• 26 Plays
  • Peace TrainRichie Havens
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Peace Train 

- Richie Havens

At Six O’clock, in the afternoon, yesterday, I was sitting on the mass pike, in traffic, pissed off-

-when the hell am I going to finally -make- sweet, sweet love to my one and only, true love…Crab Rangoon (well, ok, fine, crab Rangoon is my second “truest” love, the preemptive being, obviously, pizza)?

The radio was on. The radio was the only thing, keeping me from Chinese food withdrawal- an MSG related, psychiatric break, really.

Then, the DJ, had to kill that to. Somewhere Between Wilco and Greenday, (and my blissful ignorance) the bitch up and stole my appetite, along with devoured any potential for revitalizing my positive vibrations- my happy face.

So, maybe this is a little morbid; but deep down, I think the person in question, or rather, the legend, that is, would of found comfort, in my lightness: the man had a flawless smile; one of which, offers security, in my beliefs, that “he” had a sense of humor. The ease in which his smile, flooded his whole body, transfused through his fingertips, and like lightning, hitting the ground, instantaneously awoke his instrument, is telling, whether you, my dear reader, like it or not. Richie Havens, at 72 years old, died today, well, yesterday (excuse my tardiness, and the traffic), and music, will never be the same. He was a god. A profit. A pioneer. Havens’, as one could only expect, being the wee one I am, was introduced to me, by my dad, via the notorious documentary, reliving, now, for all generations and ones to come, the notorious “three days” of “love, peace, and music”, and by that I mean, the notorious, Woodstock Festival and subsequent film. Yah, it sucks I wasn’t even the inkling of a thought, in my mother’s mind, back in 1969, let alone, alive, but what I am, is a devout fan, and fellow appreciator of the late Richie Havens; and that, my friends, was the result of the talent’s awe-inducing performance. He comes alive on film. He speaks, even through prerecorded, analog media. He defines, and then redefines what it means to be a musician…a writer…a performer. He will always be the act that pulled me into the whole film, and the hero, that soundtrack’s, a good portion, of my life.

So…when I finally found myself, back in Boston, and sitting, cheek to window, chopsticks in hand, at one of many of my regular Chinatown-inhabiting joints, I ordered, two of the Rangoon, and ate enough for Richie Havens’, and I combined. I hope that, despite all the gluttony I emit, this guru, of all things rhythmic, is somewhere above us all, comfortable knowing…or really reading, that even some of us bratty, thumb-sucking kids, out in New England, will never forget the man, he seems to sincerely be. 

Forever in love, Forever a fan, 

Rest in something, a little bit more original than peace: rest in serenity, Richie, 

- M

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Madi’s Superstache Tracks of LE Week ~  So, I’ve been much more proactive, these days, in regards to finding new music. I never was good at reading blogs, and understanding the basic jargon. I’ve learned a lot, however, from my own endeavors, in music journalism. Therefore, I’ve become much more acute in the whole oh-my-god-I-will-die-if-I-don’t-find-something-new-to-listen-to realm of things. The internet, and all these cool music blogs, engines, and websites have begun to cater to “not-so-smart-blonde” types, like myself, and now, folks, I can uncover miracles in music, from the safety of my room! Okay, let me clarify something: when I say “new music”, don’t confuse my personal discoveries, with the common association, most have, when pairing the words, new, and music, together. Yes, I am aware, that most of the groups, and accompanying tracks I’m about to share are, decades, years, and months old; but, to me, it’s all the same. To me, you see, it’s something new, to be excited over. It’s something, I found upon my own discovery. It’s something, I didn’t know I liked, or even could like. This is the music that came to me, probably, when I heard a song that spawned a whole onslaught of “new” bands, albums, EP’s, genres, and scenes. So, there’s my shpeal: maybe you’ve already been there and done that, a million times over. Maybe, I’m behind the times. Maybe, I’m completely naïve, in my music taste, or is it unrefined? Either way let me be clear: I give zero fucks. Meaning I give zero fucks in what you think, even if I decided to put a Mandy Moore track, up on this bitch, be it serious, or for shits and giggles: I own my childhood nostalgia, and I revel in all things Blink 182. Thus, without further ado, here are my “new” to my iTunes, new to my ears, and new to my heart, and by that, I mean, my own, latest, musical indulgences. Here are Madi’s SUPERSTACHE tracks, of the week, y’all! - M Dizzle _________________________________________________________ 1. Dreams – The Cranberries 2. I Can Change – LCD Soundsystem 3. Straight Edge – Minor Threat 4. Skulls – The Misfits 5. Irrevocable, Motherfucker – Glocca Morra 6. Sail To The Sun – Wavves 7. What’s The Altitude? – Cut Chemist (Ft. Hymnal) 8. Roadrunner (Once) – The Modern Lovers 9. Eternally Teenage – Tomorrow’s Tulips 10. You Gonna Get It – The Coachwhips
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Madi’s Superstache Tracks of LE Week ~ 

