Teen Ink; http://www.teenink.com/raw/Poetry/article/100390/No-Chance-of-Showers/
No Chance of Showers
her desk bends, wilting from the piles of drafts of incomplete memories;
a small waft of cedar rises from an old deteriorating bible cover.
her phone rests, sleeping, ignoring all incoming calls, all questions.
the gray floor carpet seems vast, lacking indents from two bodies
sitting side by side, holding hands, poking fun at the other.
she stabs at the moist, just cleaned fabric with dry toes, searching for vital signs,
straining to remember the voice that once showered her, complimenting
her imperfections along with her achievements.
but it seems that the sky is clear, and there is no chance of showers closing in today.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
More Than A Firework
Published w/Teen Ink @ http://www.teenink.com/raw/Poetry/article/100388/More-Than-A-Firework/
More Than A Firework
Fireworks in the shapes of lightning bolts and hearts splatter the
night sky’s canvas and reflect on the midnight waters of the river.
The picture-perfect picnic is packed, the blanket sprinkled with grass
and eagerly waiting to be shaken out. The progressing masterpiece of art
is nearing its last detail: his words, a lamination into permanence.
He takes a moment to lean close. He says that I am as beautiful
as the fireworks soaring high above my lovely head of thick hair –
And I recoil from his lips, asking, So what?
Are you implying that my beauty is also as fleeting as the burning
chemicals above our heads, the ones that are dancing into existence
only to disappear within moments? Because those chemicals will never
return in the same style and personality again; they are insects,
living to fulfill one task and nothing else in their brief flight in the night.
Dare you say that I am nothing more to the world than mixed elements
meant for a single moment of entertainment? Am I a shooting star
to be wished on and gazed upon momentarily, and then forgotten?
No – I am more than a firework, sir. Understand that I am proud
to be more constant and even average than the gorgeous and temporary
display above our heads. Or, in correction, above your lonely head.
More Than A Firework
Fireworks in the shapes of lightning bolts and hearts splatter the
night sky’s canvas and reflect on the midnight waters of the river.
The picture-perfect picnic is packed, the blanket sprinkled with grass
and eagerly waiting to be shaken out. The progressing masterpiece of art
is nearing its last detail: his words, a lamination into permanence.
He takes a moment to lean close. He says that I am as beautiful
as the fireworks soaring high above my lovely head of thick hair –
And I recoil from his lips, asking, So what?
Are you implying that my beauty is also as fleeting as the burning
chemicals above our heads, the ones that are dancing into existence
only to disappear within moments? Because those chemicals will never
return in the same style and personality again; they are insects,
living to fulfill one task and nothing else in their brief flight in the night.
Dare you say that I am nothing more to the world than mixed elements
meant for a single moment of entertainment? Am I a shooting star
to be wished on and gazed upon momentarily, and then forgotten?
No – I am more than a firework, sir. Understand that I am proud
to be more constant and even average than the gorgeous and temporary
display above our heads. Or, in correction, above your lonely head.
Memorial Day
Published With Teen Ink: http://www.teenink.com/raw/Poetry/article/99353/Memorial-Day/
Memorial Day
I finished washing the old table
we bought for summer days like this –
Warm, bright, leaves and sparrows fluttering
down to the mowed lawn. And now
the odor of cooking burgers wafts
straight up my nose, penetrating sensory fibers
with an aroma laced with burning human grace.
Sun chips scatter into a bowl, pouring from the bag
I lift high. The label reads, 140 calories per serving
of eleven chips. I insert, with scorn:
140 souls forgotten within that dose of whole grain snack
someone bought just for this lovely picnic,
so clean once people learn to ignore the hints of meaning
floating past our ignorant eyes, nose, and heart.
Time to finish setting the table for the “special” day.
A plate is piled high with toppings for the red meat
that is supposed to be cow; but the meat reeks
of something considerably closer in relation.
The toppings of choice are tomato and lettuce: they
represent the ground the vets returned to, only
to be ignored, to rot in unmarked graves
doting the Earth on all human-declared battlegrounds,
As we party through their Memorial Day.
Memorial Day
I finished washing the old table
we bought for summer days like this –
Warm, bright, leaves and sparrows fluttering
down to the mowed lawn. And now
the odor of cooking burgers wafts
straight up my nose, penetrating sensory fibers
with an aroma laced with burning human grace.
Sun chips scatter into a bowl, pouring from the bag
I lift high. The label reads, 140 calories per serving
of eleven chips. I insert, with scorn:
140 souls forgotten within that dose of whole grain snack
someone bought just for this lovely picnic,
so clean once people learn to ignore the hints of meaning
floating past our ignorant eyes, nose, and heart.
Time to finish setting the table for the “special” day.
A plate is piled high with toppings for the red meat
that is supposed to be cow; but the meat reeks
of something considerably closer in relation.
The toppings of choice are tomato and lettuce: they
represent the ground the vets returned to, only
to be ignored, to rot in unmarked graves
doting the Earth on all human-declared battlegrounds,
As we party through their Memorial Day.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Low Water CD Review
Low Water twists genres together(http://www.pittnews.com/arts_entertainment/1.1041237-1.1041237)
Never reject anything just because it has an oldies feel, especially if it’s a CD with a tragically beautiful title.
With its soft mix of drum sets, guitars and keyboards imitating lost rock ‘n’ roll, Low Water holds the power to captivate its audience while making people think about its songs. Its six-track album Twisting the Neck of the Swan hosts a calming array of music that has an old-fashioned feel with a modern spin.
“Voodoo Taxi” starts the band off with a song that takes a different approach to the breakup and good-bye song by using poetic lines rather than whiney pleads: “There’s a whole lot of cobblestone / that ain’t heard an echo in quite some time / so let me lift both hands over your eyes / and see if you can walk a straight line / we could take a voodoo taxi / we could take a voodoo taxi downtown.”
The beat on the first track is addictive, and similarly engaging percussion continues on throughout most of the album. “Go” introduces a cello into the instrument line-up, both setting the beat and a strange tone between the sad string instrument and the cheerier guitar. With the lines, “I will follow high / I will follow low / Choose your token wisely / It’s your time now so go,” this song holds a bit of motivation to get up to try again.
Unfortunately, it’s not always an easy song to understand, seeing as vocalist Johnny Leitera’s voice harmonizes with the instruments to the point of blending in with them. So its message is easily lost on listener’s ears.
“Charge” is the longest track Low Water has to offer, going on for more than 10 minutes and dividing itself into sections. This track has the best music to offer. It starts out by going back to that rock ‘n’ roll feeling the rest of the album hinted at, only to return to its original feeling and mixed instrumental line-up. It changes every couple minutes, bouncing between the two.
The themes of the sections vary as much as the music style, but the very distinct lyric “Your heart’s a missile” does the job of summing up quite a handful of emotions. Also distinct is, “Do I need a charge to carry on my name?”
“Remedy of Lead” concludes everything, but unfortunately, Leitera once again decided to blend his voice with his instruments beyond 100 percent recognition. “I put myself on a river to you” is repeated again and again, although other lyrics change as Low Water shows off its poetry lessons yet again. The lyrics that anyone can catch make up for any loss.
With a classic sound updated with poetic lyrics and atmospherics, Low Water edges on high art.
Casanets CD Review
Castanets' album captures folk's darkest side
http://www.pittnews.com/arts_entertainment/1.891537-1.891537
Raymond Raposa, the center of folk band Castanets, never got the memo that cassette tapes haven't been sold en masse for years. Maybe it's because he recorded his album alone in a Nevada motel.
With an anthemic beginning boasting huge acoustic skills, Castanet’s "City of Refuge" redefines folk music.
The latest album from the band, which centers on singer-songwriter Raymond Raposa, alternates from guitar-strumming melodies to a spacey “alien invasion” montage. This makes sense, considering that Castanets has been a part of a freak-folk movement remaking folk music.
City of Refuge alternates between being sweet and dark. The record is full of comforting and relaxing guitar-strumming, as well as dark and forbidding tunes and static blaring from speakers in a freakish manner that almost screams, “The invaders are here!”
And really, it’s the theme of the record: good versus evil, and the never-ending struggle this brings.
The album was the product of three weeks that Raposa spent isolated and alone in a Nevada desert hotel. This desolation comes through in the music, too, with echoing and aching tones that paint a sparse, almost desperate musical canvas.
Raposa’s creation is like a soundtrack without a movie. Each song flows straight into the next. The majority of songs do not have lyrics, and those that do are all the more powerful.
“Fly Away,” for example, proclaims: “I’ll fly away, fly away / In the morning / When I die Hallelujah / by and by! I’ll fly away, fly away.”
“Fly Away” is an incredibly short good-bye song. It’s as if Raposa hit his limit and decided, “I’m done, and it’s time to take off on this gorgeous morning to find somewhere even more glorious.” It goes well with an earlier song titled “Refuge 1,” where Raposa’s intent is to run away to a city of refuge.
Then it’s time to enter an even darker zone, when songs like “Shadow Valley” strike the stereo and begin to preach about a darker side of mankind.
“I swear your breath last night / Sounded just like thunder / I swear your breath last night sounded just like gunshots,” sings Raposa.
It’s almost innocent, except for the ominous chord matching the lyric. Besides, the implication is that the person lying beside Raposa is a murderer with a smoking gun nearby. Even the sweetest people in nearby company are capable of good and bad, it seems.
The album concludes with a track named “After The Fall,” a story focusing on infamous sinners named Adam and Eve, with lyrics like “If I’d known where we were going / I might not have gone at all / But there was no way of knowing / After the fall.”
Haven’t we all been there? We wish we’d done better, but it’s too late to turn back the clock — it’s time to deal with what we’ve done.
So, folk haters, it might be worthwhile to give Castanets a shot. Just sit back, listen to the polarized music styles, and think about yourself if you dare.
Friday, April 17, 2009
This Providence
Band ready for rockstar lifestyle
(Thursday, April 16, 2009)“We got lucky,” admitted lead singer Dan Young in an interview with The Pitt News. “A recording label heard us, and we got signed and we made our first recording. We got signed before we even toured.”
That first record label is in the past for This Providence.
“We’ve been a band for five years now,” said Young. “Myself and Gavin [Phillips] started the band. It slowly evolved into what it is now. The lineup now has been that way for two years.”
When Young and guitarist Phillips began, however, the group was very young and inexperienced. Most parents expect college from their high school graduates, but Young remembered that his parents were supportive of the beginning band.
“When I turned 18, I got my first electric guitar from them. They were all very supportive, and they still are,” he said about family members of This Providence.
“The way we took off was playing a lot of shows at teen centers and clubs, wherever we could find a show,” remembered Young.
Through playing local shows in Seattle, Young and fellow band members at the time were picked up by their first record label.
“It wasn’t a big record label. It was a small independent record label in the area,” said Young. “We did one record with them, so they’re like a first label for bands.”
Now with Fueled By Ramen, Young said that the band is “still based out of Seattle,” home of This Providence founders. And with expanding its playing field came the need to use other tools, including social-networking Web sites.
“We use it (Myspace) all the time for different little things and events,” said Young about the social-networking site. “It’s definitely been an interesting thing. There are so many tools like Facebook and Twitter. There are a lot more tools and a lot more work to do with them.”
Even with the tools of the Internet, band publicity and rock star lives are not easily achieved. Neither are they completely full of glamour and fame.
“It’s very common for a touring band to continually ask ourselves that,” said Young when asked about considering a different lifestyle. “You don’t make much money. People don’t buy records anymore.
“On top of that you’re away from home a lot and it sucks,” continued Young. “Some people are made for the road. I don’t mind it, but I wouldn’t mind my own bed at night and sleeping where I am comfortable. I could probably make more money at home in a recording studio.”
Whatever future decisions Young makes, for now he and This Providence will continue to put forth effort to produce music together.
“It is hard,” said Young about song compositions. “If you want to do it well, it’s hard. It took up a really long time to do this last record.
“I think our band is a little more anal than other bands,” said Young. “We’re very concerned that everything makes sense in the English language, or making our point go across the way we want it. And finding inspiration in the first place is always challenging. It’s a difficult task but a rewarding task.”
It makes sense that a difficult skill would be met with frustrations.
“We would love to see more success,” said Young. “I get tired of playing in crappy little clubs where my guitar won’t work because we knock the power out.”
Until then, Young has begun to dig into other ideas.
“When I’m not touring I’ve started to delve into some co-writing and a small amount of producing. I’ve spent a lot of time in studios. It’s a natural, comfortable place to be, and I get it.
“I think all of us could move on to other things,” he said.
But for now, This Providence is still aiming for what Young calls “more success.”
“We’re doing what we can to make that happen, and we have some big tours lined up that we’re not allowed to announce,” said Young.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Vindell - a Pittsburgh Band
http://www.pittnews.com/arts-entertainment/student-band-talks-myspace-music-and-pittsburgh-1.1714653
After just five months on the local music scene, the band is making waves throughout Pittsburgh with its piano and synth-heavy brand of pop rock.
Vindell made its first appearance on the Pittsburgh scene very recently as a new band. The band said that it met on Craigslist’s “Missed Connections” while looking for old kindergarten classmates last November.
But rather than finding former Play-Doh playmates, the member found an opportunity to rock Pittsburgh.
The band members — Pitt students Nikki Avershal, Avi Dell and Max Somervill, and their bandmates Devin Laughlin and Mike Smalls — made their way onto the music scene with their online networking and a variety of connections.
“I think we collaborate more with venues than other bands. Like, we have a good relationship with someone at the Shadow Lounge. If we ever need a gig, we can play and be popular over there,” said drum player Smalls.
