The Miscreant - Issue 58 by The Miscreant

in this issue page 4

a chat with mal devisa laetitia tamko talks to artist mal devisa about representation

page 9

a playlist for dancing and crying ben hopkins gives you the right grooves for a good cry

page 10

an interview with aye nako the miscreant asks mars, jade, and joe about about the latest from aye nako

page 18

brunch at baby’s all right jamie langley’s photos from an afternoon of rock n’ roll

page 20

bands, buddies, bars and basements: MACRoCK XVIII rachel corson lists the highlights of the festival

page 22

let’s get out of this country drew kimmis grows up with camera obscura

page 24

the perks of (f)unemployment cassandra baim finds inspiration in elliott smith covers

page 26

musings on performance with becca kauffman vanessa castro interviews musician, video and performance artist becca kauffman

page 30

you don’t know me but i’m famous mary ellis reminisces about a lifetime of loving jump little children

page 31

damaged romanticism & spring cleaning steven spoerl curates a playlist for the changing seasons

page 32

graduation in the full-force five claire dunderman says goodbye to college with her favorite songs

page 36

labor day weekend dave mallon reflects on his first tour

page 39

progress report mary luncsford fills us in on what’s keeping her going

A CHAT WITH MAL DEVISA: DIY COMMUNITIES AND REPRESENTATION FOR BLACK WOMEN IN SPACES by laetitia tamko Laetitia: How long have you been playing music as Mal Devisa? Were you in any projects before this one? Mal Devisa: I’ve been playing as Mal Devisa for about a year and a half I believe. Before Mal, I was in a band called Who’da Funk It?, which some friends and I started while at a Girls Rock Camp called IMA when I was around 12. I’m also in another project called The Radio on Mute, with a really good friend Sajo (who I also started playing music with at Girls Rock Camp). I also sing jazz whenever it’s possible, because it’s probably one of my favorite things. Laetitia: What are your connections, emotionally and physically, to the DIY community in Western Mass? Mal: The DIY community in Western Mass is pretty nice. I am connected to it in so many ways that I can’t even really explain. It’s there where I learned that it’s okay to experiment on stage and that it’s fine to be confused or to challenge what you see, or really whatever. We also have

the 5 colleges, so I’ve been incredibly privileged in being able to see some incredible acts as they pass through (FO FREEEEEE). This is my first year at Hampshire College and it serves as this sort of blank canvas that, if I can gather and seek out the resources, it’s going to be an incredible well of knowledge and experience…But if I slack on it, it’s going to be a cold white hipster hell. Laetitia: Has starting college at Hampshire informed your artistic path? Mal: I’d say that Hampshire has had somewhat of an impact on the way I go about music but I think it started way before that. I went to a high school called the Pioneer Valley Performing Arts after going to Amherst High School. That school opened me up to so much and definitely softened me. I was also homeless at the time and spent a lot of time thinking and studying and just kind of trying to stay above my own water. I was living at a shelter that was inside of a hotel in Holyoke. I had a bass and an amp in my room and that’s about it. Okay so now I’m in this place where it’s all like, “No one gets it..no one understands…they can’t possibly..” That’s where music actually came in. When I say that music kept me alive, it wasn’t like I heard some white boy strike a chord and it suddenly made me want to live..It was really that I needed community and constant show- going, and reassurance that through art, our spirits endures and just like, the feeling I got when I was lost in a crowd of people who are all sweating to the same thing. That oneness made me feel less shafted and I think I have love for Western Mass mostly because that’s where it happened. Every night, where shows brought me an extra couple of hours to figure out where I could go. When I say these streets don’t know me, it’s because they have not seen me hurting like my own have. If it weren’t for the scene, I wouldn’t have been able to go to college. I didn’t have the money at all but people who I had been connected to through Who’da [Funk It?] shows and the scene really helped me and now I am able to attend school. I really owe a lot to Western Mass to be honest. I had access to so much and though discouraged early on, being involved in that small scene kind of gave me the means and confidence to really go on…In like, a lot of ways. Laetitia: Let’s talk about the DIY community aesthetic and how it relates to you. Specifically, tell me more about shows in a college town like western mass. Do you feel represented/welcomed/respected in those spaces? Do you care to be represented? Mal: DIY is just kind of a misleading thing altogether. No one does it themselves. You have to do it together and in order to do “DIY” successfully, you have small communities (mostly white, mostly male, mostly middle class even-though-they-shoes-got-holes) deciding explicitly and implicitly, what they want their communities to look like. Yes DIY is kind of white-centric but to be honest, People of Color or People of the Global Majority hold it down a lot of the time. DIY flourishes in middle-class neighborhoods which, most of the time, are predominantly white. I mean, really think about it..Where do the buses run? Who’s got big basements? If you’re in a college town- what does the majority of your college look like? Who’s gonna let a bunch of sweaty kids into your garage? Not my momma… There are definitely times when I feel unwelcome. I have a lot of social anxiety and it’s hard to flex a smile when you’re in the middle of a city, in some kid-you-don’t-know’s kitchen

and everyone is talking about things you just can’t relate to. Believe me, I have felt just as unwelcome in spaces that were predominantly P.O.Cs, there is a difference between being tokenized and accepted. I haven’t gotten to the point where I can even tell between the two. DIY is sort of a vessel of privatized music spaces and I can’t always support it. When you’re dealing with needing to be secretive because of police but that leads to the same bodies being present every time, you start to develop “a crowd.” That crowd isn’t always receptive to new stuff or new people. But then you have venues which aren’t any better. Sound guys have laughed when I told them I was playing and then bought all my merch afterwards. You deal with people who are being paid to make your music come out of speakers, in DIY, you’re dealing with people who love music (most of the time). I love traveling because I get to see things and bring ideas back home. I get to see what people are going through, I make it a point to ask other women and other POC’s what it’s like where they live, and see how gentrification is “affecting” the music- It’s all so connected and we don’t really acknowledge that all the time. I wish there were more people of the Global Majority in the “scene” but just because you don’t see POCs in basement mosh pits, doesn’t mean we’re not doing it ourselves or for that matter, ever stopped doing it “ourselves.” We are and have always been innovators and creators of incredible things. Laetitia: How important is it for you to see black women represented in punk and various forms of artistic expressions? Do you think there is a formula to encourage other black women and make them feel safe in spaces that lack representation for us? Mal: It’s important for me that black women do whatever they want to do, really- whether that be doing ballet, construction, writing plays, being professional swimmers, writers, strippers, activists, whatever. Black women have always been punks. Don’t tell me Big Mama Thorton or Nina Simone weren’t the true riotgrrls because where in riotgrrrl, they called (white) girls to the front, black women were already so used to being on the front lines of their own lives. It’s tough because I don’t think black women need to put on ripped jeans and scream into microphones. I truly believe we have always been the riotgrrrls. When I think of true radical women I think of my mother, my grandmother and the divine Nina Simone. What I think we need to do is create spaces, tear down lines, quit the bullshit politics of respectability, embrace our differences and how beautiful and strong we are. In a lot of ways punk music emulates something that is black. Have you ever looked at people slam dancing and realized how much it looks like African dance? We’ve always gathered and been vocal and been animated and eccentric. Don’t let that become something white. It’s really hard to let black women know that spaces are safe because to be honest, a lot of times they aren’t, (and we as people inside of the box know that). It becomes a process of advocating for each other when we know something is happening that shouldn’t. Learning what each other needs so that we can walk through these spaces with back up. Don’t curse her because she deals with mental illness. Don’t think she’s not down with the “cause” because she’s wearing Nike’s. Don’t hate her because she isn’t rocking a fro, maybe she loves her weave- That’s okay.

We also need to complicate all these narratives. How do you feel when you see a black woman shredding a bass? How about when you see one dancing ballet? Probably way different but we need to understand that they probably share a lot of the same discrimination. Lift each other up. Put each other first. Laetitia: Growing up and having music save your life, who were the powerhouse artists you looked to for representation and relativity? Mal: When I was younger, I looked up to so many different people and things. I was a Cheetah Girl for sure (that was my first live performance) but I also read Emily Dickinson and was into tons of different stuff. My life was also drowned in music. I loved Missy Elliot and TLC and all those people because that’s who my mom was listening to. My mother, Nikki Carr, was probably my number one inspiration because she is also a creative person. She would take to trains and a bus to get to her shows because it’s what fed her. I’ve always been aware that black women were the gears that kept this world turning. At the same time, a lot of the people I looked up to didn’t always look like me. Also, the people in my scene have always been the ones I really look up to because they were the realest to me. I could reach out and touch them, ask them how, hug them, be engaged with the same music I listened to at home. As much as I want to encourage more black women to come out to shows, I don’t think that’s really it. We need to encourage our friends to be on stage and then we need to support them and lift them up. We need to encourage our people to read aloud and be loud, and do whatever they want because I know we need to hear what it is each other is saying. We need to mix bills, mix up genres, claim space- Like I really had to learn how to take up space, it’s hard..We just need to be open and support with one-another. Like whatever you can do…Carpool, share each other’s statuses, put each other first..lift each other up. Laetitia: In a space where there is such an oversaturation of music, I think exclusivity becomes prominent very early on. Have you experienced any of that? Mal: Exclusivity exists. Yes I feel that. It sort of propels me to be independent and grounded. I try and feel like I can give pieces of myself away, but at the end of the night, I need to know how to be unified again. I just don’t even know how to talk about exclusivity because it’s just everywhere. I’m also not that great at opening up spaces to others yet. I struggle with that a lot so I can’t even bomb on someone else about doing that. It’s important to think about how to be inclusive when you’re setting up a show, or even just there. I’m not talking about inclusive in the way that everyone is using inclusive language (which is also important if you can) but I mean really caring about how people feel when they leave your show? Do you care? I always feel like people think I’m exclusive. I’m just shy as fuck.

