Revisiting Richard Dawson’s 2020

By Jack Rafferty

Richard Dawson’s 2020, released in 2019, was one of my favorite albums of that year. This was my introduction to Dawson, and from the first notes of the first track I was enthralled. His specific and wholly unique take on progressive folk, with its juxtaposition of discordance with some of the most profoundly sad melodies I’ve heard, and sharp lyrical critique of capitalism from a modern standpoint that does not feel forced in any way, keeps me returning to it often. 

His vocal style is very much his own and is simultaneously beautiful and crushing. The only somewhat comparative artist I can think of is Junior Brother, though more melodic. They both have this quality of sounding like a wounded creature at times, which lends itself aptly to the topics they are addressing. Coupled with a style of guitar playing that is very harsh at times (sometimes he plucks the strings so hard I anticipate them to break), and other times tragic and gentle, this album stands out, and I have not heard anything else quite like it. 

While there is quite a diversity of topics covered on this album, the throughline is the tragedy of loneliness, alienation, and exploitation that persists to this day, and the varied ways that it manifests in our lives in this age. His album, Peasant (2017), which was released right before 2020 approaches similar themes, though with a focus on medieval peasantry. These albums pair well together, as they both focus on oppressed classes of peoples in specific epochs struggling against prevailing modes of production and class relations. 

The first track, “Civil Servant,” is a good example of the divergence of sound that 2020 is making from its predecessor. The opening notes are brash, jarring, and repetitious, almost machine-like, which is fitting given the thematic focus of this album being set in modern times. This theme of mechanical noise grappling with the soaring, sad melodies fits very well with Dawson’s larger narrative of human struggle as appendages to the machine of capital. The first lyrics give a taste of what is to come, in terms of depicting the drudgery the working class must endure in this society,

Open your eyes, time to wake up

Shit, shower, brush your teeth, drain your cup

Wolf down a bowl of Ready-Brek

Fasten a tie around your neck

All over the city we arise, arise

For a job we despise, despise, despise.

Toward the end of the song, in what are some of the most crushing lines on the album, Dawson illustrates the persisting mental toll of social work under a capitalist society, saying that “in my bed, I can hear the strangled voices of all the people I’ve failed, I’ve failed, I’ve failed.” I think it is interesting that Dawson’s pronunciation of “I’ve failed” also sounds somewhat like “I’ve held,” which just enhances its sorrowful quality. I could honestly write a whole review about this song alone, but I will move on for the reader’s sake.

The next song, “The Queen’s Head,” is largely a commentary on rampant anti-immigrant sentiments, which the ruling class cultivates and uses to create antagonism within the working class. Dawson doesn’t mince words in his presentation of these topics, which this stanza highlights well, discussing the interpretation of a flood event,

There’s a crowd gathered ‘round the fat-headed butcher

Who’s back on his soap box again

Bemoaning the lack of adequate flood defences

Somehow putting it down to “an insurge

Of benefit-scrounging immigrants.” 

The powerful short refrain “how little we are (clung to the rivers edge/in the mouth of the world)” in the context of worsening climate disasters is in a sense an acknowledgement that humans do not stand above nature, dominating over it, but rather exist within it, and are bound to its laws. It reminds me of Frederick Engels’s notion of the futility of the conquest of nature, “Thus at every step we are reminded that we by no means rule over nature like a conqueror over a foreign people, like someone standing outside nature—but that we, with flesh, blood and brain, belong to nature, and exist in its midst, and that all our mastery of it consists in the fact that we have the advantage over all other creatures of being able to learn its laws and apply them correctly.” Dawson laments with his aforementioned line about the hubristic fallacy that capitalist society believes itself to be in control of nature and impervious to the ramifications of prioritizing accumulation above all else. 

The fourth track, “Jogging,” talks more about mental health and disenfranchisement of workers, exploring how empty consumerism and escapism are sometimes the only ways that people cope with the material conditions they live in,

Recently I’ve been struggling with anxiety

To the point I find it hard to leave the flat

The days drain away, scouring eBay

Or looking on Zoopla at houses where I’ll never live.

The song then goes on to discuss how being recommended physical activity leads to him jogging “hundreds of miles going nowhere,” with a robotic voice in the background repeating the word “jogging” over and over, a tactic that is utilized later in the album as well. I love this, as it works to convey the ways in which everything in our lives, even our physical activity outside of work, is something prescribed to us to “fix” an ill that is systemic, and becomes not a source of genuine pleasure, but a task to complete like all else under this system. It is merely a method of maintaining the potential labor power in bodies to then be used up as much as possible for the sake of accumulation of capital. 

This is followed by further commentary on discrimination toward immigrant populations and the ways in which the system enables and perpetuates this,

There’s a Kurdish family on the ground floor

Had a brick put through their kitchen window

The police know who did this, still they do nothing

It’s lonely up here in Middle-England.

There is a line not long after this that says, “I feel the atmosphere/‘Round here is growing nastier/People don’t smile anymore.” I think this ties in well with the narrative of mental health under capitalism being rooted not only in our exploitation, but in our separation from one another, in our loneliness and our division. 

I will skip a few tracks to focus on one of my favorites on the album, “Fulfillment Centre.” This is a perfect distillation of the conditions of the modern-day worker in an Amazon so-called “fulfillment” center. Bringing back repetition as a theme, the song merely begins with Dawson reiterating “over and over and over and over, again and again and again and again and again,” which wonderfully illustrates the focus of this song being the type of division of labor that exists as a worker in an Amazon warehouse doing the same tedious, redundant tasks all day. 

This is followed by the same robotic voice showcased earlier, stating “five hundred units per hour, hour after hour after hour, please adjust your packing rate accordingly,” which perfectly encapsulates the feeling of some dystopian AI supervisor, omnipresent over the workers, constantly analyzing and appraising their productivity. The robotic voice continues soon after in the same repetitious cadence, “increase productivity, increase productivity, increase productivity!” which feels as though it would be at home depicting some oppressive institution on Pink Floyd’s The Wall, as though it could be transitioning from a supervisor shouting over young children toiling in a factory of Victorian London to a lifeless red eye, staring out over the floor of an Amazon warehouse. We then get the worker’s perspective, discussing the cheap commodities they are forced to package to scrounge what subsistence they can, and the conditions they face doing so,

Bedding and power tools, tablets and football shirts

Perfume and Blu-Ray discs, jewelry and dehumidifiers.

I am desperate for the toilet

But if I go, I’ll miss my targets

All I can do is pee in a bottle

They treat us like animals here.

This is followed by a guitar solo that feels both mechanical and demented, as though it were embodying the deranged scene these workers are forced to endure, and the deep stress and discomfort of their bodies and minds. Dawson gives an example of how these workers are brought to their limit, where they have breakdowns, and the ways in which the inhumanity of this system simply ignores such distress, and only steps in to neutralize it when it becomes an inhibitor to the process of production.

A gentleman who spoke little English

Started to scream at the top of his lungs

No one could understand what he was getting at

Everyone stared ahead and kept working until

Someone came from on high to escort him from the building.

The song ends with this cry of exhaustion and plea for something better,

There’s nothing left of me by the time I shuffle homeward

On the early morning train

To eat a little breakfast and sleep a while

Before it starts again

There’s more, there has to be

More to life than killing yourself to survive.

Finally, I will discuss the closing track, which takes a first person look at the plight of the unhoused. The title illustrates the way life is so coldly disregarded under this system, with the image of a dead dog in an alleyway atop a pile of burst trash bags, with the poignant line “dead dog in an alleyway, dreaming of home.” Dawson then goes on to detail the abuse that those who have to live on the streets endure, crying out for help to a culture and a world that seemingly doesn’t give a shit about them, and has forsaken them, since they are deemed worthless for not sacrificing every waking moment producing surplus value. 

In the moment just before I awake to a savage kicking

Blows rain down upon me through the blackness of my sleeping bag

Help me, help me, please help me

Won’t you please help me?

Anyone?

This is followed by the contrast of the pleasant lives privileged people live within immediate proximity of those suffering in the streets. 

You can hear the families chatter with each swing of the door

Music, tinkling cutlery, and the laughter of the little ones.

I especially love the chorus to this song, accurately signifying so much that is wrong with this late-stage capitalist society in just four lines, from infrastructure to addiction and the ever-present brutality of the police state,

Over there in the labyrinth of neon

You can hear the voices lift through the icy air

Hooting and projectile vomiting

And the distant sound of sirens.