“We’re also very young. The connections should sort of form as we go along,” said Avershal.
But connections have not provided many obstacles for Vindell’s plans.
“We are planning for a summer tour,” said Avershal. “We’ll be taking off for the southeast for two weeks in June. And we’re aiming to go through the Midwest.”
The summer is the perfect time for everyone to tour, because all the band members, even the graduates, have their summer off.
“I’m actually an English teacher. I got my master’s in education,” said Smalls, who teaches in a Pittsburgh neighborhood. “So I do have my summers off, and I’m 25.”
“I just like to do this. We don’t have a booking agent or anything like that,” said Smalls. “But I think that’s OK. Even when we’re recording, it’s all us, and it’s all our effort. I have the studio at my house.”
Avershal joked that their lyrical content used a very special algorithm of anger, desire, love, childhood memories, math and therapy. From there, she described the song compositions as casual group fun.
“It’s a group effort, but it definitely varies with the song,” said Avershal.
“Avi usually writes the initial idea or lyrics, and then we go from there,” said Smalls.
As is often the case for beginning bands, the Internet’s ability to share music and reviews worked its own magic for Vindell. “I think MySpace has a really bad rap overall. But I also know Avi has gotten countless shows booked through MySpace users,” said Smalls. “We’re booking our entire tour through MySpace. It’s a really good working tool for the band.”
After this summer’s tour, the band will be returning to Pittsburgh, because, as unanimously agreed, it loves Pittsburgh. In fact, all players but Avershal are locals.
“[The city] gets a bad rap, but it is awesome. The place is so cheap,” said Smalls of Pittsburgh. “Like, I actually earn enough to buy a home,” said Smalls.
“I think the music venues are awesome,” said Somervill. “You just have to get out and play in a few.”
With summer tour plans forming and growing through the band’s MySpace page, Vindell has a bright future to look forward to. It also has another ambitious goal.
“We’re trying to tour with Michael Jackson,” said Smalls with a straight face.
Vindell’s next big performance will be Amnesty International’s benefit concert for the Stop Violence Campaign at The Shiloh in Lawrenceville this Friday.
Student band talks MySpace, music and Pittsburgh
Vindell doesn’t waste any time making itself known.After just five months on the local music scene, the band is making waves throughout Pittsburgh with its piano and synth-heavy brand of pop rock.
Vindell made its first appearance on the Pittsburgh scene very recently as a new band. The band said that it met on Craigslist’s “Missed Connections” while looking for old kindergarten classmates last November.
But rather than finding former Play-Doh playmates, the member found an opportunity to rock Pittsburgh.
The band members — Pitt students Nikki Avershal, Avi Dell and Max Somervill, and their bandmates Devin Laughlin and Mike Smalls — made their way onto the music scene with their online networking and a variety of connections.
“I think we collaborate more with venues than other bands. Like, we have a good relationship with someone at the Shadow Lounge. If we ever need a gig, we can play and be popular over there,” said drum player Smalls.
“We’re also very young. The connections should sort of form as we go along,” said Avershal.
But connections have not provided many obstacles for Vindell’s plans.
“We are planning for a summer tour,” said Avershal. “We’ll be taking off for the southeast for two weeks in June. And we’re aiming to go through the Midwest.”
The summer is the perfect time for everyone to tour, because all the band members, even the graduates, have their summer off.
“I’m actually an English teacher. I got my master’s in education,” said Smalls, who teaches in a Pittsburgh neighborhood. “So I do have my summers off, and I’m 25.”
“I just like to do this. We don’t have a booking agent or anything like that,” said Smalls. “But I think that’s OK. Even when we’re recording, it’s all us, and it’s all our effort. I have the studio at my house.”
Avershal joked that their lyrical content used a very special algorithm of anger, desire, love, childhood memories, math and therapy. From there, she described the song compositions as casual group fun.
“It’s a group effort, but it definitely varies with the song,” said Avershal.
“Avi usually writes the initial idea or lyrics, and then we go from there,” said Smalls.
As is often the case for beginning bands, the Internet’s ability to share music and reviews worked its own magic for Vindell. “I think MySpace has a really bad rap overall. But I also know Avi has gotten countless shows booked through MySpace users,” said Smalls. “We’re booking our entire tour through MySpace. It’s a really good working tool for the band.”
After this summer’s tour, the band will be returning to Pittsburgh, because, as unanimously agreed, it loves Pittsburgh. In fact, all players but Avershal are locals.
“[The city] gets a bad rap, but it is awesome. The place is so cheap,” said Smalls of Pittsburgh. “Like, I actually earn enough to buy a home,” said Smalls.
“I think the music venues are awesome,” said Somervill. “You just have to get out and play in a few.”
With summer tour plans forming and growing through the band’s MySpace page, Vindell has a bright future to look forward to. It also has another ambitious goal.
“We’re trying to tour with Michael Jackson,” said Smalls with a straight face.
Vindell’s next big performance will be Amnesty International’s benefit concert for the Stop Violence Campaign at The Shiloh in Lawrenceville this Friday.
Kidjo's Activism
http://www.pittnews.com/arts_entertainment/1.849013-1.849013
Singer performs world music and activism
From October 2008
Updated: Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Angelique Kidjo will bring her world music and message of hope to Pittsburgh tonight at the Byham.
Kidjo is a Grammy-winning Benin native whose musical hand has gone far beyond her native country. She is a singer who draws on her African heritage for musical inspiration, and she is a renowned performer worldwide.
Her parents’ interest in music greatly influenced her.
“I would perform with my mother’s theater group when I was 6 and my father played the banjo,” said Kidjo.
In addition to the respect her parents gave her for traditional instruments and dances, her brother was a member of a cover band. Kidjo often heard cover songs from around the world that included well known Western classic-rock songs by artists like the Beatles.
Because of global and traditional influences, Kidjo’s music is hardly limited to African instruments. In fact, the styles she uses vary from almost classical to rock to salsa and samba. She sings in her native language and other languages she has learned, including English.
In addition to English, “I speak Fon, Yoruba, Goun and French,” said Kidjo. But she insists that the language she speaks is not the dominating issue with her music. “Because music is the universal language ... there is no one language for emotion.”
She stands by the words that all music, including hers, is meant to heal. And she has plenty of first-hand accounts to prove her theory.
“One person has come to me, telling me that they survived breast cancer because of my music, it gave them the strength, the power, to fight it, and get back to their life.”
She continued, “I met a young woman who was the only survivor in a car crash. The doctor said she would never be able to walk ... her brother brought my CD to her. She came to my show, and she was walking on crutches.”
Wobbling painfully on crutches, defying a diagnosis, the young woman explained to Kidjo it was her music that kept the young woman from giving up.
Kidjo surrounded herself with famous names. She has recorded songs with people such as Alicia Keys and Josh Groban. Her producer is Tony Visconti, associated with David Bowie and Marc Bolan.
She is known for regularly performing covers such as a redone “Voodoo Chile,” originally by Jimi Hendrix, and she recorded a John Lennon song for the album Instant Karma: The Amnesty International Campaign to Save Darfur.
Kidjo is also a musician who does not remain apathetic about her opinions on world events. While this isn’t exactly an uncommon phenomenon, she is certainly one of the few who dedicates more than her words to world assistance.
She is a goodwill ambassador for UNICEF. She also founded her own aid and support group, Batonga, which promotes the education of girls in Africa.
“I started [Batonga] by giving girls scholarships to secondary schools ... because if girls do not attend secondary school they will end up in an early marriage,” said Kidjo.
To assist the girls, Kidjo gives money and supplies to both the girls and the families that could have benefited from a marriage payment.
Her goal is to make progress in African countries beginning with the simplest concept of education.
Kidjo said that the source of political turmoil and diseases such as HIV often comes from a lack of education.
Kidjo’s activeness goes one step further than supporting and working with helpful organizations. She has openly and often spoken out against the president of Zimbabwe, Robert Mugabe.
“I believed that, even in extreme time, music is always a tool we can use to give people hope and to empower people to take action in their life,” said Kidjo.
Matt & Kim In Town
http://www.pittnews.com/arts_entertainment/1.915032-1.915032
Matt and Kim get down in WPU
From November 2008
Judging by the success of Matt and Kim’s two-person journey, the life of music stars is still a happy option.
Although they have progressed to MTV2 program hosts, the pair’s musical tale had fairly average origins. Matt Johnson and Kim Schifino’s alternative punk and dance band was formed when their first careers didn’t work out after college.
“Kim was always kind of infatuated with drums,” said Johnson in a phone interview with The Pitt News. “She had never played them and then tried to learn how to play. I had this really cool keyboard I found when I was 15, and I decided it was time to figure it out.”
“It’s way more fun to learn anything if you try to learn things with another person,” added Johnson.
Johnson was 26 and Schifino was 29 when they began practicing. Both had already attended Pratt Institute and discovered that their majors hadn’t suited either of their passions. So they went back to their teenage roots.
“I played in punk bands throughout school, and I used to practice in my bedroom in my parent’s house,” said Johnson. “I don’t know if they liked the noise, but they were always supportive.”
But the pair never planned on success. Their instrument experiments involved muting the sounds of their instruments with towels in their bedroom. It was their friends in other local bands who eventually made them play in public.
Johnson recalled, “I remember being totally terrified — we only had three songs!”
After their performance, though, they continued to make public appearances in small gigs. And thanks to Internet chatter, their audience continued to grow.
They released Matt and Kim in 2006, and their second album, Grand, is due out in 2009. The pair has been traveling and performing for almost four years now.
“There’s so many cool little towns that you find out are fun to go to!” said Johnson.
Johnson and Schifino both continue to enjoy the simplest things in life. The travelers were excited just to have a new van that had working air conditioning.
“We’ll work out some sort of beat together. We always start with the beat for some reason,” said Johnson. “Then I’ll do a keyboard melody or something. When it comes to lyrics, we just rhyme through it. Kim will just write lists of sentences on pieces of paper that have nothing to do with each other, and then I’ll pick out the ones that might go together.”
And from there the music is fine-tuned into a dance melody with head-bang syndrome.
“Our influences are things that we find fun,” admitted Johnson. “We’re really open to music as long as it’s really kind of upbeat and just fun. When it comes to music, we listen to a lot of hip hop.”
Though Schifino, who studied art in college, occasionally draws, Johnson’s hobby turns out to be his daily work.
“I essentially just do my hobby as a job,” he said, “and it’s turned out to be an awesome life.”
Matt and Kim get down in WPU
From November 2008
Judging by the success of Matt and Kim’s two-person journey, the life of music stars is still a happy option.
Although they have progressed to MTV2 program hosts, the pair’s musical tale had fairly average origins. Matt Johnson and Kim Schifino’s alternative punk and dance band was formed when their first careers didn’t work out after college.
“Kim was always kind of infatuated with drums,” said Johnson in a phone interview with The Pitt News. “She had never played them and then tried to learn how to play. I had this really cool keyboard I found when I was 15, and I decided it was time to figure it out.”
“It’s way more fun to learn anything if you try to learn things with another person,” added Johnson.
Johnson was 26 and Schifino was 29 when they began practicing. Both had already attended Pratt Institute and discovered that their majors hadn’t suited either of their passions. So they went back to their teenage roots.
“I played in punk bands throughout school, and I used to practice in my bedroom in my parent’s house,” said Johnson. “I don’t know if they liked the noise, but they were always supportive.”
But the pair never planned on success. Their instrument experiments involved muting the sounds of their instruments with towels in their bedroom. It was their friends in other local bands who eventually made them play in public.
Johnson recalled, “I remember being totally terrified — we only had three songs!”
After their performance, though, they continued to make public appearances in small gigs. And thanks to Internet chatter, their audience continued to grow.
They released Matt and Kim in 2006, and their second album, Grand, is due out in 2009. The pair has been traveling and performing for almost four years now.
“There’s so many cool little towns that you find out are fun to go to!” said Johnson.
Johnson and Schifino both continue to enjoy the simplest things in life. The travelers were excited just to have a new van that had working air conditioning.
“We’ll work out some sort of beat together. We always start with the beat for some reason,” said Johnson. “Then I’ll do a keyboard melody or something. When it comes to lyrics, we just rhyme through it. Kim will just write lists of sentences on pieces of paper that have nothing to do with each other, and then I’ll pick out the ones that might go together.”
And from there the music is fine-tuned into a dance melody with head-bang syndrome.
“Our influences are things that we find fun,” admitted Johnson. “We’re really open to music as long as it’s really kind of upbeat and just fun. When it comes to music, we listen to a lot of hip hop.”
Though Schifino, who studied art in college, occasionally draws, Johnson’s hobby turns out to be his daily work.
“I essentially just do my hobby as a job,” he said, “and it’s turned out to be an awesome life.”
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Poetry: Dragonflies; Ceramic Dolls
So here’s more poetry of mine that I forgot is already considered “published” (that is, it’s available on the Internet) by my high school’s literary magazine website (Pulse) or by the e-zine I write for titled RKYV. They might have been revised since, but that’s OK. I will hopefully keep writing and have more opportunities to submit other things in the future.
Enjoy.
-
Dragonflies
This is the genre of life meant to be despised.
It’s the kind that should be denied existence,
just as friends can deny us in moments
of true need, or sorrow, or celebration.
This is the evening that carries the worst of news –
the taking over of disease, cancer-like –
unconfirmed, invasive, unwelcome, terrifying.
As the family goes to tears, only adding to misery,
I long to be drunk – not on alcohol. This family
does not need two livers failing on them this month.
