Sunday, May 15, 2011


It seems like I should be writing, but I'm not sure about what, so I'll just let it flow. Yesterdays run was sort of a mixed bag. 55 degrees, sunny, and the morning had that nice moist earth smell. Things were going well until, that is, I was almost bitten by a big ass Pit Bull mix owned by some fucking retards that hadn't yet caught on to the concept of the leash. This was in the parking lot. Before the run. Nice. As it was snapping at me all I could think was that hitting it with a plastic Amphipod water bottle was only going to piss it off and it would be nice to have something a bit more substantial to bash its head in with. I love animals, and prefer them over humans, but if something tries to bite me I will fucking kill it. Primitive and simple. As if that wasn't enough, I spent the rest of the run listening for said retards and Cujo to go for round 2. This in turn created even more anger because I didn't have the mental toughness to hit the reset button and enjoy the beautiful morning and the fact that once again my knees felt great. Lesson learned (hopefully).

The night outshined the day...


The last 3 or 4 months have been a particularly creative period for the band. The way we typically work is that I put together a rough framework of a song at home, bring it down to Philly, and then it goes through the amazing process of morphing from 'my' song into a Starkweather song. Sometimes the end result is pretty close to the original vision and sometimes it becomes nearly unrecognizable. Either way it transforms from something static and lifeless to a living, breathing entity. This is something I wrote after one of those sublime moments when everything came together for us in the old factory that we used to rehears in in scenic North Philadelphia:


My god, the sound of the undertow, the four of us locked together like some fucking
primordial beast, crawling the filthy floor, soaring against the pitched warnings of Icarus,
the punishment of the dissonant twist, syncopation, halted rhythm, shattering safety's ties,
North Philadelphia, filth, arson, gunshots breaking the sway of our night,our soul, our sound.

Last night was one of those nights. I brought 4 or 5 parts to the table, we turned up so loud that we shook the floor, and we lit the fucking fuse and didn't stop until the song came to life and we were spent. There are no words to describe the feeling we get when we're on. There are no words necessary; just quick glances, a nod, or a quick hand signal. Nights like this make the 365 mile weekly drives, the exhaustion, and the sometimes hostile and combative rehearsals worthwhile.

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