So, I’ve been much more proactive, these days, in regards to finding new music. I never was good at reading blogs, and understanding the basic jargon. I’ve learned a lot, however, from my own endeavors, in music journalism. Therefore, I’ve become much more acute in the whole oh-my-god-I-will-die-if-I-don’t-find-something-new-to-listen-to realm of things. The internet, and all these cool music blogs, engines, and websites have begun to cater to “not-so-smart-blonde” types, like myself, and now, folks, I can uncover miracles in music, from the safety of my room! Okay, let me clarify something: when I say “new music”, don’t confuse my personal discoveries, with the common association, most have, when pairing the words, new, and music, together. Yes, I am aware, that most of the groups, and accompanying tracks I’m about to share are, decades, years, and months old; but, to me, it’s all the same. To me, you see, it’s something new, to be excited over. It’s something, I found upon my own discovery. It’s something, I didn’t know I liked, or even could like. This is the music that came to me, probably, when I heard a song that spawned a whole onslaught of “new” bands, albums, EP’s, genres, and scenes. So, there’s my shpeal: maybe you’ve already been there and done that, a million times over. Maybe, I’m behind the times. Maybe, I’m completely naïve, in my music taste, or is it unrefined? Either way let me be clear: I give zero fucks. Meaning I give zero fucks in what you think, even if I decided to put a Mandy Moore track, up on this bitch, be it serious, or for shits and giggles: I own my childhood nostalgia, and I revel in all things Blink 182. Thus, without further ado, here are my “new” to my iTunes, new to my ears, and new to my heart, and by that, I mean, my own, latest, musical indulgences. Here are Madi’s SUPERSTACHE tracks, of the week, y’all!

- M Dizzle

_________________________________________________________

1. Dreams – The Cranberries

2. I Can Change – LCD Soundsystem

3. Straight Edge – Minor Threat

4. Skulls – The Misfits

5. Irrevocable, Motherfucker – Glocca Morra

6. Sail To The Sun – Wavves

7. What’s The Altitude? – Cut Chemist (Ft. Hymnal)

8. Roadrunner (Once) – The Modern Lovers

9. Eternally Teenage – Tomorrow’s Tulips

10. You Gonna Get It – The Coachwhips


Punk Rock Girl

- The Dead Milkmen 

I’m eating chilaquiles and watching X men: I think it’s time to go home. Dear Bostonians, desperately seeking roommate- preferably fans of The Dead Milkmen- preferably, young, male, and sexy. 

I’m a creep. 

“It was California Dreamin’, so we started screamin’, on such a Winter’s dayyyyyy….”

- M

  • 60 Plays
  • ya'll boots hats? (die angry)glocca morra

Ya’ll Boots Hats? (Die Angry)

- Glocca Morra 

Today, I sat, alone, in the backyard, of a house, in Western Massachusetts- and I cried. Today, I finally felt, the consequences, of a life I’ve lived, skating. I’ve skated, since I can last remember.  So, today…well, I guess, really, yesterday, being that it is, 4 am, now- I felt, what I can only imagine, was something close to my “call”. You know- that same moment, Holden Caulfield faces, above the football field, of his boarding school: that feeling like, if something doesn’t change, you might, actually, die. I’m pretty sure, that, at twenty years old- alone, once again: it’s time for me to cut the crap. It’s time for me to find, within myself, what it is, that makes life worth living.

Last January, late January, specifically, I found myself, with two boys, in Framingham, on a drive, to nowhere- but really, it felt like somewhere (I’m sorry for the cliché: it’s the best 4:23 am could offer me). I remember, as the sun began to set, the sky took a purplish-pink hue, and blanketed the snowy outskirts of Boston, in a warm, almost surreal, and thus, ethereal glow. I remember feeling happy. I remember feeling sober: I remember feeling scared.

I remember Glocca Morra, and the words to their track, Ya’ll Boots Hats? (Which, were oddly fitting, for the moment, now that I think about it), as the night had finally, truly taken the formative day. I remember anxiously, unclipping my seatbelt, rolling down my window, and pulling my tired, cold body through the window of said back seat, and resting the bottom half, of my bottom half, on the sill: leaving my upper exposed to the outside- as the car below, continued to barrel down a narrow, dark road, in the middle of “somewhere”.

I don’t know if it was the same wind hitting my face, or Alex, turning down the music, or myself, hitting mute, unconsciously trying to tell me something, I couldn’t hear, in any other way, but in the silence; but, the outside, and my place, in it, at the time, met silence, in a way, that felt, unbelievably, okay. I threw my head back, and I took in the winter’s night- the sky, an infinite pool of glitter- a barrage of stars. I remember being happy.

I remember, pulling my gaze down from above’s impressive vista, expecting a view, on my own plane, to be much less spectacular- to be of nothing…at all. I expected, to return, to this reality, alone, once again. However, my eyes met opposite to me, another set of eyes: these ones belonging to a boy, whom, in that moment, complimented the night’s stars, in a way that, well, I guess, you can infer for yourself.  

I will tell you this though- on the walk back to reality, that night, he grabbed my hand, and I felt like, finally I was going home. Home, however, felt, at the time, like everything else in my life, until then: fleeting. Call it immature, irresponsible, or call it whatever you’d like. I dealt with this feeling, however, like I deal with all my fears- all my problems, really, and I let this moment, this boy, and this opportunity for home, or at least the figurative sense of the term, slip away.

