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 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. 

Film: Who the Fuck Wants to Play in Rapid City, SD

A dear friend, Jack Batchelder, of this music blog made a documentary about the punk rock scene in Rapid City, South Dakota. It is currently available at the following link. Enjoy. 

https://player.mediadelivery.net/play/704006/1cf22d53-4933-42a0-b53b-70ea14023df8

Memories of the State Fair

By SoDak

July and August always make me think about loud music, carnival rides, and the sickening scent of sugar, sweat, grease, and farm animal shit, even though it has been decades since I experienced all this together. The Rapid City Central States Fair, in the 1970s and early 80s, was overwhelming, as far as the sounds, sights, and smells. As a young child, my family spent much time looking at the 4-H exhibits, which consisted usually of animals in cages or pens. We attended the rodeo to see our cousins ride bulls and rope calves; and, sometimes, we got to see the demolition derby. My parents would give my brother and me a few tickets, so we could enjoy riding the Octopus/Spider, the Tilt-a-Whirl, and the Zipper. My father would play a few games, such as the ring toss or ballon darts, trying to win a silly toy or stuffed animal. He generally won when shooting the BB gun at the red star. Our fingers were sticky from eating cotton candy.

By the time that I was ten years old, my parents would drop me off at the entrance to the fair, so I could meet up with friends. We skipped the buildings with all the chickens, ducks, turkeys, pigs, sheep, and cows, making our way to the rides and games. The fair always consisted of quite a cross-section of the population, as folks from the rural communities mingled with everyone from the city. By the late 1970s, with deepening economic stagnation, there was a sense of desperation among many of the attendees and the carnies. Hard times were ever present. The fairgrounds seemed more dilapidated. My shoes stuck to the concrete due to the spilled beers and sodas. I collected aluminum cans from the neighborhood parks to trade for some extra money to supplement cash from delivering newspapers. 

As far as rides, the Viking was the main attraction. The swinging ship, in and of itself, was not the most exciting ride, but the music was always the loudest. There were big, mounted speakers, blasting hard rock and metal songs. I often stood close to the ride, in a spot where I could feel the vibrations from the tunes. I viscerally recall hearing “Highway to Hell,” “Back in Black,” “Fooling Yourself,” “Come Sail Away,” “Paranoid,” “Living After Midnight,” “Breaking the Law,” “Black Dog,” “Immigrant Song,” and “Rock and Roll” blaring over the sound system. This was one of the many spots and moments when I fell in love—with music. While riding the Viking, I got instant goosebumps when hearing Dio’s “Rainbow in the Dark” followed by “Holy Diver.” His voice was fucking incredible. These two songs made me obsessed, as I had to track down the record, so I could hear these tunes whenever I wanted to, which was continuously in the summer and fall of 1983. I think this was the same year I started giving the horns as a greeting and when saying goodbye to friends.  

Everything seemed sketchier and more dangerous on the midway, where teenagers played various games of chance. Dollar bills were shoved to the bottom of my pocket, as my parents warned me that if I was not careful someone would try to pickpocket me. Everyone seemed to be smoking cigarettes, and cigarette butts covered the ground. At each booth, the carnie would be playing loud music, adding an exciting edge to the experience. The prizes had changed, reflecting cultural shifts, as rock gods reigned. Among the roach clips with feathers, there were carnival mirrors with band names and album covers that could be won. At the time, I had no idea what the roach clips were for; I also did not know that the carnival mirrors were coke mirrors. I just wanted to a glass mirror adorned in rock imagery. The mirrors came in three sizes, 6" by 6", 8" x 8", and 12" x 12", with the larger sizes reserved as premium prizes. As I observed the games, I starred at the mirrors, almost overwhelmed by the possible prizes, as there were ones with images of AC/DC, Judas Priest, Rush, Rainbow, Led Zepplin, Black Sabbath, Van Halen, Ozzy, Kiss, Bob Marley, Yes, Queen, Journey, Styx, Boston, Pat Benatar, Grateful Dead (at the time, I had never heard their music, but I liked the imagery), Quiet Riot, Def Leppard, and ZZ Top. I wanted as many of them as possible. After popping many ballons with darts, the carnie grabbed a mirror and handed it to me; I did not get to select the mirror—perhaps this was due to being a minor and not having any parents present. The cover of the first Loverboy record was on the small mirror. I thought fine band and record, but I wanted something more hard rock. Dejected, I stood there, as I did not have enough cash to keep playing the game. I also did not know how long it would take to win a desired large mirror with Rush on display. 

