Exhausting as well as elating. But it was good to be back. Lucky then, that something as brave as NYNN should coincide with something so terrible as the dawn of American Kakocracy. For tracks that carry so much weight in the beat, Agatha pours a lot of emotion into his music — bold-as-brass swells, vocal cut-ups and cinematic strings sit tight on top of thunderous drums.
After an unscheduled fire alarm, people shuffle back upstairs for fiercely weird new artist Klein, but before this comes the debut of Portia Lewis, a girl-group put together and managed by Klein via Facebook.
The trio croon, rap and harmonise over a set of unsettling, borderline-nightmarish backing tracks, beneath the buzz of which you can just about hear some more conventional RnB tropes — warm keys, sharp hats, cut-up vocals.
The misbehaviour continues as the group leaves and Klein steps up, excitedly addressing the crowd through so many layers of effects that her speech is rendered unintelligible, her pitch-shifted voice reaching people like alien transmissions. A looping soul sample degrades into a bit-crushed frenzy, which she pitches up and down with reckless intent, creating fleeting rhythms and patterns. Klein live is like a desert, unhospitable and exhilarating, with things you think you recognise, or want to recognise, hovering and fading at the edge of perception.
Saturday moves things downstairs to the main gallery. Soon after this, Silver Waves delivers the most satisfying set of the weekend. Hunched in the middle of the room behind a table of battered looking synths and pedals, the guy immediately dispels any fears of another second-rate Container and delivers a truly brutal twenty minutes of mutant breaks and dread-ridden electronics, all the while howling and frothing over the mic.
The response from the packed gallery is huge. Dublin noise-rock unit Girl Band bring the night to a decisive, raucous finish. On the Friday, Klein took us on a long journey to show us how, through tirelessly breaking with tradition and embracing fantasy, different worlds may be possible. Saturday, by contrast, was more straightforward — a howl of rage, directed outward.
Intentionally or not, NYNN has explored two coping strategies — fantasy, and anger — that could prove more useful than ever in the years to come.
Surely, this Brixton Academy gig is where my childhood love for the band has come to have its coffin nailed shut? It seems too hyped, too overblown But, goddammit, Race for the Prize starts up and I cry. I cry, okay? The textures are different, the volume is important, and the musicianship is, quite frankly, insane.
But the twistedly euphoric chorus of How?? In spite of the weight of prophecy, there is still plenty here for a Flaming Lips fan. With all the dialogue about a renewed critical and commercial interest in grime and UK rap music, it can sometimes feel like we have more think-pieces and ones-to-watch lists than we do music. The story goes that these 17 tracks were put together in a basement studio in Dalston, a space which became a hub of fiery, boundary-pushing musical energy.
The end result is an exciting and diverse compilation of promising artists with a couple of highlights. Charged with the task of meeting those expectations is Call Super, who takes this anticipatory energy and plays it off against moments of escapism and clarity in a set intended for the last hours of the night.
Wellversed in slicing musicality and eccentricity into a floor-friendly techno set, Seaton weaves and winds his way across a stormy landscape with a tough bass providing the pathway, and glitches, muffles and high-end melodies informing the view. There are moments of jazz and soul, of acid and IDM. Despite not releasing a full-length solo album until now, Sampha has enjoyed mainstream recognition primarily as a featured artist.
Inhe seemed to thrust out of a relatively quiet period, appearing on the albums of Kanye, Frank Ocean and Solange. Killer Mike and El-P toy the line between comedy and catastrophe. Even their most absurd ideas carry a sort of radical intent. Despite its cartoonish nature, their Run The Jewels project is a camouflaged weapon commandeered by the duo, with its target centered at America's rising right wing. Released init saw Mike concentrate on social and political activism for black America, while El-P parodied the state of the world as if seeing out the impending apocalypse armed with crisply sealed joints and dick jokes.
The crass weed and genitalia references are pretty unremitting, but these slapstick quips are usually followed by a cry for revolution. Never before has Killer Mike been so open about his past as on opener Down, where he soberly prays to himself that he will never go back to his Atlanta trap lifestyle. His politics, too, shine with clarity. His comical blabbering on tracks such as Panther Like a Panther act like precisely-timed jabs to Mike's angered preaching, with lines like "I'll flood the speakers with heat seekers and keep sneakers cleaner than nunnery pussy evening of Easter," providing comic relief.
And this remains Run The Jewel's ultimate call to arms for the counterculture that supports their music. Stand up against the autocrats and rip away the red tape wrapped around big issue politics. Fill your lungs, point and laugh at all the lunacy until your airdrained body collapses to the floor.
Tom Watson. The wistful Rivers closes things out: a forlorn, throbbing melody and a beautiful Chromatics hit that never was. But the quality control is high, and The Golden Filter get a free pass because the zeitgeist caught up with them — rather than the other way around.
Adam Corner. Anybody familiar with the Manchester outfit will recognise their reliable blend of art-pop on Big Balloon, but might struggle to pick out precisely where either of those two icons come into play.
Big Balloon is dutifully slick and assured in its weirdness, and its successes tend to come when the group aim for out-and-out aggression; the pointed title track pulls that off in opening the LP, as does Streetlight, which simmers with palpable tension.
Big Balloon is another confident stride from a group that remain a hidden gem within the alt-pop world. The only concern is that here Dutch Uncles veer uncomfortably close to being predictable. Anathema for a band with weirdness ingrained so heavily in their DNA. A Shadow In Time opens with a faint but foreboding drone.
Metallic noise slices into the dense and warbling atmosphere. Glacial in its movement and austere in its beauty, there is a brooding dissonance that gradually wanes, giving way to shimmering harmonies that moan and stretch until their own drowsy death. For David Robert Jones emerges from the murky depths of a bank of lost memories, provoking hazy visions of a life as seen through a rearview mirror.
As much as there is light and a sense of being reborn, its gentle cascade also hints at a life turning to dust in the darkness. For David Robert Jones, however, is the blanket over the inevitable end. Departing from his multitracking jack-of-all-trades approach, here Segall has shared recording duties with a band, mish-mashed of players from his sprawl of projects.
The result is punchy, with 10 tracks bounding in and out in just over 36 minutes. The aptly-titled opener, Break A Guitar, is a subtlety-free slab of sleaze and proto-metal riffing that would be at home on a Fuzz record. Freedom increases the pace and decreases distortion with rhythmic verses and jostling choruses punctuated by tennis-racquet-in-the-mirror solos. Ty Segall is essentially a splurge of ideas that showcases his many sides. Much like anything with a guitar should be. The clip, recorded for a BBC broadcast, is the only surviving voice recording of Woolf.
