Comments: Kudos: Bookmarks: Hits: Towards the Sun MuffinLance. Chapter Text "Less flame, more heat. For entirely unrelated reasons.
You didn't have one, did you? Do I ever? No one should look for us there, and it's uninhabited. I'm going to sleep. Azula swore exactly like someone trying to be a sailor. Your Majesty? Fire Lord Ozai has been defeated.
Notes: See the end of the work for notes and other works inspired by this one. Chapter 1 : Fire Lord. Chapter Text They let Zuko out of his cell because the world is ending. I hiked with Ricky, the Kaiser Chief, up the huge Dutch hill, and we looked down on the festival.
There were tens of thousands of people gathered below, transfixed in the flashing lights and the spectacle of it all. Around us, European 24 1 plan b Teenagers were smoking cigarettes and throwing trash into the tall grass. Then we laughed: at the people, at ourselves, at all the trash. I look at his band and they look like they're having fun; he looks at my band and thinks we're having fun. We joke that this is the only hill in Holland; it was made after the war. Not sleepover camp, but a sort of dregs-of-whoever- was-left day camp at the local recreation centre.
I was one of the richer kids with intellectual parents who didn't believe in overnight camp the way they didn't believe in sugar cereal or gel toothpaste or Nintendo. When there was a costume contest at the end of the summer, a la Halloween, I of course threw myself into it full force.
I sported an electric-blue leotard and tights, and onto my flat-chested, scrawny little body were safety-pinned Asia, Africa and the rest of continents that my step-sister helped me to cut out from green felt in the kitchen the night before, while my parents probably looked lovingly at their wholesome and intelligent children. But the majority of the contestants, who were mostly boys, went as boxers.
Not boxers with Everlast belts, mouth guards, shiny warm-up capes and fancy boxing shoes. Just 1 0-year-old boys who had no costumes. Take off your T-shirt, throw it around your neck and when you are asked to parade on front of the judges, start punching the air as hard as you can: you're a boxer.
I remember feeling both costume-proud and insanely jealous of those boxers and their raw power, as I stood there looking like a spoiled rich art fag in my 'The World' costume.
I imagined them at home, eating sugar cereal and playing Nintendo till the sun came up, unable to buy materials for a clever costume because their parents were mean and on welfare.
But they were punching, punching, swinging with everything they had, putting me to shame. I never play a song perfectly, and I think that's just fine and dandy. I've played 'Girl Anachronism', by my count, over 1, times and I still fuck up the lyrics. I can forgive myself anything and everything as long as I am convinced, deep down, that I am trying as hard as I possibly can.
I actually like it when things beyond my control take over and force some kind of snafu. I don't invite disaster, but when it comes in the form of a power outage or a blown monitor system or a broken keyboard, I notice how human I become on stage. And I notice, more and more and show by show, that people have not paid their money to sit down and witness perfection. They've come to experience something, feel something, see something real and human -and to err is human.
The inevitable glitch of real life is more beautiful than perfection in my book. I believe the Japanese have a term for this. Smelling the heroin cooking from the next dressing room cubicle, never being able to escape the noise, wading through piles of trash - 1 live here, I keep reminding myself.
The floor on which I tread daily is sticky from vomit and stained with ashes. I wanted to take pictures of every penis in every dressing room and make a nice little children's book I rarely see a dressing room wall without a drawing of a giant, hairy penis staring me in the face, bidding me a happy welcome: "Hello, Amanda!
I wanted to take pictures of every piece of art hanging above every bed in every hotel I've ever stayed in and make a nice little flipbook. I wanted to do a lot of things. Sometimes I get a good view of the sky. Sometimes there's a hill nearby. After Ricky and I climbed down from the view, it was dark and the festival was over. Placebo had left the stage. We walked onto the space where we had both just played.
Where the hordes of people had just stood was now a carpet of cups and bottles, with the smell of ashes, sweat, french fries and ripped-up dirt. We trudged through it with no snow-shoes, wondering who is going to pick this up before tomorrow, when it starts all over again.
Immigrant workers, punching, punching, punching sticks into these cups at a rate of 2, cups and six euros an hour? I remember when it seemed like staying in a hotel was a huge luxury. Now the fists pound on the door. Thwok, thwok, thwok, thwok, thwok. Shoot that heroin, my friend in the next dressing room. There's always somewhere out there a little less well off, isn't there? Bombs could be dropping, I could be OD-ing: there are much worse things out there than not getting your solitude.
Solitude is a fucking modern phenomenon, anyway. They didn't have it back before the 1 s. It was invented by da Vinci. Every famous singer I meet gives me that knowing 'you sucker' sympathetic look when you tell them you're been on the road for six weeks and don't have much of a break for the next six months. But they can't do much to help you. They know you know the way they knew when they were that sucker.
