by Dante Reynolds a.k.a. MiG-29
MiG-29 is the dreamy, blood-covered, creative outlet of Prairie Flowers(Dante Reynolds). Born and raised in the San Jose Bay area in the late 90s, Flowers was blessed to be surrounded by some of the best rap music from the era. Pop-punk, hip-hop, and R&B are all styles that have made an impact on young flowers. At about 14, the flower was ready to blossom.
Whether you’re professional or amateur, tour-famous or bedroom-idle, every musician has them. They hover around like a foul scent and rear their ugly heads each time you’ve forgotten they exist. If you’re a music type, I’ve no doubt you’ve got a batch lying around, too.
I’m talking about unused songs and recordings you have no idea what to do with. A jam you tracked one night but never finished. A memory you should probably try to let go. Move on with your life, buddy!
Yet, now and then, you pull one out and give it a listen. Each time, the reek of unfulfilled potential makes you sick to your stomach. You like the tune enough to vouch for it, but know it’s never getting uploaded to Spotify. It’s regrettable because, given the right resources, you believe it had the potential to be an absolute belter.
Continue readingby Jonas Franck a.k.a. Corpse Feet
Why call it Corpse Feet? No one, to my knowledge, can survive death, so I guess we’re all just corpse feet walking until we lay…
Here’s how it went.
It was in the late 70s, and I was just a few years old. I had seen a man with his guitar on our black and white TV, probably Elvis Jailhouse Rock, and immediately wanted to be that. So, I grabbed a tennis racket at a birthday party and got up on the table to do my first show.
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Music is the closest thing to God for me, to spirituality. To freedom of expression and all things mysterious in the universe. It means more to me every day. I dabble in whatever sounds I like under a single name — Plastic Dents — doing my damndest to follow my muse and subvert audience expectations, as well as my own.
by Tony Meade
I’ve spent my life as a late bloomer, perpetually running to catch up. I was late into my teens before I even knew that I could sing, into my twenties before starting to play guitar, in my late twenties before I was in a band writing my own songs, and only years later would release my first album. Chasing the clock, hoping to catch up before time runs out.
I was born and raised in the hills and valleys of West Virginia, a land of contradictions itself – a place of conservative values and union labor, of startling beauty and stifling poverty, of struggle and soul. It was here that I had my first musical experiences, from the traditional country gospel of my ancestors to sneaking into my older sisters’ bedroom to pilfer and explore their collection of 45s, pretending I was giving concerts, using the bed as a stage.
Continue readingby Pedro Alsama
My mother used to say that when I was 2 or 3 years old, I was a little pest, but when music was on the television, it was silent; it was peaceful at home. I was absorbed in what I was wanting to do forever. Music.
I started my sound adventure learning sounds; I created them around me with a k7s recorder. I walked around the house reporting where I went, something like: “And now this is the sound of water, and let’s all listen…” turned on the bathroom faucet “listen, it’s the water singing…”
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Seemingly unnaturally bound to an almost comically ignorant lover the story of Tin Spurs would start unraveling itself to me like Orpheus’ melodies echoing back from a once true and vibrant love of life and those I had shared it with.