#patrick o’malley

[mya-blazing]

Posting this just now but that next GHOS cards I completed are from Delicious: Hopes and Fears.

What’s next? Amber’s Airline? Primrose Lake? Well… I’ll just have to wait for the next card packs in the GHOS App.

[thekenobee]

Sharpe + Text Posts (Part 19)

[greysanatomy-bts]

[sapphosboy]

literally crying over Grey’s Anatomy right now 

[khantoelessar]

Love this!

I'm beat. Never been so beat.

Sharpe's Challenge (2007)- Cut Scene

[jclolz22]

Winter/Christmas Multi Bot Release!🌲

* ˚✧ / Art Donaldson & Patrick Zweig / Gingerbread Houses

* ˚✧ / Derek Shepherd / Ice Fishing

* ˚✧ / Jack O’Malley / Practical

* ˚✧ / Santana Lopez / Mrs. Claus

* ˚✧ / Tashi Duncan / Ice Skating (Req.)

* ˚✧ / Winston Schmidt / Christmas Date

as promised, here's the first of my winter/Christmas themed bots!! i am hoping to work on others/more throughout the month, but wanted to get these out since it is December 1st!

no the jack o'malley bot isn't technically anything to do with the holiday spirit, but i saw red one and had to make a bot of him because... chris evans.

anyway, thank you all again for the support and love; it is soooo appreciated and i am very thankful <33

[usafphantom2]

Deputy Secretary of Defense, Cyrus Vance tersely directed Strategic Air Command headquarters that the training phase of the SR 71 wing was over.

He directed the “senior crown” to cover Vietnam and to establish a location Kadena Air Base on the island of Okinawa.

By the time the 9th SRW was ready for Operational Deployment early in March 1968

Five SR 71s had crashed and were destroyed and tragically one test force RSO Jim Zwayer had perished over New Mexico.

The CIA’s A-12 at that same time in 1968 had three crewmembers dead and another five planes lost.

The aircraft that were selected to go operational were 978, 976, and 974. The deployment was scheduled for March 8, 10th and 12th. Three refueling operations were rescheduled for that six-hour and 18-minute flight plan.

Since they would travel faster than the earth rotates around its axis, they would essentially arrive two hours before their start!

However, in this case, they crossed the international dateline so these three SR 71s arrived one day later but two hours earlier on the clock. Wow!

On Monday, March 18, 0L-8 was ordered to fly its first operational mission.

It was an honor to be selected for the first mission it was pre-planned that Major Buddy Brown and Captain Dave Jensen have the honor. They were prepared to fly the first sortie with Lt Colonel Jerry O’Malley and Major Ed Payne as the backup crew.

Shortly after the airplane took off, there was confusion over what President Lynden Johnson said in his speech about the Vietnam War, and this first flight was changed immediately to a training flight, not an operational flight.

A few days later the order came to fly over enemy territory again. Buddy Brown and Dave Jensen were in the SR 71 ready to fly again when there was a technical problem. The mechanics worked on it and we were just about finished repairing the problem when Colonel Minter the operational officer put up a sign and showed it to O’Malley and said “You go”. Put up another sign for Brown and said “You stay”. As fate would have it. O’Malley and Payne also flew the second operational mission.

Buddy Brown was not upset about losing his chance to be first.

Perhaps he remembered the time when he was flying the U2 during the Cuba missile crisis in 1962. He was selected to fly a mission looking for Cuban nuclear missiles and could not due to weather so it was Rudy Anderson who took off from another area on the island of Cuba as backup.

It was Rudy Anderson, who was shot down and killed by the Cubans. My source is Velocity, speed with Direction, the professional career of General Jerome O’Malley written by Al Casey and Patrick Casey

Linda Sheffield

@Habubrats71 via X

[keeping-writing-frosty]

At The End of a Warm Gun

Chapter Two - Bloody Noses Well-Earned

Close to O’Malley’s ranch, on the northern end where the green-yellow rolling hills split by a thin, lazy river where most of the local kids went to fish underneath the copse of bright-green catclaw trees. An old fisher’s shack, cock-eyed on its brick and wood foundation, acted as a bit of a get-away that all parents knew about but let the kids do what they wished with it. Where the school-mother and minister have set up a little reading nook, of which Alexandra and several others had taken to quite nicely. Even if she spent some time reading, most of her time was spent on Jacobson’s Rock.

Which was a giant boulder that jutted off the tallest hill just a short distance up the wagon-wheel jutted trail. At the top of the boulder was an ancient, gnarled oak tree where they used to hang criminals and wrong-does back before real law came to the county. There sat an old wooden cross at the edge of the ground and the rock, the painted-on words long faded to time many years ago.