This issue is brought to you by idgaf.

Single of the

Week

This issue’s single of the week is a throw back to our cover band’s first record. Aye Nako’s Unleash Yourself was a shining star in the midst of 2013. In the wake of new music from this band, The Miscreant is revisiting this record in anticipation of the leaps and bounds to come. Hear “Molasses” at ayenako.org.

A PLAYLIST FOR DANCING AND CRYING by ben hopkins For those days where you never know exactly how you’re feeling, here are 9 songs that you can simultaneously dance and cry to. ARTHUR RUSSELL – “WILD COMBINATION”: I’m the kind of person who puts this song on in any possible situation: dancing, crying, bat mitzvahs, etc. Yelling, “It’s a big world with nothing in it” in public/private helps me deal most days. BELLOWS – “FOR ROCK DOVE”: If you listen to Bellows, odds are you know all the words to every song and so do all your friends. Perfect for happy and sad kinds of screaming in large groups. WAXAHATCHEE – “UNDER A ROCK”: My neighbors know I love this song because I scream it at the top of my lungs in the shower every gosh dang day regardless of how I’m feeling. AMY WINEHOUSE – “ME AND MR. JONES”: The lyric, “What kind of fuckery is this” is the looking-glass through which I view the world 24/7. It often leads to joy, sadness and snacking. DIET CIG – “HARVARD”: This song is the opposite of a torch song, and that’s a good thing. Whether I’m up or down, screaming “fuck” usually stirs my mood, and I think Alex Luciano agrees. HOP ALONG – “TIBETAN POP STARS”: Thoughts I’ve had while listening to this song: 1. “You know what girl, it’s gonna be ok.” 2. “You know what girl, it’s never gonna be ok.” 3. “You know what girl, something’s gonna happen and it’s probably out of your control so just keep it cute and we’ll fucking see!” LAND OF TALK – “SOME ARE LAKES”: I feel like everyone who was a teenager and listened to Saddle Creek bands in the late 00s will relate to that feeling of hearing a song like this for the first time in a while and being overcome with the feeling of seventeen-ness so hard you dance and cry at the same time. ROBYN – “DANCING ON MY OWN”: DUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

The Miscreant: Nothing I love more than an origin story. How did you all meet and start playing music together? Mars: Joe and I had already been playing music and living together for year and years. When we lived in the Bay Area, we played a show with Angie’s old band, Little Lungs. Shortly after that, Joe and I moved to New York and got started playing with her right away. Joe and I volunteered at Willie Mae’s Rock Camp for Girls our second week here and met Jade who had also recently moved. She was looking for an apartment and we were too. Then the three of us found a place together and got to know her better over time but it took another year or so til we ended up asking her to join Aye Nako. The Miscreant: I feel like when you start a band, you set goals early on. Even if it’s something abstract like we want to represent this in our music community or you want this band to represent this in your friendships with one another. Did you all set goals like that? What was your vision for this band when you all began? Mars: I remember just wanting to play with and for women, queers, trans people and people of color. Joe: I’m pretty sure my only goal initially was to become better friends with Mars and that’s what he wanted to do so I tried to learn. The Miscreant: Did you all play in bands before Aye Nako? Talk about some of the other projects you were a part of before this band. Do you all currently play in any other bands in addition to Aye Nako? Mars: Aye Nako is the only band I’m in at the moment. I started off doing solo acoustic stuff when I was a teenager — very embarrassing, sad bedroom pop. My first band was called Quadrillion Babes formed by chance from literally drawing names from a hat. In California, Joe and I started Fleabag (which was actually called Aye Nako first), I played bass in Dirty Marquee with people from Shotwell, Beer Garden and Neon Piss and very briefly I played drums in a band called Snag. Joe: Jade and I currently play in a band called Fleabite which came about pretty organically through friends we made touring with Aye Nako. Jade: My first band was a grunge-metal-thrash band from Nashville, where I used to live,

called Trampskirts which has now morphed into what is currently Thelma and the Sleaze. I actually just got back from a SXSW tour playing bass with them and I might be going to Joshua Tree to record on their full length in May! I’m also in an electronic-cosmic-disco band with my friend Dominika, called Holotropik (full length out now online, vinyl out this Spring). Finally, I’m super stoked to have just joined Fleabite as second guitarist. We have a bunch of exciting shows coming up, as well as a 7” coming out soon. The Miscreant: I’m interested to hear how you all see the community you all belong to here in Brooklyn. Do you all feel like you guys are a part of a particular scene here? Mars: I think we’ve found a place in this queer punk or weird rock scene or whatever that we’re in. There are times when I feel like only musically do we fit in. There’s so few bands with members who look like us and sing about the things we do, but I do try to make a point to seek out and befriend those bands. Joe: I don’t feel super connected to any particular scene like that in Brooklyn, but have certainly met tons of the best people from various music/art/activist communities all over the city and been made to feel welcome. I feel truly blessed that we can move back and forth from The Silent Barn to LaMama Theater to some gay party at 1am then to a museum or some weird shit like that. Jade: Yeah, it seems like the scene kind of ebbs and flows, with respect to how we see ourselves in it. For me, there are a lot of things that come up at shows that make me feel more distant and isolated from scenes that I originally felt close too - like if someone says something fucked up or racist, or it could even be some offensive thing they’re wearing (i.e. white punk ironically with a shirt that says “thug life”). It sucks when this kind of stuff comes from bands that I had initially really loved and respected for their music. Or when you are the only brown person at show with a band preaching about very punk things like unity and revolution. On the other hand, there are a lot of super affirming and inspiring things that come up, making me feel a sense of belonging - Downtown Boys are a perfect example of this. Also, in the last year, I’ve been really excited about how Silent Barn has been growing and staying afloat amidst all of the other venues being sucked up by NYC property moguls. Everyone at Silent Barn works really fucking hard to cultivate the DIY music scene and being intentional about booking diverse shows, so I feel connected to them, especially since I’ve been doing sound and performing there. The Miscreant: What bands to do you guys play out with a lot? Where are your favorite places to play in Brooklyn?

Mars: We don’t play all that often but we’ve played with Potty Mouth, Speedy Ortiz, Screaming Females, Swearin’, Waxahatchee, Downtown Boys multiple times. I like Silent Barn a lot. Used to like Death By Audio when it was still a place :( Joe: We’ve probably only played about 5 places in Brooklyn in the last year and half of them are gone now. The Silent Barn is probably a place that feels most like home. Though we don’t play out a lot, Alice, Vagabon, and Turnip King are some of my favorite local bands we have played with recently. Those bands always feel pretty special to me, like you’re not just seeing a band but you’re kinda watching people friendships, trauma, emotions etc…all come together in this super intimate way in front of people where you get to become part of their world for a minute. Might just be projecting though. Jade: Yeah, in addition to the bands Mars has mentioned, we’ve played with and might have future shows with bands like Pale Hound, The Homewreckers, and Vagabon. I love playing at Silent Barn and it was always fun to play the great, late DBA and Lulu’s. We’ve done St. Vitus a couple of times, and they have an awesome sound system plus pickle-backs. Actually any venue with pickle-backs is my favorite place to play. The Miscreant: You all have been a really strong in representing a queer voice in pop punk, a genre that has been generally associated with a non-queer identity. Have you all see any changes in the genre over the past couple of years? Mars: I haven’t noticed any. Joe: I don’t feel super connected to pop punk as a genre or specific community, but as time goes on you definitely see lots of music that starts off in that area and expands into it’s own thing as people learn and grow into themselves. I like to think that is what we’ve always been in the process of doing as well. It’s pretty cool to get a bit older and start to see a new social generation come up and watch how different aspects of music and communities are affected by new technologies and overwhelming access to music and art from all over. Jade: I’ve noticed there are a lot more women being represented in pop punk these days, which is pretty cool. She Shreds Magazine has been giving a lot of props to queer women in pop punk. There are more festivals being organized that showcase pop punk and hardcore bands centering queers and people of color, such as Fed Up Fest in Chicago, Think and Die Thinking Fest in San Jose, and the Black and Brown Punk Show in Chicago. I’m grateful that people are mobilizing and putting these things together, because its important for us to all be represented and cultivate solidarity.

