“So What’s All The Good New Music I Should Be Listening to?”
The other day a friend of mine complained to me that since my column is no longer out every week he doesnt know what good new music to investigate for his listening pleasure. I reminded him that i have a blog now and he whined about not ever seeing or hearing anything about it. He wondered why I dont have it set up so that every time I post on it an automated email alert is sent to everyone on my contact list, and why don’t you stream music on it so people can actually hear the stuff you write about. I maintained that i’m trying to feature many new things on my blog and kind of learning as i go along. He said he feared my output was getting lost in the big black internet void, that my efforts were spewing out there in vain like lost words and ideas and opinions that people had no idea about. I was like God, thanks a lot for the words of support just because you haven’t caught the many links I’ve posted on Facefuck, fuck-face (yeah thats what i call Facebook). I am proud to say that I’ve had more hits on my site than ever this week because i’ve been linking on the pandemic social-networking application that has slowly become a part of everyones modern life. I’ve been posting various old articles i’ve written over the years for SF Bay Times because I’m quite fond of some of them and they deserve a re-run. But in a way my friend is right, I do need to write about the music that is currently moving me, people like to know what i listen to and like so i’m gonna do that in a very simple straightforward way–then post it and link it and stream it and email the world about it and shove it down their goddamned internet-savvy throats.
Okay, with that out of the way, lets move on to the music…stuff i like. A few weeks back a man who comes into the hole in the wall told me about a band he had just seen that night. They are called Black Joe Lewis and The Honey Bears. They have two full LPs released and I got them both and boy is this a fun bunch of dirty garage/soul R&B funksters from Texas if I’m not mistaken. Theres something about soul music when it comes matched with a harder dirtier guitar assault, like garage-rock, and then throw in a sharp and sleazy horn section and a dirty-minded cool man on vocals with a scream that would raise James Brown’s eyebrow and you’ve got a real good time and the people really seem to respond to this group. I’m forever grateful to people who come forth with suggestions of this nature. Theres a cut on the first LP called “Please Pt 2” that is probably my current favorite song to play, and from the more recent LP the standout cut is “You’ve Been Lying.” Both records have many more stellar moments. Heres a video to give you some idea.
Another interesting group that i just found out about and are something of a departure from my usual tastes but i like them nonetheless is Kitty Daisy and Lewis. This british trio of siblings are very intertesting. They look very much like Mexican -American Rockabilly kids from the 50’s, working a retro look and style, they are 22, 20 and 18 years old and their sound is decidedly influenced heavily by R&B, swing, jump blues, country and Western, blues, Ska, Hawaiian and rock ‘n’ roll. They are all multi-instrumentalists playing guitar, piano, banjo, lapsteel guitar, harmonica, double bass, ukulele, drums, trombone, xylophone and accordion between them. They trade instruments continually when they play live.
Kitty Durham is the youngest of the group and primarily sings and plays drums, harmonica, ukulele, banjo, trombone and guitar. Daisy Durham is the eldest of the group, who primarily sings and plays drums, piano, accordion and xylophone. Lewis Durham is the middle child who sings and plays guitar, piano, banjo, lapsteel and drums. He collects and plays/DJ’s 78rpm records and has built a home studio for the band to record in. It consists of 1940’s and 50’s recording equipment such as 8 track tape machines and vintage BBC and RCA microphones. Kitty, Daisy and Lewis do not use computers or any digital format during the recording process. When performing live, their parents, Graeme Durham and Ingrid Weiss play guitar and double-bass. Graeme Durham is a founding member and mastering engineer at The Exchange recording studios in London, and Ingrid Weiss is the former drummer of The Raincoats and was encouraged to play the double bass by Kitty Daisy & Lewis.
Their second LP, Smokin’ in Heaven is a thoroughly charming record with enough fun vintage sounds to confound most casual listeners as it weaves in and out of eras and styles almost song by song. There’s something very sincere about this band, they don’t fall into kitschy-ness or novelty Straycats-like self-parody. They seem to like what they are doing and there are numerous cuts that are really catchy and irresistible. There’s one cut called “What Quid” that is a long instrumental that gallops along repeating the boogie-ish main riff from T-Rex’s “Jeepster” that I love and the first single from Smokin’ in Heaven, “Messin’ with My Life” can be heard and seen in the video below.
One of The most satisfying records to come out in the past year for its total durability and the way people invariably respond to it with movement is by one of the best bands from Detroit ever, The Dirtbombs. The album is called Party Store and what this amazing garage/soul rock outfit has done this time is put out a record of covers from other Detroit-based bands. That doesn’t sound too unusual, don’t The Detroit Cobras do that all the time? Yeah, they do, but on Party Store The Dirtbombs cover songs from classic Detroit-based techno artists. The idea sounds a bit odd but hearing a band known for sweaty, loose rock guitar workouts take on a genre of music where precision and repetition and icy control are paramount breathes a gritty new life into these songs. This is unstoppably energetic and driven, much warmer, more human, sexier and just a total fucking dance party performed brilliantly by one of the better live acts that I’ve ever seen. This record is about ten times better than it sounds by description. I LOVE THE DIRTBOMBS. Below is their cover of Inner City’s “Good Life.” The rest of the record is even better
With the death of Gil Scott Heron I found myself digging up some of his greater songs and putting them in my sets out of respect for a great artists passing. I was amazed by how many people aren’t very familiar with his work and they should be so I’ve been playing a variety of songs from him, like “The Revolution will Not Be Televised” “Whitey’s on the Moon,” “Home Is Where The Hatred Is””Angel Dust” and even some things from his final LP which was released last year. He has a large body of work and was an endlessly influential artist. RIP
Local Artist Ty Segall just put out a new LP, Goodbye Bread, and by my estimation it’s probably his 35th release, he just keeps coming out with new records all the time it seems. He’s prolific and young and hardworking and with this disc I think he has given us his best work to date. These are great songs, produced well and sounding very Beatles-esque at times. I’ve found many of his past records quite good as well but this one leaps way ahead of the pack. It’s really good.
Jeff The Brotherhood is another great band, a duo of two actual brothers with two LPs to their credit and both are equally good. I always like rock bands in the form of a duo. They tend to overcompensate by being louder and tougher, sometimes even better. This is a great band. Watch this video and see.
There’s a mysterious new band from England that have no official releases out to date but i managed to get a few cuts off of the hypemachine and they sound awesome. They are called Sissy and The Blisters and they have a sort of ghoulish retro-psychedelic garage type sound. The cut i play is called “We Are The Others,” and it rocks. Look for them.
