#electric youth magazine

[younghollywood4ever]

Electric Youth magazine (Argentina) 2009 by Steven Klein

[qyuubu]

homicipher human au hcs part 2 (the other humans that live in town):

mr. machete

he’s a skater boy, see ya later boy. he navigates the streets pretty fast because he’s always on his board.

his machete takes the form of an electric guitar. he’s the personification of what boomers believe the ‘disturbed youth’ looks like.

he’s perpetually shirtless, if you don’t count the countless bandages and bandaids on his body as clothing. he gets nicked often. if not because of fights, because of skating.

he also wears a backwards baseball cap and tinted shades to look cool. if he’s not feeling it, he’ll wear a bandana to keep the hair out of his eyes. weirdly enough, the bandana also covers his eyes a bit. but even if you do get close enough to see his eyes, you get whopped by his guitar so quick that whatever you remember from his face just comes up as a blur.

all anyone remembers is his wicked smile. he always smiles. it’s a little disturbing, to be honest.

he’s a goddamn rebel. always making a mess of things and is just itching for an entertaining fight.

he’s notorious around town for ending up in gruesome squabbles, which he wins.

he hasn’t lost yet, not because he’s infallible, but bc he doesn’t fight if he knows he’ll lose. some people call it cowardly but if you live his lifestyle, it’s more about self preservation.

doesn’t care about the rumors surrounding the abandoned apartments and the monsters in it, but whatever is in there, he hopes is a good fighter.

he won’t go in. he minds his own business like that. but when the mc so happens to stumble into his territory at the skate park, all bets are off.

he’s throwing hands.

mr. hood

he’s the town’s community safety volunteer.

though, he opted to take the most difficult shift, which is night shifts. he’s especially active during the rain. he believes he isn’t really needed when the sun is out and the weather is well. but he’s eager to help when times are tough.

he’s always sporting a big hoodie that’s all brown and dirtied up for fetching cats in trees and finding lost items in the rainy night.

he also wears a face mask for safety, and googles to protect his eyes from the rain. no one knows what his face looks like. his entire body is armed with black protective gear so he can perform tasks safely, especially in dangerous weather.

when he sees a frantic girl wearing a white rain coat, clutching onto her clear umbrella and running in the slippery streets during a heavy rain, he insists on helping her out.

once he sees she is safe, he will promptly take his leave.

he has no idea who she is and why she was running, but what matters is that she’s safe. he will keep an eye on her though, just in case she needs his help during a rainy storm once more.

mr. gap

he’s a runaway. he lives in abandoned buildings is known around town as the unconventional beggar.

he asks for anything you have on hand: food, clothes, even your trash so he can sell it. people are initially scared of him, but he never takes anything without consent.

he may not be a thief but he is sort of a creep… while he doesn’t have a lot of ill intentions, he’s always just… staring.

if you catch his reflection, best believe his eyes will be staring right back at yours.

if you pass by his abandoned building, he’s probably looking at you through the sunken-in hole in the wall.

he’s helpful sometimes too! as long as you give him something in return. he does fulfill his promises. if you think about it, he’s kinda like an odd jobs establishment.

for entertainment, he looks through garbage and takes back the things he likes. maybe an old magazine or a broken trinket.

one day, he picks up a discarded paranormal magazine and reads up about the white coat wearing monster that murders all sorts of people in town.

he’s pretty intrigued! a few days later, he meets her as she walks by his abandoned building to get to hers.

he asks for the bloody hand she’s carrying in her plastic bag, in exchange for the information he found about her in that magazine.

part 1:

other homicipher human hcs:

[fiercynn]

let's talk about the palestinians in israeli prisons

content warning for discussion of police and military violence, torture, and murder of palestinians, including of children, though not in graphic detail

in just the past two weeks, israel’s genocidal ramp-up in violence and surveillance towards palestinian has led to the doubling of the population of palestinians incarcerated in israeli prisons. prior to october 7, 2023, there were approximately 5,200 palestinians incarcerated by israel; by october 21, that number had increased to over 10,000. around 4,000 are gazans who were working in israel with temporary labor permits, and another 1,070 are palestinians arrested in overnight army raids in the occupied west bank and east jerusalem.

imprisoned palestinians are being treated worse than ever; israeli forces and guards are assaulting them, starving them, preventing them from accessing healthcare, cutting off of their water and electricity, and prohibiting them from any contact from their families. the knesset (israeli parliament) even voted this past week to allow prisons to reduce the minimum living space allotted to each detainee because of the rising crush of prisoners, and to allow detainees to be imprisoned without a bed.

but this recent ramp-up in detention and increase in the dehumanization of palestinians should not overshadow the long history of oppression, torture, and murder of palestinians by israeli forces through the criminalization. for a good background and summary, rawan masri and fathi nemer’s piece imprisoning palestine: zionist colonialism through an abolitionist lens for scalawag magazine is an illuminating analysis of how israeli law, policing, and incarceration have worked together to advance zionist colonization of palestine and dispossess palestinians of their land, their rights, and their humanity.

as a result of this history, the following dynamics and outcomes have long existed in israeli policing and incarceration of palestinians:

prior to october 7, one in every five palestinians had been arrested and charged under israeli military occupation; that percentage has only gone up now. while the absolute numbers on incarceration are nowhere near a country like the u.s., the rates of incarceration for palestinians are massively higher even than those of black americans (which is not to downplay the latter; the rates of incarceration for black americans is also fucking ridiculous and horrifying.) for palestinian men, that incarceration rate was as high as 40%. the united nations estimates that approximately one million palestinians have been imprisoned since israel occupied the west bank and gaza in 1967, including tens of thousands of children.

the israeli criminal legal system is anti-black as well, particularly towards afro-palestinians, who are tireless in their fight for palestinian liberation. even black jewish people are impacted by carceral anti-blackness: 40% of minors in the israeli correction system are ethiopian israeli jewish people, although ethiopian israelis make up less than 2% of population. but the racism is even clearer for the tiny community of 350-400 afro-palestinians, who live in a neighborhood in jerusalem that is blockaded at both entrances by israeli police, where they are highly surveilled and face constant police harassment. the majority of their community has been arrested at one point or another, and those who are incarcerated, including youth, are subject to constant rearrests for flimsy reasons. for example, mohammed firawi, an afro-palestinian youth who had been arrested when he was in twelfth grade because he was accused of throwing stones at israeli police, was shuttled around nine israeli prisons before being released five years later. however, he was rearrested two days after his homecoming because he “defied Israeli orders to refrain from celebrating [his release].”

palestinians live under a different (and harsher) system of law than israelis – an inequality so profoundly unjust that it didn’t even exist in south africa’s apartheid system. in the occupied west bank, palestinians are tried under military law for the same crimes that israelis are tried under civilian law. teenagers and adults alike are tried in military courts, where simultaneous arabic interpretation is not provided, so palestinian defendants are only provided summaries at the end of proceedings that can leave out important details. virtually all military cases in the west bank end in convictions – 99.74%, to be exact.