In the following years, I avoided the games with mirrors as the prize, as I did not want to waste money on the long con to finally get a large mirror. Instead, I wasted money on the games where the prizes were rock shirts, which you could select the desired band. In the mid-1980s, I won a cheap-ass Ratt t-shirt, which I wore for years, until it was threadbare. A couple years later, I saw them perform at the fair, even though this was still during their ascendency as a band. 

Today, as the summer heats up, I still get chills, whenever I hear:

When there’s lightning

You know it always brings me down

‘Cause it’s free, and I see that it’s me

Who’s lost and never found

I cry out for magic

I feel it dancing in the light

It was cold, lost my hold

To the shadows of the night

No sign of the morning coming

You’ve been left on your own

Like a rainbow in the dark

A rainbow in the dark.

Please turn it up, the louder, the better.  

Madi's Latest Knitting Project

 

The Rock Canon in a Small-Town Drug Store

By Null

As a working-class kid, I’ve always had to work. I started working on a dairy farm when I was in elementary school. I didn’t get a paycheck, but my parents loved me, provided room and board, and keep me warm in a 100-year-old farmhouse in the wilds of Michigan. As with many families at the time, Reaganomics put an end to the dairy farm, and we had to escape the collectors in the middle of the night. 

We landed in Arizona where I attended middle school. During this period, my only jobs were taking care of the lawn and making sure the pool was clean. The workload was considerably less compared to the farm, which was nice because it allowed me more time to obsess about music, become an avid reader, and explore the highs and lows of puberty enhanced social interactions. 

High school found me back in Michigan. This time we didn’t live in vast farmland; we moved to one her small towns. When I finally received my driver’s license, I was able to get my first real paying job at a tiny, little drug store in our tiny, little town. It was around this time that the cornerstone and foundation of my world began to coalesce. 

My meager paycheck would provide gas for my run-down Ford Escort. It ran on diesel, and I could fill the gas tank for about ten bucks. A full tank would last two weeks. I’d buy a few packs of cigarettes, a bottle of Pepsi, and a few glass bottles of Perrier. I would consume these while driving around listening to music or while sitting in my room reading. I began exploring the great novels in the canon of literature, fiction, philosophy, and poetry. I read history books. I continued to obsess on music. I discovered punk rock and realized that I wasn’t the only one whose heart the world was breaking. These books and albums changed my life forever. My friend, Jake, and I would drive to used bookstores in Ann Arbor to find cheap copies of books. The university kids read the deep stuff. 

I had a few bucks leftover, so I would go through Alternative Tentacles and Discord Records catalogs. These were real, paper catalogs, which would show up in punk fanzines, or in the mail. I would send cash through the mail and receive brilliant punk rock cassettes a few weeks later by Alice Donut, NoMeansNo, Tragic Mulato, Doc Corbin Dart, Fugazi, Minor Threat, and the like. The punk kids played the deep stuff.

If I wanted to get my hands on an album by Joy Division, The Cure, The Smiths, and the like, Jake and I had to drive south, closer to the big cities, where we could find record stores. There weren’t any record stores in our small towns.

However, the small drug store where I worked contained an anomaly. Inconspicuously placed between allergy medicine and Dr. Scholl’s Food Pads was a wooden cabinet made specifically for housing about 100 cassette tapes. It was crudely painted black, and many of the slots were empty. The cassettes inside were secured by two glass doors fashioned with a lock.

At the time, a new album on cassette cost somewhere between eight and ten dollars. Most of the tapes in the case were marked at $4.99, while others were priced even cheaper; some were $2.99. I immediately assumed they would be crappy truck-stop knock-offs of questionable quality. To my surprise, there were many newer tapes and a plethora of classic rock titles by such artists as The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, David Bowie, and The Who. I assumed these were mispriced. As an employee of the drug store, I also received a 40% discount. It was a small town and there were not many people who worked at the store. I guess the owner, who was also the pharmacist, decided to show his gratitude toward his employees with such a generous discount. I’m pretty sure he was the richest guy in town; the rumor was owned his own plane.

I could buy these tapes for next to nothing, which was great for a high school kid on a budget. I still needed to send away in the mail for punk rock records and make the occasional pilgrimage to record stores in the big city. However, my classic rock knowledge was about to be greatly extended. 

I already had most of the classic Rolling Stones albums from the 1960s. I had also made the decision that the last great Stones record was Exile on Main Street from 1972. The drug store case contained Emotional Rescue from 1980. I only knew David Bowie from the radio, but I was very curious. The drug store case contained The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, also from 1972. I had a few Beatles records, but lacked a general knowledge of their short output. The drug store case contained the unheard Magical Mystery Tour.

