onedreamrush

So.................
Kiwi vodka company 42Below arranged 42 of the world's "best" directors and ordered them to make 42 second shorts. A lot of them are seriously uninspired - like trailers for Photoshop 0.63 made by deviantART users, (Ouch.) but thankfully David Lynch and Harmony Korine are on hand with their snappy efforts. Larry Clark did one too but i cudn faand it.

I like Korine's loads - it's like a baby (lol) -sized partner piece to his latest, Trash Humpers. Lynch's, as a witty youtube commenter suggested, is more Monty Python than Mulholland Drive. Neither pieces are like WOAHH SHHHHIIIIIIITTT, but I love the idea that both directors have sketched on a super-small scale - like a film version of Picasso's doodles on restaurant napkins.

pocahaunted

Oo. Strange strangers. Pocahaunted. Like Cocteau Twins in a very odd hospital coridoor. DISREGARD THAT, I SUCK COCKS. More like a ghostly boner. Meant to write about these for ages but i dun it now. Falling in love's pretty easy.

Pocahaunted - All Of Is Of

weird era /blondes

Manchester's Weird Era are communicating something to me as I eat my kimchi noodles and look out at the midlands-y rain. Recalling Mr. That Ghost in terms of production, but with a Moose-y quality, it's the kind of stuff that makes me go 'oh yeah, that's good.' I'm trying to avoid giving any disparate references today - don't you hate it when music bloggers do that? Like "it sounds like if an early City Warfare covered Sang Sang Sang in the early 1600's under a marquee". I fuckin' hate music bloggers.

Weird Era - Ghost



Woah, a titty! I wonder if this gal minds being published on blogs. BLONDESSS are a trance-ridden little hypnotiser band of disco drapery. They take me elsewhere with they beats. Delicately measured minimalism ensures a good night's sex.

Blondes - Moondance

story timeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Richard walks into the room wearing a blue shirt.

Sarah lies on the bed, wearing faded blue jeans. She looks up.

‘You should knock.’ she says. She smiles.

Richard stares across the room at her. John turns around from the desk and looks at Richard. Richard looks at him. John turns around.

Sarah puts a magazine down on the bed. ‘You okay?’ she asks.

There is a shout from outside the window.

‘Okay?’ she asks.

‘No, I’m fine.’ Richard says suddenly. There is a chair adjacent to the bed. He walks across the room and sits on the chair.

‘What’s the plan for tonight?’ Sarah asks.

‘We’re going ghost hunting if you want to come.’ he says.

‘Yeah, I’m up for it.’ she says.

John shakes his head slowly.

Sarah looks at the back of his head. She almost scowls.

Richard wears black shoes. He looks at her. He clasps his hands. ‘Have you got much done today?’ he asks, smiling.

‘No, not really.’ she says. She smiles. She has ash blonde hair. ‘Have you?’ she asks.

‘No.’ he says. He almost giggles.

John imagines picking him up. John imagines picking him up and slicing. John imagines picking him up and slicing along his spine. John imagines picking him up and slicing along his spine like a cow carcass.

‘Are you gay, Richard?’ John asks.

‘No, man. I’m not gay.’ he says. ‘Why? Do you want cock?’

Sarah giggles in the background.

‘Some girl said you were gay.’ John says.

‘No, I’m not gay.’ Richard says. He scratches his head. He has long hair. ‘Hey John boy – do you wanna come ghost hunting?’

‘I don’t believe in ghosts, dude.’ John says.

Richard feels he is being sympathetic.

‘If I come, he’ll come.’ Sarah says. ‘That’s the way it is.’

Richard looks at her and nods.

~

It is dark outside. The trees bend in the wind. A girl walks through the darkness. Her hair moves in the wind. She imagines how a man might start talking to her. She imagines the way his voice would change. She puts her bag down and takes out her keys.

It is dark outside. There is a shout from outside the window. Sarah turns around from the window and looks at John.

‘Are you ready?’ she asks.

John lets the sentence hang. He feels comfortable in the room, with Sarah. Although we rarely talk in here, he thinks, at least she can’t talk to anyone else.

‘Yeah.’ he says.

She smiles weakly and nods. She turns back to the window.

John looks at her body. She leans into the window diagonally. She wears clear, black tights and a grey pencil skirt. She wears an olive cardigan over a pale yellow shirt. On her shirt there is a print of a boy playing in a mountain of shit.

John looks at her bottom. He remembers all the times he has looked at that bottom as her elbows get grazed on the carpet.

‘Richard’s outside.’ she says. ‘Let’s go.’

She turns in her muddy shoes and walks out the door.

~

Richard is speeding. It is dark.

Metal plays.

‘Where are we going then?’ Sarah asks, quietly.

Richard leans to his left. Sarah speaks into his ear.

‘Wait and see.’ Richard says.

John lights a cigarette. The windows are open. The smoke moves violently around the car.

~

Richard parks the car at the side of the road. They get out. Richard lights a cigarette.

‘I’m just going to piss.’ Sarah says.

The men nod.

They stare out at the fields. There is a forest at the side of the fields. It is dark. The wind blows.

‘Looks pretty dark in there.’ John says. His voice sounds distant.

A tree next to the car looks twisted.

Richard coughs. ‘Yeah.’ he says.

They stare out at the fields. John looks to his right. He looks along the road. He can’t see the end.

It is almost completely silent.

Richard puts his hand in the pocket of his plaid shirt. ‘Do you wanna cigarette John boy?’ he asks, absently.

John feels he is depressed.

‘Yeah.’ John says. ‘Thanks.’

The flame lights up their faces, briefly.

Sarah walks across the road. She opens her mouth excitedly.

‘Let’s go.’ Richard says.

Sarah smiles.

They walk along the edge of the road.

‘What were we talking about?’ Sarah asks.

‘Not sure.’ Richard says. He exhales. Smoke trails in the darkness.

‘What music do you like?’ Sarah asks.

‘Anything.’ Richard says. ‘Whatever. I don’t really think about it.’

‘Think we’ll see any ghosts tonight?’ Sarah asks.

Richard exhales. ‘I think there’s one behind us.’

John remembers a time when he would cry at such an insult. His eyes are slightly wet from the wind.

They walk in-between the trees and into the forest. The trees grow closely together. They walk around an oak tree. Richard steps over its large roots. Sarah and John walk on the roots.