the separate systems of law also mean that palestinians can be held without trial or even being charged. “administrative detention” allows the israeli military to hold prisoners indefinitely on secret information, and is applied almost exclusively to palestinians in the occupied west bank, east jerusalem, and gaza. prior to october 7, there were 1,264 administrative detainees out of the total 5,200 palestinian people incarcerated in israeli jails – almost 25%!

palestinian children detained by the israeli military are subject to physical and psychological torture. since the second intifada in 2000, more than 12,000 palestinian children have been detained by the israeli military, and between 500 and 1000 children are held every year. a save the children report from july 2023 found that 86% of palestinian children report being beaten in israeli military detention. 42% are injured at the point of arrest, and 69% report being strip-searched. they are often interrogated without the presence of a parent or lawyer, and potentially even in a language not understood to them. they are also charged according to their age at the time of sentencing instead of at the time of their alleged offense, allowing for higher charges simply because their trials take a long time.

palestinians are often murdered in prison by security forces, and the bodies of palestinians who die in detention can be kept by israeli forces for the remainder of their sentence. since 1967, approximately 237 palestinian detainees have reportedly been murdered with torture, medical negligence, or execution during arrest or an escape attempt. in late 2022 and early 2023, the united nations special rapporteur on the situation of human rights in the occupied palestinian territories learned that israeli authorities were holding 125 palestinian bodies, including 13 bodies of palestinians who had died in prison, “allegedly as they need to terminate the execution of the sentence”. the bodies of palestinians are even lost or visibly damaged by israeli authorities when they are returned to families.

palestinian prisoners often face exile to gaza even when they are released, regardless of where they were originally from. former prisoners are often separated from their families, who may have difficulty entering gaza, and who may also lose rights simply for being related to a former prisoner. for example, formerly incarcerated palestinian shuaib abu snina was exiled to gaza, and found that his wife and children in jerusalem were raided and arrested by israeli forces using him as as reason. shuaib was forced to divorce his wife because his eldest son was told that israeli forces “will not deal with your [family] as citizens with rights in jerusalem unless your father divorces your mother”.

but even in captivity, palestinians continue to resist and fight for their liberation. incarcerated palestinians engage in mass disobedience even when faced with beatings or solitary confinement from doing so. since at least the 1960s, palestinians have undergone mass and individual hunger strikes; on may 2, 2023, khader adnan, who was being held without trial in administration detention, was martyred after 80 days of hunger strike. incarcerated palestinians also support each other and have earned concessions through their protests, such as increased visitations, better conditions, access to books and political curriculum, and more – though many of these are clearly being violated by the current israeli acceleration in imprisonment.

as rawan masri and fathi nemer conclude for scalawag magazine:

Today, more than ever, it remains crucial to center any discussion about Palestinian liberation through the lens of abolition and a complete rejection of carcerality. In this context, Incarceration is not only related to prisons and prisoners, but touches upon every aspect of our life. From the moment of birth, Palestinians must contend with being criminalized for existing. We are surveilled and censored, our oppression normalized, and our bodies corralled into various open-air and closed prisons. Such tactics have always revealed more about the jailor than the prisoner, and the logics inherent to the carceral apparatus are shared between all oppressive forces. While the goal is to project strength and power, what it divulges instead is fear, insecurity, and self-doubt. Resorting to locking away the inconvenient reminders of a crooked system betrays its weakness, a society unable to function without constructed villains onto which the world's ills can be pinned. It is an attempt to cover the sun with a sieve. [x]

organizations to follow and support:

addameer prisoner support and human rights association

samidoun palestinian prisoner solidarity network

al-haq

adalah legal center for arab minority rights in israel

adalah justice project

[doomandgloomfromthetomb]

Joe Henderson Quintet -The Lighthouse, Hermosa Beach, California, June 1977

A recent New York Times profile revealed that the great drummer Jack DeJohnette has retired from the touring life �� at 83 years old, Jack has earned it. But retirement means he can dig into his archives, and Jack has struck gold almost immediately.

Hank Shteamer reports: The increased time at home has given DeJohnette time for reflection both musical and personal. Lydia [DeJohnette] and Joan Clancy, the DeJohnettes’ personal assistant, are currently cataloging and organizing his vast sonic archive, containing decades’ worth of unreleased recordings. One tape from this trove is a turbocharged 1966 live set from the storied East Village venue Slugs’ Saloon that features DeJohnette alongside the pianist McCoy Tyner, the saxophonist Joe Henderson and the bassist Henry Grimes. It will come out on Blue Note in November as “Forces of Nature,” a title chosen, he said, “because everybody’s being pulled and pushing each other to the umpteenth level, and it shows.”

Aw yeah, this is just what the doctor ordered ... check out a sample from the show. Great sound quality, phenomenal performance, impeccably Slugs-y vibes.

And then, enjoy a soundboard of Joe Henderson a little over a decade later all the way across the country in Hermosa Beach at another storied venue — The Lighthouse! I was just in Hermosa Beach over the summer and this club is still standing. On the marquee when I was passing by? Boys Of Summer: A Don Henley & Eagles Tribute. Oh baby. But hey, this tape of Joe is great, with the saxophonist's longtime associate George Cables on electric and acoustic piano; check out Joe and George blissfully trading lines on "'Round Midnight."

More bygone Hermosa Beach daze — my buddy Chris has been doing sterling work with his Rat Beach Rags t-shirts, reviving some classic (and long-shuttered) logos from our misbegotten youth: Alternative Groove, Scooter's Records and, most recently, Either-Or Bookstore, a Beat-era holdover that was right up the street from the Lighthouse. I spent endless hours at Either-Or back in the day, flipping through magazines, petting the cat, trying to act cool. Get your Either-Or shirt here.

[blondebrainpowered]

"PUNK is this thing that happened in the long ago before time when Elvis was scaring the shit out of white people for sounding like a black musician and shaking his pelvis, introducing sex into modern culture. Before Elvis it was the Dada movement. Before that, it was the anarchists in the 19th century, championing freedom and challenging capitalism. Jim Morrison was a punk for taking psychedelia to the dark side. The movies I've made are punk movies. This thing that's happening now, this youthful exuberance called punk rock, it's a return to 1950s juvenile street culture, a rebirth of the brevity and rebellion that was real rock n' roll. Everyone's wearing leather jackets again, like a bunch of greasers. Do punks carry switchblade knives or ride motorbikes too? [laughs] I like that it pushes against taboos again, and challenges rigidness! The outcasts, freaks, and monsters can find punk rock and they're not alone anymore. Me personally, I love watching the punks play live! The energy in the clubs is electric. But at home, I'm listening to opera and movie soundtracks. If punk begins to invade the mainstream, it won't be punk anymore … because it won't challenge anything. The straight world will never accept punk.“

Writer/Director, John Waters, SLASH magazine, Jan. 30th, 1979

[oceanlipgloss]

LIPSTICK

SATAN.

+ warnings: strong language, suggestive themes.

+ female mc, feminine pronouns.