After I got paid, I took the key, which was kept under the cash register. I grabbed these three cassettes from the case and locked it back up. When I went to the cash register to pay for them, I was informed that I did not need to wait until I got paid. I could buy anything in the store, at any time. It would simply be subtracted from my paycheck. This cassette case was becoming more magical by the minute. I could buy a $2.99 tape for $1.79. A $4.99 tape would cost me $2.99.

After work, I drove home on a moonless winter night. The few streetlights and porchlights of the smalltown smeared colors across the wet and worn pavement. I threw Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust into the tape player and when the desperation of “Five Years” hit my ears, I took a turn down the back, gravel roads to allow side one to play out. I finally realized why the album was held in such high regard. A few days later, I learned that The Beatles Magical Mystery Tour almost functioned as a continuation of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. The instrumentals where a surprise. I then listed to my first post-1972 Stones record, Emotional Rescue. I could take or leave some of the songs, but the fact that the song “Indian Girl” would have gone unnoticed had I not bought this cassette seemed tragic; it remains one of my favorite Stones songs and indicted that there were more juicy bits after 1972.

The following weeks were filled with school, youthful mixed emotions, dreams, and despair. I stocked shelves and logged inventory in the back of the store. The days went by. I walked past the meager cassette display and found that there were new cassettes. I assumed that when it was restocked, the cassettes I bought would be replaced with the same titles, following the logic that if someone bought Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars there was a good chance someone else would also buy it. If you sell all cans of Coke, you don’t restock, or replace them, with milk. 

Yet, I found that Bowie’s Aladdin Sane, The Beatles’ Rubber Soul, and the Stones’ Goat Head Soup were the new tenants in the drug store. None of these titles were there last week. I quickly grabbed all three of them. As I took the cassettes up to the front, I asked the cashier working that night who stocks the cassette tapes. “Oh, some guy comes in every week or so. We don’t have anything to do with it.” Curious. I wanted to ask more questions, but I didn’t want to jinx what I was hoping would be a pattern.

I continued on with my life. I devoured these tapes along with the tapes I continued to buy at the expensive record stores closer to Detroit and the punk rock stuff I ordered in the mail.

A few weeks later, the pattern continued. The Beatles’ Abby Road showed up, along with Bowie’s Pin-Ups and The Stones’ It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll. In addition, John Lennon’s last two albums—Double Fantasy and, the posthumous, Milk and Honey—made an appearance. This is where I acquired a soft spot for Yoko Ono as she presented herself in the domestic period with Lennon and the looming sadness of his murder. 

The weeks that followed presented me with Bowie’s Station to Station and, my introduction to his “Berlin period,” Heroes. John Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band, Imagine, and Mind Games also showed up in the consecutive weeks. I fell in love with these albums and equated them with the more “radical” lyrics of the political punk rock I was devouring in unison.

I was experiencing an explosion of art and ideas. I was beginning to grasp the ideas of humanism and radical politics in my reading of literature, philosophy, and history. I was making an outline of the canon of ideas, not only intellectually, but also musically, as far as popular, Western music was concerned. When I went to the big record stores to get the new R.E.M. release, I was also picking up titles by Violent Femmes and The Doors. I also began filling out the missing records in my Beatles, Stones, and Bowie collections. I needed to fill in the missing gaps, which the “mysterious drug store cassette dealer” failed to fulfill. 

I came away with a new appreciation for The Stones albums post-1972. Many of them lacked the excitement and fire of their 1960s records, but they made up for it with a world-weary nonchalance, which had its own defeated and depressing charm. It extended my Stones appreciation all the way to 1980.

I became well versed in all The Beatles albums and most of Lennon’s solo albums, the latter of which contains gems that no one seems to ever mention.

The awkward, other-worldliness of David Bowie became something I embraced. His “rock band period” from 1970-1973 is great. The band is on fire. The strange Station to Station has become one of my favorites, and Heroes is the best of his “Berlin period” with the uncomfortable, insular, and claustrophobic Orwellian lyrics.

Shortly before I quit the job, The Who’s Who’s Next and a few Neil Young tapes showed up, as well as Bob Dyaln’s Greatest Hits. Let us not forget Pink Floyd’s Relics and Works compilations, which introduced me to their early recordings. These were the parting gifts from my “tape fairy-godfather.” There were other titles I bought over my time working at the drug store in this sleepy, small town. The years have taken some of these memories from me, as my life has been filled with digesting seemingly endless amounts of music and art.