This was where more of the older kids who were still too young for a job would spend a lot of time. Some of the boys would be down the hillside playing baseball or some other game, while other boys would challenge one another to climb to the top of the tree. Patrick Clarke had climbed into the tree this time, Alexandra gathered beside Sally Mae Stevenson and Maria Santos. All three covered in a faint layer of dirt and dust from the various games they had played since late in the morning. While a semi-circle of a half-dozen boys, three of them the Reynold boys—Joseph the oldest and most even-keel of them with Jackie as the middle child who always had something to prove, and Teddy seemed the most kind and caring of the three, especially toward animals, but wasn’t against egging on a situation when it wasn’t needed.

“Hey Pat!” Jackie called out as he attempted to start up the tree with the easy and obvious footholds. His sweat- and dirt-stained shirt tucked into his denim pants with its canvas patches to cover the numerous holes. “I can beat your ass to the top.”

Sally Mae tugged on the sleeve of Alexandra’s linen shirt. “Jackie’s going to bust his butt going up that tree.”

“He’s a fool,” Maria added, her tanned complexion had taken on a ruddy appearance from the sun that hung high above head. “Patrick at least has some type of coordination. Jack’s just going to fall and break his ass!”

A snicker ran through them. Joseph shouted up at his brother to come down, otherwise he’d whoop his butt, and he never said something he wouldn’t do. Which finally became enough for Jackie to stop, along with the fact he had no chance to actually beat Patrick in anything athletic. He was, after all, the most gifted physically of all the boys and a sight to look at for sure. Something that always caused Alexandra to bite her bottom lip and her heart to race when her eyes laid upon his shirtless form. Especially since Patrick hit a growth spurt over the last few months.

As the thirteen-year-old got to the higher branches of the ancient tree. Patrick seemed to hesitate when the narrower branches started to bend and bow just by trying to pull himself up. While the boys cheered him on, jeered Patrick when he hesitated, but egged him on. The girls, especially Alexandra, begged him to come down before he fell and broke something.

“Don’t be a bunch of sissies,” Jackie spat at the girls. “Who cares if he falls? He’ll be fine.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Teddy said as he drove the point of his elbow into the stomach of his elder brother. “I’ll push you off next time you go up if’n you are going to be like that.”

Joe stepped between the boys, but it just redirected Jackie. Like always, that redirection turned towards the girls. The same three girls his anger seemed to always focus on. Since they were little, Jackie had a thing about picking on and mocking Maria. His words were cutting, sharper than a knife, which caused worse wounds than any physical attack.

Jackie’s smirk belayed a devious intent. “What are you even doing here?” Wasn’t a question, more of an accusation. “You and Alexandra aren’t even welcome here. This is a Texan tree in a Texan town. This ain’t Mexico.”

“Oh, go bite off, Jack,” Alex spat back. “Maria’s people came here three hundred years ago or so. While my mother comes from the mighty Aztecs. This land is as much ours as it is the actual tribes here more than your white ass.”

“God be damned, we took this beautiful country fair and square. Even if Maria can claim some blood ties. What about you?” Jackie took a step toward the girl, who was just a hair taller than her. “Neither from here nor Ireland, eh? Your dad’s probably already dead in the dirt out there. Watson Boys strung ‘em up! Then what is your wetback mother going to do?”

As the teen spoke, his brothers tried to stop them, but when they spotted Alexandra balling up her firsts, both brothers took a step back.

Jackie couldn’t help himself as he prodded Alexandra more and more. “Are you even a girl? I bet you’re faking it. You look like a boy. Do you even have a, uh, a-“

“Do you even know what girls have?” Sally Mae interrupted; hand cocked on her hip.

“S-shut up! Of course I do. I’ve kissed a girl before.”

“You mother doesn’t count,” Maria added in, emboldened by the diatribe.

This caused Jackie’s face to light up a bright red as all those gathered round laughed at the man.

“You bitch, spic-ass-“ Jackie was cut off by the fist of Alexandra connecting solidly with the bridge of his nose. Then another to his jaw, and before anyone could even react, he was piled in a heap.

Everyone stood aback and watched the scene unfold as Alexandra yelled and unloaded kicks to the boy’s back, legs, stomach until Joseph and Teddy grabbed her. She jerked back but was held in place by Patrick.

“Aye, girl, you got him and proved your point. Nary a thing else you need to do,” his voice calmed a bit of the rage inside of her.

Alex looked at the quivering teenager on the ground, who is being roundly mocked by his brothers while also being helped up. A stiff wind blew through the area, which caused the leaves above her head to dance and twirl. Everyone else disappeared for just the briefest of moments as Alexandra’s bronze skin lit up in a warm crimson.

