StayLevel

When you make a piece of art that catches people off guard and they cede you their imagination and fond regard, what do you feel compelled to do next? When it’s taken your entire life to write your first record and you’re under a constraint (whether perceived or actual) to deliver the next installment do you follow the muse or do you try and keep people happy with you now you’ve gained a little feedback?

When then-We Come In Pieces axeman Shane Harrington dropped Invisible Ink For Sketching Ghosts under the OST moniker in Spring 2012, it was released for free, online only, with little to no promotion. To date, a live iteration of OST has played exactly 3 shows on 2 continents in the project’s (so far) 4 and a-half year duration. And yet, in small and seemingly unconnected corners and pockets of the internet, Invisible Ink…—almost despite itself—has made a splash. So much so, that a 2014 crowdfunding campaign helmed by Harrington (now based in NYC) to finance a follow up record nearly doubled its hoped for target.

Subsequently, in the winter of that year, while in the process of writing his second LP and in the midst of recording what he hoped would be a 4 track EP, we are instead presented with LP2, Dreams During Hibernation a record that came about in the aforementioned extended creative burst at the end of 2014. This record is the best kind of curve-ball; you think you can expect to see something coming from a mile off and instead it turns in midair and flies right past you. If you appreciate music as art, if you are a student of the game, then you’ll only be able to smile as that curve flies past. Appreciate the pattern of its flight through the air, while its there with you for a moment. Invisible Ink II this is not, and OST as a project is all the better for it. This is a departure into a colder, starker, more electronic sound, less reliant on audio sampling and full band arrangements.

For a moment at the beginning though, it seems as though we’re being greeted with something familiar on the opener “Basic Needs (F.H)” but quickly, the spare guitar and electronics present us with a much more direct and unmasked vibe. The tension presented in this track with its affirming but nearly menacing vocal sample asking the listener some pretty heavy questions, escalates on “Schisas” until a breaking point swells into a gaping, gorgeous open minor chord calling partly to mind the tone emphasized on a track like “Death Before Death” from Invisible Ink…

Those awaiting further release in the form of a full band composition have to wait until 4th track “Arno”, which is preceded by the Grime-y, Garage-y (both UK iterations) smash and grab of “Truff” which made me think of what Andy Morin from Death Grips would sound like if he was from Essex or London, instead of California. This record opens with some abrasive and unflinching HARSH vibes, tones, atmosphere, and production that will quickly decant the casual listener from the attentive one. However, this record rewards sticking with and revisiting.

It would have been easy to write 10-11 mathy/indie tracks, go back to the still relatively full well of samples from cult movies and paint it out by numbers from there. Most bands that were great 11 years ago that are still around have been doing that for at least their last 3 or so records, but... they’re not really that great anymore, are they? To stay great, or even just remain very, very good, you have to keep being honest about where your sound is “at” in the period when writing a record. If you try and force a collection of songs in a direction they aren’t naturally going, you’re going to end up with a turd in your speakers. Inversely, fleshing out a new set of ideas in a different fashion than you’re used to sews the seeds for innovation and a whole new set of possibilities for an act to explore. With repeated listens, the records warmer, lusher second half reveals a set of soundscapes and sonic explorations to get lost in with “BPH”, “Milashka”, and closer “Burner (James)” being particular highlights. The latter is one of OST’s most “should actually be on some movie’s ost” tracks yet, while the former two drown the listener in lush chords and spacious electronic vistas.

Overall, of all the kinds of follow-up records I was expecting from this artist, this has to have been one of the most unexpected kinds. Delve into this with your headphones on in your bedroom late at night or on the train or bus to work before sunrise and you’ll be rewarded with a unique and singular record. Of course, there’s also the fringe benefit in a few years time when a lot more people know about OST, of being able to thumb your nose at those carpet-baggers and ask them about how they rate Dreams During Hibernation amongst the rest of the discography. 

I remember when everything began for me artistically; there were three key events: the first was my Dad reading to me from an incredibly young age (thanks, old man, you are still the shit), getting a toy—but functional—electric guitar, amp, and mic for Christmas at six years old and then the creative writing/essay assignments from my teachers from first class onwards. This is a twee intro but bear with me. As an only child all of these events led me to a world dominated fiercely by my imagination. Losing yourself in a book or seeing a story come to fruition in a copybook were, I now see, very pure events. They were moments of total connection to something being created. These were obviously not moments I fully understood at the time because, in fairness, I was fucking seven. The musical side of things took a bit longer to come to fruition; the toy guitar did not live up to much wear and tear and the finely made Taiwanese headstock was rendered irreparable by Spring. As I was not an immediate prodigy, it gave itself over to other purposes such as being a drill/hammer/shovel in a daydream where I was a miner (dream big, folks). 

Fast forward a few years and I’m in my second year of secondary school. I remember walking through the halls in the autumn of 2001 and the thought occurred to me that I was in this fucking place for another four and a half years. I tucked my head down and resolved to not have that thought for another few years, resolved to endure this place that was 90-95% anathema on a daily basis. I was going to weather this storm somehow, some way. Looking back now I don’t know how I got through the next few months. I’d had a hard time adjusting from my compact, coddled and rural primary school to the bigger, colder and harsher environs of my secondary school. This difficulty was picked up upon and in the hivemind struggle for acceptance I was one of the people singled out for ridicule in order to help bind the dominating social group together. That autumn I also resolved to confront my tormentors and ask them to simply stop what they were doing. Amazingly for the most part, this tactic worked and the hallways became slightly more navigable. I wore my headphones more and tucked my head down even further so that even when the verbal slings came, it looked like they bounced off, even if they still cut deeply.