‘There’s a good spot up here.’ Richard says. ‘I do believe in ghosts.’

There is a clearing. Four logs are placed in the leaves, in the shape of a diamond.

They sit on the logs. Richard puts out his cigarette in the leaves. He takes out a bag and a key. He puts his head down slightly. His hair covers his face as he snorts. He pinches his nose.

John thinks about pigs.

Richard passes the bag to Sarah, and then the key. She puts her head down slightly. Her hair covers her face as she snorts, quietly. She pinches her nose.
Sarah passes the bag to John, smiling weakly.

John looks at her nose. He feels it is perfect. Sarah passes him the key. He puts his head down slightly. He snorts loudly, almost angrily. He passes the bag back to Richard and smiles. He passes the key back and lights a cigarette.

John passes his cigarette to Sarah. He feels almost pleased, now. He sits there. He feels that whatever Sarah and Richard do is fine.

Sarah passes the cigarette to Richard. Richard nods at John. ‘Thanks John boy.’ he says.

Sarah plays with her hair.

An owl calls.

Sarah readjusts her cardigan.

The light is blue. The silhouettes of trees are black. It is dark. It is dark. The forest is dense. The trees are thin.

John watches Richard look into her eyes. After a while, he does kiss her.

John looks down at the leaves.

When he looks up they are gone.

John stands up. He feels a chill. He looks around him. The forest is dense. The trees are thin. He thinks of ghosts.

He hears a sound.

He hears a loud crackling. He hears a loud crackling in the darkness.

He walks into the forest. The light is blue. The silhouettes of trees are black. It is dark.

Thunder drones in the distance.

weed diamond / trailer trash tracys

Colorado's Weed Diamond presents an eclectic and refreshingly spread-out mix of tunes in need of a scrub - veering from slimy shoegaze to backgrond ballads and BeeGees covers. There's a full-length out (Sweater Kids on Mirror Universe Tapes). I've selected the former drawn-out delicious yawn of a track - 'Stevie wonder is TOO HIGH'. He fucking is.

Weed Diamond - Stevie Wonder is TOO HIGH














BIT SLOW ON THE UPTAKE HERE but Trailer Trash Tracys are probably the most bankable crossover poor fidelity/oh actually! London act there is going. They have a refreshingly spacial sound that doesn't shy away from a bit of damaged silk. What I mean by this is that the (Susanne Aztoria'ssss) vocals are creamy and lovely. Like quite a lot lovely. Like an angel exhaling smoke.

'Candy Girl' is oddly nostalgic - the bass sounds like the Twin Peaks theme, the drums sound like that J&MC tune at the end of that Sophia Coppola movie. These aren't bad things of course, as they merely provide the skeleton for the lovely flesh to hang off.

Trailer Trash Tracys - Candy Girl

vivian girls - when i'm gone

New-ish polished (too polished?) vid from tha viv's.

dj screw - inside lookin out (chopped & screwed)

cough cool

Here's a treat from Pennsylvania's Cough Cool. It's an immediate, lethargic, droned-out number that recalls Trudgers' excellent midnight pulser, 'Dream Building', which no joke, got me through a long essay about T.S.Eliot. 'Flower Reading' is a refreshingly dark and looming tune, miles away from the chirpy simplicity of much guitar-based jams these days. Although, 'Roxette' proves there is still much mileage in some shreddage.


Cough Cool - Flower Reading

turner prize 09 fo' shizzle!

Enrico David
My heart sank when I first saw Enrico David's work. There's a super-snotty, measured, illustratively cool quality to his gouaches for sure, but his sculpture is terrible. Looking at the [hi! I'm surreal and also postmodern!] 3d work feels like being told a Steven Hawking joke like it's something new. It's really really boring and really really old and not funny.

Richard Wright
Richard Wright's work is much more refreshing. He paints intricate optic patterns on the walls of the gallery in gold leaf. I think I like the implied narrative here best - the idea that the artist was present in each room for a significant amount of time. It's also enjoyable to see something so hopelessly fleeting and unsaleable. Plus his titles are playfully formal - Untitled, No Title, Not Titled. I'm easily pleased.

Roger Hiorns
Roger Hiorns is probably the most discussable artist, as his 2008 installation, Siezure involved the incredible (yet not forgetting, very Rachel Whiteread) tactic of filling an abandoned south London flat in copper sulphate in order to encrust the entire location with breathtaking crystals. The title is gorgeous, and the piece is clearly moving in its complex physicality, its frozen, natural process. He's a young dude, and is very modern. Like, painfully, crisply, cold morning-ly modern. He'll probably win it.

Lucy Skaer
The only chick on the list is a refreshingly back-to-basics sculptor and sketcher. Her work reminds me massively of Richard Long. A lot of people have talked about the metafictional qualities of her work, which is clearly apparent (Black Alphabet is 26 duplicate sculptures of Brancusi's Bird in Space made from compressed coal dust) but I find the deliberate, bitter monochrome of her work to be quite naturalistic. It's the right side of postmodern and actually the right side of retro for once, as it pays its homage with sincerity.

some cosmic musical predictions

2010 - 2012
Salem and time-stretched space-driven minimalist beats reign supreme. Wonkiness also makes a subtle but valuable appearance. D.I.Y. releases become way more frequent. La Roux dies in a car crash.

2013-2015
'The new silent generation' gradually begin to re-explore nu-metal and later nu-rave as a nostalgic source. People wear those massive curtain jeans for a while. I know.

2016-2017
There is a brief new British invasion in the states, but this falls flat because it is shit. Music becomes fully culturally integrated. Ragga and shoegaze. Music critics look back to 'the golden age of crunk' with nostalgia. Dubstep is indeciferable code.

2018-2019
A new genre quivers on the horizon, as big as punk or hip hop. It looks like a circle and sounds like a square. Everyone wears wrapping paper as it is the new fashion. Drill 'n' Bass has an unexpected resurgence. Andrew Lloyd Webber cuts his dick off in a live performance.

new harmony korine film y'all

If anyone else found Mister Lonely heap big fun but a bit too shiny for what is expected of Korine, then get your lo-fi balls out and pet them to the tune of his latest - Trash Humpers - which looks set to be one huge, glorious WTF.

