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Event Horizon

Catch Khachaturian

Sunday, Oct 11: Khachaturian and Finnish Songs

Chatter Sunday
courtesy of the artist

Event Horizon

Children of the Dawn

DJ Cyberkid • EDM, house

EDM continues to proliferate, turning concert venues across America into late night/early morning electro-ritual centers where almost anything is possible...
David Thayer

Alibi Picks

Something Shines Past Dots and Loops

Laetitia Sadier (Stereolab) • Deradoorian • Reignbeau

One of the singular and sublime voices in modern music.
Badd Fish
Sharon LaCava


A band called Badd Fish

In Burque, rock bands come and go. Some start out as basement projects and bloom into national headliners. Others rise up from the night only to fade at dawn like a summertime cactus flower.

Though it's generally difficult to tell what path this or that rockin' musical outfit will take as they proceed through rehearsals and toward performance, it's easy enough to listen. Through that experience one might discern qualities that qualify a particular rocanrol ensemble for admission to the next level.

Such is the case with Badd Fish, a band I chanced upon while visiting friends and walking through the hood.

Badd Fish is a quartet, young and old, featuring veteran Albuquerque guitarist Mark LaCava, singer Gil Garcia and a rhythm section consisting of Vic Maese and his son (also named Vic).

They're puro Burque and wear their affiliation with this town and its music scene proudly upon their sleeves and in their hearts.

Vocalist Garcia has been playing around town for at least twenty years, fronting projects Jazz One, Latin Passion and the System. He brings a blue and bold tone to LaCava's intensely intricate picking style. LaCava worked the rounds about town as a formidable singer-songwriter who also lent his talent to Spellbinder, a long lost jam band popular at joints like Sonny's back in the day.

Little Vic Maese, a technically savvy drummer, learned the ropes from his father, who plays bass. A native of El Paso, the elder Maese played bass in a West Texas metal formation known as Lethal Tricks. After coming up north, Vic the bassman was part of Good Green among many other locally popular acts.

Badd Fish is a new band, yet their passion and history reflect an expansive staying power that augments their down-to-earth attitudes and supplements their ability to rock out, grandly and formidably in our present-day music scene.

As a combo, they're tight like sprung steel, melodic like a summer evening on the bosque and as solid as the Sandia mountains. It's garage rock in a grand sense.

After months of rehearsal, Badd Fish will play out this weekend, in a series of concerts destined to demonstrate the goodness and grace of a music community loaded with homegrown talent.

Friday night, August 21, they gig at Sidelines Sports Bar and Grille (9211 Coors NW) from 8-12 pm. Badd Fish follows up their premiere engagement with a set at Neds (2509 San Mateo NE). They'll jam on the afternoon of Saturday August 22, from 3-6 pm before pulling out all the stops at their show at the Barley Room (5200 Eubank NE) that night from 8-12 pm.

Listen: I hear and see a heap of local bands as part of the job I love. Some of those bands are good, are okay. But Badd Fish is badass, yo. If you cherish the local scene as much as I do, then do yourself a solid and check these guys out. I really believe Badd Fish is at the beginning of a journey that will see them reach great heights while providing local audiences with a sound that is groovy, groovy fun filled with acute musicianship and knowing nuance.

Route 66 Summerfest


Route 66 Summerfest is where it's at!

This year's version of the Route 66 Summerfest could damn well be the greatest and ginchiest outdoor music festival to grace this city and its citizens since the Sandia mountains erupted out of the earth millions of years ago.

It certainly will be a rockin' affair. Sponsored by the City of Albuquerque, Nob Hill Main Street and the New Mexico Jazz Festival, the action gets underway in the early afternoon of Saturday July 18 and continues until late in the evening.

Manifesting in the heart of the Nob Hill district, on Central Avenue between Girard and Washington, Summerfest features the finest in musical performances by outfits ranging from locally legendary to nationally noteworthy.

In addition there will be a car show, a bicycle exhibit, an artisan's market, food trucks as well as a plethora of opportunities to experience summery outdoor entertainment (you know, face-painting, people-watching and stuff like that). Plus which, the Nob Hill district is known as a locus of hep shops, cool restaurants and fascinating landmarks.

