Members of Vancouver's Ladyhawk:
I was recently on vacation with my wife and, whilst looking for sanctuary from the snow swept roads of the middle-of-nowhere, we discovered a wonderful little bed and breakfast. This happened just when we were about to give up all hope of finding something.
The bed and breakfast was called B&B and another sign above the door read “Come embed your selves in our hearsay and rhetoric”. We slept soundly that night surrounded by wicker furniture, the smell of sandalwood incense, and the enigma of those words, which, incidentally, set the tone for what happened next. Anyway, we awoke in the morning feeling well rested and ate two helpings each of the only item on the menu: good eggs and evil ham. My wife said what I was thinking: “one more champagne and orange please!” Through an open window, the curtains flapping, we could hear some kind of music coming from the woods. I suggested we investigate and so we did.
Deep in a well-hidden part of the forest, after an hour or so of walking (that’s how loud it was), we came upon an ancient ghettoblaster. The music we’d heard earlier from within the little B&B was coming from this unremarkable boombox. After sitting for some time, we noticed a pattern emerging: the music was broken into individual songs, beautiful and sonically-dark, guitar-driven with a relentlessly smashing beat. Somewhere in the milieu of the chording, which was vaguely AM-radio-structured …
Members of Vancouver's Ladyhawk:
I was recently on vacation with my wife and, whilst looking for sanctuary from the snow swept roads of the middle-of-nowhere, we discovered a wonderful little bed and breakfast. This happened just when we were about to give up all hope of finding something.
The bed and breakfast was called B&B and another sign above the door read “Come embed your selves in our hearsay and rhetoric”. We slept soundly that night surrounded by wicker furniture, the smell of sandalwood incense, and the enigma of those words, which, incidentally, set the tone for what happened next. Anyway, we awoke in the morning feeling well rested and ate two helpings each of the only item on the menu: good eggs and evil ham. My wife said what I was thinking: “one more champagne and orange please!” Through an open window, the curtains flapping, we could hear some kind of music coming from the woods. I suggested we investigate and so we did.
Deep in a well-hidden part of the forest, after an hour or so of walking (that’s how loud it was), we came upon an ancient ghettoblaster. The music we’d heard earlier from within the little B&B was coming from this unremarkable boombox. After sitting for some time, we noticed a pattern emerging: the music was broken into individual songs, beautiful and sonically-dark, guitar-driven with a relentlessly smashing beat. Somewhere in the milieu of the chording, which was vaguely AM-radio-structured, floated an airy and intense vocal. The confessional nature of the lyrics was refreshing, reminded me of a younger, better version of myself. I find this to be a hallmark of all good music, BTW: it expresses the things I was thinking but never acted upon at some past crossroads — makes me think I might be that way still — without regrets. That this music was also exceedingly sad at times made this effect very poignant.
The ghettoblaster was plugged into a standard-issue orange extension cord. We decided to follow this in hopes of finding out more about this music. After another half hour or so (the cord was exceedingly long) we arrived at a clearing with a small rundown RV trailer resting deep in the snow. The trailer was abandoned but we were able to glean a few important details inside. Carved in the walls were the lyrics of one of the songs “my biggest fear is that I’ll die a lonely guy who loved and lost and wound up drinking himself to death. I’ll drink myself to death. And then I’ll go to hell.” “Yup” my wife nodded. In contrast to this naked sentiment though, stood, to my thinking, an earnestness and complexity seldom found in such epic rock and roll — made it personal yet somehow massively wayfaring. Well done Ryan Peters (vocals, guitar), Danny Marshall (drums), and Darcy Hancock (guitar, vocals). These credits were carved into the walls of that clandestine trailer also.
The orange cord wasn’t plugged in. “Fine,” I thought. “Must be running on batteries.” We followed the cord back towards the B&B and when we got to the ghettoblaster I decided to check the batteries wondering how they could not be dead. No batteries.“Holy shit” we both said in unison.
Portugal EspanolFall 2009
I was recently on vacation with my wife and, whilst looking for sanctuary from the snow swept roads of the middle-of-nowhere, we discovered a wonderful little bed and breakfast. This happened just when we were about to give up all hope of finding something.
The bed and breakfast was called B&B and another sign above the door read “Come embed your selves in our hearsay and rhetoric”. We slept soundly that night surrounded by wicker furniture, the smell of sandalwood incense, and the enigma of those words, which, incidentally, set the tone for what happened next. Anyway, we awoke in the morning feeling well rested and ate two helpings each of the only item on the menu: good eggs and evil ham. My wife said what I was thinking: “one more champagne and orange please!” Through an open window, the curtains flapping, we could hear some kind of music coming from the woods. I suggested we investigate and so we did.
Deep in a well-hidden part of the forest, after an hour or so of walking (that’s how loud it was), we came upon an ancient ghettoblaster. The music we’d heard earlier from within the little B&B was coming from this unremarkable boombox. After sitting for some time, we noticed a pattern emerging: the music was broken into individual songs, beautiful and sonically-dark, guitar-driven with a relentlessly smashing beat. Somewhere in the milieu of the chording, which was vaguely AM-radio-structured, floated an airy and intense vocal. The confessional nature of the lyrics was refreshing, reminded me of a younger, better version of myself. I find this to be a hallmark of all good music, BTW: it expresses the things I was thinking but never acted upon at some past crossroads — makes me think I might be that way still — without regrets. That this music was also exceedingly sad at times made this effect very poignant.
The ghettoblaster was plugged into a standard-issue orange extension cord. We decided to follow this in hopes of finding out more about this music. After another half hour or so (the cord was exceedingly long) we arrived at a clearing with a small rundown RV trailer resting deep in the snow. The trailer was abandoned but we were able to glean a few important details inside. Carved in the walls were the lyrics of one of the songs “my biggest fear is that I’ll die a lonely guy who loved and lost and wound up drinking himself to death. I’ll drink myself to death. And then I’ll go to hell.” “Yup” my wife nodded. In contrast to this naked sentiment though, stood, to my thinking, an earnestness and complexity seldom found in such epic rock and roll — made it personal yet somehow massively wayfaring. Well done Ryan Peters (vocals, guitar), Danny Marshall (drums), and Darcy Hancock (guitar, vocals). These credits were carved into the walls of that clandestine trailer also.
The orange cord wasn’t plugged in. “Fine,” I thought. “Must be running on batteries.” We followed the cord back towards the B&B and when we got to the ghettoblaster I decided to check the batteries wondering how they could not be dead. No batteries.“Holy shit” we both said in unison.
Portugal EspanolFall 2009