It's a kind of documentary/NOT AT ALL flick that follows "a small group of elderly ‘Peeping Toms’ through the shadows and margins of an unfamiliar world". It looks totally warped and morally perfect but in a way that will seem bankrupt to the oldies that don't like Korine.

CLICK 'N' SCROLL FOR SOUPER CLIP
(horrible)

salem - piggyhog

More excellence from Salem...

fire boobs

shoegaze special - the swirlies

To celebrate the fact that no one knows when the shit MBV's new album(s?) is coming out, I thought I'd celebrate some other bands that caught the sparks that flew from the fascinating friction between Shields' and Butcher's glorious musical genitals. Basically.

THE SWIRLIES.

They is rad, and bit laak 'em.

Swirlies - Pancake

wet hair

Slimy toy-box music today from Iowa's Wet Hair. Light-hearted (or DARK HEARTED) longsongs that travel far, but only around the garden. Like a child's perspective on grass.

Wet Hair - Crucifix in the Waves

P.S.

Cassie Ramone is so charming. (still)

(OLD INTERVIEW)

arnold schoenberg

Arnold Schoenberg, seen here, with vein, was an Austrian - then later American - expressionist composer. He was the reason you had to listen to twelve-tone compositions (each note given equal value - remember?) in GCSE music.

It wasn't until the late twentieth century when Schoenberg started to mix codeine with soft drinks. The chemical was primarily gleaned from cough syrup, and the cocktail took off - especially in the southern hip hop scene - notably in Houston. Schoenberg named the mixture, 'purple drank'. The above photo is one of few that doesn't feature Schoenberg completely fucked on codeine. He is only partially fucked.

Below: Schoenberg's early expressionist work, and then the later 'Chopped 'n' Screwed' collaborative work.

conejo

So I found these guys on Salem's friend branches. I love how music keeps surprising me. Conejo make mono droning instrumentalist minimalism that could be easily set to key super-8 footage that punctuates a scene, whereby the female protagonist is on a lawn outside to the right of a white picket fence, undergoing some kind of metaphysical (and metaphorically metaphysical) change. Like, the colour of her dress would change from dark gold to navy.

Conejo - Heroyn

untitled

I had it.

A Little on Language

If our generation is good at one thing, it's being good at the language game. Good. For some time, I thought myself and my linguistically fragrant best friends were three of few innovators - innovation, that is, through mangling language in daily usage beyond comprehension. It's like morse code for dead retards. I don't wish to claim any aesthetic superiority over any other pals that refer to eachother by everchanging names, or generate idioms like a tit-tit in a cunt lounge, but what I have learned is that personal language, like the good bits of the internet, is completely user-generated, and is a supersweet way of staying close to your friends.

If you know what I mean then you know what I mean. If you don't, get new friends or buy a book. Language is the cement of identity. I am writing like a retard. Also, I went to Spain for a bit - that's why Mrs. Blog hasn't been updated. It was nice. I'm quite brown, but I feel I was fairly sensible - no bubbling red skin for me - yuk! Anyway, without giving away any specific examples and surrounding the magic of this personal language malarkey and staring it to bits, let's look at some more universal guns:

Rhyme
Obv CRS (Cockney Rhyming Slang) is rife with bored East-end gangsters' jives, but rhyme is great, especially when completely replacing the root - we use a lot of alternatives for 'one' for example. Evolutions include: gun, sun, son, mum, flap, gunt. Tit also always stands in for 'it'.

Obsidian Humour
Black, yah? This functions as a basic ongoing competition (we're boys), whereby morals are, not only erased 100%, but denied existence at any point in time (like in 1984 - if you own the present then you own the past then you own the future or whatever it is). What you end up with, hopefully would make /b/ on 4Chan blush. POR EJEMPLO: Baby P is hilarious, in fact it is vanilla. It was called Baby P, fuck sake. Build from there.

ArtMan
I.E. Creative lockdown shit. Like, hmm, isn't it strange that all the good bands have only 2 words in their bandnames? Why is this? Because it sounds fucking SWEET that's why, I don't fucking know. But it's true that art permeates personal language. The word crystal is superbly sexy because dem bints CRZAL CARSLE had it in their bloody name, so hence Crystal Stilts and Crystal Antlers are also cool. It sounds like I don't mean it but I do. Some aesthetics just work. This kind of stuff that artists do leaks into personal language in the form of film quotes, book references and sing sing the song song. We as a generation do this the most frequently than any other because we're all a bunch of postmodern FAGS.

In summary, we rock the lexicological party and our parents just sat around nodding their heads and wearing pinnys and sepia suits and were seen and not heard. FUCKERS.

I love Gen Y SRS.

ANDRWE

ye olde maids

Two things happen on finding new bands, both of which mean nothing. If you're me you can have the huge guffaw at the badness that you then come to love (like Suicide or something) OR the simpler nicer option of just 'yes, I'm so glad someone is doing this'. Although often they're the same thing t4k0b7k257-7bl5745l7-b45 Whatever, I'm hungover. Do my work for me.

Philadelphia's Ye Olde Maids have a welcome gaggle of songs that veer from scuzz to shoegaze. Their most prominent sound is one of the submerging electronic wash, warm, crusty synths and thin melodies. They operate like the bridge between a synth-purist version of Blank Dogs and shoegaze proper. Shit at explaining. Should give this up some time.

Andrewwwwwwwwwwww

P.S. their stuff is on Art Fag.
P.P.S. I like writing P.S.

Ye Olde Maids - Cocoa Cherub

buried in time: come on kill(her) zine

Several years ago, when MySpace was blooming like a flower, fucked endlessly into a myopic post-rape trance by the pollen-stealing, mugger-rapist-bee called trend*, there was a young girl from Canada called Emma W, and she sent me her work for no monies.

Her zine - Come On Killer - was a kind of temptation map for psychotics considering the serial kill as a job, amongst awesomely prophetic interviews with the likes of Crystal Castles and the now defunct Travels with My Aunt. Best of all was the healthy obsession with a barage of propoganda calling for the cold-blooded murder of Kate Moss, which erred on the erotic. Thank you, COK, for making working at the cinema tolerable.

Andrew

(click to make it big one. how long have you been using the internet for?)