I just long to be drunk on fresh air, by running streams,
both untouched by the pollution of mankind.
In the fields that I long to feel under my feet,
I could run off as fast as a bullet, and like one, I
Could fly on looking for a target…
Looking for a stop to unload my baggage
without overburdening the friends
who denied me on this hated night.
As I run through my wishing-fantasy,
I am distracted by the dragonflies zipping about
over the soft corners of the streams in the field,
looking for their lovers, to share their night,
And having better luck than I did.
How sad, when even in my imagination,
the reflection of my unspoken wishes,
the insects can obtain more luck than I.
*
Ceramic Dolls
The staring contest among the super powers continues,
Always behind a thick door sealed from its inside.
Each country’s delegate sits, alone and determined.
Behind the door, lamps flicker, dim, bright, dim - flash.
The light waves behind to blind and charge harder
And faster than the Earth’s sun ever could.
And the intensity of the moment disintegrates
Any thought process once in possession
Until the pairs of seated eyes forget to stare,
Forget to be the winner in their political struggle.
They stumble, trip over their pant legs as fabric stretches,
And feel their suits rip and slacken. It slowly seems that
The garments have lost their coloring and identities,
As the people lost their faces over time, and hidden debate.
The beams from the lamps come still and seem to melt bones,
And the crumbling shapes cry out their confusion
To deaf ears around them. The shouts tumble over bodies,
Into walls - it’s insignificant where the noise lands. No one hears.
And the lamps begin to dim, in inches of light. Old splintered men stand
Where young ceramic dolls once marched,
Proclaiming their kingship to the world;
And the old men see only folly; just much too late to save their reflections,
Still staring through the glass of the dimming, disappearing lamp light.
Enjoy.
-
Dragonflies
This is the genre of life meant to be despised.
It’s the kind that should be denied existence,
just as friends can deny us in moments
of true need, or sorrow, or celebration.
This is the evening that carries the worst of news –
the taking over of disease, cancer-like –
unconfirmed, invasive, unwelcome, terrifying.
As the family goes to tears, only adding to misery,
I long to be drunk – not on alcohol. This family
does not need two livers failing on them this month.
I just long to be drunk on fresh air, by running streams,
both untouched by the pollution of mankind.
In the fields that I long to feel under my feet,
I could run off as fast as a bullet, and like one, I
Could fly on looking for a target…
Looking for a stop to unload my baggage
without overburdening the friends
who denied me on this hated night.
As I run through my wishing-fantasy,
I am distracted by the dragonflies zipping about
over the soft corners of the streams in the field,
looking for their lovers, to share their night,
And having better luck than I did.
How sad, when even in my imagination,
the reflection of my unspoken wishes,
the insects can obtain more luck than I.
*
Ceramic Dolls
The staring contest among the super powers continues,
Always behind a thick door sealed from its inside.
Each country’s delegate sits, alone and determined.
Behind the door, lamps flicker, dim, bright, dim - flash.
The light waves behind to blind and charge harder
And faster than the Earth’s sun ever could.
And the intensity of the moment disintegrates
Any thought process once in possession
Until the pairs of seated eyes forget to stare,
Forget to be the winner in their political struggle.
They stumble, trip over their pant legs as fabric stretches,
And feel their suits rip and slacken. It slowly seems that
The garments have lost their coloring and identities,
As the people lost their faces over time, and hidden debate.
The beams from the lamps come still and seem to melt bones,
And the crumbling shapes cry out their confusion
To deaf ears around them. The shouts tumble over bodies,
Into walls - it’s insignificant where the noise lands. No one hears.
And the lamps begin to dim, in inches of light. Old splintered men stand
Where young ceramic dolls once marched,
Proclaiming their kingship to the world;
And the old men see only folly; just much too late to save their reflections,
Still staring through the glass of the dimming, disappearing lamp light.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Published Short Story, Pondering Evil
http://www.teenink.com/raw/Fiction/article/97424/Pondering-Evil/
Originally published with Teen Ink, this story was written when I was seventeen. I hope to eventually improve it, but for now, I am content to practice on other projects.
*
Regretful rays of sunshine abandoned the earth they protected each day, as the tilt of the planet dragged the light behind the community church. Little feet scrambled to run indoors before their names were harshly called into echoing streets. Water ran from faucets inside houses as the families rinsed away the taint of the night before supper. All members of the community spoke an individual family prayer; their houses swiftly filled with family chatter and the clatter of silverware.
Yet something was missing inside each set of the supposedly safe walls, a harmony to complete the overall score of small town life - laughter.
Inside the community church itself, two children mechanically lifted half-filled spoons to their soft lips as their grandmother spoke to them. The woman had clearly won in her battle against Father Time. Her short body was lean; though she chose to conceal her body beneath floating robes, she carried herself with the air of a woman trained in powerful arts.
“There are many beings on this earth,” she told the children, carefully plaiting her silver hair into a braid as she spoke. “Some are good. Some are evil. Some can be either. Now, name some evil things for me.”
“Demons,” the boy whispered, dripping red liquid from his spoon. His light eyes, full of fear and tension, contrasted with his greasy dark hair.
The woman nodded, a slow and reluctant twitch. The children were young, both under the age of ten. There would be a day they found themselves wise enough for her to explain herself thoroughly. Until they could understand, they had to believe what their pastor taught them – whether the young man was correct or mislead himself.
“Mother,” a man called from a top floor. “If the kids are done, they need to come upstairs to do their chores.”
The boy and girl groaned. The old woman smiled, her fingers finishing off the stiff braid.
“Listen to your parents, children. They are right, of course.”
“Ah, Grandma,” the girl protested. Under the stern gaze of their grandmother’s dark eyes, they stood and kissed the woman’s pale cheek before stampeding away.
A younger lady came in to clear the table. “I always wonder about those two,” she admitted with a glance at the stairs. “I wonder how they’ll grow...”
“They will be smart, like their mother,” the old woman confidently assured her daughter. The woman shook her head and opened her mouth to wave off the compliment, only to be interrupted by a ringing emergency bell. The sound clashed through closed windows, demanding attention and arrogantly calling away any who would dare to silent it.
With a sigh, the grandmother stood up. “I feel my body protesting this more and more every night,” she murmured quietly as she strolled out of the church.
Her daughter forced herself to pretend she had not heard the words the grandmother had uttered. The grandmother had no successor, could not even think of aging when no one stood ready to take the protector’s place.
-
Outside, the night had swiftly been clasped between the fingers of a deep chill. Ignoring the icy blasts of a furious wind on her face, the old woman raised a cedar wood cross that hung from her boney wrist.
“Demons of the night,” she growled to the wind. “Enough with this! Enough of the crimes you commit in this community! Return to the place in Hell you belong!”
A shadowy hand reached from the darkness behind her. She couldn’t see it; she could merely feel it, as well as the arctic grasp colder than the raging autumn winds.
The grandmother gasped as the arctic shadow wound itself around her body, a dark chain made to cling and destroy by touch alone.
A bubble of panic inflated in the grandmother’s chest.
Desperately, the grandmother chanted, the rhythm of her voice interrupted by gulps of air. But the arctic shadow did not weaken at the words of her ancestors. It tightened, clamped around her waist and imprinting its numbing signature into her skin.
The bubble in the grandmother’s chest broke as she saw her pale skin beginning to resemble radiant snow drifts. She struck the shadow with a blessed pointed tip of her cross. The shadow did not react with more than a snarl over the wind.
‘Am I going to die?’ the grandmother asked herself within her struggle. Would the next exorcist and protector in training have to take her place too soon, without proper training, preparation – initiation?
The grandmother’s fading vision latched onto a shining movement of silver; the shapeless, floating color slipped among the shadow, breaking the chain-formed darkness into separate strands. The darkness was forced to release its grip, cracking apart with a metallic growl. Along with the freedom of movement came the blessing of warmth, and the return of color underneath the grandmother’s wrinkled epidermis.
The old woman surveyed her surroundings; both black chain and mysterious silver had disappeared.
Her weak, trembling legs barely managed to support her frame as the relief bubble replaced the panic one.
“Is anything truly evil?” she wondered aloud with a shaking voice, remembering the friend she had made in the night twenty-some years ago. How in a stroke of compassion, she had bandaged the arm of a demon in its human form.
He had been more charming than any she had found, asking for her love and receiving it in a moment of blind abandonment.
He had also been easily influenced and swayed by her compassion. Never again had he committed a crime that led her to exorcise him.
“And are the answers ever simple?” the grandmother asked the sky that had swallowed her dark lover and the enemy he had battled.
She walked back towards the church that her job and tradition demanded she dwell in; never mind her differences of opinion.
Her daughter stood waiting in the door frame. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yes,” snapped the aging woman, in a tight voice meant to strangle any who tried to protest it.
“Mother...this is the third time you have been caught within the last few years. You never had this problem before this decade. Perhaps...”
“No!” The grandmother smacked her hand into the wall as she caught her balance. “It’s not the end of my time yet. I will not choose a successor to finish training yet!”
Inside her mind, away from the probing of her limited daughter, her thoughts did not agree. It was her time, yes…yet…
‘I cannot let my friend fall victim to an exorcism by mistake. One day, I will die. Until then, I will protect him as he protects me. I will find the way. I will convince the next protector not all the demons are evil. Not all deserve to be locked back to the Hell they sprouted from…
‘We like to think the world is so simple, under our control, when truly we have no power. We only long for comfort, stability, and knowledge. Are even the facts we live by reliable? And who am I, to judge these things?’
She had the answers to none of her questions; the claustrophobia of her attic room could force her to ponder continuously, but never participated in the discussion.
Apart of her knew she never would understand, no matter how extensive her pondering. Despite her powers of exorcism, her gift to protect, she pondered as much as her relatives just what humanity needed to be protected from.
That was her connection to all others – the pondering, the hesitancy to claim one evil was greater than any other forms.
Originally published with Teen Ink, this story was written when I was seventeen. I hope to eventually improve it, but for now, I am content to practice on other projects.
*
Regretful rays of sunshine abandoned the earth they protected each day, as the tilt of the planet dragged the light behind the community church. Little feet scrambled to run indoors before their names were harshly called into echoing streets. Water ran from faucets inside houses as the families rinsed away the taint of the night before supper. All members of the community spoke an individual family prayer; their houses swiftly filled with family chatter and the clatter of silverware.
Yet something was missing inside each set of the supposedly safe walls, a harmony to complete the overall score of small town life - laughter.
Inside the community church itself, two children mechanically lifted half-filled spoons to their soft lips as their grandmother spoke to them. The woman had clearly won in her battle against Father Time. Her short body was lean; though she chose to conceal her body beneath floating robes, she carried herself with the air of a woman trained in powerful arts.
“There are many beings on this earth,” she told the children, carefully plaiting her silver hair into a braid as she spoke. “Some are good. Some are evil. Some can be either. Now, name some evil things for me.”
“Demons,” the boy whispered, dripping red liquid from his spoon. His light eyes, full of fear and tension, contrasted with his greasy dark hair.
The woman nodded, a slow and reluctant twitch. The children were young, both under the age of ten. There would be a day they found themselves wise enough for her to explain herself thoroughly. Until they could understand, they had to believe what their pastor taught them – whether the young man was correct or mislead himself.
“Mother,” a man called from a top floor. “If the kids are done, they need to come upstairs to do their chores.”
The boy and girl groaned. The old woman smiled, her fingers finishing off the stiff braid.
“Listen to your parents, children. They are right, of course.”
“Ah, Grandma,” the girl protested. Under the stern gaze of their grandmother’s dark eyes, they stood and kissed the woman’s pale cheek before stampeding away.
A younger lady came in to clear the table. “I always wonder about those two,” she admitted with a glance at the stairs. “I wonder how they’ll grow...”
“They will be smart, like their mother,” the old woman confidently assured her daughter. The woman shook her head and opened her mouth to wave off the compliment, only to be interrupted by a ringing emergency bell. The sound clashed through closed windows, demanding attention and arrogantly calling away any who would dare to silent it.
With a sigh, the grandmother stood up. “I feel my body protesting this more and more every night,” she murmured quietly as she strolled out of the church.
Her daughter forced herself to pretend she had not heard the words the grandmother had uttered. The grandmother had no successor, could not even think of aging when no one stood ready to take the protector’s place.
-
Outside, the night had swiftly been clasped between the fingers of a deep chill. Ignoring the icy blasts of a furious wind on her face, the old woman raised a cedar wood cross that hung from her boney wrist.
“Demons of the night,” she growled to the wind. “Enough with this! Enough of the crimes you commit in this community! Return to the place in Hell you belong!”
A shadowy hand reached from the darkness behind her. She couldn’t see it; she could merely feel it, as well as the arctic grasp colder than the raging autumn winds.
The grandmother gasped as the arctic shadow wound itself around her body, a dark chain made to cling and destroy by touch alone.
A bubble of panic inflated in the grandmother’s chest.
Desperately, the grandmother chanted, the rhythm of her voice interrupted by gulps of air. But the arctic shadow did not weaken at the words of her ancestors. It tightened, clamped around her waist and imprinting its numbing signature into her skin.
The bubble in the grandmother’s chest broke as she saw her pale skin beginning to resemble radiant snow drifts. She struck the shadow with a blessed pointed tip of her cross. The shadow did not react with more than a snarl over the wind.
‘Am I going to die?’ the grandmother asked herself within her struggle. Would the next exorcist and protector in training have to take her place too soon, without proper training, preparation – initiation?