I hate to admit that a boy led me to where I am now: alone, yes; but, more importantly, painfully aware of my own need to change.

I didn’t understand, what he meant, when he said, that he didn’t want to be with someone that he cared about more, than they cared for them self, until a few days ago. I didn’t get that all the self-medicating, was only me, fooling myself, into believing, that my life, and my choices, were okay. I didn’t get, that only I was responsible for my unhappiness: I didn’t want to be alone: I didn’t want to feel anything at all. I let the fear of having to finally feel something- the fear of feeling alone lead me down a path that has ironically, made it impossible for me to be anything else, but alone. I’ve destroyed countless friendships, and relationships because of my insecurities.

To be honest, I moved on, from all these failed ventures, however sedated I probably was, nearly unscathed- and I was fine with it.

I knew deep down, someone, or something, would finally surface, and at some point, I’d be forced to leave something, that wasn’t so leave-able.

Well, here I am. I’m alone. I’m scared. I’m upset with myself. I miss every moment, and regret every time; I instinctively picked a coping mechanism (a defense mechanism, even) over myself. I’m nobody’s problem, but my own, and I’m scared.

I miss that car ride.

I’m tired of letting life slip away. I’m tired of being afraid. I’m tired of crying- of feeling empty.

I’ve been here before, and been okay with it- because the assets lost weren’t worth the original investment: they were far less. Unfortunately, I finally struck gold. The only problem was I came equipped with nothing, and now, someone else- someone with a little less pathetic of an existence, will get to profit, from these riches, specifically. I’m disappointed.

I’m ready, however, to take my call. I’m ready to be alone. I’m ready to make choices that are healthy for myself, and the future- my place, consequently in it.

I’m ready to be great:

not just in the company of greatness.

“I remember going broke at the bar. I remember doing drugs in my car. Please don’t hold my hand, I need to get up. Derrida. I don’t know what I’m doing. Derrida. I don’t know where I am. I remember you were moving back home. I remember coming home all alone. I’ll be dying angry. I need to get out of the city. Carolina. We share the same blood. I’m not your brother. I miss you…”

- Madi 

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Source: Bandcamp

  • 9 Plays
  • Ballad of the Golden HourWidowspeak

Ballad of The Golden Hour

- Widowspeak

I’m not going to lie, when I heard Widowspeak had lost a drummer, and gained a few more members, since I last heard from them, back in 2011 (I was lucky enough to catch their set with the Vivian Girls, at The Great Scott circa Widowspeak’s debut…and then get to write about it, for the Allston Pudding). Not only, had recent interviews from the group, in anticipation for the upcoming release, detailed, what sounded like, personally, a series of unfortunate events, in regards to the group’s current lineup (of musicians): it sounded like, Widowspeak, like so many bands in the past, could potentially, lost their niche, with the loss of their original members (let’s not forget the John Frusciante and RHCP, David Lee Roth and Van Halen’s of history, anybody? anybody?). More often than not, the quality, the authenticity, really, is tarnished, in the introduction/distraction of replacing the original members. There are big shoes to fill, and well, that drummer, was, from memory, was key player, in winning me over: he seemed to sound out the group’s sparkle: he was part of the “appeal”. So pair that with the addition of, leading lady, Molly Hamilton, revealing an ambitious “change up” in Widowspeak’s overall sound, on the new full-length, Almanac. 

Fuck. Why can’t they just be the same? Why do all good things, have to end? Why can’t you guys just make up, and make Harsh Realm Pt. 2, so my selfish fan girl needs can be met? Why? Why Molly? Why?

Well. Ok. So, I’m being a little bit more than just, melodramatic. But, really…. considering, my loyalty for this Brooklyn, former trio, current, well…more than trio, lies primarily in the debut record’s, Harsh Realm (2011), ability to satisfy my “girly” music void, without destroying my basic music morale: their was something poetically punk, in Hamilton’s definitive femme sound, that strayed from your typical pop-star stereotypes, and in that radiated a cool-girl class meets Audrey Hepburn grace missing, currently, in music. I might add, that even the most heavy of music lovers, female-ly speaking, all hold a small, yet paramount space in their hearts for the sensitive stuff: so shoot me, I can like that goopy, disgusting, and cliché-“love” shit too…and still be a slayer on the reg. I have a soul. I have a collection of nighties bearing the “circa 1960’s” stamp of originality, too. I am the prettiest punk, and I will tear up that circle pit, in my various, floor length and rainbow gowns, and I will look good doing it: I will kick all your asses, and it will be classy as fuck.

Anyways, apart from the above, slightly off topic, off-the-rail aside, I just took, the bottom line is, I had very little faith in Widowspeak, and their decision to completely ignore everything I loved about them, when writing and recording the latest record. Sick.

I was wrong.

Dead.

Wrong.

Widowspeak’s set, at the Great Scott, part deux, a few weeks back, was perfect: just like their single (and the rest of the new record), Ballad of The Golden Hour. All of this, of which, you can listen and decide for yourself, right here…on the ‘stache (see that play button, attached to this here blurb, go ahead…and…press it…duh). 