In a way, it acts as the binding force for the entire score, which relies so poignantly on the importance of memory and nostalgia. It is a stunning manifesto that combines elements from each track into one profound and final thrust. As the album comes to a close, all that remains is the allpervading cry of a single violin and then, silence. This, their first full-length release, is a compilation of the three excellent four-track EPs that span their career thus far.
It works in the flesh too — at their notably wild live shows, the vocals and band gnash against each other just enough to grind both down to their essences.
It feels fitting then, that his best album in some time is called Godfather, a title bestowed on him by the grime scene for over a decade. That said, it does feel like a more mature Wiley album too; old rivalries have been cast aside Devlin and he tackles a fair amount of earnest, self-reflection Lucid, U Were Always, Pt 2.
When Lanez sings, he reminds you of Chris Brown. When he bellows and squashes his vowels in his nose e. Elsewhere, he reminds you of Bryson Tiller. Inevitably, he reminds you of Drake. TNT2 demonstrates how effectively this aesthetic conjures a sense of ominous drama around a voice; moodily lit like this, the hollowest bragging can feel deep, the paltriest three-note melody can easily soar.
This is ideal, for a weak though distinct singer like Drake. This RnB aims to be as toughly masculine as trap, and so everything is played in a minor key, and the emotion is displaced with indulgent use of autotune.
Jack Law. The majority of the record enjoys more success, and is so distinctively Feelies-esque in its sound that it is both instantly familiar and constantly enjoyable.
Jon Clark. Now the Melbourne band aim to release five albums in this year alone. The best thing about King Gizzard, aside from the psychotic bedlam that envelops their gigs, is that they somehow manage to avoid blandly rehashing the same ideas, even at their exhausting rate of recording.
But it was also defined by its conception as an infinite loop: when played with a repeat function activated, the end of the final track segues perfectly back to the beginning of the first. These conceptual frameworks somehow avoided feeling gimmicky, instead giving the band focus. The particular quirk that gives Flying Microtonal Banana its name is their experimentation with microtones: splitting traditional western octaves into 24 tones instead of Often, admirably outwardlooking records like these overlook the fundamental tenet of actually sounding good.
After finding herself at the centre of a Twitter storm of false cheating accusations, the year-old Oakland singer refused to buckle under the pressure. Instead, she transformed a stressful moment in the spotlight into a platform to speak frankly about mental health, public perceptions and her own relationships.
An extension of the direct nature that the RnB upstart has become known for over the past two years, Kehlani continues to explore these themes on her hotly anticipated album. Songs like Keep On, Distraction and Too Much are crying for a Hype Williams-directed wind tunnel video with their soft, trustworthy RnB harmonies, keys and creeping double clap beats.
The therapeutic function of SweetSexySavage is clear; and the pensive conversation is honest and intimate, almost to a point of voyeurism. To be clear, this is not the classic album many hoped Kehlani had in her, and in a few respects it falls victim to tropes — ballads such as Escape and Hold Me By the Heart, for example, are so sweet that they lean towards Disney Channel territory.
But often the strongest collections of work are those of which the fan favourites vary from person to person, and this could be true of SweetSexySavage. By building upon the foundation of her dynamic Grammy-nominated mixtape, You Should Be Here, Kehlani has again accomplished her mission of unpacking the diversity of the individual.
Steeped in fuzzy noise, his songs are nonetheless orchestral in their outlook, with layered instruments and imaginative arrangements. With many vocal takes laid down on a tape recorder from within a hospital toilet, the record was made in the midst of treatment for his unusual heart condition, one that has presented obstacles in Wilde's music career for several years. The hiatus has provided a vitality to the new record that was absent from his second album Red Tide Opal in the Loose End Womb, which acted more as a continuation of the work heard on his debut.
Here there is heavy, crunching noise and pop-oriented belters that meld perfectly with his lighter, dreamier offerings. Opener Good Kind of Froze sets the record off with its pulsing cacophony of insistent beats and infectious choruses, whereas Smothered sees more familiar, but no less welcome, Wildean wooze that juxtaposes heavy subject matter with a detached surrealism.
Big Black Chunk provides further inventiveness in its neat cutting and pasting of disparate ideas into a romantic, affecting six minutes. In celebration of the 20th anniversary of Erykah Badu's seminal debut, Sassy Black celebrates its soulful complexity. So how do we celebrate this Black Queen who has been bopping to the sound of her own beatbox all her life? You bask No More Faith - Agathocles / Kak (3) - From Factory To Cemetary its glory.
Baduizm helped expand soul music, and it bridged the gap between multiple Black American genres. The music also includes flares. Paak, who has worked with Baducollaborator Shafiq Husayn on many of his projects. The sense of vulnerability on the record is deep. Badu is able to exert the lyrical dexterity of Nikki Giovanni with the confidence of the illest emcee. I first got into Baduizm as a college student. The journey she constructs, with the musical accompaniment of The Roots, plays out like a short film which leaves you wondering where the couple will ultimately end up.
Next Lifetime tackles the age-old subject of monogamy, commitment and thoughts of infidelity. Whether metaphorical or literal, the lyrics of this song speak loudly about the woman behind the words. Badu is more than a vocalist, she is an ancient storyteller sent to Earth to provide a universal connection and cosmic perspective to those willing to listen.
Within an hour, we are taken on a trip through. Having studied jazz all my life as a listener and trained vocalistBadu was my missing link.
I was having a hard time connecting jazz music to my experiences, modern sound and finding a way to actually own it. Erica Wright created a uniquely soulful, bluesy and psychedelic sound for herself and ultimately other Black women like her, including myself. She presented a space wherein I could freely express my sentiments without feeling like an outsider or wrong-doer. She expanded my musical community.
Sassy Black. In this portrait of the artist as a young man, Alejandro undergoes a string of events that finally amalgamate in his moving to Paris in the 50s, a bidding a final farewell to his father. Moments of the absurd dominate the picture as misfits, artists and circus performers carry Alejandro on his adventure through the giant 2D cut out world of his own imagination.
Endless Poetry is a fantastical and shamelessly self-indulgent portrayal of a poet in search for meaning in a world of vanity and illusion. Gunseli Yalcinkaya. Due to an onslaught of setbacks, Silence is 30 years in the making. And this adaption of Shusaku Endo's novel of the same name is among the most pained and personal work Martin Scorsese has completed in just as long. Charting the grave journey of two Jesuit priests Garfield and Driver through 17th century Japan, they aim to investigate their former mentor Neeson after word of his apostatising and spread the word of Christianity in a country where their faith has been outlawed.
