Contents:
A cosmic unit of energy. Sometimes it takes a nudge to let go and get on the dance floor. And sometimes it takes a big 'ol push And we're well versed in those. Dubbed "stank face inducing glory" by Okayplayer, the record is a lightning rod of inspiration for a new generation of funk music lovers. Click here for info on AMP Membership. Regular on-sale is Friday, Sept.
At the time, Simonett had lost most of his music gear, thanks to a group of enterprising car thieves who'd ransacked his vehicle while he played a show with his previous band. Left with nothing more than an acoustic guitar, he began piecing together a new band, this time taking inspiration from bluegrass, folk, and other genres that didn't rely on amplification. Simonett hadn't played any bluegrass music before, and he filled his lineup with other newcomers to the genre, including fiddler Ryan Young who'd previously played drums in a speed metal act and bassist Tim Saxhaug.
In a genre steeped in tradition, the album stood out for its contemporary sound, essentially bridging the gap between the bandmates' background in rock music and their new acoustic leanings. In addition to major bluegrass and folk festivals, they began showing up at Coachella, Bumbershoot, and Lollapalooza. Made up of some of the city's most promising young talent, the band represents the next generation of great jazz musicians emerging from the birthplace of the genre.
It was there that his spiritual sensibility was born, and he has continued to infuse that spirituality into his performances and compositions ever since. Willie hopes to continue spreading his message of peace through his music, and hopes to play with as many musicians as possible throughout his career. The band captures that same dynamic presence on their most recent album, Changing Shades, delivering their exceptional songwriting and bluegrass roots with the punch of a rock band. The first incarnation of The Lil Smokies got together in Missoula, Montana, during the winter of Through the years, the band transformed and settled into the current lineup — Scott Parker on bass; Jake Simpson on fiddle; Matt Rieger on guitar; Matt Cornette on banjo and Dunnigan on dobro.
His fans, who often discover him from being brought to his shows by their friends, are fiercely loyal. Many have attended dozens or even hundreds of shows. In retrospect, it appears inevitable that Bob Schneider would become an artist. He was born in Michigan and raised in Germany, where his father pursued a career as a professional opera singer.
As a boy, Schneider studied piano and guitar, often performing at family parties and backing his father on drums at nightclubs throughout his youth in Germany and Texas. He went on to study art—his other primary passion and avocation—at the University of Texas El Paso, before moving to Austin and establishing himself as a musician. He performs relentlessly, creates new music compulsively, writes poetry, and regularly shows his visual art in galleries around Austin.
So dealing with that traumatic event while getting older and looking at death in a realistic, matter of fact way, experiencing the most joy I've ever experienced along with feelings of utter despondency in a way that would have been impossible to experience earlier in my life, all comes out in the songs. The Mothership Taos Tap Room. These artists have reached their limit in all directions, back into traditions and forward into uncertain futures. Well into her 30s, silent film star Mary Pickford was the waif-iest waif in film history, and the number of convincing variations she wrung on this theme is remarkable.
Richard Tognetti reflects on synergising music and film with the cello-like voice of narrator Willem Dafoe in his work for Jennifer Peedom's gorgeous documentary, Mountain. The rootsy releases of prove that Americana is and always has been experiencing a Rainbow Wave. Considering its YA audience, Markus Zusak's Bridge of Clay is a superb and accessible gateway to developing critical literacy skills. Jean Grey and Cassandra Nova have their final showdown in a war of ideas, wherein Jean applies a different tactic to quell the conflict. Christian Rivers' directorial debut, Mortal Engines, is that lump of coal in your holiday movie stocking.
Australian producer Kaz James gives the song by the electro-folk outfit a deep house makeover, turning into a guaranteed floor-filler. Popmatters is wholly independently owned and operated. Related Articles Around the Web. Hollywood's Most Powerful Waif Well into her 30s, silent film star Mary Pickford was the waif-iest waif in film history, and the number of convincing variations she wrung on this theme is remarkable. The Allure of 'Mountain': The 20 Best Americana Albums of The rootsy releases of prove that Americana is and always has been experiencing a Rainbow Wave.
Kaz James Remixes Tall Heights' "The Deep End" premiere Australian producer Kaz James gives the song by the electro-folk outfit a deep house makeover, turning into a guaranteed floor-filler. The 70 Best Albums of The 20 Best Americana Albums of The Best Music of The 20 Best Folk Albums of The Best Metal of The 10 Best Indie Rock Albums of Then, one day, when he was two, Jonah got an ear infection.
Leah and Sarah had avoided going to the doctor until then, but this time there was no way around it. The system is oppressive and one day the world will return to its natural state of anarchy. The doctor was a short old guy with really long eyebrows. He was grumpy with them, told them that even anarchist parents had to make sure their child could have access to health care. He sent them out with a hand-written prescription for antibiotics.