The grandmother’s fading vision latched onto a shining movement of silver; the shapeless, floating color slipped among the shadow, breaking the chain-formed darkness into separate strands. The darkness was forced to release its grip, cracking apart with a metallic growl. Along with the freedom of movement came the blessing of warmth, and the return of color underneath the grandmother’s wrinkled epidermis.
The old woman surveyed her surroundings; both black chain and mysterious silver had disappeared.
Her weak, trembling legs barely managed to support her frame as the relief bubble replaced the panic one.
“Is anything truly evil?” she wondered aloud with a shaking voice, remembering the friend she had made in the night twenty-some years ago. How in a stroke of compassion, she had bandaged the arm of a demon in its human form.
He had been more charming than any she had found, asking for her love and receiving it in a moment of blind abandonment.
He had also been easily influenced and swayed by her compassion. Never again had he committed a crime that led her to exorcise him.
“And are the answers ever simple?” the grandmother asked the sky that had swallowed her dark lover and the enemy he had battled.
She walked back towards the church that her job and tradition demanded she dwell in; never mind her differences of opinion.
Her daughter stood waiting in the door frame. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yes,” snapped the aging woman, in a tight voice meant to strangle any who tried to protest it.
“Mother...this is the third time you have been caught within the last few years. You never had this problem before this decade. Perhaps...”
“No!” The grandmother smacked her hand into the wall as she caught her balance. “It’s not the end of my time yet. I will not choose a successor to finish training yet!”
Inside her mind, away from the probing of her limited daughter, her thoughts did not agree. It was her time, yes…yet…
‘I cannot let my friend fall victim to an exorcism by mistake. One day, I will die. Until then, I will protect him as he protects me. I will find the way. I will convince the next protector not all the demons are evil. Not all deserve to be locked back to the Hell they sprouted from…
‘We like to think the world is so simple, under our control, when truly we have no power. We only long for comfort, stability, and knowledge. Are even the facts we live by reliable? And who am I, to judge these things?’
She had the answers to none of her questions; the claustrophobia of her attic room could force her to ponder continuously, but never participated in the discussion.
Apart of her knew she never would understand, no matter how extensive her pondering. Despite her powers of exorcism, her gift to protect, she pondered as much as her relatives just what humanity needed to be protected from.
That was her connection to all others – the pondering, the hesitancy to claim one evil was greater than any other forms.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
The Wave
"An experiment...that became a movement."
"It was like I was the second Hitler" -Ron Jones
Films based on true events definitely do not need to stick to the original story.
“The Wave”.
First it was a small class experiment that was ended before any damage was done.
Then it was a slow, grainy quality ABC family special about how the cult affected each teen. And now?
Now it’s a foreign film that sold out during its exhibition at the Pittsburgh Jewish-Israeli Film Festival, leaving long lines stranded and twisted around the other stores as people arrived too late to buy their tickets. Luckily for me, I had tickets prepaid through my family, and I had the chance to compare the new one with the old ABC special.
The remade “The Wave” is bright and colorful, and intermingled with parties and potential sex. And the film is far more brutal and violent than the true event or the ABC special.
But the same idea created it. Students who believed the Holocaust and Nazi’s were not worthy of being studied (because how in the Hell would they ever come to power again? Why would anyone have dared to blame everything on one man and lack their own self decision?) were drawn into an experiment by their teacher.
“Do this, it will improve concentration. Wear this; it will unite us. Who wants to design a symbol for our group?”
The movie shows the idea of how, in one week, the students completely change in ways that are not easily comprehended or recorded. It is for the bizarre and horrendous natures like this that I believe film exists; because I have a hard time accepting any other medium can capture this film’s intensity.
Because it is a foreign film, however, I cannot go into depth about things like dialogue and culture notices. All I can say is that foreign or not, its theme about the Holocaust and World War II are far more uniting and important than the culture of the children within. Especially in our era of globalization.
“The Wave” is worth checking out. And afterward, it is worth thinking about one’s own relationships to groups and people.
"It was like I was the second Hitler" -Ron Jones
Films based on true events definitely do not need to stick to the original story.
“The Wave”.
First it was a small class experiment that was ended before any damage was done.
Then it was a slow, grainy quality ABC family special about how the cult affected each teen. And now?
Now it’s a foreign film that sold out during its exhibition at the Pittsburgh Jewish-Israeli Film Festival, leaving long lines stranded and twisted around the other stores as people arrived too late to buy their tickets. Luckily for me, I had tickets prepaid through my family, and I had the chance to compare the new one with the old ABC special.
The remade “The Wave” is bright and colorful, and intermingled with parties and potential sex. And the film is far more brutal and violent than the true event or the ABC special.
But the same idea created it. Students who believed the Holocaust and Nazi’s were not worthy of being studied (because how in the Hell would they ever come to power again? Why would anyone have dared to blame everything on one man and lack their own self decision?) were drawn into an experiment by their teacher.
“Do this, it will improve concentration. Wear this; it will unite us. Who wants to design a symbol for our group?”
The movie shows the idea of how, in one week, the students completely change in ways that are not easily comprehended or recorded. It is for the bizarre and horrendous natures like this that I believe film exists; because I have a hard time accepting any other medium can capture this film’s intensity.
Because it is a foreign film, however, I cannot go into depth about things like dialogue and culture notices. All I can say is that foreign or not, its theme about the Holocaust and World War II are far more uniting and important than the culture of the children within. Especially in our era of globalization.
“The Wave” is worth checking out. And afterward, it is worth thinking about one’s own relationships to groups and people.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Harry Potter Time!
http://www.pittnews.com/arts_entertainment/1.922714-1.922714
The preview for an older performance in dear old Pittsburgh. Who says Harry Potter is a kid's fantasy?
Harry Potter-inspired rock is onstage magic
Harry Potter doesn’t exactly scream rock ’n’ roll attitude. But to many of his musically talented fans, he’s the perfect inspiration.
“After being really bummed out about the fact that Millicent Bulstrode wouldn’t dance with me at the Yule Ball, I sat down with a bottle of butterbeer and started paying attention to the band that evening, the Weird Sisters,” recalled Justin Edward Michaelman in an e-mail to The Pitt News.
Well, no, he didn’t really interact with classmates and characters from Harry Potter’s magical world.
However, Harry Potter’s world certainly inspired Michaelman, along with multitudes of other fans.
Wizard rock, the genre that began with Harry and the Potters in Massachusetts and is composed simply of music about or inspired by Harry Potter, has since spread throughout America and internationally. An entire site known as the Wizrocklopedia has developed as a base, reporting on and promoting the world’s wizard rock bands.
Of course, only three of the 500 and growing bands can reasonably fit within a coffeehouse. The featured groups will be The Whomping Willows, Justin Finch-Fletchley & The Sugar Quills, and Tonks & The Aurors.
The bands each differ in their specific song styles, with instruments varying from guitars to keyboards and tambourines.
The focus switches between bands, too. The Whomping Willows likes to focus on the abusive tree from the novels. Justin Finch-Fletchley & The Sugar Quills has a song about the sweet shop where wizard snacks are sold, and Tonks & The Aurors has many about, well, Tonks the Auror.
Still, the roots that the bands share remain the same as that of all Harry Potter readers and fans.
“The values and ideals are a big draw,” said Michaelman. “Also, in one way or another, as a reader, it is easy for someone to find an indirect personal relation to a certain theme or event that happens to Harry or another more prominently featured character.”
Michaelman is the head of the group known as Justin Finch-Fletchley & The Sugar Quills. The group’s goal has been to encourage artists of all varieties to continue to fight for their dreams. His advice?
“Don’t stop believing in yourself, and eat more pizza.”
Finding other Harry Potter fans to support the bands was a key factor in wizard rock success, and thanks to the technology available now, it wasn’t hard to promote music.
Stephanie Anderson of the band known as Tonks & The Aurors used the Internet to her full advantage after the conclusion of the series inspired her to write out her song ideas.
“I recorded two demos first and put them on the band’s Myspace. Thanks to the Wizrocklopedia, I gained a good number of fans quickly, and people responded really well to the songs,” said Anderson.
In theme with Harry Potter, the assistance from comrades and friends was an important factor in Anderson’s promotion.
“I’ll also say that Matt Maggiaccomo ... has also been a big help. Since after the first show I played with him, he’s encouraged people to listen to my music and book me for shows,” reflected Anderson. “He helped me gain some respect from wizard rock veterans.”
Matt Maggiaccomo of The Whomping Willows has done more than promote his fellow wizard rock members. He has involved himself in The HP Alliance as a board member for the group.
Maggiaccomo was not available for comment because of his touring schedule. But according to the HP Alliance’s Web site, “The Harry Potter Alliance is dedicated to using the examples of Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore to spread love and fight the Dark Arts in the real world. Please join us in creating the real Dumbledore’s Army.”
Harry Potter’s storyline has been compared to worldwide issues in multiple ways — from genocide to government ignorance.
Even wizard rock music, which is often fun, chipper and meant to bring smiles to the fan base’s faces, has its moments of darkness. Of course, not all dark moments have to involve politics — heartbreak is as common in wizard rock as in the mainstream.
“Some of my songs are ’bout pretty heavy subjects,” said Anderson.
In line with the namesake of her group, she discussed how her songs deal with the relationship between Harry Potter characters Tanks and Lupin — two characters who fall in love but have some serious differences and issues to work through.
“It’s these universal themes that lend themselves to music, but there’s just Harry Potter references thrown in here and there,” added Anderson.
“There’s definitely nothing funny about these songs, but they’re still wizard rock. And I love them a lot.”
The preview for an older performance in dear old Pittsburgh. Who says Harry Potter is a kid's fantasy?
Harry Potter-inspired rock is onstage magic
Harry Potter doesn’t exactly scream rock ’n’ roll attitude. But to many of his musically talented fans, he’s the perfect inspiration.
“After being really bummed out about the fact that Millicent Bulstrode wouldn’t dance with me at the Yule Ball, I sat down with a bottle of butterbeer and started paying attention to the band that evening, the Weird Sisters,” recalled Justin Edward Michaelman in an e-mail to The Pitt News.
Well, no, he didn’t really interact with classmates and characters from Harry Potter’s magical world.
However, Harry Potter’s world certainly inspired Michaelman, along with multitudes of other fans.
Wizard rock, the genre that began with Harry and the Potters in Massachusetts and is composed simply of music about or inspired by Harry Potter, has since spread throughout America and internationally. An entire site known as the Wizrocklopedia has developed as a base, reporting on and promoting the world’s wizard rock bands.
Of course, only three of the 500 and growing bands can reasonably fit within a coffeehouse. The featured groups will be The Whomping Willows, Justin Finch-Fletchley & The Sugar Quills, and Tonks & The Aurors.
The bands each differ in their specific song styles, with instruments varying from guitars to keyboards and tambourines.
The focus switches between bands, too. The Whomping Willows likes to focus on the abusive tree from the novels. Justin Finch-Fletchley & The Sugar Quills has a song about the sweet shop where wizard snacks are sold, and Tonks & The Aurors has many about, well, Tonks the Auror.
Still, the roots that the bands share remain the same as that of all Harry Potter readers and fans.
“The values and ideals are a big draw,” said Michaelman. “Also, in one way or another, as a reader, it is easy for someone to find an indirect personal relation to a certain theme or event that happens to Harry or another more prominently featured character.”
Michaelman is the head of the group known as Justin Finch-Fletchley & The Sugar Quills. The group’s goal has been to encourage artists of all varieties to continue to fight for their dreams. His advice?
“Don’t stop believing in yourself, and eat more pizza.”
Finding other Harry Potter fans to support the bands was a key factor in wizard rock success, and thanks to the technology available now, it wasn’t hard to promote music.
Stephanie Anderson of the band known as Tonks & The Aurors used the Internet to her full advantage after the conclusion of the series inspired her to write out her song ideas.
“I recorded two demos first and put them on the band’s Myspace. Thanks to the Wizrocklopedia, I gained a good number of fans quickly, and people responded really well to the songs,” said Anderson.
In theme with Harry Potter, the assistance from comrades and friends was an important factor in Anderson’s promotion.
“I’ll also say that Matt Maggiaccomo ... has also been a big help. Since after the first show I played with him, he’s encouraged people to listen to my music and book me for shows,” reflected Anderson. “He helped me gain some respect from wizard rock veterans.”
Matt Maggiaccomo of The Whomping Willows has done more than promote his fellow wizard rock members. He has involved himself in The HP Alliance as a board member for the group.
Maggiaccomo was not available for comment because of his touring schedule. But according to the HP Alliance’s Web site, “The Harry Potter Alliance is dedicated to using the examples of Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore to spread love and fight the Dark Arts in the real world. Please join us in creating the real Dumbledore’s Army.”
Harry Potter’s storyline has been compared to worldwide issues in multiple ways — from genocide to government ignorance.
Even wizard rock music, which is often fun, chipper and meant to bring smiles to the fan base’s faces, has its moments of darkness. Of course, not all dark moments have to involve politics — heartbreak is as common in wizard rock as in the mainstream.
“Some of my songs are ’bout pretty heavy subjects,” said Anderson.
In line with the namesake of her group, she discussed how her songs deal with the relationship between Harry Potter characters Tanks and Lupin — two characters who fall in love but have some serious differences and issues to work through.
“It’s these universal themes that lend themselves to music, but there’s just Harry Potter references thrown in here and there,” added Anderson.
“There’s definitely nothing funny about these songs, but they’re still wizard rock. And I love them a lot.”