When I looked up I found that I was nearly two years into a six year cycle with not much beyond good grades to show for it. I also had music, though. When I looked to the peripheries of the playground I began to notice a few subtle and not so subtle signal fires calling out to possible like minds at the risk of possible detection and derision by the Eminem and Tupac worshipping scumbags who seemed to dominate ceaselessly and effortlessly. As I started secondary school in 2000, the most senior class would have been there since 1995 and thanks to that demographic cross section I was bombarded on a daily basis by intriguing and subversive badges of honor emblazoned on old canvas schoolbags. What in the hell is Alice in Chains? Nirvana—my neighbour a few years older than me used to have a t-shirt that said that—I think they’re a band, are they still around? Operation Ivy, Circle Jerks…skating companies like Vans maybe? I had a lot of investigating to do. That’s when I met Steve Maher.

Steve was one of the bearers of the subtle signal fires at the periphery of the playground, I’d seen him in the hallways and moreso I’d seen the Linkin Park logo from Hybrid Theory inked onto his schoolbag (there are cooler band stories coming but for now, fuck off we were 14 and it was 2001). He and I hadn’t spoken much in my first year and a half of school, we hadn’t had many classes together and anyway, I hadn’t spoken much to anybody. Through a mutual friend we got talking and finally I had met someone who dug much of the same music as I did. Furthermore, I’d met someone who was impressively idealistic for a 14/15 year old and even if I didn’t agree with him on every point I was now along for the ride through my most formative adolescent experiences. I’m always grateful that it was with a running buddy who helped me see the world in a different way from how I’d been raised but who I was different enough from to make sure I didn’t tread an identical path.

One of the many times our paths did converge, however, was when we saw Fugazi—on what turned out to be their final tour before their indefinite hiatus—in October 2002. I wish I could say it was an alchemical tale of predestination but all I knew was it was an American punk band and all my friends were going and it was a Saturday night. This had all the hallmarks of an actual music scene taking place in my shitty hometown. This was something. They played in a tiny bar/nightclub above a bowling alley and cinema that has since been demolished to make way for a Marriot and exciting city-centre retail opportunities. The club, Termights, had an infamous metal bar that went across the front of the stage at optimum throat/neck-slamming-into height, something that Ian McKaye was sure to point out to the assembled masses early in Fugazi’s set. The more time that elapses between that night and the present moment, the more I’m astounded as to how a single rock show ever went on there, much less a few nights a week for many years.

I need not go into detail about how mindblowing Fugazi were. You’ve read that story a million times. There was communal awe, people danced, when they roughhoused the show was stopped and Ian MacKaye made sure everyone behaved and was safe, songs struck chords within listeners that inspired them and continues to do so and for the first time some frustrated and isolated teens saw the possibility of punk rock saving their lives. That which affected me much more immediately though, was the people, the crowd, the scene. In this tiny city, a place that I only previously accredited for being the location of my despised secondary school and the hub for the communities that produced the majority of my tormentors, there were other people. People who had long hair and wore converse and bore the keys to a kingdom I needed to be within. Once again, the twee, I know but even in late 2002 in rural Ireland the internet was still a borderline luxury and the satellite TV packages that contained music channels were certainly something my parents could go without. I’d had literally no access to this world except through my limited number of friends up to this point and now there was a room full of people who presented the possibility of an expanded community.

Fugazi blowing my tiny mind in 2002. That's my arm holding a stuffed toy for some reason. Image source: Dischord

I can unreservedly say that this was the most idealistic period of my life until this present year. I felt that my hometown was enough, that there were possibilities to make the kind of art you felt you really needed to make. In my most naïve moments I likened my hometown to an undiscovered Seattle. We had a cool coffee-house, it rained like shit all damn year, and there was enough raggedy punk and metal doing the rounds to make a mid-teen—who could barely play bass and couldn’t find a band to jam with—believe that the next great generational sonic amalgam would sprout from the garages and dingy bars right under his greasy little nose. That’s not the way it worked of course; I’m sitting at a bar in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn as I write this. Rest assured however, I would not be where I am right now were it not for all the experiences—especially musical—garnered (both good and horrendous) in my strange, rainy, prone-to-baffling-cliquishness hometown for little to no money in generally supportive environs. I’m recalling fondly how, before Fugazi took the stage, a crushing post hardcore band called Calzino Fiasco took the stage and hit so hard that I thought I was going to lose my hearing permanently. Their guitarist played so hard that he cut up his hand and finished the set by losing his balance and falling into his amp and nearly knocking all of his shit (half drained beer and all) onto Guy Picciotto’s blood red cab. I remember drunkenly talking to that guitarist years later in his capacity as the bombastic drummer in Limerick stalwarts giveamanakick and seeing him become genuinely humbled that I’d remembered the band that played before Fugazi on a night that changed my life.

Look, brass tacks, your hometown scene is just so damn important be it in Limerick, Latvia or Louisiana but there are also potential pitfalls. Anytime a community, no matter how tenuous, forms around an underground artform you can be rest assured that it will draw people from the peripheries of the accepted social structures. These people have their own unique origins that they feel led them to the periphery, to make them feel like an outsider, a reject, a fuck-up. Within the scene they have the opportunity to stick it to whatever unnamed bully, or inscrutable authority figure looms in their memory and informs the decision to imbibe every drink-too-many and every bump-too-much. That sneering voice that says “fuck you, you’re wrong,” which in turn compels you to respond, “NO, FUCK YOU I’M RIGHT.”  Sadly what can happen is the repetition of the exact social practices that made these people feel inadequate in the first place, a repetition that poisons a scene to become closed in, exclusive and elitist for the achievement of a pointless sense of validation you probably never got in your teenage years. Do you know what your detractors are doing nowadays? They’re most likely doing shit you don’t care about, living a life you don’t want, with a daily set of responsibilities that would turn your stomach. Also, guess what, they don’t care about what you’re doing either so please call a ceasefire on your war with ghosts and take a moment to survey what you have.

