by Alex Severino
Violent thoughts and satanic ambitions; branding skin with marks of malevolence. Sounds of the scream replace the composed voice. Staccato syllables conjure visions of death, depression, and deceit. Sexualized scenes of lyrical synapsis; tales of talismanic possessions utilized as weapons to destroy the accuser’s adversary. Censorship of words discarded; a stream of consciousness released with audacious pursuits at influence. Powerful bass thundering war-cry-esque performances. Broken bodies covered in tattoo, and against the status quo stylings of hair more closely related than the clothes.
The music has become journalism. The anthems of the audience. An audience of majority still based in their youth. There is something surreal about a young one spilling out so much creativity within such a little compacted space in time. And then for them to have the awareness that is has just begun. They may very well be young bluesmen in the making. Maybe even Rasta man in the waking. Time will tell; a true artist is forever changing. Continue reading
By: Rob Azevedo
The sound coming from inside The Woodpecker Lounge was a mixture of brilliance and raw nerve. Last Breath’s legendary blues man, Dick Zaino, was setting off rockets with his red Stratocaster, gassing through songs about guilt and suffering, belting out one after another, looking lean and tanned, his hair slicked sweet, eyes hooded, smoke lines on his face.
Beyond the stage the drinking crowd listened closely to Zaino’s golden notes. Some people were huddled over tiny glasses of gin. Others were smoking packs of grits and drinking vodka, or just dreaming, eyes shut with strange images of redemption and peace scrambling for daylight within their shackled brains. One sponge was chin-to-chest. A cougar in red high heels was showing off her pussy to a throng of short order cooks near a utility closet. Upstream near the latrines a dicey kid of fifteen was giving directions, holding his pecker. Continue reading
By: Ernie Hurt
As you read in my last entry regarding music, you can tell I reserve a fair level of distain for modern music. I’m not alone, and I find a shade of solace in that fact.
My music taste lean towards only a small hand full of current working artist’s. Mostly I listen to music from an era some 35 years ago. It could be due to the fact that most new music sounds like a cage full of horny Tom cats in mid coitus, or perhaps I grew up hearing the greats of that long forgotten time.
At the prodding from a colleague I decided to search and listen to the top selling album from 1969 and its modern day counterpart from this foul year of Oure Lorde ,Two Thousand and Fourteen.
What would be the differences? Would they be vast and profound? Would I automatically fall into a brain bleeding seizure while listening to an entire cd of”Pop” songs? Continue reading