Mostly taking place in exterior locales, Dante Ferretti's stripped-back period production design, Rodrigo Prieto's washed out photography, and Scorsese's reigned-in formalist approach to the material paints a perfectly savage picture of religious persecution. Scorsese has always finely walked the rare path of personal filmmaking through the studio system and here everyone involved bares their soul in a film of raw majestic power that, even at its most harrowing, remains life affirming.
Joseph McDonagh. The Fits dir. Toni finds herself alienated again, except now she understands that fitting in is simply not standing out. In her directorial feature debut, Anna Rose Holmer draws on authenticity for the Ohio-based film.
The parts are cast from a real dance troupe, the boxers are Junior Olympic level, and the fits are inspired by real historical cases. It keeps The Fits far from the usual tropes of comingof-age films, and the minimalistic locations and dialogue serve to emphasise the kinetic power of movement at the heart of the film. Most people have felt the struggle of acceptance, however fleeting.
The Fits is a mesmerising reassurance of both this struggle, and of the solutions we find. Tamsyn Aurelia-Eros Black. A homeless alcoholic man approached them. The film picks up 20 years after Renton double-crossed his friends and stole their money.
Begbie is a murderer, Spud a smackhead, Sick Boy an embittered cokehead his hair still looks great, of course. Once more, a financial opportunity presents itself. Women barely feature Kelly Macdonald is wastedor when they do their characters are stereotypes: tarts-witha-heart or put-upon mothers. But some scenes—like when Renton and Sick Boy steal credit cards at a nationalist party, or when Renton and Begbie unexpectedly reunite in a nightclub toilet—are incredible.
Sirin Kale. La La Land is the opium of the people. As a sensory experience, the film is enjoyable. Nostalgia, Michel BDW (Vinyl), after all, works best from a distance. Featuring the likes of Maisie Cousins, Hobbes Ginsberg and Clio Peppiatt, over 70 artists give the tarot deck a fresh new look while championing diversity and intersectionality.
A 21st century makeover for the ancient healing tool. Following the sad loss of influential music writer and theorist Mark Fisher, arm yourself with his crucial work as we head further into an uncertain world.
Fisher is known for his big-picture thinking for publications like The Wire, his many books and his era-defining K-punk blog that galvanised a generation of writers.
Regarded as his most vital text, Capitalist Realism argues that it is now easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism, asking how the dogma can be challenged. Essential reading.
Justifiably, we are becoming more and more scared about hyper-connectivity. Meet Block, they don't actually exist yet but when they do you can put your phone in this block. They come in blue, green, pink and copper. Bumped into a wasteman and in need of a fast and effective par? Introducing the Boy Bye Bot! Give him the number listed on boybyebot. Just in time for the dreaded Inauguration Day, Discwoman and Allergy Season dropped this compilation, with all proceeds going to selected charities who oppose the incoming Trump administration.
Crossword Across 3. The day before today 5. French, Vodka, Dance Dance etc 8. The GOAT underwater transportation method 9. Bored of these four things on my car Hot, dark liquid energy elixir Long-tusked sea cow, you are one Baked, kidney or coffee Down 1. Hard backed tiny dudes who come in many varieties 2. Salt and this guy… Cylindrical woodwind, favoured in the Klezmer community The darkest colour ever.
Ryan Giggs or FKA twigs? Who said it: the unfussy Manchester United legend, or the otherworldly songstress? I don't really go out. If you're interested in contributing to this series, please email artsubmissions crackmagazine. At just 26 years old, JoJo has lived a lifetime in the pop industry. At the age of 12, she signed with Blackground Records, home to artists like Aaliyah and Timbaland. When Blackground ceased to be active inJoJo was left trapped in a label limbo and experienced troubling input from label execs attempting to control her image.
But after filing a lawsuit to extract herself from their control, JoJo was finally able to return to public consciousness last year with her third studio album Mad Love. We spoke to JoJo over the phone while she getting a new tattoo — a turquoise bracelet, specifically — to look back on her journey so far.
I was in London with my mum when I heard that I had a number one single in America. We ordered a pizza, and we ate the whole pizza. She protected me from a lot of gnarly things that can happen in the industry. I can hear myself finding my footing as a young person, as a young woman, as someone who is feeling imperfect and wants to see if other people feel the same way. But around the time that I turned 18 I started to get uncomfortable and hear opinions about my weight or the way I dressed.
It took me a few years to reclaim my strength and to feel comfortable even in my own skin, in my own style, in my own body.
I was. Facing the adversity with the label, having to really fight for what I want to do for the rest of my life, gave me perspective.
When I was suing my record label, I recorded several incarnations of albums that unfortunately never got released. I think, through that, I learned about myself as a songwriter. I really grew into that role. There are so many different ways to be a woman. My generation, our generation, can sniff out fakes. Right at the beginning of the year I got into the studio, I pretty much scrapped everything I had done the previous year.
I just followed what was making me feel. The album is shaped by romantic love, sexual relationships, self love. Love is the best shit ever. It drives me. After being gone for so long, to have gotten this reception is just very affirming. What book are you currently reading? Would you recommend it? What was the first record that you fell in love with? That was a big one for young Tim. I feel like I make a killer omelette, with mushrooms, almonds and cheese Well, omelettes can easily be gross.
I appreciate that. It was super small, really dingy and the beds were practically touching each other. There are hints of black metal in the shrieking vocals while the constant double tap of death metal and the ultra slow bassthrum of funeral doom combine and buckle into a demented cacophony. If this first, all too brief, collection is anything to go by, Ceremented have a very bright or should that be dark?
Every line will blur, in gender, sexuality, genre, politics. The Iranian musician employs a destructive approach to production, similar to the likes of Arca or Angel-Ho, enhancing the physicality of his sound. This amorphous approach is driven by his intensely synesthetic mind. That representation couldn't be further from reality. Music in my mind has materiality and physicality.
You can break it, throw it. I don't control it obsessively, I direct the chaos. As a teen, he was briefly incarcerated in his native Tehran for hosting a gig with his former band Font. By the time he was granted asylum in the UK, Koosha tells us, the inability to perform had irrevocably shaped him. In my case it made me more curious and dedicated. A dizzying trip further into the rabbit hole of his sound, Koosha is also thrilled to be working alongside virtual reality.
