ISSUE SEVEN
August
Edited by Mike Arellano and Iain Oldman
WORST WEEK EVER
We’ve made it to August folks, but don’t tear the rotator cuff in your shoulder patting yourself on the back just yet, because we’re just getting started. Now, yes, I know, in the past I’ve complained about the oppressive heat and humidity of Harrisonburg’s brutal summer gazes, and I bet you’re leaning back in your office chair, smirking, thinking out loud, “Shows how much he knows.”
The season has been unprecedentedly cool, I’ll give you that, and yes, that has driven down the amount of ape-shit craziness from the crass citizens of our sleepy mountain town. But just you wait. August is, historically, the month when shit hits the fan. The atomic bombs, the death of Princess Diana, Woodstock, August has insanity filled up in spades, and this year it has you right where it wants you. Have you ever seen those pictures of playgrounds that have MELTED from the heat? Yeah, all of those were taken in August. All of your worst bug bites will happen in August. This will be the month of unexpected snake pits, bats shitting on you, and where something you love will catch on fire, I guarantee that. This is the Worst Week Ever. All poetry, short stories and artwork are submitted by people that live here in the Harrisonburg area.
Published and Edited by Mike Arellano and Iain Oldman
Photograph by Cara Walton
Elwood “Trip” Madison
August 1st 5 PM Blue Nile Rhoda Miller - A show inspired by siblings
Rhoda Miller features her stable of acrylic and mixed media paintings in the Blue Nile basement. Inspired by the relationships of siblings, young or old, Miller creates abstract works that oddly tug at your heart strings. The connection to your brothers and sisters is there. It’s palpable, you can feel it, but you can’t put your finger on it. Rhoda Miller’s show is a genius presentation of underlying, basic human emotions and the familial relationships we carry. Swing by Blue Nile all month to soak it all in yourself.
August 1st 5 PM The Darin-McHone Art Gallery Refraction of Wounds: Paintings and Poetry by Angela Carter & Dave Buracker
Premiering on Harrisonburg’s First Friday, “Refraction of Wounds” is a collaborative multimedia event featuring Dave Buracker and Angela Carter, frequent WWE contributor and one of Harrisonburg’s most talented writers. Buracker is a prolific talent, having been published for his poetry, putting out over twenty of his own albums, and gaining success as a comic book writer. Carter and Buracker have their art on display, though, featuring abstract paintings that reflect the struggles of their respective lives. The show starts at 5 PM, so be sure to show up early.
Art Lotto First Friday! August 1st 5 PM Larking Arts Harrisonburg’s second annual art lotto goes on full display to the public on August 1st, and what a treat it is. Forty-two of Harrisonburg’s most talented artists were tasked to create portraits of each other at random, and the end product is a collection that showcases the variety and depth of Rocktown’s art scene. Mediums vary from a mobile, to clay sculpting, to a CAKE, and each are distinctly original and boiling over with talent. Some of our personal favorites included Derek Niver’s “Detail of a Portrait of Denise Allen”, “Portrait of Lara Ressler-Horst” by Andrew Harbick, and Zac Nafziger’s massive stained-glass undertaking “50 Shades of Jay”. If you’re out and about on First Friday, you HAVE to make stopping by Larkin Arts a priority. This showcase of Harrisonburg’s finest artists is simply a pleasure to take in.
August 1 6 PM The Artful Dodger “Wouldn’t You Like to Know”
Another great gallery on full display for this month’s First Friday activities, “Wouldn’t You Like to Know” is a collaborative showcase featuring multiple of Harrisonburg’s most talented (and most demented) artists. Pieces on the wall include submissions from Vince Paixao, Emily Reese, Victoria Topor, Eirot Ropot, and that’s just to name a few. Swing by the Artful Dodger while you’re out and about on Friday, get your fill of two-dollar drinks, and lay claim to some of the great paintings on display, while you still can.