The Miscreant: What themes are you focusing on for this record? Do you think this record will be perceived as dark as Unleash Yourself? Jade: All of the songs were written by Mars, and I added some lyrics when I sing back-up. My lyrics include things directly related Blackness and trauma, like cultural erasure, anger, and mental health. Mars: Yes, blackness and trauma. A good chunk of last year was hard for me as a black person. I broke down many times as I learned the growing list of names of black people beaten, mistreated and murdered by police and vigilantes across the country. People who are close to me know that I often have nightmares about being tortured by the Devil, chased by zombies, the apocalypse, abducted by aliens or feeling a malicious presence watch over me. None of this comes close to being even half as scary as my nightmares about being targeted by police or getting trapped in a room full of only white people discussing racism. I wrote a song called “White Noise” about how whiteness is centered in everything, how it taught me to hate myself for being black, how when I was a kid I used to pray to God that I could be white, how my Filipino mother didn’t think it was necessary or important to teach me to speak Tagalog that way we can come off as American aka white as possible, how it scares me that white supremacy doesn’t even need white people to perpetuate it and how white people are going to demonize me for saying any of this out loud because how dare I ask for respect, for more than the bare minimum. I wrote a song is about my experience with being a victim of child sexual abuse. For the first several months, it sucked to sing this one because I was thinking about my trauma every time I sang it. Every single time we ran through it, I thought about how fucking alone I was as a kid and not a single adult came to my rescue. There’s another song about the physical and emotional abuse I endured while growing up and my conflicting feelings about my family. I have flashbacks of these violent events when I sing this song too. The Miscreant: Do you think singing that song will ever feel therapeutic? Mars: In some ways it does feel therapeutic. It’s helped me take action. I’m finally being open about it and being out as survivor of sexual child abuse, hunting for more books on my PTSD and I’m working on finding a support group. But really, I think I need to add some more screaming to it!

The Miscreant: How do you approach turning your experiences into music? Mars: Whatever I’m thinking about, whatever’s bothering me the most when I’m strumming a new riff just kinda comes out, usually in an abstract way and I go from there. No one can tell my story but me. There’s a small “fuck everyone” part of me that knows what I have to say is important regardless of the critical bullshit ass haters and no one will ever know I existed if I don’t document it, if there’s no proof. The Miscreant: It’s been two years since your last record came out, and you all are cooking up something new now. How do you feel like the last two years has shaped your music? Jade: I joined the band after Unleash Yourself had been recorded, so my second guitar parts have definitely shaped the music into what it is today. The songs are richer, darker, and generally more complex. We spend a whole lot of time working on individual elements in each song which at times can make the writing process painstaking, but definitely gratifying in the end. Mars: Not that it’s all that much, but as a person who tends to be pretty quiet and reserved, I struggle a lot with the attention we’ve been getting over the years. I’ve gotten so self-conscious and anxious about sharing my art to a point where things are too often like a stagnant cesspool of negative thinking and hovering above that is the mist of critics’ voices except some aren’t actually criticizing, they’re just saying fucked up things about our physical appearance. I’m only now able to translate all these pent up feelings into words. Clearly, I have some recalibration to do. I started taking testosterone and that threw a wrench in the already slow process of songwriting for me. My voice dropped and I had to relearn how to sing, how to use my new voice. It was quite a hurdle for a few months of a squeaky, cracking voice and I should have taken singing lessons, but I was too stubborn. I just started taking them though! With this deepening voice also came a sort of transition in my guitar playing. The Miscreant: Can you talk a bit more about the transition in guitar playing? Mars: I wasn’t that interested in writing more pop punk songs. I started playing guitar in a way that I felt went more with how my new singing voice was sounding.

The Miscreant: What advice would you give to other artists with the same anxieties about sharing personal experiences in their music? Mars: I think I need someone to give me advice! Haha! I just try to keep in mind that when I first started writing songs, it was only ever for myself. The Miscreant: Did you decide to go into a studio for this record? What was the recording process like? Mars: Nope, Jade owns all the equipment for recording a band. She recorded us mostly in our rehearsal space — some parts done at an elementary school nearby, others done at our house. She set up a little station for her computer, the monitors and audio interfaces. We started off the 1st recording day with breakfast sandwiches. We did scratch tracks and recorded the instruments separately since we were all in the same room. Jade: We decided we wanted to record ourselves because it would be more affordable and more conducive to everyone’s schedules. The downside of this is that we had a loose deadline, so we ended up spending months recording and mixing. The upside was that we had full creative control and got to experiment with different approaches - it feels good to be able to 100% say that we’re all happy with it, and not just walk out of a studio dissatisfied because we ran out of time. I do remote recording and mixing in my bedroom, so we had a lot of flexibility there. The Miscreant: You guys are true blue pop punkers. Who were some of your pop punk heroes growing up? Who did you listen to? Mars: Heh, our newer songs aren’t so much in the pop punk realm, but that definitely was more our sound in the beginning. I didn’t really have pop punk heroes, but I was very much into Blink 182. I’ve always just enjoyed catchy pop music as a kid — Mariah Carey, Hanson, Spice Girls etc. In my late teenage years, I found out about Superchunk and that’s who I became the most obsessed with if we’re talking pop punk. Joe: I’m probably not a true blue pop punker now because reading that made me cringe a little. I did listen to a lot of pop punk growing up and was into pretty much any dumb thing that sounded like Green Day/Lookout Records stuff. I also still really love The Bananas and Superchunk and would consider those bands to be pretty formative.

Jade: As a teenager when I was learning guitar, I listened to The Cranberries, Smashing Pumpkins, and No Doubt endlessly. I definitely got into some Drive-Thru Records pop punk bands, and was obsessed with Anti-Flag - before they got super famous - yep I said it! Also, I was simultaneously into all of the riot grrrl bands, which had a lot to do with politicizing music for me. The Miscreant: What shows do you all have coming up? Do you have plans to tour with the new record this summer? Mars: We’re playing Think and Die Thinking fest in San Jose, CA so at the moment have vague plans to do a West Coast tour around that. The Miscreant: What else can we look forward to from you guys this year? It feels like 2015 is going to be a big one! Mars: I’m hoping for a better attitude and fuckload of new songs this year! Joe: I’m getting my hair colored next weekend :) We’re playing at the Brooklyn Museum first Saturday in June which is something I’m super excited about and have always really wanted to do. It’s part of the opening for Zanele Muholi who is a queer photographer and visual artist from South Africa. They’re coordinating the show to happen during pride with a focus on the international perspective of pride and voices that are often left out of that weekend. The Miscreant: This is one of my favorite questions to ask, but it’s been awhile since I’ve asked it. What does being a miscreant mean to you? Mars: I’ve never described myself as such, but I can see how that word applied to me more as a kid. Especially, when I was skating around with my little brother, my nephew and best friend, smashing bottles and pushing each other in shopping carts down hills and stairs while dressed like aliens, babies or Ghostface from Scream. Total heathens. Jade: I felt like a total miscreant when I got back from tour and found out that I had unknowingly carried an eighth of weed through two airports. Getting drunk and deciding to climb fences into places i’m not supposed to, then waking up with mysterious bruises. Being a freaky queer hellion.

BRUNCH AT BA SATURDAY

FEATURING THE PWR BTTM, BE PLEI

photos b

ABY’S ALL RIGHT Y, MARCH 28

TALENTS OF O-FACE, ETHLEHEM STEEL & ISTOCENE

by jamie langley

BANDS, BUDDIES, BARS AND BASEMENTS: MACROCK XVIII by rachel corson I’m writing this on a bus from Virginia on my way back to Brooklyn, my elbows are stuck at my side and my computer is wedged awkwardly between myself and the seat in front of me. Needless to say, it’s a bit uncomfortable, but after this past weekend, I’m really just content to be sitting down. In the last three days, I gave a lot of hugs, saw a ton of bands and managed to only eat one waffle. This was the 18th year for MACRoCK, what started as a college radio music conference in Harrisonburg, VA, has become a homecoming for my little college town and WXJM alum like myself. Over the years, MACRoCK has quite the name for itself as a diy festival, booking the likes of Animal Collective, Elliott Smith, Dashboard Confessional, Fugazi, and continuing to showcase up and coming bands. While I could write about the time that Animal Collective was kicked off stage or the time Diarrhea Planet played Born to Run in a basement to a room packed like sardines. Instead, I’m going to try and get my tired brain to write about some of the bands I got to see this weekend that you should probably know about. So in no particular order: Malatese – “Ostrich” I can’t count how many times I’ve seen these Harrisonburg buddies of mine. With offbeat postpunk melodies these guys are cemented into the local scene. I’m always slightly worried lead singer Travis Legg might pop that vein on his forehead from singing with such raw emotion. eskimeaux – “I Admit I’m Scared” One of my favorites of MACRoCK this year, eskimeaux is a member of Brooklyn art collective, The Epoch. I had white knuckles from grasping my friends hand tight even as she sang “open up your hands and accept that this has ended/nothing in this world is holier than friendship” Trophy Wives – “Skort” For the love of punk, if you ever have a chance to see these ladies, do yourself a favor and prepare to mosh. While they may be from Savannah, these ladies are anything but the typical southern belle as they scream and shout and bang their drums. Quilt – “Arctic Shark” Threatening to disrobe on stage if they were given drinks, the Boston alt-folk band made me wish I had a real quilt as they played their shivering sweet tunes. Friend Roulette – “Golden” This Brooklyn ensemble played one of the first house shows I ever went to and it was then I realized, I belong in these musty basements with ceilings a bit too low and wires dangling from above. They will always hold a special place in my chamber folk loving heart. Daddy Issues – “Sex On the Beach” These North Carolina ladies got my head boppin’ and toes tappin the whole time as I sat and ate tater tots. With surf punk hooks, they had me forgetting I was in the middle of Virginia and