*what

naked on the vague

Well kill my dick, it's aanly blady Naked on the Vague! Shrimp on the barbie //////// Shrimp on the barbie ////////

Sydney's Naked on the Vague make new moods out of old meat. Definitely malevolent, practically danceable and surprisingly diverse, this pair make noise collage stuck soundly somewhere between sense and evil. I shouldn't really (I know! you keep telling me...) draw comparisons between Liars again, but NOTV's stuff has the freshness of They Were Wrong So We Drowned with a whole new element that makes you like it more. Dunno what it is though. Anyway, LOVESING this-----\/down arrow

Andrew
Naked on the Vague - Old Leader

Kelsea waits outside. Paper plates fall from the upstairs windows. The house is full of people.

Emma holds her arms out.

They hug.

‘Thank you.’ Kelsea says.

‘That’s okay.’ Emma says.

*

Jack is looking into the barbeque. His face is wet.

He looks up.

Emma and Kelsea walk across the living room carpet and through the French doors.

‘Hey!’ Jack says. He squints in the sun. He shields his eyes.

‘Hey Jack.’ Emma says. She smiles. ‘This is Kelsea.’

They hug.

‘Hey.’ Jack says.

A football sails across the sky.

Jack smiles. He makes a face. ‘Are you guys hungry?’ he asks.

He lifts up the lid of the barbeque. There are dozens of items. ‘We’ve got quite a lot of stuff.’ he says.

Kelsea laughs.

Jack stares at her. He has red hair and brown eyes. Kelsea feels he is quite ugly.

Jack stares at her. ‘Do you eat meat?’ he asks.

Someone puts on some music.

‘No. Sorry.’ Kelsea says. She shakes her head.

‘Okay.’ Jack says. He smiles weakly. ‘I’ll make some vegetable kebabs.’

He looks into the barbeque. His face is wet.

He stares at her. ‘Do you like peppers?’

*

James is playing a Fender Telecaster in the living room. Kelsea stares at him.

‘What can you play?’ Becky asks. Becky has short brown hair. She tucks her hair behind her ear. She wears a short kilt.

‘Can you play Nirvana?’ Kelsea asks.

James scowls. ‘Of course I can play Nirvana.’ he says. ‘What do you think I am, retarded?’

He looks at Becky and almost laughs. He twitches his nose.

Kelsea leaves the room quickly.

*

Birds call and are answered. The sun shines brightly.

Emma is sunbathing.

Jack glances at Kelsea from the barbeque as she walks by. She walks across the lawn to Emma.

‘Hi.’ she says.

Emma turns over.

‘Hey. How’s it going?’ she asks. She drinks her drink. ‘You should take that hat off if you want to impress James.’

‘Why?’ Kelsea asks.

‘Um.’ Emma says. She sits up.

A squirrel squawks from behind the fence.

Emma rubs sun cream into her thighs.

‘Want some?’ she asks.

Emma wears a striped bikini. Kelsea feels she has an amazing figure.

‘Have you got a–’ Emma says. She tucks her hair behind her ear. She looks at the grass and puts the suncream down. ‘Bikini underneath?’ she asks. She looks up. She squints in the sun.

‘No.’ Kelsea says. She can smell suncream.

‘Just wear your bra and knickers then.’ Emma says. ‘In some ways that’s sexier.’ She smiles.

Kelsea feels she is being sympathetic.

‘My stitches will show.’ Kelsea says. She creases her eyebrows.

‘Are you okay?’ Emma asks.

‘I’m fine.’ Kelsea says. She gulps. She sits on a seat cover, lying in the grass.

An aeroplane pans overhead.

‘Are these from the dining room?’ Kelsea asks.

Someone calls from upstairs. Dereck runs with a water pistol.

‘How bad are your scars?’ Emma asks.

‘Not too bad.’ Kelsea pulls up her white shirt.

‘Is that your school shirt?’ Emma asks.

‘Yeah.’ Kelsea says.

Emma creases her eyebrows. ‘I like it.’ she says.

Emma looks at the line of stitches on Kelsea’s hip.

‘Nasty.’ she says. ‘Why didn’t you want to show me before?’ she asks.

‘They were green.’ Kelsea says.

Emma closes her eyes. ‘That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.’ she says.

Kelsea suddenly feels disgusting.

Rory screams from the upstairs bathroom.

A window closes.

‘Take that hat off!’ Emma says suddenly. She leans over to Kelsea. She pulls off the baseball cap.

There is a thick bandage on the side of Kelsea’s scalp.

‘Kelsea!’ Emma expostulates. ‘It looks horrible.’

Kelsea closes her eyes. ‘I know.’ she says.

‘I think it’s seeping through.’ Emma says. She grimaces.

Kelsea blinks.

Her blood glistens in the sunlight.

‘That’s why I’ve got the hat.’ Kelsea says. ‘If I touch it I fall unconscious.’

‘Shouldn’t you be in hospital?’ Emma asks. She stretches her legs out on the towel.

The sun shines along the roof of Jack’s house.

The television aerial sways in the light breeze.

Becky walks across the living room carpet and through the French doors. She laughs and looks down at herself. Her chest is covered in water. Kelsea sighs. She knows Becky looks beautiful.

Rory sits on the wall, smoking. He wears a tee with a tiger on the front.

‘Shouldn’t you be in hospital?’ Emma asks. She rests her head on her knees.

‘No.’ Kelsea says. ‘There’s nothing they can do.’

‘Have you told them that touching it makes you unconscious?’ Emma asks. She looks in her handbag.

We Have All the Time in the World by Louis Armstrong comes on.

‘I’m just going to talk to Rory.’ Kelsea says. ‘He looks lonely.’

She squints.

Emma smiles. ‘Cool.’ she says. She smiles. ‘Do it.’

Kelsea nods.

Rory looks up at Kelsea. He looks to his left.

Smoke blows around his face.

He squints.

‘Having a good time?’ Kelsea asks. She smiles.

‘No.’ Rory says. ‘I can’t believe I came.’

He inhales.

He exhales.

‘Why?’ Kelsea asks. She shifts her hat on her head.

Rory shakes his head. His brown hair wobbles. Kelsea feels a need to entertain him.

‘Dude.’ she says.

Rory creases his eyebrows. He looks up at her.

‘Have you seen my stitches?’ Kelsea asks.

Rory almost laughs. ‘No?’ he says.

‘Do you want to?’ Kelsea asks. She makes a face.

‘Sure.’ Rory says.

Kelsea pulls up her white shirt.

