About Him:
The Boy Who Loves to Love

About Him: The Boy Who Loves to Love

He loves to feel like he’s in love. He loves to feel fingertips brush his bones and every lip lock an “I do.” He loves, and that’s the problem. He never likes, he loves. He never fancies, he loves. He’s fallen in love with the moments that feel like mini eternities. A hotel room rendezvous is a honeymoon and drunk eskimo kisses are wedding vows rubbing against his skin. The dark is her soul and he lies in it, he drowns in it, he holds his breath and gets dizzy in it. The sun is no longer a star, it’s his star and its rays honeyed in her hair are a lyric in his song, forever threaded between a bass line and a heavy drum beat. It’s a smile he’s never seen before that launches him like a lovesick cannon into oblivion. And his lungs are no longer filling for just himself, and the sweater she leaves in his hotel room is a lingering promise in his eyes. Until the glass figurine he has carefully carved her out to be breaks on the floor at his feet, and the shards are licking his flesh deeper than she ever did. And the wounds are festering from the inside out rather than from the outside in. The infection derives from the core of his being, as if he did this to himself. And the fire he burned deep for her is melting his ribcage like sad, slow candle wax down the inside of his chest. And all the love he loved to feel is masked by all the love she never did.

Color Wheel of Summer

The shadows chase our taillights and taunt us with nightfall. The shadows that try to silence the classic rock booming from the speakers of your car, belting from our lungs, threading separate summers into one, cohesive sensation. Slick summer rain coating the pavement reflects the moonlight. The moonlight that makes milk of your complexion, a youthful, pale cotton, framing green eyes of quiet hypnotism. It’s a minute, it’s ten. It’s an hour, it’s a night. It’s the next.

It’s cyclical but not the same, like a circle that changes colors with every spin. A color wheel of our moments: the carnation rose of your bottom lip and my paper white enamel. Together they make pink lemonade. The air-superiority blue of your rough, denim jacket that drapes my cold thighs. The lucid colorlessness of my vodka. A transparency you repeat in teardrops, wet circles your Irish-moss eyes whisper on my olive-fair thumbs. The scarlet burn in our stomachs in the backseat. It’s cyclical but not the same, like a circle that changes colors with every spin until the leaves learn to change colors, too.

Because fall, winter, and spring age your face only the way five years should. And your hair is long enough again to form curls against the back of your neck. Your neck, where paper white enamel painted plum clouds. The chin I cup in my hand is rougher than last year because you don’t shave as often as you used to. It’s rugged, it’s man. It’s everything I’ve waited for you to be. There are licks of timelessness in the lyrics we sing. Charcoal concrete is too dry to mirror the color wheel that spins our eternity on the rims of your tires.

Falling on Deaf Ears

A day ago I was able to say I have never hated you. The chemistry of malicious words paired with your name on my tongue was a taste bitter beyond comprehension. But now, every thought of you provokes vulgarity rolling off my lips and dangling in my breath like poisonous gas. Any sweetness that once coated your name is masked by the vile sting of stomach acid climbing my throat. I spit all I can but the venom lingers of every time I promised myself I would forgive you. Such words now lie dead in my mouth, polluting the distance between my lips and your deaf ears. I’m numb of the ability to caress you with sympathetic words any longer. I think I have forgiven all I can.

Previous column: A 21st Century Ode to Music

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The Des Moines-based open their set with a mystically captivating intro, which immediately transitions into a catchy beat, and their alternative folk self-proclamation is evident straight away. Their style feels familiar but unique as they dive right in upbeat melodies. By the end of the third song, they’ve hooked a larger, more excited crowd.

Throughout their set, it’s hard to ignore that Stier could easily be better trained vocally and probably enunciate his lyrics in a stronger manner. I’m a sucker for the experience of hearing lyrics I’ve never heard live for the first time, and his delivery just didn’t cut it for me. But what he lacks in extensive vocal abilities, Stier makes up for in unrestrained emotion that he’s able to transmit through his acoustic guitar play.