Overall, 2020 remains one of my favorite albums of recent years. While his more recent releases have been brilliant in their own way, none of them have really captured me like this one has. The sound here is both grand and stripped back, mechanical yet tender and human, unsettling and powerful. I still have much more to say about it as a whole, but I will resist the temptation to make this piece any longer than it already is. If you haven’t listened to it yet, I highly recommend doing so.

Soundtrack for a Few Shows During a Hot Summer

By Jack Stephen

A vignette: I am driving east on I-76 in a raging downpour. I am running late to my show in Flemming, Colorado. I am supposed to be there by 7 PM, because the show starts at 7:30. I should probably slow down a bit, but I’m pushing it because I don’t want to be late. I haven’t worked with this producer before and want to make a good impression. I am white knuckling it, gripping the steering wheel. The windshield wipers are on full. I start to come out of the storm. I am in the middle of eastern Colorado about an hour from the Nebraska border. I take a right and start heading down a country road. I come to a stop sign—only one in town—right by the grain silo. I make a left, and KiKi’s Bar and Grill is right there. I park across the street at the post office. I run into the bar. I see my buddy, the opener for the show. Out of breath, I say, “Hey, I made it.” He responded, “You made it in plenty of time, our call time is 7:30 and the show doesn’t start until 8:00.”

What would have been a good song as I rolled into Flemming? “Welcome to the Boomtown” by David & David.

This is a quintessential 1980s track. It should have got a bit more airplay even though it did crack the Top 40. This song, which lays bare the underbelly of the Ronald Reagan years, had some really cool guitar work and a slick production. I would have liked to hear more from David & David, but sadly this “one hit wonder” was the peak of their success. The song opens with these great lines, “Mrs. Christina drives a 944, satisfaction oozes from her pores.” This was supposed to be about as good as it got in the 1980s or so we thought.  

The show went great. I did about seventeen minutes, which was the longest amount of time I have done to date. The producer was pleased, which was good to hear. Even more satisfying, one of the older locals told me as she was leaving, “I had never been to a comedy show before, what a good time.” I was glad it wasn’t a disappointment. 

What song did I play driving home? “Little Birdie” by Vince Guaraldi.

Vince Guaraldi really owes something to Charles Schultz. Or maybe Charles Schultz really owes something to Vince. Tough to say? I read the biography Schultz, written by David Michaelis, and it was a comprehensive read. Schultz always wanted to be a cartoonist, and he ended up making that dream a reality by taking it to the stratosphere. He became probably the most well-known cartoonist to this day. An early struggle, as the book notes, was that newspaper editors were confused because a great number of his strips never ended with a punch line. Often, Charlie Brown was hanging his head with a passing comment and sometimes it would be a “SIGH.” It ended up not mattering, people grew to love the Peanuts strip and its cast of characters. Things really elevated when the family dog Snoopy became a lead character. There were strips showing Snoopy not really doing a whole lot, except for maybe indulging his Red Barron fantasies, but the masses were entranced—see the MetLife blimp. Having Vince do the music was an exceptional choice. He was a fairly well-known San Francisco jazz musician when the producer of the Peanuts holiday specials sought him out to compose a score. He relied heavily on the Fender electric piano, which had such a cool sound. My favorite track, the super funky “Little Birdie,” was featured the Thanksgiving special. The lyric repeated in my mind: “Little Birdie, why do you fly upside down?”

The Semifinals 1

After months of waiting, the night has finally arrived: the New Faces semifinals at Comedy Works. I was ready. I had a lot of support for this, as my family and friends equaled ten guests in the audience. I said “Hey” to everyone and ate a burger. Afterwards, I just walked around downtown Denver by myself rather than making small talk with my well-wishers. I envisioned things going well and they did. I went up seventh and had a solid set. Unfortunately, I did not advance. The competition was really tough. The finalist crushed as did most of the other comics. Everyone had fun, and I enjoyed it as well. The host, a highly respected pro comic, said he liked my pauses and delivery; he told me to stay with it. Nice, this was the compliment I have been waiting for. The jokes need work, but its good work, fun work. I am lucky to have it as work. 

What song did I remember listening to on the drive back? “Los Otros Yo” by Patricia Brennan. 

I don’t know anything about this artist except that the internet tells me she is a professor of the vibraphone at the Manhattan School of Music. As they used to say, put that in your pipe and smoke it. The vibraphone is quite a bit underrated and underused. This song does it justice with a heavy deep groove. It’s kind of like a cross between Weather Report and Sun Ra with a bit of Santana thrown in? Whatever the genre, this song is pretty badass.

The Semifinals 2

Just a week and a half later, I’m back performing at Comedy Works, the south club for my second attempt in the semifinals. I felt much more relaxed for some reason, maybe because I didn’t have any friends or family in attendance or maybe because the pressure has eased a bit. The south club is quite a bit different from downtown—a bit more suburban, a bit more stodgy. I drew number 2, not the best place in a 12-person lineup, but not the worst. More daunting, I was following the winner from semifinal 1. Before I went up he said, “Get excited, you got this.” I mixed up my set a bit, which in retrospect maybe wasn’t the best idea, seeing how almost everyone else did their same set from last time. I wanted to stretch myself and see how some different jokes would play. Overall, I felt good about my set. There were some lulls, but it helped to be more relaxed and work in some off-the-cuff comments. Moments like that can really connect you to an audience. All the comics crushed. I didn’t feel like I had much of a shot, but did it matter? I was in the room and on the stage with the other semifinalists. And while I didn’t advance, I had leveled up.   

What song was in my head after I wrote this? “That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore” by the Smiths.

I am pretty sure the first CD I ever had was the epic compilation album Louder Than Bombs by the Smiths. It was influential as to how I would learn to appreciate music. I was especially struck with how the Smiths felt like they were speaking to me in my teen angst. What an incredible band! I was doing some research on the Smiths in my The Essential Album Guide book by Gary Graff and Daniel Durchholz, and they remarked how the Smiths were a band who didn’t fit in? While I might agree, it’s important to note there were many bands of their era who didn’t fit in—see David Bowie, The The, or going back a bit further The Doors. Nevertheless, the Smiths, song after song, put it all together. When I was younger, I played Louder Than Bombs on repeat and got a Morrissey T shirt to wear around. The Smiths always remind me that you can still be a badass, even if you don’t fit in.   

L7, Wargasm: The Slash Years 1992-1997 (Cherry Red, 2021)

By Null

I was prompted by the recent death of Jennifer Finch to revisit my L7 records. It had been quite a while since I had listened to them, but I always had a soft spot for their most famous album Bricks Are Heavy. I searched through my CDs and found that I had a copy of their first album and the aforementioned Bricks Are Heavy. While listening, I was reminded how much I liked this band. I was thirsty for more and stumbled upon Wargasm: The Slash Years 1992-1997. It was a little package containing the albums Bricks Are Heavy, Hungry for Stink, and The Beauty Process: Triple Platinum. Every album included a few bonus and B-sides.

It was worth every penny. Each of these albums is a reminder of the infectious heavy-ass hooks that seem to fall out of the sky for L7. Each record is produced a bit different, but the same melodic riffs cascade one after the other. The slow burns feel as good as the up-tempo numbers. L7 records make it feel good to be pissed off. Whether the lyrics are of a more subjective nature or a political call to arms, every song is delivered with a snarl and an upturned lip. Speaking of snarling, L7 makes Billy Idol look like George Michael, but I digress. At the same time, L7 puts me in a cheerful mood. In a word, they’re dark and fun like a goth in the sun.

The art work and booklet are great as well, as the package contains original covers of singles, and other music nerdy things.

If you’ve been wanting to check out some L7, Wargasm will not let you down.

In closing, L7 are still around. They’re still doing shows and I’m left with the feeling that their other albums must be pretty solid as well. I’ll leave you with a slow burning favorite of mine from a TV show in 2008. Jennifer sings this one. L7 can be a respite when the world throws you one more stupid fucking thing.

Ranking the Songs: The Eagles, Their Greatest Hits (1971-1975)

By Jimmy “Explosive Diarrhea” B, SoDak, and Null

The songs from The Eagles, Their Greatest Hits (1971-1975), were played everywhere throughout the 1970s. We could not escape from hearing them. This album was released early 1976, and it is the best-selling record of all time, recently certified as Quadruple Diamond with over 40 million copies sold. This record is often one of the few that almost all our friends and families had. It includes ten songs taken from their first four records. On the fiftieth anniversary, we decided to provide a brief reflection on the record and to rank the songs from least to most favorite. Note, a least favorite song does not necessarily mean that it is bad, although that is also a possibility. We did not share our rankings or reflections with each other before putting this together. 

