Published November 11, 2015 on What Youth. Photo by Tony Accosta.
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November 12, 2015
Listen to Will Ivy's song "Scrap Plastic," in an exclusive What Youth song premiere. And other ramblings.
Published November 6, 2015.
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Published November 6, 2015.
Check it.
August 30, 2015
August 21, 2015
Dead Moon, at Berserktown II
This past weekend brought an insane bevy of
bands through Los Angeles and Orange County for Echo Park Rising, the sprawling
three-day neighborhood fest in Echo Park, and Berserktown II, the three-day
fest at the Observatory in Santa Ana. Two three-day festivals in one weekend.
That’s like 500 bands. In one weekend. Okay, I’m too lazy to do the actual math
on this so that might be an exaggeration, but out of those 500 bands, there was
only one that I needed to see: Dead Moon.
Dead Moon, the uncompromising Portland punk
legends who’ve gained fame despite, and maybe because of, their DIY
proclivities, are nearing what could be the end of their tenure. When Dead Moon
announced earlier this year that they were playing Berserktown II, fans widely
assumed it could be their last tour ever, and definitely the last show they’d
trek down to Southern California to play.
So if you missed Sunday night’s Dead Moon
set, you blew it. Fred Cole, frontman and guitarist for the band, had
open-heart surgery last year, and he still had the swagger and talent someone
half his age could only dream of. Toody Cole, Fred’s wife and badass bassist,
is the coolest chick in rock ‘n roll. Kelly Halliburton, the drummer from
Pierced Arrows – Dead Moon’s side band formed around 2007 – stood in for
original member Andrew Loomis, who was recently diagnosed with cancer and
couldn’t make the tour. Getting old fucking sucks, but Fred and Toody know how
to keep on keepin’ on.
The trio, who famously perform close to each other in proximity, stood huddled at the edge of the Observatory’s main stage, their amps lined up right behind them like a wall of sound. They charged through their set list, with songs ranging from almost all of their albums. Dead Moon songs always sound more powerful and fast tempoed done live, but there was an indescribable fire in their strum and step that night. Maybe it was the energy from three days of punk and noise and metal seething out of the Observatory throughout the weekend. Or maybe it was just their incredible vibe, a vibe that’s lasted almost 30 years, a vibe unparalleled by most. Thank you Dead Moon. If I never see you again, I’ll remain satisfied by this one last show. –Maya Eslami
July 14, 2015
She walked down into the ruined street, the cracked asphalt sharp and obtrusive against her bare feet, stepping gently around the oil spills that seeped out from the busted hoopties left discarded for no one. The smell of the oil reminded her of the gas stations in the Mid West, where she'd drive through that one summer with her mother, before she died. The smell was thick and heavy, and even though the first whiff made her cough, she breathed it in, deeply swallowing the taste of her childhood. Now everything was gone. Had been gone for a while. Her loneliness shrouded her in shadows.
After the earthquake, all the neighbors moved away, except her. She had nowhere to go. She'd wake up in the mornings, feed the strays with cornmeal she'd stolen from the looted market down on the corner, and rummage through the abandoned houses looking for treasures. Nothing of value, there was no one around to trade anything with or use as currency. She searched for sentiment, lost memories, forgotten emblems of joy. And that morning, after she fed the strays and whiffed her morning oil, she wound up in the back of Mrs. Fletcher's garage, barefoot and sweaty, digging through a row of cardboard boxes. The sides of all the boxes were broken with water damage, save for one: a small box labaled "STUFF" written in smudged black sharpie.
She opened the box slowly, and inside, found a stack of postcards from all over the world. There was one from Indonesia, one from Geneva, another from Arizona with a bristling cactus set against a clear blue sky. One from Niagara Fall, the cascading water somehow cooling in the heat. Another from a farm in Peru overrun with sunflowers, bright and yellow. All of the postcards were stamped and addressed to Mrs. Fletcher, Joan, but shown no other text. Just a single X from the sender.
The girl clutched the box of postcards in her frail arms and carried it back out into the street. The sun beat down on her, sending beads of sweat down her dirty face. She wiped them away and sat down on the cracked asphalt, placing the box right by her side. A helicopter soared high above her in the sky, searching for survivors, as they did every other day. The helicopters bored her. The first twenty or so times she saw them, she had jumped up and down for hours, waving her arms maniacally, in an exhausting attempt to be found. But after a while, she ignored them, and they ignored her.
So she sat on the asphalt, a box of mystery postcards by her side, postcards showing glimpses of another world, another time, life and leisure, ideas she'd relinquished after the earthquake, after the neighbors disappeared and her mother died and the strays showed up scavenging for remains. She lay down on the cracked street, ignoring the hovering helicopters high up in the sky, the smell of oil deep in her nose, the sharp hot asphalt pinching her skin, and closed her eyes.
And just as she began to fall asleep, a boy, no older than six, he must've been six, rode by on a bicycle with a bundle of sunflowers in his arms. He handed one out to the girl as she lay in the street, her blonde hair now soaked with oil. "Girasol," he said sweetly, and rode off without another word. Where had he come from, she wondered. And then he was gone. The girl held the sunflower above her against the sun. How funny, she thought, that a sunflower could grow in such decay. How funny.
After the earthquake, all the neighbors moved away, except her. She had nowhere to go. She'd wake up in the mornings, feed the strays with cornmeal she'd stolen from the looted market down on the corner, and rummage through the abandoned houses looking for treasures. Nothing of value, there was no one around to trade anything with or use as currency. She searched for sentiment, lost memories, forgotten emblems of joy. And that morning, after she fed the strays and whiffed her morning oil, she wound up in the back of Mrs. Fletcher's garage, barefoot and sweaty, digging through a row of cardboard boxes. The sides of all the boxes were broken with water damage, save for one: a small box labaled "STUFF" written in smudged black sharpie.
She opened the box slowly, and inside, found a stack of postcards from all over the world. There was one from Indonesia, one from Geneva, another from Arizona with a bristling cactus set against a clear blue sky. One from Niagara Fall, the cascading water somehow cooling in the heat. Another from a farm in Peru overrun with sunflowers, bright and yellow. All of the postcards were stamped and addressed to Mrs. Fletcher, Joan, but shown no other text. Just a single X from the sender.
So she sat on the asphalt, a box of mystery postcards by her side, postcards showing glimpses of another world, another time, life and leisure, ideas she'd relinquished after the earthquake, after the neighbors disappeared and her mother died and the strays showed up scavenging for remains. She lay down on the cracked street, ignoring the hovering helicopters high up in the sky, the smell of oil deep in her nose, the sharp hot asphalt pinching her skin, and closed her eyes.
And just as she began to fall asleep, a boy, no older than six, he must've been six, rode by on a bicycle with a bundle of sunflowers in his arms. He handed one out to the girl as she lay in the street, her blonde hair now soaked with oil. "Girasol," he said sweetly, and rode off without another word. Where had he come from, she wondered. And then he was gone. The girl held the sunflower above her against the sun. How funny, she thought, that a sunflower could grow in such decay. How funny.
July 9, 2015
I covered Lolipalooza 2 for What Youth a couple weeks ago. It was pretty wild and insane and I felt like I was at a carnival on drugs except I wasn't and the smell of popcorn and beer followed me everywhere and I got glitter all over everything I own.
Check out the full recap here.
Check out the full recap here.
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