With three stages to choose from, the musical aspect of Summerfest is the heart of the event. All sorts of players will be playing, beginning around 2 in the afternoon. Here's a rundown of some of the participants. For a comprehensive schedule of performers, click here.

On the east stage at Central and Washington, check out sets by Steve Chavez and the New Mexico Marimba Band, Todd Tijerina and Felix and Los Gatos, among others.

At the Cork and Tap Stage (aptly named due to the adjacent festival beer garden) the reunited Alma, a storied local latin jazz outfit, will jam out. They'll be followed by Americana adherents The Porter Draw. The Zoltan Okestar will be there too, drawing out the dance in all of us.

The main stage at Central and Girard will feature the Mystic Vic Blues Band, Santa Fe bluesman Alex Maryol and national headliners Roomful of Blues.

Roomful of Blues takes control of the festivities at 9:00 pm. A multi-Grammy nominated ensemble that's been extant since the summer of love, their take on an essential American genre is boundlessly badass and daringly danceable.

Count Basie dug these dudes and you will too. With original tunes like "Dressed Up to Get Messed Up" and a variety of smokin' standards in their repertoire, the octet, led by guitarist Chris Vachon, will top off a day and night of summertime fun. They're practically guaranteed to put the lilt back in your step after eight hours of wandering through the sunshiny stuff our city has to offer.

Speaking of the sun, make sure and take a hat and plenty of sun screen along. Also, Route 66 Summerfest is a free event. Pets are allowed as long as they are leashed. Central Avenue through Nob Hill will be closed for the duration of the festival. There will be a park and ride service available at Johnson Field on the UNM campus. You can download the entire event program here.

Diane Di Prima
Getty Images


You should flow!

Regional Slam Poetry Championship happens this weekend

Why stay at home reading the likes of Byron, Dickinson, Whitman, Plath, Levertov or Lowell? Put those dreary texts aside. Take a stride outside the normative literary scene found in dusty old books or a tattered magazine. Take wing, visit the local performance poetry scene!

It's a social possibility you won't soon regret. This weekend's slam competition is a sure-to-win bet.

Presented by ABQ Slams, The 2015 Southwest Shootout Regional Poetry Slam Championship beats the heck out of perusing grammatical diagrams.

But seriously folks, it's a chance to listen and respond to folks whose poetic proclivities also include performance, competition, and worthy word-smithery.

Preliminary bouts will be held at Winnings Coffee (111 Harvard SE) and the Albuquerque Center for Peace and Justice (202 Harvard SE) on Friday night, June 26, beginning at 7:00 pm. These events are free; the public is invited to attend.

The Championship slam happens Saturday night at the South Broadway Cultural Center (1025 Broadway SE) and costs a mere ten bucks for admittance. Doors to this fantastical foray into syllabic profundity open at 7 that night.

Spoken word artists, performance poets and slammers from all over the Southwest region will be in attendance and ready to fight it out for the chance to advance to the national competition to be held in August.

You ought to check it out, yo.

A View From the "Inca Hotel"
A. March


A telegram from the Southern lands

This time round the sun, June’s solstice falls upon the same day as the American holiday called Father’s Day, on the 21st day of the month.

The same coincidentally calendrical conjunction came to pass 23 years ago; the day called twenty June nineteen hundred and ninety two was the last day of spring in Albuquerque. Practically everyone dwelling amidst the middle latitudes of the North American continent celebrated fatherhood the day after. I’m sure they did that here too or so I was told.

I was in Cuenca, Ecuador where the earth was preparing for winter, though you sure as hell couldn’t tell at the latitude of 2 degrees south. It was hot and humid all over that damn country and I had to carry around a cotton kerchief to keep the sweat off my eyes. I kept the towel in a pocket with my father’s Swiss Army knife. It was the fancy kind with a fork y todo. He told me at the Sunport it would come in handy in the jungle and I couldn’t wait to use the goddamn thing on a tasty lizard or a stubborn piece of bamboo.

