MODIFIED WHO CAME EIVER AS A MIC. AND HOW D UP WITH THAT ID YOU MA KE IT? We heard t a harmonichat John Dwyer us ed to use a mic and we wan ed sound. So his distorted voc tand found we shopped arou al making har an article abo nd old phones monica mics out ut rotary ph . We bought a $5 19 of opened herone from Goodwil 74 l, up, and w ear piece ired the t o a ¼ inch jack. goes by She I think the name “Phonemic it’s Scan ”. dinavian.

WHAT’S THE

FOR NEXT S? RD BI SHIT

Watch out for our next albums: Shit Standard, and A Very Shitty Christmas.

Maybe a music video/s? Hopefully we can get some weekend tours going.

CHECK OUT THE NEW SHITBIRDS AT THENEWSHITBIRDS.BANDCAMP.COM

YOU’VE DONE ART FOR A LOT OF NATIONAL ACTS AND FESTIVALS. WHAT HAVE BEEN SOME OF YOUR FAVORITE COMMISSION PIECES? Probably the two posters I’ve Faith No More and my posters for the Melvins. They’re always really fun to do. FNM was actually really nerve-wracking because as a nerdy fanboy, I wanted them to be REALLY good. My favorites are generally ones where I make some growth and advance my ability a little bit. The Primus poster I did a few months back and the Soundgarden one I just finished were both things I felt good about once the final colors were printed.

IN 2012 YOU STARTED OUISCH CLOTHING WITH WILL RAGLAND. HOW HAS THAT VENTURE BEEN FOR YOU TWO? Ouisch has been a fun project. It’s sort of on hiatus. We started it just to have an excuse to make things. There’s no money in it and a good amount of time that was being sunk into it.

While we both ramped up our interests in various music projects, it’s gone to the back burner.

ARE ISTS

THERE YOU’RE

ANY

LOCAL DIGGING

ARTLATELY?

I don’t know if there are any new ones that I’m really privy too, but there’s a great pocket of artists in Louisville from my lady, MissHappyPink to Jeral Tidwell and his wife TheInkingDragon as well as MadPixel. Others worth mentioning: Damon Thompson, Chris Chappel, Dennis Pase, Vinnie Kochert, Ryan Case, Adam Potts and like 50 other great people i feeel bummed for not thinking of at this uncaffeinated moment.

JU

by Eduard Abayev photo by Audrey Harrod art by Justin Kamerer

ST

IN

KA

ME

RE

R&

WHAT KIND OF SOFTWARE/SUPPLIES/MEDIUMS ARE YOU PARTICULARLY FOND OF USING? While I prefer to start with pen and ink for my illustrations, I’ve recently become really fond of Manga Studio. When paired with Frenden’s brushes, it’s a GREAT program to knock out jobs that don’t have a big time budget because it eliminates scanning and is just sort of fun to mess around in. It was an ESSENTIAL tool in the Assassin’s Creed motion comic thing I did with Rob Zombie, Tony Moore and John Rauch because it probably saved me 70+ hours of scanning in my inks, tiling them together and cleaning them up.

CAN YOUR

YOU

TELL US MUSICAL

MORE ABOUT ENDEAVORS?

I’ve always been interested in making music in some fashion. I’ve been part of a few projects and have been working with a group of talented people for about ten months or so getting together every weekend for about 8 hours and just writing/jamming/finessing. We’ll see where it goes. I picked up an 8-channel interface so we can multitrack our practices while writing/ jamming. Some of that stuff might get tightened up and some might just get bounced out and released as-is. I feel like we’re starting to have some really good sonic conversations without having any pre-planning when we start.

I’ve also gotten extremely into synthesizers. I come from a background of guitar and loving effects pedals, so it seemed like a natural progression to do work with things I can make grimy or pretty that has a different tactile nature altogether. When I pick up a guitar, I have defaults and comfort zones. With an analogue synth, ribbon controller, eurorack setting, drone machines and weird nest of wires, I have no comfort zone. I don’t have a place I gravitate to ...which is really freeing and inspiring.

I’ve been recording a lot of that stuff independently and plan to start releasing bits and pieces here and there.

HOW DID YOUR CREED MOTION TION DIFFER FROM

RECENT ASSASSIN’S COMIC COLLABORAYOUR USUAL WORK?