It’s said to be an art, choosing the right shade of lipstick. Perhaps it is so!

Think about it this way, now; paint—the palette painters create, to be precise—it does not matter much once it is smeared across a canvas, for a canvas is normally white (like ghosts and lightning, leeched sugar and whipping cream), and there is not one colour, be it shade or hue, that such a white fails to suit, though it will not always look good. With lipstick, however, the matter differs.

Of course, a painter does very much choose the most proper canvas for their creation, but that is only in terms of material and dimension. Similarly, it’s probably important for a woman to not merely choose the prettiest colours for her lips, but also the greatest matches for the smooth skin of her interest, who in this case is not quite her lover yet, and may never really be.

Who could possibly know how destiny is painted? Whoever can guess which swatches shall make the future up?

Back to the subject: it is pivotal to decide on a lipstick’s colour for the...aesthetic, if you will. Sometimes, you must understand, the lovelier a sight is, the more sensual it becomes. Beauty, when the time is right and the person is, too, can be an exciting thing. A dangerously exciting thing.

That was not strange advice, she thought. There were times when those erotic magazines and adult films of hers made as equal sense as science. This was one of them.

Her lips had stamped each soft muscle. His body was a hued mess. It was as though one had given a curious child dissimilar paints and a chalk-white paper to print their imagination on with no regard for the basics of art. A child would not know about those rules. At the same time, she was not an artist in the traditional meaning of that shimmering word, so she did not know anything about art’s foundations, either. Yet, she did know how to make the colourful garble on this man’s figure look like art, if only by rubbing her wine-red lips against the peach stain of a kiss to blend the two colours together. What would the result look like?

She could be impatient and quick-paced, in the hot moments often forgetting the artistic aspects and details, vivid with flowing rage, but she was still that sort of artist.

How surprising that she could even manage to know what to do next, at the minute!

The Devil was dreamily handsome. Lipstick gemmed the corner of his lips. His eyes were the colour of strawberries or hearts. His pale skin and purple veins were smudged with a range of popping colours. Some were matte, others glittered. Red Delicious. Tangy Tangerine. Raspberry Dream. Glam Brown. Burgundy Velvet. Electric Violet. Black Decay.

Her favourite? It had to be the last one. Black Decay. Pale skin, dark lipstick. The contrast! The impact! It looked stunning. And goodness, it made it seem like his wet horns had somehow melted at the red tips, mixed into the Red Delicious kisses, and dripped blackly onto his tense muscles. It was so cool.

Standing in front of mirrors again. Playing with fire is fun. Fun is never-ending. Beauty doesn’t last forever. Souls don’t necessarily go to Hell or Heaven. Humans are bound to die. Some people never find a haven. But this man, this man was the Devil. That changed everything; looks are forever, youth is eternal, the heart beats for ever and ever. So, what the fuck is death? What does time mean, then?

Immortality gives time a different flavour, kind of like how certain lipsticks taste nothing alike: one is ‘cherry,’ the second is ‘candy,’ and the third is something else entirely. Maybe ‘chocolate’? Who knows.

Anyways, it’s all very addictive. Being young. The electric sparks of attraction. Admiring a beautiful face. Worshipping a sculpted body. Burning in the fires of desire. Bloody rage.

It can be very pretty, put together in one painterly picture: a horned devil, a beautiful young king, dotted all over with the kisses of a human on her knees before him. The throb of bruises, the pulse of scratches, they aroused him. Because her anger tasted like it spread out from the purest depths of Hell. It was what a dream would taste like, feel like, be. It was what a dream would be.

His eyes were glowing a frantic red, a red redder than those hell flames from fiction’s silly little tales. The petrine crosses, they were like ink on a heart. That rage inside her, it was heroin and honey in his veins. He could not have enough of it. He wanted more. Double the dose. It boiled his blood and made his heartbeats insane!

Fuck, oh, fuck. The kisses weren’t cutting it. The pretty marks on his skin wasn’t cutting it. The colours weren’t cutting it. He wanted her breakable fingers to push his flesh in, turn him purple and blue, make him bruise. He wanted those dainty nails to dig into his skin, carve into it tiny bloody crescent moons. He wanted that delicate palm to scar his face, let it sting like a crimson wound.

It will, it will, it will, it will.

He could be a freak like that, but so what? He was sweet, too. She wasn’t sweet, but she could be his match. She was. So often their hearts and bodies played on the same frequencies. Down for a helping hand. Down for murder. Down for anger. Down for roughness. Down for Hell. Down for sex.

So, you see, ladies and gentlemen, the right colour of lipstick may very well do wonders.  

+ MASTERLIST

+ AO3 POST

©𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙨

[tasteoftaboo]

Candy Chaos: Jennx & Assfairy

Free for all set: https://www.patreon.com/posts/candy-chaos-119779222?utm_medium=clipboard_copy&utm_source=copyLink&utm_campaign=postshare_creator&utm_content=join_link

In this evocative series featuring Jennx and Assfairy, the urban staircase transforms into a theater of youthful rebellion and bold self-expression. Their pastel hues, iridescent textures, and playful gestures form a stark contrast against the gritty, graffiti-marked architecture. This interplay of softness and sharpness mirrors the duality of their personas—both unapologetically tender and fiercely assertive.

The camera captures a dynamic energy, where movement and stillness collide. Jennx exudes a cool defiance, her poses sharp and commanding, while Assfairy embodies a mischievous charisma, her playful confidence radiating through every frame. Together, they create a chemistry that feels electric, embodying a modern femininity that is equal parts whimsical and subversive.

Every detail tells a story: the platform shoes that speak of empowerment, the glint of metallic harnesses that symbolize unrestrained individuality, and the fishnet tights—a nod to punk rebellion. These symbols, combined with their vivid presence, reimagine the cityscape as a space of celebration and transformation.

This shoot is a manifesto of freedom, where femininity is redefined and amplified. Jennx and Assfairy stand as muses of authenticity, their laughter and cheeky gestures challenging the conventions of elegance and rebellion alike.

The full series is now live in the online magazine—a collection that invites you to revel in the art of unfiltered self-expression and embrace the power of playful defiance.

[takenoprizners]

December 29, 1944, Waynesboro, Mississippi: 19-year-old AWOL US Navy sailors Joseph Leemon and Murice Shimniok (frequently misspelled as Maurice) were electrocuted in Mississippi's portable electric chair in completion of death sentences for the murder of former county sheriff Tom Boykin thirteen months earlier. It was the practice in Mississippi to execute condemned prisoners in the same courthouse where they had been convicted. Wayne County jail authorities granted a request from the two youths to prepare each other for the electric chair. Life Magazine was granted access to the jail and permitted to photograph the final hours of the two friends. The macabre photo essay appeared in the January 29, 1945 issue of Life. (Mississippi newspapers, especially The Meridian Star, also covered the executions extensively, without photographs.) Leemon was the first of the two to die. Shimniok was taken to the chair a short time afterward. According to the report in The Meridian Star, as he entered the courtroom where he would be executed, Shimniok asked a guard "How did Joe go?" to which the officer replied "Like a man." The executioner for both men was H. W. Watson.