“Thank you,” was all Alex could croak out before she turned on her heel and stomped back up the trail toward that old fisher’s cabin.

Where past a young mesquite, and under the heavy shade of a linden tree, sat Kelly his nose buried deep in The Small House at Allington. When Alexandra sat beside him, he asked, “what was all the commotion up there?”

“I adjusted Jackie,” Alex replied plainly. “Wish I could fix ‘em completely. At least his brothers aren’t pieces of shit.”

“He’s such a waster,” Kelly said but didn’t look up from the pages of his book.

As they sat there Alexandra watched as a single lonely cloud drifted on the azure sky above, much like what she imagined a giant ship on some distant ocean. The breeze would slow and stop occasionally, but it seemed to blow almost continuously. It brought with it the smell of the wild, earthy grass and of the herbs and wildflowers that dotted around the landscape.

Tears fought on the edges of her eyes to be released and flow down her cheeks, but she couldn’t do it. Just in case Jackie saw her, she didn’t care much what the others thought about her. Still, like mother told her, Alex stuffed her emotions back down, and the day returned to its usual routine.

By the time the sun started its descent toward the horizon, Kelly and Alexandra walked back to town. Down the dirt path, along the side with just the two of them. An occasional wagon or rider trotted by with smiles and questions if the pair wanted a ride back to town. Which Alex would always decline with a smile and a polite word.

“Can we stop for a moment?” Kelly asked as they crested over one last hill with the entirety of Dry Rock before them.

She looked at the town for a moment, once a tiny trading post, now had turned into a bustling little village. Which the incoming railroad tracks and station being built on the outskirts of town gave a promise of future prosperity. For a moment her thoughts drifted to her father, this was the life that he wanted to give both Kelly and herself, and by indirect extension, everyone else here. No longer a land of lawlessness, at least that’s the promise.

“Are you sure, Kelly? We’re almost back.” Alexandra just wanted to get back. A soft growling came from her stomach. “I’ll get you a sweet roll if you can just tough it out, okay?”

With a deep breath, Kelly nodded. “Okay, just this sun is something fierce today. The walk just tires me out.”

“I know. I’ll carry you if it gets too bad, okay?”

Kelly laughed. “You can’t lift me.”

“Want to place a bet on it?” Alexandra goaded her older brother, before she feinted a grab at him.

That forced Kelly to jump back before he laughed and ran off towards town. Which spurred on a good-natured game of tag. Where when Alexandra would get close, and often she would with her longer stride, and out of good sportsmanship she would let him get ahead of her and never truly being able to catch him. It was a good way to get him to move and push toward town. Alex was really hungry.

Dry Rock used to a small collection of wood houses and shacks that supplied settlers heading further out west as well as hunters and the few homesteads out on the prairies and plains of northwestern Texas and what is now the Oklahoma territory. Alexandra heard stories of the town back when it was formed, however, her experiences have been with the ever expanding and growing town. Where the ranchers and farmers had grown up around the town, and new homesteaders cropped up every other day.

With hard orange-red dirt pounded down flat from all the people who have walked, wagoned, and rode across it, the main road went down the middle of Dry Rock. Though not as large as buildings she had seen in artistic renditions and imagined when she read, yet she still loved walking by the tall two- and three-story buildings. From the general trader, Sally Mae’s father Gustav and her brothers ran the store, and the whole familiar lived on the third floor above the storage area. To the saloon, of which the pair of children headed off to for their delicious food, more specifically the little tartlets that Miss Julia baked every morning and sold throughout the day.

To the twelve-year-old’s eyes the saloon seemed the fanciest place that Alexandra could ever see. With the various paintings on the wall that depicted the beauty of the western frontier; from a scene of wild buffalo being chased by natives on horseback to some picturesque waterfall off in California so many days away. All hung and covered jade green wallpaper kept in the most meticulous of conditions. A player piano off in the corner played a tune seemingly at all hours. Though the place was nice, well-maintained, and upkept well, the patrons varied as much as those that came through Dry Rock.

When Kelly and Alexandra entered the Dust and Dirt Saloon, that familiar aroma of freshly-cooked food which intermingled with the persistent smell of alcohol that scrunched up Alex’s slightly-upturned nose, tinged with the perfumes of the various working women that called the saloon home. A rather well-dressed woman in a fine silken red dress trimmed with black sat at a large mahogany table with a cigarette between her full, pale red lips. Deep, dark blue eyes peered at Alexandra, and she couldn’t figure out if the older woman was sizing her up or looking at her as if she was a bug to be squashed. Madame Rose wielded power and influence with those who truly control the area, father said no one should get on her bad side. So, Alexandra gave the woman a warm smile, and it was returned in kind.

