Author: John Foley

2016 – The Season of My Discontent

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way–” Charles Dickens. A Tale of two Cities Happy Holidays from the great northern woods. The early snowfall, the sudden influx of blistering wind, the advent of thick socks, long sleeve layering pieces, and hats that now must cover ones ears or suffer the consequences, is now upon us hearty breed that choose this climate. Like the fools that choose their manipulative, allergic to truth, although fascinatingly beautiful ex’s over the possibility of healthy, stable, sane partners. We the frigid cold, runny nosed, and frost bitten toe surviving masses choose this beautifully cursed climate. Alas that’s a story best left for another time, another mind set, however, it is fitting that 2016 should end on such, with such an abrasive and painful reminder that the world we inhabit, and can find so much wonderment through music, the written word, art in its many mediums, and...

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Vinyl Splinters

Good evening dear readers. Roughly two months ago your fearless writer found himself on the receiving end of every beautiful heartbreaking song known to mankind. Our demanding publisher has a Bluetint Playlist, and a piece I wrote at that time that at one point I screamed to publish and quickly retracted.  I found it cut too deep into the actual human I pretend to never acknowledge that lives and cries and hurts inside your favorite inconsistent writer. Who knows due to contractual obligations it just might see the light of day, but for now I’ll keep the all attentive readers abreast of my comings and goings since the world fell, crashing Right on my Puma wearing feet. I found myself with more free time than I’d care to have for myself. I tried to cross-stitch and realized that I’m to old to learn that talent, I tried to start working out and eating better, however that seemed like something Josef Mengele would have advised and we all know that Nazis can fuck off.  So I stumbled upon a mother load of records for sale, about 2500 records, two console players, and a sweet ass portrait of FDR for the great price of 125$US. SOLD!  I figured what better way to get over the deepest love this writer has ever felt than to dig in and start collecting vinyl again?...

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Pregaming FireFly 2016

Good evening rockers, shockers, suburban power walkers, pop and lockers, and even you bloody shit talkers. Contrary to my last transmission from the great northern wasteland, my output has been more akin to your crackhead dads child support payments. You know? Inconsistent.  As June comes at me like an octogenarian two highballs and a Percocet deep, slowly and with a distinct odor of mothballs. It’s that time of year where a small crew and I point our sails southwest toward The First State, the smallest sales tax free state, Joe Biden’s home, Yup. Delaware. Home of the Firefly Music Festival. For our crew it’s basically a week of music, drinking, eating, sweating, drunken dancing, corralling youngsters to form a human circular wall to block the haters from watching me drunkenly piss by the main stage, and other shit Vikings do while abroad. This years model comes complete with an oversized ego(Deadmau5), Stevie Nicks complexes(Florence and her Machines), banjos(Muffinman and son), and straight up, heat on 455, bring it down and raise it up again funk(Earth, Wind, and MF’n Fire). The obligatory fake punk band with a missing singer and replacement pop vocals that the Warped tour dropped off for puking in the van, an aged hip hop artist with no, zero, absolutely devoid of any type of social consciousness however a bevy of ho’s from multiple area codes, oh...

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Charles Bradley – Changes

Let me begin by telling you, dear reader, I am thrilled to have someone(anyone?) listen to what I might say about any anything in this wild world we travel together. So heartfelt appreciation is going out to you all. The young, the old, the angst riddled, the spectrum dwelling masses yearning to to break free! All of you. I aim to be kind, I am to rewind, I aim to return my library books, and more than anything babies, my aim is true. Kick out the jams mother fucker! Throwback sound. Daptone Records has cornered a semi-religious market as...

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Grimes “Art Angels”

Claire Boucher. Remember that name. The Vancouver born musician, who performs as Grimes, passionate media critic, visionary film maker(only music videos currently), and undoubtedly a bell weather, concerning the future direction of Pop music. For the sake of this article we will focus upon her latest and highly awaited follow up to 2012’s Visions. Art Angels released officially in November after many stops, starts, unofficial releases, and an even a reported scrapping of the entire finished product only to be completely rerecorded from scratch. Who knew? Montreal has an ahead of their time outsider/avant garde music scene! Turning abandoned...

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