Let us explain, this page of the magazine is usually reserved for true unknowns who deserve more spotlight. But you may well have heard of Cardi B. Brokeboys need not apply. Should you require a more direct introduction to the ethos and music of Amnesia Scanner, we suggest you immediately head to their, shall we say, encapsulating website amnesiascanner.
If a startling and minor traumatic experience is not what you need right now, then, put simply, Amnesia Scanner is the highly experimental brainchild of Ville Haimala and Marti Kalliala. AS, their debut release on Young Turks, aggressively deconstructs club sounds through a pallet of smashed glass and thrusted synth stabs, while traditional percussion is thrown out for mangled vocal samples and ghostly rattles. The two are between homes in the capital, which will serve as a base for at least the next two years.
Holly's most adventurous yet accessible work to date, it dealt explicitly with themes such as state surveillance and digital intimacy. Tours off the back of it were dedicated to incarcerated Wikileaks whistleblower Chelsea Manning, who Holly and Mat interviewed last year for Paper Mag via US mail and encrypted web platforms. While much of Platform was created remotely via file sharing, the new creative process takes place in person, at rehearsals. Hours go into tuning patches that can produce certain harmonics and effects, all of which then have to be fed through a complicated routing chain on Ableton.
Much of what you hear is being delivered through a microphone in a continuous take, and not necessarily the result of cutting and pasting. Recent touring schedules have been hectic, and taken her to a lot of festivals where other electronic musicians rely heavily on automation to perform. The standard criticism here is that live shows, in essence, should be dependent on the possibility of something going wrong.
Automation removes that risk, and thus removes the human element. This need not be the case. On the contrary, Holly suggests — it frees up space for it. At one stage, the houselights went up, prompting audience members to look at each other. Midway through the set, Jacob Applebaum, journalist and confidant of Edward Snowden, was invited to make a speech. DJs will completely change their sets. But when we told them we wanted the lights turned up, or data-mine everyone, or that [Berlinbased sound artist] Claire Tolan would be opening the show on the floor with a Britney headset mic, the Berghain people thought that was awesome.
Certain archetypes are allowed. He compares analogue fetishism and techno purism with the straightedge movement that emerged from the DC hardcore scene. They forged identities without stopping to think they might be misconstruing things. And I feel the same about a lot of this shit. Holly agrees. Of course not, he just went ahead and invented techno. There are certain things you can do in music, certain swells you can employ, that push a button.
The world is a very different place now, and I want sounds that reflect that. People living under certain, oppressive conditions develop new languages and cultures of understanding together, in order to comprehend their world. Mat gives a contemporary example — auto-tune as employed by Kanye, Lil Wayne and so many others, now subsumed to a point where anyone can get away with using it.
But there was a point when using the technology in a way that subverted its initial corrective purpose communicated something new, and intimate. Losing sight of this, she says, can dull the desire to change things.
People can take it, says Mat. You can create the environment you want. They eat my shit. Thunder — BOOM! As I sat in my flat in Cardiff, with a Jamaican octogenarian spitting out ear-splitting sound effects and beating out rhythms on the desk over the phone, amplified by my fizzing speakers, I wondered what Rachel, who lives downstairs, was thinking. At one point — perhaps sparked by my Russian surname, he provides an insight into his unusual biology.
All Russian magic. And I have the Russians behind me. I have the Russian sickle and the Russian hammer. I have the Russian hammer and the Russian sickle. And the Russian love And I have the Japanese soldier, all the Japanese soldiers in my cock. All the Russian soldiers on my back.
He launches it at the handset from deep inside his chest, which ironically makes it distorted and difficult to understand. Perry pours out rhythmic patois, mystical speech; mystifying non-sequiturs are often followed by hollow, mechanical laughter. Seeming to absorb elements of Pantheism alongside his Christian and Rastafarian beliefs, he calls upon totems and figures that hover constantly at the forefront of his mind. The master of tiger and the master of elephant. The master of the jungle.
The master of the animal in the jungle. Animal love! Jungle love! Tiger law! Lion law! Pure love, unity, racial harmony. No war, no Babylon. No evil. Lion bear no demons, no bullshit, no vampire, no bloodsucker. No black bonfire, no black vampire. No white vampire, no black vampire. Sharp and funny, when asked where he got his wisdom, he responds, barely hesitating. With tongue! I looked down and it was there, the perfect tongue. I inherit London, England, Great Britain.
A defining characteristic of his sound has always been the wild, inscrutable logic guiding his arrangement, and the gleeful, seemingly-nonsensical lyrics — back in he was burping over his tracks.
He harnessed the accidents, faults and malfunctions of the equipment, giving an unconscious, human, original power that he saw as spiritual. I asked if he could explain his unusual reserves of energy. Atomic power. Atomic power heart; atomic power mind; atomic power truth. This could well be a hang-up from an early musical career where, for a talented individual in the fiercely competitive Jamaican reggae scene, there were constant threats of exploitation and musical trespass.
Even in the golden era of dub, as a renowned hitmaker, he often had to. Nine nine nine! Much has been made of his crazy recording techniques — and this fits with his personal eccentricities, but he was importantly a technological pioneer. He was among the first people to approach music technology and studio engineering in the way that he did, using relatively basic equipment but paying a minute attention to the intricate and subtle dynamics of the mix and using ingenious, outlandish techniques to create the effects he wanted.
Foundational dance music producers, like Tom Moulton in New York, borrowed the aesthetic pioneered by Perry and his highly technological rhythm science shaped club and soundsystem music thereafter — from house and jungle to garage and dubstep. Maybe his obtuse humour does make more sense — Perry as the laughing Buddha.
Paak is the sort of guy who could turn out his pockets and make half-decent music with whatever fell out. He was just seven years old when he wrote his first song — a naive gangsta rap track called Trigger — and at 11 he joined the church band where he mastered the drums.
It was his singing voice, though, that would one day catch the attention of childhood hero Dr. Paak has lived through some tough experiences — from seeing both his parents get locked up, to enduring a period of homelessness — and you can hear it in his warm rasp that cracks and strains in all the right places.
Paak has six feature placements, more than any other artist. Singing was really the last jigsaw piece for the multi-talented musician, who moved to LA from Oxnard in his early twenties to escape boredom and get around more diversity. Paak was one of the only African American kids at his school in Ventura, California.
When he finally got to LA, though, things very nearly fell apart. Paak was left homeless after losing a farming job inbefore being taken in by Shafiq Husayn of the futurist hip-hop trio SaRa. He spent the next few years hopping around the LA beat scene collaborating.