“Ah, the Sullivan children once again,” a large, bearded man with a sizable gut and more gray than brown in his facial hair said in a voice deeper than any water well yet warmer than the summer’s sun. “A couple of tarts?”

Kelly nodded far too enthusiastically, to the point that Alexandra wanted to laugh at him, but he didn’t deserve that. “Yes, please.”

“Two ciders, as well, sir,” Alexandra added as she pulled out a dime and two pennies.

“No, no,” the man said with a shake of his giant head. “It’s on me and the missus this time. What your father is doing? It’s a real service to Dry Rock and every other town, ranch, farmstead, what-have-you. A God-fearing man doing God’s work.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cooper.” Kelly climbed onto one of the bar stools, a large smile stuck to his face.

Once done with the buttery pastries and the slightly alcoholic cider, the two wished the man goodbye. As they needed to head home for whatever last chore mother might need done. That the sun which once hung high in the air, drifted about a third of the way toward the horizon. Casting ever-longer shadows like dark fingers that spread across Dry Rock.

“Shit,” Alex cursed as she quickened her pace toward home. “Mother ain’t going to be happy with us.”

Kelly shrugged his thin shoulders. “Probably, but we got free tarts, and Jackie got a broken nose. Mother will understand.”

A wry smile brightened Alexandra’s features. “I can’t wait to see him in the schoolhouse tomorrow. He’s going to be so pissed.”

This made her brother’s smile grow lazy. “I wish I could’ve seen that.”

[thebootlegnerd2018]

2 New HD Video Releases

Reefer Madness - 25th Anniversary LA Revival - August 30, 2024 - Los Angeles, CA

Cast: Thomas Dekker as Ralph Wiley, Bryan Daniel Porter as Lecturer/Jack, Rory O’Malley t/r Jesus, Anthony Norman as Jimmy Harper, Darcy Rose Byrnes as Mary Lane, Jane Papageorge u/s Mae Coleman, Patrick Ortiz, Claire Crause, Alex Tho, David Toshiro Crane, Natalie Holt McDonald

Notes: Decent HD Capture of this incredible immersive revival. One of J. Elaine Marcos’ last performances as Sally, the first video to capture Jane as Nicole, and the only video of Rory as Jesus. Shot from my iPhone at one of the tables in front so, a lot of scenes are very closeup, there are some obstructions here and there with some seats including a pole during some moments. Despite that, pretty much all the important action is captured in the show. Includes outdoor footage and a short post show speech done by original LA cast member Paul Nygro. A-

Screencaps: https://www.flickr.com/gp/141838001@N03/1929B2489D

Next to Normal - Ovation Theatre - February 9, 2024 - California

Cast: Lisa Ramos as Diana, Miles Barnum as Dan, Bri Deras as Natalie, Jesse Magdaleno as Gabe, Paddie Patterson as Henry, Chris Bradford as Dr. Fine

Notes: Great HD Capture of this emotional production of the show. The cast was very phenomenal. Some heads are in the way at some points but, it is mostly unobstructed. A

Screencaps: https://www.flickr.com/gp/141838001@N03/63i5H6VP7Q

Just like with my last release, I intend continuing the trade or buy options but, I changed it a little bit for this release. Below is how this release will work

$10 for each video, $20 for both

2:1 Trade for any of the videos

Once receiving any of the two videos or both, it is NFT until January 2, 2025 and it is NEVER TO BE SHARED ON ANY ONLINE STREAMING SITE

To inquire for any of the videos or for both, please contact me at thebootlegnerd@gmail.com, DM me on Discord, or DM on Tumblr (not sure if I’ll see message but, I’ll check)

[mya-blazing]

Guess what, I just finished Delicious 18. This might be my new favorite now.

[thekenobee]

Did I just go through 300 IMDb photos? I might have done that, yes

[greysanatomy-bts]

[japrilsanatomy]

Grey’s Anatomy Poll: Day 12

[dustedmagazine]

Dusted Mid-Year 2023, Part Two

Yo La Tengo

And we’re back with the second half of the alphabet—from Kookei to Yves Tumor.  If you missed it, check out part one here.  We’ll have the writers’ lists tomorrow.  