thinking about exposing my alabaster completion to the impending warm weather. The Spirit of the Beehive – “Tulsa, OK” As a Philadelphian, I’m probably slightly biased when it comes to anything from the city, but, The Spirit of the Beehive are slightly different because I liked them before I knew we shared an area code. These guys will sucks you into a murky land with a sticky batch of super shoegaze tunes. The Sea Life –“Prozac & Merlot” Self-proclaimed “oceanic themed” band from DC, these guys swam right into my ears. They have a wave of slacker psych sound along with lo-fi vocals I could see all the fishies in the sea groove together. Told Slant – “Heart Sinks” Another member of The Epoch, it was just a quick shift in instruments as Told Slant played right after eskimeaux. Keeping with the theme of having me feel all the feels, it was during their set I realized, I was surrounded by all my friends, all the while listening to a really rad band which more or less defines MACRoCK. While I lose my voice once again, MACRoCK is without a doubt my favorite weekend of the year. My heart is so swollen right now that as the lack of sleep settles in, these words get even more blurry and the words are beginning to escape me, I know that the last seventy-two hours were so full of friends, music and good times, it should be enough to hold me over till 2016. See you then MACRoCK!

LET’S GET OUT OF THIS COUNTRY by drew kimmis The first time I heard Camera Obscura’s Let’s Get Out Of This Country I was three hours into a six hour Amtrak ride from St. Louis to Chicago, resting my head against the train car window and attempting to recoup a few minutes sleep before disembarking anew at Union Station a confused and delirious mess. This album I’d intended to help me find a bit of rest instead grabbed my attention. Tracyanne Campbell’s reserved yet impactful vocals played perfectly against a brand of lush, romantic indie pop that occasionally gave way to orchestral flourishes but always remained vocal-centric. These were the sort of delicate melodies that surpassed their most obvious characteristics and became something altogether more substantial, much in the same manner as the work of another Scottish outfit that led me to discover them—Belle & Sebastian. I was more than a decade late to their discovery. On my train that day in December of 2008 I was, in fact, more than two years removed from the commercial release of the album. But it could not have found its way to my ear buds at a more perfect moment. There I was en route to the office of the French Consulate in Chicago to finalize my student visa and clear the final bureaucratic hurdle to my leaving the country for the first time. In two months I would be studying in Paris, France, three thousand miles from the claustrophobic Midwestern bubble of farmland, strip malls, and willful close-mindedness that had defined far too many of my first twenty years. I was finally turning my b ack on a place that had gone out of its way to inform me how little I belonged. I was taking a shot on the hope that I was not quite so strange as every kid who doesn’t fit in fears they are, but that what I needed was simply a dramatic change of scenery. Then along came a record saying Let’s Get Out Of This Country and I thought to myself “Yes,” turning the volume dial up to max, “let’s.” What I failed to realize in that moment was exactly how the subject matter of the album would come to open up to me. When and where a great album finds you can be just as important to the impact that music has on your life as the actual music itself—and concordantly—a great album can grow with you, shaped by the narrative of your own life into something richer and more complex. My initial reading of the album was built around one simple lyric, “Let’s get out of this country/ I have been so unhappy,” because it was something I’d been singing to myself for years. Yet Let’s Get Out of This Country is much more than that. It’s an album about being young and naïve in love, an album about struggling to make sense of the way people act around you, an album about trying to grow up wiser, braver, and happier. Yes, I went to Paris that spring for all of the aforementioned reasons—for the experience of a radically different environment, to improve my command of the language, to get away from what I saw as a stifling situation at home—but really I went to follow a girl. Thinking back on the short-sighted nature of the decision I can’t help but think that the refrain from the album’s opening track is a much more fitting summary of what’s really at stake here, “Hey Lloyd, I’m ready to be heartbroken/ Because I can’t see further than my own nose at this moment.” The song itself is a reply to a 1986 Lloyd Cole song entitled “Are You Ready To Be Heartbroken” which tells of a fictional figure so aloof to his surroundings that the song’s chorus repeatedly begs of him exactly that question. Here Campbell responds in the affirmative to reassert the claim of the original song, that those who lack the foresight to see what is plainly in front of their face are bound to end up shaken by the eventual revelation to the contrary. The naïve are

destined to be heartbroken. So there I was stepping off the plane to meet a girl I’d spent three years with back home who had now convinced me to travel across the Atlantic to be with her in this new country. It was something she wanted more than me. I knew that. Now I needed to answer the same question the rest of this fantastic new album I’d found wanted to answer. Are all lovers naïve? Many of the earlier tracks on Let’s Get Out Of This Country would certainly seem to suggest that’s the point Campbell is getting at. “Shedding tears for affairs,” she sings on the song of the same name, “I’m a stupid little thing.” “I can tell you this/ You won’t win.” As the relationship I’d come to Paris to attempt to rejuvenate began to disintegrate, these earlier portions of the album—lingering on lost loves and disappointments—spoke to me most clearly. Particularly “Country Mile” with its sparse arrangement and preoccupations with the pains of leaving something beloved, even when its flaws are clear to see. The song plays out as an internal argument, “We’re all inside our own heads now,” she sings. Her “stomach burns,” again she feels “foolish,” she reminds the listener she “doesn’t believe in true love anyway,” yet she ends the song lamenting her separation from this conflicting figure. “I hope it’s not as long as a country mile/ I feel lost.” Which was precisely where I found myself two months into my time in France. Lost. Stripped of the structure my relationship had provided through the preceding years of my life and stranded in a country where I neither spoke the language nor assimilated briskly into the culture. I was bereft of direction and motivation. Music became more important to me than ever before. It was my connection to home. Perhaps it was ironic then that the song most instrumental to that connection on such a lyrically driven album has only six unique lines. Closing track “Razzle Dazzle Rose” begins with the simple refrain “Rose, I’m feeling older.” At no point in my life had I felt I’d aged more drastically in such a short period of time. I’d not only spent three months in a wildly fresh and unique urban environment, in a new country on a new continent, but everything I’d known to be true about my early adult life had been turned on its head. I was single and alone in one of the biggest cities in the world. “I tried to be happy, but it wasn’t easy,” she sang, and it certainly felt like a day to day struggle during those latter spring months. But it’s the second verse which amounts to as much of a conclusion as can be garnered. “Courage my love/ will make me bolder. Expecting softness/ can lead to foolishness.” These were the sentiments my friends had so much trouble putting to words when they consoled me about what had happened. Feeling sorry for yourself is never the correct tact over an extended period of time, but what then in its stead? Resiliency and the courage to pick up the pieces. Wisdom to learn from your experience, and even in time, the ability to acknowledge that your own desire to see the best in the people you care about can lead to foolish decisions which leave you vulnerable. Not everyone in love is ready to be heartbroken. But it’s certainly a good start. Years later when I’d had time to process everything that did or did not or may have happened in my time in Paris, I returned to the album and found myself embracing it with a much more reflective pace. I felt foolish to be reminded of some of the emotions the music evoked. Then pleased to find I still genuinely enjoyed the album in a manner free from nostalgia. Mostly I was impressed to find that nearly seven years later it still found a way to feel immediately personal, as if Campbell were sitting in my room asking me what I would say if I were given the final word on all of this. “I’ve got my life of complication here to sort out,” she sings in the final verse of “Lloyd, I’m Ready To Be Heartbroken,” “I’ll take myself to an east coast city and walk about.”

