#no it touches people's lives so deeply it's entangled with ideals and taste and the way we approach every day life and every day objects

[thetriangletattoo]

honestly, fuck capitalism

[blissfulalchemist]

"I love you." + "Tell me that when you’re sober." for CatRaf xx

Please have some Drunk Cat on this lovely Saturday evening!

Game night with two people is not ideal and having it turn into a movie night is only as fun as the ability to enjoy and understand the movie involved. So watching the non-musical version of Les Misérables while tipsy, no, drunk was not the most ideal for Cat. Watching it with Rafael though? That was the ideal, perfection almost, if only the two of them could admit their feelings. No, that wasn’t it. 

Cat was the only one with feelings for him that were more than platonic and being curled up next to him watching a movie wasn’t helping. She’d take what she could get though, especially because she kept pestering him with question after question. Some she was actually curious about while others she simply asked to listen to his voice and watch as he lectured. “And that is how Marie Antoinette fits into the French revolution,” he finished looking down to her as she laid her head in his lap. 

“Tha’s fascinatin’,” she ran a hand up his chest to his shoulder, “and sad.”

“And you’re getting cut off,” he laughed as she rolled her eyes, putting her nearly empty cup on the coffee table. 

“How come you,” she attempted to poke his nose, his hand grabbing hers, “don’ gotta get cut off, sssir? Doesn’t seem fair.” Maybe he was already cut? Why do women care about that again?

“Because I’m not shortening every other word like Wes,” he patted her arm, “Here sit up a bit. I’m gonna get you some water.” She sat up right, her head spinning a little, Maybe water isn’t such a bad idea. “Do you want some more of the pizza while I’m up?” 

“Mmm yeah!” She turned leaning her chin on the back of the couch watching him move about the kitchen. Admiring the way the muscles in his arms moved, how it felt having them around her as they watched the movie. She bit her lower lip as she lazily imagined how his hands would feel against her skin as they ran across her body. The magic those calloused fingers could do as they-.

“Here,” her eyes focused back to the room around her as she saw the plate of food in front of her. She looked up to Raf’s smiling face, her cheeks burning as she grabbed the plate. He took his spot back on the couch setting the glass on the end table to his left. 

“I’m cold,” she said suddenly, “Can I sits in ya lap with the blanket.” He didn’t say anything right away and she fumbled clearing her throat, “Well causs you’re normally like uhm really warm ‘nd the blank’t might not keep me warm enough you know cause I’m cold. I don’ like being cold. Ya know?”

She looked down to the plate taking a bite shutting herself up. Raf resettled himself grabbing the blanket, “Come on,” she looked up a little shocked and hesitant in moving, “This offer won’t last long, Conejito.” Cat nodded, quickly settling herself into his lap as he wrapped the blanket around her. She rested her head against his chest finishing up the slice of pizza grabbing the bottle of water he brought just for her. “Better?” He asked as she took a deep breath, nodding, the smell of his cologne and soap making her head spin. He rubbed her arms starting the movie up again. 

She fell quiet as she savored being this close to him trying to keep her hands from straying too far. She missed this feeling of being so close to someone and craved to have it more often, hopefully with Raf. She let her fingers entwine with his curls, twisting them softly. Her eyes never went back to the movie one seeing his profile in the low lighting, how soft his lips looked, the jawline with just the right amount of scruff to look tasteful rather than lazy. His hands stayed along her shoulders and the middle of her back as they held her against him. The hand that was in his hair slowly strayed down his jawline and his neck, warmth spreading from between her thighs. She wanted nothing more than to kiss him, feel his mouth kiss every part of her, and his hands holding her down. 

She smiled as she felt him harden beneath her. The hand that was at the middle of her back started to slide down, moving underneath the blanket, fingertips gently brushing against her exposed skin. His expression didn’t change as his hand explored more of her and she followed, her free hand moving underneath his shirt, tracing every muscle and line of his torso. He finally looked down to her, his breathing heavy as he brought his lips down to hers. Their kiss wasn’t the soft and slow one she had thought it would be, this was hungry, passionate, desire. His hand entangled itself in her hair as he moved her in a better position in his lap. She straddled him, her hands pulling up his shirt, tossing it to the side, their lips never parting for long. 

She started to move against him, the friction eliciting a quiet moan against his lips, his hands warm against her skin, moving under her shirt working to remove her bra. Once free he pulled the two items of clothing off tossed across the room. The two paused catching their breath. Their eyes not leaving the others as their finger tips caressed the other’s skin, small shivers passing through them. “I love you,” Cat breathed out, his touch running up her spine.

She saw his eyes roam her body, “God,” he started breathless, “I hope you can tell me that when you’re sober.” He pulled her lips to his, kissing her deeply before pulling back just a breath away, “Because I love you too.” Cat’s heart raced at his words as she grabbed his shoulders, surprising him. She moved him to lie on his back on the couch, her lips quickly finding his before moving down his neck and across his collar bone. One of his hands found its way into her pants, locating her sensitive clit rubbing slowly, electricity coursing through her as she heard him moan her name again and again. 

She loved the sound of his voice, but something was changing as he kept repeating her name. It was softer and met with feeling like she was being shaken. “Cat,” the shaking returning, “Cat it's time to wake up,” his voice had laughter in it as she felt herself dizzy with the light shaking he was doing to wake her. She groaned burying her face into his chest shaking her head. Raf’s laugh filled her ears as he tilted her chin up so she could him in the eye. The light from the television was blinding as she finally opened her eyes to his warm brown ones. She blinked a few times taking in her surroundings, pushing away the sadness that she had only been dreaming. “There you are Conejito,” he joked as she sat up a bit straighter, “Do you need to stay the night?”

She shook her head, “No. Thank you though,” she glanced at the clock, she still had some time before she had to be back. “We have time for one more movie I think.” Her eyes landed on his lips, feeling hers tingle at the memories of the dream. He had to like her too right? Why would he just let her sit on his lap like she had? They had been hanging out more alone so that had to mean something. She just wanted him. 

