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REIGHNBEAU
Jesse Heidenfeld

Music

REIGHNBEAU Rocks!

Good news, everyone!

Local electro-wizards REIGHNBEAU (Bryce Hample plus collaborators Hannah Daney, Colleen Johnson, Madeline Johnston and James Sturgis) have been recognized by music magazine Stereogum.

Their new album, Blood, is currently streaming—along with a brief yet well-deserved laudatory review—at a site known for its focus on lo más chingón in current musical forms.

Check out the solid and synthetic sound of twenty-first century Burque here.

Courtesy of the author

Flash Fiction

Royal Eddie Never Showed Up

When Hawkins told us he wanted to party, we were sitting out on the porch at Stanford house drinking Coors Beer from small brown bottles. The swamp cooler was on the fritz. Sundown was coming on slow. We were watching to see whether the rockers across the street would open up their front door to let their pet pig, Royal Eddie, run around the front yard.

Tim Hunter suggested we coax one of our housecats into the ensuing fracas. He was an Earth-First fellow convinced of the cruelty of nature. So he was mean as hell to animals and most humans too. He worked at an art movie theater near the college. Hunter liked to scour the auditorium for used popcorn buckets after every show. He'd sneak them into the men's room, clean out the cardboard cylinders as good as possible. Then he would fill them up with corn and resell them for a buck and a quarter each.

Tim spent his days off camping and fishing so he wasn’t around much. We threw bottle caps at him or gave him the finger whenever he talked nonsense. He’d usually shut up and creep back to his room, rubbing his hands together like they were still covered in a flavorful artificial butter concentrate.

And Royal Eddie never showed up. It turns out he was feigning delirium that evening—amidst four heshers, three deconstructed Triumph motor bikes, two empty cases of Foster’s Lager and a quarter inch of mud, four stroke oil and vomit.

So it was a good thing Hawkins was having a motel party that night. It would be a gift to bounce from the hood. He walked up to the porch, checked the mail and asked when Tim was moving out. By the way, he gravely intoned, I have rented a room at the Lorlodge. That was a sketchy motel with a swimming pool right off the 25 on the other side of the student ghetto.

I had been working as a welder for a month and told Hawkins I wanted to make it a special occasion. I thought it would be ironically summer-weather defying to wear my leather jacket and safety hat and parade down there in style. Chauncy the actor who worked at the Steak and Ale up by Winrock agreed; he put on his tux and patent leather oxfords. Hawkins grabbed his scuba gear from out the closet, fins and all. We started walking down Central Avenue.

When we passed the Fat Chance Bar and Grill, I heard a rock band playing. Damned it if wasn't A Murder of Crows. But we didn't go in because Hawkins owed Junius and Caleb a sawbuck and two pints besides.

On the other side of University Boulevard a fellow in a green beret with a red flag fixed to it jumped out from the doorway of a storefront. He asked if we wanted to come to his meeting of the Communist party. They were having ice-cold refreshments and a discussion on Marx in the twentieth century, he said, smiling wanly. Chauncy told him our party would be better, handed him a half-smoked jazz cigarette that he had been fiddling with earlier and did his best impression of Harpo.

As we passed Mulberry Street, three of the groovy gals we knew from art school turned the corner named for a big green tree and the middle of things. It was Split-level Lisa, who dressed in black but took photos of colorful birds; the magenta-haired performance artist named after a Hindu goddess and her pal Caroline from Sarah Lawrence College.

They were on their way to Jack's Bar to get a case of Olympia and the Hawaiian-style pizza to go. Since I was full of feria after working on water tanks and decorative wrought iron all week, I offered to pitch in. I told them about the cable teevee at the motel and how they had a pool and air conditioning too.

And Lisa thought that was just fine. She started to tell how she needed a new set of trucks but a helicopter was landing at the big hospital by the freeway and her voice sounded like flowers coming apart in a storm. The blades were spinning fast and fluttering around like they were made of hummingbird wings. The hot air of July swirled around us while the engine roared and roared. A security guard with a steel badge shaped like a seven-sided star chased us away when we got too close.

The six of us ran the rest of the way with heat rising off the sidewalk and the light turning rosy on account of the earth’s rotation. Parvati lost her left flip-flop and Hawkins both his fins to the highway underpass. But just as the sun touched the horizon, we crossed over and waltzed into the office at the Lorlodge, laughing like we owned the place.

