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dustedmagazine · 1 year ago

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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)

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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)

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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)

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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.

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mya-blazing · 1 year ago

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

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thekenobee · 9 months ago

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

#THEM #also the one with the soviet HAT I CANT #SHARPE #Richard Sharpe #Sean bean #rifleman Harris #Daniel hagman #John tams #Francis cooper #95th rifle company #patrick harper #darragh O’Malley #bts #Sharpe bts

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victusinveritas · 1 year ago

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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.

#irish studies #irish history

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greekmysty · 1 year ago

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— 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

#a monster calls

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bookmarks-reviews · 2 years ago

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Find the Word

Thank you @toribookworm22 for tagging me on this one!

I'll pass this on to @fall-out-books, @elizaellwrites, and @honeysoiair! See if you can find the words TRIO, STUBBLE, and BALL/BAUBLE in your works! Of course, as ever, no pressure!

I was challenged to find the words BLUE, SOCK(S), PLACE, HIDE, and FEAR. Here's what I came up with!

BLUE cropped up in Bad Luck, a story that's still in progress, about a world where you can influence fate by spending luck points to tip the scales in your direction.

Even from here, I could see the bright lines. Eight Marks. Peeling away from the raging fist, glowing electric BLUE in the early morning air, until they speckled away into nothing.

I found SOCKS in CASH: Initiation, in a battle simulation of all places.

Five blocks later, the deluge lessened enough for Carolina to orient herself. Slamming her rings together, she reappeared on a nearby rooftop, soaking wet. She wasn’t quite sure how, but Dr. Lang had found a way to perfectly mimic the feeling of soggy SOCKS in virtual reality.

PLACE was an easy enough word to find, so I looked in Stone in Love, a villain romance story! I was really happy for the chance to describe how Firearm's abilities work.

As the suited man stood over Patrick, debating where to strike first, the former SOMS agent clenched his fists tight. With this gesture, there was the uncomfortable, but familiar sensation of his fingers folding much further than fingers ever should. Bending almost 180 degrees, Patrick felt his hands retract backwards into his arms, and in their PLACE, twin cylindrical barrels slid forward with a click.

HIDE happened to be hiding out in my rough draft for CASH: Concurrence, where I still need to add some passages.

As it turned out, spackle wasn’t necessary to HIDE the damage from either of her two other housemates. Upon emerging from his room an hour later, Isaac only stopped by the kitchen briefly to grab a bagel and a banana before heading out. He apologized for rushing, but apparently a conversation from last night had made that morning’s agenda much more urgent. [Add conversation/text exchange with Michael about O’Malley’s kidnapping.]

I went back to CASH: initiation for FEAR, because I really need to go through that again, and hopefully writing about it here will incentivize me to do so!

“This way! Now!” Carolina ordered. She held open the door to the eighth floor, and Hailey bolted through. Her legs were burning, but FEAR and adrenaline kept her moving. Carolina followed her, slamming and locking the door behind them.

Thank you again for the tag, and the opportunity to share!

#my work #CASH Initiation #CASH Concurrence #Stone in Love #writing #tag game #Bad Luck

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usafphantom2 · 10 months ago

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“The left afterburner technique” and SR-71 special problems: here’s what made Blackbird air refueling challenging

The KC-135Q tanker

It’s impossible to overemphasise the essential role played by the KC-135Q tanker crews, without whom successful prosecution of the SR-71 Blackbird mission would have been impossible. As told by Paul F Crickmore in his book Lockheed Blackbird: Beyond the Secret Missions (Revised Edition), it became apparent to Strategic Air Command (SAC) that the tanker force dedicated to supporting SR-71 operations would need to be expanded beyond the original 21 Q-model aircraft and in 1967 the decision was made to modify an additional 35 aircraft. Some 20 KC-135As from the 70th AREFS, 43rd BW at Little Rock AFB, Arkansas, and 15 from the 306th AREFS, 306th BW at McCoy AFB, Florida were therefore converted.