“Yeah I think we have time for one more,” he moved her off of him reaching for the case holding multiple movies, “That is, if you can stay awake for it,” he laughed as he leaned back holding the case out to her. She didn’t glance their way as she threw the blanket off her shoulders, hands holding onto his face as she brought her lips to his, legs straddling his right thigh. He was still underneath her the seconds that passed before she realized his arms never encircled her or that he even made an effort to kiss her back. 

She pulled back, seeing the surprised and confused look on Rafael’s face, her heart sinking as her eyes went wide with the realization as to what she had just done. “I-I’m-I’m so sorry,” she stammered out, getting off of him, hand covering her mouth. “I’m so so sorry.” She felt tears start to form as she got up from the couch stumbling to get her things, “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I-I shouldn’t have-. I’m so sorry.” 

His composure came back quickly as he stood to follow her, “Wait, where are you going?”

To die in a hole. Or live in a cave where I never have to show my face. “Out,” her cheeks burned as she struggled to get her shoe on to a point she could walk.

“You’re not going to drive,” he tried to reach for the keys in her coat pocket that she had on.

“I’m fine. I just have to go,” she looked up at him, reaching for the knob, “I’m so sorry again Rafael.” She quickly made her way out the door sprinting to her car, locking the doors once she was inside it. She saw Raf start to make his way towards her as she started the car pulling out of the driveway and onto the road before he made it to her. Her heart raced, tears streaming down her face, as she pulled over collecting herself. Why would you do that Cat? That was the dumbest move you could have ever done. She chastised as she leaned her head against the steering wheel trying to calm herself. If you ever had a chance you just ruined it now. She took a deep breath as she looked up to the road, she just needed to hide right now. Maybe just maybe she had actually drank enough to not remember this tomorrow. It could all feel like a dream and be forgotten about.

[dustedmagazine]

Five Records That Matter

A few weeks ago, when we decided to try to find a few new writers, we asked applicants to list five records that mattered to them.  That was all the instruction we gave, purposely open ended.  Not the best records.  Not the most important records.  Just the ones that mattered to the person making the list.  It was mostly to find out whether people liked drone or hardcore, DIY garage or free-jazz, you know, to get a handle on new writers, where they were coming from and what they listened to.  There was no right or wrong answer (well, okay, maybe there were some wrong answers but nobody sent us any).  

We realized, though, that it’s sort of impossible — and also kind of fun — to pick just five records that matter.  We know this now, because most of us went through the exercise ourselves. We defined “matter” in different ways, some of us opting for personal relevance, others emphasizing objective quality, some looking back over their whole listening lives and others confining the search to specific time periods.  And then, because it was so much fun, we decided to share the results with you. Contributors include Jason Bivins, Joseph Burnett, Justin Cober-Lake, Ben Donnelly, Mason Jones, Jennifer Kelly, Brett Marion, Ian Mathers, Eric McDowell, Bill Meyer, Lucas Schleicher and Derek Taylor.  And by the way, you may notice a couple of unfamiliar names in there, because it turned out that asking for five records that matter is a pretty good way of finding new Dusted writers.  

Jason Bivins

Bad Brains — Rock for Light

It’s genuinely difficult for me to pick just one album from the vast worlds of “hardcore” and/or “metal” (not that I need just one, but the albums below are kinda too crucial, so that’s my logic today). And I could easily see myself going for, say, Sister or Locust Abortion Technician or something (maybe even something really goth-y from my very early adolescence). But I’m from D.C. and this is probably, soup to nuts, the album that still captures my attention in this idiom. The Brains were obviously fierce and fast, and H.R. was just bonkers live, but to me it was their astonishing instrumental technique and facility that made these tunes so righteous (although it’s got to be the LP mix, not that CD mix with too much reverb and Dr. Know’s solos buried away).  

King Crimson — Red

In many ways the perfect balance of smart, proggy music with serious heaviness. Stripped down power trio Crimson, minimalist by their standards, with my first hearing of several key English improvisers to boot. Not a massive fan of Wetton’s vocals usually (RIP) but they really work here. Twisty, turny rhythms. Banging riffs. And mind-scrambling repetition, especially on the concluding, very emotional “Starless” (which is responsible for one of the peak aesthetic experiences of my life, as I heard it for the first time when I was reading the final pages of Moby-Dick for the first time — intense!).

 Miles Davis — Live Evil

When I first started getting into jazz music, very little about the Miles of Kind of Blue (still colossally overrated) or Birth of the Cool moved me that much. But this freaked-out, expansive epic — which I heard passed around on third-generation tapes, long before the Columbia U.S. reissues — seemed like a document from some secret electric cult captured at the moment of full ecstatic transport. What gets me going still is the kinetic propulsion of DeJohnette here, that loose kick drum style perfectly goosing things along. Deep funk, odd percussion, moments of witchy noise, and John McLaughlin in supreme interstellar overdrive. Holy fucking grail.

 John Coltrane — Live at the Village Vanguard

In my freshman year of college I acquired a cassette containing the original release plus the two live tracks from “Impressions,” though of course I also love the 4-disc edition that Impulse put out in the 1990s. As much as I loved almost all the records Coltrane recorded during this period, there was something the extended, dark intensity of these performances — and Dolphy was so key to this, naturally — that seemed otherworldly and deeply organic at the same time. Yes, there was the absolutely riveting playing, but the incessant throb of “India,” the gallop of “Chasin’ the Trane,” the incredible emotionality of “Spiritual” — this was one of those records that converted me not just to a Coltrane fanatic but a full-on jazz nerd.

 AMM — Laminal

The deep dive into slabs of marvelous pure sound. Before I got this essential 3-disc portrait of AMM live during different periods, I had The Nameless Uncarved Block and maybe one other disc, which I dug. I was, in particular, transfixed by the range of textural contrasts that were central to AMM in its many iterations. But the 1982 concert at the Great Hall at Goldsmith’s College was where — right as Keith Rowe dialed up “Bang a Gong Get It On” atop his buzz saw guitar — the aesthetic wizardry clicked in for me.