Victoria Topor
August 5th 9 PM Blue Nile Open Mic Comedy Night I can’t understate this enough: August 5th at the Blue Nile will be the most important night in the history of Harrisonburg’s detailed existence, so make sure you’re there for it. When your grandchildren ask you, what was your favorite night ever before the robots drove humankind underground?, you can look them in the eyes and tell them, “the first Open Mic Comedy Night at Blue Nile. Now hush, and turn the lights out, before the terminators find us.” Hosted by yours truly, come out to the first night of comedy featuring the funniest bunch of idiots this town has to offer. Laugh with us, or at us, it doesn’t matter as long as you keep it going. Be sure to catch the whole night of comedy, starting at 9 PM in the Blue Nile basement.
August 6 9 PM Blue Nile Sleeptalker, Sunrise Detour, Parentheses
A solid night of indie is being showcased at the Blue Nile on Wednesday, August 6th at the Blue Nile. We love Richmond genre-hoppers Parentheses and we’re stoked to see them, and they come with fellow River City jazz lovers Sunrise Detour to play some seriously great tunes in the basement, boasted by local singer/songwriter extraordinaire Sleeptalker.
August 7-9, 14-16 8 PM, 10 and 17 at 3 PM Court Square Theater “Kiss the Moon, Kiss the Sun” The Valley Playhouse presents the touching and hilarious Kiss the Moon, Kiss the Sun at Court Square Theater this month. Norm Foster’s play follows the budding friendship between a mentally handicapped man and an overworked young woman, weaving humor and cutting drama together like silk, leaving the audience laughing and on the verge of tears, simultaneously, with genuine candor.
Kiss the Moon, Kiss the Sun has multiple showings this month, so you have no excuse to miss this production put on by Harrisonburg’s own theater company, featuring local amateur actors. We’ll probably see you there every night.
August 13 9 PM $6 Blue Nile Jungbluth, Centuries, Yellow King
Starting off a week of international intrigue at the Blue Nile, Worst Week Ever Booking introduces the German noisemakers Jungbluth to Harrisonburg. Oppressively loud and coarse, Jungbluth manages to maintain an extraordinary amount of composition and, most impressively, variety in their songs. Florida’s sludgy, crusty, and bruised hardcore band, Centuries (on Southern Lord Records) joins the Germans in the Blue Nile basement and Harrisonburg’s newest post-core offering, Yellow King, rounds out a bill that will leave your brain seeping from your ears.
August 18 9 PM Blue Nile Plebeian Grandstand, Reproacher, Salvaticus, Eviscera Harrisonburg’s European invasion continues when France’s Plebeian Grandstand rattles the foundation of our favorite basement bar. Assaulting your senses with waves of atmosphere and refreshingly black black metal, Plebeian Grandstand most likely won’t be back here for a while, so catch them while you can. Joining them are Wyoming’s Reproacher, rife with heaviness and so fast that you will age while watching them. Local metal talents Salvaticus and Eviscera fill out the bill for a show that presents as much talent as it does sheer brutality.
August 22nd 9 PM Blue Nile Creature Comfort, Sleeptalker, The Will to Survive Nashville’s own Creature Comfort show up to fill the Blue Nile basement with their cool melodies twanged out by the crispest guitars I’ve ever heard. Everything is pulled back by the indie group, creating a clean and beautiful landscape of tones that stick in your head. Good luck forgetting these guys. The Will to Survive join in to add their own brand of ambient, pop indie with amazing stage presence, and Sleeptalker rounds out a show of incredible talent and presentation.
If your clothes aren’t soaked in beer and piss by the end of this night, then you were probably at a different, more boring show. Richmond exports two of their finest metal bands to Harrisonburg for a night of pure fun. Iron Reagan (ex-Municipal Waste, Darkest Hour) always puts on a great show, blasting through their set with unprecedented speed and trash, not to mention that they might be the funniest group of guys on stage. Occultist offers up pure-fuckin’-metal at a furious pace, plain and simple, which is just fine by me. Local metal monsters Earthling (throw ya hands up) join in for a great night of Virginia’s finest metal.