The parents of both young men had traveled to Waynesboro from Wisconsin and Alabama to claim the bodies of their sons. They had acquired coffins for transport of remains back to their hometowns. The parents discovered initially that their sons had been placed in the wrong caskets. The confusion was resolved after the corpses were switched. Murice Shimniok is buried in Minona, Wisconsin. Joseph Leemon's grave is in Bamford, Alabama.

Watt Espy, Jr., was a tireless researcher and compiler of data on executions in the US. His archive is still an important resource and is included in the National Death Penalty Archive. As was his custom, prior to his eventual use of digital media, Espy recorded the Leemon-Shimniok executions on note cards (Case No. B20_MS).

Mississippi utilized the traveling electric chair between 1940 and 1954, moving the device from county to county for local electrocutions in the place where the death sentence had been issued. A group of schoolboys poses here together with the death chair and executioner Jimmy Thompson, on the left. (Thompson was not the executioner for Joseph Leemon and Murice Shimniok.) The state discontinued its use of the mobile electric chair in 1954, when a gas chamber became operational in the Mississippi State Penitentiary at Parchman.

[onyxrosess]

Pain is My Hometown

vergil x reader [multi-part series]

Chapter II: Black Tears Don't Hide in the Rain

Chapter I | Chapter II [you're here!] | Chapter III | Chapter IV | Table of Contents

・warnings/tags: mentions and depictions of rape and related trauma.

( cross posted on ao3 )

The morning light bled through the sheer curtains of the windows, illuminating the dust particles flying about in the air. Waking up wasn’t bad until it felt like someone just hit you with a frying pan. Oh god you were so hung over, you bolted for the garbage can by the back door, abandoning the worn-out blanket that was draped over you. Whatever was in your stomach came out in an unpleasant flurry, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand you quickly pulled the garbage can bag out of the plastic container and tied it. Disposing it was the least you could do since you were taking over Dante's shop, well house at this point. You shamefully walked over to the couch you were asleep on just a couple of minutes ago, slumping over with your forehead in your hands. 

“Look who's the party animal now.” Dante commented as he walked down the stairs, “Oh shut up will you.” You didn’t move your hands, the darkness of your palms helped soothe your pounding head, at least a tiny. “I wonder if how you acted last night was how you acted in your youth.” Dante pondered as he reached the bottom of the stairs, circling around to behind his desk. “My youth? I’m 35 Dante, I’m still in my youth.” You defended yourself, even though you knew he was right. “You are 45 Dante, if you were a normal person you’d be complaining about your knees like an elderly man.”   “You’d be complaining more if you went home with that man last night.” Dante sat his feet up on his desk- right, Kane. …Kane. What the hell did you even do with him? What didn’t you do with him? Only one thing was certain, you did not go home with him. Your face threatened to heat up. “Dante- I swear to god-“ “You two were really going at it, like rabid animals.” “He was no animal Dante, he was gentle, you’re the animal. The one with magazines with tits on the front cover.”  Dante held his hands up in defeat, “You don’t know if he doesn’t have the same magazines, (Name).” He held one of those magazines in his hand, mindlessly flipping the thin pages of shiny paper. “You are just as insufferable as I remember- wouldn’t of hell or something knock you down a couple of pegs?” You complained, crossing your arms over your chest. The underworld probably made it worse, since he made it out. “Same ol’ Dante.” He just replied nonchalantly, cocky little shit. “I could still take you down- when I’m not hung over.” You stopped that train of conversation before he egged you on to fight him. He let out a laugh, “Yeah when you’re not hungover then.” His words bordered the line of a promise. 

A wave of newfound exhaustion swept over you again. Even though you slept like a rock you were still very tired and a little sore, probably from the couch you slept on. You looked over at Dante who was seemingly fully immersed in his magazine and, to your surprise, got up abruptly. Tossing the paper on the desk with another pile of papers next to it. Retrieving his coat from the arm of the couch next to you.  “Where are you headed?” You asked, standing up yourself, you should probably get going anyway, it's not like you were gonna be here all day.  “Me and Verge got a job from Morrison, big bucks, and I’d like to keep the electricity going.” Dante’s head turned towards the wooden doors. “Vergil?” You knew of Dante’s brother, but very very little. He's never really mentioned him. Dante nodded, the heavy doors of the shop opened, and Vergil— or who you assumed— stood next to the doorway.  “I guess you two have never met.” Vergil took a few strides closer to you and Dante. “(Name), this is my idiot brother Vergil. Vergil, this is (Name).” He familiarized the two of you with your respective names. It was a little awkward when Vergil didn’t say anything, not a hand reaching outward for a handshake, absolutely nothing. Let alone he had no verbal response to Dante’s jab, just a quick glance at Dante then back to you.  “Hello, I uh, nice to meet you.” Your sentence ended with a mysterious question mark like it should be a question. “You as well.” His tone was, not very friendly. You suppose Dante stole all the people skills in the genetics of the siblings. “Lady and Trish said they’d want to meet up with you sometime this week too.” Dante addressed you, “I dunno why they’re communicating through me but whatever.”  You confirmed with an ‘okay’ as the two walked towards the door, Vergil taking the lead. “Lock the back when you leave!” Dante yelled back at you, walking out the front. Dante never locks the doors, why the hell is he asking you to?

Making the decision to just head back to Fortuna for the day instead of staying in Red Grave, you come here enough regardless of the almost hour-long drive. Mounting your bike, the crisp air bit at your skin, you should’ve brought a jacket last night. Slipping your helmet over your head, and closing the visor, you peeled off into the street. The drive was quiet, it was well into the morning, though the streets weren’t nearly as busy. Driving over the massive bridge that connected Fontuna and Red Grave, the water separating the land masses was calm, not without the small waves crashing onto the shore, but regardless, fairly calm. The drive over the bridge had gotten better over the years, though sometimes it reminds you of when Dante took you home after… thinking about it is just picking open the scab that was barely healed. 

Your hands clung to Dante’s red leather coat, sitting on the back of his motorcycle, not a word spoken between the two of you since you had departed from the DMC shop. The night at the bar and especially the night after would come back quickly, a lurking shadow in a dense forest. The night was still a blur due to your drink being laced, the only moments you had recalled were the alley and the apartment he had drug you to. Maybe it was for the better than you did not remember what he had done to you. What he had done to your body. Was it just him? Did he bring his friends over? A pack of wolves over an injured lamb, dark eyes with a sinister expression. 