The Assassin’s Creed thing was a huge opportunity to break out of my normal projects, work with a friend and learn a ton of new stuff. The production company came to me with the idea to do this project and illustrating my work and while on the phone, I immediately, thought, “I don’t do sequential illustration. Damnit! ...but .... wait a minute.... I know someone to collaborate with!”

The way it worked is there were already storyboards, Tony Moore fixed a lot of storytelling issues and reworked the way it looked so it was in his distinctive voice and then I inked everything on multiple levels digitally so there was some wiggle room to work in without having to just chop up something flat.

Some of Tony’s things were completely solved and some of the elements he knew I would understand how to render because we have a similar aesthetic. “I know that Justin knows what the cross section of a human neck looks like.”

It was really interesting to try to pay homage to his visual voice and aesthetic while putting my own stamp on it as well so you knew very well that I was in there. John Rauch took our black and white work to another level altogether once he added his coloring to it.

WHICH ANIMAL HAS THE COOLEST SKULL? Oh man. That’s a tough one. There’s a flea market that happens twice a year where i get a lot of my reference skulls. It started this past weekend and I need to make my way there.

Last time I went up, I came home with a pile of them, but the armadillo was my favorite from that batch.

WHAT’S

NEXT

FOR

ANGRYBLUE?

Ruining more paper. I’m always trying to juggle saying no to jobs and taking time to make new art prints and focus on getting better.

CHECK OUT MORE OF JUSTIN’S ART AT ANGRYBLUE.COM

“Tired

of

Ghosts”

by

Jack

Scally

IV

by

Eduard

Abayev

LIKE? HELL WHAT’S Hell is a 24/7 rock and roll rollercoaster full of blood meat guts and mayhem, smash beer cans on the souls of the damned, shred the drums, commit unspeakable demon deeds, smash coffins in two, smash heads in to coffins, fill open wounds with raw blood and drink from the lake of fire.

CELEBRITIES WHICH ARE ACTUALLY DEMONS? deRodney Mullen is a sold wk Ha ny mon but To l. his soul to the devi

WHICH AN MAL’S GUTS TASTE IB Humans EST? g taste best of aults the but all gul the animals ts are goo d.

WHAT MUSIC DO THEY HELL? IN PLAY Most days we just listen to Megadeth’s “Rust repeat. on Peace” in

DO YOU HAVE A HUMAN FORM ?

Demons have they are allmany forms but mons even i forms of den human for m.

WHAT’S YOUR AVORITE FINISHING FM the Von Erich Ir OVE? (since banned by on-Claw the NWA).

BEST BEER FOR DEMONS? , Budweiser (king of beers)

CHECK OUT GRUNDAR AT GRUNDAR.BANDCAMP.COM

by Eduard Abayev

WHO IS INVOLVED IN GUIGNOL? Guignol is comprised of our singer Gorgeous George who also organizes our sound clips and other theatrical elements, Andrew on drums, Brandon on bass, and Peter on synth, and Anton on guitar.

HOW ALIVE OR DEAD IS THE GOTH SCENE IN LEXINGTON? Lexington seems to have always had goth appreciators but as far as an organized collective that does goth themed events, we really have only been active for a couple years at most.

At least from what I can tell. This may or may not be entirely true.

photography by Lauren Mullins

WHAT ARE SOME MUSICIANS OR ARTISTS THAT INSPIRE YOUR SOUND? Everyone in the band comes from extreme metal and or hardcore punk rock back rounds so this tends to bleed into our creations in unexpected ways, however the bands biggest influences would be bands like The Cure, Christian Death, Bauhaus, The Chameleons, and Joy Division.

art

by

Jeremy

Hannigan

HOW THE

DID

YOU NAME

ALL

CHOOSE GUIGNOL?

The band was named after the French horror theatre “Le Grand Guignol” that opened in the late 1800s.

It was our singer George’s idea initially.

ARE ANY OF YOU INVOLVED IN OTHER MUSIC PROJECTS? We indeed are involved in other projects which are all extreme metal oriented.

These would be Tombstalker, Apochryphal Revelation, Master’s Curse, Pyromancer, and Catacomba.

WHO ARE VORITE

SOME OF LOCAL

YOUR FAGROUPS?

Other groups that are more akin to our sound that we gig with and support would be Atrocity and the Complications and The Elsinores

ANY ECTS

BIG

UPCOMING PROJFOR GUIGNOL?