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Short Story - 618, A.K.A. Asher
(First featured by RKYV e-zine.)
April 16, 2089
Bones in the earth’s soil are the proof that monsters roamed our planet. But some monster’s met their fate in a very different type of bone yard. Those monsters were melted down and recycled, rather than left to rot and be forgotten in the ground.
In their prime, they roamed the earth, carrying their passengers and good. All the while, they roared and whistled, a thunderstorm flying on wheels – and all the while, by some miracle, they worked under human control.
There has always been an aura around the majestic locomotive in front of its coaches. Even the ones pulling freight and trucks had an air of dignity about them. The sound of their eerie whistle and pounding pistons bothered some but calmed many more. To help rebuild and preserve their beauty would indeed be a fortunate, pleasing job for---
“Sam! Put that journal away and come here!”
Fiery redhead Samantha Whistler scowled from her seat at a circular table within the Steam Town Mall food court. Brianna, her mother, stood at the window of the spacious room. Clean and uptight from the neat violet blouse on her torso to the sophisticated dark denim on her legs, she seemed frustrated with Sam for daring to record personal thoughts in public, if not at all.
Maybe, Sam reasoned in her logical mind, she was afraid of what those personal thoughts might be: more “trouble”, more “rebelling”, if that was what chasing dreams really meant. After all, compared to those clean and pressed clothes on her mother, Sam’s loose v-neck charcoal shirt and ripped denim was pure trash.
Sam sighed, closing the journal with an audible thump. Her mother’s window reflection scowled deeply; Sam’s little brother, Ted, was tugging at his mother’s hand in impatience.
As he distracted Brianna, Sam slipped her green Mead notebook into her checkerboard pattern shoulder bag and stood, joining her family at the enormous window. Beside them was the door that led to a outdoors wooden deck. The deck, littered with electronic information boards that read themselves when commanded, connected to a winding ramp that reminded Sam of a roller coaster line. The ramp ended at a platform and station at the end of the museum’s property.
Brianna suddenly huffed, noisily striking a strand of pale blonde hair off of the shoulder of her blouse with cold, bony fingers. Sam found herself wondering how the hair had even escaped from the thick, tight bun on Brianna’s head.
Sam hid her agitation and turned her eyes from the door to observe the land stretching away from the mall and ramp. Below, the historic site remained a replica of a century left behind by most. Any workers were human rather than machine, each simulating the hard jobs of railway workers. Multiple branches of rail track branched from the museum’s red storage barn. More steel rails ran past the station or beneath a replicated coal shoot. Scattered on display on the tracks were preserved coaches and engines, all gleaming proudly. Visitors strolled on the graveled aisles between the tracks, admiring the years of work being dedicated to each item at the museum. A line of six green coaches sat beside the russet barn, complete with a matching caboose in the back and a baggage truck in the front.
Brianna’s sighs were becoming incredibly interruptive, too much so for Sam to ignore. There were a lot of things she couldn’t ignore – like how her mother insisted she one day drop her time with her mostly male friends to attend an old-fashioned manner school as ancient as the machines here at Steam Town. And because Sam wouldn’t enroll, Brianna took her payback from demanding babysitting duty quite often.
It could have been because Sam’s father left years ago, leaving one working parent to care for the two children. There truly might not be money to pay for another sitter. More likely, Sam suspected, Brianna was creating a busy schedule to keep Sam from applying for jobs at scrap yards and repair shops. It was her way of hiding Sam, of locking her and throwing away the key that would have let Sam loose herself and go to work with her friends in a predictable schedule.
Her thoughts turning bitter, Sam subconsciously rubbed her brother’s head. Ted remained at her side, laughing at the sensation. Brianna huffed again, biting back a comment about not touching another in public, before smiling. “Are you two excited for the trip?”
“I am, I am!” An ardent Ted jumped up and down. Sam smiled and nodded over the bouncing head.
Much more than you, she added silently. Despite the smile on her pale face, Brianna was cringing inside. She had wanted to take a plane to visit family in D.C., arguing that it was faster and cleaner than anything else available. Before she had reserved their tickers for the flight, Sam found a brochure advertising a special trip from the local museum. The museum was beginning to offer round-trip tickets, cheaper than the airlines, for travel to those who were interested in traveling on updated technology with a historical spin to it. Sam had showed the brochure to her brother, and told him this trip would mean he not have to sit in a cramped, smelly airline seat like he had on last year’s trip. With Ted in her arsenal, she had been able to strategically debate with and work her mother into submission.
Now they were waiting for the train to begin boarding. They had already submitted their baggage to be numbered and loaded. All they had remaining in their hands were their carry-ons.
“Where do you think our train is?” Brianna asked, already impatient, convinced she could be sitting on an airplane at that very moment.
There was a loud clang below as one of the stations below rang an enormous bell to call attention to the area. Visitors were ushered away from the displayed items by overalled volunteers. The visitors were told to stand on the station and sidewalks, and then ordered not to wander off of the sidewalks until the train had left in an hour or two.
Sam smiled at the bustle. “This is probably it!” she told her mother excitedly. She walked around her mother and pushed the food court door open to step onto the ramp and see what would happen.
A man in overalls pushed a door of the russet barn open. Standing a slight distance from the track was a man in a black suit, white shirt, and chain pocket watch: the uniform of the conductor. In his ear was a small but sensitive earpiece and microphone that replaced old-fashioned shouting or static-plagued radio. He beckoned to the shape inside of the barn, waving his hand and speaking clearly into the wired equipment he wore. “Bring her out!”
Steam began leaking from the open doors, and the sound of pushing gears echoed outwards. And finally, slowly, carefully, and gracefully, the newly rebuilt and modernized steam engine slid noisily out of her stall within the barn. She was welcomed by a loud gasp of awe. Several children shrieked in delight at the sight; their parents were too stunned to order them to behave.
Though the beautiful locomotive appeared to be the same build as her steam ancestors, her insides were built with electric motors and several sturdy, strong batteries that collected their power from transparent solar panels on the top and sides of the engine. She mimicked the 4-6-6-4 engine and retained the Challenger’s glamorous appearance. She had been painted a beautiful, shining jeweled green, and she glimmered under the sun. The small bronze bell set on the top of her front metal plate clanged. Beneath her bell fresh white paint formed her number, 618.
Inside of her cab, her lean and lank electrician laughed. “Save your strength, beautiful,” he told the machine. The toned and tanned motorman chuckled.
“Don’t worry, Henry. Our Asher can handle a little viewing, rebuilt or not. We’re getting extra payments depending on how much people donate or comment on this little spectacle, too. Let her help us out if she wants.”
He then pulled on a rope hanging near his open window. Among all of the dials meant to run the engine in place of her firebox, this single piece of equipment was the most primitive. No one had wanted to update the rope. It would have eliminated the chance to make a historically classic pose and noise all visitors recognized.
The whistle of engine 618, A.K.A. Asher, shrieked along with the delighted children. And indeed, she sounded as haunting and beautiful as her ancestors had. The sound floated gently over all of the communities surrounding the museum.
As the engine left her stall within the barn, Sam’s brother ran out the door to join her, excited. “Sam, come on! Lets go ahead of Mom, I wanna see the engine!”
It took several tugs to draw Sam out of her silence. She was as awe-struck by the sight of the beautiful engine as everyone else. The skill that had gone into designing such a sight for modern-day workings…
“No, bro. Let’s wait for Mom,” Sam told him reluctantly. “It’ll make her happy, at least.” Brianna lumbered up behind the two, reluctantly impressed. Asher had rumbled past the station to a round of applause, shrieks, and catcall whistles. The track she had rolled down had been laid two lanes over from the station. Now the enormous engine continued on to one of the switches. As she prepared to cross and carefully move back to the platform, a jade-painted tank engine carefully and slowly pushed the line of coaches beside the barn to the platform. They were just as much a spectacle as their proud locomotive. All were painted in a shade of green to match the beautiful engine, with white window frames and wheel axles.
When the family had ambled down the lengthy ramp with their luggage to join the growing crowd of passengers on the large station, 618 was proudly coupled to her coaches. The motorman waved out of his window to the eager crowd, taking time every few minutes to check that the engine’s multiple dials and settings were normal in the cabin.
“I wish I could be up there,” Sam sighed as she watched the motorman.
“”No daughter of mine will participate in such an unladylike behavior!” A nettled Brianna warned Sam with a severe glare. “I tolerate your dress and your friends at my house, but that is all I will tolerate!” Sam looked between the engine, her mother, and the ground, unwillingly retreating.
“This is so small a crowd!” Brianna complained noisily, convinced she’d won the war. The bustling platform was full of passengers; Brianna herself was used to the considerably more crowded terminals of the airlines. The smaller train platform was foreign and unnatural to her.
“Ma’am, I hope this is not going to dissuade you,” a voice begged. Brianna turned to see a dirty-blonde haired man in a navy blue suit. A nametag clipped to his shirt proclaimed him as one of the workers for the trip. “This train is the museum’s pride and joy. Six coaches plus the baggage and caboose is enough work for her after her recent last-minute touch ups.”
The engine before them huffed as he spoke, releasing a thin jet of steam from the roof of her long body; the motorman patted her gleaming cabin with a chuckle. “He isn’t trying to offend you, silly girl,” he told the engine. 618 seemed to calm beneath his hand; the steam eased off and she did not huff a second time.
Brianna apprehensively eyed the train once more, the man in the suit kneeling to lift her carry-on. “Thank you, sir,” she eventually told him. “I am in room 36, car 4, I believe…” With this information in mind, the man led Brianna to the correct coach, her items in tow.
Sam and Ted followed the man and their mother through the narrow hallways of the fourth coach. The man said he would arrive as promptly as possible if they pressed the red button by the door handle. With a tip of his hat, he excused himself and retreated to his duties on the platform.
Sam and Ted remained with Brianna long enough to place their items in the room. Then, with her younger brother safely in tow and Brianna’s permission, Sam went back outside to admire the beautiful train. She settled on one of the benches, smiling as the seat automatically began vibrating and massaging her back. Ted laughed at the sensation, wiggling in his seat.
Despite the relaxation the bench offered, Sam felt sad and out of place as workers began to bring on the suitcases passengers had dropped off earlier in the day. She wanted to be one of the workers, wanted to have the chance to explore the engine…
“She’s beautiful, huh?” The man who had taken Brianna’s baggage on board had reemerged. “A good 201,000 hours were spent rebuilding this beauty. You know, she has a sister engine, engine 610. Built at the same time originally, when they were still trapped in Diesel technology.”
“610…that was the first Glowtrain to safely carry nuclear waste without incident, right?” Sam asked.
“Good girl,” the man beamed. Sam now looked at him, brown eyes to brown eyes, and realized he was much younger than she had originally suspected. He offered a callused hand. “The name’s Alex.”
“Samantha – Sam,” she replied, taking the hand and shaking it firmly.
“Good handshake. You must be pretty confident in yourself to have such a good grip,” Alex complimented her.
Sam looked for a new topic that would hide a blush. “This is Ted, she lamely attempted. The little boy cowered behind his sister, to her benign amusement.
There was a scream from the back of the train. Before anyone could move, an unshaven and dirty man had emerged from the back door of the sixth coach attached to the train. A silver clutch bag clearly belonging to a woman was clasped firmly in his hand. The two security guards in sight were already running down towards them, but were only at the top of the lengthy ramp.
Laughing gleefully, the man ran down the length of the platform. There were shouts as the museum visitors dispersed away from him. Somehow his hands never actually made contact with any of the unfortunate people he knocked to the ground.
As he swiftly drew closer, Sam could see a silver bracelet around his arm giving off a red glow; it was a Deflector, a machine usually sold to police to deflect mobs.
The criminal passed Sam and the group. Alex had jumped to his feet at the sound of the scream, and now tried to grab the man. The man swung an arm out, and the invisible force field his bracelet formed sent Alex crashing against the concrete platform stomach-down with a painful thump. Sam, though holding the frightened Ted in her arms, tried to trip the man while his attention was diverted; she quickly straightened one of her legs out towards the man. She managed to hit his knee.
He stumbled but did not fall with the same strength as Alex. He craned his head to find the cause of his fall and sent a malicious glare towards Sam. Ted cowered further into his sister’s embrace. As she held him, Sam glared directly back at the man, unafraid.
“Bitch!” the man shouted.
Before the criminal could react further, the green locomotive beside him released bolts of electricity from between her massive wheels. The unsuspecting man screamed in pain and fell to his knees, shivering with a seizure-like violence.
Sam stared at the engine before her in frightened bewilderment. The motorman above laughed as he began to climb down the narrow footsteps that dotted their way up the cabin. “Ha! And they say a machine is merely a tool! If that were true we could design a robot that was safe to operate and didn’t eventually rebel and die in the recycling bins. Machines ain’t tools to be used. They’re more human than we are, down to their morals and personalities! Ain’t that right, Asher?!”
Asher whistled proudly. Sam was shocked; the motorman’s hand was nowhere near the rope. The electrician was beneath her line of sight, kneeling down to check Asher’s power monitor. The beautiful locomotive had whistled by its – her - own free will.
There was a small thump as the fried remains of the man’s Deflector fell to the ground. Alex stumbled to his feet, recovering from the blow he had been dealt. Sam patted Ted gently on his head as Alex grabbed the man’s arms and pinned them to his back. It didn’t appear that he wanted to move any time soon.
“Will he be OK?” Ted asked, frightened. Somehow he had found concern for the cause of his fright.