I am currently in my sixth week of being unemployed, and I can no longer call it “funemployment.” At the end of January, when I found out my company would close in a week and a half, I felt a lot of things. First, betrayal. I had just gotten there! How could I prove to I was the World’s Greatest Assistant with only seven months of experience under my belt? We were the Little Publisher That Could whose European owners didn’t believe that we could continue to publish great content for young readers, and that really stung. When I handed over my keys, I tried to be optimistic—I could sleep in every morning, I could read more books, I could teach my cat how to pull a sled so I would no longer have to rely on the MTA to get anywhere, I could do whatever I wanted. I write in my journal every day. In slanted, hurried script I have a bunch of half-finished story ideas, lists of reasons I can’t sleep, and a few poems that don’t rhyme. I’m writing for my eyes only, but it feels good to have the time to do so. But sometimes there are days when it’s hard to get out of bed, and I forget the reason I moved here to begin with. It’s not often, but one listless day like that makes me forget how nice it is to have all that extra time to waste on feeling that way. *** Last week, I went to an amazing concert. Jessica Lea Mayfield and Seth Avett are about to release a record of Elliott Smith covers, and Jeanette brought me as her guest to their supporting show at the uber-fancy Town Hall Theatre in Times Square. I hadn’t been to a concert that fancy since the first time I ever saw Andrew Bird, almost three years ago. Much like the rest of the audience that night, I have a lot of history tied up in Elliott Smith’s music though I have no defining moment of hearing one of his songs and going “This. This is what I have been waiting for.” I know who Elliott Smith is thanks to Pandora Internet Radio. As a teenager, I would lock myself in my room every night and do my homework, because I was a good kid and I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself. I used Pandora to attempt to find new artists to fall in love with, but I would inevitably skip past all the unfamiliar songs to try to find my old favorites again and again. No matter what station I chose, I would hear Elliott Smith. I always skipped them. I thought he was too melancholy. I felt sad enough on my own, I didn’t need any more assistance. But on

one of my later nights, when I had already downed my fourth cup of coffee to stay awake and maybe make sense of my AP US History assignment, I decided to actually listen when “Needle in the Hay” came on. A quick Google told me it was about drugs, which of course appeared very “cool” and “subversive” to a counterculture-obsessed 16-year-old. But none of my friends knew who Elliott Smith was. Obviously, kids at my high school loved his music, but I didn’t know any of them. I had found a secret, something that only I enjoy. I didn’t want to wield my “coolness” as weapon, or use it as some form of social currency. But I felt like I had some music to call my own. I didn’t even remember that when the concert began. I thought the show was even greater than the sum of its parts. I love Jessica, I love Seth, there was also an upright bassist accompanying them (and I love the upright bass too), and I love the concept. They stood in front of a set constructed to look like a cozy little apartment kitchen, and played as though that were true. The trio played from the covers record, and covers of some of their other favorite songs, and one or two of each artists’ originals. It was the kind of concert that even someone who wasn’t familiar with Elliott Smith would enjoy. The large space didn’t even matter—I felt like I was in that kitchen with them, and I’m positive the rest of the audience did too. *** I didn’t think of my own introduction to Elliott Smith as we left the theatre. Memories of being that bratty 16-year-old didn’t really surface until the next morning, because I no longer take pride in something like that. Once music was a social currency for me and my teenage peers. Now it’s a way I can feel closer to people I’ve never met. Jeanette and I took a walk through midtown, walking down to the 30s and up to the early 60s and talked about ourselves, our parents, the people we loved and didn’t love and why everything will turn out all right no matter what. When I woke up that morning, I felt the way I mentioned before. I got a rejection from a job and I started to wonder “what’s the point?” I left those feelings behind as I exited Town Hall. It felt trivial to complain after watching two artists share their passion project with around 500 people. I know I’m not the first to say it, but midtown sucks in the daylight. But the oblivious tourists and the terrifying off-brand costumes and the gigantic digital ads aren’t there at 11 p.m. Well, they are, but I didn’t notice them. Instead I moseyed down Fifth Avenue, and then up, riding the high of an amazing show. The high wore off, and I was tired and my feet hurt. I stood on Second Avenue, somewhere in the 50s, and for the first time in two months, I felt lucky to have some extra free time. I had the time to be transformed yet again by music, to take a walk with my best friend , and enjoy streets and corners of the city I call my home that I’ve never thought to explore. And as usual, the next day I had time to take the extra-long shower I’d become accustomed to over the last two months. But I also had time to think.

MUSINGS ON PERFORMANCE WITH BECCA KAUFFMAN by vanessa castro Despite the talent of every member of the disjointed emotional adventure that is Ava Luna, Becca Kauffman seems to be the only member that revels in the fact that she is on a stage— even if it is in a secluded dirty basement. If you have ever seen her band play live, she has a strong gaze that cuts straight into the crowd, an intangible generosity with her audience, and an undeniable presence. Not only is she a musician and vocalist, she is a performer in every sense of the word. As if her shows weren’t enough, it really hit home for me when I saw her Home Music Videos, a series of music videos she has made entirely on her own. They are hilarious, vulnerable, and engaging in the way that she explores performance, isolation, and presentation of gender. I have never seen anything like it, so I invited her to participate in my art exhibition, recycled origins, at The Living Gallery this past September. I recorded and transcribed the (three hour) conversation we had for the exhibition’s catalogue and the result was far more insightful and inspiring than either of us would have imagined. For this reason I have decided to share it with you, dear reader. Maybe her magic will rub off on you too. You can also see her videos, which are displayed at Big Law Country Club for the rest of the month and she will be performing with Ava Luna this month too. Vanessa: What are your thoughts on Beyoncé? Are you a fan? Becca Kauffman: Well, I’m a humongous fan. But it’s not political. Vanessa: Yeah, it can’t really be. Once you start politicizing that kind of stuff, it’s hard. She’s just fun. Becca: Yeah, the interesting thing is that the last couple of years, I’ve been interested in voice-overs. And a couple weeks ago I landed the biggest job I have ever been offered, which is happening right now. I am the voice of the Music Video Awards on MTV. But the biggest thing, the Video Vanguard Award which was originally called the Michael Jackson Award. Justin Timberlake won it last year, and it’s supposed to be for someone who is the uppermost icon of pop music right now, always updating themselves and spanning generations. Obviously, that’s her. Vanessa: That definitely is. That latest album is genius. Becca: Yes! I agree! Not to mention that I think her video album idea was amazing. And it’s actually a model that I’m using for my own project because I have this thing called the Home Music Video series, which is what the videos you’ve seen are a part of. I don’t know, I’m trying to feel it out. Basically my model for making any whole project comes from a music standpoint from being in Ava Luna. So, you know, we have gone away to a friend’s parents’ house upstate

to record Electric Balloon and just like sat down and jammed, and then sculpted the jams into songs, and then overdubbed, and that’s basically the format I’m using to make sense of my own work but it’s really new to me. I have been doing these for the last two years. Vanessa: These videos? Becca: Yeah, that’s the way I’ve found that makes the most sense to me. Because I’ve always wanted to do performance art my whole life but I didn’t know how to make sense of it, and maybe two-and-a-half, three years ago I started getting interested in comedy. The comedy scene. It’s very concrete. I’ve always been an interdisciplinary person. To a degree where I’m so lonely, you know? Who else is doing it? Where do I turn? Who do I look to? Where are examples? I just haven’t really found that many. I have found inspirations to draw from and of course, in the end it’s probably good that there’s no one who is doing the exact same thing because I’d be crestfallen that I wasn’t original or anything. But comedy is funny because on the one hand the content can be so cutting-edge and modern and it’s everyday commentary about these things but— Vanessa: Definitely more accessible too. Becca: When I first started to go to live comedy shows just to watch and observe what else is out there, I assumed anyone with a sense of humor was going to be weird. And then I started going and realizing like, “Oh. There’s actually a lot of normal people.” People you’d think would be creative, and artists are all so funny according to some standards or maybe not. But it’s been interesting. Comedy is a trope—it’s an old pre-existing genre of entertainment that definitely falls into these concrete categories. I mean, it’s still really cool, but it doesn’t get glamorized because you make a fool of yourself in comedy and expose the less flattering parts of humanity, whereas music still has this removed, romantic sheen. It’s more about a nonverbal feeling, and comedy is about putting things in words. It’s satisfying to hear that happen. And I’ve tried it—I’ve tried improv, and I’ve done a little bit of stand-up, and it’s all incredible. I guess in the end, it’s all comes down to decisions, you know? If you’re creative and you want to make stuff, you’re passionate and you’re drawn to all these different mediums, eventually you have to choose and hunker down and do one. But the people who do comedy have very structured minds, like they are working within a blueprint of what comedy is. Even if they’re breaking rules and pushing boundaries it’s still considered stand-up and then they’re just doing an avant-garde forward stand up, which is the core of what their genre of comedy is— Thank you—If I wasn’t so multidisciplinary, if I was a more singularly focused person, then that is one thing that I would just love to pursue. I think it’s the most heroic path, but unfortunately, I am just a little bit too enthralled with doing multiple things.