Joseph Burnett

Neil Young — On the Beach

Tonight's the Night (and Lou Reed's Berlin) introduced me to the idea of a mainstream artist "heading for the ditch" but I didn't properly "get it" until I heard On the Beach with its songs of death, murder and depression. I still can't decide which Young album is my favorite, but my love affair with the dark side of popular music started here.

Fairport Convention — Liege and Lief

I never had much interest in the culture of my home country until I tuned in to this. There are many UK folk albums that come close in their own way, but nothing quite reaches Liege and Lief.

Albert Ayler — Spiritual Unity

Miles introduced me to jazz, 'Trane made me love it, Ayler made me realize how far ahead of its time it can be.

Throbbing Gristle — The Second Annual Report

My introduction to noise, really, and the concept of non-musical elements being used in music.

Tony Conrad and Faust — Outside the Dream Syndicate

Through which I fell in love with both minimalism and (along with the first Neu! and Cluster albums) krautrock. Conrad's passing last year left me more bereft than even Bowie's.

Frustratingly, there's no room for electronic music (of a different sort to TG) or free improv here. Man, this was tough.

Justin Cober-Lake

The Who — Quadrophenia

Without a doubt the singularly most important record in my life. I still consider it the best record by my favorite band, and it's the one that holds that save/change/influence your life slot for me.

Miles Davis — Kind of Blue

I picked this up in college when I decided I should try out some jazz and this seems to be at the top of every list and, huh, jazz was interesting. I'm sure something else could have flipped the switch for me, but something else didn't. More specifically, it launched my love of Coltrane. "So What" is the quintessence of cool.

Bon Jovi — Slippery When Wet

My first favorite album. It went well with the fast skate at the Roll-Arena and it helped form my idea that rock goes best in stadiums, ideally with a lead singer flying out over the crowd. It would take at least until grunge hit for me to re-think that idea, and I'm not sure I have.

 Bob Dylan — Blood on the Tracks

This one was good at first, convincing me that my dad was right on this Dylan guy. At the very least, I liked the story of "Lily, Rosemary, and the Jack of Hearts." After a few years, it became significant in its catharsis and its artistry.

 Wilco — Yankee Hotel Foxtrot

My other four choices are mainly about me alone with my cassettes. This one's about the entanglement of music and relationships. YHF blew me away on first listen to my friend's copy, but the whole experience is closely connected to meeting, dating, and marrying my wife. The record fit (and developed) my tastes; the sound still resonates.

Ben Donnelly

Various Artists — Music of the Ozarks  A National Geographic mail order compilation of field recordings that appeared in our house when I was in elementary school. My mom lived in Arkansas when *she* was in elementary school, and it brought back a lot of memories for her. While there's great fiddle and guitar melodies that gallop up and down traditional scales, there's also mouth-bow and dulcimer drones that hypnotize. The storytelling can be haunting but the wordplay is fey— "the prettiest girl I ever did see was down in the Arkansas"

The Cars —  S/T Their still-newish debut album showed up in 8-track form when my cousin moved in with us. He had a single-speaker 8-track player that looked like a TNT detonator, and the flow of this record blew me up. I knew the singles from the radio, but hearing the non-stop deadpan hooks set me up with an aversion to singers who try too hard. The resonances of distorto guitar over synth arpeggios are a source of permanent affection for me, whether they show up in the Fall, an Arthur Baker remix, or some random Dirtnap punk band. I immediately latched on to the least-known cut, "I'm in Touch with Your World", which is retrospect is pretty jagged stuff for a power pop album. They hardened American ears for the late-breaking influence of the Velvets.  Moody Blues —  In Search of the Lost Chord Anyone can enjoy the well-crafted songs of Magical Mystery Tour, Sell Out or Their Satanic Majesties Request, but how about when the acid hits third rate beat bands? There's wonderfully wussy twee in places (I've seen polar bears and seals, I've seen giant Antarctic eels, I've still not found what I'm looking for) but "Legend of Mind" balances harmonies with some really heavy riffing. "Ride My See-Saw" seems like the lynchpin freakbeat for Thee Oh Sees and their kind. This record has some forgettable and laughable material, but the Moody's dedication to total soft-headedness set me on the path to deep psych. Donna Summer — Walk Away I think mom bought this for exercising as much as dancing, and boy is it a workout. Not her greatest hits, but so many of the Summer/Moroder peaks are here. They set up our modern day pop cocktail of American r'n'b with European dance production. "I Feel Love" remains the music of the future, just as Eno predicted, but the collection closes with "Our Love", one of the greatest feats of drum machine programming ever. After I went all underground rock, I still found it immensely satisfying when the Celibate Rifles closed their set with a take on "Hot Stuff" that wasn't too jokey. Turn of the century, when disco became hip again, all my love for the stuff came gushing out. Dumb of me to hold back.  Jethro Tull — Stand Up This only album here I shelled out my lawn-mowing cash to procure, the rest just drifted into the house. I recently gave Stand Up the first thorough spin in years, and its fine set of songs, as close as they got to the more socially acceptable Fairport/Pentangle school of folk rock. The balalaika-lead "Fat Man" may have been my introduction to Balkan textures. "Back to the Family" is dourly amusing. "Reasons for Waiting" quite cleverly fuses flute and organ for the kind of rave up you'd expect from guitar and bass, and turns it into maypole dance. You could imagine this iteration of the band going full Wicker Man, like Comus, had their lineup not quickly solidified around Aqualung riffs and multi-part suites.

Mason Jones

The five records prompt made me think about albums that were part of my formative listening years, which is certainly very different from the albums that are currently important. Going with the early formative albums I'm coming up with:

 Coil—Horse Rotorvator

Back in the 1980s I had started discovering early industrial music and was buying albums and magazines at Schoolkids in Ann Arbor. I had heard of Coil but hadn't found anything yet, when I discovered a used promo cassette of this album in Wazoo, and it completely upended my world. It remains a strong favorite to this day.

 Bauhaus — In the Flat Field

When I was early in my guitar-playing, the sonic variation from Daniel Ash was really important, and despite the passage of time I can still listen to Bauhaus.

 Jimi Hendrix Experience—Axis: Bold as Love

Again from a guitar player standpoint, this album has everything.