Rory smiles. He looks at her. Her blonde hair hangs behind her ears. The sun shines through her hair. ‘That’s gnarly.’ he says.

He looks at her. ‘How did you get it?’ he asks.

‘Fell down some stairs when I was visiting my brother at uni.’ she says.

‘It’s a pretty sick cut.’ Rory says. ‘It’ll leave a big scar.’

Kelsea nods.

‘Do you want to go inside?’ Rory asks.

Kelsea nods dramatically. She feels moved.

She watches Rory walk inside. She follows him. She scratches her head.

*

The ambulance pulls up to the house. Everyone is sitting on the front lawn, silently.

Rory leans across the lawn. Emma sees him as a flash of red and white.

‘Can I come?’ he asks.

Emma looks at him. She is wearing khaki shorts and a Cambridge university hoodie.

Emma shakes her head. ‘No, I think it’s best for you to not come.’

She turns to look at the ambulance. She stands up straight. Two men walk towards the lawn.

*

One black woman and two white men are in the ambulance. The driver is speeding.

The woman nods.

‘Thank God.’ Emma says. She shakes her head.

Emma looks out the back window. An old woman is driving behind them, getting further away.

‘Did you go to Cambridge?’ the woman asks. She stares at Emma.

‘No, this is my sister’s. I’m only 16.’ Emma says. She clasps her hands.

*

A father and son stand outside the hospital. The father has grey hair, scraped back. The son has black hair, scraped back.

The sun shines along the side of the building. It is early in the evening.

They walk towards the hospital in silence.

There is a ward on the ground floor. The father looks through the window. A nurse puts down a tray. She looks confused.

The father looks at his son. ‘Let’s try the next window.’ he says.

The son nods.

An old man lies in bed. A mechanical ventilator is to his left. A blood bag is to his right.

There is an unattended crash cart at the end of the bed.

The father stares through the blinds. ‘I’ll be like that one day, son.’ he says. He looks up. ‘So brace yourself.’

The son nods.

They walk to the next window in silence.

A young girl lies asleep in bed. She has blonde hair. She has green eyes. There is a thick bandage on the side of her scalp.

The father and son stare through the blinds.

He looks at his son.

‘She’s about your age.’ he says.

The son creases his eyebrows.

‘Poor girl.’ the father says.

They stare through the blinds.

‘What happened?’ the son asks.

‘Probably took a tumble.’ the father says. He looks at his son. ‘Nice looking isn’t she?’

‘Dad.’ the son says.

A crow flies down from the roof. ‘I’m just saying.’ the father says. ‘She’s pretty.’

Cars drive by.

The son stares through the blinds.

Cars drive by.

‘Have you fallen in love with her?’ the father asks.

The son stares at him.

‘I’m just saying.’ the father says. ‘It can happen very quickly.’

2009

foot village

He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life. He shampooed my life.

Oo! Foot Village! Heard about these lovers a while back. It's party-friendly "drum 'n' shout" from Hollywood, in part like if Boredoms had a WHOLE DAY on the drums to experiment. Strangely danceable AND... outstandingly fun.

Andrew x0

Watch ~ FOOT VILLAGE - Erecting the Wall of Seperation

Foot Village - "Erecting the Wall of Separation" from Deathbomb Arc on Vimeo.

buried in time: alan licht & aki onda

This might be the first part of a series about bands around the Jewelled Antler collective founded in 1999, but equally I might not bother. It's up to me you see.

Jewelled Antler were unfortunately early pioneers of natural-based drone, field recordings and general public baiting filth. The many artists that were linked to them on the web of the spider did things like building "crude harps built from fallen trees" (Wikipedia, 2009. p1234). They were so devoted to the idea of making music so earthy that the CD-Rs they distributed were actually covered in soil*. The artists also use(d) pinecones as percussive instruments.

Yes! It's good. This is a track from Family Vineyard's Alan Licht and Aki Onda - very Fat Cat, very early noughties, quite electronic considering I've been banging on about nature, but certainly woody and bilingual - with the French bit at the end. Bring me nice nightmares Señor Dave.

Love Andy

*no

Alan Licht and Aki Onda

Painting: Willian Holman Hunt - The Lady of Sha

everything goes wrong: speculations about the new viv's record

I'm stoked about the Vivian Girl's newie (set for release in September). Something about the new clarity/ bit more minor quality of the new tracks makes me think Everything Goes Wrong might have a more pronounced Breeders vibe. Personally I'd love more little cryer vox harmonies like in 'Damaged'. I doubt the Vivs would ever get involved with cellos (although who knows?), but I'm thinking clever lyrical snubs, lazier chords and slower tempos.

Also, I coined a new musical term last night - Trog* Rock. I was so pleased with it then, now I'm not so sure...

x Abacus

*yup, troglodyte

Listen ~ Vivian Girls - Damaged

women

Hey guys, i just had like a month-long sleep but i'm back with more lo-fi snacks, like...

WOMEN

from Canada. I love the scrangey clutziness of this track. It's like Liars' 'Drum and the Uncomfortable Can' but played in an underpass. Nothing beats scummy chords played with scummy direspect for time signatures.

...also RIP M.J. (I watched Moonwalker today and it made me have a fit. In a good way!)

x Andre 3000

WOMEN - January 8th

deep sht

Post-Drone-punk fun nao with Deep Sht from Londres. I love this utterly zine-worthy cover from the tape (out on Family Time). The guy looks so insistent. WEIRD YOU.

Expect shamelessly Blank Dogs inspired (who wasn't?) tunes with catchiness as a standard and fuzz and mush and girlfriends lost in a cavern as a double standard.

Deep Sht - Other People's Lives

Untitled

It's fair to say that modern America did lean towards the New Sincerity and remodernisation from as early as Billy Childish and the Stuckists, and so when Eminem claims to challenge conventional stances taken so thoroughly to their zenith - such as Marcus Smith's dissections of Joyce's Ulysses (Anthony Burgess himself claimed that the devotion was "beyond masturbatory") - we can only agree he is being Pythonesque.

Paula Smith argues that the tension in Relapse is sustained "by the consistent dread the failure of a career might provide", and we can see her candour, but at JC Higgins retorts, "Eminem is concerned not just with creating a mood piece, but exploring Lynchian levels of abstraction that are key to the American Gothic nuances". Eminem's devotion to the World Wildlife Fund brings joie de vivre to an otherwise dans le jardin area of Hip Hop, and from this we can only see his work - as this allows us to - as self-reflexive, postmodern schadenfreude that serves as parataxis between the more prosaic, Huxlian themes.