Vanessa: I can tell you’re very comfortable on stage. Becca: Definitely. I love the stage. My problem really with music is that it just doesn’t treat the stage the same way that theater does. It feels a little watered down. Because you’re not playing a character, it’s not a play. So even if there’s no third wall—I mean, fourth wall—Yeah, just like a two-wall production! That’d be funny. Even if there’s no fourth wall in a production it’s still all planned and choreographed, every movement, you know. There’s almost this like bravado and fearlessness stylized into musical theater. Broadway. Like the style of singing, the history of it, being unamplified, whereas music (once rock and roll came to be) was amplified. And the microphone changes your execution completely! I’m learning that even more in an even more minute way doing voice-overs… Vanessa: I’ve been trying to make stuff this summer—and I have been—but it’s not as easy when you have someone breathing over your shoulder. Becca: I graduated in ’08, I’ve been out of school for six years and the whole time it’s been this struggle to structure myself. As an artist too, it’s like when no one gives you structure, you have to make your own, but it’s not as simple as that because you’re cycling through all these jobs with different schedules. And then you get used to one and then you realize oh, this job isn’t really for me, I’m going to switch. And then you have to get used to another one. And you freelance, which is how it works with me and a lot of us in the band, because we all, over the course of the four years we’ve been in the band and slowly started touring more, have figured it out. The naive original thing was like, “Oh, we have to quit our day jobs. We are going to tour.” We still had this unexperienced musician idea of what touring was, like “once you tour you’ve got it made it!” And it’s just like the opposite. I feel like the problem or the task, the goal to being an artist—by the way, that word is too uncomfortable for me to say. It seems highfalutin or something! It’s the way people talk about artists, like, “Yeah, I’m an artist.” It’s like, “What do you do?” I say I play music. No, I’m a rock star. No, a pop star. But if you read any interviews with major pop stars, like Katy Perry or Beyoncé or whatever, they are very, very aware and they acknowledge it as a role like “Oh, yeah. I’m a pop star.” It’s not necessarily a compliment. It is what you are because you are one...somehow I still harbor this burning desire to be one. Vanessa: You wore blue lipstick at one of your shows. I thought that was amazing. Becca: I’m so glad you appreciated that! I mean sometimes...ugh, I feel like I should do it up more. I feel obligated. Like Andrea from Twin Sister puts on this whole cosplay costume thing and I just think that it’s so beautiful she’s so willing to go the extra length. I have always been a performer, a natural performer. I just can’t remember a day that it hasn’t brought me joy. And couple that with not being hyper-focused on one particular thing, like I wish I could be a ballerina, just a ballerina! Or just a Broadway singer! Or just a musician! But I can’t. It’s just not in me. And so I try, and am in the process of sort of finally lassoing all of these things in, all these things that I love. It’s like baking a cake, like a recipe. A teaspoon of this. A cup of that.

It’s a chemistry. Here, I’ll take a little bit of what I know about African dance, and a little bit of what I’ve absorbed from music videos, and a cup of my experience with Ava Luna, etc. And that’s how it makes sense to me. Becca: So I’m really just discovering it in the moment and I also think that I got to this place... I don’t know. I feel like it might be farfetched but in a faithful way in order to make I need to free myself from stuff, I had to rotate to a more open, receptive mind instead of assigning things, you know. For a long time I was like, “I want to be a journalist! I want to be a music journalist! I like writing!” I don’t know. Things that are revolving around creative stuff, but aren’t necessarily aren’t the creative thing themselves. And I still love that. I love the action of doing that, although I don’t think I’m that good at it because, again, I’m not that exercised because I am so interested! I just survey a lot of stuff and internalize it. I’m finally turning around and being like, “Okay. I’m starting my own language to make sense of everything.” I feel like I have absorbed like what my sponge contains. And so the videos are my first attempt at how I know how. Like what I can possibly create. Each video is just like the best of I can do in the moment. I don’t know. So, it’s definitely a huge, weird process! Vanessa: Comedy is an extremely hard medium. The way I see it, in terms of writing especially, it’s hard. Becca: Yeah, they’re formulas really. It’s timing. The only places I’ve ever shown my videos are at comedy shows and I performed at comedy shows. But I’m always like the weird one or the odd one out, which gives me anxiety, but if it gets good feedback then I don’t mind. But I don’t like the idea of completely surprising people or interrupting the flow of a show because people’s expectations might be for more comedy rather than me doing some sort of theatrical performance of “Dirty Work” by Steely Dan in a yellow leotard, which is what I recently did. I don’t know...I’ve gotten kind of addicted to the film thing. It’s more private. You can tweak it. You can control the visuals more. I like controlling the sets and the colors and shapes. The work that I make does a lot of time de-gender, but sometimes I’m just doing stuff and I’m not like, “This is about being a woman.” Maybe after, I’m like, “I guess this is about being a woman,” but other times I wonder if it has to be about being a woman or can it just be a thing. This is already in my own mind, but as amazing as the whole influx of female artists in the 80s and 90s is, it was still framed within being a female artist, and I feel like it puts someone like me of being in danger of almost being lazy because you’re just like, “Well this is about me being a woman.” By virtue of being a woman and making it, its importance is higher simply because of the maker, in my perspective. Vanessa: Does anything limit you? Becca: A fear of my own limitations, and a fear of my own limitlessness, simultaneously.

YOU DON’T KNOW ME BUT I’M FAMOUS by mary ellis Back in the day before Spotify and Facebook (yes, I’m ancient) my high school boyfriend introduced me to a song called Cathedrals. Which led to the album Magazine. Which led to all the other albums. Which led to all the bootlegged songs. Which led to an entire world of fandom that I think every person should experience at least once in their lives. The band was Jump, Little Children, and as their reunion show finally, finally approaches I need to reminisce a little bit, so indulge me if you will. I believe I was actually a little late to the bandwagon when I started obsessively chronicling my many JLC shows. The first was on my way back from college orientation in North Carolina. On a road trip with my dad, we stopped to see them at Rhythm and Brews in Nashville, TN. The funniest part: I didn’t know what any of them looked like before watching that first show. I’d been enamored of their music, and hadn’t even bothered to investigate. They’re adorable, to this day, but having grown up in Dallas, the land of 90s grunge rock forever, the upright bass, cello, tin whistle, accordion, and harmonies, with a bit of Irish thrown in occasionally for good measure, felt downright magical. Plus, the pull of the energy in the crowd was infectious, and if Johnny could bop around with that upright, then we’d all be damned if we weren’t going to jump with him. Looking back, it’s easy to idealize the whole thing, but really, what wasn’t idyllic? I met amazing people (frequently strangers) that carted me around in their cars across states to probably over a dozen cities over several years, stayed with people I’d never met before, ate in fun restaurants, meandered in and out of record stores, late night IHOP excursions post-shows, almost died when a horse trailer changed lanes right into us (I’ve never been so emotional during a show - each song felt especially poignant), all to one of the best soundtracks. Jump became my therapy - when I’d have a bad week, I’d find out where they were playing and hit the road to go find them. A breakup? Go to a Jump show and sing along with “Broken Heart’s Education.” Feeling homesick in college? Go to a Jump show and listen to “Made It Fine.” Super psyched because life is amazing? Go to a Jump show and bounce around to “Pink Lemonade.” Their openers were an added treat - while the JLC songs were comforting repeats, their openers were a window into new music, that of course led to more new music. After one of the shows in Charlotte, at the Tremont Music Hall, I decided to be bold and ask their opener, Owen Beverly, whose voice is like Jeff Buckley Part II, if he’d sing us something. Since “no one had ever asked that before” he decided to indulge us, and met the hangers-on out back on the loading dock once the masses had cleared. Sat down with a guitar, and started to sing. Then Jay Clifford came over, sat down, and started harmonizing. Occasionally you have shiny memories like this that stick with you - JLC provided those in spades. Basically, I’m breaking out my scrap book (yes, I really have one) - I’m ready for the reunion see you in Charleston!

