Tuesday, December 17, 2013

That time I listened to an 11-hour song

Remember that time I spent ELEVEN HOURS listening to drone record from an English band called Sabazius, live-tweeted the torture, and went absolutely fucking insane? Here are my notes.

Press the Play button, and settle in.

Not much going on yet – just one continuous feedback loop, scattered with a few different tones of drones and the odd jittery cymbal crash. Are they still tuning?

Could do without the piercing feedback wail around 1:45:00…still going…

Apparently this is just the intro, which is fair enough. Given that the song itself stretches for so fucking long, I suppose it isn’t entirely out of order to have a 2.5 hour “intro,” though if I hadn’t signed up for this there’s no way in hell I’d voluntarily listen to this much purposeless noise (and I like noise!). Maybe I should have smoked some weed or gobbled a few mushrooms to heighten the experience?

2:35:00 – rumblings. Something’s coming.
2:35:30 – A RIFF! Smothered in layers upon layers of distortion and utterly glacial, but a riff nonetheless. I am enchanted. What fresh delight? A drum beat? Praise be! This sounds dangerously close to what is colloquially known as a “song” now.
And just like that, the most useless drone twaddle imaginable has heaved its way into infinitely more interesting funeral doom country. This, I like. Suppose they’ll be doing this for awhile, then.
Tempo varies a teensy bit at 2:44:00, then again around 2:50:00…I’m beginning to think that it might not be worth analyzing every few minutes, though. Sabazius are going for the big picture here. Right now, they’re stood firmly in the droning, minimalist, slower-than-slow funeral doom camp. No sign of vocals yet. That drummer is pummeling those skins for dear life, though – raw power on display. Wonder how noodly his arms will feel after another six hours…
This shit makes Wormphlegm look like Nicki Minaj.


I spaced out and just noticed that the track is a little different! Pulsing alien drones lurking beneath the lackadaisical cymbal crashes have replaced the guitar…I think?
Oh, it’s back now. There’s a detectable melody bleeding through, with a little whiff of bluesy swagger, even! I can imagine exactly what the guitarist looks like right now – hunched over his instrument, fingers methodically downstroking, hair in his face, blank-eyed concentration on his reddened face. Probably the same as he looks when they play this shit live. Will they play this shit live? Dear god, that’s a scary thought.
This is cool, though. I dig this. I could probably listen to this for the next seven hours, especially now that they’ve brought the drums back to the party. This is pretty standard droney doomy stonery stuff, honestly – there is just so MUCH of it. It’s like the distilled spirit of a thousand really stoned Roadburn attendees.

They’ve gone silent. Are they okay? At this point in our relationship, I feel a sort of maternal concern for them. Maybe they’d like some tea.
Alright then, the drones are back. Spaceship noises, set to “bore.”
Still droning. Drone drone droning. Stopped for a minute and my heart leaped, but
here we are again. Bobbing in and out of silence, which is a welcome change at least.
Oh good, more wretched feedback. I don’t even know who I am anymore.
But – hark! What’s this? A riff? Salvation!
More molasses trapped in amber, but a riff nonetheless. There is motion. There is life. For awhile there I thought they’d collapsed onto their amps.

Forgot this was on, until those hideous feedback shrieks came squealing out of the abyss to bogart my happiness.

Time is melting into itself. Hour five? Hour fifteen? Who even knows anymore. The purpose of this release is to disorient – to “induce an altered state of mind, create psychosisaccording to Dig. I’ll bloody give them that. I’d saw off my arm for a blastbeat right now.
Riffs abate…ambient noise abounds. High-pitched drones, whining in the dark. Strange sounds percolating underneath.

VOCALS AGAIN! Well really more like a sort of forceful huff, but it was a human voice and I think I might weep from joy.
VOCAAAAALS! I think there was a word that time!
Now they’re just taking the piss. Stop shouting at me in 45 second intervals.
Or not.

Okay, I get it, You like feedback. You like Sunn 0))) and Burning Witch and Swans and I DO NOT LIKE YOU ANYMORE.