During this period he released two records under the name Breezy Lovejoy, and spent a stint as tour drummer for American Idol contestant Haley Reinhart. Gradually, his own career in music began to take shape, and he grew more confident in his singing voice too. It was always a work in progress right up until the Anderson. Paak stage. Opening with Compton highlight Animals.
Paak arrives on stage in a Culture Club T-shirt and a Bart Simpson baseball jacket, before inviting his band The Free Nationals on stage to perform songs from his recent solo album Malibu.
Paak is everywhere; one minute rapping centre stage, then running behind the drum kit to lead his band through extended jams. At another point he jumps down to get among the crowd, where he dances along to the horn-laden funk boogie Am I Wrong. As well as being his most personal record yet, Malibu feels like a leap forward in terms of pure songwriting craft.
Now signed to Aftermath, of course, the world will be watching his every move. Paak played in No More Faith - Agathocles / Kak (3) - From Factory To Cemetary first meeting with Dr.
Dre, who then looped the song three times in a row. Ever the businessman, Dre later advised him not to do so many features. I feel like things are getting onto a bigger scale. Paak says that being on the road with the people he struggled with is all the success that he needs, besides which — fame killed all of his favourite entertainers.
Paak has seen and done a lot since he wrote Trigger in his childhood bedroom, yet somehow this feels like the beginning. As we finish up eating, we take our conversation somewhere less crowded, walking out into the darkness towards his chalet accommodation provided for tonight's set at Bloc. Having just jumped off a flight from his current home of Amsterdam, he looks around curiously, taking in the family-tailored amusements and the hoards of festival attendees — many of whom seem to recognise him immediately.
Plessow has never been a DJ who cares about being on trend or pandering to expectations. Meaning I would go to a record store and there would be crates and crates of records all mixed up. Ever since it was played in his first Boiler Room set, the price of the record has sky-rocketed. The effect has completely shocked Plessow. He seems a little averse to the claustrophobia of settling into a tightknit scene.
Louis, Missouri to convince them. After it was published, Plessow had a lot. Towards the end of our conversation, he confesses that he once felt the same way. I had to leave clothes behind there so that I could fit more stationery in my suitcase. It was her brother who taught her to mix on those records, aged twelve. University was where Josey took the plunge from bedroom to the club. I knew that, Fuck You I practiced and practiced so hard, and I smashed it.
She cites her favourite on-air moments from the last half-decade as when she invited. Like w hen [Rinse]. Familiar faces from magazines, culture sites, artists and photographers stream in, and the unofficial dress code seems to be streetwear for the boys, and red eyeshadow, space buns, and the odd bared nipple for the girls. Inside, I find Bertie Brandes and Charlotte Roberts — the year-old joint founders of Mushpit — and we head to the back room for a chat.
Mushpit is funny, bawdy and raw. The humour lies somewhere between the muff jokes of The Wife of Bath combined with knowing references to millennial Insta-culture — a fact amply illustrated when I ask the girls to name one of their favourite pieces. Their editors are bright, young, and precocious. The aforementioned all have female founders. Many will secure jobs off the success of their publications — consulting for brands. Back then zines were informed by an anarchic anti-establishment attitude and a DIY ethos, with print runs of less than a thousand and black and white sheets stapled together by hand and distributed at gigs and record shops.
Things have got considerably more professional since then — most zines now have art directors and often hire established photographers to shoot their covers Mushpit issue 6 was shot with Tyrone Lebon. Even the cover stars are getting bigger Polyester recently secured Chanel muse and Rookie founder Tavi Gevinson.
Some of the most interesting and innovative zines coming out of the UK are emerging from outside London, which is refreshing, given how much our capital tends to dominate the creative scene.
Chapess is edited by year-old Cherry Styles from her Manchester home, while Cuntry Living is currently helmed by a rotating group of Oxford University students. They uphold a heteronormative male gaze. Though, now that feminism has been co-opted by mainstream brands, the danger is that even zines will get sucked into their clammy, corporate embrace. Many artists and writers throughout history have self-published through both choice and necessity. The challenge faced by many zine publishers is how to scale up without losing their DIY, anti-corporate ethos.
Brandes articulates this dilemma. Scaling up a zine also raises another concern: how to raise your profile by using bigger, well-known names while still retaining a sense of loyalty to your earlier contributors.
On the other hand, if you do want to grow as a publication — not all zine publishers do — you have to start pulling in bigger names to raise your profile, sell more copies, and get more stockists. A healthy mix of both I hope is the answer. Angeli Bhose from Cuntry Living articulates this worry. To be fair, this is something all the women I interviewed for this piece were conscious of and engaged with articulately.
We shared the opinion that the dominant narrative for theses zines was. We enjoy these zines, but felt like we wanted to make something that explored the activism of women outside the dominant white narrative. We hold their story in high esteem and strive to be as active, committed and radical.
But, as Michel BDW (Vinyl) points out, humour can be a sharp-edged political weapon. Later, when talking to Styles over email, I ask her whether she thinks now is a good time to be a creative given all we hear about the squeeze on millennials from an inescapable triumvirate of rising rents, wage pressures and an austerity-driven, conservative ideological agenda. Mushpit Issue 8 is out now.
To order a copy, visit dittopress. Place yourself at the heart of a buzzing scene of producers, composers and performers breaking musical boundaries with a weekend led by pianist and composer Nils Frahm. Between these spells in the British capital, the musician spent her adolescence in the perceivably straight-laced Stockholm. It was here that Mabel became acutely aware of her racial identity. America, I know we're in a hole, America I know we've lost control.
The band is from Japan, two women from Kobe and one man from Osaka. It's got great singing and just enough fuzz guitar and organ so that you don't miss the 60's. The man is clearly possessed by some Satanic jungle thing. Box Clackamas Oregon Thanks to Arman of Headache Records for this treat. It sounds as if Hasil Adkins and Waylon Jennings got together over a bottle of bourbon to remake the planet. Then they include numbers like "Keep a shakin' " and "Gimme another shot h and all hope is lost for their souls.
Get some of this "Triple-guitar Fuckabil- ly Squeal" for yourself soon. Until next time See you in hell. So anyway, i'm beating off at work one day. I'm sure you'll find the column much more to your liking from this day forward. In my left hand, i have a wad of quality Green Bay toilet paper. In my right, a fistful of tumescent flesh and excitable corpuscles. The Act is gonna be over in about three seconds unless i have taken the edge off the demon jism build-up via whacking off multiple times that day.