In a recent well put piece there were a couple of tough home truths delivered regarding some of the supposed bastions of independent music. While I understand the desire and attractiveness of making a buck from anything you’re passionate about, it cannot come at the expense of the integrity of the same. As far as Ireland goes, it’s probably a ways away from having a sustainable DIY underground scene but what’s the point of trying to squeeze the life out of what little is there? So eager to make a buck from music in Ireland? Email Kodaline and see if they need another publicist, or see if the Script maybe need a social media admin but for fuck sake keep your mitts off a bunch of broke kids practicing in a garage in the Midlands whose biggest dream might be opening for Russian Circles one day. You are proving nothing to no-one only that you’ve become the embodiment of what was supposedly your antithesis.

Not to be taken as condescension from afar, but as someone who has played as part of and covered the Irish underground music scene  for  number of years before giving it a go somewhere else and has seen first-hand the aforementioned repetition by “the marginalized” of the social strictures they claim to hate on a grander scale (believe you me when I say that Brooklyn is a giant living sim of rehashing your adolescence and early 20s the way they should’ve been, maaaaan) one of my enduring hopes is that people take a scene and make it for everyone who needs it. Your exclusivity proves nothing other than your frustrations at never being king jock/queen bee. The Irish underground at its’ best is beautiful and fucked with (at present) no real infrastructure to last, crippled egos and little to no financial aid and guys with concerned girlfriends who want them to go back to school and girls who want to pursue something else creative that doesn't involve being in a van with 3 or 4 dudes a few months a year and the rest of us moving away to America. That's what makes it such a trip. Keep it authentic, this isn’t the schoolyard, it’s a couple of people in a room, facing towards each other. Eye contact, volume, a little buzz, a resonant chord progression or lyrical turn of phrase, maybe enough earned at the door to get the acts a round of drinks or enough fuel to get the van to the next town. Keep it for us, who are you trying to prove yourself to? Are you trying to say “fuck you” to someone? Maybe you should find them on Facebook. This music is about all of us and we are not legion; lets let real recognise real and let the bullshit stink and crumble.

You’re free! You’re in college! No more curfews, or parental restriction, or anything unfun EVER! You can go and get drunk before teatime on a Tuesday, on a TUESDAY! You guys! There’s parties, there’s more girls (probably), there are more people with different tastes and opinions than you’ll likely have encountered in your teenage years unless you’re the child of a diplomat or some such. There’s alcohol, drugs, experimentation, music, art, travel, fucking, insight, introspection, and all manner of opportunities. And you’ve got to make sure every choice is absolutely fucking perfect or you will spend the rest of your youth making up for it and trying to catch up to the path that you’re supposed to be on because once you’re on course you can stop worrying and nobody can say anything to you because you’ve proven you’re worthy of what you have and you can rest and as long as all of this is tied up in a neat bundle before you’re 30 then you can concentrate on finding a partner and settling down and having kids. You’ve got no time to waste and you better not make any mistakes.

That was as exhausting to type as it was to think about as it was to live through. See, here’s the thing, I wish nobody had told me to not worry about that stuff in my early 20’s. It would not have made a lick of difference. If you are anything like me you have to live through your struggles with status anxiety and measuring yourself against others you don’t care for in the acquisition of things you don’t care about. What would have helped is a reinforcement of these truths from a much earlier age. By your 20’s it’s too late, you’ve got to figure that shit out by yourself. For the sake of transparency, I’ll wager that most of us are told to be ourselves but more often than not it’s in between breaths gathered after “tidy your room” and before “do your homework.” It’s an idle endorsement delivered with the same fastidiousness as requests to take part in order maintaining rituals that are absolutely no measure of your character. However, some of the greatest people I know are slobs, some of the smartest did fucking terribly in school. Meanwhile I always made my bed and did my homework and I’m a borderline sociopath.

Many of our parents lacked the tools to nurture us beyond a basic level and we shouldn’t even think of blaming them. My parents grew up in a third world theocracy masquerading as democracy; a place where institutional abuse was overlooked for decades, mental illness was a cause of shame, ridicule and isolation and homosexuality was considered a form of mental illness. Now, now we know a little better. Regardless of what we want from our lives, we are hopefully in a position to be unashamed of that desire, to not measure ourselves by another’s gold standard we deem to be pyrite. What’s done is done; we only have our now and crucially, everyone’s “now” is different. What’s more, once you come to these conclusions in your own sweet time it’s also important to debunk the narrative desire. That’s where I strive to place the event that has taken place—be it a break-up, a new collaboration, a hangover, or a five pound weight gain—within an overall context. That time when my first band broke up when I was 21 was like that bit in Refused Are Fucking Dead… when I broke up with my first serious girlfriend when I was 22 was like 500 Days of Summer… that time I couldn’t have been bothered to go running? I was so Hannah Horvath that day. It’s comforting to compartmentalize and it’s so easy to do, it mythologizes the most insignificant minutiae as chapters and asides leading up to a totally reliable crescendo that will happen at a very fitting time. This event, you see, is actually a very powerful metaphor… only, it’s not. Failure or feelings of insignificance, or anger, or bitterness, or hope and success and joy and aspirations for continued peace and serenity are not indicative of anything beyond what they are. The difficulty you’re facing is not a “test”, it just “is.” These things have, do and always fucking will happen and have no bearing on you other than they are the things that happened to you at various points. That’s it. Your triumphs are not a manifestation of karma or proof of good outweighing bad in the universe; it’s a fortunate accumulation of molecules at a random place in an indifferent universe. You were just lucky enough to be present at that point in said universe where these molecules accumulated and it meant something positive to you.