Rhoda Miller
B E S T W E E K E V E R
Biannual Restaurant Week
HARRISONBURG August 11-17, 2014
DowntownHarrisonburg.org
FIRST FRIDAY AUG 1ST *5-8 | Spitzer Art Center | Collect, Contain: new works by Ashley Sauder Miller *5-8 | Arts Council of the Valley’s Darrin McHone Gallery | Refraction of Wounds: Paintings and Poetry by Angela M. Carter and Dave Buracker *5-8 | Hardesty Higgins House | Up with the People: international trivia/photobooth and face painting *5-8 | Ten Thousand Villages | Works by artists of Orange Chair Collective *5-8 | Linda S. Hoover, CFP @ Ameriprise Financial/Denton Park | Photographer Greg Versen with music by Simply Folk and food by Flanders Waffles *5-7 | Clementine, Ruby’s Lounge | Colors of Music: Photography by Justin Ciccone *5-8 | Oasis | Thrown and Woven: unearthing the connection between fiber and clay: works by Brenda Fairweather
*5-8 | Wilson Downtown Gallery @ Kline May | Portraits by Jennifer Lockard Connerley *5-8 | Larkin Arts | Art Lotto: a portrait show OF artists BY artists (bring the kids for lots of FREE activities!) with live music by members of Many Nights Ahead, FREE caricature drawings by Susan Edelman, coloring station, sidewalk chalk, manicure station and Old Hill Cider! *6-8 | Artful Dodger | Wouldn’t You Like to Know: cool stuff by cool cats *5-7 | Blue Nile | Little Sister: new works by Rhoda Miller *5-8 | Over the Moon | Kelly Williams Photography *5-8 | Three Notch’d | Local artist with food by Grilled Cheese Mania
HEART-CRUMPLED, AT THE EDGES, AND STAINED THE COLOR OF CASH CROP DENIM DOWN THE GULLET A TOXIC BRINE, NOT HEMLOCK, AND THIS VARIANCE OF HURT IS NOT PHILOSOPHY.” J. INDIGO ERIKSEN
DANIELLE CAMPBELL PHOTOGRAPHY
WORST WE
EEK EVER
Midtowne Bottle Shop
The Best 50 Feet of Harrisonburg I’m proud to announce that I’ve determined the best 50 feet of Harrisonburg. Okay, let me back up. Water Street will always hold a special place in my heart. The entire stretch of paved asphalt dubbing itself as such is thoroughly impressive on it’s own, introducing it’s will at the edge of Harrisonburg’s most well kept graveyard, stretching across downtown with the indifference of a bloated tabby, rumbling over wooden tracks next to the city’s jail, ending in a residential area. I like the street as a whole, I really do. I’ve fucked on that street countless times and wandered home, half drunk and sipping the moonlight, countless more.
But now, there’s a clear winner of my affection, a strip so blatantly appealing to my palate that it forces me from my den outside of town and into it’s lissome bosom. A champion has emerged, the best 50 feet of Harrisonburg, from Midtown Market to Shank’s Bakery, and once again, it’s all thanks to beer. I’m sure many of you are aware of Midtown Bottle Shop by now, but if you were out of town for a few weeks, or you’re blind, let me be the first to tell you HOLY SHIT THIS PLACE IS AWESOME YOU HAVE TO GO YESTERDAY!
An extension of downtown Harrisonburg’s convenience store staple, the Midtown Bottle Shop carries the lofty expectations that the Midtown name carries with it when beer is involved. Long a torch bearer of craft beer appreciation, the Midtown Bottle Shop goes above and beyond to give Harrisonburg it’s first truly exclusive beer store, a place where the layman and beer nerd can collect in peaceful harmony to gather their favorite libations, as long as the beer nerds can keep their dicks in their pants. Which might be hard, honestly. I mean, Jesus, the Bottle Shop is just ridiculous. For starters, they carry over 400 (!) beers in stock, running the gamut of independent brewers. You can find a brewery that looks like it hand prints it’s own labels, distributing their product by ox cart or sled dog, sitting a few bottles down from a beer that has it’s own fucking box. This is truly Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s dream.