 Foetus — Nail

Alongside the Coil album, this one remains essential to me for its cohesion and focus, and dark humor mixed with brilliant sounds.

 Fushitsusha — PSFD 15/16

Doesn't really have a name, but the second volume of Fushitsusha's live 2CD offerings was a big push toward forming SubArachnoid Space back in the day, and Haino's guitar work is unimpeachable. It also later led to my organizing SF shows for the band and releasing a Fushitsusha album on Charnel Music.

 It's very hard not to include Skullflower, Big Black, Crash Worship, Pink Floyd, and ELO (!) albums in this list... 

Jennifer Kelly

The Stones -- Sticky Fingers (or Exile or, if I'm honest, Hot Rocks, of which I have worn out at least three cassette copies)

As a relatively straight-laced young lady in pre-internet Indiana, my choices were limited and few of the things that I liked as a teenager are relevant anymore.  But Stones (up to maybe Tattoo You) have held up, still dark, still sexual, still exuding a kind of threat and coolness that was out of reach for me then and now, but still holds some appeal.  I’m going with Sticky Fingers because it has both “Bitch” and “Moonlight Mile,” two of the respectively nastiest and the most beautiful songs in the Stones catalogue.  

 The Who -- The Who Sell Out

I don’t want to get into a fight with Justin, but to me this is peak Who, trippy and transcendent (I could listen to “I Can See for Miles” all day), goofily tongue-in-cheek (“Heinz Baked Beans”) and still so very far away from slipping into the rock band cliché of later years.  

 The Clash -- London Calling

As I mentioned above, I grew up with radio in Indiana, the good stuff, such as it was, was mostly R&B, and so I got to college in 1981 and was OUTRAGED to find out that punk rock had happened without me. I’ve probably listened to London Calling more than any other record in my life.  I actually had to take this off my iTunes a few years ago because I just could not listen to it again, but no question that it was formative.

 Jay Reatard -- Blood Visions

We saw him in Northampton a couple of months before he passed, and god-damn, talk about the real deal. Punk rock is never dead, but it sure is always dying.  

  Sleater-Kinney -- Dig Me Out

After my son Sean was born, I spent about a year listening to nothing but opera, specifically Tannhauser, specifically the overture to the first act...and it was this record more than anything -- well, okay, Elliott Smith and Pavement and Neutral Milk Hotel played a role too -- that brought me back.  But Sleater-Kinney was special because they rocked so hard and in such a very female kind of way, with their trembly vibrato voices and looping collaborative guitars and bang-out-loud anger and heedless engulfing joy.  “Words and Guitar,” it’s all you really need.  

Brett Marion

The Jesus & Mary Chain — Psychocandy (Blanco y Negro, 1985)

Advancing rock music’s mission of moral decay at light speed through the simultaneous paying homage to and annihilation of doo-wop melodies and early pop-rock and blues forms through ridiculous amounts of industrial buzz and clatter.

 Brian Eno - Thursday Afternoon (EG, 1985)

Off-putting, in equal measure, by its rather domestic title and daunting hour-long playing length, a peek inside is a sensory tank full of narcotic luxury—its every-so-often recurring Doppler-like bass swells effectively bending all notions of time and space. Ambient plus plus.

 Felt — Poem of the River (Creation, 1987)

Growing up in the 1980’s suburban American Midwest, you considered yourself lucky if you walked into a shop and found one row of imports relegated to the end of the Pop/Rock section, overpriced and gathering dust. After weeks, perhaps months, I finally found the nerve—and cash—to blindly purchase this gorgeous-looking mini LP (the perfect format, btw). Produced by Mayo Thompson, Poem of the River is a dazzling mix of Lawrence’s self-referential poetic satire, Neil Scott and Tony Willé’s exquisite Verlaine/Lloyd-esque guitar interplay and Martin Duffy’s oddly prominent ballpark organ contributions.

 Spacemen 3 — The Perfect Prescription (Glass, 1987)

Light-years beyond the monotonic two-riff (one-riff?) Stooges’-smothered debut, The Perfect Prescription mainlines the blues, gospel and drug-rock forms with a soul-searching, seldom formulated lyrical honesty, “Oh, listen sweet lord forgive me my sin/ ‘cause I can’t stand this life without all of these things/ Know I’ve done wrong ‘cause I’ve heaven on Earth/ Know I done wrong but I coulda done me worse.” Cue goose bumps.

 Royal Trux — Accelerator (Drag City, 1998)

From the opening blat of “I’m Ready” to the closing guitar solo sunset fade of “Stevie,” Accelerator is a hedonistic rock’n’roll juggernaut that works whatever your drug of choice.

Ian Mathers

Massive Attack — Mezzanine

I might slightly prefer Blue Lines, but in what might be a running theme here, growing up in a small town with no record store in pre-Napster/pre-YouTube days, I was often lucky to get my hands on even one album from a band the internet could now let me read about if not actually hear. I thought I knew electronic music at the time, but really I knew Aphex/Squarepusher style pranksterism and the cheesy end of trance and not much in between (or further afield). I don't think I'd heard anything at the time as beautifully produced or relentlessly, darkly, menacing; from the first time the scything, processed drum loop gnashes against the subterranean bass pulses on "Angel" I was absolutely entranced, and that's before they threw a goddamn guitar solo in there. I know other bands who've made as many records I adore as Massive Attack have, but not many where all of those albums could be the work of entirely distinct outfits. Still, this is the one that got its hooks into me first, and arguably the first (spiritually) Goth album I ever loved.