“Yes, sir!” Asher’s electrician called down. “She can release electricity to relieve her circuits, or in this case, deliver some fine justice, but only so much at a time. It’s like steam blowing out was to her ancestors – they only released enough to relieve pressure without losing all of their power. That was a small jolt our thief felt there.”
Small? Sam asked herself. The revealing of this other side of the machine, powerful and free-willed, was almost frightening.
The security guards had arrived, handcuffs ready. The clutch bag was retrieved, and with the moaning man in police custody, Alex began the walk to the end of the six-car train to return the item, still rubbing his head.
“C’mon, Ted,” Sam told her brother as she finally found her own steadiness again. “We had better go inside.”
Brianna, of course, wanted to know what the commotion outside had been. It took Sam and Ted the considerable part of ten minutes to update their mother. All the while, Asher’s coaches were loaded with both baggage and passengers eager to set out.
At the end of the tale, Brianna blanched and exclaimed, “But, children, this train clearly isn’t safe if a crime was committed right outside!”
It took another ten minutes of arguing to keep Brianna on the train.
“Mom!” Sam growled near the end of their debate in frustration. “The engine herself stopped the crime!”
Brianna shuddered. “Machines with genders, machines taking sides…that frightens me more than---“
There was a shrill whistle outside of the coach. One of the conductors shouted out to the front of the train.
As her motorman began to release her brakes, and her electrician carefully opened her circuits to allow power to flow through her, Asher began to move. Brianna settled into one of her seats in knowing defeat. Sam and Ted smiled as they gazed out of the window.
The exit Asher made from the station was smooth. The visitors to the museum cheered again as the glorious train left the station, and headed down the tracks that left the museum. The tracks wound their way out of the city; Asher huffed through Scranton carefully and slowly, at barely ten miles per hour. The citizens stopped their electric cars and honked friendly greetings at the black-and-white crossing gates; people waved from the weed-riddled tracks that left the city.
Finally, as the last coach left the borders of Scranton, Asher whistled one last time in farewell and began to build her speed. Her black wheels spun and pounded the track, still without jolting the coaches behind her. Even Brianna relaxed under the calm feeling of the coaches following their powerful electric steam engine.
“I think I could use a nap,” Brianna eventually declared. “Children, go see the display car, please?”
Sam and Ted eagerly left their mother in peace. The pair walked hand-in-hand through the hallways of the coaches, eventually entering the one just behind the baggage car. Its windows were massive and powerful glass, covering three quarters of the walls and the ceiling. The entire coach seemed to be nothing more than a transparent door to the world outside. The area directly before them was nothing but a green and brown blur, not very interesting to the eye aside from an occasional flash of color. The true treat was the distance: snow-capped mountains hued with purple, along with green grasslands and various species of tree at their base. Small towns also flew past, and the train outraced the cars on the occasionally visible highway.
“It’s so beautiful,” Sam sighed. “And to think Mother was worried about the speed and comfort!”
Alex appeared from behind them, carrying an empty tray. “Already working on room service,” he explained with a grin. “Give me one minute…” He went off to the bar to return the tray. For the first time since they had left the food court at the museum and mall, Sam saw a sign of the modern day: an old but sturdy model of robot was behind the counter, preparing the food and drink and managing the cash register.
As Sam took a seat, she felt a wave of pity for the machine. The poor thing looked out of place inside the coach, a preserved relic of the past. His presence explained why volunteers and human workers ran the historical Scranton site and museum.
When Alex returned, Ted was bouncing on one of the leather seats, expressing his happiness through small shrieks of joy. “Easy, lad,” Alex laughed.
Then he looked at Sam sitting in the chair beside him, her bag on the carpeted floor and journal in hand. She smiled and closed it when she caught him looking. “What is it, sir?” she asked. “If it’s about Ted, I am sorry---“
“It isn’t,” Alex assured her. “I have some news to bring you. When you went inside your coach the second time, the electrician spoke to me. He said he caught Asher eying you earlier in the day.”
Sam stared at Alex, disbelief on her face. “Huh? But how---“
“She directs her circuit’s energy to one spot. Then she can observe the reflections on her solar panels,” the man explained. “Sounds bizarre, I know, but she is as real as you or I.”
“I believe it. All machines have personalities like people. Even our cars.” Sam smiled. “Our cars just haven’t begun to capture criminals in such a showy fashion yet.”
Alex laughed. “I like the way you think. Well, the electrician said that when you return home, he wants you to take a job under him to learn repairs and management. He said he’s getting old and needs someone to know his job, and apparently he thinks Asher judged you worthy after watching and hearing you today.”
Sam stared, and finally began to stutter as her very core warmed inside. Brianna’s rules sat ignored in her mind. “I…I would love it!”
“Great!” Alex stood and wiped a spot of dust off of his pants. “Have to appear presentable to the guests,” he said. “The one downside of this job. Well, I hope I’ll see you working at the barn soon!” he told Sam. He saluted her as he walked to the bar to pick up another tray.
As Asher puffed proudly towards Washington, her coaches in tow, Sam leaned back in her chair, beaming. Her pen quivered in her hand as her gaze fell to the lined paper in her lap, and she began to write with a fervor she had never felt before.
This trip is turning out to be the best thing I ever convinced the family to participate in. Already, I have learned just how much the trains of the past have evolved. I would dare to say I have even made a new friend with one of them. The locomotive herself heard me state one of my desires, and decided after the events with the robber that I might be worthy material aboard her!
Mother doesn’t know; but she isn’t going to hold me back when I tell her what’s happened. I’ll be honest with her, of course. But I can’t pretend she’ll turn me into a proper, old fashioned woman any longer, not when the most beautiful engine I have ever seen looked at me, and chose me! I’ll find someone to replace me as babysitter from now on. I’ll pay him or her out of my own paycheck if necessary. This is my calling. Besides, Asher’s just too special, too unique, too human, to give up and pass off.
April 16, 2089
Bones in the earth’s soil are the proof that monsters roamed our planet. But some monster’s met their fate in a very different type of bone yard. Those monsters were melted down and recycled, rather than left to rot and be forgotten in the ground.
In their prime, they roamed the earth, carrying their passengers and good. All the while, they roared and whistled, a thunderstorm flying on wheels – and all the while, by some miracle, they worked under human control.
There has always been an aura around the majestic locomotive in front of its coaches. Even the ones pulling freight and trucks had an air of dignity about them. The sound of their eerie whistle and pounding pistons bothered some but calmed many more. To help rebuild and preserve their beauty would indeed be a fortunate, pleasing job for---
“Sam! Put that journal away and come here!”
Fiery redhead Samantha Whistler scowled from her seat at a circular table within the Steam Town Mall food court. Brianna, her mother, stood at the window of the spacious room. Clean and uptight from the neat violet blouse on her torso to the sophisticated dark denim on her legs, she seemed frustrated with Sam for daring to record personal thoughts in public, if not at all.
Maybe, Sam reasoned in her logical mind, she was afraid of what those personal thoughts might be: more “trouble”, more “rebelling”, if that was what chasing dreams really meant. After all, compared to those clean and pressed clothes on her mother, Sam’s loose v-neck charcoal shirt and ripped denim was pure trash.
Sam sighed, closing the journal with an audible thump. Her mother’s window reflection scowled deeply; Sam’s little brother, Ted, was tugging at his mother’s hand in impatience.
As he distracted Brianna, Sam slipped her green Mead notebook into her checkerboard pattern shoulder bag and stood, joining her family at the enormous window. Beside them was the door that led to a outdoors wooden deck. The deck, littered with electronic information boards that read themselves when commanded, connected to a winding ramp that reminded Sam of a roller coaster line. The ramp ended at a platform and station at the end of the museum’s property.
Brianna suddenly huffed, noisily striking a strand of pale blonde hair off of the shoulder of her blouse with cold, bony fingers. Sam found herself wondering how the hair had even escaped from the thick, tight bun on Brianna’s head.
Sam hid her agitation and turned her eyes from the door to observe the land stretching away from the mall and ramp. Below, the historic site remained a replica of a century left behind by most. Any workers were human rather than machine, each simulating the hard jobs of railway workers. Multiple branches of rail track branched from the museum’s red storage barn. More steel rails ran past the station or beneath a replicated coal shoot. Scattered on display on the tracks were preserved coaches and engines, all gleaming proudly. Visitors strolled on the graveled aisles between the tracks, admiring the years of work being dedicated to each item at the museum. A line of six green coaches sat beside the russet barn, complete with a matching caboose in the back and a baggage truck in the front.
Brianna’s sighs were becoming incredibly interruptive, too much so for Sam to ignore. There were a lot of things she couldn’t ignore – like how her mother insisted she one day drop her time with her mostly male friends to attend an old-fashioned manner school as ancient as the machines here at Steam Town. And because Sam wouldn’t enroll, Brianna took her payback from demanding babysitting duty quite often.
It could have been because Sam’s father left years ago, leaving one working parent to care for the two children. There truly might not be money to pay for another sitter. More likely, Sam suspected, Brianna was creating a busy schedule to keep Sam from applying for jobs at scrap yards and repair shops. It was her way of hiding Sam, of locking her and throwing away the key that would have let Sam loose herself and go to work with her friends in a predictable schedule.
Her thoughts turning bitter, Sam subconsciously rubbed her brother’s head. Ted remained at her side, laughing at the sensation. Brianna huffed again, biting back a comment about not touching another in public, before smiling. “Are you two excited for the trip?”
“I am, I am!” An ardent Ted jumped up and down. Sam smiled and nodded over the bouncing head.
Much more than you, she added silently. Despite the smile on her pale face, Brianna was cringing inside. She had wanted to take a plane to visit family in D.C., arguing that it was faster and cleaner than anything else available. Before she had reserved their tickers for the flight, Sam found a brochure advertising a special trip from the local museum. The museum was beginning to offer round-trip tickets, cheaper than the airlines, for travel to those who were interested in traveling on updated technology with a historical spin to it. Sam had showed the brochure to her brother, and told him this trip would mean he not have to sit in a cramped, smelly airline seat like he had on last year’s trip. With Ted in her arsenal, she had been able to strategically debate with and work her mother into submission.
Now they were waiting for the train to begin boarding. They had already submitted their baggage to be numbered and loaded. All they had remaining in their hands were their carry-ons.
“Where do you think our train is?” Brianna asked, already impatient, convinced she could be sitting on an airplane at that very moment.
There was a loud clang below as one of the stations below rang an enormous bell to call attention to the area. Visitors were ushered away from the displayed items by overalled volunteers. The visitors were told to stand on the station and sidewalks, and then ordered not to wander off of the sidewalks until the train had left in an hour or two.
Sam smiled at the bustle. “This is probably it!” she told her mother excitedly. She walked around her mother and pushed the food court door open to step onto the ramp and see what would happen.
A man in overalls pushed a door of the russet barn open. Standing a slight distance from the track was a man in a black suit, white shirt, and chain pocket watch: the uniform of the conductor. In his ear was a small but sensitive earpiece and microphone that replaced old-fashioned shouting or static-plagued radio. He beckoned to the shape inside of the barn, waving his hand and speaking clearly into the wired equipment he wore. “Bring her out!”
Steam began leaking from the open doors, and the sound of pushing gears echoed outwards. And finally, slowly, carefully, and gracefully, the newly rebuilt and modernized steam engine slid noisily out of her stall within the barn. She was welcomed by a loud gasp of awe. Several children shrieked in delight at the sight; their parents were too stunned to order them to behave.
Though the beautiful locomotive appeared to be the same build as her steam ancestors, her insides were built with electric motors and several sturdy, strong batteries that collected their power from transparent solar panels on the top and sides of the engine. She mimicked the 4-6-6-4 engine and retained the Challenger’s glamorous appearance. She had been painted a beautiful, shining jeweled green, and she glimmered under the sun. The small bronze bell set on the top of her front metal plate clanged. Beneath her bell fresh white paint formed her number, 618.
Inside of her cab, her lean and lank electrician laughed. “Save your strength, beautiful,” he told the machine. The toned and tanned motorman chuckled.
“Don’t worry, Henry. Our Asher can handle a little viewing, rebuilt or not. We’re getting extra payments depending on how much people donate or comment on this little spectacle, too. Let her help us out if she wants.”
He then pulled on a rope hanging near his open window. Among all of the dials meant to run the engine in place of her firebox, this single piece of equipment was the most primitive. No one had wanted to update the rope. It would have eliminated the chance to make a historically classic pose and noise all visitors recognized.
The whistle of engine 618, A.K.A. Asher, shrieked along with the delighted children. And indeed, she sounded as haunting and beautiful as her ancestors had. The sound floated gently over all of the communities surrounding the museum.
As the engine left her stall within the barn, Sam’s brother ran out the door to join her, excited. “Sam, come on! Lets go ahead of Mom, I wanna see the engine!”
It took several tugs to draw Sam out of her silence. She was as awe-struck by the sight of the beautiful engine as everyone else. The skill that had gone into designing such a sight for modern-day workings…
“No, bro. Let’s wait for Mom,” Sam told him reluctantly. “It’ll make her happy, at least.” Brianna lumbered up behind the two, reluctantly impressed. Asher had rumbled past the station to a round of applause, shrieks, and catcall whistles. The track she had rolled down had been laid two lanes over from the station. Now the enormous engine continued on to one of the switches. As she prepared to cross and carefully move back to the platform, a jade-painted tank engine carefully and slowly pushed the line of coaches beside the barn to the platform. They were just as much a spectacle as their proud locomotive. All were painted in a shade of green to match the beautiful engine, with white window frames and wheel axles.