The following shard of memory was a gunshot, from who? What was happening? Your body was in shambles, every muscle was screaming in agony. A tall figure had approached you, where you lay, you couldn’t move, everything in your body was telling you to run. You could only see the outline of the man, from the darkness of the room. A long weathered coat draped over your naked body. The coat was red, like Dantes. The man swept his arms underneath your body, lifting you up and carrying you. Yet not by the same hands that had a bruising grip on your wrist, not the same hands that were the culprit. Not the same hands that touched you. You smelt him, it smelt like Dante. Your vision briefly allowed you to see his face, white hair, Dante. Tears streamed down your face, in the moment no words came out of your mouth. Only broken sobs with your coarse, dry voice. Your perception of time was far off, was it the same night? Had it been days? Had it been weeks? Your vision was blurry once again, and once it started to come back, out the window the sky was a deep dark blue. Droplets of water raced down the glass. Your eyes followed a red stain that splattered on the windowsill of the glass you were staring out of. The trail leads to a man, that face. The hands that had raped you.

It didn’t happen often that the memory had come back so strongly, though it had been so many years that you could barely muster up a tear to shed. Regardless if you cried over it, screamed, or killed the man, it would still hurt the same. You will never get rid of the feeling of being completely out of your control and used. You had reached the end of the bridge, into Fortuna. Shaking your head, trying to be rid of the memory that plagued your mind. Pulling into the driveway of Kyrie and Nero’s home, Nico was in the garage, muddling with some random piece of junk. Though you didn’t completely understand her way of doing things, especially mechanically, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. Your bike's engine roared as you pulled up, Nico turning around, her initial expression being, ‘Who the fuck is revving their engine down the street?’ Her face quickly morphed into a wide smile. “Look who's back!” Nico exclaimed, setting down her tools. Her shirt was covered in grease, and her hands were just as covered. You parked your bike in the empty spot in the garage, taking off your helmet. “You were gone for the night, who was the lucky contestant.” Nico’s accent rang thick through her words. You let out a breathy chuckle, “No one, I got too drunk.” You were about to mention Kane to Nico, but– “I told you Dante is awful to go out with!” Nico’s voice bounced off the walls of the garage. “I did meet someone though, he was very sweet. He was the one who made me go home.” Once again Nico’s expression quickly changed after hearing you. “Oh for the love of god, please tell me you gave him your number– or something!” Nico looked at you, expectantly.  “I gave him my number, well the house phone since I’m here most of the time.” You two stayed in the garage as she quizzed you about Kane, so many questions, and most of them you can’t remember because the night was still fuzzy in your head. You walked into the kitchen to grab a glass of water when Kyrie greeted you, “How did it go?” She asked, bearing a sweet smile on her face. “It went well–” “Oh it went more than well according to what I heard–” “Nico!” You had been slightly embarrassed since neither of them had heard about your romantic pursuits, mainly because there was barely any, to begin with. The last time was when Dante had to tell them about the man who drugged you. Not the most pleasant conversation between Nero and his uncle, that his friend, essentially big sister, had been raped. Shoving away the memory once again, firmly telling it to buzz off. 

Kyrie prepared dinner for all of you, in her little selfless way, she refused your help. You couldn’t argue with her– you technically could– but the results would not change. After you all ate dinner, you finally convinced her to let you help with the dishes. Your hands scrubbed over the cutlery and plates with a soapy sponge, rinsing them, and setting them upright in the drying rack next to the sink. Nero came into the kitchen, passing by Kyrie, giving her a quick peck on the cheek before rummaging through the fridge. Kyrie left the kitchen with a slight color on her cheeks. How adorable and domestic.  Recounting your day as you idly washed dishes, you remembered Vergil. You hadn’t heard much of him since Nero called Kyrie after everything that happened in Red Grave and the Qliphoth. You knew next to nothing, and you didn’t press the issue, making sure Nero was okay and safe was about the only thing you and Kyrie had cared about then. “Right, Nero.” You turned your head to him kneeling in front of the open fridge. “I met Vergil today, he’s a delight .” Your voice rang with sarcasm, Nero stood up and looked at you, closing the fridge door. He wore this odd look, almost confusion. “Dante’s brother, right?” You tried to get him on the right train of thought. “Yeah yeah, I uhm, forgot I never really told you what happened.” Your hands slowed, it had been two years since then, what does he mean ‘he forgot’? Your eyebrows furrowed together, not speaking, but concerned.  “He’s my dad.” Nero stood next to the fridge, with a look of guilt, that’s what his expression was. Growing up together and yet, you thought you two were close. You were both orphans, sure you knew your parents, but they were both dead now. It’s not like you could call up your mommy when you get hurt. “Excuse me?” You didn’t know what to say, and in some way, you wished you misheard him. But he repeated it. When Nero and yourself were still living in the orphanage, he’d call you big sissy, he always managed to mispronounce your name, so you had resumed the title of ‘big sissy’. One night in the orphanage, you tried to get Nero to fall asleep after another child at the orphanage was picking on him particularly rough that day. That's when he hit you with the question, “Where's mommy?” Between his broken sobs, your 15-year-old self had no idea how to explain to him that he didn’t have a mother or a father. That he was all alone in this world, this cruel, heartless world. The same world that ripped him away from the one thing he deserved in his life, his parents. But you suppose, it’s not guaranteed. You barely remember how the following conversation went.

“Did he even tell you anything? Where the fuck has he been?” You really had no words, except the feeling of rage rising up into your throat. The same anger when your father selfishly claimed you after abandoning you and your mother. After years of your mom struggling to make it, struggling with her addiction, you could do nothing to help. “It’s kind of difficult to explain–” “Like hell it is!” You dropped the plate that was in your hand back into the sink. “He brought you into this god-forsaken world, it was his responsibility!” Anger had now clouded your judgment, feeling ever so guilty that you could not help Nero when he was young, you could not give him the fatherly advice when he aged. Or the motherly embrace that he deserved in those moments of hardship. “It wasn’t his choice!” Nero yelled back at you, it wasn’t his choice? Are you kidding me, Nero? “Where is your mother then, did Vergil explain that to you? Did he ever apologize for anything he did? Regardless if it wasn’t ‘his choice ” Nero held his breath, his eyes avoided you. You could feel your heartbeat nearly jump out of your chest, your mind was racing. How dare this man leave his own son helpless, his own flesh and blood. Before Kyrie’s family adopted the two of you, Nero had clung to you and came crying to you when the other little boys picked on him. And how awful it was to watch his little face scrunch up and grow red, dripping with salty tears. And all you could do was hug him in the moment, as you knew nothing other. 

Both of you stood in the kitchen, you dried your hands off on a towel. You tried to calm yourself, getting worked up won’t fix this. Nero had stayed silent, but not leaving either.  “Nero…” You paused, walking up to him. “I know things are different, and some of the things that have happened to you I could never imagine. I just…” Your sentence trailed off, “Listen, (Name). I don’t know much either, and my father– Vergil never said anything about my mother. But does any of it matter? It’s not like she would feel like my mother. Vergil sure doesn’t feel like my father either.” Nero squeezed your upper arm. “You, Kyrie, and the kids are the only family I’ve known. And you guys aren’t going anywhere.” Looking at Nero’s face, he’s grown up so much, and though you barely remember your teenage years, you still remember Nero’s heartwarming personality as a kid. Though he grew out of it when he became a teenager, it’s still buried underneath there. Kyrie sure knows. Your perception of Vergil is still skewed, knowing what you know now. Not just Dante’s brother, but Nero’s father. Yes, you are close to Dante and indebted to him for life, but Nero has been a constant since your father left. And theres still so many unanswered questions, but for the moment pressing them would not be ideal. Nero didn’t say anything as he left out the garage door. You leaned your weight against the counter, covering your face with your hands. 