Feedbackfeedbackfeedback dronedronedrone don’t you guys have somewhere to be? My gutters need clearing out.

Thud. YEAH! Riff! Back to the ambient swirls, let’s have some more of that, boys – the stuff you were throwing down a few hours ago was ace.
Coming up on six hours. So far, I’ve counted one riff, that occasionally masqueraded as another one and tricked me thanks to my rapidly deteriorating ability to distinguish reality from Dante’s seventh circle of hell. We’re back to the feedback thing now, though. Lord have mercy.

Oh hey, they went back into playing music again when I wasn’t looking! Cheeky. We’re doing the crushing, repetitive riff in tandem with brutally slow power drums routine again, and it sounds fucking heavenly by now. Maybe that’s what Sabazius are doing – surrounding their perfectly serviceable doom song fragments with acres and acres of impossible distortion and noise to make said fragments seem like aural ambrosia from the gods’ fingertips in comparison. I’m on to you, lads.

This part’s pretty good, actually. Back to the vaguely bluesy chord progression from FUCKING HOURS ago. Head nodding involuntarily. Is this what Stockholm Syndrome is like?

This might be the longest, slowest, most drawn out, and least brutal breakdown in the history of music. Emmure is not stoked.
Downstroke-downstroke-cymbal crash. Over and over. THAT’S NOT A SONG YOU DICKS.

Hang on, this is alright. Mixing things up with a nice buzzy little riff, jumpy rums, distortion is a given but here it makes sense. I can even hear a bass thrumping away underneath. This is a totally solid droney doomy stonery song. Can we just do this for awhile, lads? I need a break.

Audio collapse. Everything’s fallen off, the song’s disappeared, it’s all silence and squeaky, record-scratch barks of noise then – no, it’s can’t be…more FUCKING feedback.
If Sunn 0))) and Dick Dale had a really ugly baby, that’s what this weird slide riff would beat up on the playground.

Almost to the seven hour mark. Feedback reigns. Crucial Blast catalogue on blast. Burning Witch crumbling in the ashes. My eardrums ache. Pure, high bells of feedback soar…then stop.

Gentle strumming echoes faintly. Glorious respite. Neil Young and Earth and lovely chords, what is this? Slick strings, resonant, contemplative riffs, standing alone. Sweat drips down the guitar neck, lubing up the tired steel. This really reminds me of that one Earth record they put out a few years ago, The Bees something something. It’s a murkier, malevolent imagining of that same Americana-tinged drone. Please don’t stop.


It was all a beautiful dream. Collapse. Resurrect. Bleed out. Feed back. Drone.
Cruel, piercing squeals cut above the drones, and garbled noise takes over.

Delving back into the rare beauty of the Earth-worship of a few aeons ago. I am thankful.

Finally, it makes sense. The Earth-inspired delicacy and light tones melt into the buzzing, slowly percolating drones, distortion embellishing and embracing the staggeringly simplistic riff with its crown of effects.
And the clarion call returns, screaming wildly like an out of tune jazz trumpeter, punishing me for my insolence, for daring to believe that there was a point to any of this.

And silence.

Rise of the machines. Quietly, purposefully chugging, industrial haze. Imperceptible rise and fall of the drones. Are they coming for me? I know they are. They taunt me.
Tribal beats. Phantom hands clapping, beating the talking drums. They promise nothing.


Slow, sad, almost funereal beats complement the muted guitar; there’s a riff buried in there somewhere, if only just. This is standard funeral doom/drone stuff right here. It’s comfortingly familiar. The relief is palpable. So quiet. I fear the worst lies ahead. A lone drum beats a glacial tattoo.

And silence. Or?

The drums return. That fucking crash cymbal is my Judas. Back to the extended, slothful drum solo. You sound like a bootleg Protools plugin. How I loathe thee.