Later in life, when I would talk with other music junkies about jazz, punk rock, metal, and what-not, I was often surprised at my extensive knowledge of these monumental bands in the classic rock canon. It seemed a bit unusual. As I said before, I was a working-class kid. The only reason I was able to fill my obsession with these artists is because I got it all for dirt cheap. It felt as though they were gifts; the drug store made no money from me. 

Music and the recording process have always been magical to me. We could not stream music on the internet. If we bought a cassette tape, we listened to it. Even if we were not fond of it, we still listened to it. Some of the albums we learned to love over time. When we dislike an album, we had tons of reasons why we didn’t like it, because we listened to it a lot before we passed it on to a friend at school. Though music seems to be available to almost everyone now, it has also diminished in value. It can be deleted in a second. If it isn’t adored immediately, it can be replaced or eliminated in the second. Patience and understanding are both skills.

The last week I worked in the drug store, the pharmacist asked me if I could deliver some prescription drugs to an old lady. I was a bit surprised by this request, but I acquiesced. I took the paper bag full of prescription drugs and the directions scribbled on a piece of paper by the pharmacist. I headed down long country roads surrounded by cornfields. It was a hot and humid day. The sun was blinding. I kept checking the address on a piece of paper. I was sure I was lost. 

Finally, I came upon an isolated and timeworn farmhouse. I walked up the creaky porch and knocked on an old door with a tattered screen. A lady appeared who was hunched over at the waist. She moved slowly and made grunting sounds, embodying the pain it took for her move. I wanted to open the door and help her, but I did not want to diminish her dignity. I didn’t want to be presumptuous. I wanted to honor her space. She opened the door and walked over to a small kitchen table. The house smelled of old skin and unwashed fabric. I wanted to grab a chair and help her sit down. She took the bag of meds and sat at the table. She motioned to the other room and asked me to bring her a pile of mail in a voice that sounded like “sandpaper and glue.” She was difficult to understand. 

I walked into the other room and found a large dinning table covered in papers. The whole table was covered in mail, but I didn’t want to bother her, as it was clear that every movement was a chore. I heard her get up and shuffle over to the 1950s refrigerator. I scanned over the plethora of papers on the table looking for what would be an obvious stack of new or unopened mail. My eyes fell upon a letter wishing her a happy 100th birthday. It was signed by President Ronald Reagan. 

The Dead Kennedys flashed through my mind. 

I immediately wondered how or why this woman was living alone. I found a stack of unopened envelops with postal stamps. I grabbed them and walked back into the kitchen. She pointed at a letter opener, which shinned like a silver knife on the table. I picked it up and began opening her mail. She didn’t need to tell me. I put the opened envelopes on the table and asked if she wanted me to remove the contents. She shook her head “no,” and pointed at a jar of homemade pickles. I picked it up and opened it. She then pointed at the door and gestured for me to leave without a word. I immediately worried about how she would get the large, open jar back in the refrigerator or even get the lid back on. I asked if there was anything else I could do for her. She grunted at me and pointed at the door. It weighed on my conscious to leave her, so vulnerable in an uncaring world. I followed her wishes and walked reluctantly out the door, across the creaky porch, and sat in my car. It felt strange to leave this lady in her 100-year-old farmhouse alone. 

I lit a cigarette, which I was too young to buy. 

Patience and understanding are skills.

I started the car and the cassette began to play. 

John Lennon’s voice sang, “God is a concept through which we measure our pain.” 

I backed down the long driveway and headed out into the vast wild farmlands of rural Michigan.

The World Sighs with Relief at News that Hegseth Has Died

 By The Infidel Cowboys (Lusk, Wyoming)

The following is a work of “fan fiction.”

On July 24, 2026, Hegseth was found dead in a stall in a barn in Kentucky. His skull showed evidence of blunt force trauma. News of his death was met with a mix of indifference and a sigh of relief. Nevertheless, there was some curiosity regarding the cause of his demise. The discovery of his journal, I Am a Warrior: My Domination of the Animal Kingdom, alongside his testosterone advocacy for U.S. soldiers to maintain the “leading edge of lethality” have generated much speculation regarding what transpired in the Bluegrass State. 