The place just smells, I dunno, fresh, too. It really does, and you get a full-bodied blast of cold air that refreshes your body and perks up your nipples. The bottles gleam. Soft light gently licks at your eyelids. A chorus of clinking bottles whips up an orchestra that rivals the pure tonality of a wind chime. You’ve arrived in
heaven. Midtown Bottle Shop stocks artisanal cheeses, olive oils, salsas, sodas that you’ve never heard of and tonics and, I swear to God, pistachio biscotti. Jesus Christ. The pornographic allure of delicious food won’t distract you from your main goal, though. Beer is abound! Walking into the store, you’re confronted by an entire wall of fridges incubating the precious, alcoholic cargo of your dreams, flanked by shelves and shelves and shelves of the finest craft beer brought in from every corner of the country. There’s a shelf exclusively dedicated to craft ciders, for those weak at heart, on the opposite side of the room from super-rare, top shelf large bottles. Oh and hell, I almost forgot, how clumsy of me, they pour draught beer ON SITE. Better yet, they have full growlers, 32 ounce half-growlers, and because fuck it, why not?, 16 ounce pint jars,
to go, all for you to fill to your heart’s delight from their stable of rotating taps. They’ll have anywhere from six to eight taps pouring at once, depending on the cold kegs they have, guaranteeing the freshest product to keep your depression at bay. This temple of well stocked tipples stands to nurture and embrace the drinking community, as well. Midtown Bottle Shop hosts free tastings to the public every Thursday from 5-7 PM, and they’ll host 3 Brothers and Devils Backbone on August 21st. Breweries they already have lined up for tastings include Bell’s, Oskar Blues, Port City, and New Belgium. The day before this fall’s Beer Fest, Midtown will welcome in the famous Boulevard Brewing from St. Louis for a tasting to kick off the activities (binge drinking). When standing alone, Midtown Bottle Shop clearly holds its own as a purveyor of the finest
craft creations of the finest and holiest product on Earth. But the true beauty of the Bottle Shop doesn’t lie in the store itself, but in the perfect complement it gives to the establishments around it, because let’s admit it, if there’s one thing a bakery and record store are practically begging to be sandwiched in between them like a Lucky Pierre, it’s a goddamn rad craft beer store. With the used bookstore right around the corner and Papa Midtown nodding in approval just across the street, the new Midtown Bottle Shop may as well hang a banner from their window proclaiming, “You’re Welcome, Harrisonburg”.
WORST
WE
EEK
EVER
Rhoda Miller
Angela M. Carter
A Hollowed Head in a Hollowed Bed Kenneth Phipps
It was in an overly small, bedroom. The a/c unit outside of the window, clicks. It sounds like a herd of horses, tumbling. I don’t think much when I sit here, alone. There is a high pitch ringing in the, vent. As if small children were screaming out to their, mothers. I put myself in these situations, to think. The dimmed light screams out with, brightness. I squeeze my ears attempting to cancel the piercing, murderous bellows. The silence begins to grab me by the throat and toss me around. I take it because, I too, can be petrified.
As if I were a slab of hollowed wood to carry me through these dense waters. She is here now to bother, me. As she slowly penetrates my chest and head for the heart. I clutch my chest and grasp a hold of my own heart. And prevent her from thievery. These thoughts eat a hole through my head. The memories ooze out as a blood infused liquid. The feeling burns. Burns more than these dark thoughts embedded into my well-being. The gray fish flutter by knowing what I know. I dispose of the thoughts and clear the ground that hollowed out my log. The unit kicked back in. Impersonating a mighty storm wanting to grab about the powerful sounds of
wind, rain, and electricity. We all are hollowed heads thriving to feed on memories and then proceeding to vomit everything up. It all starts in a small hollowed apartment. Where thoughts and memories are fed upon and then disposed of. I am sitting here waiting for your plug to fill in my head wound. I am waiting for you to feed my mind with memories. I am wanting to keep these memories and not have them ooze out. Roll in with thunder as loud as the a/c unit peaking outside of the window. All I am is a hollowed head wanting to be fed. Feed me your memories. Feed me your storm.