The Obits are another band that I dont know much about but i do know they’ve been around for awhile, like ten years or so and they have a great cut I’ve been playing that gets people riled up called “Shift Operator.”
One of my favorite recent discoveries is a Canadian band called Timber Timbre. This is one of my mellower more somber choices but I really like this bands twisted, creepy country-gothic pared down to uniquely orchestrated songs about death and demons and relationships and dark magic. They have a total of four LPs out, the latest entitled Creep On Creepin’ On. Heres a couple videos to check out.
The Horrors are due to release their third LP, Skying, early next month and their second LP Primary Colors was such an alarmingly good release it was my favorite of the year. Well the group has released a song from their new record called “Still Life” and it is really great and always prompts people to ask me who it is when i play it. The Horrors are great.
Bass Drum of Death is another rock duo I’ve been featuring in sets a lot lately. They are on Fat Possum Records like another fave duo of mine Crocodiles. Heres a video so have a listen.
There’s another band that I’m liking a lot but they are a bit of a departure from the usual style of music that i generally prefer and they are from Portland and they are called YACHT. This male/female techno duo have captivated me for three full length LPs, their most recent is entitled Shangri-la. Every once in awhile through the years a strictly techno act will capture my attention and win my favor for some reason or another and i think it actually lies within the realm of composition. I’ll like an act if they can write and perform a good song, if the song stands on its own strength that will hook me. The Presets are another techno band that i’ve liked and another one is Who Made Who. Well YACHT fit into this category of more techno-flavored acts that i like and their recent release is strong and much anticipated, they’ve started becoming quite popular and with good reason, they are smart and catchy and put forth some high concepts regarding life and death, faith and religion, love and family. They sound real perky and upbeat but their content is pretty dark and powerful yet humorous. One of my favorite of their songs is called “The Afterlife” which was very fitting for play near the non-event of The Rapture that never happened. Heres their great video for the song
Theres a couple of great cuts from Shangri-la that i play occasionally like “Tripped And Fell in Love” which you can hear below.
I’m also quite fond of the song called “Holy Roller.” This band really gives a lot, check out their many videos on youtube.
Le Butcherettes is a band that has been coming up a lot lately since I finally got their recent LP Sin Sin Sin which has a couple of really good cuts like “Bang!” and “Henry Dont Got Love,” but I was looking for them on youtube and i found another song and video that is shocking and visceral and has lots of nudity and violence called “Dont Try To Fool Me” that you must see below.
I like a band who seemingly base their existence on issues of sexual politics and I like them even more if they get naked or blood-splattered for their art. Watch out for this band–i think we’ll be hearing about them in the near future.
There are many more great acts i could feature but i’ll leave off here for now. Here’s to some good listening folks.
The Next Great San Francisco Band
Here’s another from the Beat This Archives at SF Bay Times–Published May 1, 2008 about Thee Oh Sees, still SF’s best band
I went out to the Eagle Tavern last Thursday night, a spontaneous decision rather late into the evening, and found the place pretty packed with a boisterous indie-rock-in-the-know crowd. Then it all came to me that the headlining band, Thee Oh Sees, were indeed the very band I had been reading about all over the Internet and some in the local press throughout the week. The group’s latest record, The Master’s Bedroom is Worth Spending a Night In, was getting rave reviews all over the place, hence the extra large turnout, but as the night went on I could tell that this was a band with a strong local following, these people knew the material and responded to the band with reckless enthusiasm.
Something good had been brewing for awhile here, and until now I had been oblivious to it. This wasn’t the first time Thee Oh Sees had played the Eagle, and it definitely wasn’t the first time the band’s leader John Dwyer had graced the stage in a number of other band projects, including Yikes, The Coachwhips, and Pink and Brown.
Come to find out, Thee Oh Sees have put out seven records since 2004, including a double album. They have also changed their name five times, from Thee Oh Sees, The Oh Sees, The Ohsees, OCS, and Orinoka Crash Suite. I also just learned that John Dwyer was the mastermind behind a strange electro-hardcore homo-industrial outfit called Zeigenbock Kopf, who put out two really abrasive and odd discs that got a little play at The Eagle by their DJ’s. I also found out he played guitar in the very primitive punk rock band The Hospitals. It makes me wonder when this John Dwyer person ever sleeps.
When the band took the stage they looked unassuming and happy enough, three guys on bass drums and guitar and one girl on vocals and tambourine.
Dwyer, the guitarist, pulled his instrument way up high on his chest and close to his face and just let loose with an electrified crunchy barrage of dirty bluesy/garage-y guitar genius driven by an energy and zeal that was almost other-worldly, steeped effectively in feedback, reverb and fuzzed out garage guitar glory. It was clear in just moments that we were witnessing a musician who was long due for stardom, and his time may just be starting right now.
I loved the way he pulled his guitar up high and peered down its top edge like it was a gun, aiming down at his effects pedals or into the audience. Every move he made was a pure indication of a person driven by an overwhelming urge to make music, like this monster talent was being channeled through this average looking guy, turning him into a maniac, a flurry of motion and reverberance. He was clearly on fire. As was the other guitarist, I believe he was playing a guitar instead of a bass, actually, and was also an enthusiastic spire of motion, even when he just clapped along with the drum beat.
The drummer was more than a steady player himself whose performance became more pronounced and notable as the show went on. Brigid the female vocalist was far more physically subdued onstage, but she had a never-ending smile and a sparkle in her eyes that further conveyed a band that was really having fun and perhaps finally getting noticed for it. The vocals are almost always delivered in double layer male/female unison and oddly distorted, sounding kind of primitive like a fuzzy radio signal or speaker-phone or something, yet at the same time kind of down-home-y like old Carter Family records.
The crowd was literally going nuts, all trying to be as near to the stage as possible and dancing wildly. It was just on the good side of total chaos, a far more rambunctious nature than I would have guessed. The band whipped through many songs and several moods and qualities from elongated grooves punctuated by glorious crunchy fuzzed out guitar riffs, to shorter, faster punk rock numbers with shrieking feedback and drums beaten harder than usual. All of this was replete with layers of sound created via reverb and echo and various guitar effects and treatments or mistreatments, you might say, but at any rate John Dwyer can play the dickens out of his guitar, that was quite clear. As soon as the show ended I raced back to the merchandise table and bought their latest disc. It has turned out to be even more of a revelation than their show.
