Commentary

Marfa's Lights Become a Little Less Mysterious


For anyone out there who is a fellow Fangirl for The Secret Machines, you have probably been willing to sell a kidney on the black market in order to see “Marfa’s Mystery Lights: A Concert For the UFO’s.” Well, if you were unaware, the DVD has been released by Les Presses Du Reel, a French website that has limited its release to only five-hundred copies.

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Lamenting the Robot Guitar


So, the other day I moseyed on over to musiciansfriend.com. Gallivanting that site is like being a kid in a candy store. It’s Pavlovian – I start to sweat, drool and bark as every page loads. That’s not even including the urge to chase my tail in a circle.

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Book of James: Stepping Back


I was struck recently while watching a couple of local bar bands play out in the western part of the Island. They were playing their original creations, all of which sounded fairly trite and anonymous, interspersed with covers of pop music. People were hooting and dancing around them, lined up at the bar, watching the game.

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Musing on My Bloody Valentine's Alleged Album


Kevin Shields, that elusive and ingenious guitar player for shoegaze pioneers My Bloody Valentine, has stated on many occasions that “Loveless” would not be their final album. Will this elusive follow-up ever come to fruition? Or will Shields continue his reign of terror as (DUM DUM DUM) the financial

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Radiohead as the Future - Three Times Over


When Radiohead’s “OK Computer” emerged in 1997, critics and fans called it “the future of rock.”

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The Terrifying Truth About Hired Guns


I am an American Patriot and an Informed Citizen.

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A Pheonix Rises Again


Maintaining the chemistry inside a band is a very delicate operation at best.

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It's Time We Start Acting Like Americans Again


It's time we start acting like Americans again.

This is my mantra. It is a quote from Hillary Clinton

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One Time, Tim Kinsella Wrote a Letter to Long Island


My virgin experience of shiny, modern, river-cleft Chicago will be forever marked by the exhaustive bustle and grime of America’s premier summer rock festival. I was there for Lollapalooza, which allotted me the chance to see Yo La Tengo – a wonderful experience, although it only whetted my appetite for a chance to witness them in their native environment (some dingy Hoboken club, silhouetted in the blue, smoky light instead of baking in the heavy, thought-choking air, fragile voices whist away by the thieving wind).

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