SR-71 T-Shirts

CLICK HERE to see The Aviation Geek Club contributor Linda Sheffield’s T-shirt designs! Linda has a personal relationship with the SR-71 because her father Butch Sheffield flew the Blackbird from test flight in 1965 until 1973. Butch’s Granddaughter’s Lisa Burroughs and Susan Miller are graphic designers. They designed most of the merchandise that is for sale on Threadless. A percentage of the profits go to Flight Test Museum at Edwards Air Force Base. This nonprofit charity is personal to the Sheffield family because they are raising money to house SR-71, #955. This was the first Blackbird that Butch Sheffield flew on Oct. 4, 1965.

As told by Col. Richard H. Graham, a former Blackbird pilot, in his book SR-71 The Complete Illustrated History of THE BLACKBIRD The World’s Highest, Fastest Plane, KC-135Q crews and their aircraft were unique from the rest of the Air Force in several ways. Their aircrews in fact were the only one certified in Blackbird’s specific radio-silent rendezvous procedures, and their boom operators were the only ones qualified to refuel the SR-71.

SR-71 Blackbird air refueling

The Q-model tankers had special plumbing between their fuel tanks, allowing them to transfer JP-4 and JP-7 fuel between various tanks. Their engine could burn transfer JP-4 or JP-7 fuel. If the SR-71 landed somewhere JP-7 fuel was not available, the Q-model tankers flew in with the fuel and, through the use of transfer hoses on the ground, were able to refuel the SR-71. One of the best advantages of flying the Q-model tankers is that their crews did not have to be on twenty-four-hour alert status like the rest of the SAC’s tankers’ crew members.

No story on the SR-71 would be complete without an understanding and appreciation of just how valuable the KC-135Q model tankers and their crews were to the successful and safe completion of every mission.

The SR-71, needed to be refueled approximately every hour. Refueling was tricky, but SR-71 pilots were always up to the challenge.

The Unknown Story of the SR-71 Blackbird that was saved by a Tanker after a Double-Engine Flameout over Northern Laos

Usually, refueling was the first thing that they did after takeoff. Under some circumstances, while flying from Kadena Air Force Base in Okinawa, they would take off with enough fuel for the entire mission.

Graham recalls;

“No refueling necessary it was called a Yo-Yo. But this was a maintenance nightmare. A few of our missions required the SR-71 to accelerate to Mach 3+ right after takeoff with a 65,000-pound fuel load. The Yo-Yo procedure had the crew chief completely refuel the plane to full tanks of 80,000 pounds of fuel. Then, with the nitrogen pressurization system working, they de-fueled 15,000 pounds of JP-7, ending up with a 65,000-pound fuel load and a plane that was capable of going immediately to Mach 3+.”

SR-71 Blackbird air refueling special problems

As explained by Aloysius G. Casey and Patrick A. Casey in their book Velocity Speed with Direction The Professional Career of Gen Jerome F. O’Malley, refueling presented special problems: visibility was poor due to the triangular forward window, and the helmet associated with the pressure suit caused undesired reflections. The receptacle (which received the fuel) was aft of the cockpit; therefore, the SR-71 had to fly underneath the tanker. Normally, one would take on about 70,000 pounds or 11,000 gallons of JP7 fuel.

SR-71 print

This print is available in multiple sizes from AircraftProfilePrints.com – CLICK HERE TO GET YOURS. SR-71A Blackbird 61-7972 “Skunkworks”

Typically, refueling took place at about 25,000 feet. As the weight increased and the air speed had to be held down to accommodate the slower tanker, the aircraft became thrust-limited; that is, drag increased as it approached the stall speed for this unique aircraft (there was no additional thrust available without afterburner). At that point, the pilot had to move one throttle slightly into the afterburner range to hold position.

The left afterburner technique

Using one afterburner required the pilot to counter the asymmetry with rudder or just tolerate some sideways flight. Interestingly, the pilots developed the left afterburner technique so the aircraft would yaw slightly to the right. This way, only the left quarter panel had defogged air, and one could get that benefit if needed. Refueling was an intense effort for the pilot and was required two to four times for each mission.

Be sure to check out Linda Sheffield Miller (Col Richard (Butch) Sheffield’s daughter, Col. Sheffield was an SR-71 Reconnaissance Systems Officer) Twitter X Page Habubrats SR-71 and Facebook Page Born into the Wilde Blue Yonder for awesome Blackbird’s photos and stories.

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