You can really see the careful construction of this disc while listening to it, but a certain lo-fi production quality actively defies its complexity. It might take a few listens for it to sink in that this lo-fi raw and rough sound is hardly as primitive as it seems. That in itself is an achievement. When the multitude of layers of sound begin wrapping around each other, when traditional rockabilly and surf-style guitar is swathed in reverb or texturized with static or distortion, when a hillbilly sounding tune gives way to a wailing wall of feedback that plays like a guitar solo gone to hell and back until it starts to sound like human vocals…but wait, those are vocals, one male and one female layered on top of each other and sounding like they are delivered from the bottom of well. All of the sounds created here travel and are transformed and treated and shaped into another layer, and the overall depth, weight, growl or ethereal qualities are fucking magical. They can sound haunted and foreboding and creepy, as well as childlike and folksy, and as ass-kickingly unhinged as the most psychotic garage-rock. Each song unfolds sonically in ways that are mind-blowing.
Thee Oh Sees also prompt a number of stylistic comparisons. You can hear a bit of the primal rockabilly of the Cramps and some of the instrumental meanderings of a host of garage and psychedelic acts like The Seeds or even The Great Society, or the more contemporary pared down blues of acts like the White Stripes or The Black Keys. And hey, those aren’t dirty words either, just because they’re popular, and I can think of a lot more bands they bring to mind, like The Oblivians, The Dirtbombs, The Gories, Mr. Airplane Man and more.
Specifically one now defunct local band kept coming to mind again and again while I listened to Thee Oh Sees, and that band is the very revered and missed Zen Guerrilla. Some might not agree and think the two bands are worlds apart, but it seems to me that these are two bands that definitely go well beyond the elementary sum of their parts into a creation of a powerful sonic structure, a miasmic monument or wall of sound using oddly treated vocals, lyrics that are difficult to make out but definitely convey a certain emotion, and guitars that fearlessly go off the map and around the world and provide no excuses or justifications because they don’t need to, and drums and bass that burn, searing it all together, some of the rockin-est manic mad visionary shit you’ve ever heard, a new monster that takes on a life of its own.
I definitely urge anyone who likes Thee Oh Sees to pick up any of the back catalogue by Zen Guerrilla. You won’t be disappointed. But do pick up Thee Oh Sees – they are probably the next great San Francisco band. Who was the last greatest San Francisco band? There have been a few I really liked, but they failed to get the national attention they deserved, like the incredible Dirty Power. Or was it one of those bands that claimed to be from here but none of us had ever seen them play around town once, like Black Rebel Motorcycle Club? I really don’t know. Who was the last great San Francisco band?
That is, before Thee Oh Sees?
A Really Hot Thursday Night in the castro
heres another article from the Beat This Archives of SF Bay Times Published: May 22, 2008, an auspicious night in a way….
Last Thursday night it was so damn hot outside I decided to travel over the usually cold and breezy hill between Noe Valley and the Castro and see what other folks were doing to beat the uncommonly oppressive heat of the past couple days. I don’t know about you, but when the temperature jumps a noted 30 degrees from one day to the next, it generally worries me in that apocalyptic global warming inconvenient truth sort of way.
I start to wonder if maybe the next day will bring temperatures even more extreme, and pets and the elderly will start to die, and maybe a strange virus will suddenly flourish with the heat and turn those infected with it into vampire zombies who prey on the blood of the uninfected who are unfortunate enough to be caught outside after nightfall. And most likely that would be me because I walk around a lot at night, so I would fall prey to this nocturnal viral mutation and then possibly become one of them, which honestly doesn’t seem like my idea of fun based on all the zombie-themed films I’ve watched. I mean, sure, I would be feared by many, but ultimately I would become a lot less complex, merely driven by my hunger for blood and ultimately I’d probably have my head blown up like a soft melon by some day-walking super-hero, just like in the movies. But, yeah, that’s what I think about when the temperature jumps 30 degrees from one day to the next – that, or buying a box of rainbow sherbet pop-ups.
As I descended into the Castro I sensed immediately that something had happened, but I didn’t know what. There was generally a lot more people out and about than usual for a Thursday around midnight, and I just assumed that they, too, were out in response to the heat. Then I noticed that small handfuls of police were present on busy corners, just standing there calmly, yet at the ready for something, and I thought maybe some part of my viral zombie fantasy was true.
I remained perplexed as I blended into the crowd, thinking about the statistical finding that people are more likely to commit murder when the temperature goes above 96.6 Fahrenheit. Were the cops dispatched because of the sudden rise in temperature? It was then that I decided to test a theory of my own that people are far more likely to have sex when the temperature gets up there. These were ideal circumstances for my research, as people were out in droves and they were unusually ebullient and uninhibited, with extra amounts of affection and physical contact with each other.
I proceeded to hit some of the places I considered to be hot zones for sex, that is, in the pre-Internet era, like near Beck’s Motorlodge, Collingwood Park, Safeway, and some of your more darkened, tree-lined streets. It was during this trek that I found out from a newspaper that earlier that day the California Supreme Court ruled that a ban on same-sex marriages would indeed be unconstitutional. Therefore, in about one month gays could legally be married in the state of California. That would explain some of the makeshift bridal veils I’d seen skipping by me in the crowd.
In a way I felt like my nightmarish fantasy had come true. Yes, I understand what a victory this is for gay people, and I understand how meaningful this day can be for same sex couples who have dreamed of legally marrying for years. I also see it as a big victory against all those evil, small-minded fundamentalist Christian bigots, all the ignorant Reverends, even the ones who were caught snorting speed and hiring same-sex escorts. Even the dead ones – and you know Falwell is rolling over in his grave because this decision is like a big ugly sharp stick poking and prodding his worthless corpse and laughing hopefully for eternity or some similar archaic notion of time inherent in the “Jesus is magic” system of beliefs.
I’m aware of the many ways this decision can be viewed as tremendous progress for gay rights, but I’ve never really been a proponent of gay marriage, so I felt a bit alone, like a non-zombie survivor. I wasn’t overjoyed or emotional, I didn’t rush as quickly as I could to a loved one’s side to propose, because I believe that the institution of marriage is a flawed and unrealistic one, one that has obviously not worked throughout history. The words “till death do us part” describes what a travesty marriage is when over 50 percent of them don’t survive.
I certainly don’t want to rain on everyone’s big gay marriage parade here, but honestly, I’d rather see marriage as we know it abolished and some new kind of civil union created with every individual’s best interests and ability to reap all benefits afforded to all regardless of if the said union were between a man and a woman, two men or two women.