Kenneth Phipps
Dave Buracker
Princess Anonymous
When I pulled into the driveway, I knew I must have had the wrong house. I drew the crumpled slip of yellow paper that contained the address from my pocket: 511 Waverly Avenue. This was the place. Odd, it sounded so...prestigious, and really, it was...pathetic? No, maybe ordinary. Better yet, it was disappointing. Yes, that was it. I had expected more of Cammie Adler. I expected a two-story colonial, with five bedrooms, a three-car garage, and a pool out back. I expected a lovely manicured lawn, with velvety fescue, statuesque shrubs, regal gardens. I expected to be nearly knocked over by the fragrance of lilac and jasmine. Even her voice on the phone sounded rich and creamy- I had pictured her sipping a mimosa while floating in the pool, her flat belly accentuated by her French cut bikini, her face dotted with tiny droplets of not sweat, but water, provided by the nearby marble fountain. I remember feeling a sense of dread—like I was standing
at a precipice, from which no amount of cleverness could save me. “Sure, come on over,” she had casually purred into the receiver. “It’ll be great to talk about the old days.” For days I had berated myself for accepting the offer: why subject myself to more torture? She outclassed me by a mile; she was totally out of my league- always had been. Idiot! Like we could ever be friends, after all that has passed between us. And so as I climbed the steps to the front porch— more like a stoop, actually—I was again surprised at my surroundings. What I saw was not some palatial estate that required the maintenance of hired help. What I saw was this: a modest house of cedar siding that someone had painted a dull, dark mustard, with olive green shutters, one of which was hanging at a noticeable slant. The house was one story, ranchstyle, with a few dingy and unimpressive windows. The single-car garage gaped open, failing to conceal what looked like years of accumulated junk—in all the clutter I could not distinguish one heap from another, and there was positively no room for a car. No pool sparkled in the backyard—its chain link fence corralled a sickly mutt who hardly lifted his ears
at my approach. Small, withered (and unidentifiable) plants lined the gravel driveway, obviously neglected, smothered by weeds and dried leaves from last fall. The front porch—or stoop—needed a fresh coat of paint, which was chipped, splintering, and being slowly devoured by a greenish mildewy substance. And the odor- ripe, rotting garbage. I knocked on the door. A gruff looking man answered, a cigarette hanging from his gray mouth. “Hi!” I said. “You must be Rick. I’m—“
Photograph by Cara Walton
“Cammie!” he barked. “Door!” He left me standing on the stoop, the door wide open. I glanced inside. Covering the floor of the living room was a teal carpet, severely worn and stained. A tattered sofa sat against the smoke-stained wall and beneath a painting that looked as if it had been stolen from a cheap motel. The television sat on a shabby particleboard cart with casters; a pair of rabbit ears teetered on top of the set like an ancient relic. I heard heavy footsteps approaching. I wiped the look of astonishment from my face and put on my most enthusiastic smile. “Cammie!” I gushed, throwing my arms around her.
Photograph by Cara Walton
“Kate,” she said, looking downward. “Come in, please.” She smiled weakly. I tried to enter her home with a natural gait, as if I weren’t surprised at its condition— or hers, for that matter. I’m sure, however, that I looked ridiculous as I bounded with infinite joy across the filthy floor. I was reeling: I needed time to take all this in! I had no idea what to say, and my eyes kept darting around the room like I was going to try to steal something. “I’m sorry, but may I use your restroom?” “Sure,” she said. “Last door on the right.” Safe in the bathroom, I took stock of the situation. Okay, so Cammie’s life had not panned out as I—as we all—would expect. That’s okay, right? No big deal. I mean, yes, she’s gained a few pounds (well, more than a few—let’s be honest), and her hair is, well...funky— what did she do to it? It was more or less the same as it had been in high school—it was still brown, but it had some strange highlights (or was it frosted?), and her perm had grown out almost completely, leaving the ends frizzy and split. The hair was still long, resting