DAMAGED ROMANTICISM & SPRING CLEANING by steven spoerl With winter’s harsh reality coming to a close, it’s easy to think of spring as a time of rebirth; a seasonal palette-cleanser. Fresh starts begin to occupy the minds of just about everyone as the weather warms and the snow melts to reveal the ground. More often than not, what it eventually reveals is less pristine than the idealized visions that frequently accompany the transition. It’s the clutter that fascinates me most because its impact is so direct: pre-existing problems begin to deepen the mundanity of it all comes to blinding fruition. All of this always seems to connect directly with romantic entanglements. It makes sense, too: romanticizing the end of something considered cruel and bitter that paves way for something intrinsically tied to a hope that’s not too dissimilar from the hope that’s present at the early stages of a relationship. Flowers may bloom and birds may raise up their choruses- but that paired as contrast against existing implications can only make their presence that much more difficult. It’s the songs that exist in that very niche limbo section that have affected me most throughout the years. Songs of unrequited love, loveless relationships, and love lost all fall under the category of damaged romanticism (where affection transcends boundaries to become heartrending), perfect for spring cleaning, and making peace with the fact that things aren’t always as cyclical as they seem. In celebration of the changing of the seasons- and of those songs- I’ve created a spring playlist to further illustrate this odd, self-imposed genre. The following 25 tracks all meant varying things to me throughout past relationships and a few of them can unlock a vast expanse of memories in a measure’s time. Included with each selection are a few of the song’s hardest hitting lines. Seek out the ones you haven’t heard and go make some memories this springyou can’t reach these levels of pain without experiencing some bliss along the way. 1. Voxtrot - “The Start of Something” 2. Rilo Kiley - “Does He Love You?” 3. The Libertines - “What Became of the Likely Lads?” 4. Okkervil River - “The Next Four Months” 5. Sleeping in the Aviary - “Maybe You’re the Same” 6. Josh Ritter - “The Temptation of Adam” 7. The Mountain Goats - “No Children” 8. The Antlers – “Two” 9. Joanna Newsom - “Does Not Suffice” 10. Sharon Van Etten - “Give Out” 11. Tom Waits - “I’m Still Here” 12. Fred Thomas - “Every Song Sung To A Dog” 13. Mitski – “Townie”

14. Radiator Hospital - “Our Song” 15. Speedy Ortiz - “No Below” 16. Yeah Yeah Yeahs – “MAPS” 17. The Weakerthans - “One Great City!” 18. Waxahatchee – “Bathtub” 19. Majical Cloudz – “Notebook” 20. Why? - “Simeon’s Dilemma” 21. The Coral Riffs - “Motor Speedway” 22. Wolfs - “Leading Me Back to You” 23. Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - “The Sorrowful Wife” 24. Hot New Mexicans - “No Rest or End” 25. Sam Cooke - “Bring It On Home (Live at the Harlem Square Club)”

GRADUATION IN THE FULL-FORCE FIVE by claire dunderman This isn’t some ode to how perfect college is, although it was a hell of a lot better than high school. This isn’t some reflection where the lyrics match perfectly to this close of an academic chapter of our lives. Rather, graduating college is sort of the opposite of things aligning. It’s been this whole big preparation for entering the entropy of life, but, hey, at the end of the day, things are going to get messy. Things are going to not make sense. But that’s what makes it feel right sometimes, that not everything is planned out in a textbook. You can only go with the hope that you’re going to go make what’s in those textbooks. These songs are about feeling it all out. 1. Thumpers - “Marvel” Have you ever looked at the sky and you sort of forget where you are and what you’re doing with your life? Listen to this and you’ll know that… that whole cliché of “feeling small,” like

outer world beings won’t ever know that you breathed in this thing called… air? Yes, air, the aliens will tell each other. Apparently it’s this cool new element from this world called Earth that the kids are talking about these days. But besides life in Andromeda, there’s a certain peace in smiling at the big breadth of the blue or the grey or, god forbid, the green. If you’re under a green sky, please, seek out some shelter. There’s probably a thunderstorm or a tornado or something. You can feel peace because it’s all so big and then you think about the possibilities and paths in your own life and, holy shit, it’s like the sky. It’s no use being scared of the bigness of everything. There are clouds in the distance, past the horizon, that you don’t even know about. Sometimes it’s going to be a torrential downpour rain cloud and, other times, maybe if you’re driving in a car in the desert, it’ll be like oil pastels created the ceiling below the sun. 2. Los Campesinos! - “You! Me! Dancing!” So, not everything you do in college is going to stick. Not every person you meet is going to stick around. Bah! You don’t need them. No, I really mean it. You don’t need them. So many people get caught up on keeping something intact when, yes, you can move on. When something isn’t working out, friend, you have to take a look in the mirror and tell yourself: “I can be done with this.” So, be done with that shitty pseudo-friend down the hall or that one club that you always dread going to when, uh, you’re supposed to be liking the things that are a break from school. Disrupting your sense of normalcy is jolting, but I swear, it works. I swear to you. You go from thinking about yourself as this socially awkward humanoid that is bad at talking to people to driving in a car with good, real friends that you’ve made in a span of only eight months. You all are passionate and different and wonderful and all are committed to the same things and art forms that you are! Wowee! Maybe you’re doing something like going to a barbeque joint with these friends and the driver, who’s this guy you absolutely love and is such a good friend, puts on this one Los Campesinos! song and he turns to you and says, “I know the entire monologue at the end.” By the time you get to the joint he has to turn the car off, but he’s rambling off the monologue like the music is imprinted in his mind. He taps you on your shoulder for the ending – “but we’re happy.”

You look at your friends and the stars and you wonder if you dreamed up these people while looking in a mirror one day or if you’re really here. 3. Givers - “Words” “You’ll see that there’s no end,” Givers sing over and over again. It’s important to remind yourself this when time starts to creep into the spring months. There’s this grand sense of finality to how you talk everyone and everyone else that’s in the process of getting ready to leave and to go. This will be the last time we got overpriced coffee at our favorite thrift shop. The last goddamn time. It almost hurts more to think that it’ll be five years before we see someone again rather than never seeing them ever again. With the latter, you at east get some sense of closure. You can’t run and hide from the number, the how-many-days-til number. Either you’re one of those people that is gleefully cheek-marking the calendar or you’re someone who ends up befriending a whole new group like this parade of people is going to last forever. But this whole dramatic Act III playacting is what is going to help us go forward in that gross, bloated feeling of uncertainty. Sure, the blank canvas is fun to think about at times, but sometimes you just want to know what you’re doing. You want to get it done and over with and you just wish things could be familiar forever. “I’m too lazy to create something right now!” you shout to the universe. “I’m busy bingewatching Mad Men!” But these words that we give to our lovers, our friends, our enemies in our final moments as students, will carry weight when we’re on the bus one day or when we’re filling out tax forms. These words are gems and presents that we give to each other. It’s our verbal token of comfort that we share before we come to the point when we realize that we have to find a new bed to rest upon. 4. We Are Scientists - “After Hours” When in doubt, party it out. “Time means nothing.” – Indeed, you certainly feel like that when you’re going up to the counter for another pitcher of PBR please! You curse yourself for succumbing to the hipster masses but you don’t really care because, holy crap, thank God for $3 pitchers! It’s a bit blurring and dizzying when the unifying force of your peers is letting yourself go beyond the point of clarity. Are we really sound of mind if all this is about is being able to get shit-faced? When did life become connect-the-dots between bar crawls? Oh, not all of it is debauchery or black-outs or vomiting from too much UV (bleh). There’s a certain sort of vibrancy to seeing – hey! – that one really nice girl from your philosophy class

from two years ago. It’s been so long! You both smile when you ask about “what you’re going to do when you graduate” because, despite what either you do, you both are freaking out about it together in the now. 5. The Swell Season - “Into the Mystic (Van Morrison cover)” This song, this beautiful tearjerker song, is sung by the people who starred in Once. It’s a Van Morrison cover. And yes, if you’re in the moment, it’ll make you cry. This is the reality. As much fun as you can have, as much academic success (or failure) that you can garner, as many friends or enemies that you make, it’ll a quilt that you weaved together. You were able to figure out how to create a life for yourself with people you did not know. That took bravery and strength to know that yes, you could put yourself into a school of strangers and still make it through. Fear, at this point, is just some dirt that you get on your shoe. Brush it off and it’s so easy to keep walking on, skipping on, dancing on, however you do it. You have to keep walking though, and yes, it’ll be sad to say goodbye when you don’t have to think about saying goodbye anymore. You’ll actually have to do it. But with these people that are worthy of your love, you’ll realize that you accomplished so much by managing to simply being able to say goodbye. You succeeded in moving a person to let them get to know you. You moved them in your own way, and you shared a friendship with them. That’s a beautiful thing, this generosity of souls. Oh sure, it’ll be cheesy and sappy and your relatives will cry. So proud! Oh so proud! You want it to be cheesy though because you’re really proud too. All the little worries and the conflicts and arguments seem to fade away when you look on the quad and are baffled that you called this place home for a chunk of your life. Baffled because it was home. You’ll all have to go “into the mystic” someday. You’ll all have to fade away and move on, but you don’t have to get rid of anything. You’ll carry with you the quilt and the threads of your years of identity-searching. The youth of your rebel years will be the reason why, when you’re fifty, you’ll have that one extra beer when your doctor said that you shouldn’t! What’s life without living a little? And you’ll know your limits because, boy, you certainly figured that one out. Maybe you had to go through some really tough shit in college. And I mean it – some bad things can happen. But you exist. You are here. And when you’re saying goodbye to someone, you’re thinking of how happy you made them and how happy they made you. Relief in the form of a friend. It’s a comfort when things are still unknown. And then that will be it. And you know what? The world will be ready for you.