I realize that this notion is very idealistic, and I should probably shut up and just enjoy this enormous victory for gay rights. Maybe it will be the very thing the state needs to pull us out of economic depression because there will be a massive amount of gay weddings going on all over the state, creating jobs and heightened revenues in many different sectors of the economy.
But this won’t start to happen for at least another month, and though it seems like gays are free and clear to pursue this honored union in the eyes of the state, the opponents to gay marriage, though they can’t really articulate why it is such a threat to the sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman, are hard at work trying to put a stop to it, though I’m not sure, and nor are they, if this can actually be done now. They will try to stir up a lot of hatred and fear in the heartland, you know, preying on the ignorance of small minds for knee-jerk fundamentalist reactions based in “fear of a gay planet” and threats to their precious children forced to witness this abomination in the eyes of the Lord and all of the subversive confusion it could cause them. We may have the green light on this huge change, but believe me, there are forces at hand that will vehemently try to portray gays as public enemy Number One because of this marriage victory.
So as you choose your silver and china patterns and maids of honor don’t think that the battle is completely over. If they attend gay funeral services to dishonor the likes of Matthew Shephard and even Heath Ledger (go figure that one!), big gay weddings could become targets for inane protests by fundamentalist zealots. I wonder which high profile gay celebrity will be the first to televise their nuptials or how many reality shows gay marriage will spawn. I wonder how long it will be before we have Gay Divorce Court on television.
For those who are ecstatic about finally being able to be married, I’m glad the milestone is in sight and that your dream has come true. Perhaps like the gays ability to gentrify less than desirable neighborhoods into higher property values, maybe this is a chance to show the world how marriage should be done. I’m anxious to see how this plays out over the next few years.
Penis after Penis That I Never Wanted to See
Here’s another from the archives of the SF Bay Times published September 28, 2006. If i recall properly I got a lot of shit for this one, but I;m glad I said it…
I know I’m going to probably catch all kinds of shit for this, and people will think I’m some weird kind of prude or have been over taken by a rogue wave of conservatism concerning how people present themselves publicly. But this Folsom Street Fair, while being it’s own unique kind of traditional feast for the eyes that everyone anticipates and glories in, a parade of all kinds of people celebrating every kind of sexual fetish and I suppose the freedom to express oneself in various states of dress or undress from elaborate uniforms to absolutely nothing, this year had me thinking, “Okay folks, lets shore in a bit of this freedom of expression here.”
That just doesn’t sound like me. I’m the last person to call for people to tone down anything involving a person’s right to express themselves, artistically, physically, politically, you name it. Maybe after having lived through 20 or so Folsom Street Fairs, I’ve hit a saturation point or something and though I probably should just keep this to myself and not impose my opinions and feelings on everybody else as they continue to see fit and natural to do as they do, but I’m really over seeing everyone’s exposed, ringed, small, large, overworked, pierced, tattooed, pumped, weighted, saline infused, trimmed, Viagra-enhanced, steel rod inserted and, if it is exposed, tugged on and played with mostly by yourselves all day long, male genitalia.
I mean, come on, isn’t one of the Freudian developmental stages for toddler males a particularly penis focused period in which the child walks about freely tugging his member? Well, then, there seems to be hundreds or even thousands of adult males who are suffering from acute and random cases of arrested development or some form of temporary regression. That is really what most of those men looked like to me as they wandered about in their nude glory, like little precocious toddlers tugging their business for all to see, in front of company, even, like nothing else really mattered at all.
I guess this act is very important for a lot of people, and I really should accept it and live and let live when it comes to people who really crave to get with their inner nudist or whatever. But as I wandered through the fair seeing friends, saying hi, enjoying the generally festive and drunken crowd of revelers, I’d see a familiar face, a great outfit, a beautiful shirtless torso, numerous beautiful leather accessorized physiques, more friends, and then boom—cut to a full frontal of a frighteningly damaged trussed up and strangled to a hideous color of purple cock that I could have done without seeing ever and been happy and not haunted by images of ugly naughty bits. But they just kept coming at me all day long, penis after penis that I never wanted to see, various states of adornment and or mutilation or, of course, being fondled by their immodest owners gingerly..
People make me sick. Sorry, but it’s true. I just find it unbelievable that people come from all over the world to SF just to go out to certain bars and a day long festival and take off their clothes and fiddle with themselves, and believe me, I saw plenty of it working at the Hole in the Wall, which for some reason has become the chosen place for little old men from the Midwest to come and get naked annually. I just really do not understand this dynamic, and I see it happening in other bars, too. I guess I’m over-thinking it or just letting it get to me, when I should just accept these things and avert my eyes when I see things I’d really rather not. I should try to understand the feeling of total freedom nudity allows people, and what a natural exalted feeling it must be for the usually inhibited individuals to break free of the restrictions and confines of clothing whenever they can. I really shouldn’t judge people on the basis of their random and occasional urge to get naked in a public place and touch themselves. They are just being the people they are and want to be and I should be glad that I’m in a place where folks can do that very thing without being persecuted or shunned or ridiculed, right?
Yeah, and the naked human body is a beautiful thing that people shouldn’t be so freaked out about seeing, but society and culture have made it something forbidden or immoral or just plain dirty, and that’s the true offense here, right? Yeah, right. Fuck all that, I’m over it. Society might translate the nude human body into something offensive, but just consider what the passage of time does to it also, or the act of obsessing on and dolling up and poking holes in, strangling, pumping or beating to a pulp your genitalia on a regular basis. It’s not pretty, so keep your dicks in your pants you retarded fucking pervs, God!
And don’t go calling me some kind of frigid bitch with issues because I feel this way, because I think it’s more than clear that I heart dick as much as the next guy, maybe even more, maybe even lots more, for that matter. But I just don’t need to see everyone’s who fancies stripping down in public places to fiddle with it like a fucking toddler might. I guess something just happened at the fair this year, somewhere among the hundreds of cocks I got to see without even wanting to, I must have finally saw the cock that broke the camels back.