Null: Like many people my age, I grew up hearing these songs on the radio. I also remember having an 8-track tape of the album, which was listened to often. The record contained adult themes and dark mysteries, all taking place in a western sunset filled with desolation and Saguaro cacti. It was full of heartbreak and hard lessons. At least, that was the impression, to a kid living out his days on a dairy farm in Michigan. 

I was soon to find myself right in the heart of such a setting. At age eleven, I moved to Paradise Valley, Arizona. At the time, the town was littered with vast and open, empty lots of untouched desert, just like an Arizona postcard, or the setting to the best-selling Eagles album. This move did not deter from finding meaning in the album; it just reenforced it. The radio stations in Arizona loved this album as much as every other radio station in the country, if not more.

Jimmy: When I was a lad, all I had for musical choices were my parent’s polka, country, and crooner records—and a couple of AM radio stations. One of these radio stations would play “rock” if it was soft rock. The most aggressive/rockin’ music they ever played was Steve Miller, but the Eagles were played regularly. An interesting side note is that the radio station owner’s name was Antonio, even though everyone called him Harry. Anthony is my middle name; I was named after the wonderful guy who owned the radio station. Anyhow, the station regularly played the Eagles. In 1979, I was in a dime store with my mother, when I spotted The Long Run, the newest Eagles album. I convinced my mother to buy me the cassette. This was the second album in my early collection. 

I recognize the problematic personalities of the band members and their musical limitations, but the Eagles have always been important to me. The first songs I knew well from this group of assholes were the ones from The Long Run album. Within a few years, I had, thanks to the RCA and Columbia House record clubs, obtained a few more of their albums, including, Their Greatest Hits (1971-1975).

Unimportant aside: It’s ironic that The Long Run marked the end of the short run of the Eagles career, and the extremely short duration of Joe Walsh’s affiliation with the band.

Anyhow, before sharing my current ranking of the songs, I want to provide my impressions and ordering of songs on the album based on my reflections from when I was a kid. Given that I haven’t paid the album much attention in at least thirty years, when I was a pre-teen, these memories are from decades ago, remembering hearing them on the radio. From worst to best, before relistening to the record, my ranking was as follows: “Best of My Love” (I remember this one being shitty); “Lyin’ Eyes” (my memory tells me this is a shitty song); “Take It to the Limit” (this one is kind of a rocker); “Already Gone”; “Peaceful Easy Feeling”; “Tequilla Sunrise”; “One of These Nights” (about as rockin’ as the Eagles ever got); “Witchy Woman” (for some reason, the cheesy, fake, white urban interpretation of Native American music sounded right to me; “Desperado” (here again, it was the lyrics as well as the feel of the song; this song along with “Take It Easy” were the ones I always wanted to listen to when I popped my old cassette into the stereo; and “Take It Easy” (I always liked the lyrics to this one).

SoDak: When I think about the 1970s, growing up in South Dakota, the Eagles were inevitably in the mix of music I heard. Their songs were constantly on the radio. I know my family eventually bought a vinyl copy via Columbia House Record Club. It received a lot of play, even though we mostly had country records. I still have a soft spot for the Eagles, mostly based on a handful of songs, but I have grown to dislike them. I think this feeling mostly arose from seeing interviews with Don Henley and Glenn Frey, in which they seem like rich, arrogant assholes. Plus, Don Henley often makes the ridiculous claim that they created the country-rock, Americana genre. I suppose in his head they did. 

Anyhow, it had been a long time since I had heard this record. My wife and I listened to it a few times recently, including while we were driving across the eastern desert in California. In listening to it again, I was surprised by which songs resonated with me more now than in the past, thus influencing my ranking. I was also dumbfounded to realize, yet again, that “Hotel California” is not on this record. For some reason, I always assume it belongs on this collection. No doubt, this is because the Greatest Hits Volume 2 pales in comparison. Thus, I want to put a decent song on the better record of the two greatest hits. 

Our ranking—or attempt at ranking—is as follows, from least to most favorite songs:

Tenth Song (Least Favorite)

Null: In attempting to organize these songs from weakest to strongest, I failed miserably. If I had to throw a song out, it would have to be “Tequila Sunrise” or “Lyin’ Eyes,” only because they are the two songs that I have begun to tire of over the years. I don’t dislike them, but they’ve lost some of their power. 

Jimmy: For today’s ranking, it is based on two listening sessions. My least favorite song is “Lyin’ Eyes.” It is a shittier song than “Best of My Love.” There is nothing happening in this song. The refrain of “you can’t hide your lyin’ eyes” when coupled with the piano and really simplistic guitar makes me want to do something else, anything else other than listen to this terrible song. I am wasting precious time by listening to this garbage. I don’t hear any drum fills. I know Henley can play them, but I guess he was too busy thinking of ways to fuck with his bandmates to put forth any effort. Bleh, bad song.

SoDak: For me, there were at least two songs that I especially did not like, and they are largely interchangeable for the nineth and tenth position. I really dislike “One of These Nights.” The opening hook is annoying. The worst part is that I start to anticipate Don Henley’s vocals in this song, and I just do not want to hear him sing. As the years go on, I have come to dislike his voice, and this is reflected in my overall ranking of songs. I was not anticipating this. This song drags on without much that is interesting. 

Ninth Song

Jimmy: “Best of My Love.” This is another shitty song. As predicted, I still rank it low. This is boring and cheesy as fuck. I really can’t decide which one I hate more this or “Lyin’ Eyes.” I think it’s a tie.

SoDak: I really dislike “Witchy Woman.” The big opening leads nowhere. The song immediately slows down, as the Eagles try to be soulful and bluesy. Henley’s vocals are grating and make my skin crawl. The chorus is catchy, but not particularly powerful. The song is plotting and tiring. My wife instantly hated hearing this song again. 

Eighth Song

Null: Following the two songs that I have tired of, the rest of the songs could be anywhere in the lineup.

Jimmy: “Desperado.” This is a surprise. This is not a great song; it is quite dull. There are strings. Why strings? I guess they had to find a way to try to make it interesting; it didn’t work. I still like the lyrics though. The vocals are a good fit, and the song would have been much better had the producer allowed for there to be space in the music instead of filling it with strings.

SoDak: When I was a kid, I liked “Desperado.” As noted above, I really do not care for Henley’s vocals anymore. This song is a good example of what I find taxing. Henley “attempts” to sound emotive, but there is no real feeling or depth to it. His vocals lack heart. The strings create a sheen that is as thin as Henley’s voice. As the song builds up, which I assume is supposed to create some emotional tension, the music becomes even less interesting. 

Seventh Song

Jimmy: “Take It to the Limit.” I really like the vocals on this song, as they are what makes it interesting. The lyrics are also interesting, but the music itself is a little lackluster. Goddammit, I hate strings when they are used to fill space. Fuck George Martin and Phil Spector for their bullshit “innovations.” There is absolutely no reason to use strings on a song like this. 

SoDak: On “Take It to the Limit,” it is refreshing to have a different voice, thanks to Randy Meisner. The chorus is okay. The song is simple and non-objectionable. At this point, I prefer hearing Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson sing this song, just to have a different presentation.

Sixth Song

Jimmy: “Take It Easy.” There isn’t much happening in this song, but I like it.

SoDak: “Best of My Love” is another non-offensive song, despite Henley’s persistently weak vocals. I enjoy the simple strumming and the haunting steel guitar. There are some decent changes within the song. I like the sound of the bass.  

Fifth Song

Jimmy: “Tequilla Sunrise.” I am not at all surprised that I still like this song, and it lands about where I thought it would. This is one of those songs that gave the Eagles their reputation for playing California-style country music.

SoDak: “Already Gone” is pleasant enough. While it is faster paced, has more electric guitar, it sounds like a slow song that is just sped up. It is catchy. 

Fourth Song

Jimmy: “Already Gone.” Huh, this is a much better song than I remember. Here again the bass is driving the music, and there is plenty of space for the guitars and vocal harmonizing. My only real complaint is that the vocals are wrong; they don’t fit the rockin’ feel of the song. This would have been perfect for Joe Walsh, but Joe didn’t join the asshole brigade for a few more years.

SoDak: On the Greatest Hits, I find it refreshing whenever Glenn Fry sings. On “Tequila Sunrise,” I like the acoustic guitar and pedal steel. The song has a good melody; it creates a nice mediative, relaxing vibe. I was surprised that my wife disliked this one. 