Everything you know about Dante makes you want to think Vergil is the same, maybe he has a heart of gold buried down. They are brothers after all, but they act so differently. Mannerisms aren’t in genetics but something just doesn’t sit right. Something makes you believe that if Dante was in that situation he would at least do something. He’s been sending Grue’s kids money all these years, and theres barely anything he did wrong. Standing in the kitchen with the idle noise of Kyrie playing with the kids, muffled by the screen door. Nero deserved better, not just another orphaned kid, not someone else's parents. A sneer built up on your face as your thoughts drifted towards your father, damn whoever put that man on this earth just to give him no heart.

Thank you for reading as always! -onyxroses

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[shinyhappysims]

Hello and happy Harvest fest! All of my children and grandchildren came in. We had a pot luck so everyone bought a different dish! I also invited my parents to come over.

Lucy got a new camera and wanted to take some pictures of all the family. She got some great shots!

(l to r) Aaliyah (24), Jamilah (14), Khalil (7), Isioma (49), Anwar (51), Rahim (19), Malik (22), Layla (19), Imani (26)

28 years of marriage, 7 children and 6 grandchildren—I’m so grateful to God for this beautiful life of mine!

My oldest Imani and her husband Raphaël (27) just welcomed their first children, twin girls Manon and Mireille (0). Their home is in Windenburg but they tour all across Simerica with their music ministry. They’re already excited for the girls and other future children to learn violin so they can make a small family orchestra!

Aaliyah and Colby (23) have been married for 4 years and have 3 kids: Aaron (3), Bethany (1), and Christian (0). Colby is still a youth pastor at my brother’s church in Brindleton Bay.

Malik and his wife Lucy (22) are both enjoying life together in Willow Creek. The two of them are extremely business savvy. Malik left the plumbing company he used to work at and opened his own and also offers electrical services. Lucy has expanded her photography business from just weddings to artistic photo shoots as well. She recently got an opportunity to do a shoot for a home décor magazine!

Layla is back home for the holidays with her new beau Asher (19). They haven’t been dating for very long but it’s obvious that they care deeply about each other. Asher is a fine young man; he’s studying education, a member of the debate team and the vice president of his fraternity! He’s just as much of a high achieving student as our girl! Speaking of which, Layla is one of the top students at Foxbury and has a perfect 4.0 GPA. I’m so proud of her!

Layla’s twin Rahim (19) lives in Copperdale with his wife Rina (19) and their daughter Rose (2). Rahim attends veterinary school and Rina is studying to be a paralegal online. Having Rose derailed a lot of plans for Rina but I admire her for getting back on her feet and having a backup plan in place.

Lucy also got this shot of my beautiful parents. Everyday they continue to be with us is such a blessing. They are 87 and 83 now, so I’m not taking this time with them for granted.

Harvestfest was a huge success! Little Khalil was a huge help after dinner! And I didn’t even have to ask him!

Yours, Isioma <3

[miffy-junot]

Felix Yusupov on his imprisonment in Crimea under the German army, and the news of the murder of the Romanovs

We awoke to be told that the Germans had arrived. This was a solution of our difficulties that no one had foreseen.

It was then April and a few days before Easter. On March 8, the Soviet government had signed the peace of Brest-Litovsk, and the Germans had begun occupying certain parts of Russia. They liked to pose as liberators to an over-credulous population who were exhausted by trials and privations and only too happy to welcome them as such. It was, in fact, their arrival that saved the lives of the prisoners of Dulber. The general rejoicings over their sudden and unexpected release can well be imagined. The German officer wanted to hang Zadorozhny and his men. He was thunderstruck when the Grand Dukes begged him not to dream of such a thing. On the contrary, they asked him to leave Ai-Todor under the protection of their late jailers. The German finally consented, on condition that he was relieved of all responsibility should anything go wrong. It was quite clear that he was convinced that their prolonged detention had driven the poor Grand Dukes mad. A few days later, after touching farewells, the jailers and their prisoners parted. The younger ones cried and kissed the hands of their former captives!

In May, one of the Kaiser's aides-de-camp arrived in Yalta. He brought with him an offer from his Imperial master to proclaim Tsar of all the Russias any member of the Imperial family who would consent to countersign the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk. All the Romanovs present rejected the proposal with indignation. The Kaiser's envoy then asked my father-in-law to arrange a meeting with me. The Grand Duke refused, saying that no member of his family would ever turn traitor. After their release, the prisoners remained for some time at Dulber; then the Empress went to live at Harax, an estate belonging to the Grand Duke Georgy, one of my father-in-law's brothers, and the rest returned to their homes.

As time went by, things became more or less normal. The relief felt by the older generation was tinged with a certain uneasiness, but the young people gave themselves up to the joy and excitement of being alive and free. Life became a round of pleasures: picnics, tennis parties, outings of all kinds. We found a new distraction in the founding of a weekly magazine. A friend of ours, Olga Vasiliev, a charming and intelligent girl, was editor. We used to meet at Koreiz every Sunday evening. After the latest news, Olga would read aloud the articles that each of her sixteen correspondents had written during the week on a subject left to their own choice. This was usually either some fabulous adventure, or an imaginary journey to some distant land, which was rather touching when one thinks how uncertain was the future of the youthful authors. The meetings began and ended with a hymn to the glory of the newspaper, which we sang in chorus. As the electric current was cut off at midnight, these evenings generally ended in candlelight. The interest which our parents took in our magazine and the amusement they derived from it did not prevent their feeling a trifle uneasy, for they knew that, in such troubled times, the most innocent pastimes were dangerous. Our periodical had a short life. It appeared only thirteen times; then all the members of the staff, one after the other, were laid low with Spanish flu. When, later on, we were obliged to fly for our lives and had to reduce our luggage to a minimum, the first thing that my wife packed was the gazette.

The Grand Duke Alexander had given his daughter a grove of pine trees, perched on a cliff above the sea, an enchanting spot. In 1915, we had built a little country house there; it was whitewashed inside and out, and had a green-tiled roof. As it was on a slope it was all lopsided, and its greatest charm lay in its complete lack of symmetry. A carpet of flowers stretched before the front door. A few steps led down from the entrance to a gallery overlooking the hall, which gave onto a terrace with a fountain in the center. Through another door one reached the swimming pool, which was surrounded by a pergola smothered in roses and wisteria, as was the house. As the cottage was all on different levels, it lent itself to a profusion of funny little staircases, unexpected corners, landings and balconies. The furniture was of oak with chintz cushions, and was somewhat like old English country furniture; there were rush mats on the floor instead of carpets. We were, alas, never able to live in the place, but during the comparatively happy days of the summer of 1918 we sometimes had picnics there. Food was scarce and the guests had to bring their own, but there was plenty of wine as everyone in the Crimea owned vineyards. There was also no lack of gaiety, for the young are ever ready to forget the trials of the day and look forward with eagerness to the future, however threatening it may be.