Pleasantly surprised, perfectly in love,

- Mads

 

Source: Bandcamp

Madi’s Superstache Tracks of LE Week ~  So, I’ve been much more proactive, these days, in regards to finding new music. I never was good at reading blogs, and understanding the basic jargon. I’ve learned a lot, however, from my own endeavors, in music journalism. Therefore, I’ve become much more acute in the whole oh-my-god-I-will-die-if-I-don’t-find-something-new-to-listen-to realm of things. The internet, and all these cool music blogs, engines, and websites have begun to cater to “not-so-smart-blonde” types, like myself, and now, folks, I can uncover miracles in music, from the safety of my room! Okay, let me clarify something: when I say “new music”, don’t confuse my personal discoveries, with the common association, most have, when pairing the words, new, and music, together. Yes, I am aware, that most of the groups, and accompanying tracks I’m about to share are, decades, years, and months old; but, to me, it’s all the same. To me, you see, it’s something new, to be excited over. It’s something, I found upon my own discovery. It’s something, I didn’t know I liked, or even could like. This is the music that came to me, probably, when I heard a song that spawned a whole onslaught of “new” bands, albums, EP’s, genres, and scenes. So, there’s my shpeal: maybe you’ve already been there and done that, a million times over. Maybe, I’m behind the times. Maybe, I’m completely naïve, in my music taste, or is it unrefined? Either way let me be clear: I give zero fucks. Meaning I give zero fucks in what you think, even if I decided to put a Mandy Moore track, up on this bitch, be it serious, or for shits and giggles: I own my childhood nostalgia, and I revel in all things Blink 182. Thus, without further ado, here are my “new” to my iTunes, new to my ears, and new to my heart, and by that, I mean, my own, latest, musical indulgences. Here are Madi’s SUPERSTACHE tracks, of the week, y’all! - Mad Dog  _______________________________________ 1. Young Gold – Quilt 2. Outlaw Heart – Tiger Army 3. Someday – The Growlers 4. No Offense – Slutever 5. Nancy Drew – Fat Creeps 6. Best Night – The War On Drugs 7. Sunday Girl – Blondie 8. Look At Your Game Girl – Charles Manson 9. Jumpin Jack Flash (Stones Cover) – Ananda Shankar 10. Hair Pool – Defiance Ohio
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Madi’s Superstache Tracks of LE Week ~ 

So, I’ve been much more proactive, these days, in regards to finding new music. I never was good at reading blogs, and understanding the basic jargon. I’ve learned a lot, however, from my own endeavors, in music journalism. Therefore, I’ve become much more acute in the whole oh-my-god-I-will-die-if-I-don’t-find-something-new-to-listen-to realm of things. The internet, and all these cool music blogs, engines, and websites have begun to cater to “not-so-smart-blonde” types, like myself, and now, folks, I can uncover miracles in music, from the safety of my room! Okay, let me clarify something: when I say “new music”, don’t confuse my personal discoveries, with the common association, most have, when pairing the words, new, and music, together. Yes, I am aware, that most of the groups, and accompanying tracks I’m about to share are, decades, years, and months old; but, to me, it’s all the same. To me, you see, it’s something new, to be excited over. It’s something, I found upon my own discovery. It’s something, I didn’t know I liked, or even could like. This is the music that came to me, probably, when I heard a song that spawned a whole onslaught of “new” bands, albums, EP’s, genres, and scenes. So, there’s my shpeal: maybe you’ve already been there and done that, a million times over. Maybe, I’m behind the times. Maybe, I’m completely naïve, in my music taste, or is it unrefined? Either way let me be clear: I give zero fucks. Meaning I give zero fucks in what you think, even if I decided to put a Mandy Moore track, up on this bitch, be it serious, or for shits and giggles: I own my childhood nostalgia, and I revel in all things Blink 182. Thus, without further ado, here are my “new” to my iTunes, new to my ears, and new to my heart, and by that, I mean, my own, latest, musical indulgences. Here are Madi’s SUPERSTACHE tracks, of the week, y’all!

- Mad Dog 

_______________________________________

1. Young Gold – Quilt

2. Outlaw Heart – Tiger Army

3. Someday – The Growlers

4. No Offense – Slutever

5. Nancy Drew – Fat Creeps

6. Best Night – The War On Drugs

7. Sunday Girl – Blondie

8. Look At Your Game Girl – Charles Manson

9. Jumpin Jack Flash (Stones Cover) – Ananda Shankar

10. Hair Pool – Defiance Ohio


Those two-week old posts, you finally realize, have been sitting in a draft box, not the outbox, you thought you hit, hastily…

Some, pardon for my blatant bragging, analog love, for your tumbling pleasures:

I should be showering, and getting my ass into gear, and prepping for the mass consumption of liquor and beer, because that’s what a twenty year old does, on a Saturday night. Right? Instead, I’m staring at the record player, I’m about to repossess. A $3.99 purchase, non-functioning, transformed into a old-school, portable, and ready for a lifetime of impromptu dance parties to come. It’s recovery is only a trip to Western Mass, or vice-a-versa, away…sigh…

I am dwelling on it’s christening record, and I’m thinking, Blondie, might just have to be it…Parallel Lines, anyone? anyone? 