Third Song

Jimmy: “Peaceful Easy Feeling.” This is a cool song with great Glen Frey vocals. I might need to read the lyrics for this one. It seems to be about a combination of woman hating and inner peace. Is it inner peace because of woman hating? Or is he going to get rid of the hated woman and that is why he feels great? Whatever. The lyrics aren’t great, but I like the song a lot.

SoDak: I enjoy “Take It Easy.” It is a good opening track to the record. I really like the jangling chords and the ringing notes. The chorus is comforting. I do not think much about the lame line regarding all the women that want him. The Jackson Browne contributions to the songwriting are very evident. The harmonies are enjoyable on this song. The lead guitar and the solo are very good. 

Second Song

Jimmy: “Witchy Woman.” Yup, I still like the cheesy Native American themed music. There is also a really driving bass line that is way out front. I am a sucker for songs driven by strong bass lines. I think the guitar in the middle of the song is really tasteful and interesting. This song also demonstrates how great the Eagles were at harmonizing. Even the drumming isn’t too bad considering what a shitty drummer Henley was.

SoDak: I really enjoy “Lyin’ Eyes.” The jangly guitars are wonderful. I like the bass part, which has a little skip in the progression. Bernie Leadon’s pedal steel sounds wonderful. The chorus is catchy. I like how the song seems to slow down during it. This song and the next one could be interchangeable as far as my favorite song on the record. 

 

First Song (Favorite)

Jimmy: “One of These Nights.” I love the guitar lick that starts this song. The song has a lot going for it, interesting guitar work, driving bass, vocal harmonizing, and a hint of disco. I shouldn’t admit this, but I like disco influenced music. I will irritate everyone by stating that the best song Kiss ever produced was the disco flavored “I Was Made for Loving You.” At this moment in time, I think this is the best song on the record. Tomorrow I might say something different.

SoDak: My preference for Frey’s voice is quite evident, as he sings lead on my five favorite songs on this record. On recent listens, “Peaceful Easy Feeling” continues to stand out as my favorite song on the record. I enjoy all the musical parts of the song. The lead guitar licks and solos capture my attention. The mix of the voice, guitars, and steel are delightful. The song has a nice steady, smooth “feeling.” The song makes me breath easier. It also has the country rock sound that I enjoy. I try not to listen to the pseudo Zen lyrics that Jack Tempchin wrote.  

Null: I was able to settle on the best song, or the one that retains the most power and mystery over the years. That song is “Take It to the Limit.” It always stops me in my tracks. The line, “all alone at the end of the evening,” just ushers in a loneliness that feels as comforting and earned as it is sad and condemned. 

Final Reflections

Jimmy: There you have it, my middle-age brain and teenage/young man brain both agree and disagree. I think I may have had more tolerance for strings and shitty drumming when I was young. Speaking of shitty drumming, Don Henley was the biggest ego and weakest link in the Eagles. His vocals sometimes work really well, and sometimes they are bland, and the song screams out for Bernie Leadon or Glen to take over. My assumption is that the ego always won out over what was best for the song or the band. I hesitate to call the Eagles a great band during the time period when the songs on this album were released, that happened later, and only for one album and only after Joe Walsh joined the band. There were only two things holding them back from achieving greatness. First, as you probably guessed, shitty drumming, and two, a lack of experimentation and a creative vision. The songs on the first few Eagles albums were more or less what other bands such as Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, America, or The Band were churning out. There were some gems in the early years, and they are all on the first volume of Greatest Hits. The deep tracks are not awful, but they don’t compare to what is on this album.

SoDak: Through the years, the soft spot I have held for the Eagles has diminished. On many days, my response to hearing any of their songs would be similar to the Dude, in the Big Lebowski, when he asks the cab driver to change the music, so he does not have to hear “Peaceful Easy Feeling,” “I had a rough night, and I hate the fuckin’ Eagles, man.” Regardless, I enjoyed returning to this record and realizing how my preferences have changed. I am also happy to put the record away for another long stretch.

Null: This album is so etched into my consciousness that it almost becomes a singular narrative in a particular order. There is only one way to reassemble a skeleton that makes any sense. Over the years, I have made several road trips into the Arizona desert. Whenever the tires hit the road between Albuquerque and Flagstaff, I always throw this cassette in the player. From Side A to the end of Side B, we’re only traveling west. That’s the narrative.

Remembering Lou Koller (1965-2026)

By PaulySure

Back in 2012, Revelation Records was holding a weekend of shows to celebrate their twenty-fifth anniversary. It ended up being two weekends of shows, but when first announced Pamona, California, was the original announcement. Now, with Revelation being one of my all-time favorite labels, I was intrigued. With the announcement of Gorilla Biscuits and Youth of Today as the headliners, I thought “holy shit” I had to go. So as tickets went on sale, a few friends and I knew we had to see the Gorilla Biscuits headline, as they were the band we preferred the most. 

When the weekend of the show arrived, we packed up the car, filled a cooler full of sandwich and snack supplies (being a handful of near broke hardcore kids) and made the trek to what was the equivalent of our hardcore pilgrimage. Getting to the show a bit late, due to L.A. traffic and a mix up with the opener, we walked in as NYHC legends Underdog (the second band of the night) was about midway through their set. Next up was Sick of It All, a group that I was pretty excited to see, but at the time not necessarily my reason for attending. That all changed the moment the band took the stage! Opening with a cover of Warzone’s “As One,” the Glasshouse erupted into a frenzy. A mosh pit over here, stage dives left and right, and band who knew how to use every inch of the stage. Sick of It All was so tight ripping through the set, with Armand being the human drum machine he is behind the kit, Pete Koller and Craig Ahead jumping around not missing a note as punk and hardcore royalty were running across the stage around them (including Davey Havok of AFI fame). But it was the ferocity, positivity, and stage banter of Lou Koller, that was just absolutely captivating. Had the set not been so infectious that I had to sing along, my jaw would have been on the floor. While the set was largely songs from Blood, Sweat, and No Tears, the band finished up playing “Scratch the Surface” and “Step Down.” With an amazing 17 songs in the set, it almost didn’t feel like enough. 

When the set was done, I made the promise to myself that anytime Sick of it All came to my town, or was anywhere I was, I had to see them. Fortunately, I got a few more chances. Each time I saw them, it was so hard not to sing a long while also grinning ear to ear. Each time, I took a photo and posted it on Instagram, the band re-shared it; which as a very amateur photographer always felt like a huge honor to get the nod from the Alleyway Crew. It was something that always made me feel closer to the band in a way. Every time Lou just kept the positivity and fun going, the ultimate hardcore frontman for possibly the greatest hardcore band of all time. Frankly, he was my favorite! 

In 2024, Lou announced that he had received a cancer diagnosis, and the hardcore community seemed to really show up for him. Every once in a while, he would post an update, and it seemed like the support was helping him stay positive. And for a moment, it really seemed to help, he had announced was cancer free around mid 2025. Unfortunately, the cancer seemed to come back stronger, and the treatments seemed to not be working as well. In July 2026, Lou lost his battle. It was an absolutely devastating loss to the punk and hardcore community, and a devastating loss as a fan. I spent the whole day in a bit of a funk, but the outpour of support and tributes was absolutely beautiful to see, and it helped to lessen the blow a bit. While it is tough to come to grips with the fact that I will never see Lou on stage conducting the crowd through Walls of Death and sing-a-longs, I will hold on to the memories of those shows and just how awesome Lou was. I really wish I had gotten a better chance to meet him and just say thank you for all the albums and memories. Instead, I’ll just throw on a record and dance around my living room. Rest in Power Lou! It’s Clobberin’ Time! 

For Dolly

By Jack Rafferty

Dolly Parton was beyond description, in a lot of ways. I don’t say that to mythologize her or anything like that, but she did always seem a bit larger than life as a cultural figure. I admired the fact that such a thing never seemed to get to her head. She remained respectful, magnanimous, and kind to the great many people she encountered in her life. She was an incredible musician, with a voice like a meadowlark, and a staggeringly prolific output throughout her career. 

Dolly grew up in poverty, living with a large family in a very small cabin in the Smoky Mountains of East Tennessee. Through her process of becoming the persona she would eventually be known for, she would have to simultaneously forsake the strict religious moralism of her upbringing and also the prejudicial treatment of that background by many in mainstream culture in the United States and people in urban areas of the country. Despite all this, she held firm in her belief in herself and demonstrated admirable extents of strength and determination in forging her path undaunted. 