This is not an attempt to piss on happiness from a great height or to bemoan misfortune from the darkest depths—although the desire to do both is one of the surest indicators of our humanity—it’s a request, no not even a request, but a suggestion to consider two things.

Who do you want to be and 2.) failing on your own terms…

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I’ve recently been feeling Japandroids’ sophomore record Celebration Rock in a big way. There’s an intriguing narrative running through the record, especially when viewed in the context of its’ predecessor, Post Nothing. Songs informed by adolescent flippancy have given way to big, largely unnamed anxieties. They know what they dislike and do not want but the counteraction against these is a bigger stumbling block than the ones they feel to be holding them down. There are laments for dwindling youth, a proclivity towards alcohol yet also grand, sweeping assertions about seizing the day and professions of hope for love. The songs are ragged and beautiful, all Husker Du power and Replacements sensitivity delivered with a hinted sneer. They don’t offer any answers and they’re under absolutely no obligation to, but the placelessness of the frustration on the record is very telling.

Your time is now, you have the energy, you’re still young and you’ve experienced just enough to where you have a decent feeling about what you do and do not want in your life. But, the feelings only decent and there’s so much work to do to get towards something you only think you might want, and what if things change? What if you don’t really care about this thing? Have you just idealized it to the point where it has none of its’ own agency and is instead an inert symbol of something that you think connotates another “thing” like happiness or success? Listening to Japandroids always fills me with a mix of emotions ranging from joy to frustration, to hope, to sadness. All the sweeping statements and big chords ring through with that uncertain place inside me. The place where the not-quite-so-young-anymore me wonders about what he can do with himself, looks at the range of options before him and is paralyzed by a cluelessness about where to start and instead wonders if it’s too early to go have a drink somewhere.

That place is the central hub for me assigning unwarranted value to a situation or a relationship that distracts from elsewhere in my head and in my life where there are issues that need to be dealt with. “I don’t have a job, but if I could get a few articles published or shared I might get picked up…which articles should I send? Who should I send them to? Fuck it, I’m checking Facebook.” “If we could just find a drummer who is as into music as we are, I would be able to finally pursue this music ‘thing’ properly and have no regrets about it. Hmmm, you’re not quite what I was expecting, the universe is not going to be handed to me here. God, this seems like it might be more trouble than it’s worth. Hey, Buzzfeed!” “If we had just been a bit more up-front with each other, if we both hadn’t been so fucking proud and trying to get the upper hand on each other all of the fucking time…what did I throw away? Was I just afraid to work on things? You didn’t trust me, but you had reason not to. You did a lot of drugs, but did you really? We could have changed—in a good way—for each other couldn’t we?”

I’m deaf.

I’m paralyzed.

But my thoughts are less lonely with Japandroids.

Just think about what you want, and I mean really fucking want, even if that conversation starts with identifying what you don't want. Spring-clean those cluttered thoughts and be mindful of how it may not happen for you but you tried, you really tried.

Simplify your life.

I thought I saw you—us, actually—walking through Brooklyn Heights together. We hadn’t spoken in nearly a month at this stage and I was still comforting myself with the back-of-the-mind thought that maybe we’d get back in touch and that maybe things would rekindle. We were a bit older, this us walking through the brownstones. You were wearing a sundress and espadrilles—a departure from your usual Doc Marten’s or ankle boots, indicative of being slightly older, a more sensible wardrobe choice in acquiescence to the warmer weather. I was a bit stockier, bordering on portly but with the comportment of a father. I was pushing a three-wheeled stroller (you definitely picked that out, no longer concerned about what made you look “bougie”) with our toddler son in it; the son you probably aborted but will never tell me about.

Love comes back, hope comes back, but you are not coming back. We will likely never speak again. One moment we are walking your dog through Prospect Park or in your huge bed in Bushwick and the next, our time is completely over. The time in my life with you was altogether—but in the long run, probably thankfully—too short. I hold my ideal of you in my heart. I am passionate about moments that I’ve taken out of context. I remember a look, or a touch, or a sound, or a scent; I have taken the few good times we had and rendered a mental collage that tricks me into thinking that what we had was so good and how could I have been so stupid to throw it away. That’s why I got so emotional when I saw what I projected as us walking their child through Brooklyn Heights that weekend at the beginning of May. I was listening to Japandroids and simultaneously running through a mental simulation of what the next 10 or so years would look like.

You earned enough money to be the primary breadwinner, I pieced together as much as I could to help out but I was busy with the band for a long time. We put out five records that we were very proud of and when we finally disbanded we’d made enough of a ripple that some people seemed to care that we were gone. Now I’m a stay-at-home dad who free-lances as a music writer, occasionally scores independent films and tends bar once in a blue moon. You’re on Wall Street now; you’re sought after because you have a way with dealing with clients that keeps everyone satisfied. It’s a little ironic to me because outside of our son and occasionally me, you don’t really seem to care for many other people. There’s a professional personable distance you’ve perfected and occasionally, you bring it home with you. You’ve probably cheated on me a few times with some alpha male trader types, maybe after doing your first line in nearly six years on a business trip to Hong Kong. Then again, you think I did the same to you when I was on the road for the better part of a decade; I probably did too. All of that doesn’t matter when you get to brass tacks, though.