 Prolapse — The Italian Flag

In said small town, one of the few ways to actually hear the kind of thing I was getting into (thanks to my dad's record collection and an obsession with Radiohead's OK Computer that means I would have picked it here except I haven't had anything interesting to say about that album other than it got me reading UK music magazines online in years) was watching the Wedge late at night on MuchMusic. MTV existed and we knew about it, but nobody I knew had access to it in Canada. One night they definitely (and wonderfully) played the video for "Killing the Bland", a song that I was instantly obsessed with. As a teenager devoted to finding the fastest, loudest, most aggressive guitar music I could but who somehow never got into hardcore punk or speed metal the fleet, clattering assault of Prolapse was catnip, I loved "Scottish" Mick Derrick and Linda Steelyard's dueling accents, and the video was hilarious. I wouldn't be another seven or eight years or so before I'd know or hear anything more of Prolapse, a band it's still risky to google, thanks to Will Swygart's fine assessment at Stylus where I was writing at the time. I've since tracked down physical copies of everything the band's put out that I can, and I'm still bitter that I couldn't see them open for Mogwai a while back, probably my only chance to hear one of my favourite bands live. At least I still have The Italian Flag, a record where basically nothing else sounds like "Killing the Bland" (also there) but everything does sound like the way indie rock maybe should have gone in 1997: dense, abrasive, scabrous, almost magnetically pessimistic, and very funny.

 Low — Secret Name

If you ever doubt the power of people writing about music, let me tell you about Low (the source, incidentally, for the largest tattoo I have). A band I don't think I'd heard about when I ran into this when I was in first year university and reading through all of glenn mcdonald's (yes, he prefers lower case) ten-year writing project The War Against Silence. These days glenn is more well known for doing a lot of the number crunching for the big Village Voice music critic annual poll, but so much of his writing is so important to me in so many ways. And his description of this band that he was so enthralled by hit me so hard that the next time I had some disposable income I walked into my local record store and bought the Low album they had in stock, sound unheard. That record was, err, Things We Lost in the Fire. An amazing album, but Secret Name is here instead because when you've listened to all of a band's work as much as I have with Low's, that first impression sometimes gets outweighed. If pushed I might even pick another LP as my 'favorite', but there's something beautiful and pure and terrifying in the depths of Secret Name, something I can't escape, something that comes closest to giving me what I read in glenn's writing. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad they've continued to grow and change, and not just because I love Ones and Sixes so much; neither the world nor this band need Secret Name II or the time and effort that could be wasted trying to make it. But more than anything else, this record is probably the reason I have the Chairkickers' Union seal inked on my back.

 Spacemen 3 — Performance: Live at the Melkweg 6/2/88

I got really into Spiritualized then when one of the few albums I could find to listen to was their two disc live Royal Albert Hall October 10 1997 I decided that was by far the best thing they'd ever done, then on a school trip knowing they were some kind of proto-Spiritualized I bought a Spacemen 3 album. I still love Spiritualized, but in some ways Spacemen 3 were more relevant to me as a young adult and when I bought this dodgy-looking live album essentially on a whim, it nearly ruined me for anything else Jason Pierce has touched. Specifically the dodgiest version of the album, with the naff cover art and the typos in the track listing and three extra tracks including a monumental, maddening, ear-splitting version of "Suicide" that ended with a loop of crowd noise, as if to let the listener recover. This is, as far as I'm concerned, the only version of the album, and one of the best rock records of all time. When my wife and I were first dating and she still lived down in Florida and I saw that version in the store again I bought that copy and brought it to her. As much as The Perfect Prescription is an amazing album, after I heard Performance I almost couldn't stand to listen to it for a number of years. Pretty much everyone else I know who has listened to Performance thinks it's, you know, okay.

 Mogwai — Come On Die Young

The thing about having to buy records without hearing even a single song on them first is that sometimes you're disappointed. But the thing about not having many other records to listen to is that you sometimes wind up giving those disappointing records another chance, or a third, fourth, fifth... all I'd heard about Mogwai was how crack-the-sky huge they were, and here I was with an almost obtuse feeling album, one that started with a ballad and made you wait for the big explosion until track nine. Part of my understanding and appreciation for Come On Die Young now is simply a matter of historical context I couldn't have had then, namely that this (and the EP+6 compilation released the next year) represented some kind of small apotheosis for Mogwai as a nocturnal, abstract, guitar-based band. From 2001's Rock Action on, they'd more fully integrate Barry Burns and turn into a slightly different if still incredible band. But there's a weight and a solemnity to Come on Die Young that's very different from everything they'd do after. Also "Ex-Cowboy" is the great overlooked epic in their discography. 

Eric McDowell

Slap Happy — Casablanca Moon (1974)

Just when you think you've heard it all... A reminder of how much great music from the classic rock era is out there waiting to be loved. Dagmar Krause's singing is startlingly good, as are the lyrics ("Out on the street, sobbing with lust / I hoped for a banquet, she denied me a crust"!). Also look for the earlier version recorded with Faust, Acnalbasac Noom. 

 Arthur Blythe — Illusions (1980)

Incredible group including James Blood Ulmer on guitar, Abdul Wadud on cello, and Bob Stewart on tuba (among others). I want to buy this album all over again whenever I see it and have tried (in vain) to get strangers at record stores to take it home. Luckily this was recently reissued in a set with some other Blythe albums, including the killer Lenox Avenue Breakdown. 

 Pauline Oliveros — Accordion & Voice (1982)

My introduction to her work and still my favorite. 

 Oren Ambarchi — Hubris (2016)

After a peek into Ambarchi's discography, I couldn't get enough of him— especially his albums on Editions Mego. This one came out on my birthday. 

 Anna Meredith — Varmints (2016)

For some reason I've come back to this more than anything else these first months of 2017... Whatever works!

Bill Meyer

Brian Eno — Another Green World 

I checked this out of a library when I was still a high school prog dabbler and classic rock radio/NPR listener in Michigan in the late 1970s. While I had heard a little Eno before, I had had never heard anything like this and it opened me up to the intersection of sonic novelty, pith, creative playing, wit, and song-craft divorced from literal meaning. 

Velvet Underground — Live 1969

Economy, open-endedness, the most brilliantly rudimentary drumming in rock and roll, and some marvelous songs performed with a casual confidence that Lou Reed would rarely evidence in his subsequent solo career.

Art Ensemble of Chicago — Nice Guys

Not necessarily their best, but my first AEC record, and also one of my first brushes with free jazz, Afrocentric theater, and even modal jazz. 

Alastair Galbraith — Morse

The feeling you have before remorse. Naked emotion, songs boiled to barest essentials, marvelous sounds all forged in drafty rooms in one of the world's southernmost cities.