“…Lost inside, aadorable illusion; and, I cannot hide.”

- M

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  • 19 Plays
  • No FeelingsSex Pistols

No Feelings

- The Sex Pistols

Today, well, I guess, yesterday, at this point, right now, that I’m writing to you: I was talking to someone about…what else? the trials and triumphs that mold this thing we call, life (enter ooooohs and ahhhhhhhs here); and, well…he told me (my friend, that is): Madi, even the most uber hardcore, thickest skinned, punk rock people, out there, have to be sensitive sometimes: they have to have their “girly breakdowns”, they have to feel things; and, consequently, it would be, quite frankly, weird, if I (I referring to me, Madi) wasn’t concerned, the 20 year old, young blood, with still (I tend to forget this) SO MUCH TO FUCKING LEARN, about my, irrelevant to you (you, being the reader of this….sorry for the vague pronoun references, and now vague details, into my life, trust me, this part plethora of music-related, bodies of words, to sentences, before you, is, supposed to be a departure from the serious, grown-up things in life, and in that, sparing you the after-school special-esque details, is me, really, doing you a favor: plus the specifics, will only deflate, the outlandish stories, you currently, have full authority to erect in the blank space, I left, right here for you: and well, tearing it down, wouldn’t be fun, now would it?), but anyways, legitamate concerns, for anyone, that happen to be, my own unraveling, at my present vantage point: my current stance in the, here comes the cliché, “walk of life”. Some (current happenings) of which are not all bad, may I add. 

My reaction, consequently, was to laugh, and offer, unbeknownst to me, at the time, some kind of twisted foreshadowing, a hint, that some life apparitions were awaiting my near future (it’s way more fun, when it happens in literature and not my real life, though):

“yah dude, you’re totally right, if all the punks didn’t get a good cry in, here and there, and figure out their shit, like the rest of us, instead of adding another line of studs to their leather vest, as proof they are impervious to the shit life throws at each, and everyone of us, they’d all end up like Sid and Nancy: dead”.

I felt so insightful. For once.

I’d rather not detail the morbid facts surrounding those “star-crossed” lovers, and their doomed fate, as the supporting evidence to my previous assertion and it’s validity. We all know what happened, and we all know who those two were, and we all know, they had some deep-seeded issues, I’m pretty sure, they never sought proffesional help in tackling (hello please, Sid and a shrink is so not punk rock: oh god, “Sid and Nancy take on couples therapy: the movie”… I’m pretty sure, im going to hell via those two, for fantasizing about their made for movie, yet unlived, potential here); however, it makes sense to me, and it made/makes sense to Joe (my friend), and I’m pretty sure, if you have half a brain, it makes sense to you, too. So let’s move on, shall we?

So, circa 4 am, today, in a bed, not my own, but, and by my own will, next to a, pardon my lack of humility here, but hands down, personal best, champion catch for your gangster-in-training, aka Madi, aka ME, in the whole ungodly attractive appearance/perfect combination of surface asshole, secret teddy bear, I mean lady slayer, sensitive painter type ratio, we all inherently manifest some derivation of, custom fit to one’s taste, from pre-teen to the present; where, depending on one’s patience, and willingness to refine, we all, eventually/aspire, at the least, to procure something, physically, close to perfect, male-related in “real life”. I’m getting sidetracked here, but I should add, that I’m not implying the man in question, here, for me; whom, additonally, is only briefly referenced in the earlier part of this paragraph, is my definitive “perfect”, I REPEAT I AM NOT A PSYCHOPATH (yah this rant about my boys and your boys and the “ratio” was so unnecessary, given all that was mentioned, previous, was a boy, and a bed, but hey, I hope you laughed, at least), but for me, right now, I feel like, he’s, well, responsible for the return of my long-lost, yet widely recognized smile, I’ve been trying to find the means to unbury, for a sad amount of time. But, really, I think I’m giving him a little to much credit, here: and there’s my first, and habitual problem with every friend/relationship, I enter: I don’t really acknowledge, the progression, I made, really, on my own (so “boy” says he reads this blog, my blog, I mean: I think, based on the above, the teddy bear line, especially, tomorrow will definitely shed some light on said statement’s factuality: it will probably be slightly awkward, for myself, as well, if he’s the stand up guy he says he is…conundrum…eh…fuck it: test #1 commence).

At any rate, like I said, somewhere around 4 am, about to finally fall asleep: just like that, here I am, fucking exhausted, and BAM: I started to feel the onset of, what USED to be a far to familiar feeling, (over a year ago, has it been absent, specifically): a night-time, super dark, super scary, just like I remember them, but almost worst, because, I didn’t see it coming: my favorite worst nightmare revisited: the madi gets mildly psychotic: the panic attack: the bane of bad decisions, and bad surroundings, slapping me across the face, for doing things wrong.