That's what the wink they give you says: "Then where are you headed? Then back to the States? Then Japan? Then Europe for another while? Good, good. New single coming out? This is the push, you know! Someday you won't have to be this sucker. We all talk about how we can't complain, because it's Just Wrong, when there are bands in vans playing to 12 people and children starving in China. And we all sit there, mumbling black ego humour to ourselves, cooking at a slow roast in the dressing-room trailer behind the tent, triumphantly safety- pinning another green continent to our electric-blue leotards.
Grinning that toothless grin of empty accomplishment. Stealing jealous sideward glances as the boxers around us punch into the air. This psychotic brilliance comes courtesy of Box Codax, otherwise known as Alexander Ragnew that voice! Locking them together in one time and place proves impossible, but taking each separately allows us to piece together some sort of puzzle.
Although the simple question of how they met offers up more questions. So far, our rule has been: maximum one day for one song. Most of it is done on the road, in unreal places. Nicholas: "Only God and Ragnew know that. I can only speak for myself, 'We have been to the Swiss Alps, the German Alps and also the French Alps together' I took a bus to Glasgow, even though I hate public transportation - but somehow I felt it was important to go.
Anyway, after my arrival we started recording in his flat's closet, out of pure curiosity. His flatmate got a bad headache from our creations so we had to stop. All this is part of the incarnation of Box Codax, and in fact some of those songs are on the album as well. A well-oiled friendship is the perfect start to a musical relationship. It really sucks. But I know how to copy and paste. Their influences prove difficult to pinpoint " I would say all good and bad music has an influence on Box Codax - from Bach to Bananarama, ' Nicholas tells me , but with music this free and odd it hardly matters.
I'm left feeling good and strange about this thing they're doing and, short of swimming with otters myself, there's nowhere else I should go. There's nothing sexier than someone who can't be saved, or so we say.
Her opening words were cigarette smoke exhaled on visitor-room-partition glass. There's nothing cuter than love poems carved with a flick- knife.
I guess it was love, I guess. I look at the only photo. Three girls in high- school-blouse gang colours, two staring through you with cold imperiousness, the other gazing resentfully at something off camera - all carrying coiled ropes, all wearing white boots. The Whyte Boots. Man, The Whyte Boots were so tight you couldn't slide a switchblade between 'em. No one ran where Rhonda, Page and Kathy ran. She knew. She knew what she was getting herself into.
The Whyte Boots only got one single out before the big house called. She did take my Bobby away. Puttin' medown. Showin' everybody his ring.
Well, I thought I'd like to scare her a little. But I never meant to hurt. You can win! Get her! Push her to the ground! The aggressors' shrill screams are like knives and cat-claws and Reign In Blood solos. Where The Shangri-Las skirted expertly around big, There's nothing cuter than love poems carved with a flick-knife unsaid Bads - parental rejection, teen pregnancy, and even harrowingly rape-The Whyte Bootsjust stuck the knife in quick and let the remorse bleed.
Obviously, 'Nightmare' was a huge hit. Go magazine ran a tour diary with the band. In it, Page, Kathy and Rhonda giddily recounted shopping trips, swimsuit fashion shows and hunky army guys. It didn't read at all like the words of the cobra-eyed waifs in 'Nightmare'. This couldn't be the same girls - could it? It wasn't. The Whyte Boots never existed. The real Whyte Boots were Connecticut-born Lori Burton nee Dolores Diana Squeglia , the wife of a recording engineer - deemed too 'ethnic' to be a pop singer - and Pam Sawyer, an Essex housewife who relocated to New York with her musician husband.
Through their marital connections, the pair met and began writing songs - penning A-sides for Lulu, The O'Jays, Patti Labelle and more. It worked. Mercury signed Lori, releasing a stomping, soulful LP, Breakout.
The album led to a dream deal with Motown, but the label's grinding bureaucracy stalled their output. Lori was the first to drop out, disillusioned, concentrating instead on raising hertwo children. Breakout was reissued last year by Rev-Ola, cementing its reputation as a forgotten gem. The single's background story is fascinating, but the real enigma in 'Nightmare' is the vicious fantasy that the song conjures, reining the listener in as a key component: the voyeur, the part of the make- believe that makes it work.
They were standing around me. The distant, untouchable Whyte Boots -too fast to live, too young to die, too good to be true. Justin Timberlake 'Cry Me A River' Mega-famous popstar does creepy revenge fantasy against ex-girlfriend and somehow gets the world not only on his side but more in lust with him than before. The band's comedy- yob-punk credentials were raised when Bob Geldof starred in the movie. However, by the time their next album came out 's The Final Cut , I knew that this wasn't the sort of album I'd buy.