Scraps of melody bob to the surface. There’s a plan here. Flesh hangs off the skeleton, binding its sinews onto white. Perky little fuzzbomb riff, slowed down to -666 miles per hour, calms the drums. Perfectly reasonable drone song. Digging the chirpy little echoes.


And silence.

Then…a murmur. An unnamed beast growling in its dreams.

And silence.
Slight, melancholy drones (drones drones drones always drones) simmer.

Slap down those beats. Strum that guitar. Churn out those churny riffs. Thrum that bass.

VOCALS! Yelling words! The sheer novelty of it’s got me all aflutter. Fuck knows what he’s shouting about all hoarse-like, but it must be important enough to warrant inclusion in this horrorshow.
Not for long, though; mustn’t let me get too comfortable.
Back to the minimalist “thud-thud” drum+repetitious fuzz riff thing.
How in the name of all things unholy are they still standing?
Unless they’re all flopped over onto a couch or something.

That nice little bluesy riff is back again. Hello, old friend.

They’re playing around a bit. That steady droned riff is still there. Nothing new to report. Back on the wagon.

Yo, FUCK that blaring note that doesn’t ever end and instead multiplies into a dead clown’s chorus of little blaring notes and coils around itself and laughing spreads its wings.
Back to the drones. This is cold, clear, brittle – a winter’s day of a lingering note. I don’t care how much distortion you pile on after two minutes, my ears hurt – and you just did it again!!
And now it’s a drone song again. There is a little more going on now, but not much. I’m cautiously optimistic.
This is almost doom by now. Warm memories of Electric Wizard and Saint Vitus wash over me. I wish this sounded like “Dying Inside,” because I am.
This riff is like the most achingly slow, joyless rendition of “Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum” ever recorded by mortals.  Now that I’ve typed that out I can’t get the thought out of my head. This riff is dead to me.

That same fucking riff from seven hours ago. This same fucking song. I have nothing new to say.


THAT SAME FUCKING RIFF, just chugging merrily along like it hasn’t got a care in the world. What is that new noise? There’s a new noise. SOS


I’m out of words.


Loud angry fuzz. Wet cats.

Intensity building.

Swans? A neutered Godflesh? Words fail me.

I’m so close to the end now that literally nothing could inspire any sort of energy or criticism. They are still playing that fucking riff. I hope they’re having a wonderful time.

Quiet drone, endlessly looping.




Collapse. Finality. Freedom.

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Bonded by blood.

Humans have long held a certain fascination with the concept of movement between different planes of existence.  Buddhist teachings and philosophical musings butt up against spaceships and looking glasses, but whether it be the fourth dimension or a galaxy far, far away, man wishes to see what he cannot, and be where he has not.

 He still desires the comfort of familiarity, though, which is why time machines and wormholes keep their handy tendency to reach in both directions. I haven't paid nearly enough attention in physics classes (or gotten deep enough into sci-fi) to lend much insight into the various theories surrounding it, but the idea of moving through worlds, like a swimmer gliding out beyond the shoals and into dark water, is one with which I can claim a great deal of familiarity.

This past weekend marked the thirteenth annual Rites of Passage BBQ, an event involving the members of this esteemed suspension crew and their friends. Two friends of mine invited me to join the party, and so, by hook and by crook, I found myself immersed in the biggest gathering of modified people I'd found since the last time I swung by a tattoo convention. It felt good. It felt like home. The personalities I encountered were big and brash, playful and warm, and altogether welcoming to this outside insider. I spoke the language, but I didn't know the inside jokes or the shared stories that these old friends held between them. By the end of the weekend, though, it didn't matter. We'd all been drawn there to practice a ritual that, no matter where we called home or how we came to discover it, held a deep importance in our lives. Its origins lie buried in the ancient past, documented and studied and then altered to fit more easily and respectfully into a secular setting. Some people there had been practicing this rite for over a dozen years; some were there to experience it for their very first time. Some of us were heavily modified, with horns and facial tattoos and scars; some of us were totally unmarked. We all have our pasts, our present, and our futures ahead, traveling down very different paths towards strange and unknown destinations.