You bought me a beautiful old Triumph bike last Christmas. I’ve grown accustomed to the fact that you’re always going to be able to lavish me with more expensive gifts. But it’s for us both, this gift of yours. I am reminded of a youthful freedom I never really had in my actual youth when I ride by myself. When I bring you out with me and I feel your arms around my torso and your hot breath on my neck when we’re waiting at a light, I am reminded of just how on fire with passion you were when we first became intimate. The way you’d bite my neck, or wrap your arms around me, throw your head back and cackle, Jesus, I had never experienced that kind of vitality before. There’s a comfort in our distance from one another. We’ve led very different lives together: there’s an acceptance of that difference and an unspoken acknowledgement of mutual mental recesses that one will never be able to penetrate in the other. It’s enough, you keep telling yourself. Things are comfortable and there’s a lot at stake if you were to upset this balance, this stasis. It’s never been the most natural thing in the world to hold your hand except when we’re having sex. It’s a little funny how that’s not changed even though we now have a child. I worry about how it will affect his perceptions of supposedly intimate relationships.

I can’t even hold onto my own daydream anymore. I walked past the couple who were not—and never shall be—us and got to the end of the block. I realized I was going the wrong way. I looked for where I needed to go. I turned back.

School was not an escape: “Stephen Hunt, why are you always at the centre of trouble? It’s not just me that’s noticed either, some of the mothers have pointed you out too.” I was serving a year’s sentence in the classroom of a teacher who’d also thought me as a kindergartener. A bullying harridan who perceived my shyness due to my being an only child as spoiled petulance. I WAS FIVE. I had basically no experience playing with other children, but whatever, four years had passed and I had friends now. Then the aforementioned shitbomb. There was no specific day or act but when everything you do or do not do is at best, not good enough and more often than not, grounds for public reprimand, that crushes. Was I lashing out? Of course I was. Shit happens, I accept this, but the sheer fucking injustice of being accused guilty until proven innocent by a jury of anonymous status obsessed, empathy-phobic moms, the powerlessness of it. In the intervening years I’ve learned to regulate my rage and I am trying to let that year go, to write it off as something I cannot change and to acknowledge that what happened was wrong. It’s not much, but in recent years I volunteered at my old primary school and seen that she still uses the same bullying techniques on a select unfortunate few. One day I want to not smile when I think of being able to spit on her grave, but not quite yet. I have more growing up to do.

“Bull!” One arbitrary word to encapsulate the loss of my best friend since kindergarten, my utter failure to fit in during my teenage years and the frequent isolation, fear, loneliness, and sadness that that brought about. I was a bright and slightly eccentric kid; I just wanted to get by and adapt to this urban school after 13 years of a rural, relatively sheltered life but that was not to be the case. That word, bull—an innocent nickname from a few years earlier, turned to a glinting arrow of ridicule as I began secondary school—dissipated when I confronted most people but it set the template. I was an outsider and I was to remember my place as a soft target. In hindsight, I’m once again led to be thankful for this difficulty; it made me who I am and will contribute to whatever I will be in the future. There is nobody from these years whose final resting places I wish to expectorate upon. This is as much to do with the emotional maturity garnered in the intervening years as it is—I must shamefully admit—due to the fact that most of my detractors are living the kinds of lives I’d never in my life wish upon them. I take no joy in this fact (anymore) but for veracity I feel this point needs to be included.

“I do love you, but I can only offer my friendship if you’ll have it … There was a time when I thought about us being more but it’s just never been the right time … What’s more you just become a different person when you drink and it brings out a bad side of you … what kills me though, is that I feel we’re going to grow apart and years down the line I’m going to hear through some third party that you’re getting married to someone else and it’s going to tear me apart”. That one, that one DESTROYED ME. It’s collated from two conversations a month apart but let’s put it this way: it was all part of one slow acting crush from all sides. In its’ own way it was what razed me so that I could start the process of rebuilding myself, something I am now and shall always be in the process of doing: the perpetual conversion of potential to kinetic energy in a way that I did not envision happening. To continue with the messy cube crush metaphor, I went from being a wasteful eyesore, a relic of outmoded thinking about what constituted an efficient and appealing unit, to something more compact, efficient, practical, no longer striving to be an archetype, more accepting of impermanence and acknowledging the need for constant reimagining and change. Most of the time I’m a bit more fuel efficient too, although sometimes my alcohol intake makes me consider switching entirely to biofuel.

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Jesus I hate how much I love these fucking songs...

Image from SerialEclectic

That hand reached out to me again recently. Obsessing on every note, beat and word of Copper Blue led me to check out the preceding Bob Mould solo albums, Workbook and Black Sheets of Rain. While the latter is the dead giveaway of the band about to form around the rejuvenated creative nucleus of Mould, the former is a bit of a different beast. I skimmed it on my first listen, it was pretty and introspective but I couldn’t place what was off for me. It seems, even now, a little frustrated in many senses and understandably so. As Mould’s first musical foray in the wake of Husker Du’s dissolution one can expect some grievances to be channelled but beyond that, musically this is a definite sidestep. Stripped back and largely acoustic in places, even when a full band (consisting of Pere Ubu’s rhythm section Anton Fier and Tony Maimone) set up is utilized it is as a gentle pulse rather than a raging heartbeat (“Whichever Way the Wind Blows” aside). This initially caught me off guard. At a hindsight glance, from the context of Mould’s extensive back catalog, Workbook can seem a little isolated and adrift between the bombast of Husker Du and the measured musical voraciousness and emotional heft of his work with Sugar and later solo albums.