No sleepovers tonight, for you, Madi. If only, it were 12 and not 4: if only, the sleepover, was not halfway through it’s usual routine. This is karma, for not dragging your punk rock prince, out on some of “your version of town”: this is the result of knowing, and allowing, yourself (myself) to forget, even if just for a small, hectic, period of time, who you are (who I am), and how and why that smile only rounds out, the 20-years in the making, fine young cannibal, I’m, well, pretty happy to be.

Yah, I’ve gotten lazy on the adventures, in exchange for cuddles…and I know, it will only inhibit any potential, there might be, if I don’t dance battle him on the disco floor, sometime soon.

…And yes…I’m serious.

I never said I was cool.

I said I was me.

He should know me. 

All of me, I mean.

So, mix that, with the copious and thus varying slipshod, lying below me, at my feet, that has some real potential to dictate where, I, and I, alone, will wind up, eventually…if not in the seriously, near future. Let me be honest with you here, by my euphemismic (is that a word?) diction, here, my “less-than intact” existance, at this point, exactly, is actuslly, completely falling apart: in the Joseph Campbell- a “hero quest”-, this is your “call”, kind of way; and well, you got yourself all the ingredients for one super awesome panic attack, ready up on your unknowing, order!

Anyways, I think that’s what got me. I’ve been trying to play it off, like I’m unaffected, by the curve balls: it’s not that, I’m upset, this path is rockier than I expected (because we all know, with my luck, it will always be), it’s just that…. I’m really scared, to make the wrong turn, or not interpret my call, as what it REALLY is supposed to be. I know, that’s, with or without boy, I’m at a crossroads, here, and one path, is the up hill climb to the stuff I’ve been dreaming up, and hoping to create, for myself, since I can barely remember, and the second path…well, I don’t know what it is, but it’s not anywhere near, what I, am resolute, in knowing, I want for myself.

I’m scared someone picked path 2 for me, a long time ago, and boy, right here, with all his tattoos, and cool minor threat, dead milkmen, op ivy tees, and tie dye, and hugs, and warmth, and fun, and proof, that life is fun, with just a 40 or less: leave the other, not-so-kid friendly shit at home for once, because, you, Madi, for the first time since, fuck, seven, want to feel, these feelings, without a filter, you prescribed yourself, to make it easier to digest, well he’s the last glimpse at path 1, I’m getting, before I, unavoidably, begin my descent.

I’m also starting to feel, like I’m waist deep, in all the sludge, I’ve allowed myself to pack away, for when I was “ready”, but really I thought I could avoid ‘till I was dead, to feel, transcribe, translate, and differentiate between the stuff I can discard or hold onto, in the giant cluster-fuck of things, I feel like, I somehow, well I know exactly how, managed to drape in an opaque gauze, until now.

So, that’s the catch. I get to feel happy, only if I sift through the stuff I have on lay away first…isn’t it?

I can’t pull a perpetual Sid and Nancy. I can’t pretend to be tough, when really…I’m just making it harder, for me, to find the sunny side, and thus, become a permanent resident, of the “good life”. I get it, but I’m not ready: but I’m motivated, now, to grow a pair, and get over it.

I think, I’m only still at the crossroads, and I see exactly what it takes, for me, to keep on keepin’ on. God, I wish I could of worked this all out, in the warmth of a bed, instead of (thank god I kept it in, until half way to home) on between the unrelenting, near waterfalls of tears, I tried wiping off my face, for fear of the cold, and the wind, casting the water upon my face, into twin, mini, yet impressive icicles, beginning, just at my tear ducts, and on. Well, I didn’t, but I do now, know, and I feel, for lack of better description, a fucking lot better.

Joe was right. The truth is like the worst diarrhea, one will ever experience here: it’s just not going to be convenient or cease, and it will be there, for all to see, if you don’t take care of it, how you know you should, sooner, rather than later: it’s time for me to feel it.

Plus, Sid Vicious was revered for his tough exterior…and look what that drove him to do: kill his fucking perfect ratio (Nancy), and then himself. He should of let his balls get cold for once, and fucking, quit it with the anarchist bull shit, that although, was admirable, and pioneered some real social change, was also, I’m sorry, but you know it’s true, a clear attempt to cover up, some real shit, deep back, in that (sexy as fuck) punk’s black and liberty spikey adorned head of his (disclaimaer: this is not my way of hinting at prospective/conspired actions of similar results, on my own part. I’m just, you know, trying to point out, the psychological beating, I really think, they, and most of us take, in our lives; and, thus, some of the extreme examples in history, as a means to support it. you can simmer down now, dean of students, at Emerson College…besides, I’m not your minyun hopeful, little bitch anymore: I’m not enrolled anymore, ass wipe, stalk some other poor kid, whose also as genius, who also will be bad publicity for your con of a college, you’ve got going. :).) 

Sometimes, we can have No Feelings,

Or

We can just get through it, with the Sex Pistols, and their arrangement, appropriately named, No Feelings, instead.

I guess, you could say, this track, will be a long-time member, of my go-to music, for the future to come, cause I got some shit to figure out for myself.