Pink Floyd were like Supertramp and Asia and Yes; file under 'wrong haircut'. But somehow, I became aware that there was an earlier, odder, gentler, slimmer, better Floyd. We listened to 'Scarecrow' and 'The Gnome' and tried to replicate the effect with a cheap tape recorder and his sister's violin.
We were aware of the hills and fields and wheat and sheep around us, but they suddenly looked and sounded and smelled and tasted different.
Since the strongest substance we had to hand was cider, the record must have been powerful stuff indeed. I got the solo albums, but maintained a disdain for post-Syd Floyd. Pink Floyd, in any meaningful sense, had ceased to be with the final notes of 'Jugband Blues' on Saucerful Of Secrets. There was a sense of wilful otherness about being a Syd fan; the whole damaged outsider schtick, like being into Roky Erickson or Skip Spence or Brian Wilson or Daniel Johnston.
But stabbing through the madness was this truth, this knowledge, the feeling that Syd knew something we didn't. Even at the bleakest moments, there was always a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. But there was also a paradox. Syd didn't want to be a star any more; moreover, he didn't want to have been a star.
The obsessives who knew where he lived, who followed him to the Cambridge shops, who pretended to be from the gas board to get past his front door; they were as dangerous to his wellbeing as Mark Chapman had been to Lennon. It was OK to listen to his music, but to take it any further was to contribute to the pain.
But since the pain had, in part, spawned the music. It was tough. Tom Stoppard's new play, Rock 'n'Roll, crams Cambridge, Prague, sex death, a couple of revolutions and lots of smashed vinyl into its two acts. But hovering over the whole thing is the spirit of Syd. He's first seen singing 'Golden Hair'; he later appears offstage, fat, bald and buying loo roll.
One of the last scenes involves a tutorial about Plutarch, dealing with the death of the god Pan. Sheffield Yorkshire, UK. A quartet of music loving Victorians Thee Reverend, Tiffin The Tea Boy, Missy Tassles and The Baron stare with incredulity at the police phonebox that stands before them emanating a mysterious and slightly unnerving sound.
As if by magic The Doctor appears from within: "Children Of Victoriana, come with me to the 2 1 st Century in search of garage, surf, electronica, art-punk and indie-pop. On arrival in said 2 1 st Century, our aforementioned foursome quickly form rock'n'roll and pop'n'stuff type groups with names like Chuck and The Motherfuckers.
Quickly realising that no one in their right mind is going to offer them a recording contract, the gang rapidly set about devising fiendishly clever schemes to commit their ideas and talent to vinyl and in some cases, CDs too! And as if this impressive range of products and services were not enough to earn them multiple knighthoods the next time The Queen has a birthday, Thee SPC also work tirelessly protecting the good name and cultural heritage of Sheffield not just an IvorNovello- shaped statuette with a plaque reading 'Human League' -or a velvet-lined box set of fine cutlery -or a gang of lads singing about mobile phones, acne and ASBOs by releasing kicking compilations 'I couldn't give a flying shite.
It's our music that's the important thing - and we know we're right good! Hats off and for any Timelords reading this, scarves too, please to Thee SPC and their ever-present spirit of independency. It was cheap! Go and do it! Vive la DIY! Our fabulous four have been delighting the gentlefolk of the Sheffield and Hallamshire district and beyond for some three years now with quality releases from a diverse roster including the likes of: Monkey Swallows The Universe, Champion Kickboxerand Smokers Die Younger.
A fantastic acoustic five-piece who write beautiful and beguiling songs about love, jealousy, apathy, imaginary friends and pirates. A Half-Man Half- Biscuit-dunking four-piece who have attracted hate mail and derision after naming their group after one of their favourite songs: Oliver 19 -vocals: "It's daft.
I mean, that Preston bloke doesn't get grief for naming his crap band after a Morrisseysong, does he? Support Your Indie Music Store www. Despite his inebriated state, he belted out the words as though singing this ode to his city was an honour of the highest order. This is the effect that Chicago has on people. Whether you've been here your whole life, or whether you're searching for a new place to call home, Chicago has an enigmatic hc5ld that is undeniable. Just as this city impelled Johnson to write a song about it all those years ago, there is rock skewed with the strutting arrogance of rock 'n' roll.
Their self-released record, Showbiz Witch, got them some recognition in renowned Chicago based DIY bible Punk Planet, and they just took their confrontational live show on tour around NYC, threatening to fight any East Village hipster kids who dared not to dance.
