Alibi Bucks


V.24 No.32 | 08/06/2015
Juan Wijngaard


Old World Songs at Sunset

By Renee Chavez [ Thu Aug 13 2015 2:00 PM ]
Innovative music and remarkable stories with Scott and Johanna Hongell-Darsee and special guests.
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V.24 No.33 | 8/13/2015

Music to Your Ears

Music Appreciation

Our own musical garden

By August March
The Albuquerque music scene has a lot to offer. Here’s how to find it.
Jeff Kaiser


A Tradition of Experimentation

An interview with Jeff Kaiser

By August March
August March talks to Jeff Kaiser about avant-garde music.
Woolen Men - Temporary Monument

Sonic Reducer

Totally Mild Down Time · The Woolen Men Temporary Monument · Sage McKay Bottle it Up

By Geoffrey Plant
This week we listened to The Woolen Men, Totally Mild and Sage McKay.
V.24 No.32 | 8/6/2015
Monk Parker - How the Spark Loves the Tinder
By Geoffrey Plant
This week we listened to Monk Parker, Kid Cadaver and Ducktails.
V.24 No.31 | 7/30/2015


The Jazz Workshop Works It

A conversation with Vicki Dugger

By August March
New Mexico Jazz Workshop reaches out to a town that is hungry for jazz.
Eileen & The In-Betweens - everything is alive

Sonic Reducer

Royal Fins Protopop · Teen Daze Morning World · Eileen & The In-Betweens everything is alive

By Geoffrey Plant
This week we listened to Eileen & The In-Betweens, Teen Daze and Royal Fins
V.24 No.30 | 7/23/2015
Genesis - Return of the Giant Hogweed

Aural Fixation

The Musical Hands

Progressions, prog-rock and piano

By August March
Sound and stories about sound saved August March from becoming hopeless.

Sonic Reducer

Wilco Star Wars · Sleaford Mods Key Markets · Flying Saucer Attack Instrumentals 2015

By August March
This week we listened to Wilco, Sleaford Mods and Flying Saucer Attack.
Jennifer Higdon
Candace di Carlo

Music Magnified

Art Music Action

A season of sounds

By August March
Upcoming classical and art music in Albuquerque and Santa Fe.
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V.24 No.29 | 07/16/2015
The Melvins
Mat Hayward


Mainlining the Melvins

By Robert Maestas [ Tue Jul 21 2015 11:20 AM ]

Step by step, I wonder into Launchpad (618 Central SW), each foot coming closer and closer to what seems to be a natural unison. I'm late as usual, but the wave of approaching sound sends my brain into an anticipatory flutter. The clamorous BOOM of drums begin to flow into the veins of the ground, straight through my arteries and directly into my heart like I'm mainlining each crash and thump as burning metal into my veins. As the last foot reaches it's destination, I realize exactly what I've stumbled into. It takes a moment, an isolated, but rewarding moment, to realize I'm in a pit of sonic obliteration.

As I look towards the stage, I see three figures, covered from head to toe in scarlet – almost silhouettes – taking the idea of sound to an increasingly devastating level. An explosion is occurring, right before my very eyes, in the form of a human named Terri Gender-Bender. She sways and screams, she strums her guitar like an accelerating hot rod burning off the flesh of god; she rocks! Along with Terri, Jamie Aaron Aux handles bass and Chris Common plays the sticks. It's a finale, a consequence of my tardiness, but it's all I needed to hear, to understand. It's an aural bomb and I'm riding each sonic boom with full cooperation, all the way into the apocalypse.

The band quakes in unison to a litany of head bangs and devil horns, offering sacrifice like appeasement for the immensity before them.

As the last note bends itself into forced cooperation and the feedback of the amps release all the demons everyone was holding in that night, Le Butcherettes finish their set and receive a loud cheer from the crowd. I watch them walk away into the dimly lit background of the alley. I stand in absolute amazement of what I just heard. It's hard to believe that great rock n roll, in it's true trail-blazing form, still exists on planet earth. But I witnessed it first hand, in the form of Le Butcherettes.

The noise dies down and I hit the wall like gravity intends me to. Observing the crowd, I feel a certain camaraderie. The show attracts a variety of black-haired lion manes and sweat soaked battle jackets with scars of experience you couldn't count on one hand. But no matter what the musical affiliation or statement of fashion, we are all there for the same reason. A reason that binds our brains and hearts into motion, anticipating the unadulterated and refined crunch of what is to come. As I begin to delve into the analytic recesses of my mind, I hear the music halt, and a cough-like noise begins to fill the building. It's a sound loop, a repeating exertion of human reflex, as if clearing a palette. I recognize it as the cough from Black Sabbath's “Sweet Leaf” – the song begins to play as I see a robed man take the stage.