I shan't betray your trust! Who says i'm not qualified to write for MRR? I know, you'd think that somehow if you stretched and tweaked and twanged it the right way, you could shimmy down some of the built-in boob slack to the crotch area; no sale. The boob slack just disappears once you get the thing on — and i suppose that's because these things are designed by odious, boob-ogling male the Rockin' Reverend, on-stage bulge control is always a concern.
Like i said, it is a good whack-off day. Seuss to design the floorplan for the place. Fucked up. But, hey — i'm a charitable guy! Because i fucking knozv the world is dying to hear this, yes, my Pacific Rim partner is on her back; castrate me now if you'd like however, she does, in most scenarios, have her legs off the edge of the bed-thing and i'm on my knees on the floor — so it's not like, you know, i'm lying on top of her, crushing her with my filthy, repressive manliness or anything.
I mean, regardless of how understanding our partners are, they're gonna eventually demand that we remove our glasses — and then whaddawe get to see? Big whoop ; my partner is properly receptive and looks strangely like Naoko Yamano of Shonen Knife, albeit in a somewhat more traditional Penthouse mold funny thing is, i didn't realize that Naoko looked like my fantasy babe until i saw Shonen Knife in Chicago [without getting my ass kicked!
I'll take slim and tomboyish over stacked and voluptuous in real life any day — in point of fact, my fantasies are almost militantly aboobal on accounta i'm a heavy-duty ass man little cute ones — not no fool Robert Crumb hinders!
Hey, most would-be intellectual fucks are ass men! Look at the Greeks! Funnier yet, Shonen Knife made the horn-hand! My pulsating whatever-stick is seconds away from blast-off. On the astral plane, my partner coos with ecsta- cy as i try to get a handle on what kinda footwear she's sporting. Mission Command to Gonad Central, countdozvn initiated! T-mi- nus ten strokes and counting! At t-minus three strokes and counting, i experience a sudden systems crash: due to some atavistic neurological programming glitch, some of the fingers of my left hand have begun to stiffen in anticipation of the oncoming physical hoo-hah.
I read it in Portnoy's Complaint!!! I figure i can quickly nab the tissue off the toilet bowl and have it safely covering my semen ejection portal before my mental Naoka- like even knows i'm gone. I do not see exactly where the Initial Load lands, but i manage to reclaim and apply the tissue wad in time to harmlessly absorb most of Loads Two, Three, and Four, although i kind of get some on my hands as well. Composing myself whilst i tidy up a snitch, i grab a new wad of toilet paper and go In Search Of.
I scrape the tissue clump across tne partition separating the stalls. Not there. I try the right side of the toilet bowl. I run the tissue across the floor. All i get are a few stray pubic hairs, all probably male.
What the fuck? This sure the hell weren't no dry heave, pal — i SAW the suspect secretion arcing over the toilet bowl, heading north- by-northeast. I check the left side of the toilet bowl.
I try the next stall. I begin to scour my person, lest the Mystery Seed have surreptitiously hit ana clung to a sleeve or something whilst i was making my grab for the fallen tissue. I repeat the process endlessly, even searching in spots behind where i was standing, in case the wad had English on it and bounced.
There is no cum, nowhere, no how, no sir. I occa- -. Now what? Leave it? Should i warn my co-workers? Dear fellow employees: while every effort has been made to insure sanitary lavatory conditions for allthere is a slight chance that the bathroom has become Please make a note of it. RegardsNorb. Fuck, there goes my Christmas bonus! The CIA, perhaps?
Possibly — but since there was no LSD involved whatsoever, i doubt their involvement. The Russians? Vodka-dinkpermeates every level of their society — tney're centuries behind the West in ejaculation warfare and wouldn't know wnat to do with my spunk if they found it in their Post Toasties or Nabisco Shredded Wheat or whatever the fuck it is those people eat for breakfast.
Well, the question then is this: Who knew i was beating off at that particular point in time? At their devi ous command, the displaced load can be summoned back from the limbo dimen sion and returned to our reality with its initial momentum and velocity the same as when it was it left.
In other words, they can nab your wad in mid-air, hold it in a state of suspended animation for as lonj as they need to, and then put it bad exactly where they found it, on the fly — ostensibly where it will do American businessmen and heads of state the most damage.
Eventually, our economy will become so debilitated by this latest advancement in Sperm Combat that we'll become little more than a puppet slave state of Japan, forced to redesign our airports to make them more fucked up than they already are that our masters may feel comfortable when they're forced to slum with the roundeyes.
There IS balm in Gilead, motherfucker! Of course, i dunno exactly how we're gonna do this when they keep churning out great records by all these hot-looking Japanese girl bands; i'm sure that's part of their Crafty Master Plan as well. I guess the only real solution repugnant as it may seem — is to engage in an active program of non-stop bailing of oriental females, to the point of O. Fucking harsh shiti know — but i'm willing to do my part. Point me towards Supersnazz, men — i owe this to my country!
Welcome back to the refuge for the metally dependent. I had better luck finding worthwhile material this time. Plus, I took the opportunity to throw in a couple of noisecore goodies that I was afraid might otherwise not find their way into these pages.
And so, on with the show. The GEVA tracks are primo material though and the sound is on the mark. Not only does it sound great but the packaging is also spiffy and yet another reason why Common Cause is a label to look out for. Both are steadfastly endorsed by the Epicenter heavy met al Sunday crew.
This one is not to be missed! Structure, Upper James, Ste. Is any more of a description truly necessary? Well, that about does it for now, folks. Till next time stay soft, pink, and oily. You should've seen me trying to start this column on Japanese bands last 2 weeks ago, then last week, then yesterday, then on and on and on Blah blah blah Anyway, I've been trying to write this article on Japanese bands for about a month now, but the truth is I don't know shit about most of them other than the ones I've met at shows here, notably Teengenerate formally American Sou Spiders-the coolest of the coo 1 names for a band—yes it's true.
I'm into weirdness Actually, I love the way these guys can play Ramones type music in Japanese at record speed. Its so punk I love it! That'll be a show for you head- dangers for sure. Japan's answer to Link Wray was aere not too long ago in the form of Guitar Wolf Was it metal? Was is punk? Was it rock in roll? Who gives a shit I'd be anxious to check them out if and when they get here again. Since this is supposed to be a "theme" issue on Japan, I feel a little stupid that I don't know a lot more about the Japanese music scene.
A friend from Maximum suggested the other day I check out The Garlic Boys who were playing at the Thirsty Swede formally Nightbreakso me being the bullshitter I am, told a couple of friends they were supposed to be really punk and that they had better go Well anyway, I didn't go and they did.