I often felt sad that she went through so much surgical cosmetic work in her life to maintain a certain standard of beauty that is imposed on so many in this society, particularly women. It is a complicated aspect of her life that I grapple with, but I also respect the level of dignity she always exuded, especially when that was consistently challenged throughout her career on a public level, primarily in media interviews. One of my favorite examples is the Barbara Walters interview, where Barbara asked Dolly “Where I come from, would I have called you a hillbilly?” and Dolly replied “I would have probably kicked your shins…we were very proud people, people with a lot of class. It was country class, but it was a great deal of class.” This is just one of many situations where media outlets and interviewers, in typical tabloid fashion, attempted to pry into her personal life, to judge her decisions on marriage, having children, the way she dressed, the way she talked, etc. In my opinion, Dolly took all this in stride, and she was far more compassionate in her responses than these presumptuous inquiries deserved, but she also never took shit from anyone, and she always stood her ground. 

Everything about Dolly, from the way she chose to dress, to how she viewed herself and her worth within the context of a deeply patriarchal system, was an act of rebellion to the regular form of imprisonment that women were condemned to as housewives under capitalism in the United States. She was a consistent advocate for rural people, the working class, and the downtrodden. Whenever the media sought to reduce her or where she was from to a form of cheap caricature, she never allowed it to pass unchallenged. Dolly’s engagement in tremendous programs such as Imagination Library approached issues such as literacy rates in a way that was not judgmental, and was accessible to many families, since there was no income requirement for applying. That program alone provided 270 million free books and counting to children worldwide. It is important to contextualize this point as not being praise for the philanthropy of the rich, but rather an understanding of Dolly acknowledging the material issues she and others around her faced when she was growing up. 

Another anecdote that comes to mind is when the agent of Elvis Presley reached out to Dolly, because Elvis wanted to cover her song “I Will Always Love You.” The caveat to this is that they demanded 50 percent of the publishing rights. Most artists would have conceded to such a monumental opportunity regardless, but Dolly stood her ground and refused. This ended up still working out for her, but even if it hadn’t, Dolly understood the importance of ownership over her creative labor. She would have rather been poor and had her dignity than forsake her volition.

Dolly also championed the rights of LGBTQIA+ people throughout her life. This, combined with her uncompromising approach to self-expression and having agency over your own identity/appearance, were largely influential to many folks as a result. She embodied that it was okay to go beyond stereotypes, and that it was okay to be yourself, even if that clashes with what is considered permissible within the standards of a given time and place. Not only is it okay, but it is wonderful and worthy of celebration and praise. That was a very powerful message and legacy that Dolly forged. 

There are aspects of Dolly’s business involvement that are worthy of criticism, such as certain cult of personality projects like Dollywood, offering what is purportedly an “authentic” version of Appalachian life, when it seemingly treads within the same lineage of distorted reality and illusory depiction as any other theme park, such as Disneyland. Such a project comes off as entirely distant from her roots of sitting on the porch of a one-room cabin, a child among twelve poor children listening to their mother sing “Barbara Allen.” Projects such as Dollywood, with all its themed merchandise and sensational gimmicks, appear to be in contradiction with Dolly’s values of accurately representing the people and places from where she was raised. It is worth mentioning that this park is the largest employer in the area (which is a stated reason why Dolly invested in the project to begin with), though I cannot find any information about the quality of these jobs or their pay and benefits. I hesitate to criticize this too fiercely, since I have not been there myself, and I’m sure that people in the area do get enjoyment out of the park. There is simply something about theme parks and business enterprises that give the impression of vanity projects that I bristle at a bit. However, points like this do not meaningfully diminish my opinions or feelings toward Dolly and her legacy in a significant way. 

There are simply too many songs that Dolly released in her storied career to reasonably cover in a piece like this (she wrote more than three thousand songs, which is astounding and reminiscent of the prodigious work of great poets such as Li Bai), so I will just select a few of my favorites to touch on briefly. Beginning with “9 to 5,” which is surely one of the most listened to working-class anthems of the twentieth and twenty-first century. The song, and the film it was written for, were inspired by real struggles of women in the labor force facing challenges of low pay, sexual assault, and other forms of discrimination in the workplace. The tenacious spirit of this song comes forth in every line, criticizing the drudgery the working class is forced to endure,

Workin’ 9 to 5, what a way to make a livin’

Barely getting’ by, it’s all takin’ and no givin’

They just use your mind and you never get the credit

It’s enough to drive you crazy if you let it

9 to 5, yeah, they got you where they want you

There’s a better life and you think about it, don’t you?

It’s a rich man’s game no matter what they call it

And you spend your life puttin’ money in his wallet.

Another song that I absolutely love is “Early Morning Breeze” off of Coat of Many Colors, one of my favorite albums that she made. The lyrics of this song are beautiful and portray Dolly’s love of the natural world and the land in which she grew up. Her recollections remind me of experiences that I have had and times in my life where I had less on my mind interrupting me from simply enjoying waking up in the morning, feeling the breeze on my body, watching small moments of living things, reveling in the weather and the seasons and the sky. I especially love the chorus of this song, 

Rainbow-colored flowers, kissed with early morning sun

The aster and the dahlia and the wild geranium

Drops of morning dew still linger on the iris leaves

In the meadow where I'm walking in the early morning breeze.

Finally, I can’t talk about Dolly’s songs without talking about “Jolene.” I feel pretty strongly that this song is in my top five country songs ever written. There ironically isn’t much to say about it, because it just speaks for itself. The vocal melody, the rhyme scheme and cadence, the instrumentation, how exceptionally hard it is to sing, the way in which the song is written as a plea for another not to take a lover away, but that it is written essentially as a love letter to that romantic rival, it’s all just unmatched in my mind. I especially love this iconic stanza,

Your beauty is beyond compare

With flaming locks of auburn hair

With ivory skin and eyes of emerald green

Your smile is like a breath of spring

Your voice is soft like summer rain

And I cannot compete with you, Jolene.

It is a testament to Dolly’s timelessness that she was so deeply loved and influential to multiple generations. I cannot think of another figure of her stature that was as universally adored in this day and age, and thought of not just fondly, but respected deeply across such a diversity of backgrounds and walks of life. It makes me glad to think that, at least in the way that she often spoke of her life, she lived a long and joyous one. She had a love of life and living, of the people and the land, of songs and stories. She was ultimately a positive force within the story of human history, and she will be remembered for a great many years. 

Slap of Reality, Goodbye, Me (Rabbit Rabbit Records/Press, 2026)

By SoDak

I get excited whenever an older band releases a new record that includes the best music they have ever made. This is the case with Slap of Reality, a punk rock band from Florida that formed in 1987. The last few months, I regularly spin their full-length Goodbye, Me, as it brings me much joy, listening to their finely crafted melodic songs, which are reminiscent of bands such as Samiam. The record sounds great, crisp and clean. Every instrument is clear in the mix. The bass and drums serve as a solid anchor. The guitars sound big and have a nice drive to them. The songs are filled with emotional hooks, whereby the vocals and guitars hit the heart. 

I first saw Slap of Reality when they played in Rapid City, South Dakota, at Roman’s Ron De Vu, with Nuisance, Schlong, and Skin Shed, in July 1991. At that time, I had their first two seven inches, Stuck Inside (Vinyl Communications, 1989) and Time Alone (Pazzafist Records, 1990), which were raw recordings of good hardcore songs. The first seven-inch record mixes very fast songs, such as “Stuck Inside,” with mid-paced tunes filled with melodic choruses, such as “Remembrance.” The guitar parts are catchy. There are great moments where the bass is more prominent. The vocals are loaded with reverb. I love the breakdown moments where everything gets a little funky such as on “Thought We Were Friends.” I was eager to hear the songs on these records played live. The show in 1991 was phenomenal. Every traveling band was excellent, playing music from their records as well as new songs. We sang along to all the songs we knew. Given the July heat, the dancing during the show, and the sweat from the crowd, the walls of the venue were covered in moisture. Slap of Reality nailed every song with an energetic performance. They returned the next year for another stellar show. In the 1990s, they released a couple full-length records and a few seven-inch records, which are all solid releases. 

The real treat is that they continued to write songs and perform, culminating in recording Goodbye, Me, which was originally supposed to be released in either 2019 or 2020, but the label that was going to put out the record folded. A few years later, Slap of Reality made the songs available on Bandcamp to share with friends and fans. Fortunately, Rabbit Rabbit Records/Press worked with Slap of Reality to give this record a proper release in 2026. (To pick up a copy go to: https://rabbitrabbitrecordspress.bigcartel.com/.)