Wish me luck, or don’t; but really, what kind of selfish bitch, wouldn’t? Not you…I hope; or else you got some serious complexes to breakdown of your own, my friend. So, I’ll just assume, I’ve got your good graces, and carry on then, because I wish, always, the best to all of you, for that’s what this is all supposed to amount to anyways: a life, enriched, in people that love you, for you, and it is unwavering in this quality.

- Madi

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  • 41 Plays
  • Cooking Up Something GoodMac Demarco

Cooking Up Something Good

- Mac Demarco

I don’t know if I’ve been drinking the Kool-Aid; but, for some reason, Mac Demarco’s full-length “2”, has successfully taken over my itunes. I feel like an addict. He’s just undeniable. Well, his music is, at least. It’s easy listening, with a bad-ass kind of charm. It’s fluff for the punk: sensitivity for the tough: cliche for the weary. It’s well, been on repeat, for a solid week straight, and I feel like…maybe I’m just in love…with Demarco’s down-home kind of sound. There’s an infinite sense of youth, and in this, a kind of comfort: that we can be young at heart, forever. I feel like, maybe, this is what home, should really feel like. My home, at least. 

“…and I’m still up at midnight, chewing nicorette…”

- M 

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  • 31 Plays
  • Da Mystery of Chessboxin'Wu Tang Clan
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Da Mystery of Chessboxin’

- Wu Tang Clan

Under every petit, part punk and part dork, girl, out there, is an OG, miniature baller, just waiting to break out. My friend Jjed, well, he happens to be the catalyst in yours truly’s “coming out”: believe it or not, I’ve got a soft spot for the GZA, RZA, ODB, and the rest of Wu Tang Clan, that dates back to my awkward middle school years. Jjed, the prince of a friend he is, hooked it up, like no other friend would, and procured a ticket for me (holy shit thank you so much) and tonight’s eminent show at the Middle East, with Masta Killa, as the bill’s headliner. So, in anticipation for what I can expect will be, an epic…potentially legendary night of live-music to come, I give you the beginning of it all: Masta Killa’s very own coming out, on Wu-Tang’s, Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers), and the classic track, Da Mystery of Chessboxin’.

Wu-Tang’s the best. the clan’s highly under-rated member, Masta Killa, possesses the same authenticity and originality as a solo artist, and collaborative MC, throughout his career, consistently, that the Wu-Tang are widely revered in pioneering.

I will street fight any loser, that states otherwise. 

Tonight, Boston becomes BK…

…your wangster in training, 

- Madi 

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Block of Ice

- Thee Oh Sees

Here’s some early morning, brain candy, to start your day off right. John Dwyer is god. This song, I’m convinced, will never get old (neither will the memory of their set, at The Well, in Brooklyn, last September)…unfortunately, this recording, like all great things, it seems, is yet to get longer…(if only my next paycheck, came as quickly, as the duration of this track). Short and sweet, is underrated: call me selfish, but I’m a glutton for Dwyer and his post coach whips, present genius. This song just does something for me, and the video, your about to feast your eyes on, while you (if your a normal, breathing human with half way decent taste in not just music, but life) revel in pretty oceany, sunrise, sunset, fuck if it matters….for, it offers a departure: a 2:52 state of bliss, and, well I know, you agree, for the majority of you, have already become seasoned authorities, in the both block of ice, and of course, oh see, realm of things. Good morning, motherfuckers: Don’t forget to eat your all-star breakfast, and wax your stache, on this lovely, freezing Thursday daybreak. 

Yours Truly…

and, a, Devout Dywer Dame,

- Madi

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  • 29 Plays
  • JamaicaFrench Club
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Jamaica

- French Club

So, I’m a fucking bitch. Not really. I’m just god awful at remembering…anything. Well, that is, unless, it’s in my immediate presence; and even then, someone needs to be lighting a stick of dynamite, to my ass, before, I finally get the hint. It’s a terrible habit. It contributes to a flawed work ethic: it has cost me, a lot, in the past. It’s not laziness. Don’t confuse the two. It’s really just, that I have, the POOREST, organizational skills, in the whole, entire human race. I’m not kidding. Enter middle school, and the binder. People tried to push me into the accordion file thing, instead…because they figured, the explosive binder, was simply a sign, that the “binder” was in fact the problem, not me. Well, I tried the file, the binder, the notebooks, the this, the that, the other…and the truth is, I can’t organize my thoughts, my work, my plans, my clothes, or my life, and yes, it’s cost me; but, I’m trying really hard. I promise.

With that said, I owe an apology, that’s without a doubt, impossible to equate in size. I feel so bad, for honestly, neglecting a group of kids, making music, that have bent over backwards, to elicit any kind of response from myself, to be left kind of in the dark. I’m a space cadet. It’s not excuse, regardless. I kind of feel like, maybe I should be their roadie bitch, for life, because I can’t imagine, this, as sincere, as it is, will mean much, after the long overdue, promised listen, I’ve finally gotten around to doing, for my really great friend, Mikey, and his band (his other band), French Club, who, even played at my house, who even blew my mind with epic sound waves of awesomeness, and who even care about what the fuck, some little blonde chick, with LOSER stamped across her forehead, thinks about their music, to begin with.