Once again, it falls to the listener to catch up to the work. Context and perspective shifts, well at least they open you to revisiting creative works during moments of contemplation. (An album from an artist’s transitional era resonating with someone transitioning in their own life, stunning insight, I know) In the wake of personal dissolutions this album brought me back to another room I’ve never walked through. “Heartbreak A Stranger” kicks in and you’re right there, being led through the dark again. It’s meditating on the cathartic power of the creative process as well as the acrimonious end of a relationship. It’s a song plaintively testifying from somewhere between the walls we all put up around us, a lonely cry but you understand. You don’t see the speaker but you hear and feel them and for about six minutes you’re not fucking alone. There is a sense of realization of vision on this track that became album-wide on Copper Blue. There is so much defeat and bitterness dripping from each note and harmonizing wail. There is solace in the fact that we’re not the only ones clutching at enough straws to keep a brewery stocked for a decade. “It’s all coming back around in a way”, is as at peace as it can be with the mess it meditates on.

It seems that as often as we reach out, it’s often with a clenched fist and raised guard as opposed to open arms. We can confront others with our rawest honesty and our best attempt at maturity and can be met with a response whose instinctive action is to bail. We’re all missing something and we can either try to fill that hole or we can learn where it lies and try our best to not fall into it. The qualities we see or project onto others or our creative endeavors as a validation of our own potential, what good are they when they can switch off like a lightswitch? “Some words make us all cry, it’s so talented”. I’m getting lost in this room. Open your eyes and adjust to this darkness. We’re all a little lost in here and we’re trying our best not to give away that fact . . . “Pretending like nothing could ever faze you, well some things never change. Tell me why do these words ring home, how can you heartbreak a stranger?” That’s it, really. Were you expecting resolution? This is your own damage to handle and it’s up to you how you’re going to deal. Are you going to try and fill the hole or are you going to accept that it’s there and find a way to traverse or manoeuvre around it? Remember, it’s all coming back around and it always will. That’s when Workbook reveals its’ flawed timelessness: the guarantee of dissolution, confusion, anger, and bitterness.

image taken from Stereogum

A Thinly-Veiled Knife for Sacred Cows . . .

Paradise found. via Flickr user luca.sartoni

Original post here.

Real talk: short sleeves, warm weather, cold beer, and free shows with your friends is hard to beat. But it’s still winter. If, like me, you are too broke to afford even thinking about Coachella without a collection agency potentially calling you, but desperately need warm weather and music, you might think you’re out of luck. There’s always South by Southwest, but the annual industry showcase/rolling boozefest requires an expensive flight, an expensive hotel, an expensive badge and expensive food. Or does it?

Allow me to offer you the potential to go to South by Southwest for little over the price of a month’s rent. Now, for declamatory purposes I must state from the outset that all expenses were accurate at the time of the research, prices go up closer to the time, the snooze/lose correlation is as inescapable as death or taxes. But enough about taxes and onto Texas, and how to get there.

GETTING THERE

The biggest expense that you’ll face, presuming you’re not busted for public urination or you don’t actually blow nearly $1,500 on a fully comprehensive music ticket , will be travelling to and from Austin. Tip: don’t fly direct. Instead, you can fly into Killeen which is approximately 66 miles north of the state capital. Flights from La Guardia currently run return cheap, at $292 (you will pay an average of $100 more for a direct flight). When you get into Killeen you can get a round trip Amtrak ticket for just $38. For the truly hardy among you, there’s also the option of turning to Craigslist for a ride-for-gas money option, but for the purposes of responsibility we’re going keep to legally bonded transport companies here.

WHERE TO STAY

Once you arrive in Austin, don’t worry about not having a roof over your head as long as you have some canvas instead. A week’s camping just a few miles outside the city will cost just $180 and with infinite cheap car services and taxis doing the rounds you won’t even miss the comforts of four walls for a few days you as you’re getting an adventure in the Lone Star State for comparatively little. Plus, the stars at night are big and bright, deep in the heart of Texas. Much like flying into Killeen, it doubles up as a money-saver and a way to experience another part of the country in a manner that you may not have open to you forever. Embrace it.

WHAT TO SEE

So, you’re in Austin. Now what? Ticketless, you’re going to miss all the big showcase events but they’re generally populated by A&Rs and other industry people electing to have the loudest business lunches and dinners they’ll have all year. Instead, go explore; there are more free/dirt cheap house shows per square foot during the music week than there are bedbugs in your average freebie mattress. Plus, a lot of the bands you’re unable to see at the showcases often take on extra freebie shows in lieu of extra self-promotion.

Gleni, a Brooklyn resident who works in publishing and has gone to SXSW without a badge, said to keep an eye out for any shows with an open bar and free food. “I only bought dinner each night (by choice) and was sufficiently intoxicated for a good part of the week.” She also recommended RSVPing to any free event you come across, just in case you want to get in, and to find one or two official showcases per night to hang out at, especially if they take place at venues with multiple stages. Of course, if hunting for the best free shows doesn’t appeal to you, this has been known to happen, but it’s probably best for you to not find yourself in the middle of a riot.

GET AN ODD JOB

Still concerned that this adventure is going to be a bit too harsh on the pocket? Do you have a transferable skill, a bus driver’s licence, or decent cardio and a cousin with a Texas driver’s licence? These positions, ranging from those with actual résumé-building potential to utterly experiential fodder can all be found by a quick trawl through the Austin Craigslist.