Goodbye, Me is a great fucking record. All the songs are catchy and make me sing along. Frank Lacatena’s voice is deeper and filled with more emotional capacity. His excellent singing conveys the tenderness and vulnerability of the lyrics with greater depth. The opening two tracks, “We Said” and “Never Far,” rock. They create an immediate connection. On “We Said,” Frank sings “And we said it meant so much/And we did so little now/And we see it’s over anyway.” On “Never Far,” which has a very strong and awesome Samiam vibe, he sings several times: “I don’t want to be without you now/When I come down.” If I saw this song performed live, I know that I would be jumping up and down, singing along, with tears streaming down my face. I love when a punk rock song moves me in this specific way.

Joe Kiser and David Peralta’s guitars sound extraordinary, whether the guitars are locked in and layered together or when they are adding distinct and interesting textures within songs. The guitars create a drive, while adding a punch here and there. Throughout the whole record, they add to the impassioned feelings. On “A Part Of,” with the alternating fast and slow sections of song, the guitars mix with Frank’s words, “And I don’t want to be a part of/Your club that loves to hate on all I love.” Throughout the record, I really like the sequencing of songs. Following “A Part Of” is a slow song, “Days Are Long,” which creates a nice dynamic, especially with the weight and tension of the lines “Days are long now/Years are short.” Then, Slap of Realty kicks it up again, with the start of “Gaslight.” Gregg Moore, on bass, and Rob Sexton, on drums, sound great on every track, establishing a solid foundation for the songs. I love how the bass is a little more forward during the slower moments in songs, and when just the drums and guitar are kicking off a song such as “Gaslight.” The distinct drum parts also intensify the empathic resonance of the music.

In many ways, Goodbye, Me is a perfect record for me. While my musical tastes are all over the map, I love melodic punk bands that rock while carrying an emotional weightiness that is expressed through the music and lyrics. I need music like this, as it helps make sense of daily struggles. Goodbye, Me embodies all of this. On “Cover It Up,” Frank sings, “Can we find another way/To make it through another day.” This is one of the songs I needed after an exhausting day, confronting too many disappointments. As I mentioned, the sequencing on the record is wonderful. The chorus in the following song, “94,” states “And I forgot/To tell you I’m there/And I forgot/To tell you I care.” The song is filled with love, a desire to connect with those who have been lost. In many ways, this song has become only more important considering that Rob Sexton, the drummer, unexpectedly died this summer. The song closes with the words, “You are never gone/You’ll live forever on and on in this song.” This song, this record, this music is further affirmation for how much we need to hold our loved ones close and to maintain our communities to support each other. 

Dolly Parton (1946-2026)

 

By Null

Something about Dolly Parton always seemed unbelievable. I felt that as a child, and I feel it even more so tonight upon the news of her death. How did she play the guitar with those long, painted fingernails?

I can’t remember a world without Dolly. I do remember hearing her on the radio before I ever stepped into a kindergarten classroom. I heard her hit songs on the radio as I moved though elementary school, middle school, and high school. Those songs stuck with me. They were a part of the soundtrack of not only my life but of all those around me, even those who didn’t really like country music. The songs were burned into our brains. Her voice was instantly recognizable and distinct. Dolly’s voice always reminded me of a bird. She seemed ever present, especially to a kid born in the 1970s. 

However, she never went away.

As an adult, I experienced the revelation that she was an incredible songwriter. I never realized she was such a master of the craft until I started to listen to her body of work.

She was a funny and kind-hearted person. She wanted kids to have books. She donated a million bucks to help fund vaccines. She never went the way of the spineless right-wing dolts. 

Yet, everyone seemed to love her. She cut through the bullshit with a charm and a twinkle in her eye. She glittered with rhinestones, but she still had shit on her shoes. 

There are so many reasons we loved her.

Besvärjelsen, Till Glömskan - Ad Oblivionem (2026)

By Beert

Besvärjelsen translates to “conjuring” in English. This band originally hails from Dalarna, Sweden. However, Bandcamp indicates that they now reside in Stockholm. They play self-described forest rock—think of it as Scandinavian desert rock, if labels and sub-genre categorizing is your bag. Following their acclaimed 2022 album, Atlas, Besvärjelsen bring us their latest offering, Till Glömskan - Ad Oblivionem, which will be released on August 28, 2026, on Magnetic Eye Records. 

I don’t recall how I stumbled across Besvärjelsen years ago, but I own the Frost (2019) EP and the Atlas LP. So, when I saw that they had a new album coming out this year, I jumped on the pre-order train (sea blue vinyl version for me, please—unfortunately, black was not an option). There is one good factor about social media, as that’s where I happen to see new releases such as this one being announced.

Prior to the release, three singles were unleashed upon us to whet our whistles and get us excited for the album. And, of course, I ate up every one of them. You can listen to songs at their Bandcamp page (https://besvarjelsen.bandcamp.com/album/till-gl-mskan-ad-oblivionem) or on YouTube (https://youtube.com/playlist?list=OLAK5uy_n-dubUKalYFk7ejzD72eiydFpJjaNrdbQ&si=0Ad4omwXjaveTdZL).

Happily, my copy of the album arrived just over a week before the record is released. I wanted to get a review out before the actual release date. (Hell, getting anything written at any point is a step ahead in my book.) 

The first thing that stands out, before even removing the polyvinyl sleeve, is the fantastic cover art, which is a watercolor by Björn Olars. The beauty and subtle pain in the piece really puts the listener in a good frame of emotion for the album that is about to be spun.

As the needle hits the groove on “The Greatest Sin,” an audio door slowly opens and guides you into this album. The song has a moderately plodding blues underlay with soulful vocals, which start the journey of pain and heartbreak that fills this album. This album exposes the listener to a lot of heartache, loss, and grieving…but in a powerful sense. There is a definite emotional heaviness of love once had and love lost. Moreso than just breakup songs, these songs are about love and realization and a sadness behind it all. 

While the early singles released from the album are great, the album as a whole really provides the fully impassioned story you don’t quite get from the individual songs. It’s not a concept album, per se, but it does tell a story in its own way. There’s an anger behind the heartbreak in the songs. The lyrics give the sharpened details, but the music is a well-painted backdrop for all of it. The dark icing on the cake is the final song, “Oblivion.” When you listen to the other 10 songs, in my opinion, you’re blown away. The layering and heaviness (emotionally, as it’s not over-the-top heavy music) is brilliant. And then you’re left with “Oblivion.” It is a vocal and piano piece that pulls your heart out of your chest, hiding behind the beauty of the song.

The album is outstanding in a year full of fantastic releases, such as records by All Them Witches, Elder, Monolord, Blackwater Holylight, Heather The Jerk, Taxi Girls, Neurosis, Ealdor Bealu, Red Sun Atacama, etc. And, right now, it’s holding just above the others for Album of the Year for me. I don’t say that lightly, as I never choose an actual, single Album of the Year. But goddamn…get this album, now.

Thank you Besvärjelsen. Thank you for showing beauty in pain, love in heartbreak, and healing in devastation.

Bra-fucking-vo!

Iwaki Takehiko (also known as Jhaha/Jha Jha), Singer of Lip Cream (1963-2026)

By SoDak

In the late 1980s, I first heard the Japanese band Lip Cream thanks to a friend who gave me a cassette tape that included recordings of some of their songs along with others by Gauze, the Stalin, and G.I.S.M. (who I knew from the excellent 1984 International P.E.A.C.E. Benefit Compilation). All these Japanese hardcore bands were incredible, playing chaotic, high-speed punk rock. Lip Cream incorporated some very speedy rock-and-roll and blues riffs, in their early songs, and touches of metal and experimental music into later recordings. Jha Jha played bass in Dead Cops before becoming the vocalist for Lip Cream. His raw, blood-curdling style and frantic energy involved singing in Japanese and English, expressing anger about the alienating aspects of urban life in Japan. Many songs described the apocalyptic destruction of war. Jha Jha did the artwork for the Big Foot cassette, sometimes called Kill the IBM because these words were part of the design. From 1984 to 1990, Lip Cream made their mark, creating some distinct anarcho-Japanese hardcore punk, recording a series of blistering records, which Relapse Records re-issued at the end of 2025, beginning of 2026. Finally, I have copies to hear Jha Jha in full glory, spitting out the words, especially on the last studio record, sometimes called —SIN—.