Hegseth’s journal was filled with cryptic notes, symbols, drawing of animals, and photos of his tattoos and his penis. On every page, the phrase Deus vult (God wills) was written, just as it was tattooed on his right bicep, with hand drawn images of the Jerusalem cross. He carried his right-wing Christian nationalist beliefs on his body and in his private thoughts, believing that he was a chosen one, moral in the eyes of God and above his fellow creatures. He hated feminism and the prospects of equality. He feared the democratic process. His hateful ideas were scrawled across the pages, as an exercise for the nonsense he stated in public. On several pages, he had a tally sheet, where he kept track of the women he had “fucked,” noting the dates and how he felt about his “conquests.” His infidelities were widely documented and contributed to his failed marriages, yet he strutted like a peacock, thinking he was special. As a self-described “nice guy,” he thought it was perfectly fine for him to sexually assault women. His disgusting behavior led his own mother to claim that he was “an abuser of women,” yet Fox News and her son quickly forced her to recant her statement and to claim that he had changed. 

Dozens of pages in the diary were filled with symbols, such as the Walmart Spark and arrows, alongside a list of various animals. In a column on a few pages, one word was repeated—Cat, Cat, Cat, Cat, Cat—on every line. Eventually, more details were included: Cat (Black), Cat (Ginger), Cat (Gray), Cat (Calico). Then the list started to vary, filled with types of dogs— Pomeranian, Poodle, Bulldog, Retriever, Labrador, German Shepherd. Following this, the list of animals varied between cats, dogs, sheep, and pigs. Next to the name of each animal, the Spark appeared with an arrow, two arrows, or three arrows hitting the center of the symbol. 

Investigators studied this section of the journal for a couple days, followed by reading his entries, where he made numerous declarations regarding his dominion over nature, especially all its animals. They determined that this list was another tally sheet. Here Hegseth was recording the types of animals and number of times he had sexual relations with these creatures. The arrows penetrating each Spark next to name of an animal detailed the bestiality. At first, there was some skepticism regarding this conclusion, but at the back of the warrior journal there was key, which unlocked a box filled with photographs of a familiar penis and Hegseth’s tattooed arm constraining God’s creatures.  

The medical examiner hesitated to release the findings, but decided the truth must be known. She provided a detailed report, noting how Hegseth died from a swift kick from the horse that accompanied him in the stall, knocking him off the stairs that he climbed to rape the equine. A horseshoe imprint was clearly visible on Hegseth’s cranium. Blood saturated the hay that surrounded his naked body. His shriveled penis, which he seemed so obsessed with in his journal, was unremarkable. 

While many people snickered at the devious activities of Hegseth, the majority recognized him as a dangerous scumbag and were pleased that he finally got his due. The musician Willi Carlisle immediately wrote a song celebrating the horse’s precision kick, embodying the “leading edge of lethality.”

A Few Songs for a Night in Austin

By Jack Stephen

I met up with one of my oldest friends in Austin. We hung out at St. Elmo Brewery in South Austin; it is a cool scene in a great part of town. Austin used to be all about 6th street and all that nonsense. We used to check out some Texas blues act at the time-honored Joes Generic Bar, which was always fun. Tonight at St. Elmo, it was The Lost Pines bluegrass band. They were freaking solid. It had been a minute since I had seen some live music, so I was especially enthusiastic. The band consisted of an acoustic guitar, fiddle, mandolin, and standup bass. The musicians were killer. I’m not sure who was my favorite; it was a close race between the mandolin and the fiddle player. The musicians were so good they made it look easy, and they were sure having a nice time. 

What song did they play when we sat down? “Ain’t No Trouble to Me” by Guy Clark.

I thought this was a pretty good selection, as it is a fun song blistered by some great lyrics. Guy was one of those great country artists who not only wrote a number of songs covered by all kinds of artists, but he was also a mentor who helped launch a number of other great artists (see Steve Earle for example). My buddy threw the band a tip and requested they play his favorite fiddle song “Orange Blossom Special,” written by Ervin T. Rouse in 1938. I guess it features a pretty amazing fiddle part. Unfortunately, The Lost Pines didn’t know that one. Didn’t really matter, they were crushing.

What song was playing in the bathroom? “Big Iron” by Marty Robbins.

As I relieved myself, I thought about how this was the deep country cut I didn’t see coming. I recalled that I have his album Gunslinger Ballads and Trail Songs, featuring this gem and many others. Marty had a fantastic voice. Don’t forget about the musicians he played with, the guitar player rips on “Big Iron” and other tracks. As I walked out, I was kind of thinking about requesting “Big Iron” to The Lost Pines as a possible song choice, but figured I should just enjoy what they were playing.

What song did they play when I sat back down? “Queen of Hearts” by Juice Newton.