Dave Brown
(Pitchfork Media)

Bibliography
Smith, Marcus. Eminem and the Lost Chalice of (Post)Modernism. Vintage, 2009.
Burgess, Anthony. A Life Trapped in R. Kelly's Closet. Massachussets, 1998.
Smith, Paula. The New Sincerity in Eminem's 'Relapse'. Faber, 2009.
Higgins, JC. The Gothic in Relation to Tits... and Beyond! Faber, 2006.

no paws (no lions)

Scuzz-pop time with No Paws (No Lions); two guys with skills in keyboard collage and drum bashing that would make Greg Saunier proud. They function sort of like a stripped-down TNV, with the organs/samples shoved right at the forefront.

Some killer songs and a fearless/careless live style make for an addictive up-to-the-minute mess. Good times. The CDR is out on Narf.

Listen ~ No Paws (No Lions) - Seventeen

Untitled

Hello, my name is Paul. My head is shaped like a huge swastika with smaller swastikas coming off each tip to infinity. My mother is outside, beating children that hide in a wigwam. The year is 14,000. I am dead.

Being a ghost is a lot like being gay. One day you find a new bristle towering out of your penis, and you know you are different. This is what happened to me. My father, Michelangelo, was the first to notice the new bristle. At the dinner table, tapping his long fingernails on the glass surface, he said

‘Paul. I know you’re gay. There’s no hiding it from me. I can see a lot more than you think, even though I have no eyes.’

I was quite taken aback. I crossed my arms and said

‘Dad. I’m not gay. I’m a ghost. I’m like god except no one believes in me.’

‘No one believes in god either.’ he said.

‘Touché.’ I said.

‘That’s why we dropped the capital letter.’ he said.

‘I know.’ I said.

In the year 14,000 no one believes in god because god was found to be gay. Scientists built a large crystal panel into the sky, like a diving board but vertical, adorned with gorgeous jewels, and hopped off onto his cloud, to find him masturbating. It is said that the first Scientist, J7, said something along the lines of

‘Hey.’

before god murdered them all with the largest gun of all time. However, as luck would have it, the second Scientist, 7uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu, twittered their findings – that god was masturbating to gay porn on an old Sinclair ZX81 – back to earth and from then on, everyone knew.

There are other advantages to being a ghost. You can jump the queue at bus stops. You piss white paint. That is all.

~

The next day I was shagging mother on a mountain when my girlfriend, Slug, called.

‘Hey Paul, it’s Slug. Are you okay?’

She sounded sexier than usual, which meant she was worried.

‘I’m fine. Is there a problem here?’

‘No problem darling, it’s just I’ve got a huge spoon in my garden.’

‘What are you telling me for.’

‘I don’t know.’ She sounded even more sexier. ‘I thought you might know what to do.’

It sounded like she was crying which I found very erotic. We have this game we play where she calls me up at a random time in the day and cries on the phone. I almost always spray cum up the walls in the London Underground the second I hear her voice. It is kind of a prank she plays.

But that day, she wasn’t playing no prank. I said

‘I don’t know. Try putting a bowl of cereal by the patio.’

‘Really? You think that’ll work?’ she said.

‘It’s worth a try.’ I said.

Then I finished with mother. By the end of it, she was gay.

~

The next day Slug was letting her long red hair fall back off her pale, beautiful, Russian shoulders with a delicate smattering of freckles and a bone structure that seems to draw itself with its own beauty, telling me about the spoon.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘It worked!’ she exclaimed, looking gorgeous, ‘Your plan worked!’

My cheeks went red. I love helping her, it’s just I get embarrassed. ‘Aw shucks.’ I said.

I glanced out the garden and saw that the spoon was still there. Slug glanced with me. She threw her hands up and made a face of sheer egg-fart and said

‘It’s back.’ She looked obsequiously angry. She ran outside, barefoot. ‘It’s BACK.’ She fell to her knees. ‘It’s BACK.’ She started tearing off her clothes. ‘It’s BACK.’

She said ‘It’s BACK’ so many times that I ended up completely bored, and started to imagine she was saying ‘its back’, as if describing the spoon’s back. Whilst my girlfriend was tearing off her knickers and punching huge dents in the lawn, I took this further and imagined the spoon’s back – a fleshy mound on the back of the spoon, although it wouldn’t be on the back! (I argued against myself) because it would be the back! I started to think that this sort of circular logic is what applies to my own head – that of a huge swastika with smaller swastikas coming off each tip to infinity – which, in turn, made me feel less of a man for a few seconds.

After a few hours, Slug came into the house, covered in blood and mud.

I stared at her.

She stared at me.

I looked outside. Slug had covered the entire spoon in tiny scraps of More! Magazine. I looked back at her. A dog looked at me. I looked at the dog. The dog looked at Slug. Slug looked at the dog. The dog looked at me.

~

The next day we went to the seaside. Slug had so many towels, it was ridiculous! She looked the spit of Larry David’s wife in Curb Your Enthusiasm that day. I should explain that the reason we have Curb Your Enthusiasm is because time is actually nothing but an endless loop, and when it reaches a certain point it begins again, and all human achievement is lost. In the year 14,000 we are on the third loop. Something to think about.

‘You look the spit of Larry David’s wife in Curb Your Enthusiasm that day, I mean this day.’ I said.

‘Thanks hun!’ she said.

‘I like it because you have that weird primate jaw that some girls have. I like it because it alludes to fellatio. It’s like an ape jaw. I want to fuck your jaw.’ I said.

‘Thanks gun!’ she said.

‘Gun?’ I said.

‘Oh no, sorry, I was thinking about guns.’ She said.

Boulder was at the beach. Boulder is one of our neighbours, with a boulder for a head. He has a son that looks like a staple.

‘Hey!’ I said, to be polite.

‘Hey!’ Boulder said.

‘Nice weather, right?’ I said.

‘Yeah right!’ Boulder said. ‘I’ll have to try not to get too eroded.’ he said and pointed to the centre of his skull.

‘What did he say? None of what he says makes any sense.’ Slug said to me quietly, in a worried tone.

Then Boulder’s head exploded and seventeen people were killed.