To depart the topic of penis for now, I’d like to add that the most significant part of the fair for me was seeing the absolutely amazing set by the Presets at the 12th Street stage. They were so great that I just went to see them again tonight at the Independent, and again their well constructed, perfectly executed set rocked an almost completely ecstatic and dancing house. They really know how to build a very dynamic and satisfying set without falling into any of the tedious ruts and detached machine-like coldness that often plague electronic bands in the live mode. They clearly performed. It was plain to see there was a lot of music going on up there on that stage, an amazing accomplishment for just two young gentlemen from Australia who were quite human, friendly, and slayed the crowd with a relentless dance from beginning to end I believe this band is well on its way to achieving a huge commercial success. All the pieces are perfectly in place and their music is instantly likable. My friend Chris who I invited to the show said, “They are my new favorite band,” as he bought their CD. It’s definitely one of the best records of the year. Very cool that just yesterday I caught them live in the sunny outdoors on Folsom street. That rocks.
check this out!
I saw this video on facebook and i cant get enough of these girls, specifically the lead singers go go freak out about half way through. unbelievable!
The Subways Triumphant Return
This is a reprint from The SF Bay Times from August of 2007 i think–about a really great band. Plus a couple videos!
I was very pleasantly surprised and impressed by the long-awaited return of British band The Subways to San Francisco. They experienced a lull in touring between their debut and sophomore LPs because in 2006 vocalist/guitarist Billy Lunn had to undergo some serious throat surgery to remove nodules from his vocal chords. It was the kind of thing that could have spelled the demise of the young band, a symptom of strenuous touring since their first appearance at the Glastonbury music festival in 2004, an honor won in a battle of the bands contest that catapulted them into nonstop live gigs, television appearances, and tours of America, Australia, France and Japan in support of their hit debut LP Young For Eternity. Any trouble or complications with Billy’s recovery could have left him unable to speak or sing at all but it seems he was back in action in a matter of months working on their second LP All or Nothing, recorded in Los Angeles with famous producer Butch Vig the man responsible for producing Nirvanas breakthrough record Nevermind as well as efforts by Smashing Pumpkins, Sonic Youth, L7, Helmet, Chainsaw Kittens, Laughing Hyenas, his own band Garbage and many more. Going with a superstar producer was a great choice and probably a dream come true for the band, whom I’ve always thought of as very Nirvana-influenced from their earliest 7-inch singles and recordings i culled from the internet. The new record won’t be released here domestically until September but has been out in England since June with digital downloadable singles preceding. I attained my copy through magic powers last month and I liked it okay. It did have a kind of super-slick feel to it, that extra-crisp Butch Vig guitar quality that totally slayed the world and put rock and roll at the top of the charts again, and there’s certainly nothing wrong with that. I also found that Billy Lunns’ vocals hadn’t suffered any, quite the contrary in fact, he sounds richer rougher and with more dimension to his already passionate style. And yes, the screams are still there, the very thing that drew me to the band when i first heard their definitive and anthemic single “Rock and Roll Queen,” which is about and for me. The one thing that really blew my mind about this disc was the song “Girls and Boys” which was made available for free as a download months ago. It has a swelling intro of sparkling pretty guitar notes that in three brief compositional steps transforms into the most satisfying jackhammer of a guitar-riff that I’ve had the pleasure of being pummeled by this year. Its pure joy and not even slightly wussy, the potent sonic proof that i was right about this band of adorable teens from the first time i heard them. I noted on their website that they acknowledged a few bands as inspiration while recording the new one including the incredible but now defunct Mclusky, Steve Albini’s band Shellac and Swedish Hardcore band Refused. The kids are doing their homework with discerning tastes indeed. That’s always impressive. When i heard The band was playing Bottom of the Hill I couldn’t have been more surprised, it seemed like a kind of small venue for a band used to playing massive festivals and opening for the likes of Oasis and stuff but I’m not complaining. I was also surprised that it wasn’t completely packed either but the band took the stage and turned on enough raw power and charisma for tens of thousands, lucky for the maybe 200 people there.
The Subways are a trio made up of Billy Lunn, his brother Josh Morgan (who is quickly earning a place in the upper echelon of rock drummers with his powerful steady performances) and Charlotte Cooper on bass. When they first started the band Billy and Charlotte were a couple but i learned recently that they’re no longer together but still continuing with the band. There’s not been much attention given to this matter which is quite dignified and the fact that they’re going forward as a band is really very mature for a pair just barely out of their teens. Other bands have gracefully endured such splits, the first one that comes to mind is X, so it can be done. Charlotte is absolutely amazing, the tiniest most adorable blonde girl who just explodes in furious electrified motion and doesn’t stop. She’s all over that stage and doesnt miss a note, all smiles and flying hair not to mention delightful vocal harmonies that just fit in a unique but perfect way with Billy’s.
When they all hit the stage to the booming strains of some dramatic instrumental intro music (nice touch), I was surprised to see that Billy had adopted his brother the drummer’s strict perpetually shirtless dress code. I didn’t think he was the shirtless type, not that he doesn’t have the lithe perfect body for it, with the words “strawberry blonde” tattooed in an arc above his abdomen where one usually sees the name of a prison placed in gothic script. I’m generally against public shirtlessness but this worked for the brothers and it worked for me. In fact the band’s entire set, the new songs, the onstage personas, they way they moved, everything seemed to exude a certain sexiness. At one point Billy even proclaimed that the wildly dancing crowd was sexy–sexier than the motionless folks in back. He also expressed his genuine gratitude to the crowd for being there and knowing the words even on the new songs in spite of the fact that the release date wasn’t until september or “whenever someone at the record company takes their hand off their dicks and puts it out finally.” The set was heavy on the new material with a few from their first record but the new stuff really came to life and subsequently i’m really likingAll or Nothing much more than i did initially. The songs are definitely tough, some constructed with touches of pop or jangly indie rock-isms but ultimately the hammer falls and the monster is released and the rage and frustration and danger that lurk at the heart of rock and roll build a big powerful structure then destroy it, the final note is hit and the band members chests heave in unison glisten with sweat and start another one. This band was giving their all and loving their jobs.
They encored predictably with a transcendent version of “Girls and Boys” and that song should be blasting out of radios and ipods and teenagers bedrooms and college dormitories and five-roomate party flats and mission district slacker bars and car stereos everywhere, kind of like “Smells Like Teen Spirit” once did. It’s that good. Finally they played “Rock and Roll Queen” a perfect rock song in my book with it’s passionate screaming delivery and simple memorable lyric, “You are the sun/ You are the only one/ You are so cool/ You are so rock and roll/ Be my, be my, be my little rock and roll queen.” Repeat last line 4 times, final repeat is screamed, and of course, it’s for and about me. Billy stage-dove into the crowd on that one but really, nothing eclipsed that moment when he sang my song. I am the Rock and Roll Queen.