In the lobby, they thanked the nice receptionist and promised her that they were going to try to accept organized society. When they turned around, Jonah was throwing magazines on the ground and a lady in a pinstriped jacket was looking at him funny. She had lots of makeup around her eyes and on her forehead, and deep creases were forming in it from how much she was frowning. Sarah picked up Jonah and apologized to the lady. That was a bad call. She had calves like bricks, so thick the nylon around them was stretched almost invisible. She caught up to them almost instantly, grabbing Sarah by the sweater so tightly her knuckles turned white.
From a distance, she had looked like the kind of lady Leah and Sarah would never talk to: She was a fraud, which meant that she was one of them, which meant that she was no more entitled to having a baby than they were. Leah got a feeling like a cold glass of water down the back. This was the feeling she got when she sensed a manager trailing her through the aisles of a department store and her skirt was full of perfume bottles and lacy underwear. She gave her a swift kick between the shoulder blades and grabbed Sarah by the hand. They ran down the alley, dodging tire rims and broken glass and rotting cabbage.
When they looked back, the woman was trying to sit up on her knees, a palm on the back of her neck. They snuck around to their own building, half a block down. Leah was pretty turned on by how clever Sarah was, throwing the woman off their tracks like that. They loved everything about this situation. They loved having a baby, yes, but they also loved being felons. They liked lying and devising plans. They poured chocolate chips into their palms and ate them with their pinkies up, as if they were tiny appetizers. They made shadow puppets with brown, sticky hands. They looked at some picture books and did whatever they wanted.
When Sarah had to leave for her evening shift, she kissed. Leah and Sarah really did respond well to adversity. It was midnight and raining. I had to come in through the back. Leah took Sarah by the hand and pulled her onto the couch, wrapping her arms and legs around her from behind, like a backpack. She was there as they ate their Corn Pops, did their morning aerobics tape, had their morning bath. She was still there when Leah came back from work around dinner time.
She was there when they went to bed.
The following morning, they cracked the blinds and there she was, wiping something off her windshield with a napkin. They started leaving the apartment less often. They kept the blinds closed. Sarah and Leah had planned a parent meeting. Until then, parent meetings had meant coming up with fun new games to play or sharing intel about where to score free baby stuff. The best apartment in the world? Sarah drew a small arrow on the able, and another arrow, and another. She did this when she was deep in thought. Are you saying we should learn more about her?
I mean, we have the advantage. They could feel her presence like a mop bucket weakly but relentlessly slopping all over their shoes. Leah and her hid under an old wool blanket on the backseat, parked three cars behind the old Camry. They played a game where they made each other cum and had to stay very still and quiet.
They followed the Camry slowly, from a distance, through the dark potholed streets of their neighborhood. The woman pulled into the driveway of an old brick bungalow only a dozen blocks from their apartment. She walked around the side of the house and down a small staircase, into the basement. Leah and Sarah walked across the wet grass and crouched on either side of a small slit of basement window.
She scooped two chicken breasts and two dollops of mashed potatoes onto plates,. The answer was that she felt like life had decided to make the space above her head its toilet seat. There must have been at least six chicken breasts sitting in her gut at that very moment, and there were about to be seven. Brenda took a steaming bite of mushroom chicken.
Realizing that she felt like shit was a bit better than feeling like shit and not realizing it. It meant that if she started to punch her steering wheel, she knew why she was punching it. The same scene had been replaying in her head for almost two years. Why should Ken get to have all the fun? Brenda needed a fucking drink once in a while too. The kid kept hitting and hitting — Brenda had never seen so much blood.
That had scared her, really scared her. The rest was fuzzy. That night, Ken had come home from the hospital and the two of them. The day after, Ken had gone back to work, proudly parading his black eyes and casts, and had seemed to forget about Lucas completely.
Why should they care? She was done, anyway. She went to their room and took off her jeans. They were holding up pretty well for forty-two. She threw on her oversized Labatt t-shirt and bolted out of the apartment, lunging across the grass and landing on the girls, whose young bodies crunched under her like a pile of kittens. She yanked them up by the hair and dragged them into her apartment. Those are the little bitches that stole our fucking baby. In times like these, Brenda was happy to have Ken around. Bleed it out of them?
Girls, what do you think?
Is it worth losing an ear to keep playing house with my boy? He licked his teeth to seem threatening, but he just looked like an old fool sucking on his dentures. Brenda tried to hide her embarrassment. Are you gonna give me back my boy?
He was naked and still. Food is a big part of it: Sure, some people do. My first week here, I walk to view an apartment with a broker. As long as she stayed eighty-eight, maybe the twin eights could continue to protect her from the dual companions of stroke and heart attack that followed her for so many years. I saw an orange glow. The 20 Best Americana Albums of The rootsy releases of prove that Americana is and always has been experiencing a Rainbow Wave.