~

The next day was my running day. I usually go running to get away from Slug, when she’s playing more pranks like when she pours boiling water on my face to wake me up. I find running very relaxing, plus it’s a great way to keep fit and have fun! Usually I run around a local track, but due to the success of my two recent books – Paul’s New Track, and Postmodernism, I have been able to afford a new track of my own.

Usually I run a 400m sprint, then masturbate, and then run another 400m sprint. But this day was a little different. God was on the track, milling around in the corner by some hedges, looking dejected. I ran about 300 and then walked up to him.

‘Hey, you’re – god, right?’ I said.

‘Yup.’ he said. I could see he had been crying.

‘How are you?’ I asked.

‘Oh. Fine. Little erectile dysfunction, nothing to write home about.’

I nodded. His jokes reminded me of Boulder’s, and this annoyed me.

‘You can’t be on this track. This is my track. Just to say.’ I said.

‘Oh. Sorry. I’ll move.’

Then he shuffled out through a hole in the hedge.

I continued my run, but just as I neared the finish line, I noticed a figure in the middle of the track. It was Slug, looking long and thin, and pale in the strong morning light, holding a present. I ran up to her.

‘Hey darling, what are you doing? Is it the spoon?’ I asked.

‘No, nothing like that.’ she said.

‘What’s with the gift?’ I asked.

‘It’s for you.’ she said.

‘Awesome!’ I said.

She stood nervously, stretching her legs as I opened the present. I kept looking up at her face, and thinking about how much I admired her. She looked really modest and yet pleased with herself. Her freckles were defined in the light.

I tore off the paper.

‘Oh wow! It’s the Curb Your Enthusiasm boxset!’ I said. ‘Feels a little light.’ I said. I opened it.

‘Hey! There’s no discs in here!’

‘This is a riddle for you to solve.’ Slug said, then she spun around, throwing glitter everywhere, and ran to the edge of the field.

I took it as an insult, as I stood there, stunned. She was making a point of my being a ghost. All these years we’ve been together, I thought, she’s been a racist.

among the bones

More London fun-dom from Among The Bones - refreshing, born-again liquidation and luxury without the $cientology. Like a mass ceremony held by strange VST demi-gods.

'Hark from the Tombs' is a seminal swell of a song, building to a throb of treasure-like tingles and drones. It sounds... well, holy.

Among the Bones - Hark from the Tombs

trudgers

If you fuck up I'll kill you. Trudgers brings bad love and the stench of candlelight from Murrieta, CA. Imagine what the soundtrack to the voyeur scene in Blue Velvet should have been and you are still so far...

"Uneventful, repetitious night music" seems self-chastised and perfect, in most all of Trudgers' gothic strokes, but especially in the gorgeously sad 'Dream Building'. That there is darkness in these tracks seems beyond the point. They are mood pieces, stressed to the point of perfection.

TRUDGERS = Dream Building

Untitled

Although Mr. Kath might not admit it, much of what Crystal Castles do can be attributed to the fiction of a Mr. Paul Auster. Kath has said on several occasions that "shy children don't get anywhere" and we can see his point.

Described by the NME as "like an inverted comma that inverts forever being spoken by a dead anime girl lost in a maze of a 2-year-old child's interpretation of binary code", it was an instant classic. Following the recession, the Royal Bank of Scotland were quoted to have said "we appreciate everything Crystal Castles have done and we wish them good luck for the future". A subsequent celebratory party has been planned for the albums 10th anniversary - in 2018.

But, as Billy Neville always said "Crystal Castles are about the astute criticism of metaphysics, not its acceptance" and who are we to argue?

-Charles Chevins
(Pitchfork Media)


Bibliography
Higgs, Marcus. Diamond Dust: An Inquiry Toward the Gun. Faber, 2012.
Glass, Alice. MY PANTS. Faber, 2004.
Kenneth, Karl Klyde. Racism in Pop Music 1979-2009. Faber, 2009.

TRACK BY TRACK ~ Deerhoof - The Man, The King, The Girl

To my mind, zee best Deerhoof record. If you want to hear the sounds of friends in friends' houses recording their own bonding processes over beer, get this.

1. Tiger Chain
From the first wrecked chord the Hoof are onto something special. It begins sounding like a stumbling awakening to a barren Terminator landscape, except everything's made of felt. Then comes one of the best drops everr - Rob's squealing guitars flail into an insane and lovely wash of Greg's drums and Satomi's fractured, angelic vocals. 'Slather me with butter / Ring around the world ash pit.' she sings like a girl with no friends at a party.

2. Polly Bee
Genius-ly, 'Tiger Chain' is followed by an instantly catchy little love called 'Polly Bee'. 'All my love to the sun in the morning sky / Mommas unhappy all the time.' Satomi sings over strange, hypnotised keys that get crunched into nothingness by punked out riffs and catchy basslines.

3. Sophie
There is something awesome about entitling a track a girls name and then it consisting of nothing but unhinged noise.

4. A-Town Test Site
Greg destorys his snare drum and we start to think whether this album should come with a pack of paracetomols. This is pretty good showcase of how emotive rhythm can be, something that Greg Saunier is an absolute demon at.

5. Gold on Black
Dark-ass slayage from Rob on this track with a killer fucking riff followed by more awesome key harmonies and some truly piss-taking fills from Greg. A track to have rough biker-sex to.

6. For Those of Us on Foot
This is a track I can imagine would cause people to be put off early Deehoof by. An ungodly rash of hiss with what is basically animals communicating in song, whilst singing the chorus we just heard to 'Polly Bee'. Builds to some slammin' march rhythms and a recording of one of the band's angry dogs snarling at the mic. I forget who's dog it is, but he is credited in the liner notes.

7. Gore in Rut
Tracks like this make me sad that Greg has reigned in his jazz-spazz-stab drumming skills for something a bit more... indie. 'I can't have it / The monster rabbit' Satomi sings (I think). One of the pleasures of this record is that what you hear changes every time. Isn't that the point of music?

8. Wheely Freed Speaks to the People
A showcase in the violent/lovely aesthetic that Deehoof basicaly invented. Some gorgeous chord progressions and soprano harmonies from Mrs. Matsuzaki. A real mover.