LABOR DAY WEEKEND by dave mallon The 31st of August, 2014 marked the final day of a four-day tour, my first. I’d been brought on board as the roadie/merch guy/road manager only three weeks before by my friend James. James was one of three one-man acoustic punk acts-- James as Participation Trophy, his happy-go-lucky college buddy Charlie as Shore Acres Drive (later to become a three-piece band with James playing bass), and a scrawny, heavily-tattooed downstater named Dylan playing as Caught Up In A Dream. I’d gone into the venture with some trepidation, given that I’d never met Charlie or Dylan before, had only known James for a month, and was not especially impressed with the latter’s organizational skills. I was the oldest member of the group, as well as being significantly larger. Surprisingly, though, despite our idiosyncrasies, we got on famously from day one. We had gotten off to a late start in Ithaca on the 28th, and after playing a poorly-attended show at the Sounds Asylum in Middletown (featuring a surprise visit from Mark Turley of LRS Records who happened to be in town at the time), ended up spending the night at the home of Dylan’s aging hippie parents in Roscoe, New York. I had planned to sleep in Dylan’s borrowed Chrysler Town & Country minivan in order to avoid being overwhelmed by the house’s amazing amounts of cat hair, but ended up having to sleep on a hardwood floor in the attic after having my way to the van blocked by the presence of a very confused black bear intent on raiding the neighborhood’s garbage cans. In the end, no one ended up sleeping well. I spent much of the night having a massive allergy attack, and Dylan had to get up at 3 AM to put in half a shift at the golf course where he works as a groundskeeper. Charlie and James didn’t fare much better-- they had ended up sharing a bed, and were awoken in the middle of the night by Dylan’s cat pawing the power button on the television set and exposing us all to an earlymorning episode of “Ancient Aliens.” After leaving in the morning, James, Charlie, and I picked up Dylan from work, who promptly fell asleep hanging from one of the grab handles in the van’s back seat. Our next show was in Charlie’s upper-class hometown of Mamaroneck, where we would be staying with Charlie’s family. Charlie’s parents were, simply put, loaded. His father had immigrated to the United States from Italy back in the 1960s and become a successful businessman. Dylan and I, coming from somewhat more redneck backgrounds, were taken aback by the relative opulence of the house, as well as the family’s generosity. Charlie’s dad had not only made the decision to cook us three or four massive meals during the 10 or so hours we were living in his basement, but had fully promoted our show. At the venue, which turned out to be a Methodist church, the four of us were amazed at the turnout-- probably about eighty people, mostly wealthy Italian immigrants, had come to see the three touring acts, plus two or three local bands. We made, to put it into the vernacular, a stupid amount of money. Enough to put our crew into the black and pay all of the other bands on the bill. After a decent night’s rest and another huge meal, we thanked Charlie’s family profusely and headed out.

Our next show was to be in Rochester, where we would be staying with some friends of James’ from high school who were now attending RIT. As such, James grew more and more excited during the six-hour drive, not helped by his near-constant caffeine intake (mostly consisting of Dunkin’ Donuts iced chai lattes). At one point, he insisted that we all listen to (and discuss) Kanye West’s recently-released Yeezus album (which no one else in the van liked, but which James insisted was a work of genius on par with The Beatles’ White Album). At another, while I was driving and unable to get my hands on the iPod attached to the stereo, James played “Dragostea Din Tei” (also known as “Numa Numa”) by Romanian pop group O-Zone on a loop for nearly twenty minutes. By the time we’d reached Rochester, Charlie, Dylan, and I were ready to give him a gentle, friendly throttling. The show in Rochester was at a venue called the Vineyard Community Space, a strange hybrid of punk house and hippie church packed with a weird mix of happy, pizza-loving pop punkers and surly Xtian sXe kids (“the X is for CHRIST”). Upon load-in, we discovered our first setback of the tour-- the rear door to Dylan’s van was jammed shut. As I set about disassembling the interior panels of the van, vainly trying to open the door, James began to panic. Charlie and Dylan, meanwhile, made a valiant effort and succeeded in getting all of our gear into the venue. Eventually, James went onstage, and I took a nap in the van. Though I wasn’t awake to see it, everyone played an absolutely dynamite show. I only caught the headlining band, hometown heroes Collin and the Bournes. After following up their smash hit “I Wanna Poop Everywhere” with a fast-paced cover of The Misfits’ “Skulls,” the entire crowd lost their shit. I swear, if once in my life I have 1 percent of the fun that those guys have at every show, I’d be a happy man. Two hours and several garbage plates later, we arrived at the apartment of James’ friend Cat and her boyfriend. On the car ride over, Dylan had received the rough mixes of his then inprogress EP, and spent much of the next several hours convincing his producer not to add 808 drums to an acoustic pop punk song. From what I hear from James and Charlie, much fun was had, but I just ended up falling asleep on Cat’s couch. The next morning, we said our goodbyes to James’ friends and made our last Dunkin’ Donuts stop of the tour. Mr. Iced Chai Latte himself, James, made fun of Charlie for ordering a pumpkin spice coffee while Dylan and I made fun of them both. Our last show was in Ithaca, in the basement of a house rented by yet another set of James’ college friends. This was the only show I was to play on the tour, and I’m not sure if I was well-received or not (according to one hip college babe, I “sounded a lot like Brian Fallon; I mean, The Gaslight Anthem seem like they’re afraid to play their instruments and The Menzingers are way better, but still, your music was OK”). James, Charlie, and Dylan played well, though, and at the end of the show, we all came back onstage (well, on-corner of damp, moldy concrete floor) to play a cover of Andrew Jackson Jihad’s “I Love You.” It was quite dark as Dylan and I loaded out. Charlie had become preoccupied with attempting to sell the last of the merch, and James (the self-described lonely and tormented artist) was chatting animatedly with six or seven of his very attractive female friends. All in all not a bad conclusion. As I loaded my guitar and my backpack back into my truck, Dylan leaned against the side of his van.

PROGRESS REPORT by mary luncsford When I came out of the Health Center it was that time of day when the sun is at its most obnoxious—all high and bright and blinding. And I was pissed off. Or frustrated, I guess. I walked down 10th feeling like counseling was a waste. Feeling like nothing I said was getting me anywhere. Feeling like I’d always feel this way. And there was the guilt too. Why couldn’t my mind just rest? Why couldn’t I let go of things? Why was I making everything harder for everyone? I think I’ve felt difficult for about as long as I can remember. Even an Aunt I rarely talked to wrote in my high school graduation card, “Life doesn’t have to be so hard!” I started going to counseling again because I felt that familiar heaviness in my head. I was afraid of letting myself drift back to how I felt last year, so I made an appointment. Now every other week, I find myself sitting in a small room which usually smells like fresh coffee. The therapist has tried to cozy it up with sheers and tranquil paintings and candles she’s never lit. I don’t look at her a lot when I talk—I usually stare out the window at the building that’s perpetually under construction—but I like her. She says nice things like, “You don’t have to figure this out all on your own,” which I don’t necessarily buy because I’m paying her to listen to me, but I keep coming back. On that particular day, I was frustrated because I’d been feeling unsupported. And I felt guilty because who was I to get upset with people who are doing the best that they can? Everyone has their own pain. Everyone is moving through life and mucking things up and trying to make it right—to make sense of this place. My loved ones love me the best way they know how. If there is one thing I know it’s that people deserve grace. I went back to my room, my mind reeling, and fell on my bed. I thought about everything. I thought of a song. If there’s an anthem to this process of healing, it’s “No Names,” by Mutual Benefit. Most Mutual Benefit songs have that mystical quality of nostalgia and hope. They conjure images of twinkle lights and setting suns seen through trees. “No Names” especially lifts my heart. “I tried so hard to conceal my broken parts so they could heal.” Isn’t that what I’ve been doing for years? I spent so long thinking the pain inside would sort itself out, but that isn’t the way to fix anything. “You showed me behind the scenes/You were scared but I’ve never loved you more.” In order to heal, you have to be willing to tell someone where it hurts. You have to lay all of the pieces out on the table and figure out where to go from there. As I lay there hearing this song in my head, I thought about how everyone was trying. Then I thought about how I am trying too. Maybe it was okay to give myself a little grace, a little room. Maybe I can be in the process of healing and still be whole. Maybe this pain is a growing pain. I’m not sure what the end game is. I don’t think my brain will ever stop whirring. I think I’ll always be prone to cerulean shades. Perhaps the goal is to learn to believe that I have never been too much. There is no such thing as an excess of personhood for anyone. I don’t know that I’m there yet. For right now, I think I can focus on bringing everything into the light. Hold it all in my hands. See it, feel it, clutch tightly to the songs that keep me afloat, and keep going.

Mary Luncsford.