We all had one thing in common, though. We were all there to fly.

Body suspension is intensity personified. Pain is overcome, limits are met and then challenged, and gravity is banished in the face of pure will and ecstatic peace. Each individual responds differently to the process, and holds their own reasons for partaking. For me, suspension offers the ultimate catharsis. Working through the pain, pushing myself up the mountain then, once the summit is scaled and there's nowhere to go but down, staring up into the sun and deciding, "I can." Lifting my feet off the ground and surrendering to the pain, the pressure, and ultimately, the euphoria. Once I'm up there, nothing matters but that feeling. The oxygen coursing through my veins and smile stretched across my face are involuntary motions. Spinning, swinging, arms outstretched and head thrown back - flying, above the ground, above everything. Arms outstretched to embrace this fleeting but oh-so-life-affirming feeling of freedom. I am one with all that is around me, weightless and effortless.  Not even gravity can bring me down.

If I believed in any gods, I'd have seen their faces in the trees that day.

Back on terra firma, I was overwhelmed by the kindness and support given to me by the rest of the group. A palpable sense of joy, of love, even, filtered through the sun-dappled leaves and settled around the gathering. Everyone was smiling, hugging, trading jokes and smirks. Everyone looked peaceful and happy, secure in themselves and the events transpiring. The blood seemed natural, stripped of negative connotations and presented as the life-giving liquid we all share. I saw so many people smiling as they were pulled skyward by intricately tied ropes and pulleys. It felt good. It felt like home.

The next day, a group of us went out for breakfast to begin our slow but inevitable goodbyes. We crowded into the tiny cafe, made our orders, and spread out across the small tables, being sure to add that extra ounce of politeness to our every move to reassure the regulars. It didn't work, though; it never works. As I sat there noshing on a waffle and observing the scene unfolding around me, I saw the looks we were drawing from the other patrons. Their expressions ranged from benign curiosity to outright disgust, and as always, it took me a moment to understand their reaction. I looked around at our group, with our long hair and mohawks and facial tattoos and stretched lobes and lip piercings and bandaged limbs. I felt the medical tape shifting around on my back, the dried blood sticking to its gauze. For a moment, I saw us as they saw us.

Then I heard a familiar voice speaking. I looked up to see one of our number engaged in conversation with two elderly women. The snippets I heard conveyed a pleasant if cautious exchange about who we were, what we were doing there, and why we choose to do such things. At the end, they seemed placated, excitedly chattering amongst themselves and sharing their findings with their friends. Our friend looked back at our inquisitive faces, shrugged, and said, "They asked politely, so I gave them a polite answer."

That says it all, really. Moving from the safety of the bay out into open water seems like a frightening prospect to most, but it's got its rewards, too.

Come on in, the water's fine.

Thursday, June 20, 2013

More new tunes.

Twitter has become such a useful, important social media tool, it's strange to think of how aimless and absurdist it once seemed. I've been on there, tweeting away (for better and sometimes for worse) since the site's first year of existence. I signed up at my nerdy college friend Conor's behest. When I asked him to explain the point, he had no real answer; he just told me that it would make sense eventually, and like any procrastination-happy college freshman, I was more than willing to give it time to pan out. Turns out, he was right. That purposeless, self-indulgent portal of microblogging frippery has become a global force, though, me being me, I just use it to discover and share new music. It's not the noblest or most interesting of causes, to be sure, but obsessive heavy metal fans are nothing if not myopic.

That being said, here's a bunch of rad new music I came across over the past week. A few of them were suggested by the nice people who read my tweets. How's that for a segue?

Dearly missed London friends getting all esoteric and drone-doomy.

Super aggro, techy-but-not-annoying death metal.

Instrumental tunes that underline the many meanings of "heavy."

Cold, strange, gothy post-punk from Oz. Shawn from Mitochondrion recommended it, and he's never wrong.

Remember that time Phil from Cobalt had a raw black metal project with Mike from Loss and IT FUCKING RULED? Me too.