When the family had ambled down the lengthy ramp with their luggage to join the growing crowd of passengers on the large station, 618 was proudly coupled to her coaches. The motorman waved out of his window to the eager crowd, taking time every few minutes to check that the engine’s multiple dials and settings were normal in the cabin.
“I wish I could be up there,” Sam sighed as she watched the motorman.
“”No daughter of mine will participate in such an unladylike behavior!” A nettled Brianna warned Sam with a severe glare. “I tolerate your dress and your friends at my house, but that is all I will tolerate!” Sam looked between the engine, her mother, and the ground, unwillingly retreating.
“This is so small a crowd!” Brianna complained noisily, convinced she’d won the war. The bustling platform was full of passengers; Brianna herself was used to the considerably more crowded terminals of the airlines. The smaller train platform was foreign and unnatural to her.
“Ma’am, I hope this is not going to dissuade you,” a voice begged. Brianna turned to see a dirty-blonde haired man in a navy blue suit. A nametag clipped to his shirt proclaimed him as one of the workers for the trip. “This train is the museum’s pride and joy. Six coaches plus the baggage and caboose is enough work for her after her recent last-minute touch ups.”
The engine before them huffed as he spoke, releasing a thin jet of steam from the roof of her long body; the motorman patted her gleaming cabin with a chuckle. “He isn’t trying to offend you, silly girl,” he told the engine. 618 seemed to calm beneath his hand; the steam eased off and she did not huff a second time.
Brianna apprehensively eyed the train once more, the man in the suit kneeling to lift her carry-on. “Thank you, sir,” she eventually told him. “I am in room 36, car 4, I believe…” With this information in mind, the man led Brianna to the correct coach, her items in tow.
Sam and Ted followed the man and their mother through the narrow hallways of the fourth coach. The man said he would arrive as promptly as possible if they pressed the red button by the door handle. With a tip of his hat, he excused himself and retreated to his duties on the platform.
Sam and Ted remained with Brianna long enough to place their items in the room. Then, with her younger brother safely in tow and Brianna’s permission, Sam went back outside to admire the beautiful train. She settled on one of the benches, smiling as the seat automatically began vibrating and massaging her back. Ted laughed at the sensation, wiggling in his seat.
Despite the relaxation the bench offered, Sam felt sad and out of place as workers began to bring on the suitcases passengers had dropped off earlier in the day. She wanted to be one of the workers, wanted to have the chance to explore the engine…
“She’s beautiful, huh?” The man who had taken Brianna’s baggage on board had reemerged. “A good 201,000 hours were spent rebuilding this beauty. You know, she has a sister engine, engine 610. Built at the same time originally, when they were still trapped in Diesel technology.”
“610…that was the first Glowtrain to safely carry nuclear waste without incident, right?” Sam asked.
“Good girl,” the man beamed. Sam now looked at him, brown eyes to brown eyes, and realized he was much younger than she had originally suspected. He offered a callused hand. “The name’s Alex.”
“Samantha – Sam,” she replied, taking the hand and shaking it firmly.
“Good handshake. You must be pretty confident in yourself to have such a good grip,” Alex complimented her.
Sam looked for a new topic that would hide a blush. “This is Ted, she lamely attempted. The little boy cowered behind his sister, to her benign amusement.
There was a scream from the back of the train. Before anyone could move, an unshaven and dirty man had emerged from the back door of the sixth coach attached to the train. A silver clutch bag clearly belonging to a woman was clasped firmly in his hand. The two security guards in sight were already running down towards them, but were only at the top of the lengthy ramp.
Laughing gleefully, the man ran down the length of the platform. There were shouts as the museum visitors dispersed away from him. Somehow his hands never actually made contact with any of the unfortunate people he knocked to the ground.
As he swiftly drew closer, Sam could see a silver bracelet around his arm giving off a red glow; it was a Deflector, a machine usually sold to police to deflect mobs.
The criminal passed Sam and the group. Alex had jumped to his feet at the sound of the scream, and now tried to grab the man. The man swung an arm out, and the invisible force field his bracelet formed sent Alex crashing against the concrete platform stomach-down with a painful thump. Sam, though holding the frightened Ted in her arms, tried to trip the man while his attention was diverted; she quickly straightened one of her legs out towards the man. She managed to hit his knee.
He stumbled but did not fall with the same strength as Alex. He craned his head to find the cause of his fall and sent a malicious glare towards Sam. Ted cowered further into his sister’s embrace. As she held him, Sam glared directly back at the man, unafraid.
“Bitch!” the man shouted.
Before the criminal could react further, the green locomotive beside him released bolts of electricity from between her massive wheels. The unsuspecting man screamed in pain and fell to his knees, shivering with a seizure-like violence.
Sam stared at the engine before her in frightened bewilderment. The motorman above laughed as he began to climb down the narrow footsteps that dotted their way up the cabin. “Ha! And they say a machine is merely a tool! If that were true we could design a robot that was safe to operate and didn’t eventually rebel and die in the recycling bins. Machines ain’t tools to be used. They’re more human than we are, down to their morals and personalities! Ain’t that right, Asher?!”
Asher whistled proudly. Sam was shocked; the motorman’s hand was nowhere near the rope. The electrician was beneath her line of sight, kneeling down to check Asher’s power monitor. The beautiful locomotive had whistled by its – her - own free will.
There was a small thump as the fried remains of the man’s Deflector fell to the ground. Alex stumbled to his feet, recovering from the blow he had been dealt. Sam patted Ted gently on his head as Alex grabbed the man’s arms and pinned them to his back. It didn’t appear that he wanted to move any time soon.
“Will he be OK?” Ted asked, frightened. Somehow he had found concern for the cause of his fright.
“Yes, sir!” Asher’s electrician called down. “She can release electricity to relieve her circuits, or in this case, deliver some fine justice, but only so much at a time. It’s like steam blowing out was to her ancestors – they only released enough to relieve pressure without losing all of their power. That was a small jolt our thief felt there.”
Small? Sam asked herself. The revealing of this other side of the machine, powerful and free-willed, was almost frightening.
The security guards had arrived, handcuffs ready. The clutch bag was retrieved, and with the moaning man in police custody, Alex began the walk to the end of the six-car train to return the item, still rubbing his head.
“C’mon, Ted,” Sam told her brother as she finally found her own steadiness again. “We had better go inside.”
Brianna, of course, wanted to know what the commotion outside had been. It took Sam and Ted the considerable part of ten minutes to update their mother. All the while, Asher’s coaches were loaded with both baggage and passengers eager to set out.
At the end of the tale, Brianna blanched and exclaimed, “But, children, this train clearly isn’t safe if a crime was committed right outside!”
It took another ten minutes of arguing to keep Brianna on the train.
“Mom!” Sam growled near the end of their debate in frustration. “The engine herself stopped the crime!”
Brianna shuddered. “Machines with genders, machines taking sides…that frightens me more than---“
There was a shrill whistle outside of the coach. One of the conductors shouted out to the front of the train.
As her motorman began to release her brakes, and her electrician carefully opened her circuits to allow power to flow through her, Asher began to move. Brianna settled into one of her seats in knowing defeat. Sam and Ted smiled as they gazed out of the window.
The exit Asher made from the station was smooth. The visitors to the museum cheered again as the glorious train left the station, and headed down the tracks that left the museum. The tracks wound their way out of the city; Asher huffed through Scranton carefully and slowly, at barely ten miles per hour. The citizens stopped their electric cars and honked friendly greetings at the black-and-white crossing gates; people waved from the weed-riddled tracks that left the city.
Finally, as the last coach left the borders of Scranton, Asher whistled one last time in farewell and began to build her speed. Her black wheels spun and pounded the track, still without jolting the coaches behind her. Even Brianna relaxed under the calm feeling of the coaches following their powerful electric steam engine.
“I think I could use a nap,” Brianna eventually declared. “Children, go see the display car, please?”
Sam and Ted eagerly left their mother in peace. The pair walked hand-in-hand through the hallways of the coaches, eventually entering the one just behind the baggage car. Its windows were massive and powerful glass, covering three quarters of the walls and the ceiling. The entire coach seemed to be nothing more than a transparent door to the world outside. The area directly before them was nothing but a green and brown blur, not very interesting to the eye aside from an occasional flash of color. The true treat was the distance: snow-capped mountains hued with purple, along with green grasslands and various species of tree at their base. Small towns also flew past, and the train outraced the cars on the occasionally visible highway.
“It’s so beautiful,” Sam sighed. “And to think Mother was worried about the speed and comfort!”
Alex appeared from behind them, carrying an empty tray. “Already working on room service,” he explained with a grin. “Give me one minute…” He went off to the bar to return the tray. For the first time since they had left the food court at the museum and mall, Sam saw a sign of the modern day: an old but sturdy model of robot was behind the counter, preparing the food and drink and managing the cash register.
As Sam took a seat, she felt a wave of pity for the machine. The poor thing looked out of place inside the coach, a preserved relic of the past. His presence explained why volunteers and human workers ran the historical Scranton site and museum.
When Alex returned, Ted was bouncing on one of the leather seats, expressing his happiness through small shrieks of joy. “Easy, lad,” Alex laughed.
Then he looked at Sam sitting in the chair beside him, her bag on the carpeted floor and journal in hand. She smiled and closed it when she caught him looking. “What is it, sir?” she asked. “If it’s about Ted, I am sorry---“
“It isn’t,” Alex assured her. “I have some news to bring you. When you went inside your coach the second time, the electrician spoke to me. He said he caught Asher eying you earlier in the day.”
Sam stared at Alex, disbelief on her face. “Huh? But how---“
“She directs her circuit’s energy to one spot. Then she can observe the reflections on her solar panels,” the man explained. “Sounds bizarre, I know, but she is as real as you or I.”
“I believe it. All machines have personalities like people. Even our cars.” Sam smiled. “Our cars just haven’t begun to capture criminals in such a showy fashion yet.”
Alex laughed. “I like the way you think. Well, the electrician said that when you return home, he wants you to take a job under him to learn repairs and management. He said he’s getting old and needs someone to know his job, and apparently he thinks Asher judged you worthy after watching and hearing you today.”
Sam stared, and finally began to stutter as her very core warmed inside. Brianna’s rules sat ignored in her mind. “I…I would love it!”
“Great!” Alex stood and wiped a spot of dust off of his pants. “Have to appear presentable to the guests,” he said. “The one downside of this job. Well, I hope I’ll see you working at the barn soon!” he told Sam. He saluted her as he walked to the bar to pick up another tray.
As Asher puffed proudly towards Washington, her coaches in tow, Sam leaned back in her chair, beaming. Her pen quivered in her hand as her gaze fell to the lined paper in her lap, and she began to write with a fervor she had never felt before.
This trip is turning out to be the best thing I ever convinced the family to participate in. Already, I have learned just how much the trains of the past have evolved. I would dare to say I have even made a new friend with one of them. The locomotive herself heard me state one of my desires, and decided after the events with the robber that I might be worthy material aboard her!
Mother doesn’t know; but she isn’t going to hold me back when I tell her what’s happened. I’ll be honest with her, of course. But I can’t pretend she’ll turn me into a proper, old fashioned woman any longer, not when the most beautiful engine I have ever seen looked at me, and chose me! I’ll find someone to replace me as babysitter from now on. I’ll pay him or her out of my own paycheck if necessary. This is my calling. Besides, Asher’s just too special, too unique, too human, to give up and pass off.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Repo!: The Genetic Opera
Despite only being released in limited theaters, since late 2008 the murderous Repoman and his fellow singing cast has gained a good bit of support.
“Repo!: The Genetic Opera” is a horror sci-fi musical that includes directors from the “Saw” films. Personally, I despise and loathe these films, so I was surprised to find out that their graphic inclinations could be put to use with a decent Shakespearean tragedy storyline and a bit of science fiction. They visually combined their bloody talents with a lot of naked skin and even some comic book panels. (Trust me, it works. Don’t believe me? See the trailer below!)
Imagine: in the future, everyone has failing organs. The master company GeneCo is there to save those who would otherwise die. Thing is, if they miss a payment to the company, they lose their life anyway – because GeneCo has hired the Repoman to take back organs people cannot afford.
And by take back, I mean: people are still alive when they see their organs being repackaged by the Repoman.
Musically (because this film IS a musical), “Repo!” offers a decent bit of talent. By “decent”, I mean there’s a cameo by Joan Jett. Seriously! Most of the actors do a so-so job compared to other vocalists around the world. But seriously: Joan Jett!
Plus: Sarah Brightman is in this musical! It wouldn’t be an opera without ONE opera singer. (Yes, folks. Read on to see who she plays.)
Lined up in this bloody musical’s cast are Alex Vega, fully grown from her role in “Spy Kids” (and now playing the sickly, 17-year-old Shiloh), Anthony Stewart Head (Shiloh’s father, who harbors a dark secret – can you guess?), and Paul Sorvino (Rottissimo "Rotti" Largo, the owner of the corrupt GeneCo).
However, the most amazing star of all is by far Sarah Brightman, playing GeneGo’s hired (translated as “marked into slavery” hired) opera singer, Magdalene "Blind Mag" Defoe. Which body part/s were replaced? Hm. I’ll go with, check out her name. And every time Brightman is on screen it’s impossible to fight off being entranced by her goth-like beauty.
If this is looking too serious for viewers, no worries – Paris Hilton plays one of Rotti’s three children (Amber Sweet). Although I really don’t think she “acts”. She’s playing a character that is addicted to surgery, looking beautiful, and being in the limelight. And she acts like a sex toy. So if by “acting”, people mean, “She put on a black wig for part of the movie”, then sure: Paris Hilton was “acting” in this movie.