at the top of her large breasts, which could never be contained by a French-cut bikini, by the way, and which sagged, drastically, despite her ill-fitting bra. She wore tight white sweat pants that had a couple of mysterious brown stains on them, and an oversized T-shirt that read “Princess,” only the letters were hopelessly stretched. The big toe of her left sock was just a hole, and a thin gold wedding band choked her left ring finger. It really was a sad sight, I thought, running water in the sink to buy some time, how she had deteriorated like this. What could have happened? Didn’t she go off to college after high school? I mean, she wasn’t an honor roll kid or anything, but she wasn’t totally stupid, either. I distinctly remember hearing— or perhaps reading in the paper?—that she would be attending college in the fall.... Despite my horror at the whole spectacle, I found myself (of course!) slightly satisfied by it. I just wished I could drop this seemingly lithium-induced persona. Just be yourself, I told myself. It actually might be good enough this time. I flushed the toilet and left the bathroom. I could hear Cammie busying herself in the kitchen. She emerged with a couple of sodas as I
rounded the corner into the living room. “Have a seat,” she said. “Make yourself comfortable.” I sank into the sofa like a marble into Jell-O and quickly prayed I’d be able to get back up. “So...what have you been up to?” she asked, gazing into her glass. “Well let’s see...I haven’t seen you since...high school? Gosh, could that be right? Um...I graduated from college...not with honors or anything...but I did all right. And I got a job at Eastern Physical Therapy-that’s where I work now...it’s great, you know...and then I married Jay Miller—you wouldn’t know him...I met him during an internship at...well, it doesn’t matter... and we had twins three years ago, Tyson and Travis.” I fumbled in my purse and produced a picture. I continued, while she “oooh”ed and “awww”ed—“and then I ran into you last week and well...here we are!” God, I thought, this verbal diarrhea has GOT to stop. An object inside her china cabinet caught my eye. Was that?—yes it was! It was the tiara she received when she was crowned Homecoming Queen, our senior year! Wow—now that’s a conversation piece. Cammie was the most popular girl at Bayside High. She was gorgeous—no, luminescent. Her mahogany hair fell
like cool water around her toned shoulders. She had the face of a doe—delicate, soft, with large, dark eyes and a heart-shaped mouth. She wore all the latest clothes, and her gold jewelry glistened against her satin skin. Although she was only a cheerleader, she had a body that rivaled our best athletes and perfect proportion. Her trim waist accentuated her full—but not large—breasts. Her perfectly defined, long, lean legs were what the girls envied and the boys lusted after the most. And though her smile would say otherwise, she was no angel. She would have been a “slut,” except that she was too pretty and had too much money. One of the reasons I despised her so much in high school was that she didn’t see her own worth—she could have any man...in the world, probably. Why did she give herself away to so many assholes? And she had no discretion, either. She’d fuck anyone, anywhere. I once found myself in an awkward situation when I realized she was fucking someone in the stall next to me in the girls’ bathroom! I remember sitting there, finished, wondering, do I flush and get out, or wait for them to finish? In agony, I sat there for a few minutes, their moans and movements becoming more urgent— it seemed like the whole room was heating up. Finally
I decided just to get out of there—the door to their stall would be closed; they wouldn’t even be aware that I left. So, without flushing, I quickly pulled up my pants and pulled open my stall door, only to find that in their passionate haste, they had not even bothered to push their door closed. Her skirt lay on the floor at his feet; her shirt had been yanked up with no care, and her breasts awkwardly flopped over her twisted bra. He was still dressed; his pants were down below his knees. He held her harshly against the rickety wall of the stall—his left arm holding her up, his left hand squeezing her ass, the other pawing at her breast. He pumped her wildly as she tightly embraced him with her long, golden legs and threw her head back...his strong hips pumping, pumping, faster, faster, faster.
Photograph by Cara Walton
She was Camelia Graham Adler, whose name conjured images of royalty. Princess Camelia, fucking in a bathroom stall. Still, I had to know. “You know, Cammie, I thought you were headed to ECU, too. I don’t remember seeing you there—did you have a change of plans?” Yes, I thought, that was a nice way of putting it—a change of plans. She looked at me strangely. “You mean, you don’t know?” “Know what?” “Damn, everyone knows, Kate. Where have you been?” “I’m sorry, Cammie, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Did something happen?” “Where to begin,” she said. “I didn’t expect to have to tell this story today.” “Really, Cammie, if it’s none of my business...”