Jeff Dow

Event Horizon

Playing in a Traveling Band

Friday, Mar 4: Creedence Clearwater Revisited • classic rock

Run through the jungle to Route 66 Casino to see Creedence Clearwater Revisited.
MarchFourth!
Andrew Wyatt

Music

Marching Forth into the Dream

MarchFourth! at Dirty Bourbon

If you dig ecstatic, Burque concert-goers, then tonight, Wednesday February 24, 2016, is your night. The Dirty Bourbon Dance Hall and Saloon (9800 Montgomery NE) hosts a highly listenable show brought to town by forward-looking and far-ranging musical production entity AMP Concerts.

MarchFourth!, a fascinatingly far out, flavorful and funky re-visioning of the American marching band tradition, headlines the event and San Diego Gypsy rockers Diego's Umbrella provides support—albeit it in their own folkified yet punktastic way.

MarchFourth features the talents of 15 musicians and five dancers and acrobats. As a colorful and sometimes cacophonic ensemble, MarchFourth! put a saucy yet postmodern spin on a mainstay of Americana that critics have called sexy, carnivalesque and celebratory. And like all the band geeks you've ever encountered, the marching unit's chops smolder and smother.

Co-conspirators Diego's Umbrella use Eastern European musical conceits mixed up with SoCal punk aesthetics to create a singular musical experience. 18 bucks gets one into this late-winter cosmic carnival; it's a 21+ dealio that begins at 7:30pm.

Morguefile.com/Matthew Hull

Flash Fiction

"A Duodene of Bird Notes"

She was busy stuffing her clothes, jewelry, books and records into the big straw bag she carried with her everywhere. She was getting ready to go back to wherever she went every morning as the sun climbed up into the sky and the earth turned around and around.

Scrape, scrape, scrape, went the sound of the razor against Charlie’s face. It was summertime. The Ford dealership was doing fine. No one seemed to give a bird’s beak whether he came in hung over. He could flutter into the showroom with eyes like a raven has; everything would still be okay.

Sandy sang out from the bedroom. She couldn't find her keys and was cussing like a mechanic does when that one important bolt just won't come off. Charlie lit on the bed roughly and goose down went flying everywhere.

He wiped the Barbasol from his face and smoothed out the mess. Charlie said to go outside and have a look-see. Sure enough, the keys were dangling from the door.

Sandy waltzed back in, shot Charlie a dirty look and took off. She was clutching her bag in one hand and a pair of maryjanes in the other. The door banged shut, but she would phone him later.

Charllie looked around the room, gave his dog Dutchess a pat on the head and walked over to the kitchen. He poured a cup of coffee, smoked a Pall Mall and admired the bright light filling up the place.

The phone rang just after midnight. An hour later, Charlie could hear Sandy’s truck chugging up the hill to Ridgecrest. The only other sounds were from nightjars or from the trains coming and going at the station by the Alavardo.

Charlie and Sandy got drunk and listened to the records she brought over. And then they did it together; sweetly swooping through the red wine and white sheets as if the world around them were just a shiny bead at the bottom of a deep pool. In between rounds, she talked about the movies she'd seen at the Sunshine and told about the books she had been reading.

Charlie didn't know much about any of those books or movies, but he sure liked to listen to Sandy talk. She had a voice like a bird; it was made from feathers and bones, eggshells and promises.

Dutchess barked. Charlie realized he was late for work. He rose, and checked the door before he left for the day. “It's locked, I shook it,” he half-whistled as he wandered down to Nob Hill.

On the way to the shop Charlie saw two hawks, a roadrunner and at least ten sparrows. Those were hopeful signs he mused; he hoped like hell he'd sell a car that day. It was the Friday before the Fourth of July. Charlie was damned if there wasn't some patriotic eagle out there he couldn't talk into a Ford.

wikimedia commons

Event Horizon

A Romantic Recital

Sunday, Feb 14: Boyz II Men • R&B

Musical ruminations on love and life.
Cactus Tractor
Beth Rodgers Photography

Music

New Work by Cactus Tractor

New work by Cactus Tractor
courtesy of the band

Event Horizon

Punk Ass Girlfriends

Saturday, Feb 6: Russian Girlfriends • rock, punk • Leeches of Lore • stoner rock, psychedelic • Hanta • stoner rock • The Talking Hours

Russian Girlfriends get ready to conquer the US.
Joe Del Tufo

Event Horizon

Winston's Wanderings

Tuesday, Feb 2: George Winston • piano, jazz

Stylistically atypical yet interestingly informed solo pianist George Winston plays two shows.
Kathmandu, Nepal
/ Creative Commons CC0 1.0

Flash Fiction

Eddie and Glenda and Lorraine

Eddie sure as hell didn't want spend the rest of his life in Burque, but it sure seemed like it would go that way as he loaded another pizza into the Pontiac. And the moon shone down on the elms and cottonwoods, the cicadas buzzed and nineteen-hundred and ninety-six was not a bad year.