Two more men, with sticks and bass, take their rightful places on stage. What appears to be the eye of Horus – patterned into gold on the robed mans black cloak – stares into the crowd, as if to observe the worthy and destroy the undeserving. Aleister Crowley comes to mind, a powerful charisma surrounds the stage. Then a sound, distant at first, grows into a overwhelming cloud of distorted catastrophe. The deep CRUNCH of the first chord sprays black all over my red veins and I know exactly where I am. I know exactly what this is. This is the FUCKING MELVINS!

Buzz Osbourne displays a concentrated focus, Dale Crover begins his smash into oblivion one ball- blasting beat at a time. Jeff Pinkus raises his shivering metal bass into the air, guiding the increasingly kinetic headbanging in the crowd. The crowd thickens near the stage, and and the transformation process begins. First it's a few, then more and finally many begin to scream, sweat and convulse in awkward and intense unison. We continue, forming a sludge as we come together in our love for the brutalization of eardrums and bodies. The sludge grows thicker and thicker, and from each chord comes a melting wave of music that forces our nervous systems to disconnect from our heads – shaking those motherfucking skulls like we're trying to rattle a pick out from the body of an acoustic guitar.

My feet shake and my head bangs. They don't stop for one blinding moment, not even when Buzz Osbourne breaks the sonic wall for a cover of the Butthole Surfers “Moving to Florida.” As Osbourne shouts “And I'm gonna build me the Atomic...” we all scream “BOMB!” in anticipation. He waits, and whispers “bomb”, breaking back into the bass-blasting segments of the song, and demonstrating a masterful understanding of the music surrounding him.

Osbourne shreds, Crover blasts, Pinkus pounds and the show winds down to the last song. Jumping from the shadows like the blast of a supernova, Terri-Gender-Bender enters, immediately breaking into what seems to be an interpretative dance to summon the spirits of punk and metal. She aids the Melvins in building the climax of the show. With one last blast of soul and energy, the show ends with Osbourne saluting the crowd like the commander in-chief of sonic crunch.

They all leave their instruments on, generating deafening feedback to drop us all down from the musical high that had been keeping us up for hours. Dale Crover is the last to leave. Like the proverbial bridesmaid catching the bouquet on her best friend's wedding day, I jump into the air to catch the drumstick he throws to the crowd.

I didn't catch it and fumbled with it as it flew to the ground. But I fought for it and came out victorious with a new souvenir of one of the best shows I've been to in a really, really long time. As the band leaves and the crowd dissipates, I walk straight towards to the door, drumstick clutched in hand.

I stroll to the parking lot, attempting to regain my serious loss of hearing, I reflect on the show. So many other people have seen this band, and they have played a myriad of cities and venues. But I now have my own triumphal moment. In the back of my mind, I know – with the utmost pride and certainty – that even if it's just a fragment of the bands long prolific history, I got rocked the fuck out by the Melvins.

V.24 No.28 | 7/9/2015


The Daily Word: Operation Counterfeit, The Obama Scheme

By Robert Maestas [ Wed Jul 15 2015 12:24 PM ]
The Daily Word

obama strikes again.

a dream that became reality, and spread through the stars.

steam bugs.

the future starts now.

i’ll have my history medium rare, please.

is the real you, uoy?

ec= happiness(squared)

fashion kills.

the heart is a beating drum.

the persistance of alice.

V.24 No.27 | 7/2/2015
Emerson Susan Corley
Roger Baker


The Voice of Freedom, Part II

Continuing a conversation with Emerson Susan Corley

By August March
August March chats with Emerson Susan Corley about the place of the genre in this town, the future of an often misunderstood, yet totally listenable art form and the amazing jazz community at our doorsteps.

Sonic Reducer

Raccoon Fighter Spiral Flag EP · Rey Pila The Future Sugar · Heartless Bastards Restless Ones

This week we listened to Raccoon Fighter, Rey Pila and Heartless Bastards.
V.24 No.26 | 6/25/2015
Emerson Susan Corley


The Voice of Freedom

A talk with Emerson Susan Corley

By August March
August March talks to Emerson Susan Corley about jazz awakening.
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