Band of the Week! (as if I'm going to remember to do this weekly - oh, what mirth). Seriously though, these guys are fantastic atmospheric black metal that you really need to go listen to right goddamn now.

Band of the Week Too! Get into this RIGHT NOW because it's savage and raw and altogether irresistible. I mean..."black metal fuck hate occult sex Nashville" sums it up swimmingly.

More slow, contemplative atmospheric black metal from Canada. Vocals are great.

Sacryphyx is dead good lo-fi death/thrash with more melody than you'd expect. Kinda Arghoslenty, but with the added bonus of being racism-free (I think).

These guys are absolutely miserable. Good.

This is important!! A bunch of sweet bands got together to raise awareness and donate funds to Alzheimer's research. Buy buy buy.

Deep, dark, and depressing as shit. Grim and grimy, too. 

Horrible cunts from Bristol making horrible cuntish doom. It's got pretty parts too though, so bring your boyfriend along.

Everything James Brown touches turns to filthy lucre, and Moloch (Ukr) are wonderful.

The Moloch/Ensorcelor split is out! Buy it! Ensorcelor is one of the best things in North America, and I love UK Moloch too. I love all the Molochs. 

Iron Bonehead never disappoint, and that new Bolzer joint is absofuckinglutely essential.


Saturday, June 8, 2013


I keep spending way too much time on forums, and on Bandcamp, and on social media, and on the various other means I employ in my perpetual search for music, and Google Chrome is having a shit fit over all the tabs I've got open, so I figured I'd dump a whole bunch of links here so I at least have them stored somewhere safe. My Bookmarks folder is a goddamn wilderness, so Blogspot it is. If you've got an hour or so to kill, I'd recommend combing through the following links - there's gold in them thar urls.

Atmospheric Scottish folk/black

Gnarly Northeastern sludgecore

Austin from Panopticon swears by this. Atmospheric black magic.

Black fucking murder. Formerly Necrite.

Horrible noisy evil. Run by Mike from Loss.

Really good. Doomy, gloomy, black and grim.

Evil Greek black metal.


Primitive one-man blight from Philly.

Droning, hopeless, and bleak as shit. Australia.

Crushing Russian funeral doom.

I don't remember where I found this. It's pretty savage, though. Total death/doom from Detroit.

Just because Cobalt rule live and touring with them was awesome.

Weird neofolky stuff from Spain. Lots of nature sounds and gentle strings.

Fuck yeah, early Mystifier rerelease!

Nasty business from Winnipeg. Manic industrial black hell.

Marry me, Iron Curtain. Viva Espana, viva Motorhead!

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Cold nights.

It's been a bad week. There's no use going into particulars. No one wants to read your sob story, they're too preoccupied with writing - or weathering - their own. Family stuff, man. It's hard. It's hard to think about, let alone write about, and this isn't the place to spin my own tale of woe and the backwoods. I'm not sure what that place might be, but I'm pretty certain that it's best kept locked away, stored in living room conversations and quiet bedside chatter. Writing that story about my mom was hard enough; I'm glad I did it, but it took awhile. This fresh heartache is too raw, too ragged around the edges, and too goddamn confusing to touch. It still stings, and I'm still wholly lost, and there's no room for that stuff on a metal blog (if this even qualifies - it's more of a graveyard/half-baked resume by now).

Sorrow, alienation, impotent rage, creeping uncertainty - extreme metal has a lot of time for these loathsome emotions, and the darkest hours often call for the most punishing soundtracks. It's always been that way for me - the harshest black metal tore through the asphyxiating paralysis, and lit a torch to illuminate the path out of Hell. Not this time, though. I've spent the last week wrapping myself in Order From Chaos, Teitanblood, Obituary - old friends, old favorites, a warm woolen blanket of hate to hide beneath. It doesn't feel right, though. For whatever reason, this latest struggle calls for something different.