Excuse me while I laugh.
Anyway, the narrator of “Repo!” is named GraveRobber. It’s pretty obvious what he does – but what does he steal? (Not organs, believe it or not!) GraverRobber is the mysteriously dark yet charismatic character wearing make-up. Which means, we have found our fangirl source for “Repo!”
I mean, I doubt people were seeing this movie five times because of Paris Hilton.
(I promised myself I wouldn’t bash her too much because it’s too easy…but it really is too easy!)
(This comes from the middle of the film - so it won't reveal any major secrets, but it might not all be explained, either.)
Point is – this is a very oddball mish-mash film to support and actually pay for (the P-word!). Don’t just bootleg it or illegally download it. Buy it and the soundtrack. Or at least watch one your friend bought. Then you can pretend you did the right thing, right?
“Repo!: The Genetic Opera” is a horror sci-fi musical that includes directors from the “Saw” films. Personally, I despise and loathe these films, so I was surprised to find out that their graphic inclinations could be put to use with a decent Shakespearean tragedy storyline and a bit of science fiction. They visually combined their bloody talents with a lot of naked skin and even some comic book panels. (Trust me, it works. Don’t believe me? See the trailer below!)
Imagine: in the future, everyone has failing organs. The master company GeneCo is there to save those who would otherwise die. Thing is, if they miss a payment to the company, they lose their life anyway – because GeneCo has hired the Repoman to take back organs people cannot afford.
And by take back, I mean: people are still alive when they see their organs being repackaged by the Repoman.
Musically (because this film IS a musical), “Repo!” offers a decent bit of talent. By “decent”, I mean there’s a cameo by Joan Jett. Seriously! Most of the actors do a so-so job compared to other vocalists around the world. But seriously: Joan Jett!
Plus: Sarah Brightman is in this musical! It wouldn’t be an opera without ONE opera singer. (Yes, folks. Read on to see who she plays.)
Lined up in this bloody musical’s cast are Alex Vega, fully grown from her role in “Spy Kids” (and now playing the sickly, 17-year-old Shiloh), Anthony Stewart Head (Shiloh’s father, who harbors a dark secret – can you guess?), and Paul Sorvino (Rottissimo "Rotti" Largo, the owner of the corrupt GeneCo).
However, the most amazing star of all is by far Sarah Brightman, playing GeneGo’s hired (translated as “marked into slavery” hired) opera singer, Magdalene "Blind Mag" Defoe. Which body part/s were replaced? Hm. I’ll go with, check out her name. And every time Brightman is on screen it’s impossible to fight off being entranced by her goth-like beauty.
If this is looking too serious for viewers, no worries – Paris Hilton plays one of Rotti’s three children (Amber Sweet). Although I really don’t think she “acts”. She’s playing a character that is addicted to surgery, looking beautiful, and being in the limelight. And she acts like a sex toy. So if by “acting”, people mean, “She put on a black wig for part of the movie”, then sure: Paris Hilton was “acting” in this movie.
Excuse me while I laugh.
Anyway, the narrator of “Repo!” is named GraveRobber. It’s pretty obvious what he does – but what does he steal? (Not organs, believe it or not!) GraverRobber is the mysteriously dark yet charismatic character wearing make-up. Which means, we have found our fangirl source for “Repo!”
I mean, I doubt people were seeing this movie five times because of Paris Hilton.
(I promised myself I wouldn’t bash her too much because it’s too easy…but it really is too easy!)
(This comes from the middle of the film - so it won't reveal any major secrets, but it might not all be explained, either.)
Point is – this is a very oddball mish-mash film to support and actually pay for (the P-word!). Don’t just bootleg it or illegally download it. Buy it and the soundtrack. Or at least watch one your friend bought. Then you can pretend you did the right thing, right?
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Death Note
(The following video is a fanmade meant to represent an older part of Cartoon Network known as Toonami. Note that it did not air on TV.)
I finally gave in. After months of pressure, after weeks of hearing about how good this show was, I watched the popular show “Death Note” for the first time. This thirty-seven episode series focuses on the concept that one person can kill any whose name are recorded into a Shinigami, or death god’s, notebook.
(And boy, are there a ton of rules for this death book!)
One of my friends has voiced a complaint that this dark show is called “cool” in the nerd's pop culture, and I actually have to agree that she has the right to be pessimistic about this label.
The show is hardly cool or hip, unless cool and hip in mainstream suddenly means questioning ones own ethics and morals to the point of becoming a serial murderer. The idea that one person who originally claimed to be pure and unable to murder suddenly goes on a rampage to cleanse the world is hardly what constitutes “cool”.
I won’t lie, the representation of a caving media is also offensive, given my experience with jobs under newspapers thus far. Now, I am willing to say that given the disturbing nature of the show, this could naturally represent the collapse of society without being offensive. However, this stereotype of the media not having their own ethics and codes of honor is growing old, and I wish another branch of Japanese society caved in before they did in "Death Note".
Another disturbing aspect I saw: the idea of followers – followers who were willing to kill and pay to help “God” on his own path. I as a Christian myself will never preach the idea of losing one’s religion. I will argue this disturbing aspect is a possibility in real life, and that we as humans ought to be alert about this possibility.
I was also a little bothered by the fact that the main character, the one we as viewers are meant to see and support as the most important figure, was also the killer – the one manipulating society and judging who would live and who would die.
This is not to say "Death Note" is not a good series. It is. However, it is important to remember the above factors and others I have forgotten while watching this dark anime, and to question ourselves rather than just passively hitch a ride on the pop culture bandwagon. While I admit this work of fiction is not to be taken seriously, I advise that we as viewers keep our eyes open to the ideas presented within this fiction.
(The following comes from the last episode - so while it only focuses on the maniacal life of a murderer, it might slip a few things about the ending. MIGHT. But it might not. It depends on how quick viewers are and how well they'll remember this scene if they begin the entire series.)
I finally gave in. After months of pressure, after weeks of hearing about how good this show was, I watched the popular show “Death Note” for the first time. This thirty-seven episode series focuses on the concept that one person can kill any whose name are recorded into a Shinigami, or death god’s, notebook.
(And boy, are there a ton of rules for this death book!)
One of my friends has voiced a complaint that this dark show is called “cool” in the nerd's pop culture, and I actually have to agree that she has the right to be pessimistic about this label.
The show is hardly cool or hip, unless cool and hip in mainstream suddenly means questioning ones own ethics and morals to the point of becoming a serial murderer. The idea that one person who originally claimed to be pure and unable to murder suddenly goes on a rampage to cleanse the world is hardly what constitutes “cool”.
I won’t lie, the representation of a caving media is also offensive, given my experience with jobs under newspapers thus far. Now, I am willing to say that given the disturbing nature of the show, this could naturally represent the collapse of society without being offensive. However, this stereotype of the media not having their own ethics and codes of honor is growing old, and I wish another branch of Japanese society caved in before they did in "Death Note".
Another disturbing aspect I saw: the idea of followers – followers who were willing to kill and pay to help “God” on his own path. I as a Christian myself will never preach the idea of losing one’s religion. I will argue this disturbing aspect is a possibility in real life, and that we as humans ought to be alert about this possibility.
I was also a little bothered by the fact that the main character, the one we as viewers are meant to see and support as the most important figure, was also the killer – the one manipulating society and judging who would live and who would die.
This is not to say "Death Note" is not a good series. It is. However, it is important to remember the above factors and others I have forgotten while watching this dark anime, and to question ourselves rather than just passively hitch a ride on the pop culture bandwagon. While I admit this work of fiction is not to be taken seriously, I advise that we as viewers keep our eyes open to the ideas presented within this fiction.
(The following comes from the last episode - so while it only focuses on the maniacal life of a murderer, it might slip a few things about the ending. MIGHT. But it might not. It depends on how quick viewers are and how well they'll remember this scene if they begin the entire series.)
Lie To Me
http://www.pittnews.com/arts-entertainment/fox-s-new-crime-show-cannot-tell-a-lie-1.1305034
Fox's new crime show cannot tell a lie
Now that lying has met its match in the fields of scientific study, it seems only natural that a TV show would follow.
Based off of a real set of scientific investigations, Fox’s newest show, “Lie To Me,” sets a high standard in the first 90 seconds of the show.
The opening scene is in an interrogation room with three people inside a blinding white square. The prisoner’s lawyer advises silence, but Dr. Cal Lightman (Tim Roth) merely responds, “That’s OK. I don’t have much faith in words myself. Statistically speaking, the average person tells three lies in 10 minutes of conversation.” There is a hint of scorn in the fact that a prisoner is hardly average at all.
And within the opening 90 seconds, Roth’s character invades the prisoner’s head with ease. Rather, he reads body language so precisely that silence is no longer a safeguard to any prisoner’s secrets.
The show maintains a continuous dramatic flair, with coffee mugs being thrown during lectures as Lightman proves his point to anyone willing to hear it. Yes, there are objects breaking against the walls.
The series premiere features murder investigation and prosecutors attempting to keep a minor from being charged as an adult.
If the murder isn’t enough to draw attention and simply rings “Law and Order” remake, guess again: The religion of the suspect’s family goes against the teachings of the murdered teacher.
And boy, as the show runs through, those beliefs come back to haunt. After all, according to partner Dr. Gillian Foster (Kelli Williams), “The question is never simply if someone is lying. It’s why.”
Religious shame is always a dramatic twist. And what show is complete without the political subplots? Be prepared to see that not all stereotypes are as accurate as we like to believe. The personal reasons to lie will surely make some hearts thump harder than normal.
Close-ups on the face and eyes give the keys to understanding to viewers. The emotion is up front, blunt and raw all around, and over time it is bound to develop and thrive on any TV screen.
“The truth is written on all of our faces,” says Lightman during the show, but it will be at the viewers’ discretion who’s lying and who is telling the truth.
Fox's new crime show cannot tell a lie
Now that lying has met its match in the fields of scientific study, it seems only natural that a TV show would follow.
Based off of a real set of scientific investigations, Fox’s newest show, “Lie To Me,” sets a high standard in the first 90 seconds of the show.
The opening scene is in an interrogation room with three people inside a blinding white square. The prisoner’s lawyer advises silence, but Dr. Cal Lightman (Tim Roth) merely responds, “That’s OK. I don’t have much faith in words myself. Statistically speaking, the average person tells three lies in 10 minutes of conversation.” There is a hint of scorn in the fact that a prisoner is hardly average at all.
And within the opening 90 seconds, Roth’s character invades the prisoner’s head with ease. Rather, he reads body language so precisely that silence is no longer a safeguard to any prisoner’s secrets.
The show maintains a continuous dramatic flair, with coffee mugs being thrown during lectures as Lightman proves his point to anyone willing to hear it. Yes, there are objects breaking against the walls.
The series premiere features murder investigation and prosecutors attempting to keep a minor from being charged as an adult.
If the murder isn’t enough to draw attention and simply rings “Law and Order” remake, guess again: The religion of the suspect’s family goes against the teachings of the murdered teacher.
And boy, as the show runs through, those beliefs come back to haunt. After all, according to partner Dr. Gillian Foster (Kelli Williams), “The question is never simply if someone is lying. It’s why.”
Religious shame is always a dramatic twist. And what show is complete without the political subplots? Be prepared to see that not all stereotypes are as accurate as we like to believe. The personal reasons to lie will surely make some hearts thump harder than normal.
Close-ups on the face and eyes give the keys to understanding to viewers. The emotion is up front, blunt and raw all around, and over time it is bound to develop and thrive on any TV screen.
“The truth is written on all of our faces,” says Lightman during the show, but it will be at the viewers’ discretion who’s lying and who is telling the truth.
The Tallis Scholars
*NOTE: This is an OLDER article. Don't try to find a performance in Pittsburgh now!http://www.pittnews.com/arts-entertainment/lords-and-ladies-love-the-tallis-scholars-1.825576
Apparently when certain concepts are reborn, they never die again. Such is the case with the music of the Tallis Scholars, performing in Pittsburgh tomorrow night.
Director Peter Phillips founded the Tallis Scholars group in 1973. Based in London, the 10-person group performs a cappella songs.
The Tallis Scholars has globally established itself rather prestigiously as a performing group of Renaissance sacred music. The New York Times calls the Tallis Scholars “the rock stars of Renaissance vocal music.” The group records and releases its work through its own label and travels through America at least twice a year on tour.
The Scholars’ performance at Calvary Episcopal Church this weekend will be the group’s first time in Pittsburgh since 1989. Last year’s Renaissance and Baroque audience voted the group a No. 1 to hear, opening the doors for the Tallis Scholars to be called back.
Dr. Elizabeth Etter, the executive director of the Renaissance & Baroque Society of Pittsburgh, wasexcited to be presenting the Tallis Scholars.
“My understanding is that people who know about them will travel easily 100 miles to hear them, as they are reputed to be the best in the world for what they do,” she said in an e-mail.
The group’s upcoming performance is part of the 40th Anniversary Season of Renaissance and Baroque of Pittsburgh. Titled “The Spanish High Renaissance,” it will consist of sacred vocal pieces from the 16th century. The pieces focus around the Easter holiday and Holy Week.
Etter had her own explanation for why these pieces have survived through the centuries to the present 21st.
“I think that the mathematical proportion, clarity and purity of sound and linear texture of the period, especially manifest in the sacred music that will be performed a cappella, continues to hold a kind of fascination and devotion that is both spiritual as well as musical.”
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