John Fahey— Return of the Repressed

Again, not my first encounter with Fahey. But the sheer preponderance of blues-derived picking, dissonance that resonates with corners of the soul untouched by the sun, rhythms driven by a thumb that just would not stop, and great, great tunes set off an obsession with the man and with the myriad manifestations of American Primitive Guitar that remain strong over two decades on.

Lucas Schleicher

I'll play with the format a bit. Here are five albums that matter to me that were either released in the last five years or that I heard for the first time in the last five years. I'm counting as far back as 2011 since 2017 is still new, so fuck it.

 Michael Pisaro / Taku Sugimoto — 2 Seconds / B Minor / Wave (Erstwhile, 2010) This came out almost 7 years ago now, but I didn't hear it until 2011. After reading Bill's reviews of Close Constellations and Asleep, Street, Pipes, Tones, I started listening to a lot of Pisaro's music and reading a lot of his essays and I fell in love quickly. This was the first thing I got my hands on and I still think it's one of the more amazing records he's put together. The first two pieces, "2 Seconds" and "B Minor," are especially beautiful and far easier to approach than you might think. The premise guiding the performances are similarly straightforward, but they produce some amazingly synchronous improvisations. If Pisaro or Wandelweiser interest you at all, I think this is as good a place to begin as any.

 The 25-Year Retrospective Concert of The Music of John Cage (Wergo, 1994, originally released in 1958 or 1959) I knew a tiny bit about John Cage before 2011, but most of it was so superficial as to be useless. After hearing the rendition of "Sonatas and Interludes" on here (by Maro Ajemian), I realized just how little of Cage I actually knew (never mind how little I understood). His music wasn't just controversial (the silent piece!) or "ahead of its time" (Variations II), it could be beautiful and approachable and elegant. After listening to this collection for months on end, I went and bought Silence, and reading that was basically life-changing. Cage opened my head and ears to all kinds of art and music that I'd never given much attention before, so this is a significant, best-ever record for me that came well after my teens/early 20s.

 Eliane Radigue — Trilogie De La Mort (Experimental Intermedia Foundation, 1998, composed b/w '85 and '93) Radigue is responsible for some of the most unusual and psychedelic listening I've ever been a part of, and that's without drugs. Some friends at work knew I liked drone-y ambient music and were shocked that I didn't know hers. The Trilogie was on my stereo at home for months in 2012. I listened closely, I let it play quietly in the background, I fell asleep to it, I dreamed lucid dreams to it, and I'm almost certain I hallucinated to it in the middle of the night one week when my wife was back home in NY and I had the chance to play it overnight on repeat. I had a full conversation with her in my kitchen and awoke the next day to find that I had left food out on the table that wasn't there when I went to bed. I chalked it up to sleepwalking, but it took me a little while to figure out Laura wasn't back from NY early. Besides being a lot of fun to listen to, Radigue's approach to sound and the way she handles time blows my mind. I think of her a lot and am always impressed by how she can make very little sound like so much. 

 United Bible Studies ‎— The Ale's What Cures Ye: Traditional Songs From The British Isles. Vol. 1 (MIE Music, 2015) this is just a brilliant record with wonderful songs interpreted in exciting ways by an excellent band. I have a weakness for British folk music and hearing this band in this mode was very exciting in 2015. I still listen to it almost every month and find new things to like about it. After hearing this for the first time, I went back down a deep rabbit hole that I had once managed to climb out of: Shirley Collins, Albion Country Band, Fairport Convention, Fotheringay, etc. etc. I guess getting away from this stuff is impossible. It's always lurking there in the back of my brain and I always turn it up when it comes on. 

 Hala Strana — Fielding (Jewelled Antler, 2003, reissued 2005, now available on Worstward Bandcamp) I knew Steven R. Smith from as far back as Tableland, but somehow I missed this Hala Strana 2CD from 2003, and in fact knew almost nothing about his Hala Strana records until a couple of years ago. I absolutely love Smith's work; he's a brilliant multi-instrumentalist, he writes excellent songs, and he works so well in various genres that it'd be easy to miss that the Ulaan releases are by the same guy responsible for the Hala Strana releases. Fielding is full of the music of Eastern Europe, either in the form of covers of traditional songs or as original pieces written with Hungary, Romania, Ukraine, and others in mind. Smith plays virtually everything you hear: guitar, hurdy-gurdy, bouzouki, etc. I think he might have a band on some songs, but I don't have the liner notes with me to confirm. Anyway, this album reminded me that, despite my constant listening to avant-garde whatever, I still love songs and popular song forms (just like the UBS album did). Now I buy everything by Smith that I can get my hands on. He hasn't disappointed me yet. 

Adam Strohm

Sonic Youth — Dirty (1992)

This isn't my favorite Sonic Youth record, and I haven't listened to it much for at least 15 years, but this is where it all started for me. As a kid in rural PA who was dipping my two into alternative music through the usual avenues (Nirvana, REM, etc.), I'm not even sure I totally understood why people considered Sonic Youth so important, but something clicked with me, and like so many other people my age, this band was the gateway to so much more. I can probably trace 70% of what I currently listen to back to Sonic Youth in some way, so there's no way I can leave them off of this list, even though their records rarely hit the turntable (except for Rather Ripped, for some reason that one resonates more with me now that it did when it came out). I feel as though this is the most boring entry that will be on any of these lists, but I have no idea what I'd be into these days if I hadn't gotten hooked on Dirty back in 1994 or 95.

Queen — The Game (1980)

I probably listened to more Run DMC or Michael Jackson than anything else as a kid, but Queen was my first favorite band. My dad tells stories about me singing "Don't Try Suicide" in a shopping cart at the grocery store and the weird looks people gave him, and at some point, I found a cassette with a fragment of me singing "Another One Bites The Dust" as I lug the recorder around the house. My Queen fandom simmered for many years, but when I finally decided in college than rock music that predated punk could be good, Queen again loomed large. Their records still surprise me with regularity, and I still love introducing someone who only knows "Bohemian Rhapsody" to "Ogre Battle" or "Brighton Rock," which, to me, may be the best thing the band ever recorded.