As a small band (whose music is not even provided on Spotify, to my utter displeasure), Extravision are a very humbling presence on the stage. They take several song breaks to cordially thank everyone who makes Mission Creek possible. “Including you guys,” lead musician and vocalist, Ryan Stier, adds with an outward gesture to the crowd. And later, “the music community depends on the people who listen,” clearly very grateful to have such a wonderful crowd who feeds off their equally wonderful sounds.

Next is someone the crowd has been obviously awaiting anxiously: petite Esmé Patterson, who enters amongst backing band members. She displays herself as adorably commanding as the front-runner onstage, even if at first she did shy away from the microphone in talking to the crowd between songs. Nonetheless, Patterson and her band lead into the set with a strong rock vibe.

“Don’t let your fear bury you,” are words Patterson courageously sings in her second song, one that particularly showcases her strong vocal power. Her third song she introduces to be about getting older, while trying not to get stupid. Warming up to the crowd before her she admits she doesn’t know how well she’s doing in that respect. But by the middle of the set, Patterson is introducing a new theme. She explains her album that is based on popular songs that are written about women, in which she attempts to humanize them. An intriguing conceptual irony—to try to humanize the subject of a song with another song. I get particularly excited when she introduces an emotional rendition of Eleanor Rigby’s character.

Feel Right is her final song, the first she’s released from her upcoming album, and the song that gets the crowd chanting for one more after an energetic finale with the band huddling their soulful rock playing around the drum kit. But to everyone’s dismay, and with a sincere hand over her heart, Patterson says she has nothing left to perform, leaving the stage with the audience contradictorily musically satisfied and begging for more.

Before long, the stage is ready for San Fermin to make their Iowa City live debut. The band coolly and casually snakes through the crowd from the back of the venue up to the stage, where all eight members gear up. They lead the anticipatory crowd in with and instrumentally diverse intro. Every member and their area of expertise are being showcased—from the violinist Rebekah Durham building up to the verse, to the sax player Stephen Chen jumping to front, center stage for a solo. Where Allen Tate opened with his vocals, the second song is primarily Charlene Kaye’s time to shine, showing more diversity in their vocal instruments as well.

This baroque-pop band from Brooklyn is out to make a statement during a live show. The stage is crowded with musicians and it’s a treat to be able to witness so many musicians embracing their individual elements, while still harmonizing their vast differences. Aside from their individuality and uniqueness in instruments, their interaction during every song is just as noteworthy. The way Chen and Durham sway with one another’s notes, or Tate and Kaye’s tendencies to exchange atmospheric chemistry in harmonizing with one another.

Standout moments for me included one of their new songs August, which holds itself as probably my favorite vocal performance by Kaye, extremely melodic in a comfortingly upbeat way. Another song, Dead, was pleasantly surprising in the way the bands energetic manner of performing the song obviously starkly contrasts the title. It contributed to one of the band’s many moments of breaking into a full on frenzy at the final chorus, a chaotic outbreak of liveliness.

Before long, the band was wrapping up with one of their better-known hits, the title track from their newest album, Jackrabbit. The audience went mad, provoking another two songs to be played, and it was clear both parties on and in front of the stage were thriving on every second of it. San Fermin is undoubtedly an act that keeps you on your toes with their way they portray their spontaneous musical style and animated personalities in a live environment.

The post Mission Creek: San Fermin @ Gabe’s 4/8/16 appeared first on KRUI Radio.

About three songs in, Frampton takes lead vocals, and the duo’s harmonizing strengths become evident in this folksy swaying tune. Field Division proclaims their “dreaminess” in their music, arching to convey a fluid journey through both their lyrics and sound. I noticed, however, the way the dreaminess in their recorded instrumentals somewhat slips away in a live atmosphere. But where the dreaminess is lost in live acoustic guitar’s melody, it comes out in the bluesy electric guitar element they’ve added onstage with a third player.

They then promoted their EP, released in October of 2014, with a song I recognize called “Modest Mountains.” The duo describes the tour they went on to embrace the mindset of this song, which they recently made a music video for. They then closed their set with a catchier harmonizing tune, proving once again that they excel in vocal captivation. The opener’s set (and Taylor’s black boho-esque attire) leaves me both pleased and aesthetically envious.