Guignol is currently waiting on our demo to be pressed to pro cassette tapes and will be out via Grim Winds Records later this fall.

We also have two songs recorded from that very demo session that we have held back for an EP release in the coming time. Currently we have an entire albums worth of music and will be attempting a full length album possibly late next year.

CHECK OUT GUIGNOL AT THETRUEGUIGNOL.BANDCAMP.COM

FILMREVIEWS Puppet Orgy Party: The Terror of Fart Planet youtu.be/v4pFVWC8kQE Selected for official viewing at the 2013 Fright Night Film Festival in Louisville, I can only hope the audience aboslutely hated all fifteen minutes of The Terror of Fart Planet. Fifteen minutes of puppets and farts and nothing scary at all! Super low budget, loud, and annoying. I hate this film! I hate farts and I don’t even know what else to write about your awful film.

It made me sick and upset! I’m gonna tell everyone only to see this movie if they love farts and puppets. That snake is annoying and all the puppets are ugly!

I’d give it a negative rating if I could! - Roger Ebert

KORA: directed by Beau Kaelin youtu.be/w4kTg0paN4w “Kora is a Tibetan Buddhist phrase for a pilgrimage. The film, Kora, pro-

vides a similar journey - an exodus of the senses and the mind. A hypnotic, non-narrative film, in the vein of such classics as Koyaanisqatsi or Baraka, Kora combines images from Chinese and Tibetan culture, along with other sights and landscapes from those environs, with electronic music.

The focus of the feature is not on easily-identifiable landmarks, for such would reduce it to a travelogue. Rather, the film focuses on the people and culture itself as a means of piquing curiosity within the viewer and leaving him/her with a general sense of awe after the film closes.”

Kora fulfills all promises of awe, vicarious transplantation of knowledge and experience. A smog filled, swirling, creeping, staggering vision of a hidden world is shown to the viewer through a thick velvet curtain which lifted only enough to envelope Beau Kaelin and a camera. You walk alone through these scenes. You cannot look to a fellow traveler, you cannot pick up what you see in front of you, and you cannot stop moving forward. The non-narrative documentary enables a learning experience very open to interpretation.

A square filled with circling couples of silent dancers, endless fields of billowing leaves that force against each other like dead fish floating on the surface of the water, colorful crowds of consumers and commuters marching forward from the gray. To call the film “hypnotic” is spot on with no doubt, from beginning to end the viewer is aboard a conveyor belt steadily moving through ritualistic traditions of the Chinese people, untamed rural dreamscapes, and an unsettling view of impending environmental consequences. You meet people in Kora that you can ask nothing of, only see, only know by their expressions and movements in a world that is their own. The visual avalanche of Kora is fueled by it’s hard, cold, industrious driving soundtrack by William Bryan Ragland with Tony Robot. William had this to say: “I’ve considered Beau Kaelin a close friend for a number of years, it

was truly a privilege to create Kora with him. I feel that it’s a very particular film, but can easily speak to anyone on the planet. It’s rare for me to find a visual style that works so well with my music, but I feel that the film is a perfect example of that type of harmony. Kaelin is a filmmaker to watch closely, the work speaks for itself. Embark on your kora, never shut your eyes.”

Basie Campbell

art

by

Kennedy

Schuck

“A Call to Him” by Jeff Hamilton

There was once a time I’d see an album and that had three songs, one being over 20 minutes and the other two no short fair either, and feel I *had* to like it, y’know. Like Sonic Youth’s ‘Diamond Sea’; there’s a reason why all the words and ‘song’ strucutre happens in the first four minutes. But, time has allowed me to *actually* enjoy long form jams of a noisy variety and thank the fuck for Jovontaes. I listened to this three times in a row, no shit. The songs take their time. ‘The New Arena’ teases itself out in very small ways until things get more grippingly weird in the last third with the guitar seeming to glide and chop over the rhythm, just to give an example. It’s all about stretching out and, seemingly, let the variations find themselves. ‘Constant Struggle’ is an album about sound and interaction, exploration. And it’s fucking good. - Aleix Kite

Murray’s Barbariettes are back in the ring with Kiss ‘Em All, Saturday morning pop punk that’s sugary as breakfast cereal and as gnarly as tooth decay.

Short and snotty, Canaan the Barbarian and Additude do well with what they have on this sparse record.

