Local coffee roasters, Colectivo Coffee, gave us some love in this month’s Home-Brew Demo! Go check out how to make coffee the right way and jam some Soul Low. It’s a beautiful thing.
“Your Being Called Love!”
in a shaky shade of pink.
I was feeling anxious,
Not quite anguished
From the night before.
Sometimes it waivers,
Forth the scale tips,
Excitement and foreboding
The twin peaks of feeling,
But always that anxious panging
Toward all of life’s becoming.
And now, even the streets are shouting at me.
“You’re being called Love!
Time to take heed.
Soon, though never soon enough:
Don’t dilly-dally; try not to tarry.
You’re being called ‘Love’ now
By the hold of another’s heart,
And it’s not a damnation;
Neither a reckoning nor a compulsion;
And despite being ephemeral,
Even a little fickle,
It is no more contrived; no less real
Than all the rest.
Your being –
Now deemed Love by another –
Is a peculiar gift,
And like all gifts it can be dangerous,
Uncomfortable, untimely, uncouth.
But also resplendent, ardent, earnest,
Though Fragile is still probably the best,
With Worthy not far behind.”
So the streets shout and whisper.
Time to take Heed!
Our ever being called Love
Is a worthy becoming indeed.
Good morning! Today we officially release our music video to ‘Wake Up Pains’ !!!! Special thanks to Max Hey and Anodyne Roasting Co. Also stop by and check out an awesome review of the video, courtesy of Tyler Maas and Milwaukee Mag!!
Tonight we’re heading to our neighbors to the west and rockin with neighbors from the south. If you’re in Madison, come hang with us and help celebrate the release of our first ever music video!!!
Langdon awoke at the bottom of the stairs again. He didn’t know how long he’d been there, but his right leg was cocked at an angle and he felt the tingling pain of a cramp coming on. He didn’t move for fear of escalating it. Instead, he stared vacantly at the rainbow of refracted light now adorning his prostrate body. Blinking bleary eyes, he admired the stained glass on either side of his front door, the early morning sun glowing fiery behind the polychromatic pane. Some of the light filtered through the tree in his front yard, which swayed in the wind just enough for the dawn to slowly dance upon him. He’d somehow never appreciated this circumstantial beauty until now, and it seemed the only way to witness it was to tumble, yet again, down the stairwell at the break of day.
He heard a concerned gasp and knew his view was interrupted.
“Jesus, not again Lang! You’re damn lucky the stairs are carpeted, otherwise you’d be in the hospital by now…”
As his wife Calliope bounced down the steps, he made an effort to lift himself up.
“I’m alright, I’m alright. Rather nice down here, believe it or not.”
She crouched down next to him in her robe, her heart aflutter from the panic. The cramp in his leg had been replaced by a stinging lack of circulation and she helped him hobble to the kitchen.
“What are we going do about this? One of these days I’m going to find you down lying down here and you won’t wake up…”
“Oh hush, Calli, it’s not that bad.”
“Your forehead is bruised! Feel it, right there-”
“Ow! Jeeze, alright so I hit my head.”
“I’ll get you some ice.”
It was a Saturday and the fifth time Langdon had sleepwalked in the past month. Falling down the stairs in his stupor was a recent development, the first occurrence having been the Thursday before last. He usually paced the hallway, humming and mumbling to himself as somnambulists are wont to do. He’d always had trouble with insomnia, and now that he’d finally found a medication that worked, it happened to plague him with this eerie, apparently dangerous, side effect. She sat him down at the table and hurried over to the fridge.
“You’ll just have to switch back to your old medication,” Calli said as she handed him an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel. “I don’t see what else you can do.”
“I’m on Ambroxol because it works, Calli, I’m finally sleeping.” He delicately laid the chill rag to his temple. “And I feel better than ever,” he said, shaking the last of the needles out of his leg.
Unconvinced, she gave him her look, the one she’d always given him, ever since the day they first met and he tried to talk knowledgably about Russian literature. It said: Cut-the-bullshit as she poured him a bowl of cereal, sliding it across the table.
“Look, I’ll talk to Dr. Reynolds, maybe it’s just the dosage.” But he knew that wouldn’t satisfy her. She eyed him closely as he ate his cereal and saw him start to nod off over the bowl.
“Lang? You okay?”
His head popped back up, half-chewed Healthy Hearts falling from his mouth.
“Jeeze, is this drug inducing narcolepsy too? I thought you were so well-rested?”
He rubbed his eyes, which were beginning to go fuzzy. “I uh- I’m gonna go for a walk, see the sun for a bit.” He went upstairs to shower and get dressed, eager to come back down and see the beautiful entryway again. But as he descended the steps the vision of burning color was gone, either with the sun too high in the sky or Langdon standing too tall above his old vantage point.
When he went outside, however, the vision seemed to spark before him anew, some fire burning behind and through the fabric of daily life, the reflected color of every object translucent and blinding. He looked up at the dancing tree clinking melodious in the breeze like a wind chime, then down at his own hands which seemed to be the bubbly texture of stained glass, shards etched together in the shape of thumb, index, middle, ring, pinky, and palm. When he balled his fist he heard the glass scrape and squeak in its compression, and as he walked down the glassy sidewalk lit from below, he heard his feet crunch with every step. It was in the trees, houses, fences, passing cars, even the individual blades of grass were literal blades, green and gleaming from within and also hailing the victorious sun above, which dominated half the sky. Nothing hurt or cut or punctured or lacerated anymore, for he himself was sheathed in the same armor as everything else.