The next opener takes me by surprise, and not exactly the pleasant kind. Next to take the stage is a group from Chicago, who call themselves Good Willsmith. They fill the room with an electronic intro, resembling distorted white noise, in an energetic build-up—or so I thought. This band is capable of one thing and one thing only: a mountainous tumbleweed of noise, in which I am waiting for what feels like an inevitable and satisfactory drop, but it’s that kind of relief I never got.

I would perhaps describe it as a spaceship malfunction. Overheard at a table near where I sit is a man recapping his own interpretation of the music to his neighbor: “…a bunch of sounds kind of… fucking stringed together”. Maybe not so eloquent, but accurate nonetheless, man in the striped crewneck tee. According to their Facebook page, the band classify themselves as “drone/noise/psychedelic/improv”. I can’t say I disagree, but I’m also not sure it’s a genre I would submit myself to again in any scenario. Simply and bluntly put: the Good Willsmith live experience was disengaging monotony.

However, I end this set on a less negative note with a nod to the guitarist. Decked out in a wide brim cap and a corncob printed on his t-shirt, he really did let that prolonged spaceship malfunction they call music course through his stage presence. I respect his ability to connect with your internal musical being, even if I got nothing out of it myself.

It wasn’t until the headlining act that I felt completely engaged in the show. Son Lux brought the energy that was missing, something reciprocated in full by their audience. This has almost everything to do with lead Ryan Lott’s powerfully engaging vocal capacity. Notably a few songs in, his hollowed projecting vocals convey the utmost emotion and vulnerability.

Good Willsmith was obvious amateur foreplay to the way these guys can manipulate a beat. Where their opener lacked in vocals, Son Lux picked up the slack and showed that they are capable of intertwining synthesizing instrumentals in a diverse fashion, while also complimenting them with a strong leading voice. Take-away lyric of the night: “You drink your wine from my heart.”

Son Lux thanked the audience for “a warm welcome” for the group’s first time in Iowa City. The audience is notably affected by the way this trio performs onstage. Climactic builds and drops of songs are especially effective in this live environment, earning sincerely ecstatic applause from their crowd. Feeding into the crowd’s evident enthusiasm is Lott’s theatrically involved singing, an obvious lead in stage presence. This being said, the drummer’s exuberant play and carefully executed drum energy is not be ignored.

As the last song draws to a close, and Lott detaches his mic from the stand above his keyboard to do some back and forth with the rowdy audience members, I come to the conclusion that a live show is most definitely the place to familiarize yourself with Son Lux. The interaction between deeply invested vocals and inevitably toe-tapping instrumentals is, for lack of a more specific or concrete explanation, an experience. And one I would eagerly repeat.

The post Mission Creek: Son Lux @ Gabe’s 4/6/16 appeared first on KRUI Radio.

Just one song into the album at hand, it would be hard to believe that this English rock band from Derbyshire was formed a mere six years ago. After a previous shuffle of members, The Struts’ current lineup consists of Adam Slack on guitar, Jed Elliot on bass, Gethin Davis on drums, and Luke Spiller tracking authentically raw rock vocals. Nothing about this band’s sound says anything like “formed in 2010”. That being said, their 80’s glamour influence (including Queen, the Rolling Stones and Def Leppard) is a prominent contribution to the 2016 US reissuing of their debut album, “Everybody Wants.”

We begin the album in an appropriately introductory manner, with the narrator’s literal “wake-up at one”. The vocals are ominously intriguing to lead the listener in: an immediate rock feature. But, potentially the most popular song by the band is the second track, Could Have Been Me. It’s grippingly anthem-ic in nature and certainly a stand-out track for those who appreciate relatable lyrics worthy of screaming from the soul. It reaches out to those who feel internal agony for wanting “to taste love and pain… feel pride and shame”. A song both quote-ably lyrical and catchy beyond fairness? Count me in.

It only gets better with Kiss This, the third track and a middle finger in song form. This, along with Put Your Money On Me, is yet another classic rock-reminiscent addictive hit. Slack’s ability to capture classic rock reverberates through his prominent guitar presence. It isn’t until Mary Go Round that we get a taste of what this band sounds like slightly mellowed out, acoustic guitar leading us into a heartfelt break-up song. This track showcases The Struts’ ability to evoke emotion differently, while still maintaining a high energy.