You aren’t going on on a limb when you say this, but Bushwick was really missing something while the Silent Barn was closed. Fortunately, it’s back and getting back to business as usual. The focus over the first few weeks has been on live music and DJ sets; shows which have been (forgive us) barnburners. If what has already gone down in the space since reopening in its new location (603 Bushwick Avenue) is anything to go by, then the new Silent Barn is well on its way towards blowing the old one out of the water. As the space is finding its feet again, its residents and artists in residence are now finding time to put on other events, like the first art exhibition in the new space, Activation, in between working to add things like a barber shop and a record store.

Activation will be running until March 29th and is very much in keeping with the spirit of the Silent Barn. It’s focused on the D.I.Y punk scene of 1980s Washington D.C and its intersection with the myriad social and political issues pertinent to the city at the time such as the struggle for recognition of Apartheid in South Africa as well as prejudice towards African Americans closer to home.

The exhibition is being curated by Lorissa Rinehart through the Center for Strategic Art and Agriculture (CSAA), “a non-profit guided by the belief that art and urban agriculture have the profound ability to transform the spaces we inhabit into sites of creativity, empowerment, and community.” CSAA, who are located in Silent Barn itself, are also helming a project to construct a roof terrace on the new barn. Other projects on the horizon are a community garden for the roof terrace and ESL classes projected to begin in the summer. Get in to check out Activation which runs through to March 29th, then get excited about the return of one of Brooklyn’s most interesting art spaces and the promise of one of its coolest rooftop spots once the weather gets warm again.

  ... from Brokelyn 12.21.12

  Get it bumping at Fort Greene’s “Make Music” parade

Aah, the holidays. A special time of year when we seem to collectively clamour for the  title of “Most Destitute: 2013.” Winners are to be announced the first week of January at a special ceremony in your local bodega when your friendly clerk tells you that you cannot charge a quart of milk to your card “for some reason.” Chances are that right now, you have presents to buy (although hopefully you’re nearly finished), parties to attend, and family to see. Or maybe you’re staying in the city over the holidays for the first time either by choice or financial constraint. It’s a wallet-crushing time of year but fear not, there are still many things to see and ways to enjoy yourself this week that won’t add (much) to your impending financial woes.

Make Music Winter Parade Tonight, Fort Greene, 7pm, FREE

The beautiful part about the unseasonably mild Holiday season we’re experiencing is that you can go to events in an outdoor setting without 17 thermal layers. With that being said why not get into the community spirit on Christmas week by checking out this unique winter parade in Fort Greene which commences outside of BAM at 30 Lafayette Ave. and winds it’s way down to Cuyler Gore Park with local musicians providing the soundtrack and crowd participation encouraged.

Christmas Eve at Tom’s Coney Island Tom’s Coney Island, 1229 Boardwalk West, Coney Island December 24, 8am – 5pm

The Coney Island offshoot of the Prospect Park diner is giving you the chance to eat weekday brunch for a good cause. All the proceeds from the day will go towards Coney Recovers, so the more diner food you eat, the more money gets raised. Why not just hang out there all day and have all three of your meals there?

It Happened in Brooklyn Brooklyn Historical Society From 128 Pierrepont St., Brooklyn. Adults $6, Seniors 62 and over, Students 12 and over $4, College students must show student I.D.

Newcomer to the borough or just looking to experience some of its history you may not have been aware of? Take a trip to Brooklyn Historical Society’s permanent exhibition on Pierrepoint Street and find out how the saying “everything is happening in Brooklyn” has historical connotations reaching much farther back than the point when the Lower East Side started pricing out the artists and eccentrics in the late ‘80s. From earliest settlers to wartime efforts at the Navy Yard, come see the ever changing, always interesting landscape of where we now call home.

Needlecrafts  Lefferts Historical House, Prospect Park December 26, 1pm-3pm, FREE

Have you been cooped up with a neglected, year-long Netflix queue since the solstice? Do you have a turkey hangover or burgeoning PTSD after seeing Les Miserables? Well come on then and get yourself out of the house! A free event that will be a break from the movies, stuffing yourself with holiday goodies or festive boozepocalypses, Needleworks could be a readymade segway into a New Year’s resolution to learn a new skill.

Dim Sum

Everyone else is going to be sitting around their tables eating the traditional Christmas ham or goose, but it doesn’t mean you have to sit and eat alone. Gather up your friends and head down to Sunset Park and Bay Ridge to take eat some dim sum. Dim sum, for uninitiated is like a roving Chinese buffet that comes to you, with waiters bringing small dishes around and letting you grab what you like. You’ve got a few options, with the best of the bunch the enormous, palace-sized Pacificana (813 55th Street), actual palace East Harbor Seafood Palace (714 65th Street) and the Robert Sitsema-approved Spring Garden (912 65th Street). Failing that, you can go on a gustatory adventure and try to find a pastrami egg roll.

My first article for Brokelyn published 12.12.12:

Connie O’s: 80 years of repping the shamrock. via Facebook

You don’t have to look very far in any direction in this fair city to notice that when any group of people relocate an often vast distance to settle here, they tend to stick close to their own. They bring their customs, food, and language and bathe another neighbourhood in the familiarity of their homes far away. In Ireland, we have been known to enjoy a drink or two, in addition to that we often like another half dozen after the initial couplet have the whistle whet. Inevitably then, you are never short of a bar claiming Irish ancestry. The point to consider here must be: is this a stamp of pride or a desperate claim for legitimacy? Needless to say there are per capita, more caricatured Hiberno-Disneylands scattered around Midtown than there are Chase ATMs, but what about these Brooklyn neighborhoods we call our stomping grounds? Supposedly still far flung from the bells and whistles of Manhattan, there must surely be a better chance of stumbling into somewhere legit. I checked a few out, using my heightened sense of Irishness—thanks to power of passport—to separate the wheat from the tacky shamrock-laden chaff.