Yah. I’m a cunt.

I’m sorry Mikey. You know, that I know, your little project, out there in Ohio (it is Ohio, right?) is kind of like the greatest thing to happen, to music, ever. That is, outside of the Basement Beat. It’s fucking amazing. Far from little: And, all your co-conspirators, aka band mates, are absolute geniuses.

Okay, with that aside, novella, and/or plea, finally over with, and proof of how pathetic, I am. Let’s change the language here. I for one am ready. Even though, I was a devout Spanish club, class, and etc. participant, back in the day, I always found myself, fighting back, what I knew was, a glow of utter jealousy: I was always super green with envy, of the kids who took French. They always looked like they were having more fun. They were always the cool kids. They inevitably chose a dialect, that, sorry to generalize here, but you know it’s true, is pretty much, universally received, as the sexiest pairing of sounds to transmit out of a person’s trap.

French, France, and their all-encompassing culture, is even sans the topless beaches, in the Riviera, so fucking hot: it’s so fucking smooth: I kissed a boy from Paris, when I was 15, in Barcelona, and I’ll tell you…given my less-than stellar memory, I think we can all deduce, that the pre-pubescent at best, Parisian, was more memorable than any post-awkward Madi phase, present slayer, of fine young men, I’ve become, well, he was much more, French (refer to previous, personal descriptors of the French here), and much more cool, than the drug addicts, and losers I deal with, today. I lay my case to rest.

However, I found it appropriate, that the actual band, in question, French Club, named themselves, so. Regardless, of what they were going for: I knew, they’d probably be just as cool, as the French “thing”, I’d idealized for myself, since a kid. They were, of course, probably even better.

They were, of course, at 2 am, echoing throughout the streets of Back Bay, Boston, from the fourth floor, 1 bedroom apartment, of my former stomping grounds, KILLING IT. I don’t want to be rude, for all the groups that played, on the actual event flyer, that night, were awesome: I just, well, I think French Club, arguably, put on the best performance, that evening…and, it was impromptu.

I had no idea, when Rhodes and Lily, FC’s front man (Rhodes) and part princess, part trumpet player, and part leading lady, in her own right (Lily), if they could fuck around a little after the other bands played (the conversation went something like that, from what I can remember), what I was really saying yes to.

Fortunately, it was one of those mind-bending, is this real life, to good to be true, kind of shocked moments. Not the much more frequent, opposing moments of disbelief, I tend to find myself, getting suckered into agreeing on, and thus, being mortified, by the end of, for giving the okay, ahead of time, thanks to the pretty well-known fact, that I’m a pushover, and I can’t say no.

Thank you French Club, for not destroying my life, or apartment…

Thank you French Club for making me wish I’d locked you guys and myself, in a room, all summer, and made you guys play.

Thank you for being something other than super lo-fi, shoe-gazey, garage rock…like everyone and their mother, these days.

Thank you for being a cool, almost Francois in existence, mix of at times the White Stripes, the Moldy Peaches, the Strokes, and even, at times, even heavier. I could of sworn, I heard some Queens of The Stone Age, coming through, here and there, in a way, that well, makes this mosh-pit ready, pint-sized, semi-closeted head banger’s heart melt.

But, most importantly, Thanks for Shit Talk. The November release, of French Club’s first, full-length album, is exceptional: it’s perfect. It’s also available for download, to the public, on a name your price kind of bottom-line, on the groups band camp.

Shit Talk, like it’s founding namesake, and reputable member’s is colorful, rich, well-recorded, fun, at moments begging to be danced to, and others, okay to just relax to. The record moves beautifully. I keep forgetting, that these voices, instrumentals, and arrangements, are coming from my friends, and not the likes of mega star, mega ego bands such as the Strokes, themselves.

Although, they’re just getting started, it’s clear; French Club possesses talent, originality, and the potential for serious success. They are worthy of your time, and your, if anything, brief listen. They will be huge one day. They will probably never speak to me again, because I’m a flaky friend; however, flake or not, I stand by the fact, they, are truly, one of a kind.

So, do something for yourself, this winter: stop sitting around, talking shit, and bowing down to mediocre, poser performers, like everyone’s favorite (except mine) Odd Future, and let the cool kids, from French Club, show you a whole, new world of beauty, and music with their ironically-titled debut, Shit Talk, this -15 and dropping, as I type this, frigid season.

Love you guys, and stunned, although I should of known better, by how impeccable, the new record turned out, and I’ll see you, hopefully, this summer, for a more prompt, less impromptu spot, in my abode…if your not already seeing stars, famous by then….XOXO…

- Madi

  • 9 Plays
  • James Days' MilkshakesCreaturos

James Days’ Milkshakes

- CreaturoS

Here is some really good…really local…did I mention really good? music. This tune, specifically, has been…On repeat, on my computer and my, well, head: and, get this! It’s reaally easy for you to, NOW, further enjoy, by clicking ME! 

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Fuck Ovaltine, I’d like…more garage rock, please. PLEASE…

Dear CreaturoS, I am unworthy, 

- Madi 

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