Dirty Sexy Money continues the well-paved path of catchy choruses and intensely impressive vocal range on Spiller’s part. Not a stranger to the tuneful upbeat theme is She Makes Me Feel Like. As far as the raw vocals, they’re certainly an element you just can’t get enough of on tracks including The Ol’ Switcheroo, These Times Are Changing and Black Swan. There’s something nostalgic about Young Stars, whether it may be the heavy essence of Queen or the way it addresses youth culture. Either way, it proves itself a strong contender for my personal favorite track.

Drummer Davis makes himself the star of the bridge and final chorus of Only Just A Call Away, a deep drum backbeat resonating powerfully with the song’s lyrics of promise. Not to my surprise, the album ends on a high note with Where Did She Go. Somehow, this track effortlessly manages to both wrap up and encapsulate the album’s entirety. The way this final song highlights every strong point of their instrumentation puts an emphasis on what The Struts are capable of composing: classically familiar glam rock in a modern music repertoire.

Presently, it would be difficult to tell me that there is a band six years young that possesses such a rejuvenated authenticity to as beloved a genre as classic glam rock. But it’s impossible not to recognize that The Struts are accomplishing more than they probably even imagined with this album. Their in-studio goal is to channel “something big, fun, unapologetic, rock and roll” and it’s a goal they’ve easily surpassed.

The post Album Review: “Everybody Wants” by The Struts appeared first on KRUI Radio.

Penn Badgley (known for his role as Dan Humphrey in six seasons of The CW’s Gossip Girl) teamed up with three others: Darren Will (bassist), Simon Oscroft (guitarist), and neighborhood friend Jimmy Giannopoulos (producer) to form MOTHXR. The band recorded their first album in several cities such as Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York before releasing it on February 26^th of this year.

Centerfold contains a rather monotonous set of songs, bearing minimal lyrics and long drawn-out instrumental sequences. Somehow, though, it keeps itself interesting with subtle interjections of guitar riffs (such as in “Wild Ride,” “Impossible,” “Touch,” and “Underground”) that bring the indie touch.

For the most part, the album keeps at a steady electronic-production-based pace, reminiscent of something an exclusive nightclub might spin. There’s something satisfying about the predictability that comes with each track.

While some songs like “Touch” and “Fight The Feeling” are a tad longer than feel natural, the elongated mixes are what give the album that continuous DJ feel. Along with that, the catchiness is prominent throughout. Badgley deems himself worthy as a reliable vocalist in tracks like “Easy” and “She Can’t Tell,” lingering in falsetto and blending well vocally with the desired vibe of the songs.

The opening track “Impossible” prepares listeners of what’s to come. It’s not until the second, and potentially most catchy, track “Stranger” where the beat picks up and feels like something you could catch yourself grooving to.

Misplaced sounds are moments when the album feels derailed, such as the saxophone in “Victim,” along with heavy-handed electric elements and displaced voices in “I Can See You’ll Never Make It Out”.

Luckily for MOTHXR, they are relatively aware of the balance between outlandish club noise and innovative, catchy beats. The title track “Centerfold” is one that captures this well. While I approached this album with a fair amount of scrutiny, I walked away with a better sense of Penn Badgley’s musical abilities as an artist—something I never thought I would admit that I quite enjoyed.

Like what you hear? Check to see if MOTHXR is coming to a city near you on tour this spring.

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A 21st Century Ode:
An Open Letter to Music and What It’s Made Me

This is an expression of gratitude to the phenomenon we frequently take for granted. The part of our lives we do not even recognize as a phenomenon. But how else do you explain the entity that is music?

There’s a realm that exists as a bridge between mankind and mind, and that realm is music. An integral chemistry of words with the sounds that words could never be used to fully encompass.
There is emotional engagement,
there is spiritual embodiment,
there is a mental reach
that comes with any body of music.

In order for music to exist, there must be a root of its growth. This starting point is not an instrument, nor is it the human voice. It is a voice of the soul — or more plainly stated, an emotion.