The girls shook their heads and squeezed their eyes shut. One of them started humming. Ken got closer to the boyish one and grabbed her ear, brought the knife to the back of it and. Blood began dripping on her shoulder. Just shoot, you prairie sissy! The two girls were sobbing, their whole bodies trembling. It felt nice, soothing. She reached up to peel the duct tape off their mouths. What do you think, Sarah? A dangerous alley with blood and stinky garbage and sharp objects. Do you know how irresponsible that is? Is he seriously watching hockey right now? Brenda looked up at the girls, whose young faces suddenly seemed so wise, like two lesbian angels who had come to tell her the good news, or at least to call her out on her shit.
Did you know he gave our son beer one time? So he would to go sleep already? But before I knew how I got here, this was my life, and it was the only thing I had. It felt like leaving my life would be admitting there was nothing good about it, that I would be better off having nothing than having the few things I had.
It sounds dumb, I know. I think we can make it work. Brenda got some scissors from the kitchen and cut their tape off carefully. They sandwiched her into a warm hug, and Brenda felt her heart unfurl. And make sure you grab that tablecloth. She agreed that the apartment had a really good vibe. She also loved how much of her son was in the apartment. They made rum and cokes and talked about the meaning of life. It was hard to say what the meaning of life was. Maybe nature, or friendship. When Jonah came home, they all played a game of Candy Land. They helped Brenda unpack her things and decided they should all have a sleepover in the living room.
Reckoning The man who raped me lit from the underwater lights, tugging my roommate onto his lap, fondling her breasts. The sound of birds. I started to feel lightheaded.
Warning signs would lecture not to mix alcohol with a hot tub, not to stay in too long, not to swim unattended. But there were no signs. I stumbled from tub to pool, curled my toes around the ledge. Highs never above I threw myself into the pool. Instead maybe it skipped a beat or two, before quickening, racing, and I dragged myself out, limbs heavy. Stumbled home on feet acting more drunk than they were before puking. I wanted then to turn my body inside out, to see the way the blood moved through my veins, the way my heart contracted and swelled and contracted again.
We lean against building walls while the dancers pray with their movements. Elisha and I stand alongside the rest of the onlookers, buckled against adobe, eager for shade against the sun. I am both and neither; I am a mutt of the great Southwest, an onlooker, my back against adobe. Today is the feast day, one of both celebration and prayer, vendors and ceremony.
Today there is room for both. And it is Saturday and storm clouds are moving in from the west. Dancers dance and pray in the sun. Elisha eats shaved ice, her lips bright and red, even her teeth tinged the slight color of cherry. I have brought Elisha here to witness, to see, to watch. My friend Luke lays buried just to the north of where this dance is occurring; I imagine his body six-feet underground and wrapped in a blanket, lifeless and barefoot, his soul dancing with the dancers who are praying and moving in the sun.
He was killed by a drunk driver a few years ago, and I think of him often, his widow and two young daughters dancing during feast days such as this, dancing in bare feet and praying for him who lies buried just to the north of the village dance-grounds. It is here Elisha teaches me how to play the roulette table, and we bet it all on red. Red is the color of earth and desire in the southwest. She bets it all on red, and wins.
And it is more than luck that follows her and me on this day, it is destiny, and I struggle to stay sober even with a baby in my belly. My friend Luke was killed by a drunk driver. What does it mean in this moment in time? I see two men driving bulldozers. The afternoon wind is picking up. I am afraid that I will drink again. After the baby is born. I am quiet about this. I was born in this Great American Southwest.
I am of this place. And tonight the sound of rain wakes me, and I lie in the dark, not rising to meet or greet the rain, but instead I lie in the dark, only listening. In the morning the air is fresh and cool and clean and the storm is gone. It is morning and he is still drunk. As the drunkard gets off at the Downtown station I look to the east where the sun is beginning to rise, residue of rain everywhere, the air cool and clean.
A cool May morning, and a man crudo from Monday vodka - the day is already speaking to my soul in more ways than I can account for, and the sun is rising. July and my mother lays on the bed of her bedroom, her hair nearly gone as the chemo works to kill the cancer, and I pray the rosary with her, soft and repeated words, a meditation offered to. It is Sunday morning. I get her another blanket. Father has gone to mass, and I am here with my Mama, praying on the beads she held on to when her own mother died, long weeks turning into months on a nursing-home-bed.
My mother is not dying — I tell myself this. I purchased the bracelet on a Thursday, spring was in the air. The moment I tried the bracelet on my wrist I felt the weight of the silver, heavy and immediate, and I knew it was hers, knew I had to purchase it for her. It was Navajo-made, the salesman said, and I paid for it in cash, right on the spot. I knew the bracelet was hers, the silver and the turquoise together in a lovely song that would grace her thin wrist.