Sterling's prowling and cacophonous epic instrumentals could soundtrack a Dario Argento movie. Featuring hard-hitting drummer Tony Lazzara Milemarker, Atombombpocketknife and local underground celebrity Al Burian Make Believe were playing a Christian youth venue when their drummer wrung out his shorts on the audience a well of talent in Chicago's musical underground clamouring to pay the place its due.
A couple of weeks back, I saw Pit-er-Pat play at a friend's surprise birthday party in the dimly lit confines of guitarist Rob D's attic space. Fairy lights littered the floor and ceiling while Fay's moody vocals seared with propulsive drums and clinking keyboards rendered the audience silent.
Meanwhile, Mannequin Men make galvanic, mischievous punk bass , who writes legendary punk rock fanzine Burn Collector, this quartet moulds the heavy metal meanderings of Slayer into precise and terrifying soundscapes. Six piece noiseniks Coughs make irascible and jarring avant big beat that sounds like Lightning Bolt covering The Raincoats.
A woman screams demonically while a maelstrom of trumpet, and guitar reverberates to create a sound akin to a glass greenhouse collapsing into a million shards.
I spent as much time on those as the music. I formulated lots of questions about aesthetics and identity, about fashion and the attempt at least to control how you're perceived, express yourself without the media rerouting and diluting it. None of the things you mentioned had anything to do with why we started Dandi Wind," read the reply, and I was ashamed.
OK, then. I know a good angle when I see one. Let's roll. DAY: A sealed room where the rules of nature don't apply, where there's no such thing as an inanimate object, the supernatural is just the far side of the spectrum, detritus flickering across the floor in stop-motion, haunted frames where our heroine has her hair pulled by telekinetic wires. The music is auto-destructive, feverish synth shivers and beats that fake the sound a rivet shot into an iceberg might make.
DAY: A black catsuit in digital light, pixellating as the. They underscore faint heavy metal impulses with tight, meticulous drumming and guitar and bass lines that swell and explode with each layer of sound. Each member of this trio plays his instrument with such ease; closely pre-empting each others' moves with the heightened awareness that only comes from genuine camaraderie. A month or so ago, I saw Make Believe play their last show for a while at the Fireside - Chicago's bowling alley turned punk rock venue - before their drummer, Nate Kinsella, went off to prison for two months in Oklahoma.
Make Believe were playing a Christian youth venue when Kinsella wrung out his shorts on the audience. As unhygienic as this may be, it hardly warrants a prison sentence; but indecent exposure is punishable with up to 1 years in prison in this Bible Belt state.
Make Believe's bristling and danceable pop tinged indie rock would graft a release onto Discord if they were a DC band. I was out at Chicago's Empty Bottle the other night for an Erase Errata show, a couple of days after sending the first draft of this article off to Plan B.
Supporting Erase Errata were guitar-drum duo Voltage, whose instruments resemble some kind of advanced science project. Guitarist Todd Bailey and drummer Erik Schwartz whose album Building The Bass Castle Vol 1 came out on Flameshovel last year construct these Franken- instruments themselves, playing a vacuum-based synthesiser controlled by a modified guitar and a multi-faceted drum kit utilising a glockenspiel and battery-operated motors.
Voltage warranted writing about; luckily I was able to add them before my words became condemned to print. Yet over the coming months, Chicago will undoubtedly reveal more of its shimmering musical talent in some dank punk rock basement, while the El train rattles overhead.
No disaffected yawn of a vocal for Dandi, no period Euro stylings or clipped computerised phrasing - she chants and wails, screams up her throat, recalling nothing so much as the protest pacesetters of a street demo.
She turns hipsters to Cro-Magnons with a rabid anti- cheerleader stomp, voodoo sounds like stones hitting the sides of APCs, riot-police panic attacks, a seared burger on a fast-food hotplate.
Dandi Wind. Hyper-alienated digital primitivism meets Brit Grit social activism for snuff muzak afterparties everywhere. The popped gum-bubble of late capitalism. I hope we got that clear. If you do not understand this simple rule of thumb then you haven't lived, my friend, and you'll probably never understand up-and-coming sludge titans Humanasaur.
More's the pity, because this West Philadelphia band play the truest, purest filth rock since King Buzzo crawled out of an Aberdeen ditch and belched "Yeah, I'm depressed sometimes," admits Mike, flatly. Me too. The raw honesty of the lyrics reminds me of early Eighties hardcore like Black Flag, Blight and Flipper.
Rich is flattered: "Some of the best music ever made. Are they happy with the way it turned out? Download Pureza Natural. Facebook gives people the power to share and makes the world more. Join LinkedIn or sign in to become a member of this group. I was happy to see her again,a and even happier to. Stream full songs and albums for free, buy music, find tour dates, and more. Join Facebook to connect with Pureza Natural and others you may know. Download Still I Rise.
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