“No, no—you’re probably the last person on earth to find out. I’d rather it be from me. Do you remember our Senior Prom?” Yes, I did remember. I stayed only long enough to have my picture taken for evidence, then I got tipsy at a party at ECU and lost my virginity to my boyfriend. “That night, my date picked me up at 7:00,” she began. The words tumbled out of her mouth like blocks from a child’s toy chest—fast, messy, random. I began to put the pieces together—a few wine coolers, some hot, sweaty dancing, a hasty exit, her date’s pickup truck...and an unwelcome—rather, a fervently protested—encounter. Raped. She was raped that night. This nasty truth washed over me in a numbing tide; I tried to look objective, yet sympathetic. So that is what happened, I thought. She was raped, and from that moment on, she was white trash. I screwed my boyfriend willingly that same night, while her date raped her. She ditched her college plans and gave birth to a baby girl nine months later. Funny, I didn’t notice any signs of a child living there. I knew the answer to my next question as soon as it had escaped my lips: What ever happened to him?
A subtle glance toward the bedroom told me... she married him. A long silence. I felt my lungs caving in. “Well, I really should be going. I have to pick up the kids...they’re at my in-law’s...you know how that is...,” I trailed off lamely. “Yeah, sure,” she said. She walked me to the door. “You know, Kate, you always did think you were better than me. You always looked down on me—I could tell. Well, I guess now you’re satisfied.” And before I could argue with her, tell her how much I envied her, how beautiful everyone thought she was—the most beautiful—she slammed the door in my bewildered face. A grey rain had begun to fall as I backed out of Cammie Adler’s driveway.
Rhoda Miller
Elwood “Trip” Madison
ACME California Girls/ Numbers Game The new singles release from one of DC’s best duos is quite a ride. ACME (A Company that Makes Everything) have solidified themselves as a head turner in the capital’s music scene, composing songs that show off their boisterous ear for production and an even keener sense of pure fun. Written by Iain Oldman
California Girls/Numbers Game begins with a blast of 80’s pop reminiscent of Rick James’ best efforts, eliciting the primal urge in you to JUST DANCE, pushing you out onto the dance floor before you realize- oh my God the E is kicking in -and become hypnotized by the seamless transition into Numbers Game. The second single is extremely chill and laid back, relying on waves of production crashing onto each other. This is a track you watch your shoes and bob your head to. The songs as a whole are a warm breath of Steve Winwood and Future, so be sure to try and catch them next time you decide to get drunk and visit the Museum of Natural History.
Harrisonburg’s newest fuzz-rock group is an aptly named group, indeed: their premier album Voodoo Crispy is, in a word, WEIRD. Hidden in their dark tracks are bouncy grooves and shades of disco, though the overwhelming theme is a crass need to stay rough around the edges. Each song is distinctly punk, reassuring you that, yep, this was written in a garage. The trio manages to avoid any annoying and unnecessary hooks, instead relying on creepy chord structure accompanied by some seriously messed up vocal effects, culminating in an album you could easily slip into a Halloween playlist in between the Misfits and Christopher Lee.
Written by Iain Oldman
Big Weird Voodoo Crispy
Mens Room
I Quit
Another notch to add to the already impressive laundry list of Richmond’s punk scene, Mens Room goes out of their way to differentiate themselves from the rest of the pack with their new Ep I Quit. The titular track is a force of fuzzy, dominating guitars driving and driving and driving on reined-in adrenaline. At once lo-fi and harsh, then composed, technical, Mens Room brews up a sound that echoes the Jesus Lizard with slowed down, and I mean, like, slowed down hardcore riffs. It is just, just awesome.
Written by Iain Oldman
If I have to be honest, I’m always distrustful of bands with names that are easier to read than say. HRSTA. !!!. Yngwie Malmsteen. Not the best sounds, and while I think Parentheses is difficult to pronounce (go ahead, get it on the first try) the band itself is nothing short of wonderful. This Richmond quartet likes to blend little aspects of everything in their new release 12 Years. Great emo is the spine of this band, but the final sound is a beautiful wave of jazz, math, post-rock, fuckin’ whatever, it’s in there. The songs float along cohesively and end up building a great wall of body and anticipation, each instrument complimenting the next, finishing with a product that is part Cursive, part Animal Faces, part Minus the Bear, part goddamn Thelonious Monk. Check out Parentheses yourself at the Blue Nile on August 6th with Sleeptalker and Sunrise Detour.
