Said the Gramophone - image by Keith Shore
by Jeff
two fabulous guys at the beach

Rata Negra - "Aguas Negras" [buy]

Before you know it "Aquas Negras" is going to be the perfect punk rock beach song to sandwich on a mixtape between "Celebrated Summer" and "Rockaway Beach." Listen to this jam on your beat-up boombox when you are dressed in improvised swimwear, sitting on ratty towels, and surrounded by an enthusiastic pack of dogs. Ride that boogie board, let the sun sink into your old tattoos, eat salty chips by the bag, this will be your soundtrack. The catchy vocal hooks will worm into your brain and the cool breakdown, echoing the shredding of early college rock, will make you smile. From Madrid and emerging from the ashes of Juanita y Los Feos, Rata Negra are a perfect power trio harnessing melody, discordance, and tuneful rage.

(Nan Goldin, Bruce and Philippe on the beach, Truro, MA, 1975.)

by Mitz

There are a lot of musicians reaching out.

From Montreal's Homeshake and Alex Calder,

"We have decided to release two previously unreleased songs and donate all the sales to a good cause.
100% of album sales will be donated to IRAP (International Refugee Assistance Project).
Learn more and other ways to donate or help out here:

by Mitz

(photo source)

Dura - "Stage 1(Alpha)" [Buy]

I wonder how many people reading this and voted for Trump who have been waiting on one of us, writers to post new 3 Doors Down song.

I wonder if any of alt-right aka neo-nazis deserves to be punched aka control-alt-delete from the earth, reading this site, waiting for some white supremacy music to be posted.

anyways, some people probably want to get away from politics. There is music.

by Jeff

two cute young disc jockeys at a community radio station

PJ Harvey - "Rub 'Till It Bleeds" [buy]
Can - "Vitamin C" [buy]

The door swung open. Steve was over six feet tall and had thick arms from all the tinkering he did: assembly, disassembly, rogue missions under the cover of night. He gave Ben a big hug.

"Your neighbour was giving me the stink-eye," Ben said.

"Ah," Steve waved his hand dismissively, "they all think I'm dealing." He laughed and led Ben up the stairs.

"I didn't know the station was back up and running until I heard it coming from a chip truck downtown," Ben told Steve.

At the top of the stairs they turned left and into a double room in an intricate state of disarray. Piles of records leaned against every wall and the room was criss-crossed with wires. In one corner was a long table covered in turntables, amps, and tape decks.

"That's amazing. I didn't think our signal was broadcasting that far north." Steve held up a finger as he sat down at the table and pulled a pair of headphones up to his right ear.

The song playing on a nearby speaker faded out in a swirl of distortion as Steve grabbed a microphone and pulled the crossfader. "You're listening to CSIC, Seasick Radio, and that last cut was 'Rub 'til It Bleeds' by the brilliant PJ Harvey. Next up we're going to go deep into another world," Steve hit the reverb switch and his voice went wobbly.

Steve had explained to Ben how this whole pirate radio station worked. To him it was all child's play, plugging one thing into another and another, and then shimmying up the side of a building and installing a rigged-up broadcast tower. Nothing to it, Steve said, but Ben was in awe. It was all magic to him.

"Our guides on this journey," Steve continued his intro, "are the one and only German funkateers. Ladies and gentleman. Here is Can." His reverby voice left off as the first intricate drumbeats of the song faded in.
RIP Jaki Liebezeit

by Emma

Blithe Field - "Clasped Hands"
Blithe Field - "In the Moonlight"

In the director's cut of my life - the one where I move to the Maritimes for school and to take long sad walks by the freezing cold water, where I own better sweaters and more knitted blankets, let my friends cook me spaghetti dinners on board game night and grow slowly into someone whose heart fits right inside her, am swept up some nights by dusk and fog but quietly and without the need for repair, where I learn to sleep in real quiet and have a better record collection and am in love with a woman whose hair spills across our sheets like sun through the blinds and who teaches me to make things with my hands, where I write poems with line breaks in them and read only books I can steal from the thrift store, where on weekends I clamber alone up the muddy banks to somewhere, see the view and come home winded, where in quiet moments I feel the weight of my failures pressing into brand new parts of me, am tethered entirely different than I am to myself here, in this version, the one in which I'm writing now - this is what the walk home sounds like.

[buy Warm Blood]

by Jeff

An impressionistic photo of Montreal at dusk, taken from the train bridge

Chavez - "The Bully Boys" [buy]

The crushing riff at the heart of "The Bully Boys" feels archeological, like it was discovered deep in a mountain cave or found sun-scorched in the desert after years of searching. Hypnotically repeated, the riff is our careening path into the song, something to follow as the whole thing lights up with pyrotechnics. Geological bass, sick guitarmonies, and ragged singing over drums galloping forward into double-time. When it all feels a bit too much, the band relents, pulling back into a breakdown as it fades. The first new Chavez song in two decades finds the band easily picking up where they left off, updating and refining a sound that was quintessentially nineties into a twenty-first century jam.

by Sean

Trust Fund - "Like a frog".

A cathedral of marshmallow - the dyed kind, pale green and cotton-candy pink, marshmallows for looking at more than eating. It was designed over six years and took 80 more to build. Portico, cantilever, gothic spires like arrows to the sky. Artisans were brought from the other side of the world - architects, sculptors, carpenters, glaziers, mallow-masons, plumbers to raise the holy water. What a cathedral it would be. What a cathedral it was. A cathedral of marshmallow - the dyed kind, pale green and cotton-candy pink. When it was finally finished the bishop stood in its nave and closed his eyes, feeling God upon him. The pilgrims came, the congregants. They worshiped there. When no one was looking, they delicately licked the walls. Seven months later, the cathedral melted in a fire.