New Strain of HIV = Renewed Hatred and Hysteria
Heres another from the SF Bay Times archives, specifically February 17, 2005, a bit of a departure subject-wise with a serious tone and a brilliant graphic created in production just for the piece. Funny how this story just faded away, the “super-strain” invalidated by lack of evidence. A real laugh riot huh?
Last Friday, my friend Tom sent me a link to a news story he had just read from Bloomberg.com. Usually our online correspondences leave me laughing so hard I’m gasping for air as he recounts some of his work-place office antics or sends me links to absurd news stories about child molesters named Ronald McDonald or lesbian relationships gone bad and ending with a scalping. His wicked sense of humor amuses me endlessly, but on Friday he sent me a link that alarmed me and left me feeling afraid, angered and ultimately thinking thoughts of a conspiratorial nature that usually surface nearer to local psych wards or in movies about UFO’s, not in my mind as I read the news.
The story originated in New York where doctors announced the discovery or presence of a previously unseen strain of HIV; one that is resistant to three of the four types of antiviral drugs that combat the disease. It progresses from infection to full blown AIDS in two or three months.
Part of me immediately thought it was only a matter of time before such a mutation would spring forward in the changing face of this disease. It’s only logical when considering a battle with a virus, it changes to resist the forces that contain or control it. However, I was shocked by the reported amount of time this new strain takes to progress from infection to advanced conditions of AIDS. It’s a detail that spells out a possibly very serious public health problem loud and clear. The story continued by identifying the person diagnosed as a man in his 40’s who reported multiple male sexual partners and unprotected anal sex…often while using the drug crystal methamphetamine. That’s when I started feeling suspicious. Not only is the diagnosed male a homosexual who undoubtedly infected others by indiscriminately participating in a known high-risk activity, showing a complete disregard for his own health and the health of others and safe sex guidelines that have been established for years, he is also a crystal meth user.
The medical authorities continue asserting that meth plays a significant role in facilitating the transmission of HIV, which I feel is a completely over-emphasized detail, or rather a convenient slice of the pie graph, the last element needed to create the whole profile of the evil immoral, driven by sexual perversion, self-destructive, pathological individual with no self-control, obviously as they are also drug addicted as well. What you have now is a truly unsympathetic character, the new face of AIDS, one much less deserving of compassion and sympathy and funding for research to save or programs to help provide the latest high priced drug therapies for those who are living with HIV—when they aren’t trying to kill themselves and others with their drug-addled dirty sexual habits and disregard for humanity. This new face of AIDS is sort of the same face that the Republicans created and campaigned to the retarded voters as such a threat to their normal good and god-fearing lives that they turned out to vote the King of the Retards into office. The gay profile is being downgraded with regularity in this country by manipulative media rhetoric and playing upon the fears of the ignorant. That’s not really a surprise considering, but I fear it’s actually starting to sink in to the boneheaded and pea-brained. This new strain of HIV is the perfect ticket to a renewed hatred and the hysteria is just beginning. At press time the local news is jumping on a supposed search for a lone-infected West coast individual who tested anonymously in San Diego, and health officials are setting up a surveillance system with clinics nationwide for the new strain. Gee, it’s sort of like Andrew Cunanan all over again; it’s a witch-hunt.
The Story went on to explain that the only drug the strain isn’t resistant to is Enfuvirtide, sold under the trade name Fuzeon and developed by Trimeris Inc. of Durham North Carolina and Roche Holding AG of Switzerland. Now I know that Bloomberg.com is indeed a financial and stock market focused publication, but it really offended and shook me that they charted a significant increase in the stocks closing price on the Nasdaq and quoted an analyst as saying, “This is probably positive for Trimeris.” The fact that Fuzeons require twice daily injections and need to be mixed for 20 minutes “have been significant impediments to the drugs sales in its two years on the market.” Go Trimeris! I see summer homes in the Hamptons for everyone. The drug costs the patient an average of $20,000, but hey Trimeris, you’re rocking the fat profit if this strain picks up. Never more has this seemed more blatant.
This stands as a perfect example of everything that is wrong with medical care in America, leader of the free world; profiteering drug manufacturers—what they know they can do and what we don’t know they can do because their intentions are skewed by greed and creating long term dependencies rather than that other antiquated notion…what was it…oh yeah, saving fucking lives.
As if this article could get worse, it ended with some quotes from a spokeswoman for the CDC in Atlanta, telling the average length of time from infection to full blown AIDS in an untreated person is about nine years with death following within 18 months. For those treated with anti-viral drugs the average progression to disease from infection is 11 years with death occurring within six years. I, like many others, started adding things up in my head and feeling like a duck in the line of fire in some shooting gallery, at the mercy of those straight-shooting folks who make the pills you swallow to stay alive. Maybe the CDC is right, maybe I’m already dead. No, not until they’re through with us.
The Legend of The Steve Lady
Published: September 25, 2008 in SF Bay Times–another article from the archives that i wanted to share
I knew of The Steve Lady years before he became known as The Steve Lady, if you call cowering with wide eyes and curiosity as he elegantly sauntered past you with a pair of his closest friends at the End-up to their familiar spot at the bar like they had just burst out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. No, I wouldn’t say I really knew him as much as I was intrigued and intimidated by this aura of glamour he and his friends exuded when they walked in a room. I assumed all sorts of things about the trio, like they were descendents of some old world aristocracy, blue bloods educated in European boarding schools who had parents like Dianne Von Furstenberg or Aristotle Onassis and visited the French Riviera annually. They seemed to be the type who had definitely flown on the Concorde many times, so high, so fast, so first class. Steven was quite tall, and the slender lines of his physique just screamed for high couture to be draped upon him: broad shoulders, small waist, those super-model hips jutting forward from his body, sharp enough to cut, and his chin and cheekbones and the intensity of his large eyes, burning like lasers with a hundred yard stare, and that subtle sneer, somewhere between a smile and disdain. He didn’t just walk into a room so much as slice his way through. He frightened me so I never really met or spoke to him for years. One Halloween he dressed up as Cruella Deville from 101 Dalmatians and that was the first foreshadow of the magic yet to come. He was shockingly complete—a dead on likeness of the animated uber villain.