You do not pick up a guitar by means of its strings, but instead by the means of an internal urge. This is the urge to make what you feel within become an entity outside of yourself.
It is the grueling stomachache of loss
that wants to manifest within a groaning bass line.
It is the airiness of first kisses
that are dying to be whipped across a drum kit.

I deeply respect this process – of giving life to something that harvests from somewhere we cannot touch, and making it available to others. And, more importantly, to ourselves. A process that reaches people.

As humans with intricate lives, we carry heavy burdens. We are taunted by our own degree of demons every day.

The amazing thing about music: artists can use the weight of a song, an album, a lyric, to lessen those burdens and diminish those demons.

You hear a song on the radio
in which every lyric has a place in your heart.
And you turn up the volume.

You’re standing in a crowd at the foot of a stage,
bellowing the words with a stranger you’ve never met.
Their eyes are closed,
and they sing it with similar fervor.
And that makes you sing a little prouder.

You are perched at the edge of the stage,
and the lights are blinding,
making the individual faces of a crowd into one shadowed sea.
But they deliver your song in one unified voice.
And you smile.

And that is just the beginning.

I feel privileged to live in a world where music exists—something with the complexity and carrying capacity of a thousand internal dimensions. I feel lucky to have the opportunity to investigate and interpret it as intimately as possible in relation to the artist and myself. Every person owes it to themselves to let their emotions and mental spirits engage in something that matters to them. In many ways, that is what music is all about.

It’s honest,
it’s pure,
it’s an intangible bridge between
what we can access
and what we haven’t quite figured out yet.
It’s a way of discovering parts of yourself
that are genuinely and authentically you.
And it’s worth every ounce of energy it takes to bring that out of yourself.

Last month’s column: Poetry straight from the journal. Read “The Entries” here.

The post Diary of a Wallflower: A 21st Century Ode to Music appeared first on KRUI Radio.

The Entries 

October 6, 2015
11:32 PM

My pillow collects my dreams. And sometimes at the end of a long day, I drop my head on my bed, and they puff up into the air like fairy dust, floating over my eyelids. Some seep into my hair, making my brain smell like vanilla orchids. Or the nightmares that taste like blood in the back of my throat, my eyes scrunching tighter. I turn, facedown into the feathers, and scream.

November 12, 2015
4:43 AM

In Which 36 MPH Winds Are Insomnia

You’re the high winds crashing against my bedroom windows. Rattling the branches of trees, and dominating the air at speeds that unsettle me. I know it’s hard for you to be tame, for sweeping things off their feet is all you’ve ever known. I know you are no match for my windows, nor my walls, and yet it is hard to breathe. But I’m trying to sleep. I’m trying to sleep. And yet it is hard to breathe.

I think much differently when I can’t sleep. My mind bends in ways that create melodies—only these are not lullabies. These are not songs I want to fall asleep to. They resemble broken sheet music that wedges you between every bar. You’re just a space heater for the cold spots, manifesting in places that are usual warmth when I’m fully awake. That’s the only reason you exist in the wind.

November 24, 2015
4:50 AM

I no longer communicate with people directly, because everything is filtered through this warped mass of dark rain. The cold shatters the inside of my skin, and pierces my inner walls like acid. It’s erupted in size—a tropical depression building and building into a roaring storm that tells me everything I need to know about love. What I deserve. What I don’t. And it’s scary, the way I find this stuff out. Something I may never know is how to start over, how to keep these warm waters calm, and from collecting in a war against me. Where do I start? How do I make up for lost time? The chemicals that are charged like lightning between our chests are hard to ignore.

But all the mistakes run through my veins like blood, and there’s nothing I can do about that. I’m not allowed to interpret for myself how your hand feels on my cheek, when there’s a storm brewing in my own eyes. But I’m also afraid you can see the dense clouds circling within me. And you will stand far enough away to watch the hurricane take siege over my body, as it’s already done to my mind. There’s nothing harder than trying to mingle with another’s soul while your own is tangled up in the winds.

Last month’s column: Love poems that includes every season. Read “Love Like the Seasons, Love Like the Colors” here.

The post Diary Of A Wallflower: The Entries appeared first on KRUI Radio.

