by Kotaro Sumiya (Japanese Summer Orange)
As everyone knows, musicians often write songs for someone’s death. Before I became a musician, I was disgusted with this trend. Do they have to sing someone’s death on purpose? I was thinking like that.
We live in funny times.
The Artist writes his best song for seven years, suffers mental breakdowns, heartbreaks, crazy life situations, misunderstandings, self-doubt, rehabs, and other things that people might encounter in 7 long years. The song is finally ready. He records it. It takes a week. He releases it. Nobody buys it.
In the meantime, The Kid makes a beat on his iPhone; it takes him 3 minutes. He drops it. Someone buys it for $50, to rap about „bitches” over the mindless loop. The Kid buys more chewing gum.
by Sick Bookies
We are Sick Bookies from Lincoln, UK. For our second album, Analogue Viral, our bass player Les drew a comic strip about our band. Previously only available as a limited edition comic book coming with the CD, we now proudly present it for the first time digitally.
by Pillowsnake
This is a generic blog post introduction written by yours truly, Jacob La Follette. Pillowsnake is I, 23 and representing South Texas.
You know that thing in your pocket you don’t make phone calls with that isn’t your penis? I use that to make music.
by Bleakhaus
I can always pinpoint the moment when an art form grabs me. Whether it has been music, film, or literature, I have always had that clear, definitive moment that made me fall in love. My love for each of these art forms came together when I created Bleakhaus.
by Ksn
I have yet to come across any profession that is as rewarding, fulfilling, and promising as well as depressing & anxiety-inducing as being a musician. It’s peaks & valleys to it, but there’s more beauty in it than most people will ever know.
Driving (in the) snow from Kempten. I was supposed to put saucers and blondes together, but the reversable rider of Skye said „NO!”, and off he went on a rollercoaster ride of thrift shop guitars, carrying the torch for Lady Biba. The 4 A.M. Lamp kept burning, and sociopaths were rescued from their shady caves, turned into rainbows and oh! Butterflies „above the nation”. That was the dream of the Woodstock generation, now wasn’t it?
by Dude Is Walk
What a colossal waste of time I did on Instagram, it’s the only social media account. I posted art there and it’s just been a bunch of time I could have used making art and music instead. Had time to create a video and work on a new version of an old song I wrote.
by Gregc
This had to be done. I found myself following Halloween, sliding toward the trifecta of winter holidays; in the suburbs. I was alone, maudlin, grateful, full of ideas, beliefs and memories.