As they prepared to play, getting set on the right key and whatnot, the mandolin player remarked “it’s time for the top of the 1980s.” He wasn’t kidding. This song went to number two on the Billboard 100 for a couple of weeks in 1981. It is one of those tracks where I really have no idea what is being talked about, but I sure have a fun time singing along to it. I figured I better get us another couple of those frozen Mangoritas, which seemed prudent at this point. I sang, “blame it on the Queen of Hearts, though it isn’t very smart,” as I moseyed back from the bar. 

A Couple of Songs for a Show at a Sushi Bar

By Jack Stephen

I had a show in Denver, Colorado, at a Sushi Hai. This restaurant, close to the intersection of 32nd Avenue and Lowell Boulevard, is in a super cool area, which was bustling for happy hour on a Thursday. I wandered into Meade St. Provisions to grab something to eat before the show. The restaurant was a great spot, albeit expensive. It was thirty dollars for a “craft” turkey and cheese sandwich and a “craft” lemonade. Wowszer! Nonetheless, the soul-funk playing in the background was solid.  

What memorable song were they playing? “P.Y.T. (Pretty Young Thing)” by Michael Jackson.

It’s almost impossible for people of my era to talk about the influential music of their formative years without mentioning Michael Jackson. While Michael was not the first Black artist played on MTV, he might as well have been (see the fun track “Pass the Dutchie”). It seemed like “Billie Jean” was played every 10 minutes or so. Next, we had “Beat It” on heavy rotation followed by the world changing “Thriller” video. Michael had many other awesome tracks and let’s not forget those great dance moves. Michael was mostly produced by Quincy Jones, who pivoted from his odd Jazz projects (see “Walking in Space”) to producer extraordinaire. Quincy and Michael formed what seemed like the perfect confluence of producer with artist, aligned with medium and Zeitgeist (the rise of MTV).   

Things began to turn for Michael perhaps starting with getting burned in the Pepsi commercial.  It was fairly clear at that point that the wheels were starting to fall off his superstar train. What followed was the horror of all the plastic surgery, and the weird relationships/pregnancy stuff (anybody remember “Blanket”?). And now, we are more than aware of his astounding predatory pedophilia. What was he thinking about singing “P.Y.T.”! How are we supposed to feel now that we know this superstar icon of our teens was actually a monster? It’s not just Michael either, there are endless examples (i.e., Harvey Weinstein, Paul Gauguin, etc.). Even though he probably had a preteen sex slave chained up in his Neverland ranch, is it okay to still think MJ had incredible music? I’m thinking maybe it isn’t our fault, there were plenty of people who probably knew about his predilections but looked the other way seeing this once in a generation talent and the massive dollar signs on the horizon (Quincy Jones?). I can’t ignore the great art people have made in a variety of mediums over time. I just wish someone could have given us a heads up. I suppose this is easier said than done. Regardless, “P.Y.T.” is a great song and there’s so many others, such as “Off the Wall,” “The Girl Is Mine,” and “Human Nature.” Also, don’t forget he wrote and was the catalyst for “We Are the World,” which was such an amazing idea!  Do famous musicians (artists) do things like that anymore? I mean amazing, incredible things and awful things as well?  

I was killing time walking around trying to get my head right for the show and I stumbled into Wax Trax records. What an incredible record store! I used to frequent the original Wax Trax on Capitol Hill, and I don’t remember it being this cool. I wish I had about two hours to thumb through the stacks. It was busy, customers were milling around and walking out with records! Screw you online music, vinyl is alive. I found myself checking out some Iron Maiden and would have liked to make a purchase, but $50 for a re-issue is…wowszer! I decided not to make a purchase, mostly because between the Iron Maiden and the turkey sandwich, I would have been down $80 and hadn’t even told a joke yet! 

At the show venue, in the basement of the Sushi Bar, I caught up with the other comics on the show. One of the comics also performs as a clown, another leads a Jewish women’s book study on “The Artists Way,” another had LSD for sale, and another, a last minute addition to the show, said when she got the late text to join the lineup she had just done a DAB and had broke out her vibrator, but didn’t have time because she had to get to the show! Comics are the best! 

What would have been a good walkup song for me? “Rock with You” by Michael Jackson.

Favorite Albums in 2025

 By Alec

1: Pile, Sunshine and Balance Beams.

2: Wednesday, Bleeds.

3: Prostitute, Attempted Martyr.

4: Geese, Getting Killed.

5: La Armada, De Vuelta a la Barbarie.

6: Jason Isbell, Foxes In the Snow.

7: Anna Tivel, Animal Poem.

8: Militarie Gun, God Save the Gun.

9: Shellac, To All Trains.

10: Willi Carlisle, Winged Victory.

11: Kal Marks, Wasteland Baby.