Uncultivates, “Every Day I Wake Up on the Bonnet of a Different Car"

By Jack Rafferty

Uncultivates is a new discovery for me. They are an Irish band that plays a type of mathcore/post-hardcore reminiscent of Dillinger Escape Plan, and they dress in ridiculous cowboy outfits, somewhat in the vein of the social commentary/American parody style of something like the B-52s (I could be reaching here a bit in terms of their intent, but it comes off as being from the lens of critique). They commit to the bit with this, even replying to interview questions with cartoonish lingo that at the very least is done in the spirit of fun, and more than likely is coming from a place of making fun out of these Western mythos and tropes. 

The song, “Every Day I Wake Up on the Bonnet of a Different Car,” in particular, is a lambast of the current right-wing zeitgeist, with a particular emphasis on the drug-addled toad, Joe Rogan. The music video they have put together for this track is how I would recommend experiencing it, as it does an excellent job of visually conveying this critique, through playing clips in the background of Rogan, Trump, Musk, Hulk Hogan, and many other embarrassing pieces of trash (including clips of Nascar, rodeos, stock graphs, American flags and burning skies, and Biden stroking the hair of children) essentially foregoing the need for any direct parody, because showing them being themselves is enough. In the foreground of all this, the band dons their goofy cowboy outfits, while angular, discordant riffs and angry, raw vocals perfectly match the absurdity, vileness, and comically sad figures being shown. 

This song comes from their recently released debut, This Will Become Clear Later, Like the French Revolution. While the album as a whole didn’t excite me as much as this song did, I may still review it down the road. The band is clearly not taking themselves too seriously, but also not holding back in the things they are taking aim at. I appreciate the ways they are reducing some of the more repellent aspects of the culture of the ruling class to fodder for ridicule. They intelligently recognize that in reality they need to say little to convey this, and merely highlight the drug-crazed, anti-intellectual, inhuman foolishness that is their brutalizing and mediocre existence. 

Alice Donut: Two Shows in 2025 (Brooklyn, New York)

By SoDak and Jonnie Dames Rio

April 25 and 26, 2025, the two of us saw Alice Donut play at the Brooklyn Monarch. For both shows, we were at the front of the stage, sharing this moment with other fans. After the second show, we jotted down some general reflections about the build-up to the shows and our experience. Over a year later, as we prepare to post these reflections, we learned of Chet Mazur’s death on August 8, 2026, following a hit-and-run by a driver of a USPS truck. Chet was featured on several Alice Donut record covers and in videos by the band. At the shows in 2025, Chet graced the stage, dancing, rubbing himself, and singing along to classic Alice Donut songs. His kindness was on full display.

There are bands whose significance only grows as the years pass. Alice Donut is one of them. From hearing the first record to seeing them long ago to watching the documentary, there are many entry points to the world of Alice Donut. Their songs are catchy, while being tragic, demented, and scathing critiques of the inhumanity that festers from the capitalist world system. The odd time signatures and twisted sections in songs add to the quirky and cerebral curiosities. While they officially disbanded in 1996, only to reunite from time to time from 2001 on, CDs and LPs kept their unconventional music present in our lives. The documentary Freaks in Love (2011) helped satiate some of the yearnings for more Alice Donut. It also seemed to promise that while the members resided in different states, they continued to play music, which would manifest in new releases. Every now and then, such as in 2014 and 2017, Alice Donut played shows. Thus, in November 2024, when they announced a show at Brooklyn Made, a small club in Brooklyn, New York, anticipation was high. While chatting on the phone, SoDak informed Jonnie Dames Rio about the show. Anticipating that the concert would quickly sell out, Jonnie Dames Rio (due in part to his excitement as well as extreme lack of impulse control) purchased tickets during the phone call. As predicted, the show sold out quickly. A second show was added. People from all over the United States and European nations booked flights and hotel rooms, eager to experience this rare event. Then we waited and wondered. What would Alice Donut sound like after all these years? Will it be worth the expenses and time? 

In February 2025, refunds for tickets were issued, as the club Brooklyn Made closed its doors. Would the shows even happen? Would travel plans have to be changed? Could they be changed? News that efforts were being made to secure another venue circulated. Would we be able to obtain tickets for the shows at the new club? Will we just have to listen to the records and forget about sharing this experience? Holy shit, Victims Family was announced as an opening band on one of the nights. Can we get tickets for that night? This must happen. Fortunately, tickets were purchased for both nights, thanks again to Jonnie Dames Rio, at the Brooklyn Monarch, a larger venue. We must listen to the records and rewatch the documentary before the shows. We need to make sure the flights and trains get us to the venue with plenty of time. We cannot miss a moment of these shows. 

On April 25, folks are trickling into the venue. The guitar players from Alice Donut are in the crowd talking with friends. The crowd is mixed, as far as ages, but leans heavily toward being older. Many of the younger folks are attending the show with their parents who grew up with Alice Donut and are sharing a cherished moment with them and perhaps a view of their parents that they have never seen. While not knowing anybody else in the crowd, it seems as if many of the older folks are being transported back to their younger days, giddy with excitement, effusively energetic, adding to the effervescence of the event. Nasalrod takes the stage and explodes into action. The balding singer is constantly doing jump kicks. His voice is great. They are quirky and perfectly fit the bill. Impressive performance. Victims Family up the ante with their jazzy, punk driving songs. The bass notes vibrate through everyone’s body causing us to bob our heads while smiling. The show moves along quickly. The folks next to us are looking at the set lists that were taped to the stage. We grin as we see the selection of songs. A couple from Washington state mention that seeing Alice Donut was on their check list of bands they had to see. A guy from Albany, New York, tells us that he saw Alice Donut dozens of times in the 1990s. A woman from Chicago who is bouncing up and down during every song throughout the night saw Alice Donut play on one of the previous reunions. She is ecstatic. 

Alice Donut takes the stage appreciating the excitement. Like all the bands, they are older, much grayer. They take in the moment, get prepared, and kick into their set. At the start, guitar picks are dropped, an amp stops working, a story is told, and glasses are held in place while rocking out. As the band finds its legs, momentum is built. The embrace between the crowd and the band is felt. Goosebumps appear repeatedly, as specific songs are played. Alice Donut plays additional songs not on the setlist, so we are thankful to hear more than anticipated. Chet stalks the sides of the stage as if building up the courage to join the band mid set. He struts on the stage (where he belongs) weaving in between members of the band. While he looks older, there is no denying that his is the face on the cover of Mule. Perhaps not as provocative as his performance art pieces opening up for Alice Donut in the 1990s, his presence brings a sense of completeness to the show. Tears well up, as we are here, because live music is special. We share this emotion, this creation. We feed off each other’s energy, singing along. The moments pass quickly. We are so fucking happy. Fortunately, we have tickets for the next night. 

The next day, April 26, Dave Giffen, one of the guitar players is crossing the street. We are talking with a couple wearing Alice Donut shirts. Dave smiles and nods. Another friend, who has never been to a punk show joins us. Reunions abound within the venue. There is much to catch up on. We meet new folks, who we start calling friends. Many people are also here for the second night. A couple tells us they used to see both the opening bands, Babe the Blue Ox and Very Pleasant Neighbor, all the time in the 1990s. They promise us, we will be impressed. Babe the Blue Ox are awesome, with their two percussionists. Everyone in the band sings. They still play regularly, and it shows—they are tight. One of the drummers from Babe the Blue Ox also plays in Very Pleasant Neighbor. They put on a solid set. A British woman gets really excited when she sees that Alice Donut is playing “Mother of Christ” and “Cain.” “Mother of Christ” is her third favorite song. We wish that “Bottom of the Chain” was on the set list—there are so many songs we want to hear. The photographers are moving back and forth to position themselves to document the performance. 

Alice Donut seems more self-assured as they take the stage. From the first note, they have even more drive and energy. The guitar players are exchanging smiles. Sissi’s bass tone is excellent, with a slight rumble. Tomas is taking in the entire experience. Stephen steps out from behind the drum kit to play “War Pigs” on the trombone. The crowd is ecstatic, as old punkers start to slam, but as older adults. Arms are in the air, pounding to the beat. With each song, the crowd is getting louder, losing themselves, singing along, not wanting this moment to end, while trying to make the most of what is happening, as we never know if this will be the last time we get to see this band. Hopefully, there will be more shows. (In 2026, they played two shows in San Franscisco.) 

In 2025, we were there for Alice Donut. It was awesome to share these moments with dear friends and so many others who are in the Alice Donut family. Much thanks for these experiences. 