The “dear diary” chanting of “Dirty Dreams” drops in to a chunky breakdown and “Kiss Em All” is as simple as it is wild. It’s just fun punk kids and nothing that comes out of Murray is ever bad. Expect it very soon from Funky Frankenstein Records, famous for lathe cut EPs. Super DIY.- Eduard Abayev

How Gardens Grow by Allen Poe iamallenpoe.bandcamp.com The prolific rap-cat Allen Poe from Frankfort hip-hop group Basement Up is back with How Gardens Grow, less than a year after his solo project Pocket Full of Ohms dropped. Allen Poe’s laid back flow and deep steady voice have not changed, but there is definitely is a continued refinement of pushing his voice past monotony while maintaining a relaxed and smooth cadence. How Gardens Grow is a loose concept album running through the dirt and water that has made his life what it is now, and I’ve never heard a hip-hop album that brought me so close to the feeling of those days right on the edge of Summer and the cusp of Autumn. Poe’s song-crafting is solid here, with easy transitions between hooks and verses and an excellent understanding of where to let a track ride. The production comes from multiple producers but maintains a steady tone throughout the album, and some of the beats just blew me away, especially the flip of the “I’m a Coke Boy” remix on “Want You Sometime”. The wordplay was also completely on point, especially on “Birds + Bees” with a constant flying of analogies and metaphors of birds, bees, and flowers. This project is incredibly solid, and I’m left sitting wondering why Allen Poe is still in the box of “local rapper”. Check this album out and tell your friends, and we’ll ignore that silly dig at “effeminate” men on “Prayer Group”. - Corey Burks

ALBUM REVIEWS

Kiss ‘Em All by Barbariettes barbariettes.bandcamp.com

ALBUM REVIEWS

Constant Struggle by Jovontaes headwayrecordings.bandcamp.com

ALBUM REVIEWS

As a first time listener, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect when the first notes of Andrew Rinehart poured through my speakers. While clunky, slightly off­ kilter bass lines are to be expected, layer upon layer of vocals, strings, and beats give this band an unforgettable edge. Many musicians fail to compose lyrically sound work while maintaining originality, however Andrew finds his creative niche’ while sifting through various musical styles and his own unique touch. With the help of friends, he developed a depth that creates the illusion that he’s been at this for way longer than a couple albums. - Leah Rose

ALBUM REVIEWS

Everything (Parts I & II) by Andrew Rinehart andrewrinehart.bandcamp.com

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The Moon Has Been All My Life by Bear Medicine bearmedicine.bandcamp.com I wasn’t sure what to expect from a band called ‘Bear Medicine’; Bears are pretty vicious, maybe they’re some angular hardcore kickers. But ‘medicine’. It would take a lot to put a bear down; maybe some tranquilizing shoegaze? Well, no, but ‘tranquilizing’ is a good description of the music within.

On the surface it can’t help but sound like WASP music. You know, the kind of stuff WFPK plays during the day. They pull out tropes one expects from this post-Mumford indie sect; the wild west rambling guitar can be found on ‘Infestation’, they collect tears in mason jars (‘Rigor Mortis Dear’), and pour on the gentle male and female vocals (everywhere).

Lodged towards the end, though, is ‘Big Chief’, an instrumental with a climbing, changing composition and arrangement that highlights a variety of players. It’s a shame they don’t apply the ideas expressed in ‘Chief’ over the rest of the album, which all too often comes off pretty MOR. - Aleix Kite

Mask of the Devil by Savage Master reverbnation.com/savagemaster Savage Master is a new band featuring members spawning from various Louisville bands (See Tobacco vol. 8 for specifics!) with one Stacey Savage leading the front of straight up satan-laden heavy metal, a driving force of the dark lord, pounding out riffs, shredding solos and menacing banshee vocals.

The album goes into a pure-bred classic metal massacre with opener “Blood on the Rose”. Yet only sinks it’s claws deeper into the dark circles with the ominous “Mask of the Devil”, the up-tempo shreds of “The Ripper in Black” the demonically sultry ballad that is “Altar of Lust” followed by the uncompromising Venom-worshipping speed that is “Death Rides The Highway”.

My personal favorite is the catchy “Kill Without Warning” with its groovy solos and relentless drivingchants of “Satan!”.