Down the block some kids played soccer in the cul-de-sac, and their inner lights were the brightest of colors: turquoise, magenta, neon, crimson. They seemed to pulse with vitality. And sitting on a nearby porch, watching the fray, an elderly couple sat drinking tea, their own colors somewhat diminished but regal: burgundy and pumpkin orange. He laughed at the simplicity of it all. He knew he must be dreaming, lucid dreaming as they called it. But then, was he also sleepwalking, completely aware of the day but only through this dream-lens? He began to panic, not knowing just where he was or what he was physically capable of.
He looked down at himself, really examined and scrutinized the new texture of ruffled glass arching down his back and chest and arms and legs, and he discovered his own light was just a lone, incandescent flicker. He, aged thirty, well-employed, and married, was in the prime of his life and yet could barely manage any luminosity at all.
He looked back up to the kids and the grandparents, the latter of which were eyeing him, not with suspicion but neighborly curiosity. Could they see it? Would they break the news that he was vanishing to nothing? Or was he still in bed, hallucinating? In a panic he ran for home to the sound of breaking glass. He reached it quickly and from the lawn he saw how his home, too, was translucent and lit from within by his wife, celestial Calliope, still sitting in the kitchen reading the paper.
Rushing through the door in a huff, his ears ringing with the incessant shatter all around him, he made one final effort and stepped into her view. She looked up at his return, but her soft smile faded as she noticed his distress. With shame he knew she could see his light failing, he’d never be able to hide it from her. But she got up and walked over to him in the doorway, and it was then that he saw how bright she shone, even more than the oppressive Sun still overhead. And it all burst forth from the smallest of orbs in her belly, pure life itself. Before she could say a thing he put his hands on the smooth glass of her abdomen, feeling the warmth. She took a sharp intake of breath at his touch.
“You can tell, can’t you? I haven’t even taken the test yet, but-but I can tell too,” she said, restraining her excitement and tears. He kissed her and could feel the new warm light spilling past the glassy-wet coolness of her lips into his own. His eyes closed as he embraced her and he could feel himself growing whole again.
After a few minutes, Calliope pinched him teasingly. “Lang? Oh honey, are you asleep again on my shoulder?”
“Please,” he replied, mumbling into her shoulder, “please don’t wake me.”
Shows! Newspapers! Music Videos!
Last Saturday, the 21st, we wrapped up eight hours of filming for ‘Wake Up Pains’. Were still in the editing stage, but we look forward to all of its glory and amazing soon enough.
Also last week we swung by The Journal Sentinel’s Tap Milwaukee to do an in-studio taping of ‘Take Time’ & ‘Spooky Times’, both of which will be up on their website OCTOBER 2nd! And for all you print fans, the article about us will be around town October 3rd.
This week we’re hittin up two shows so look alive yo:
September 24th (LAST MINUTE SHOW!!!) @ Quarters w/ No Monster Club (from DUBLIN. WHAT), M Sord (MI), & the homies of the Fattttty Acids doin it DJ style. Come get down on a Tuesday!
September 29th @ Bremen Cafe w/ Sat Nite Duets & Tree Blood (MN)Event: https://www.facebook.com/events/636275546412985/
So mush awesome comin up. Don’t slow down kid cuz I don’t know the street yet!!
The band is busy doing awesome things! The Bayview Bash and filming for the music video were both a great success, wish I was around for everything else..check em out though!
…lilting what leaves remain with a warm, crackling cadence. The ivied brick of the edifice is awash in leafy pastels from regal gold to deep fuchsia, and motherly chirps ring out from the nests hidden among the heights, chirps wrung out from frenzied beaks by the foreseen chill of the morrow. The - what are they? Swallows? - gather their kin, darting hither and thither across the contrived canopy, dappling the colors with rippling waves of movement, the breeze aiding their flapping wings with sun-lent warmth. Not for long, not for long.
You once told me to write, so I wrote.
And I remembered how the fog
Would not leave that night:
Snaking about boughs,
Pooling into bowls,
The bay’s breath stifling with it.
Amongst prickled pine, eroded
Muddy moats of run-off, rotting
Sumac, and chilled, dirt-strewn wood floors,
We hid in bed: lovely, warm, safe.
Suddenly you turned to me -
We should be out there, you said, in the storm.
You want to be out?
Some enigmatic desire
To be at once up and out
And in and under?
But in hidden depth I felt the same,
And fearful all the more.
Then the iridescent shocks began,
Electrifying the icy air,
And for essential moments it was day.
We could just barely make out the pier from our window,
forlorn and stranded in that ungodly white hue
Of stricken fog shuddering, and I, too,
Felt terribly, wondrously, compelled
To lie on that loose island of cement and timbers
And look up into the wretched squall.
But my young cousins, screaming, charged our plush fortress.
We tried to laugh, as scared adults do -
But as the little ones moaned, and
As we crooned and caressed in vain,
The thunder came, relentless, deafening,
And we could help no more.
Beautiful as it was and one day may be, this is a lie:
You were not there.
I only tell myself such things so as to avoid looking at the truth:
That I am lying on that pier,
Looking up into it all,
I’m not laughing anymore.
The cousins have fled.
There is no warmly-budding bed.
All that remains is this fog,
And the lightning,
And cold, crumbling cement beneath.
For those of you who don’t know, I play sax in this band, and we just released a BRAND SPANKING NEW ALBUM. Available for a FREE download or pay what you want, or $5 for a physical copy shipped to you. Check it out and dig the vibes