12: Flory, Sounds Like…

13: Palmyra, Restless.

14: Dave Alvin, From an Old Guitar: Rare and Unreleased Recordings.

15: Renny Conti, Renny Conti.

The Night Cheryl Eviscerated Kennedy

By SoDak

The following is a work of “fan fiction.”

Cheryl stood in the middle of her bedroom, relishing the euphoric moment. Glancing around the room, she saw her reflection in the mirror. She was covered in blood; flecks of skin and slices of intestine were matted in her nightgown. A smile of satisfaction appeared, as she contemplated how this moment came to be, wondering if her act would inspire others.

As a mediocre actress at best, Cheryl was mostly known for saying, “Larry.” Her performances were generally forgettable, leaving many to wonder how she ever received acting roles. In December 2011, Larry introduced Cheryl to Kennedy. Throughout the night, Cheryl and Kennedy talked about chemtrails, antivaccination campaigns, HIV/AIDS denialism, raw milk, tanning beds, testosterone shots, and his conviction for heroin possession, for which he received two years of probation. He constantly mentioned that “it’s good to be rich,” as he was able to do anything that he wanted without real consequences, at least for him anyhow. As the evening progressed, Kennedy acted as if he was a rutting elk, grunting between his stories, leaning into Cheryl to bump midsections. Those bearing witness to this emerging courtship, pondered whether one or both had previously been kicked in the head by a horse—this could explain Kennedy’s general stupidity and Cheryl’s horrible acting and lack of awareness that she was falling in love with a jackass.

Following their matrimony in 2014, Cheryl continued to be known, well, for not really doing anything notable and worthwhile. Kennedy seized every platform available to spew bullshit and misinformation, which found an audience as many in the United States embraced reactionary politics. Together, they stood, as Kennedy was sworn in as the Secretary of Health and Human Services, only to systematically dismantle the public health infrastructure and usher in policies that will result in the deaths of fellow citizens. When Attorney General Pam Bondi dismissed charges against Kirk Moore, a physician in Utah, for falsifying COVID-19 vaccination cards (medical records) and discarding government-supplied vaccines, Kennedy proclaimed that Moore should be given a medal for his courage and commitment to healing. Within the inverted world, social murderers rallied around each other, declaring that they were promoting freedom, while they created the conditions that directly led to the premature deaths of the most vulnerable. 

Amidst the ongoing developments of neofascism and rearguard mobilization, Cheryl simply smiled for the cameras and defended her husband. At the same time, she wanted to rekindle her dying career. Most of her colleagues did not want to associate with her given her close connections with the stormtroopers. However, she did get one offer, in which she would play the choir teacher in a reboot of Glee. She couldn’t sing, but that did not really matter, as this would add to the follies, in what was sure to be another subpar series. Nevertheless, Cheryl hoped other acting jobs would follow. She told Kennedy about the offer. He nodded his approval, while chewing on a nicotine pouch, as he prepared to inject some testosterone—he was ready to rut, yet again, so he started grunting indecipherable words, thinking he was a desired trophy.

Several weeks later, Cheryl was excited when she received the script for the pilot. She quickly thumbed through the pages, reading her lines. She paused when she saw that she had to sing a mashup. She was familiar with the Dixie Chick’s “Goodbye Earl,” but thought it was an odd selection for a television series. This song was paired with another by Cannibal Corpse, “Evisceration Plague.” “What is this? What a horrible name? I have never heard of them.” She remained nervous about having to sing, but she was filled with consternation about not knowing one of the songs. Terrified about messing up this chance to be back on television, she decided that she had to learn the songs and practice the mashup.

Cheryl first listened to “Goodbye Earl” over and over, reading the lyrics. She hummed along to the upbeat song, memorizing the words about how the wife, along with her friend, poisons her abusive husband and dumps him in the lake. From time to time, she chuckled, thinking about how the husband was despised by everyone. “It’s kind of clever,” she remarked to herself after practicing it for a week. Cheryl took a deep breath, as she contemplated listening to and learning the next song. She looked up the record online, downloading it onto her phone. She grimaced when she saw the frightening figures on the cover, “what the hell have I gotten myself into?” Hesitantly, Cheryl played the song. The mid-tempo, thick riffs fill the air. She shuttered and stopped the song once Corpsegrinder’s guttural growl started. “What the fuck?” Shaking her head, she paced the halls, “how I am supposed to pull this off? It is frightening.” As she steeled courage, she returned to the song, determined she needed to learn the lyrics, figuring the mashup would involve her singing “normally.” Unable to decipher the vocals, she read the opening lines:

Experimental pathogens, a devil’s design

The dark side of science breeds a weapon of war

Contagious killing and internal distress

Homicide or suicide will be the cause of death.