He came back to town like a lightning storm from the Caribbean that January. A man with a scar across his belly and hands like starfish held a knife across Eddie's throat in Tobago because Eddie told the dude his haircut made him look new wave. The way it was tied up on his head like an abandoned coral reef made Eddie think it was just a convenient disguise; the kind the po-po used when they wanted you to be comfortable because they needed more information before they stepped in with machetes drawn and handcuffs at the ready.

He got to walk away from that incident on two accounts, the first being his fluency with slang and the second having to do with the civil war presidents that hung out in his left front pocket.

After that he wandered through town cursing his luck and studying the night sky. The next morning he left Crown Point with acid burning a glorious hole in his gut. The 10 seat Cessna that bore Eddie away made for the coast of the southern continent.

The Isle of Margarita was better, some of the streets were lined with orange trees, but even the good hotels had plumbing hanging out of the walls. Eddie hired a car and headed for the coast. The cabbie tuned in to a station that was playing "Stairway to Heaven" over and over. The sea was grey and despicable. At dinner an old European couple hit him up for a threesome. Eddie feigned shock and wandered back to his cabana alone.

Two days on and he was stranded in the student ghetto again, reading want ads in the Daily Lobo, smoking rolled up frajos made from butts found by the front door of the Frontier Restaurant.

Eddie finally scored a job as a substitute teacher. Shorn and shaved, wearing his old man's cast off business attire, it was easy enough to think he might be a teacher.

The year was burning by kinda like a rocket to the moon might look like from the proper vantage point. In May Eddie took a full time gig at the school.

He liked all the responsibility; the pizza in the cafeteria kept his spirit calm. But at night his head was still filled up with the mountains and seas and people that made up a faraway earth he reckoned he ought to conquer while youth permitted.

When summer school ended, he walked away from the job and rang up an old flame. Lorraine was living at the edge of the Himalaya mountains and goddammit if it didn't sound fine and picturesque where she was, with fruit bats a flyin' and the monsoon petering out to reveal an infinite, mountainous majesty that beat Burque to hell by comparison.

Since he needed some feria to get out there, Eddie took a temp position at the same college he had run screaming from four years before. They were pleased as punch to see his sorry ass and let him get their internet connections sorted out. Then he was in charge of dispensing keys and also sat in the front office typing memos.

Every night he would tumble out of there and walk downtown. He'd spend everything he could come up with drinking with acquaintances and coaxing beautiful strangers back to his pad for jazz cigarettes and strong coffee.

As summer waned he ran into a gal he had known in the 1980s. She was a townie with yellow hair and hands like a clock. They ended up back at Glenda's house where she wept while telling Eddie about her life. All Eddie could think about was that woman's mother sleeping in the next room, the scent of her dead father's shoes wafting solemnly through the family home.

Eddie picked up the phone at work the next day.. It was a trunk call from Nepal. The operator asked if he wanted to be connected. The voice on the other side was dulcet, was like velvet. Come out here, the voice said and we will make it work this time.

Eddie was all torn up. He liked the yellow-haired woman, even though she said he dressed like a punk and should trade in his patronage at Pacific Coast Sunwear for the comfort and cultural cachet of Macy's. And he had a history with Lorraine, could not resist her Oxford accent—especially given the hot dry air, the crackling insect desert, the dull clerk's identity he had gathered up into a bag called Albuquerque.

One morning after a party at Glenda's, he borrowed her car and drove over to Allsup's. Eddie bought a burrito with a Grant and poured the change—196 quarters—into the pay phone so he could tell Lorraine what exactly he had decided to do.

Eddie returned the car, took his skateboard and left. He withdrew all of his money from the bank, skated over to his favorite tavern and got good and drunk.

That night he fell alseep in a friend's back yard. When the short night had ebbed he hauled his sorry ass over to a travel Agency by the Sunport and bought a one way ticket to Kathmandu. He sure as hell hoped it would work out this time.

Six month's later when he returned for his mother's funeral—thin and worn with a head full of incense—Eddie took a job delivering pizzas. The third delivery ticket was for an address in Nob Hill; it was Glenda's house. He took her the pizza. She stood at the door, staring at the stars and weeping. As Eddie held the pie out toward Glenda her hands moved around and around in small circles exploring the space all around them.

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    Out of the Woodwork
    Out of the Woodwork6.2.2016