Shayz Lounge 130 Franklin Street, Greenpoint Monday – Friday: 3pm – 4pm Saturday – Sunday: 2pm – 4am

Shayz is intimate for such a large room. I’d heard otherwise but over the course of a well-poured Guinness (in an actual pint glass) I found myself in an environment populated by friendly staff and amiable locals. Furthermore, the claim that their Guinness was the “best in the neighborhood” proved correct. The bar talk blended seamlessly between relatively forgotten late 90s emo/post-hardcore and the perils of the BCS bowl system. Being run by two guys from Dublin, however, it is not a stretch to say that some “old vs. new” elements are at play here. With equal opportunities to gab about sports or music, the dominating vibe is “neighbourhood bar” as opposed to leaning toward “sports” or “hip”. After the $5 Guinness I switched to a $3 PBR and while both of these drinks were at Happy Hour prices, they only go up by a dollar after 9pm. Shayz is situated in one of the most picturesque enclaves of Greenpoint and is well worth an extra few clicks down the street if you’re barhopping. They also serve a mean Hot Toddy to combat the impending winter nights and have a large back patio open until about 1am nightly. This is the kind of bar that’s reminiscent of my favourite haunts back home, but moreso in the atmosphere than the setting. That is to say, although I highly recommend Shayz you’ll be welcomed by an overall friendliness as opposed to some kind of Céad Míle Fáilte.

Mullanes Brooklyn 71 Lafayette Avenue, Fort Greene Monday – Sunday: 11am – 4am

Like Shayz, I paid $5 for a Guinness in here but it only came in a 16oz glass, which is like trying to fire shotgun shells from a handgun. In here, it’s better to stretch yourself to $6 for a Blue Moon outside of happy hour. While the drinks are nothing you won’t find elsewhere, the food is top-notch. I highly recommend the Bam Burger: absolutely delicious and the side order was quite generous. As for the vibe, I really wasn’t feeling it as much as other places. It didn’t help that I was with a friend who had a Mohawk and seemed to attract some stink-eye from the hostesses. Come on Fort Greene is still in New York City, try not to be so shocked. In the shadow of BAM and a couple of minutes’ walk from the Barclay’s Center I get the feeling that Mullane’s lends itself moreso to pre and post-concert crowds and Nets fans.  The overall aesthetic leans closer to a gastro-pub/sports bar rather than anything distinctly Irish besides the proprietor’s name and the generous food portions. There are bars like this back home, but there are bars like this everywhere. That being said, I am very aware of the fact that a larger group bar-hopping around Fort Greene over the weekend or a bunch of friends gathered to watch a game would get the real benefit of Mullane’s. They are catered for by lots of big screens with a wide range of sports being shown. Not a spot for a chilled single drink after work, but definitely one to hit if you’re starving after a Nets game (the kitchen’s open until at least 1am) and you haven’t already spent your life savings on concessions there.

via Facebook

Kitty Kiernan’s 9715 3rd Avenue, Bay Ridge Monday – Saturday: 10m – 4pm Sunday: 12pm – 4am

Now this is more like it. Nestled in the shadows of the Verrazano Bridge, Kitty Kiernan’s is a neighbourhood staple in Bay Ridge. Upon walking up to it and entering I felt like I was walking into a bar that could as easily be on the Dingle Peninsula as nestled in New York Bay. Price-wise this one is the most expensive on the list but hands down, has the most authentic Irish atmosphere. $5.75 is the cheapest beer and no reduced offers/happy hours. My advice is to be flush and drop $6.25 and get the best pint of Guinness I’ve had since coming to America. Failing that you can also treat yourself to an Angry Orchard, Smithwicks, Blue Moon or anything else on tap. This kind of place would be referred to as an “Old Man Pub” in Ireland; it’s the kind of place you wouldn’t be caught dead in at 18/19 (legally, I might add) but becomes a second home by your mid ‘20s. Warm and spacious, coupled with friendly staff and a very convivial atmosphere, do you really need any more excuses to check out Kitty’s and the beautiful Bay Ridge neighbourhood around it?

via Facebook

Wicked Monk 9510 3rd Avenue, Bay Ridge Monday – Sunday: 12pm – 4am

“An Irish Bar” is written on the awning but that’s as far as it goes. In spite of many materials being shipped from Ireland when the Monk moved from 5th to 3rd Ave, any type of an Irish atmosphere in here is lost on me. While they also served a good pint of Guinness it wasn’t a patch on Kitty’s which is only down the road. They have a big bar food menu which looked delicious, but I didn’t get a chance to try any. What trips the Monk up is that it’s cavernous inside. I understand from my research that the former space was a much more cramped, rough and ready space and perhaps in the move to a larger location a sense of identity has been lost. I was expecting much more atmosphere when I entered as a good-sized crowd was in there for a Wednesday night and the Knicks had just sank a buzzer beater. The best option is to file the Wicked Monk under same category as Mullane’s: good for bar-hopping with friends or to get a big group together to watch a game as there does not look to be a bad seat in the house. The busy staff are never impolite, even with massive bartop to attend to, but understandably won’t stand around to shoot the shit with you like in Shayz or Kitty’s. Like its neighbour down the road, the Monk is pricey, but it’s just the neighbourhood. Bay Ridge is characterised more by working professionals and families; they don’t drink all day and they don’t need to offers to help them along when they’re in there. Standards Bud and Miller are 5 but splash out for something more on the big range of taps.

via Facebook

Connie O’s 158 Norman Avenue, Greenpoint Monday – Sunday: 11am – 4am