Internal organs altered by the disease

Your brain disabled by the constant pain

Erratic actions lead my thoughts to the blade

I’ve lost control, I've lost control.

“Jesus Christ, what is this about.” She started to sweat, wondering if she could pull this off and what it would mean for her career. After a few passes through the lyrics, she settled into the rhythmic delivery and started to hear the words within the song itself. She nodded her head to the chugging riffs. With renewed confidence, she returned to the script to see how the mashup was put together. The writers titled it, “The Evisceration of Earl,” starting off with the Chicks, leading to Cannibal Corpse, with a little back and forth at towards the end. Musically, the mashup primarily followed “Goodbye Earl,” but it was more foreboding and got more intense, as the song progressed.  

Mary Anne and Wanda were the best of friends

All through their high school days

Both members of the 4H Club

Both active in the FFA.

After graduation, Mary Anne went out

Lookin’ for a bright new world

Wanda looked all around this town

And all she found was Earl.

Well, it wasn’t two weeks after she got married

That Wanda started getting abused

She put on dark glasses and long-sleeved blouses

And make-up to cover a bruise.

Well, she finally got the nerve to file for divorce

She let the law take it from there

But Earl walked right through that restraining order

And put her in intensive care.

Right away, Mary Anne flew in from Atlanta

On a red eye midnight flight

She held Wanda's hand as they worked out a plan

And it didn't take’em long to decide

That Earl had to die.

Goodbye Earl (na-na-na-na-na)

We need a break.

Internal organs altered by the disease

Your brain disabled by the constant pain

Erratic actions lead my thoughts to the blade

I’ve lost control, I’ve lost control.

Beg for your life, you won’t escape the knife

Your fate was sealed today

Disease has spread, you pray for death

Evisceration plague.

Stabbing compulsion overwhelms my mind

Terrorized screaming follows the thrust of my knife

I wrench the blade from the chest to the crotch

Organs and entrails fall to the ground.

Driven to kill, this is not my will

I am compelled to slay

Invisible foe takes control

Evisceration plague.

Unable to be seen but with visible effect

Virulent disease causing outbreaks of violence

They tear themselves apart, offal covers the ground

Viscera torn forcefully from the abdomen.

Goodbye Earl (na-na-na-na-na)

We need a break.

Intestines slick with blood cannot escape my grip

Surgical incisions give way to frenzied carving

Delirium has taken hold, disembowelment is complete

Horror grips my mind, entrails are in my hands.

Goodbye Earl (na-na-na-na-na)

We need a break.

Driven to kill, this is not my will

I am compelled to slay

Invisible foe takes control

Evisceration plague.

Goodbye Earl (na-na-na-na-na)

We need a break.

Hey (na-na-na-na-na)

Well, hey-hey-hey (na-na-na-na-na)

Aw, hey-hey-hey (na-na-na-na-na)

Well, hey-hey-hey (na-na-na-na-na)

Na-na-na.

By the time of rehearsal, Cheryl knew every word. With renewed confidence, she embodied the song, making the performance visceral. She found that she was singing the song when she was not at work. She mauled over the arrangement and words, thinking about her husband; it was as if the veil had been lifted. “He truly is a piece of shit—a horrible, disgusting human being.” At the White House Correspondents’ Association Dinner, he did not give her a second thought, as he was rushed to “safety,” leaving her “unprotected.” That evening, he took a blue pill and some testosterone, grunting at her, thinking his erection was a cure for her displeasure. Turning her back, she walked down the hall to lock herself in a spare room, pondering what to do about the “fucking pig” she had married.

Over the next several months, she filmed the pilot, impressing all who saw her act. However, the truly impressive performance was at home, where she pretended to care about what her husband had to say, nodding along to his rambling. On the night when the episode was to air, she skipped the viewing party with the cast. Kennedy and Cheryl snuggled in bed, watching the show. Following the mashup, Kennedy was worried. What would his powerful chums think? Why was Cheryl so passionate in this performance? Why was she mouthing the unsettling words while they were watching the show? What was this song advocating? He turned to ask Cheryl why she agreed to take this role. He was startled to see her smiling, and then he felt extreme pain, as Cheryl drove a knife into his torso, running it “from chest to the crotch,” repeating the action several times as “organs and entrails” fell “to the ground.” With each cut, she sang “Goodbye Kennedy (na-na-na-na-na).”