In places like Serbia and Dallas, there are anger rooms you can visit full of lamps, furniture and televisions that you can smash to smithereens for anywhere from $6-75. In Jacksonville, you can just go to the local junkyard with a sledgehammer and some beer and go on your own personal ragefest while making an oddly charming music video. I think it's in that new tourism spot that airs during the commercials of Jaguars games (terrible offseason reference bro).
What I'm getting at here, of course, is that indie folk OG Rickolus is getting ready to release the debut album from his band The Little Books, and we've got the premiere of their new video for "Bridges". In the clip Rick inhabits the body of a parallel universe "Break Stuff"-era Fred Durst, wherein he makes good music and comes across as a likable human being.
The Little Books launched an indiegogo campaign recently to help with the costs of mastering the album and pressing vinyl with perks including poetry books, limited edition prints and private performances. There's a week left to donate over yonder.
The indie pop duo of Rick Colado and Robin Rütenberg will release their debut LP, Bridges and Empires, on June 24.
My first memory of Jackson, aka Mrs. Paintbrush, dates back 10 years to the Fuck Clear Channel tour stop at Cane’s (RIP) in San Diego. Opening for Sage Francis, Grand Buffet stole the show with their batshit banter, satirical sweatshop raps and synchronized headbanging. At one point frontman Jackson squeezed a lemon into his eye while delivering a between-song monologue that had something to do with the Chicago Bulls holding their offseason training camp inside of the Egyptian pyramids.
For the better part of two decades, absurdist banter, subversive bars and...
All photos were taken by Elastic Muse.
A stone's throw from the small crowd gathered in downtown Manhattan to mark the two-year anniversary of Occupy Wall Street, Canadian rap legend Buck 65 walked onto the Irving Plaza stage ready to crush, kill and destroy for the better part of an hour.
*All photos by April Siqueiros.
Afropunk 2013 drew a diverse Brooklyn crowd of varying piercings, skateboard lengths and socioeconomic statuses for a gathering of retro rockers, socially-conscious emcees, preacher's sons and a dude from Detroit whose life is a never-ending stream of blunts and blowjobs. Spontaneous dance circles of multifarious origins broke out over the weekend and were far more entertaining and skillful than the typical crackers-on-drugs-dancing-in-mud displays most festivals are keen on. I was also refreshed by Afropunk's lack of neon headdresses, war paint, and floral wreaths, my favorite irrational festival pet peeves of late.
On day one, I caught the last bit of indie rap veteran Jean Grae's set before NYC's...