Common Eider, King Eider and Steve von Till have been offering a great deal of solace. The Moon Lay Hidden Beneath a Cloud, the acoustic Royal Thunder tunes, Hexvessel, Southern Isolation, and Purson have resurfaced on my playlists, keeping me company while night falls and I'm alone, waiting for my man to come home from work and hold me tight. Being so far away from home makes dealing with family pain so much harder, given that my dad and granddad aren't the most computer-savvy. They tend to give up on emails after three lines, sending cryptic messages and leaving holes to worry into. Having A. here is the next best thing, better really, because he's not as jaded to the madness that we've grown accustomed to and knows when to hug tightest.

That's probably why I've been so drawn to these haunted, half-whispered songs - they sound as lonesome as those empty hours can feel.

Common Eider, King Eider:


Steve von Till:

Southern Isolation:

Friday, December 28, 2012

BEST OF 2012

I made about a zillion "best of" lists this year. Here they all are in one place.

Metalsuck - top fifteen: http://www.metalsucks.net/2012/12/04/grim-kims-top-fifteen-metal-albums-of-2012/

Pitchfork - best albums/songs: http://pitchfork.com/features/staff-lists/9017-the-top-50-albums-of-2012/6/

American Aftermath - best demos: http://americanaftermath.net/2012/12/22/best-of-2012-grim-kim-kellys-favorite-demos-of-2012/

Unhallowed Nation - best ugly death metal records:

More are still waiting to be published, notably Brooklyn Vegan and Burning Ambulance, (or in Cvlt Nation's case, written - whoops) and a few are floating around in print form - Terrorizer, Absolute Underground.

I also lauded Pallbearer's stunning 'Sorrow and Extinction' on Invisible Oranges (http://www.invisibleoranges.com/2012/12/top-50-albums-of-2012-10-to-1/) and Pitchfork (http://pitchfork.com/features/staff-lists/9017-the-top-50-albums-of-2012/).

I really just spent all year listening to David Allan Coe and Venom, but, people like lists.

Saturday, November 24, 2012

Best of 2012 (The Super Biased Edition)

It's that time of year again, when pretty much every music writer with a functioning cerebral cortex (and, seemingly, a few without) hunkers down in their undoubtedly stuffy, dirty sock- and empty juice container-strewn lairs and bash away at their respective keyboards, frantically arranging and rearranging and evaluating and worrying and eventually allowing themselves to experience that sweet, sweet second of release when they think, "Aw, fuck it" and hit the Send button. Yep, it's year-end best-of list time, the most wonderful(ly arbitrary) time of every music journo's year!

I actually really like making lists, but tend to get overwhelmed and contrary after filing the fourth one in a row. It is a frustrating, silly process, and oftentimes makes me feel like I'm choosing sides in one massive, ugly are-you-my-friend-or-hers middle school battle, especially since so many of my mates insist on making super awesome records every year. My day job as a publicist also makes things difficult, because there are always at least a few records that I desperately want to include, because I genuinely think that they deserve the nod (I choose with whom to work and I only work with bands that I think are fucking rad!), but am unable to because, duh. There's a grey area for sure, and I end up skirting it once in awhile, but I do try my best to avoid conflicts of interest. That's why I'm putting this little list up on here, my personal blog, and making it very, very clear that I am openly biased about these albums for various business/personal reasons (it doesn't help when your boyfriend plays in a band, or you spend weeks on tour with bands, or your former clients release side projects!).

They're still fucking awesome, though, and if you haven't heard them yet, you really should!

So here's my totally, utterly, absolutely, 100% biased top whatever list of some of the best records of 2012 that I cannot include on any of my published lists for one reason or another.