Kookei — The Incredible Hulk (H$G Studios)

Who picked it? Ray Garraty

Did we review it? No

Tim Clarke’s take:

Detroit rapper Kookei has a truly bizarre rapping style. He delivers almost everything in a hushed whisper, as if he’s right there inside your earbuds, sibilance sizzling, braggadocio booming. Though Kookei rarely wavers from this vocal approach, the production across The Incredible Hulk varies wildly in consistency and quality. Trap beats, synth stabs and rudimentary piano loops dominate the backing tracks, with cuts such as “Jackie Chan” sounding much more rich and polished, while others such as “Cousin Skeeter” and “Headshot Gang 2” bleed into the red, making for some wince-worthy distortion. Admittedly this stuff is no doubt supposed to be heard loud while high as a kite, so I can’t say I’ve been able to fully appreciate its intended effect.

Kali Malone — Does Spring Hide its Joy (Ideologic Organ)

Does Spring Hide Its Joy by Kali Malone (featuring Stephen O’Malley & Lucy Railton)

Who nominated it? Jason Bivins

Did we review it? No

Andrew Forell’s take:

At three hours in duration, Swedish composer Kali Malone’s latest long form composition seems a daunting proposition. Based on Malone’s tuned sine wave generators, Stephen O’Malley’s guitar and Lucy Railton’s cello, Does Spring Hide Its Joy is an extraordinarily rewarding experience. Within the elemental drones, Malone conjures tectonic movement both sweeping and incremental. Microtonal changes feel enormous, the glacial pace focuses the ear on every imperceptible progression, every movement of bow across string and the shimmering harmonic interaction between the instruments. Recorded in early 2020, Does Spring Hide Its Joy reflects those early days of the pandemic when time seemed at a standstill and lethargy, dread and inertia slithered their way in. Three years on, this music resonates with the ongoing effects of those upheavals. All the terrible beauty is here and if you have the time to concentrate, Kali Malone and her collaborators provide a cavernous space in which to process. Very highly recommended and thank you to Jason for the impetus to listen. 

Natural Information Society — Since Time is Gravity (Eremite)

Who Picked it? Bill Meyer

Did we review it? Yes, Christian Carey said, “Whether the new collaborators will remain, or other players will join Abrams, Since Time is Gravity demonstrates that Natural Information Society is a durable creative enterprise.”

Bryon Hayes’ take:

Most of us at Dusted love Natural Information Society, and with good reason: Joshua Abrams and his ever-evolving ensemble know how to concoct a hypnotic brew. As such, it’s no surprise that this record made it to the top of someone’s list this year. If you were lucky enough to catch the latest incarnation of the group – swollen in ranks and named Natural Information Society Community Ensemble with Ari Brown – play live in 2022, you’d have an idea of what’s in store for you on Since Time is Gravity. Even though they might not have been playing this particular material, the large ensemble interplay featured here was definitely on display in the live setting, as was Ari Brown’s crafty soloing. It’s prudent to note that the songs are shorter in comparison to the marathon that was Descension (Out of Our Constrictions), but this is great because as a listener you get to follow the group along a variety of pathways. It will be interesting to see where Abrams takes Natural Information Society next, but you can be sure of one thing: we at Dusted will love it.   

Pile — All Fiction (Exploding in Sound)

All Fiction by Pile

Who picked it? Patrick Masterson

Did we review it? Yes, Patrick said, “All Fiction furthers that thinking, another reason this feels less like a leap and more like a carefully considered step toward further Piledom — the band’s flowing, peripatetic nature makes writing about individual songs less important than considering the whole.”

Ray Garraty’s take:

All Fiction is anemic enough to ask yourself: do they eat enough? Rick Maguire’s voice here sounds like he could use more nutrients and proteins in his diet. He kind of wakes up on some tracks, like “Poisons,” yet core of the album is that sad, melancholic material disillusioned middle-aged men write. It’s Radiohead-ish, it’s rock-ish and it’s… just flat? If it’s really what fiction is these days, I better stick with nonfiction. 

The Reds, Pinks and Purples — The Town That Cursed Your Name (Slumberland Records)

The Town That Cursed Your Name by The Reds, Pinks & Purples

Who recommended it? Christian Carey

Did we review it? Yes; Jennifer Kelly wrote, “Glenn Donaldson puts a louder, fuzzier attack behind his gossamer-wistful songs this time, amping up the volume for a set of darker, more desolate tunes.”