I planned to stay a couple of rotations and then drive down from the highlands to the northeast, where the Amazon Jungle crept up into the land. There was a town called Macas out there; I had already chartered a plane to ride me out along the Rio Pastaza to an indigenous settlement in the rainforest. I’d be working for some anthropologists as a sound recordist.

I wandered around Cuenca. There was a fine pizzeria. For a 10 more Sucre, patrons could have their pies topped with small purple potatoes or guinea pig meat. Being a bit nervous about consuming either, I opted for the four-cheese pie.

The long distance service was spotty back then. The cook told me I could send a telegram from the police station. I walked over there, regailed the machine-gun carrying officials with my shitty Spanish and sent a telegram to my old man. I told him I was having a grand time and wished him a happy Father’s Day.

The city also had a magnificent plaza built around a mountainous cathedral. The church had gold accouterments, baroque domes. The Andes rose up behind the basilica like a greater order of magical edifices imposed upon the viewer for the sake of comparison.

Come Saturday night there was big party in the center of town. Many citizens walked down to the plaza holding hands, singing songs about the sun and the land. One of them stopped me, asked me where I was from, guessed that I was Israeli or Persian. I tried to tell him I was an American from Albuquerque, but he ran off, laughing and pointing at the sky.

My hotel, the Inca, was nearby to the church – which by now was surrounded by people filling and releasing paper lantern/balloons into the air. The paper bags, each lit by a candle, drifted around the cathedral like angels might and then floated away, towards the mountains.

I picked up an old copy of Time Magazine in the lobby and took the stairs to my room. As I settled in to read a fine article about 1977’s Man of the Year someone pounded on the door. I opened it. The man on the other side had a gun. He flashed an identification card, told me to come with him and waved the gun around like it was just another celebratory instrument of the solstice.

Downstairs, there was a car waiting. I turned around to protest and realized the gun had been gently pressed to the back of my head for what I reckoned were at least two very long minutes. I was urged to take a seat in the back of the car.

By now, night had fallen. It was dark as hell. We drove around and around the outskirts of Cuenca while the driver and the gunman argued. Occasionally the latter, wearing a dirty Adidas baseball cap, turned around to face me, brandished the gun, winked and smiled a toothy smile. Finally we were on the road out of town. I began to think of my father as two paper balloons passed by the windows of that automobile.

Remembering I had his knife in my front pocket it occurred to me that I could stab Mr. Adidas in the neck and thereby save myself. But as the vehicle slowed down to cross a bridge, I came up with another idea. I quickly unlocked the backseat door, opened it, yelled “Fuck It Dude, Life’s a Risk!” at the top of my lungs and rolled out onto the highway.

Mr. Adidas and his friend screeched the car to a halt. I hid under the bridge and covered myself in mud. After a few minutes splashing around the creek rather angrily, the two stormed off, still cussing and yelling. I remained absolutely still when I saw the muzzle flash from the receding coche.

Soaking wet and tired as crap, I walked along the highway until I came upon a farmhouse. There was a phone there. The farmer offered me a drink and a cigarette while we waited for the police.

It was dawn on the first day of summer when we arrived at the police station. One of the policemen took me aside and said, “You’re that hombre from Albuquerque, no? I replied I was and wondered how he knew that, since my passport didn’t mention it. He told me my father had replied to my telegram, that I could pick up his telegraphic response on my way out.

The telegram from my father was succinct. It was too hot in Burque. He was going to have Father’s Day Brunch with my sister at the Rancher’s Club. He hoped the knife he had given me came to good use, out there in South America.

Flag of Nepal


Nepal Earthquakes Evoke Memories and Call for Action

August March remembers Nepal and considers recent earthquakes' impact on the region.

Alibi Picks

Chamber of Hearts

An afternoon of chamber music at UNM's Keller Hall.

Alibi Picks

We've Got the [English] Beat

The English Beat bring their brand of ska to Launchpad.

Today's Events


Concurrent exhibitions focused on navigating changing environments. Part of the HABITAT: Exploring Climate Change Through the Arts Series.

Pelvic Floor Tricks for Enhanced Pleasure at Self Serve

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