Forevermore uses a somewhat broader lens to examine the shifts of consciousness throughout human history using a theory known as spiral dynamics. As a concept album, Integral tells the story of an immortal man who observes these changes in thought patterns as he moves through the years. It’s ambitious, to say the least.
It’s ironic, really, how the places we go to heal are the most unpleasant. “Gift of Life” is what you get when you blend that sterilized, insular ecosystem of a hospital with the grimy, unrestrained punk that Violent Human System (VHS for short) unabashedly churns out.
Heaven For Real are here to tell you that memory is never memory at all. Our remembrance of things past is imperfect, and like a bud in a bouquet blossoming much after it has been callously snipped from its bush, reality evolves into a mystified, contrived impersonator: memory.
The Messerschmitt Pilot’s Severed Hand, one of three albums released by Thee Headcoats in 1998, is a jumping half hour of nasty, quick and dirty blues-based punk rock.
From their newest release, you wouldn’t think Heyrocco are just waiting on cool; they’re already there.
Once Was Lost Now Just Hanging Around: Sego’s Youthful Discontent, Pseudo Apathy, Blah Blah Blah Blah
Relief billows from Once Was Lost Now Just Hanging Around like smoke from the first drag of a longed for cigarette. Spencer Petersen and Thomas Carroll uncork anxiety and pour over life choices in chalky, doubled vocals. Immense paranoia fills the air. Ambitions flutter away, regroup, resettle. And while the duo adhere to the title of “slacker heroes,” you can put your Pavement insinuations back in your pocket.
Wilkes-Barre is a quaint little town filled with Pennsylvania wilderness, some picturesque lakes, and a converted 7-Eleven-turned-punk venue called the Redwood Art Space. The “art space” sat in the middle of a shopping mall, a green sheet hung in the front window; the only way you could tell it was a music venue was all the roadies in black hoodies smoking outside while we waited in the cold March air.
Peace and a sense of belonging belong to Get Lonely’s narrator in a future he can’t yet see. The character who “went down to the gas station, for no particular reason/heard the screams from the high school-it’s football season,” on “Moon Over Goldsboro” could very well be the same sick lover who shouts, “I hope I never get sober,” on “No Children.” His future, one where his footprints are alone in the sand, unburdened/unaided by his former accomplice, lies dark before him. He wanders around town for no particular reason, other than that it hurts to sit still.