9. Bendinin
A kind-hearted flag of a song in the tradition of the wonderful 'Dinner for Two' off Apple O'. There is a short bit of this where Greg's vocals sound so poor that he seems like a lost idiot that needs help, and this I love.

10. Itchy P-Pads
Clang, clang, clang. A burst of ungodly racket after the cooling down of 'Bendinin'. There are parts of silence in this where I can imagine them playing in the living room.

11. The Pickup Bear
This is such an amazing song. Crazy-short at just over a minute, Satomi sings 'The pick up bear' with such knowing. I get this image of a bear that the band know that gives them lifts around the place, and most of the town know him, but he's not very nice to you if you don't know him.

12. The Comedian Flavorists
There is a strange smell of Reveille in this track - very major LA LA sounding announcement-like songs.

13. Queen of the Mole People
Final song of calm, back of a coach journey music. Greg's drums are so tame in this, but you can feel a sense of an excited kid getting drunk on champagne at a wedding - there's too much enthusiasm. It's profound fun. End lyric 'I forgot my money, I forgot my money' gives me chills.

& 14. - 18
The live tracks. Deerhoof really lived it when they were starting out playing live. You can hear the awe of the audience, absolutely in shock at how bad the band are that are playing before them. They sound even more retarded than the Shaggs for god's sake. This is, of course, why they mean everything. 'Carriage' is a fine example of animalistic, wrathful screaming and horror, as is 'The Mausker'. On one of the tracks you can hear a guy (I guess it was recorded from the back of the venue) say 'What the hell is this?'. I would have loved to be at one of these penetrating shows. It's dangerous to let yourself like early Deerhoof - as someone reviewing at pitchfork said 'Deerhoof have lost me friends, apartments and several girlfriends' but you will be a richer person if you dig into the early recordings and give in to their terrible charm.

jeans wilder

Loving the new loner stare-gaze thing that's reverberating in the corner like a small, sexy girl that doesn't know who she is yet (and all the better) right now. This is an Andres Serrano print. Only joking. It's the visual interpretation of California's Jeans Wilder. I'm pretty sure I heard a slice of this man's greatness on DJ Rick's seminal Art for Spastics. Maybe it was a dream. Dreams are acceptable.

The 'Something in the Way' cover is pretty haunting, adding a rusty, dischordant sense of ambience and new dread to what was probably one of the best Nirvana tracks when we think about it. The very fun 'Miss Yr Scent' is plenty damaged yet controlled, and although oldie 'Evening Gown' sometimes nods towards the teepee rock of Brightblack, it's short and just scary enough to sustain an American gothic undertone.

JEANS WILDER - Evening Gown

Untitled

Suicide demonstrates the fear of isms. As Marcus Jacobs said, "fear is only in the heart of wasps". Suicide expunge fluidity in favour of what the builder knows - that of the linear, the powerfully unresolvable.

Such dogma is demonstrated especially (we might have already presumed) in the superfluous dynamism of 10min. chaperone, 'Frankie Teardrop'. That Vega breaks down, thinking only of his wife, worried that critical reinterpretation may divulge misogynism, can only forge the assumption that with all the delicate paranoia displayed in 'Girl', it is ferocious pain that is at the centre of T.S.Eliot's The Waste Land.

To supply, as Ben Williams has noted, a remix, flatulently titled as 'Cheree' owes much to the postmodernists, as Vega would have cried out. That several listeners have complained of tetanus whilst remaining 'beautiful' (as defined by the 2006 legal case) only barks at the bleak charm of this affluent benchmark.

-Dave Flat
(Pitchfork Media)


Bibliography
Jacobs, Marcus. Gary Hark: Scientologist. Oliver & Boyd, London. 1988.
Vega, Alan. What to Do with Blue Houred Smells. P. James, Devon. 1980.
Williams, Ben. The Mancunian Ape. Black Mountain, Ilinois. 1996.

hounds of hate

The London series continues...

Hounds of Hate sound like the neverending procrastination of a cracked download installation screen. With the understated beauty of a girlfriend that has happened to remix 3D Pinball: Space Cadet and not tell you about it, as well as the dreary dreams an 808 itself literally has around the r.e.m. point in sleep, it sounds like they're winning.

They slide somewhere inbetween the krautsy generosity of Parallels and the fearless minimal ambience of Fuck Buttons, playing strange games with cruisy tones in 'Little Glory', with Clatterbox moments in 'Phantasy' and being basically blissed-out in 'Tumble Down Slow'. Rick Deckard masturbation music.

-S
Hounds of Hate - Tumble Down Slow

DOOM - CELLZ

Hip hop is about to get good again. DOOM is in a position where he could feasibly lead the way to a renaissance of classic Bronxian hip hop, with an emphasis on political activism over simply selling-out, which has been one of the key stylistic features of Lil Jon's bastard children, who have managed, over the decade, to mangle an aspirational, original genre into a piece of molten shit.

That MF Doom has cut his name down to just DOOM sounds utterly prophetic right now. Nowhere on Born Like This is this idea of world-falling-apart-to-a-stoic-beat more pronounced and great than it is on 'Cellz'. This is not to say the track is stuck in the past. What DOOM has done in this key, counterpoint track to the LP is manage to forge experimentation with lyrically taught, disease-ridden, eerie, cruisin beats. 'Cellz' may sound like half a sound installation by David Lynch (I jest - it's Charles Bukowski), but seriously, it's what we need right now.

fungi girls - CRYSTAL ROADS

I've been focusing on mostly UK bands lately, mainly because there is so much good shit out there, especially in Londres, (it's like everyone has realised they have some old songs written down in some old Wilko's pad and it's time to get the band together and remember that it was MUSIC they wanted to do with their lives after all, not fucking law) but for every good UK d.i.y. find there are at least 5 in the US. Let's explore that further...

Fungi Girls aren't even girls. To start. They're from Texas and they play shoegaze with moments of surf. Sounds good right? 'Crystal Roads' is a good example of this. Although they wear their influences on their sleeves - MBV, Jesus & MC or Flying Saucer Attack, they do something pretty awesome and promising with 'Crystal Roads'.

I especially love the waves of phased-out drums in this song, which sit nice 'n' awkwardly with the low vocals under the mix like sand under the sea. There are moments of scuffed fills that nod towards that kind of too-desperate speed My Bloody Valentine used to operate around. Fun face!

14.1 out of 10

-S

Fungi Girls - Crystal Roads