Mask Of The Devil is a half-hour of unabashed and unapologetic love for the dark lord, purely natural with no brickwalling or need to downtune into feedback oblivion. Bang on. – Cory Cory

GOL. by Cher Von chervon.bandcamp.com The third release from experimental musician Cher Von begins with an ominous clanging of bowls among other objects, subdued percussion and minimalist voices before building into an entrancing series of chants. Though it eventually veers back into what began it’s as if the listener witnessed a meditation building in intensity and the lengthy coming down from it’s climax. “Bowl. Chant.”, along with the lengthy vocal journey in “Mouth/Guiat Mouth” and the slow building derangement of “Tiny. Piano Toes.”, compose roaming textures to spark the imagination and reward the listener with conjurations of full-on rhythms though sharp ears can sense the hidden path this music unfolds. Cher Von’s voice in itself is an instrument that soothes, cultures and keeps the listener on its toes all at once. Get a little blazed and turn the lights off for a 25-minute trip! Recommended. – Cory Cory

The Grun-Tape Vol. 1 by Grundar grundar.bandcamp.com YEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOWWWW I tell you what when I came out of the sarcophagus I heard a shredding like I never heard before that’s right the demons from hell entered into my earwaves and I tore my sledgehammer through the meat blood waves like I’ve never seen before, I said I smashed, I bashed em, I tore em right to hell and that’s the GRUN-tape, fourteen minutes of space splitting demon rock from hell, sit back, relax and get DDT’d into the next dimension cause the GRUN tape puts the GRUN back in disGRUNtled, puke up your own blood ----- the GRUN-tape gets 10 demons out of infinity - Grundar

I

Was

a

Mutant

by

Spoopy

evictionrecords.bandcamp.com The ever swirling nebula that is the Eviction Records Collective brings us the third recording from Spoopy, made up of Harpy and Niles Kane. The duo brings us the usually wackiness and fuckery you’d expect from Eviction. Added in are Harpy’s awful screams and Niles’ penchant for the creepy, “and I was a Mutant” sounds like an old timey radio serial left to soak in a tub with the old toaster. I don’t know any of the song titles since my CD-R didn’t come with liner notes but track 3 has some truly spooky moments and track 4 is over 10 minutes of supreme noise. Truly something for everybody! I give it three wet kisses. - Eduard Abayev

Xerxes has made a solid album with “Collision Blonde” unfortunately; there aren’t any moments that enter the echelon of great. Sure, the production has its points that set it apart. Chorus drenched guitars being an obvious one. I get it, I hear ya. We’ve just all heard it before. The most interesting tune on the record might be “Use As Directed”. Ethereal, but still carrying a tough groove, they demonstrate an effective use of texture and distortion that deserves to be explored further. Another standout is the Slint-tastic, 7/4 slow burn of “(but here we are)”. Xerxes has more potential than is being displayed here, but it’s worth a spin. - Nick Layman

Dirtbag by Dirtbag facebook.com/dirtbagband Dirtbag is a two piece from Lexington that form a wall of punishing sludge and pot-spewing vocals of psychosis and other dark tales. Spawned from dive bars and fearlessly afoot (Bare, I should mention) with slow, beastly riffs in songs like “Cast Out” and “Father Paranoia”. From the feedback-laden witch trial that is “Malleus Maleficarum (Hammer of the Witches)” to the occult closer of “Resurrection”, it’s a barrage of primitive horror and eardrum crushing suffocation paying heed to Eyehategod, Sourvein and Weedeater among other southern sludge beasts. Get a copy, crank it and bang on. - Joe Bully and Shag Nasty

ALBUM REVIEWS

Collision Blonde by Xerxes xerxesband.com

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and

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The Mess is the brainchild of Albie Mason, channeling elements of goth, industrial and even hints of electronic in “Into The Storm” and dark country in the excellent “The Only”, perhaps even a bit of Reznorian worship in the opener “My World”. Although songs like “Nowhere Slow” and “Waiting For The Nite” evoke busy, full industrial waves like early Ministry and the aforementioned Reznor of NIN the songs almost feel minimal and eerie, teetering and teasing on the brink of exploding into noise. The record picks up even further with the coyly evil “Messy Girl”, the slow piano goth rock in “Under The Dirt” and the gloomy dim street travel that composes the title track that closes the record. Even when the music feels light or ups the tempo like in “Deathspiration” the voice paints a murkier, hopeless landscape. – Cory Cory

ALBUM REVIEWS

Drugs, Darkness & Death by The Mess themess502.bandcamp.com

MY PUNK DAD art and words by Ryan Reisert