Jonathan Shaw’s take: 

It seems to me that Pitchfork gets something right about the Reds, Pinks and Purples: Jude Noel’s review of The Town That Cursed Your Name notes, amid a breathlessly positive assessment, that the band’s records “simply pick up where the last left off, like a series of Moleskines filled end to end.” That may be so, and the consistency of Glenn Donaldson’s songcraft likely provides a good deal of the band’s appeal—but do you really want to spend time reading a batch of someone else’s Moleskines? The Whole Foods grocery lists and the snatches of wood-shopped poetry and the paragraphs of winsome repining? If so, check out “Almost Changed,” the ninth track on The Town That Cursed Your Name, which doesn’t quite brood and doesn’t quite whine and doesn’t really seem interested in making anything change in the first place. To be fair, it’s very, very hard to find fault with this record’s compositions, the rhymes and the musicianship, which are like a May breeze, a Monet pastel or a warm cup of ginger tea—or all three at once, in someone’s comfy suburban sunroom. If that’s your situation, maybe you don’t want (or need) much of anything to change. Must be nice. Here and there, The Town That Cursed Your Name stirs from its state of cloudless repose to threaten some fuss. “What Is a Friend?” picks up the pace and thrums and hums with something like urgency. Then Donaldson sings: “Dodged your call from the jail / No birthday card in the mail, I always fail / Maybe you lost the plot / You could have offered an opening slot, it’s food for thought.” The inside-baseball, indie-rock vernacular and the literate metaphors dominate the record’s lyrical register. They are always clever and inevitably build an emotional tone best described as precious mopery. The music of the Reds, Pinks and Purples is pretty and precise, and it winces when the world gets ugly. Unfortunately, it’s an ugly world.

Cécile McLorin Salvant—Melusine (Nonesuch)

Mélusine by Cecile McLorin Salvant

Who nominated it? Jason Bivins

Did we review it? No

Bill Meyer’s take:

Cécile McLorin Salvant isn’t exactly beyond my ken. If, like me, you spend time reading and writing for jazz publications, her name and striking taste in eyewear are inescapable. However, having caught her some years back at the Chicago Jazz Festival, I was under the impression that she was a skilled but hardly innovative jazz singer, so I haven’t been trying to keep up. On a formal level, Melusine wipes the floor with that misconception. The material, which consists of original songs sung mostly in French and much older ones sourced from Francophone-adjacent cultures, is certainly not standard. Subtle production touches situate this recording in the 21st century without lapsing into pop pandering. And her singing, which is both technically unassailable and emotionally communicative, transcends any linguistic barriers. There’s a lot to appreciate here; thanks for the tip, Jason.

Tacoma Park — Tacoma Park (self released)

Tacoma Park by Tacoma Park

Who picked it? Ian Mathers

Did we review it? Yes, Ian wrote, “Tacoma Park manages the always-difficult feat of simultaneously reading as the heady product of multiple creative minds in deep conversation and yet fluid and confident enough in its own voice that the result still registers as singular.”

Tim Clarke’s take:

This self-titled duo recording by John Harrison and Ben Felton documents a fruitful pandemic collaboration, overflowing with possibility. With each track built around a handful of rhythmic and melodic ideas, the music is given plenty of air to breathe, plenty of time to evolve. Fingerpicked acoustic guitar and arpeggiated synths dominate the palette, then there’s some drums here and there, both live kit and electronic. At 68 minutes, Tacoma Park is a long record that meanders a fair bit, but it feels like it reaches an apex of sorts with “Circles As A Path As A Valley,” a nearly eight-minute exercise in cathartic layering. Beyond that point, drum-machine-driven tracks such as “We Lost Our Place, We Started Over” and “I Left My Wallet in the 90s” (great title) feel like starting points for another project entirely, or a postscript pointing towards recordings to come. 

Tørrfall — Tørrfall (Den Pene Inngang)

Tørrfall by Tørrfall

Who picked it? Ian Mathers

Did we review it? Yes. Ian wrote, “If there’s intoxication here, it’s the post-panic euphoria of a body running out of air; and if this is water music, it’s for currents deep enough they’ve forgotten what the waves are, if they ever knew.”

Patrick Masterson’s take:

In a way, I’m tor[r]n. Tørrfall’s “psychedelic water music” can at times feel languid and flowing as water is, so I see where both the band and Ian are coming from — but what I hear more over these four songs that all clock in between nine and 13 minutes is an alien drone, something elemental but not necessarily earthen. The key to that otherworldliness is Nils Erga’s synthesizer work and wordless vocals: Hovering like a UFO over the rubbery, at times counterintuitive basslines of Kristoffer Riis and Thore Warland’s rainshower percussion, Erga graces these tracks with an omnipresent ethereality that suggests terrain not entirely our own. The music can’t help but follow: Not quite jazz, not quite krautrock, not quite drone, not quite house or techno, Tørrfall skirts the fringes of each to make an entrancing, immersive sonic universe (calling it a mere world feels insufficient) all its own that, headphones or speakers, the louder you play it, the more unsettling it gets. I can’t imagine how these guys must translate live.