Over the years of consistent nightclubbing through the eighties and early nineties when everyone knew without a doubt where they would be spending their Saturdays and Sunday nights out (Product and Uranus and Klubstitute and Dragstrip to name a few), every time I saw The Steve Lady he looked devastating. His sense of style never adhered to anything over-wrought or campy or from the drag bins. He recognized the power of simplicity and would always choose a look that landed well off the beaten path of drag kitsch and more from the pages of Vogue magazine, fashion period history, specific works by celebrated photographers like Helmut Newton, or imagery from film makers like David Lynch or even Abstract Expressionist German theater and modern Performance Artists. His looks were always high concept, using his vast knowledge of art and enduring images of beauty like a palette of paints to create his unique and elegant forays. He appeared as a force of visual perfection that would humble great beauties throughout history and take your breath away time and time again. He had vision and plans unyielding to any limitations or doubts until as always perfection prevailed.
Looking back at those times now and the many crazy nights of non-stop clubbing when I would run into him, it seems that it was not so much what he was wearing but more about an active physical transformation that he could engage effortlessly; he simply turned on with an almost athletic precision the physical manifestation of what we call a super-model. Not really like today’s most famous super-model, Kate Moss, though she’s amazing, The Steve Lady brought to mind earlier sensations like Linda Evangelista, and of course Verushka. His smooth movements and regal postures, grace and fluidity and that semi robotic stop/start and freeze for the camera pose was so easy and utterly perfect for him and so it gave me chills. I’m so glad there were a handful of very talented photographers forever taking pictures out in the clubs, and of course many of them spotted the magic in Steven right away and opted for more committed individual sessions, as did a few artists working in other medias. I’m assuming a grand collection of images and artworks will be taking shape to be shared with his friends and fans and loved ones. No one who captured this fire would ever let it be forgotten.
I eventually got over my fear of his fierceness and learned what an engaging conversationalist he was, and what fun it could be to share a few
laughs and cocktails with him. I also learned that he wasn’t from the glamorous Jet-set background I had always imagined, but rather came from Bakersfield, California after a childhood in South America. This information made him even more mysterious than before. How did this boy from Bakersfield become so emblematic of high fashion, opulence, and extreme glamour? He was downright otherworldly, perhaps an old soul with epic pasts of power royalty and fame. Steven was actually a very nice person, wickedly funny, quick-witted and quite informed in the areas of art and culture and music as he would demonstrate when making song requests when I was DJ-ing at the Hole in The Wall and The Eagle. His choices were always thematically appropriate but with a flair for the dramatic or moody, like early Sonic Youth or Heroes-era Bowie or even music from film soundtracks like David Lynch’s Fire Walk With Me, or the high-art extreme vocal techniques of Diamanda Galas, but he enjoyed all kinds of odd pop music and could squeeze the irony or humor out of any song he performed to, changing it forever in the minds of his audience. I know that I’ll never hear Duran Duran’s “Girls on Film” again without thinking about his unforgettable performance and winning turn at the very first Miss Trannyshack pageant, which was also the first time I recall him performing as The Steve Lady, perhaps the best drag name ever.
In hindsight I honestly cannot remember a single performance that took place that night besides The Steve Lady’s and I bet few others can either because what he did on stage that night at the Stud Bar transcended any and all performances I’ve seen that fall under the category of drag or tranny. It was really quite simple, an entourage of four handsome guys wearing all black and berets equipped with large electric fans and a large piece of black fabric flanked the stage and stretched the fabric like a curtain across it. On cue with the chorus of the song they dropped the fabric and turned on the fans and the Steve Lady simply appeared and gracefully but with an icy resolve modeled her fucking brains out. She channeled every exquisite notion of high glamour so precisely it caused complete pandemonium in the crowd. The roar was deafening, people were jumping up and down and screaming, all over a breathtaking display of high-octane turbo-charged world-class beauty. The curtain went up and came down three different times, exposing a different look each time, executed in seconds and utterly flawless, each one surpassing the other. It was overwhelmingly clear who would be crowned the first Miss Trannyshack. The voting process was a blur or maybe it just lasted about 10 seconds and there was no element of suspense or surprise. Everyone knew who nailed the title and the cheering had not subsided since the end of the performance. As the black leather studded sash was placed over The Steve Lady’s shoulder and she was handed a bouquet of flowers Heklina asked, “How does it feel being crowned the first Miss Trannyshack,” to which The Steve Lady succinctly responded, “I feel like chicken.” It was unforgettable.
The subsequent performances I’ve witnessed over the years were all unique and unparalleled. Once at a co-hosting stint at trannyshack she wore a tan pencil skirt and brown silk blouse—like she might have worked retail downtown—with a totally real-looking, parted-in-the-middle-afro-puffs wig, curved fake fingernails about four inches long, and painted brown and varying shades of brown base make-up eye-shadow and lipstick. She performed the song “Double-Dutch Bus,” a male vocal. Her multi-media step-down number for the second Miss Trannyshack pageant included a remake of the Duran Duran Video “Rio” in which she visited exact locations as the original work and projected the film behind her. The commitment was mind-blowing. On a Bowie tribute night she was the only one who would dare come as his wife Iman, wearing a controversial coating of (gasp) shade appropriate base make-up to match the African super-model, and another night I recall her and Robbie D doing a particularly awesome number as pop-and-lock robotic bitches. There are far too many amazing performances to mention and I haven’t even delved into his efforts in legitimate theatrical projects as writer director and actor when he relocated to L.A. H He described to me on a visit to San Francisco one more interesting and groundbreaking look he sported after moving south. He would go out in a smart gentleman’s suit, blazer, slacks, dress shirt and a fedora hat with his entire face and hands completely painted black, beyond a natural skin pigmentation. Just the whites of his eyes and his teeth would show. As always he was forging ahead in his artistic expression, challenging concepts of beauty as much as defining and owning them in the most accomplished way I’ve ever witnessed.
In writing this article after the passing of this exceptional, visionary talent and object of much love respect and joy to so many I can’t help but feel overwhelmed by sadness. Steven Price brought so much brilliance to this world and inspired so many different lives in numerous ways that it feels like a white hot light has been turned off, our world is darkened, even grim. But in all of our memories and in rolls of film and scores of digital photography and artwork I’ve started to see that nothing will ever extinguish the beauty and energy and achievement of this life sadly ended. It’s up to us to pull all that remains of our dear friends’ legacy together in a place where he’ll exist forever, our memories. The best way to do so is to help others who try to do the same. Share your memories and know he wouldn’t want our hearts to be heavy, he’d want us to remember and smile and laugh and feel rich, forever. Rest in peace Steven.