Glass — Koyaanisqatsi (1983)

The synthesizer in "Baba O'Riley" was probably the thing that hooked me on minimalism, but it took me a regretably long time to connect the dots from my favorite moment in the Who discography to Terry Riley. By then, I'd already gotten a tape from a friend with Koyaanisqatsi on it. He'd thrown it on the tape thinking I might dig it, and it took some time, but I found myself increasingly and unexpectedly drawn to something I'd thought was cheesy and boring on first listen. Getting comfortable with this music sent me down a path than included, of course, Terry Riley and Steve Reich, but also helped me finally wrangle with drones, and made me really, really glad I'd kept a Phill Niblock promo that I'd been sent years before. The cd that my friend sourced the cassette from skipped at one point, which he didn't know when he sent me the tape. Some days, I miss that version of Koyaanisqatsi.

Frith — Gravity (1980)

College-aged me was a little insufferable when it came to talking music, I think. If there weren't guitars, things usually needed to be harsh, weird, or chaotic for me to care. I professed disinterest in any Coltrane prior to Interstellar Space, and had a hard time knowing how to handle anything that felt too traditional, straightforward, or linear. I saw Fred Frith perform in Vienna in 1999 and loved his style of improvisation; diving into his discography not long later, I came home with Gravity, something decidedly different. It was a bit of a lark for me at the time, something I'd put on to inspire a particular mood, or to confuse my friends, but in quick time, I was in love. This record, along with some others, opened the door for me to let my guard down a bit and let in the stuff I'd found too "normal" before; though Gravity is anything but a normal record, it was a pivotal album for me when it came to branching out as a listener, and it's still a favorite.

Devo — Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo! (1978)

This fifth spot is a tough one. So many things could (and maybe should) go here, like Nirvana (duh), a Pavement record, some Coltrane or Ayler, Oren Ambarchi, or maybe Bob Dylan. But Devo gets the nod, partially because their debut has been a favorite and one of the albums I can listen to no matter the situation, and also because there's something about this band and their sensibilities that had a huge effect on me as a young spud. The idea of this sort of strangeness and absurdity as a vehicle of delivery for social commentary, political critique, and subversive sexuality rewired some parts of my brain, and, for a while, made me very serious about making very goofy music. I haven't played in a rock band for years (you're welcome, world), but this record was a huge influence when I did, and shifted the way I thought about the way humor, shock value, and weirdness could work in music.

Derek Taylor

Jimi Hendrix — Electric Ladyland

Religious, lights-out, prostrate-on-the-bed-with-ear-goggles-affixed immersive listening throughout my teen years and a central pillar of my fealty to music appreciation this day. “Little Miss Strange” is the floating turd in an otherwise pristine Porcelain God of a double-album.

 John Coltrane — First Meditations

Classic Quartet dry run for the more widely heralded session with esteemed guests added & bridge to the instrument-transcending utterances that would become Trane’s untimely end-game. “Compassion” still irrigates the eyes to overflowing under the right circumstances.

 John Fahey — America

Prerequisite companion to nearly every post-teen road-trip I’ve ever taken. “Dalhart, Texas 1967” in particular is as indelible an evocation of time and place through sound as I’ve ever heard.

 Minutemen — Double Nickels on the Dime

Didn’t discover these guys from Pedro until college, but their weird nexus of post-punk, funk, jazz, politics & SoCal see-if-shit-sticks DIY credo instantly won me over. Add to that an unapologetic affection for classic rock staples like CCR and Van Halen and any associative contradictions got ironed out by their unabashed allegiance to humanism.

 ZZ Top’s First Album

Three dudes from Tejas who put so much into their debut that coming up with an actual title seemed incidental. Although I never kept count it was probably my most-played cassette in high school and Billy Gibbons’ tenure as Hendrix roadie & professed favorite guitarist brings the list full circle. 

[brycelumpkins-blog]

maturewomen - Make Your Nude Adult Women A Reality

We waited agonizing minutes for one to arrive. We're starting to elicit a few amused glances from the people around us. I break the kiss and tell her we should go back up to my place, to which she agrees enthusiastically. Now, the elevator situation in my building can be less than ideal during peak hours. So we're in the pool, still entangled and kissing. I live on the th floor, and it seems everyone else lives on a lower floor.

She stands in front of me, a damp towel around her waist. By the time it showed up, a small group of fellow passengers had queued up. I grip her waist urgently as we make our ascent, squeezing my hands each time a passenger disembarks. I grab her hips and pull her back into me as the rest of the people file in and select their floor.

Finally, the elevator is moving up, torturously slow toward our destination. This was going to take forever. Sarah and I step in first, www.goodreads.com press the button for my floor, and scoot to the back. I grab her hand and pull her down the correct hallway. I fling the door open and whisk her inside.

Closer and closer to we go, and I can see the excitement gleaming from her eyes in the door's reflection. I lean down and press my lips to hers, desperate to taste her kiss. Sarah still doesn't know her way around my building.

My hands tug at her waist, drawing her nearer to me; I couldn't be close enough to her. Her feet are barely touching the ground as I drag her to my doorstep. After waiting a few minutes to let the cold water work its magic on my hard member, we towel off and briskly walk to the elevators. I push her through and doors and she's practically jogging (in the wrong direction.

Her towel loosens and drops to the floor. Before the door can even close, I am on her. She shoots her tongue into my mouth, eliciting a surprised moan from men. Only now, I can feel her weight against me, her body pressing into mine. She runs her hands through my hair, down my neck and across my shoulders. She moans softly as my tongue plays against her lips.

I've forgotten how aggressive she can be. I cradle my arms under her and she wraps her legs around me as she had in the pool. I tell Sarah that she's fucking sexy, and she giggles - then shoots me a deadly look that can only mean one thing. I drop her onto my kitchen counter, her face level with mine.

I kick it away and draw her up into my arms. I pick her up and carry her to the couch as quickly as I can, dropping her on her back. I'm on top of her in a flash, kissing every inch of her. Before long, I turn her head to the side so my mouth can work on her neck; I feel her breathing deepen and slow as I nibble up and down. I lay gentle kisses upon it before biting down hard, which is met with a sharp gasp.