Wound Man — Human Outline (Iron Lung)

Human Outline by Wound Man

Who nominated it? Jonathan Shaw

Did we review it? Yes, Jonathan wrote, “The whole record is a barely contained bundle of nerves, electric, hardened, threatening to come completely undone. For those of us walking around in twenty-first-century cities full of anger, suffering and insanity, Human Outline feels infuriatingly apt, mad and full of madness. It’s a terrific record.”

Jennifer Kelly’s take:

In his review, Jon spends a fair amount of time considering which metal subgenre Wound Man belongs to, a subject that I can contribute exactly nothing to. I can say, however, that Wound Man grips and ravages, at slow speeds and fast ones. I like the blistered assaults of “Leashed,” mad forward surges of rabid energy that hurtle forward at mouth-foaming speed, then pull back abruptly, as if on a choke chain. “Punisher” does exactly what the title implies, disintegrating guitar tone into buzzing aggression with sheer force of speed and volume. These cuts are over before they get started—the title track, for instance, is 40 seconds long—but you’ll feel the impact in your gut and ear canal long afterwards.

Yo La Tengo — This Stupid World (Matador)

This Stupid World by Yo La Tengo

Who picked it? Bryon Hayes

Did we review it? Yes. Tim Clarke said of the closing track that it’s "a searingly emotional purge and soothing balm all rolled in one.”

Ian’s take:

These assignments really are actually selected randomly (there are slips of paper and everything!) but it so happens that not only was I already enjoying This Stupid World but that Bryon and I wound up representing Dusted’s Canadian wing at the Toronto stop of YLT’s tour for this record. We had tickets before I got selected to cover it here, even! As a moderate fan of the band (love some classic albums of theirs, have been sorta half-paying-attention to the new stuff for a while now), this is actually the first time I’ve really sat down and engaged with a new Yo La Tengo record in years. That means I can’t really compare it to the last couple, but it feels like I picked a good time to check back in. That closing track, “Miles Away,” might be my favorite song of theirs plus or minus a “Night Falls on Hoboken” (perhaps unsurprisingly, there’s some overlap in vibes there), but overall this is a packed and consistently great 48 minutes. The skronky ones go for it, the gentle ones do in fact soothe, and the deadpan yo-yo tricks on James McNew showcase “Tonight’s Episode” tickled me. To still make records as good as Painful, nearly 30 years after they made Painful? That’s a significant achievement.

Yves Tumor — Praise a Lord Who Chews But Which Does Not Consume; (Or Simply, Hot Between Worlds) (Warp)

Who nominated it? Patrick Masterton

Did we review it? No

Andrew Forell’s take:

Having been peripherally aware of Yves Tumor I was excited to hear Praise a Lord..., and when it hits it’s very good with Tumor coming on like a latter-day Prince. Their combination of alternative guitars, courtesy of producer Alan Moulder and swaggering RnB is compelling. “God is a Circle,” “Lovely Sewer” and “Operator” have a real edge and a sense of transgressive danger, but other tracks are weighed down by the everything-including-the-kitchen-sink operatics that plague Kevin Barnes’ most indulgent moments with of Montreal. Having said that, this is a really enjoyable, immaculate sounding record and you can’t help but be won over by Tumor’s charismatic performance and their willingness to take risks.

[victusinveritas]

Patrick Pearse spent much of the last summer of his life (1915) in Rosmuck, Connemara with his brother Willie and a friend named Desmond Ryan.

It was a relaxed holiday although Pearse found the time to write one of Ireland's most famous speeches - 'Ireland unfree shall never be at peace,' spoken at the graveside of O'Donovan Rossa and considered by many as a key moment in the lead up to the Easter Rising.

Ryan recalled the summer fondly:

"The next day we proceeded to Rosmuck by train, or rather part of the way, for Rosmuck lies nine miles from a railway station, and we had a long drive by side-car through granite and peat from Maam Cross Station over winding, peak-screened roads.

It was a stirring view along those serpentine roads, ever winding and twisting to avoid the bog.

The horse trotted bravely while an O’Malley drove, and Pearse explained what famous people the O’Malleys were in Connemara.

All the while, bluish granite mountains soared and all around spread the peat-bogs starred by the tiny lakes, each with a local name and every name known to Pearse, who declared for the hundredth time he could find his way blindfold on any road in Connacht.

The Twelve Bens came in sight and Pearse waved his hand here and there over the land, naming lake, mountain and district away to the Joyce Country under its purple mist.

He told us many stories he had learned from the people.