It was the day before one of these picnics that we heard that the Tsar and his family had been assassinated. But there were so many wild rumors afloat at the time that nobody believed them any longer, and the party was not even canceled. The news was denied a few days later, and a letter was published purporting to have been written by the officer who had saved their lives. Soon, alas, it was no longer possible to doubt the terrible truth. But even then the [Dowager] Empress Maria refused to believe it, and to her dying day treasured the hope of seeing her son again.

source: Lost Splendour by Felix Yusupov, chapter 26

[younghollywood4ever]

May 6, 2004: Armani Exchange and Nylon Magazine Electric Youth Issue Launch at El Centro in Hollywood

[thekingofgear]

Jonny recording in the Control Room at Abbey Road Studio 2

Earlier today, The Smile shared this photo of Jonny by Sam Petts-Davies on their official social media. Jonny is seen with his late-70s natural finish Gibson Les Paul Standard, a guitar he's used extensively for work outside of Radiohead.

The photo is quite similar to two others taken by Sam in the same room, as we've discussed previously. However, this one differs because it shows a few pedals. From right-to-left, we see the following:

Death by Audio Interstellar Overdriver

Boss DD-200 delay

Electro-Harmonix Stereo Electric Mistress XO flanger

The Interstellar Overdrive is a favorite of Thom's, and he even had two on his board at one point (one for guitar and another for bass). But this is the first time we've seen Jonny using one.

It's also the first time we've seen Jonny using an EHX Stereo Electric Mistress. Aside from a brief dalliance with a big-box EHX Polychorus (which he used more as a chorus) in the mid-2000s, Jonny has generally avoided flanger pedals through his career. Perhaps he's wanted to avoid sounding too much like John McGeoch (Magazine, Siouxsie and the Banshees), perhaps the guitarist who most influenced Jonny during his youth. According to Johnny Marr, "[McGeoch's] intention was to be modern and you hear that in the very deliberate choice of using the flanger on everything” (The Guardian).

But more recently, Jonny has been using an EarthQuaker Devices Pyramids flanger on performances of Read The Room. That's almost certainly the reason the song was briefly called It/Flangers. So it's very possible that this photo was taken during overdubs for Read The Room, with Jonny experimenting with new flanger pedals. The two pedals that are plugged in (Interstellar Overdriver and DD-200) certainly seem right for the track. There are several guitar overdubs, as we mentioned in our full analysis of the track, so it's easily to imagine the pedals being used for at least some of them.

Given that the Electric Mistress isn't plugged in, one can only guess whether it was used on the final recording. Perhaps Jonny opted to let Sam add studio (maybe tape) flanging to the finished recording. It's slower than tracking with the flanger added, but it's also safer since it allows Sam to lessen or remove the effect during mixing.

[oldcountrybear1955]

Electric Youth Magazine SS 2014 - Bobby Rake photographed by Steven Klein

[is-she-suffering]

8 April 2000 -Telegraph Magazine

Disturbed and disturbing, Katie Jane Garside fronted the band Daisy Chainsaw, prophesied the end of the world - and then disappeared. Seven years later she’s back, ready to shock again.

QUEEN ADREENA were on stage for only half an hour or so. The audience at London’s Hammersmith Palais had come to see Bush and the collected youths did not know what to make of this support act. It’s lead singer, Katie Jane Garside, is thin, provocative and confrontational. She has uncut Miss Havisham hair and wears pervy Victorian underwear. Twisting and squirming in the dark, often screaming, often prostrate, often turning her back to the audience, she is a performance artist rather than some chart-lipsticked Everywoman. Sexual in a very weird way, she looks as if she is lap-dancing in a gas-chamber. The blokes stare in disbelief. They shuffle about. Then, as the mike goes between her legs, they jump up and down.

Backstage afterwards the band squash into one of those huddles of Marlboro Lights and flushed analysis. There is a sign saying that CCTV is in operation and anyone taking drugs will be handed over to the police immediately. Orson, the bass guitarist, is wearing a long burgundy evening dress and complaining that his shoulder hurts because he fell off his horse. In Surrey. Very rock'n'roll. An individual wearing a jacket which looks as if it was made out of Wombles turns out to be Katie Jane’s boyfriend. She points to a huge man wearing black lipstick.

“That’s Billy Freedom,” she says. “He’s one of the weirdest people I have ever met.”

The lead guitarist, Crispin Gray, turns up. All eye-shadowed and Glam, Gray is from Islington and both his parents were West End actors. He understands theatre and has worn make-up for years, though not so much when he was signing on because he couldn’t face the hassle in the dole office.

“Quite a lot of girls seem to be attracted to the band and I’m sure it is because of Katie rather than me,” he says modestly. “Most guitar bands are still fronted by tough rock chicks trying to beat men at their own game, but Katie is not trying to be tough and I think girls like that.”

Katie Jane, ripped stocking, long lace bloomers, shoes that she has dyed herself, drinks quite a lot of red wine from the bottle and agrees that yes, she has come a long way since the days that she drilled babies’ heads

She used to shave her head. In 1992 she went around as Daisy Chainsaw, a short-lived, explosive act distinguished by the dramatic theatre of self-battery. In seizure to a megaphonic fuzz of electric guitar, she sang I Feel Insane and other loud angry songs coloured by dervish dancing and props - a doll, red paint, stained wedding dresses, wigs and dead flowers.

Those who went to see her perform in Deptford pubs described a grimy child-woman convulsing to ‘grandcore punk riffs’, and quoted scenes of fury. “I hit Crispin and he beats the shit out of me,” she said at the time. “Once he smashed me against a wall and I played a gig with blood running down my face.”

Daisy Chainsaw were managed by an ex-punk named Jason and they did pretty much as they pleased, turning down Glastonbury, Top of the Pops and advances from Madonna’s label, Maverick. “I think Katie is psychotic,” the bassist once said. “She lives through her emotions rather than her brain.”

She was accused of manufacturing her madness in order to merchandise pain, a useful pop trick subsequently deployed by Alanis Morissette et al. But Alanis is acceptable: she likes lipstick, takes a bath and conforms to the dreadful truth that a haircut can make you happy. Katie Jane is more unfathomable than this; she has no labels.

Pressed to explain herself she came up with a range of disparate theories founded on a basic witchy eccentricity that deviated into an offbeat belief system. She took on everything from white magic to David Icke, the former spokesman of the Green Party who announced that he was the Son of God.

“People can laugh,” she said at the time. “But I always realised the insignificance of role-playing and he gave me the courage to stand up for my convictions.”

In essence, she wanted to break down conditioning and communicate some of the terror and disillusion that we all feel. She enacted ugly sadness. Most of all, though, she was a fatalist. She did not think about where she would be when she was 30 because, she said in 1992, the world was due to end in 1998.