I move my lips across her chest - just under her collarbones - kissing my way to her other shoulder. I tease her mature nude middle aged women woman skin with bared teeth and I can feel the anticipation building in her body. We stare at each other - a wonderfully serene moment amid chaotic passion. To simply call her reaction "sexy" would be an injustice. I start with her lips, soft and sweet.

I pull my head back, biting her lip playfully. I find her shoulder, bare save for the thin strap of her bikini top. Her back arches when I bite down and a deep moan escapes her lips. She was taking quick but deep breaths, her breasts heaving each time she inhaled. It was a sight to behold.

She runs her hand up my neck and through my hair. Sarah was sprawled out, the skin on her chest and neck flushed and red. My hands trail down her hips to her legs. I rub her inner thighs with my thumbs as I slowly parted her legs.

I don't have the words to describe it - to feel her back contort involuntarily underneath me, to hear the moan just inches from my ear. Looking up, I can see anguish and anticipation written plainly on her face. I lean back on my knees to take her in for moment, surveying the beautiful young woman laying before me. She looks up at me expectedly, her eyes bright and alluring.

I felt intoxicated by her. She's biting her lip, her eyes practically begging for me to move quicker. I give her a rough, sloppy kiss before moving my mouth next to her ear. I rock back and forth, slowly thrusting my hips. She can only murmur a response as my cock rubs against her.

I ask her if she's been thinking about my cock - "All summer long," is her breathy reply. I want her to feel me, to feel how turned on I am. I tell her that I missed her, how badly I've wanted this. I don't know if I've ever heard anything sexier in all my life. I'm gazing directly in her eyes and tell her - "I need to taste you. " I see a smile start to creep onto her face as I sink towards her waiting pussy.

I smile back and reached down to caress her stomach. I lay down between her parted thighs, my cock pressing against her. I can feel her react to each one with my face pressed into her soft skin. I grip each of her thighs and pull her to the edge of the couch. Her bikini bottoms are inches from my face and I can make out the curves of her mound.

I lick the crease where her leg meets her hip. I kiss and bite and lick her inner thighs and she starts shaking - "Please, please, please" is all she can say, barely whispering her desire. I'm tantalizingly close but agonizingly far. Sarah puts her hands on my head, gently encouraging me to move faster, but I just smile and continue to tease her with kisses and nibbles.

With one finger, I graze her bikini feeling the heat of her pussy beneath the fabric. As I make my way down her gorgeous body, I plant small kisses on her stomach. I trail my finger up and Sarah lets out a low, sexy old ladies moan. The cold air of the room hitting her wet pussy is enough to make her quiver. Then, I take my finger and deftly lift her bikini and slide it to the side.

Now and then her eyes dart to the bulge in my swim trunks and she squirms with desire. The sweet smell fills me and I'm intoxicated; I want to dive right in. But I manage to control myself - I want to take my time and savor this girl I thought I'd lost.

I sit up to look at her. And she is certainly wet. She starts thrusting her hips up, desperate to feel my mouth older old naked woman woman and tongue. "Please, Jack," she pleads. Her smooth, shaved pussy is practically dripping. It's too much for her. "Is that what you want? I just hover over her, breathing warm air over her wet lips. "Please eat my pussy".

Still holding her bikini to the side, I position my mouth right over her. For me to lick your pussy? Please lick me, please. I can hear the desperation in her voice. " I'm just being mean at this point. Her voice catches and she moans loudly as I take my time with this one lap. I give her a second to recollect herself before diving back in for more.

" I decide that I've denied her (and myself) for long enough. It's warm and soft and impossibly wet. And I do mean dive; I pull her bikini off and then bury my face in her pussy. My tongue, thin and rigid now, finds the opening to her vagina. Her hands are on my head, combing and grabbing at my hair. My hands are on her thighs, squeezing tightly to keep her from squirming away.

I hold her down with my free hand and she whines like a wounded puppy. It takes me several seconds before I flick the tip of my tongue across her clit, causing a mini spasm to jolt through Sarah's body. Then I press my face further, penetrating her with my tongue. I can feel her wetness coating my face from my nose to my chin. I lap and suck and nibble her outer lips.

First I run my tongue around the edges, circling her hole. I can't get enough of her. Eventually, I reach my favorite destination: her very sensitive clit. First I probe, flicking my tongue this way and that, looking for the spot that makes her shudder.

My world is filled with her scent, a sweet perfume that's fueling my passion. Which way does she like again? After tongue-fucking her for a bit, my interests move up to her lips. I smile when I find it and then get to work. I flick my tongue against her velvety inner lips. "Mmmmmmmm," she moans deeply.

all over thirty the while, Sarah is moaning and gasping and encouraging me with hushed cries of "Yes! " she exclaims, suddenly unable to stifle her cries. I run my tongue in small circles. I flick my tongue from side to side. She's really squirming around and I'm finding it difficult to stay on track.

Sarah continues to throw obscenities as I find the right pace. Without warning, I take my tongue, flat and wide, and run it from the bottom to the top of her dripping wet pussy. "Oh," she gasps again and again. I move my tongue up and down. I think we have a winner. I can feel and see her body starting to tense up - she must be getting close.

And two, it's my way of telling her that she tastes amazing, and I would love nothing more than for her to cum on mouth and tongue right now. I find her clit once more and, while the rest of her body is writhing in pleasure, her pussy remains stable.

I grab her thighs tightly and hold her down. I start to moan into her pussy, which works on two levels. She yells out my name and her body convulses - I stop licking and simply hold my tongue against her as the orgasm washes over her body. I don't dare break stride with my tongue.

She tells me she's about to cum. She eventually collapses, sighing loudly. I look up at her and she's practically glowing. I lap up the wetness dripping from her pussy, a most welcome prize for my efforts. Her back arches and she moans with each spasm. She gives me that wry smile and I know things are only getting started. One, the vibration feels amazing on her clit. (To Be Continued)

Wander_lusting