Away there on that gloomy mountain yonder a stranger had lived for years, coming suddenly in the night from nowhere, henceforth a hermit, perhaps doing a penance of solitude and silence for some deed of blood.

We passed a peculiar green building of corrugated iron, a Protestant Church, [Screebe?] and then Pearse remembered that many years before the Bible Societies had carried out a proselytising campaign, and even in 1915 a small remnant of the Irish-speaking Protestant colonies still survived.

Once on his rambles, Pearse had met one of the members, an old man up in a cottage among the hills who opened his Gaelic Bible, read it aloud and argued with Pearse for an hour until the old man’s daughter came in and told her father that he had no manners and that he did not know how to treat a learned man who knew enough Irish and enough Bible to make up his mind for himself, and the attempted conversion of Pearse went no further.

A lonely letter-box on a post at a crossroads led Pearse to tell of the extravagant family, long bankrupt and extinct, who had had the box erected as a monument to their exclusiveness, recklessness and pride.

A barracks rose beside the rattling wheels and Pearse knew that the sergeant within was a crusty and cantankerous fellow companioned by six splendid constables, enthusiastic Irish speakers who spent their time in shooting wild ducks, fishing and studying with zeal the poems of Eoghan Ruadh O’Sullivan.

The car stopped at the schoolmaster’s house and Patrick Connolly welcomed Pearse warmly. His wife came out too.

Inside like startled birds, the four daughters of the schoolmaster retreated from our gaze while their mother laughed and said they would grow out of all that, but when young people lived among lakes and bogs they became curlews and mountain birds, easily startled by wild young men from the cities and poets from Dublin, all this for Willie and me whose ties and locks must have startled her ducklings.

We proceeded to the cottage, a white, thatched, oblong building with green

door, porchway and two windows in front, approached by a peat-sodded path from the main road. Here was the spiritual home of Pearse, which in the last years he visited every summer to pay a last farewell.

Below lay a fifty-acre lake legend tenanted with a Water Horse.

Beyond the rare walls of the cottage, the Atlantic heaved and moaned with tales of lost ships or murmured a summons to ride on its bosom to the Aran Isles on a fair day.

On every side rose the purple hills and peat, agleam with unnumbered lakelets. Pearse sat at the kitchen table writing the closing tales in his book of short stories, 'The Mother.'

He turned aside to discuss the completed stories with Willie and me, and said he thought the best the grimmest one, a tale of a woman under a curse called the “Black Chafer.”

Then he sighed that he had never written a story about turf or shown up enough the

hard life of the people. He said this sadly with almost the air of a man who all at once comes upon an intolerable personal grievance.

Sometimes he went down and bathed in the lake while Willie guarded him from the banks with a long, strong rope as Pearse was no swimmer. This tickled the brothers so much that they gave up the attempt with loud merriment and mutual criticisms.

Returning, Pearse mused on his cottage and said that one of the builders had been an old man who took his task very slowly and seriously, making progress by inches, but consoling Pearse’s impatience with the sole remark:

“Won’t it be a fine house when it is finished. Indeed it will be a fine house when it is finished.”

Pearse was more outspoken than I had ever known him before.

Night by night he spoke to Willie and me about everything by turns.

Much about the future of the Irish language. Here in this self-contained community which he had once known as purely Irish-speaking, English was creeping in among the younger generation.

It amused him when we walked abroad in the day-time to speak to the men working

the land and smile at the English expressions speckling the Gaelic:

“Becripes, tá . . . bedamned but tá...' from those who knew no other words of English, but he said this was the beginning of the end unless some great change came.

And what the change would be sometimes broke through his thoughts...

Who could have guessed that behind his gentle words and look, an insurrection simmered, a certainty that his days were irrevocably numbered and in this place he would never see in another summer?"

Pictured above are Patrick Pearse and his brother Willie, neither of whom would live to see the summer of 1916.

Taken from Desmond Ryan's 1934 auto-biography 'Remembering Sion.'

All of this was taken whole cloth from The History of Connemara Facebook group.

[greekmysty]

— Quem sou eu? — repetiu o monstro, ainda rugindo. — Sou a coluna na qual as montanhas se apoiam! Sou as lágrimas que os rios choram! Sou os pulmões que sopram o vento! Sou o lobo que mata a lebre, o falcão que mata o rato, a aranha que mata a mosca! Sou a lebre, o rato e a mosca comidos! Sou a serpente do mundo devorando a própria cauda! Sou o tudo indomado e indomável! — O monstro aproximou Conor dos próprios olhos. — Sou a terra selvagem vindo atrás de você, Conor O’Malley.

-Sete minutos depois da meia noite, Patrick Ness