Much to my dismay, at 1 am a buddy of mine comes by my house pounding on my door demanding to be et in. They were totally metal! What are you talking about? However, it's not the last time I open my mouth, as you guys have probably figured out. So let's see. Drink gallons of Sake and hope a brainstorm may occur? Although I've been hoping for that one for awhile. Besides, he's always try- ing to wow me with his knowledge of the punk scenes abroad but he has the same nasty habit as myself—notably, that he returns phone calls about as fast as my Income Tax return, which I still have not received.
Maybe I just have an aversion to theme issues in general. A Hey kids, let's string all the songs with the word "doorknobs" together today!! Anyway, you get the picture. It just goes to show that themes have a way of taking off on their own into something totally unrelated—such as this babbling that I'm doing in the guise of a column. This I can relate to!
One thing I've noticed about the Japanese bands I have seen is their ener- f y that's akin to what was happening ere in the early 60's. Call it escapecall it delusion, but it sure makes me feel good. This seems to be the quality I love most about these bands from Japan We're all dead without that sense of humor and it's pretty ironic to me that it's taking another culture to show us perhaps what we've lost a lot in our own music.
Sayanora till next time! Mothman lives!!!! According to the FA A, on April 16 a hang-glider near Phoenix soared to 9, feet and almost collided with a Boeing The agency is attempting to track down the high-flyer in order to issue a fine for an air space violation. Preparing to land in Arkhangelsk, an Aeroflot jet en route from Moscow with 62 on board was unable to deploy two of its three landing gear sections because they had lost hydraulic fluid.
Thinking fast the crew proceeded to pour "all the reserves of lemonade" on board into the hydraulic system. It was enough to low er one of the failed sections and allowed them to touch down.
I got the message. Passengers will fly on a Piper Cherokee that nas been specially renovated with a bed, curtains and a stereo. According to a Dutch researcher who spent five years studying the problem, he most successful way to attempt to swat a fly is to wear red, use a red fly swatter and attack in the late afternoon. Flies have trouble seeing red and they are tired late in the afternoon and thus easier targets because they ordinarily use 75 percent of their brain to see.
The bottle resembles a hand grenade with a female body shape embracing it. The perfume's designers, inspired by the war in Bosnia, said that the female figure is holding on to the grenade, preventing it from exploding. Apparently overcome with religous zeal, a Seventh Day Adventist priest and nine Tanzanian pupils died while trying to walk on the water of Lake Victoria in October last year in an attempt to imitate Jesus Christ. The victims were traveling by canoe to a religious festival near Dar Es Salaam when it was proposed that they test their faith.
Police in China have arrested 56 people for impersonating police offiers. Seized in the raids were weapons, uniforms, police i. A former Nazi prison camp located in southern Denmark has been turned into a bed-and-breakfast place. Jack Kevorkian. A Fort Worth jury was deadlocked over a murder case in which the defendant claimed "urban survival syndrome" as ais defense. According to his defense attorney, the syndrome is "the fear that black people have of other black people.
A village doctor in Pakistan was stoned oy a mob and then burned to death for 1 the crime of setting fire to the Koran. According to the local newspaper, the doctor accidentally knocked a copy of the holy book out of his wife's hands during an argument, sending it flying onto a stove where it burned.
Urges A New Jersey judge sentenced Federico Fernandez, 47, to ten years in prison for a series of incidents in which he first squirted soap onto women shoppers and then offered to wipe it off with napkins pulled from his pockets. He conducted these fondling assualts while on parole from a prior year sentence.
When does the Sun start spinning? A village in northwest Nepal has been experiencing a series of unexplained fires that have claimed ten homes. Squeegees Rule! Police arrestee him inside a cemetery carrying a flash light and a crowbar. According to the prosecutor, Watkins told police that he was visiting a relative's grave and asked, "Well, what do you think I was out there doing? Breaking into mausoleums?
What I mean is good and evil," he said in his statement. I need their company to make me peaceful inside. Art vandals in London dumped black paint over artist Damien Hirst's latest work - a dead lamb floating in a tank filled with formaldehyde.
A two-hour power blackout near Twen- tynine Palms, California, was attributed to a bird dropping a "rosy boa" snake over a power station. The snake's impact caused a short circuit. BoxWashington, DC I made a Japanese monster band, yup. I bet you're wondering what this dumb big nosed guy from San Francisco might know about making a Japanese monster band. Well lemme' tell ya'. I fell in love with Japan but we played a lot of shows in a short time, making it a bit hard to really look around.
I decided I wanted to return in September. One of the fine people I met was Nissie of R. He visited me a couple months after my return from Japan, while on business for his label. He seemed to like it, then the beer kicked in and I jokingly said I would be interested in playing a couple shows during my vacation in Tokyo.
I really meant it as a joke. He returned home and booked me. I could've bailed but I decided it would be a fun challenge. So I called another nice fellow I met in Tokyo, Kiu- chi. He was in a great band called A1. He also dabbles in the 4-track fun sol thought he would be interested in doing the shows with me. I told Nissie to just book us with some mellow low key shows and we'd all have some international music jam fun.
I freaked. I knew that we'de only have enough time to practice two or three times. I also knew that we had to put together a full band instead of just two dorks on stage with guitars. So September came, I flapped my arms good and hard and flew to Japan. The stewardesses kept begging me to stop but I paid them no mind. Kiuchi and I met and started the recruitment for the band. And what a great line-up we got. It went a bit like this. Daichi Ex guitarist from Beyonds on guitar.
Then came time to rehearse. So we all climbed into the rehearsal studio at midnight, the night before our first show. We weren't nervous. We rehearsed, everybody had listened to the tape and we sounded surprisingly okay. It also helped that everyone was damn good at the instrument they played. So the next night we played our show. And with one practice behind us we sounded great and actually pulled applause and nobody threw bottles at us.
I was very happy, to me it showed that a bunch of people who really didn't know each other and couldn't even speak the same language could get together and make a sound as a unit. We all had a lot of fun that night. We only had one more show to go.
So he and I rehearsed in a city park a couple times late at night and came up with four songs. While he played guitar I banged on a metal Snoopy trash can and it was mighty groovy. The Kamen riders and I practiced one more time before the last show and added a song or two.
Damn these guys learned fast! Well, we all played the last show and we had even more fun than the first time. We laughed, the people laughed and after we all had snacks. Makine the band was just a part of the fun I had in Japan. I saw many great bands and met many genuinely great people. I highly suggest going to Japan to check out the scene, it's not as expensive as some say. Thank you all, indeed.