Panopticon - Kentucky (Handmade Birds/Pagan Flames)

Bastard Sapling - Dragged From Our Restless Trance (Forcefield Records)

Dragged Into Sunlight - Widowmaker (Prosthetic)

Saint Vitus - Lillie: F-65 (Season of Mist)

Aelter - III (Eternal Warfare)

Don Seantalamh a Chuid Féin (Into the Void Records)

Obolus - Lament (The Flenser)

Greed & Rapacity - Loki Bound

Ecocide - When Will It End (Tofu Carnage)

Appalachian Terror Unit - Black Sands (Profane Existence)

Sutekh Hexen - Larvae (Handmade Birds)

A Story of Rats - Vastness & The Inverse (Translinguistic Other)

Windhand - S/T (Forcefield Records)

Author & Punisher - Ursus Americanus (Seventh Rule)

Inperial Triumphant - Abominamentvm (self-released)

Pinkish Black - S/T (Handmade Birds).

BONG - Mana Yood Sushai (Ritual Productions)

I also really liked the Kaevum's 'Natur' record, but they're pretty blatantly NS and I just do not feel like dealing with all that noise. Great music, though.

So there you have it. I'll post my various other published lists as they go up.

Monday, November 19, 2012

Hallo, Deutschland

Al and I went to Berlin for this year's Nuclear War Now! fest - or "live ritual," if you prefer - and it ruled. We did a bunch of sightseeing, bought an old Soviet gasmask from a man on a bridge (you sort of have to, don't you), ate our combined weight in falafel and chips, drank far too much whiskey, hugged up on a bunch of buddies from all over the world, met some rad people, and, of course, watched some AMAZING bands. I've got a proper live review of all that coming out in the next Terrorizer Magazine, but suffice it to say, Revenge, Knelt Rote, Wrathprayer, and Dead Congregation alone made all the madness worthwhile.

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Hey -

I'm horrible at updating this thing, and my grand aspirations of doing an actual tour diary evaporated around the same time I remembered how insanely hectic touring is. It's the same story every time; I sign myself up for a zillion projects and assignments, hop in the van, start telling myself about how much work I'm going to get done before doors...during the gig...at wherever we're crashing...before van call..oh, shit. I find myself scrabbling around just trying to finish the bare minimum - the assignments that pay, that have hard deadlines, that I can't afford to push back a week or three. That's where I'm at now. I owe loads of words to at least three places, probably more - only Gmail knows - and have between now and 11am Dallas time to get 'em done. C'est ma vie.

So here's a few things I actually did manage to get done since I last posted...






Wednesday, September 5, 2012

See you soon, Americaland.


9/14 Little Rock AR @ Rev Room *
9/15 Memphis TN @ Hi-Tone Cafe
9/16 Nashville TB @ Exit/In
9/18 Atlanta GA @ The Masquerade
9/19 Raleigh NC @ Lincoln Theatre
9/20 Richmond VA @ Kingdom
9/21 Huntington WV @ V Club
9/22 Boomslang Festival @ Buster's Billiard's & Backroom, Lexington KY
9/23 Pittsburgh PA @ The Rex Theater
9/24 Cambridge MA @ The Middle East
9/25 Brooklyn NY @ Saint Vitus Bar
9/27 Washington DC @ Black Cat
9/28 New York NY @ Best Buy Theater w/ DOWN **
9/29 Cleveland OH @ Grog Shop
9/30 Chicago IL @ Bottom Lounge
10/1 Minneapolis MN @ Triple Rock Social Club
10/2 Lawrence KS @ Granada Theater
10/3 Denver CO @ Bluebird Theater
10/4 Salt Lake City UT @ Urban Lounge
10/5 Boise ID @ Neurolux
10/6 Fall Into Darkness Fest, Portland OR
10/7 Seattle WA @ Highline
10/9 San Francisco CA @ The Independent
10/10 Los Angeles CA @ Bootleg Theater
10/11 Sacramento CA @ Harlow's
10/12 Santa Cruz CA @ Atrium at The Catalyst
10/13 Pomona CA @ venue TBA **
10/14 Santa Ana CA @ Constellation Room at The Observatory
10/15 Mesa AZ @ Nile Theater
10/16 Albuquerque NM @ Launchpad
10/18 Austin TX @ Beauty Ballroom
10/19 San Antonio TX @ Bonds 007