Governor Cox Crawled Out of Trump’s Asshole to Celebrate the Desecration of the State of Utah

By the Infidel Cowboys (Lusk, Wyoming)

The following is a work of “fan fiction.”

As part of his political civility campaign, Governor Cox often travels to Washington DC, believing he can temper the rhetoric and style of the fascist in the White House. In this, he constantly ingratiates himself, hoping to advance his own reactionary agenda in Utah. In July 2026, he spent days inside Trump’s colon, eating endless shit. This was not a one-off event, as politicians regularly service the president, giving him rim jobs. 

Inside the Yellow Oval bedroom in the White House, Trump removed his suit. His boxers were damp, as the fabric absorbed his sweat and anal leakage. He rang a bell, letting his staff know that they should send in one of the lapdogs waiting outside. Cox bounded through the door, eager to make his servitude known. As Trump positioned himself on the bed, with knees and hands on the mattress, Cox moistened his lips and peeled the dank underwear from the “boss.” He stepped back to admire the man who constantly makes exaggerated claims of grandeur, thinking “Trump is/has the biggest asshole in the world, and I am a masterful analingus. Now, let’s get to work.”

Cox knew he did not have much time given the impatience of the Commander in Chief, but he wanted to run his tongue around the giant booty rather than simply plunge it into the stinker. The random, wirey, white hairs tickled his lips. Coating his palms with Astroglide, he parted Trump’s ass checks and gently ran his fingers over the swollen hemorrhoids. While the President’s backdoor was messy, the water-based lube made the process easier and, perhaps, a little cleaner. As Cox, spiralled his tongue around the outer edges of the Head of State’s distorted cherrio, the President demanded satisfaction, compelling Cox to vigorously lick the gapping orifice. His nose and tongue flitted in and out of the anus. When he came up for air, he looked like a Saint Bernard at a water bowl. His jowls were covered in saliva, lube, fecal matter, and flecks of toilet paper. 

The Chief farted and then grunted, “More, damn it.” Cox had to take a minute to catch his breath, so he proceeded to fist the President. Despite the loose rectal muscles, this action generated great orgasmic pleasures for them. Finally, on the verge of exploding, Cox ravenously returned to the trough. He squeezed his bald head past the sphincter and mowed down on the partially digested McDonald’s Big Macs, Filet-O-Fish sandwiches, and Quarter Pounders. He kept chomping and climbing his way up the President’s colon, until he was fully immersed in the cavity. He was surprised to discover that this time he was not alone. In one of the semilunar folds, Rudy Giuliani was cleaning the crap from his glasses, rehearsing lies to tell the judges. In another fold, Kristi Noem was practicing taxidermy, mounting a dog that she shot. Macro Rubio was drinking watery stool. Further up, in the columns of Morgagni, Kid Rock was masturbating, adding more mucus to the membranes of the large intestine. It seemed that most of his staff were present—no wonder Trump always appeared bloated. By eating the President’s ass, Cox found his people. Tucked away, he stayed in place for a few more days. 

Finally, on July 13, 2026, Cox crawled out of Trump’s asshole to join the tyrant and the other goosestepping suits for the proclamation to reduce the size of Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante national monuments by approximately 90 percent, undoing the land protections that had been established through decades of mobilization. In the inverted world, the despot claimed that this was a victory for the people, indicating he was “giving it [the land] back,” which actually meant he was going to let extractive companies lay waste to the environment. This order dissolved the Bears Ears Commission, which consisted of a tribal-federal body to advance co-stewardship over ancestral lands for five Indigenous nations. 

With a shit-eating grin, Cox wallowed in the moment. The state of Utah had spent over 6 million dollars of taxpayer monies in the last ten years to pursue legal actions and craft a public relations campaign to seize federal lands. These actions were pursued despite the Utah constitution stating that the people of the state “forever disclaim all right and title to the unappropriated public lands” within its borders. 

Cox stood there dreaming about the expropriated lands—finally these holdings and the resources they contained could be exploited. His development and industry friends were going to be so happy. The state legislature had allotted 20 million dollars to help seize federal lands, so the funds would have to be used to “convince” the public that the elected officials had the people’s interest at heart. He immediately put out a press release indicating that “The State of Utah welcomes new federal action that modifies the boundaries” of the national monuments, indicating that the previous protections resulted “resource degradation.” Now, the “natural minerals” can be liberated for economic development. 

He felt immense pride, as everything was going his way. He would continue to impose his “Operation Gigawatt” plan to double energy output within the state by turning Utah into a uranium wasteland, connecting mining, manufacturing, testing, energy, and depository operations within beehive country. More public relations money would have to be spent to convince the public to embrace this toxic future, so a few folks could get rich, especially in an era of less regulations of the nuclear and electrical industries. As Cox smiled for the cameras, he burped, vomiting up some excrement. Knowingly all the other sycophants, nodded at each other, as they were all full of shit. 

The Peace We Allow Ourselves: Bourbon & Rosewater

By Jack Rafferty

The album Bourbon & Rosewater (2011) by Jerry Douglas, Vishwa Mohan Bhatt, and Edgar Meyer is one of those records where I don’t really recall when I first heard it, but it has been one that I have relied on during times of stress and hardship in my life. Oddly, this album was my introduction to Jerry Douglas, and stood out to me when I discovered it, given its blend of bluegrass and traditional Indian music, with three virtuosic musicians coming together to perform such alchemy. I had never really heard anything like it. 

As of writing this, it has been a while since I listened to Bourbon & Rosewater. Upon revisiting it, some of the compositions seem to meander a bit, though I do think there is a good deal of distinctiveness on display here, and these notes still resonate powerfully with me. I do think that Edgar’s work is unfortunately rather buried in the mix, but otherwise the sound is wonderful. There is a flowing rhythm that has a meditative quality to it, which reminds me of the river depicted on the cover, flowing between the two lands from which these musical traditions call home. The interplay between the gorgeous acoustic notes bringing these traditions of music together is beautiful. The many memories I recall listening to it, good and bad, serves to remind me of how integral this album was for a certain time in my life, and I am very appreciative for its presence during those times. 

This album was the one I would always go to when I needed something to soothe me, particularly on hard nights working in the backcountry. We used to do eight-day hitches, and my stubborn ass would get tired of setting up and taking down a tent every night, so some nights I would just elect to sleep in the back of the truck cab. The nighttime temperatures were typically in the 90s, and I would have to keep the windows closed to keep the bugs out. This was not long after having injured my septum, so breathing in the best of conditions wasn’t great. Those nights felt like being buried alive above ground, and I would struggle to make it through each passing minute. It was times like these that I would pull out my cracked iPod, blow the sand out of the aux port, plug in my frayed headphones, and play Bourbon & Rosewater. Almost instantly it would make me feel better, and it put my mind more at ease. I would listen to the record on repeat until eventually my body would relax enough to fall asleep.

Another memory I can recall is camping in the Uinta mountains, lying near a fire while I played this album. I had been going through a rough spot in my life. Being able to simply watch the stars gently mingle with smoke between the trees, while the dobro and mohan veena notes softly played, was enough to ground me in that moment and induce a sense of great humility to the natural world, and my small place within it. A sort of significant insignificance overwhelmed me, as I felt infinitely small yet meaningful at once. There was a clarity and presence to that night that I remember well, and thinking about it now, amid such global catastrophe and interlinking crises, it serves as a reminder to allow myself peace when I can, not as an escape, but rather as an embrace of this life, this material existence, and of resolutely building the strength within myself needed to soberly face down such issues in community with others, to struggle for a better world. 

Most of my memories associated with this album are entwined with the natural world, of big skies, lichen-covered rocks, petrichor, the smell of dust and cheap beer, woodsmoke, and the sound of a light breeze in raven wings. Rough nights and cold mornings. The sight of ponderosa pines and the song of canyon wrens. Listening to it is like returning to the earth, when lately it feels increasingly difficult and painful to bridge that rift. In a way, it still helps me tear down emotional and physical barriers that alienation builds between myself and the world. What it gives me I cannot fully explain, because it is so inextricable to my lived experience that joined with this music, and not just the music itself. I am indebted to it as a result, as it allows me to hold on to these moments, to continue to walk in the murky light of their recollection, and embrace the lessons that they taught me. I am grateful for the relief it has brought me in times when I needed it, and I revisit it now as I would an old friend, warmly and with a smile, and the desire to wander off into the trees for a while, and watch the stars once more.