So I'm talking with this colored guy at a homo bar. White shirt, neat little mustache, he's got the slightest hint of a Southern accent. He drinks something clear, in a short glass with ice and a red straw in it. He says he's moving from the Upper East Side back into a "darker neighborhood.
There's a black girl, but she's just as scared of me as the rest of 'em. Some people were afraid of me. He takes a sip of nis drink. Ahead of me in his drinking, his pondering causes a bit of unsteadiness on his bar stool. I loved it. I was a king. Of course, our situations were not exactly analogous. The white minority in Japan does not fill the jails there.
People's contact with them is usually not in a situation of fear. Still it does happen and there is racism. I could not belong to a Japanese video rental shop because I was a foreigner. Most foreigners in Japan treat their experience there like drivers treat their time as pedestrians. When walking, these drivers shout at cars who cut them off and treat them poorly.
Then, when they're behind the wheel, they forget the experience and treat other pedestrians just as poorly. The Negro tells me how he scared this white lady after he moved in.
He entered the building at the same time she did. She looked at him, terrified. He was angry that his just being black was enough to scare her. The locals often come into town and start fights, or harass women. They were big and difficult to get to leave.
So the signs went up. But, I could understand their point. After all how did they know? But from experience and watching the news on TV, I could understand why white folks might not want to deal with them.
But it's not so easy to learn from that experience. It wasn't only about racism, that I learned. I also learned about work. The Japanese work from sun up to sun down. Full time workers there spend more human hours per year than any other country in the world. Actually, the Japanese have the logical alternative to our system. If you respect work, and think it's a good, then it snouldn't be separate from your life. The company, in Japan, usually takes care of the workers. It provides cheap housing, recreation, lifetime employment.
In exchange, people who work in those companies dedicate their lives to them. They both work for the benefit of the company so both sides can prosper. It's corporate communism: the perfect picture of a society where people really value work. I could never permanently live there. But their work attitude sure is better than the Western one where folks work slightly less and hate their jobs— and their employers— a whole lot more.
I wrote a lot about Japan while I was there. Much of it was negative. I don't feel that way anymore. I have Japanese friends and I love the country and much of the culture. As soon as I see her, I know she's too good looking to be hetero.
We're upstairs in some bar. Bad music plays too loudly on the stereo. This girl sits at a table by herself. She's got short blond hair, a leather jacket. Docs, and a body pretty as a little boy's. At first, she's not all that friendly. Then things take a nicer turn.
The girl stands nearby, listening. I tense, holding my breath, ready to run for cover. Uh oh! I hate those feminists. And then she goes on. I don't hear everything that she says. I'm too busy watching her lips move and the way she shrugs her leatn- er-jacketed shoulders with her thumbs tucked over her belt. She's a goddess! I catch enough of the story to know that it's a good one, though. I need a chance to talk when my head is clearer. I ask for her phone number. She gives it to me. I wait until ten o'clock the next day to call.
I don't want to seem over-anxious. We've got a date to meet at a local bar. I'll get the whole story— and I'll get to see her lovely lesbitude again. So we sit in this yuppie bar with a hockey game blasting yelling at each other over our Guinness. I'm annoyed at the noise, but this is the closest bar. I'm not a very good interviewer, but I want the dirt on the Grrrls. I have other incentives to stay: First, the girl I'm talking to is sexier than a cheex mole.
Second, I already bought the first round of beer. If it was just them. I'd shout my name from the rooftops. It's just that I've got these new customers and well, MRR gets around. The guys wouldn't be too happy if they knew I was doing it with girls. And the girls would get pissed if they knew I was doing it with guys I mean have girl prostitutes. But it seems like it's gonna be quite lucrative. I'm happy to hear it. I'm sick of hearing how sex work is men using women.
She's the first to confirm that the pay-by-the-hour girls are involved in the lesboworld as well as hetland. Then she says she'll call me later in the week to tell me what name I should use. Events falling as they do, she decided to use Jackie O as her name here. Not only is she a goddess, she's a goddess with a sense of humor! Back in the bar, we still shout at each other over the Ranger's game on TV.
She flipped out. This older girl was friends with my roommate. There were some other notes and some black magic witch stuff.
A ot of Riot Grrrls are into witch stuff. One of the girls had a voodoo doll— and she used it! They poisoned her.
Jackie shakes her head "Not just revealing it, but by being so anti-sex work in general. At that time, I wasn't even earning my Michel BDW (Vinyl) through sex. But they thought I was, and that was enough to condemn me. Riot Grrrls anti sex?
But they just close their eyes to that. I ask. The young naive ones, who really didn't know very much except that they wanted to be involved. Then, there were the older ones. Many of them were paedophiles. She looks at me strangely, as if just remembering something. Then she adds, "Not that I have anything against paedophiles. It's just that it was hypo critical of them.
Here they are con demning these girl's hetero relation ships, then trying to seduce them. The whole Riot Grrrl thing is dressing up in these chaste clothes of the 50's.
The last thing these older girls want is to be chaste. They're preaching this 70s-style women-are-vic- tims feminist agenda: anti-porn, anti- hetsex, supposedly pro-equality. But there was no equality between the younger women and the older one who were running things. I guess The Rangers just scored or something. At first it was nice. I wrote for their magazines. I slept with a couple of the girls in the group. But then tne tension started. The older girls got mad at me for sleeping with the ones they wanted.
I mean if I want to fuck Her words pierce through the air in the bar. All heads turn toward us. I look around and see folks watching us with toothful Yuppie smiles. Jackie tells me about how even the music got bad after awhile. I thought I was gonna be next. In a way, I was. It's your turn to pay. Their rich parents paid for them. They had nothing to do but be students and Riot Grrrls. I put myself through school being a whore. It's letting me make movies.
But they condemn it. We talked a lot more. Jackie O is still whoring, still pansexu- al and still a goddess. She maintains a long distance phone sex relationship with a girl somewhere in the Midwest.
ميادة الحناوي = Mayada El Henawy* - حبت قلب منين / زي الربيع (CD, Album), Leo Gandelman - Western World (Vinyl, LP), Slam Dunk (6) - Point-Blank (CD, Album), Antti Pääkkönen (2) - Auringonlaskun Katu (CD, Album), Zaklęty Sługa - Stregesti - Stregesti (Vinyl, LP, Album), Debbie - Provisional Riviera* - Autumn Leaves (CD, Album), Steve Winwood - The Finer Things (Vinyl), Напиши Мне, Мама, В Египет - Марк Бернес - Я Работаю Волшебником (CD), Angel By Day, Devil By Night - L.A.* - Doyawanna (Vinyl, LP, Album)