Written by Iain Oldman
Parentheses 12 Years
Worst Week Ever Throwbacks Written by Iain Oldman
Every month, Worst Week Ever will dig up some of Harrisonburg’s old gems. We’ll throw in a CD or tape, lean back in our rocking chairs, crack open a pack of Pepperidge Farms, and reminisce on the days of yore. For Vol. 8, we’ve dug up Savage Land’s Honor Among Thieves. I actually remember the night of Savage Land’s first show with an honest lucidity. The damp cloud of filth that lays permanent claim to the JM’s laundry room drenched my shirt in it’s foulness, encouraging vice and generally good hearted fuckery. My friends’ band (RIP Riot Generation) opened up the night for the truly insane Goddamn Wolves- the lead singer was drunk beyond repair and ended up knocking himself unconscious WITH HIS OWN MICROPHONE. Then Savage Land premiered. And it was brutal. If there’s one thing I’ll remember about Savage Land, it was their sheer aggressiveness. Their shows were massively loud and abrasive,
Savage Land Honor Among Thieves
and was a rare exception in that the spirit of the shows were kept alive in the recordings. Savage Land took a step away from the youthcrew inspired hardcore of the Frontline, instead beefing up their sound with d-beat and Marty Stitches’ gravelly, furious vocals.
Honor Among Thieves is ten minutes of terror (heh, get it?) and solid ass hardcore that GETS. YOU. STOKED. The album blasts the church doors open with the title track, as good of an intro that you could ask for, followed up by two minutes of blazing power in “One Nation Under”. The last two tracks on Savage Land’s premier album are blitzing reminders of the darker side of punk, ripe with speed and power, and independent from the trappings of the breakdown. Honor Among Thieves is all circle pit, not karate kicks. Dust off your desktop, log into your Myspace account, and listen to it here.
Summer Playlists There was an episode of How I Met Your Mother in which Neil Patrick Harris’ character Barney Stinson proclaimed, “People think a great playlist rises and falls, but they’re wrong. A great playlist just rises”. That’s bullshit. And that was the worst final season of any mediocre sitcom ever. God, I want that time back. See, we’re halfway through summer, and there’s nothing more iconic to Mike and I than the garish stylings of a perfect summer playlist. Here are the two that we’ve assembled, songs that have been stuck in our head, and our hearts, since Black’s Run first farted out it’s initial stench of the season.
Iain You’re Jovian - Whalehead Pusha T - Numbers on the Board A$AP Ferg - Dump Dump Tyler, the Creator - Domo 23 Toto - Africa Tom Cochrane - Life is a Highway Women - Shaking Hands Wavves - Nine is God Steve Winwood - Higher Love Paul Simon - You Can Call Me Al The J. Geils Band - Centerfold Fuzz - Fourth Dream Tyler, the Creator feat. Hodgy Beats - Jamba Go Go Leche - OMG Nicki Minaj feat. 2 Chainz - Beez in the Trap (this song should be played every summer) mcrcsms - Zooanzoo//Marsh Typefighter - You When You’re Older Mac Demarco - Let My Baby Stay Nico - These Days Typefighter - Dock the Boats
Mike Voodoo Glow Skulls - Shoot The Moon Big Ups - Wool Fugazi - Waiting Room Minor Threat - Good Guys Friend Roulette - I Guess Savage Land - One Nation Under Parquet Courts - Master of my craft Tame Impala - Feel Like We Only We Only Go Backwards Daft Punk - Aerodynamic Washed Out - New Theory Arcade Fire - No Cars Go Shenandoah Alley - Flat Top Mountain Baroness - Vision Gregor Samsa - Three Miami Horror - Sometimes Ceremony - Kersed
Check out some more independent music at: www.themodernfolk.net “The goal of my site is to feature what i think of as “folk music”, which is music made by people who are trying to get by leading lives in our modern world who love to express themselves through music. any genre or medium is welcome. I prefer submissions via soundcloud, bandcamp, or youtube, because these formats allow me to easily embed your music in my post and it leads readers directly back to your site, video stream, etc.”
the.modern.folk@gmail.com
Now booking shows for local and out of town bands, contact Michael Steele at
worstweekeverbooking@gmail.com
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