I walked out of the store and into the sunlight, proud of the piece of jewelry I had bought for her, found for her. And yet what I really wanted to give her instead was a piece of myself. I wanted to give her all of my foolish and sentimental self. I wanted to give her an eternity of sobriety, to begin to erase the mountains of destruction and hurt that I caused during all those days and months and years. What I wanted to give her was my weakness and heartache, knowing she, and she alone, could make it better with her love. But instead I gave my mother a bracelet, a silver.
It was all either of us could say. Miguel asks me if I remember much about my last drunk almost one year ago. Instead there is a silence between us, long and lingering, and then I ask him what he remembers. It was the morning I called him, and over the phone, I admitted with my own voice and words that I was an alcoholic.
I was relieved, he said. You sounded tired, he said. Even now I struggle to stay sober, and beauty precipitates from adversity, the sharp, harsh outline of life. On our way to a place called Tseyi, I wonder about the movements we make from ordinary to sacred, from casual to powerful, from oblivious to a state of deep and intended gratitude. I do not ask. I see rain in the distance, falling miles and miles away; the Great American West allows for this sort of view, the kind that stretches on for miles, and miles, almost lifetimes. I think of the Rain Spirits. I think of Rain Spirits dressed in timid and canvas, remaining unrecognizable to those who do not know them.
The blue and the greyness of sky, the weightlessness of clouds that bring us water, the way Ron grips the wheel of the car with both hands, smell of cigarettes never leaving him, driving north, closer to Arizona than we were an hour ago. I grow sleepy and know that it has been years since I have hiked up a mesa.
In Gallup we stop at a gas station. I run inside to use the restroom. Ron remains outside, his large Santa-Clause-belly leaning into the trunk as he settles himself into a stance. He lights up and pulls on the cigarette with a breath that seems urgent rather than enjoyable. We are deep in the heart of Navajo country now.
The Ghost of Blue Bone Mesa [Kent Conwell] on www.farmersmarketmusic.com *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. The Ghost of Blue Bone Mesa is Conwell's eleventh book. Editorial Reviews. About the Author. Kent Conwell grew up in the Texas Panhandle, in the town The Ghost of Blue Bone Mesa - Kindle edition by Kent Conwell. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets.
The landscape where legends of the West were made. There is a beckoning; I sense it traveling through the distance of this great expanse, relentless yet un-wanting. And I understand for a moment that we belong to this world, death and joy alike, and if I remain in the moment then I will have lived well, regardless of what my accomplishments are or are not.
To take it all in, to remain, and then to exhale. The sound of the busy interstate beside us, the vast expanse of a western sky reminding me of today, only today. On the radio a man calling himself DJ Ron Hitz has a big, beautiful voice. Me and Plata listen to him every Friday.
Cause I know that it hurts Plata to feel old. She wants so bad to be young and beautiful. Always showing me pictures of her when there were only two colors: Right now, though, her hurt runs tiny. Small enough for her to peel off her knee brace and shake her ass a few times to the music.
Her dancing makes baby birds fall out of trees and silver coins replace the new moon. Plata is dancing now and nothing is gonna stop her but a dagger set through the center of her lace-paper heart. Instead, it has Arab caravans dragging along lines of camels across cinnamon sands. I call the DJ and beg him to play a song. Any song, just as I long as I hear my name on the radio. Over the phone his voice makes me tear up. Meaning her emphysema is kicking in. And despite the pain of breathing each new breath she wants a drag.
Plata knows I hate her smoking so she heads outside without complaining. Those visions eat her up sometimes though. What no one can. After smoging up the porch, Plata stumbles back in. The door slams behind her and the framed Jesus picture with Roman soldiers shooting dice near the cross goes crooked. Plata hikes up her baggy shorts while asking. Did you tell him to dedicate a song to my girl Michelle? Saying this cause it happens every year for the past twenty.
Plata getting older and her marking the calendar on the day Michelle died, July 27th. I do know this but want to forget that day. I was there, too. In the car that wrecked all our lives. Hear the music playing. He knows what song to spin. Something me or Plata never heard before. That girl singing, her one-person voice sounding like a choir ascending. We sit and listen. The DJ plays that song over and over. I push the off button a couple of times before the music stops. Already I miss the DJ. All the small things that grow big when the shouting starts.
The altar sits on a small table, a present from our neighbor Lottie and Baby Roses her tiny pug, who every now and again meows like a lady cat. We set up the altar yesterday. I put a bunch of seashells cause Michelle liked the sea. Even though the closest we ever got was the dinky river at the edge of town. Plata added the candles, a box of Jolly Ranchers and half a pint of drugstore vodka. All the stuff she likes.