Rough Trade Revisited
I’ve started to post some of my old favorite articles From the SF Bay Times on this blog because i liked them and wanted people to see more samples of my writing. Heres one from january 2006
Living with and surviving the age-old gay male fascination with Rough Trade has been a hot and current topic around my house for the past few months, or rather pretty much since I moved into this neighborhood known as the Tender Nob. This expanse of several blocks seems to facilitate my coming into contact with young men of a certain ilk who invariably show signs of some form of human goodness or decency at first, or at least exhibit some inexplicable classic beauty, the likes of which many a writer or artist in history has obsessed on (Genet’s tattooed criminal prisoners, Gustav’s obsession with the youthful perfection of Tadzio in A Death in Venice, Andy Warhol’s constant use in films of hustler icon Joe Dallesjandro) but ultimately they have qualities of a forbidden or dangerous side, the allure of criminal activity, the scandal of their tender age, the romanticized rebellion and savage street savvy, the thug/angel juxtaposition that so many fall for. One can get very caught up in the exhilaration of enjoying the company of an exotic individual from another walk of life completely, but it seems that in the case of Rough Trade, enjoyment soon will turn to regret as the true colors of Trade are revealed. Who knew that sociopath was on the color wheel and what a hideous shade it is? Should you have anticipated the inevitable fact that your new friend is a reprobate, a person with out the slightest hint of morals, gratitude, honesty or humility? They would take your last cigarette or your laptop and think nothing of it and eventually return and ask for or just take more. The big question that arises repeatedly through the shocking acts of blatant heartless thievery or the complete disregard for many of the things I value, processes I hold sacred, and the tools and time implicit to the work I do, is “Why on earth do you let this unrefined unrepentant low-life hustler trash into your home and into your life again and again, giving him carte blanche to chisel away at your comfort zone little by little with his inability to distinguish right from wrong, good from evil or the meaning of the word no?” Good fucking question.
Why do I continue being oddly involved in a blatantly parasitic model of interaction with absolutely no hope of sharing a common ground or mutual respect or trust… I’m far too busy hiding my few valuables, my cash, a checkbook, my i-pod that replaced the one he stole, and the swelling urge to bludgeon his head with a blunt object or tie him up and call the other two guys I’ve met who he has worked over in the same way and collectively help him to remember some or all of our more intimate moments or some of the angrier ones. There were so many indications that I was treading in a dangerous territory. Why didn’t I put some immediate distance on the situation and individual? It’s not like I haven’t witnessed Rough Trade in its natural habitat real close up before. Anyone who doesn’t understand why paying my bill to keep power on in my apartment takes precedence over scoring a 10-dollar rock of crack cocaine is likely just wrong–no one I should know. I can’t think of a more obvious red flag, yet I ignored or accepted this like many more to follow. Why did I ignore these things? I’m really not sure. Maybe I was continually overwhelmed by the aesthetics of the situation. This particular guy had captivated me on sight as I approached the front door of my building one night and he asked me if I had a light. I knew I didn’t so I said, “no, sorry but I do have one inside.” He said great and followed me in. He was dressed head to toe in pure gangsta streetwear, oversized layers of tracksuits clinging low on his hips, lean frame, broad shoulders, baseball cap on backwards, one leg of the sweats pulled up, big white clean Reeboks and very large hands, one of which landed on the mouse of my computer which he promptly began to play solitaire on. I should have set boundary number one right there and insisted that no one but me ever touches my computer but I didn’t, and many people just disregard that rule anyway. Small talk commenced, a joint was smoked and he almost immediately mentioned his girlfriend then added that she knew nothing of his fooling around with guys. I didn’t even have to delicately inquire and dance around the straight male psyche like Salome. I didn’t have to even start the transparent corny dialogue ala Seduced Straight Guys. He clearly was charting this course towards pleasures he was no stranger to. I glanced at his long fingers drumming the mouse and commented that his hands were so large and in a bold move that almost said, “You know what they say, big hands….” and he stood up and dropped his sweat pants. There are some words that don’t allow to be spoken. We were off to the races and I was continually surprised by his progressive knowledge of the love that dare not speak its name, flowing at an advanced course level incongruously over various classic-style prison tattoos of goth letters and religious imagery and a couple of pronounced stab wound scars–not your average mod prim gay guy body art for sure. He was the elusive real deal, Rough Trade personified. After we finished he called his girlfriend and spoke to her in Spanish and pulled back the curtain instructing her to go to her window to point out that he was standing in an apartment that was visible from hers. “Please shut the curtain,” I said feeling slightly uncomfortable He asked me if I might be able to download Fifty Cent’s new LP and burn it for him and then asked if I could give him a few dollars. Two more flags of warning I ignored with a smile.
Wondering why this person became such a regular fixture in my life, one that I didn’t put out of my life the moment he started exhibiting the truly bad behaviors and literally transformed himself into a walking living consuming list of demands upon my patience, resources, good nature, money and better judgment, I think the answer lies in a pretty simple concept. I didn’t eradicate and banish this individual from my day to day life, the constant stopping by at all hours to ask for any of his numerous needs that he had long ago decided I owed him unquestioningly, can be found in the basic description of our fateful first meeting. Note the romanticized idyllic description of the subject, his physical aesthetics alone are the most telling reasons and likely the only reason I can find in all the madness that I haven’t chased his ass off with a blunt object. Why I haven’t forbade his regular visits powered by the shocking audacity to steal from me one day and return the next to ask for more and the layers of deceit he weaves in and around his actions as justification—though you know he doesn’t truly need to justify anything to anyone in his drug-addled mind. What sociopath does? It’s a familiar scenario really; countless others have been through it. As Snoop Dogg says, “This type of shit happens every day.”
The justification for my involvement just isn’t enough any longer and has seriously damaging effects on my self-esteem, so it has to end. The other day the light at the end of the tunnel became clear when he came over and was very upset because someone had told his girlfriend that he was involved with me and another guy, and she was pissed and has vowed to confront me about it. I can’t believe she really doesn’t have a clue about her boyfriend. He told me I have to tell her there’s nothing going on. I told him that what has been done can’t be undone, and in my memory he led the way from the very beginning, he did what he wanted and there was nobody else to blame. I also said I didn’t want to talk to his girlfriend about it as I didn’t want to lie, and I didn’t want to expose the truth either. I don’t care either way. I saw the worry in his brow and watched him squirm and realized that there was one thing he actually seemed to care about after all. I told him that he really shouldn’t deceive the people he truly cares about, and that was the most important lesson to be learned here. “In the end, only the truth will set you free,” I said with a sincere smile. I meant it.
This neighborhood is colorful but I think I need to move.