Daisy Chainsaw were not commercial and in 1993 they split up. The world did not end and now Katie is 30. She went away for five years, had a nervous breakdown, and now she’s back.

“I had worked really hard for a long time and given too much away. When I look back, Daisy Chainsaw represented a bottleneck of desperation and that is why it came out in such violence.”

The climate is different now. In 1992 the queens of the scene were L7, Babes in Toyland and Courtney Love’s Hole. They were linked by defiant unprettiness, crashing guitars and a Riot Grrrl wildness. But the backdrop was middle-class. Some of them had been high-school cheerleaders; Courtney Love arrived from suburban America.

The contradictions between the rockstar on stage and the real person who created the image caused insoluble tension, and one which arguably destroyed this genre. L7 disappeared; Hole simply sold out. There are no wild women now. No one dares to be odd or to flout the diktats of traditional beauty because they know it won’t get them on magazine covers. That is why Katie Jane is important. She is difficult to manipulate and difficult to package and thus encourages healthy deviance from the universal definitions of 'normality’.

In 1992, Katie Jane signed on, drove her 'patchwork’ Mini on a ley line from Cornwall to Norfolk, recorded the wind on DAT, mucked about with a musician from Test Department (a cutting-edge industrial band), stayed in a haunted house, did some group therapy, had visions, nearly went mad, but avoided prescription drugs.

“The doctor told me that, emotionally, some people have a football pitch and some people have a rocky landscape. I chose to stay with the rocky landscape. It was what I was born with.”

You have to trust nature, she believes. “I don’t think psychotherapy works. It simply creates a new set of crutches.”

She laughs and tells a story about the afternoon she was sitting in the hollow of a tree and all these blue tits flew around her in a huge flock. Very strange things have always happened to her. “I do hear voices,” she admits. “But it’s not a regular thing.”

Her life is full of entities and strange synchronicity. There is a Zulu warrior that watches out for her - “I have seen his face,” she says. She could be psychic or she could simply be someone who looks at a lot of different ideas, feels everything and understands empathy.

One day, a year or so ago, she was walking down a street in Belsize Park and ran into Crispin Gray. They had not seen or spoken to each other since the Daisy Chainsaw days. He had tried to run the band without her and it had not worked. They needed a singer. “It did not end properly,” he says. “And I knew it wasn’t over.”

Katie Jane re-entered the music business in her own inimitable way. One meeting with a record company executive was staged on Hampstead Heath.

“There is a beautiful undergrowth bit,” she says. “My friend Louise led him to this clearing. Then we stood there and did a cappella. I said nothing and he gave me a big lump of money.”

So now they are back with a manager, an agent and a public relations company. Their name, Queen Adreena, arose from Katie’s dream about a warrior queen. Later, looking in a book by Annie Sprinkle (a porn star/performance artist) she noticed that 'Queen Adrena’ was the name of a legendary Californian dominatrix.

There is a new album, Taxidermy, and a CD-ROM of their new songs played to complement a black and white film made by Martina Hoogland-Ivanow, a 25-year-old photographer/director.

Katie Jane Garside grew up in Salisbury, the child of an army background. When she was 12 her father announced that the family were going to live on a 33ft yacht. The sailed around the world for four years. As teenage girls, Katie Jane and her younger sister, Mel, saw deserted islands, ate meals out of tins and disappeared into the realms of imagination.

Finally, they ended up near Poole where Katie attended a rough state school. She was beaten up for many things, but mostly because she had very small bosoms, a memory which transmuted (as these things do) to become a part of her work.

At 17 she arrived in London, penniless but determined. Then she met Crispin Gray when she answered an advertisement in a music paper, and her professional life, from then on, was about working with him.

The voyage around the world had left her feeling different and displaced. She was left with a love of the ocean, and indeed all places that allow a person to be alone. She is still displaced. When you ask her where she lives she says she doesn’t really know. She has lived in a lot of places. She wanders around in her thrift-store chic, with a battered brown leather suitcase containing all her possessions, her pale flesh bruised from falling around on stage. There is an atmosphere of acceptance around her. She will end up where she ends up.

“You might become a major rock icon,” I say, thinking this would be a good thing.

She smiles. “That would be a funny place to be.”

Jessica Berens

[brn1029]

On this date in music history…

July 28th

2021 - Dusty Hill

American musician and bassist Dusty Hill of ZZ Top died age 72. In 1968, he and the drummer Frank Beard joined the guitarist Billy Gibbons in ZZ Top. They went on to release 15 studio albums and sold an estimated 50 million records worldwide including the bestselling Eliminator (1983), which featured two Top-40 singles 'Gimme All Your Lovin'' and 'Legs'.

2014 - Linda Ronstadt

Linda Ronstadt was honored with a National Medal of Arts at the White House in Washington, D.C. The honor was a particularly special moment for Ronstadt, who didn't make it to her induction to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (in April of this year), since Parkinson's disease limited her ability to travel. The singer was brought into the East Room by wheelchair, but she walked onto the stage to receive her award.

2014 - Tom Petty

Reprise Records released Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers' thirteenth studio album, Hypnotic Eye. The album debuted at No.1 on the Billboard 200, becoming the first Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers album to ever top the chart.

2011 - Meat Loaf

63-year-old singer Meat Loaf, passed out onstage at Pittsburgh's Trib Amphitheater during an apparent asthma attack. After about ten minutes he regained his composure and finished the show.

1969 - Electric Guitars

Police in Moscow reported that thousands of public phone booths had been vandalised after thieves were stealing parts of the phones to convert their acoustic guitars to electric. A feature in a Russian youth magazine had shown details on how to do this.

1966 - Chris Farlowe

Chris Farlowe and the Thunderbirds were at No.1 on the UK singles chart with the Mick Jagger and Keith Richards song 'Out Of Time'. The song was first released on the Stones 1966 album Aftermath (UK version).

1964 - The Beatles

On their second visit to Sweden, The Beatles played two shows at an ice hockey arena, the Johanneshovs Isstadion, Stockholm. During the first show, both Paul McCartney and John Lennon received mild electrical shocks from ungrounded microphones. Supporting acts included The Kays, The Moonlighters, and The Streaplers.

1960 - Roy Orbison

Roy Orbison entered the UK chart with 'Only The Lonely', which went on to give Roy his first of three UK chart toppers. As an operatic rock ballad, it was a sound unheard of at the time, and is seen as a seminal event in the evolution of Rock and Roll. Released as a 45rpm single by Monument Records in May, 1960, 'Only The Lonely' went to No. 2 on the United States. The song was turned down by The Everly Brothers and Elvis Presley, so Orbison decided to record the song himself.

1956 - Gene Vincent

Gene Vincent made his first appearance on national TV in the US on The Perry Como Show. Vincent had released ‘Woman Love’ the previous month, but it was the B-side, ‘Be-Bop-A-Lula,’ that eventually made the top 10. The song had been purchased from a fellow hospital patient when Vincent was recovering from leg injuries. A demo of the song made its way to Capitol Records as part of an Elvis sound-alike contest and a re-recorded version gave Vincent a hit.