That being said, this track is close to nothing like anything on their debut self-titled album. The band proclaimed an end to their grungy, sorrowful aesthetic, and Love Me is well representative of this change of sound. The single—its album cover sporting a neon pastel pink contrast to the dreary black and white of previous covers—is an upbeat tune that is sure to resonate with anyone who vibes with psychedelic 80’s jams.

Love Me strongly comes off as a positive, feel-good song that is also lightly charged with a commentary on fame and lifestyle in its lyrics. It’s almost hard to recognize “what a shame” it is that “you’re reading about yourself on a plane” when the beat is so easy to groove with. A heavier, further criticism lies in lines “you’ve got a beautiful face but got nothing to say” and “we’ve just come to represent a decline in the standards of what we accept.” Even though this song’s chorus feels light-hearted and fun, the band still follows through with embedding its usual thought-provoking lyrics.

There is much to look forward to as this track serves as the first single off their upcoming album set to release in 2016, I Like It When You Sleep, for You Are So Beautiful Yet So Unaware Of It. Without a doubt, The 1975 successfully deliver with Love Me: a taste of their new sound and musical mood, but also a treat for any fan’s music library.

Watch the music video for Love Me below, and check out The 1975 on touring the U.S. this winter.

The post Track of the Week: “Love Me” By The 1975 appeared first on KRUI Radio.

Love Like the Seasons, Love Like the Colors

June and July: A Letter

Dear Summer Nights,

If I am brave, I will leave this letter on your bedside table before I leave in the morning. I will put on a fresh set of red lips just to seal it with a kiss.

If I am brave, I will wait until you wake up, and instead place a kiss to your lips instead of to my words folded within this page. And I will watch the morning light flood the shimmer in your features. You might call me a cab.

If I am brave, I will tuck this letter beneath my pillow, and sigh into your neck. The warm body beneath my touch will squirm into a new dream. The murmur of crickets outside your bedroom window will echo through the haze of your subconscious. They will grow loud and pulsate against your skull. The whispers of my lungs against your skin will become a nightmare.

If I am brave, I will put down my pen. I will wake you up in the still, brisk of the night. The warmth of your hand will find my knee and the depth of your eyes will hollow to receive my soft words. Our thoughts will mingle in the dark air between us, as the cotton sheets absorb your wishes, my dreams, and our stories. Until day breaks, and the black room becomes gold and we have yet to let our minds sleep. I will rest my head on your chest, and my mind will rest in the creases of your palms. And the bed will be thick with the physicality of our midnight and the mentality of our 4 a.m. I will leave my sweater at the end of your bed and you will remember to invite me back for it. And this letter will never be finished.

Alas. I am not as brave as I used to be.

Sincerely,

Me

Color-coded

My skin is pink. It flushes a deep scarlet in your arms, the nerves running thick against my pulse. Your breath is indigo in your lungs, but comes out colorless in your words. Your words… I cannot distinguish one shade of gray from the next. The fingerprints I leave upon your chest are a grassy hue, like new spring, with a rich caution of evergreen bristles.

I have always wondered why the music you listen to is so much bluer than mine when I hum to all the same bands. I write my lyrics in the sky and you tie yours to rocks that you throw into the ocean after dusk. Sunsets my lipstick stains leave on your cheeks, as your lips trail tar down my back.

I want you to see the same rainbow as me, but I know this to be something that nobody can teach anybody. Both the rain and I can tell you when spring is here, but we can only wait for you to run your fingers through the grass for yourself and say, hey, everything’s not dead anymore. Last year, we waited until fall. But it was better than waiting for snowfall.

winter heat waves

your kiss is like ice against my teeth,
an enamel eruption of winter’s peak
visible breath and invisible words
that say I love you now
but maybe not tomorrow.
balmy sighs that mingle with lies
on honest lips of mine, be mine.
show me love that isn’t temporary
or a seasonal shift between want and need
that dies like wet January grass.
we corrode slow into one another
with dependent desire that heats
the space between hand and hip.
how tragic it is
that it’s summer on our skin
and winter in our bones.

Last month’s column: Poems driven by epigraphs of song lyrics. Read “The Lyrical Epigraph” here.

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