Makeout Reef, Willowake, and En-Vitro Closed out the year with a sold out show at the Constellation Room that included a energetic crowd that sang along to many songs by the various bands. Below you will find a photo suite of the night with selected tracks.
Willowake photo by Michael ArroyoWillowake photo by Michael ArroyoWillowake Reef photo by Michael ArroyoEn-Vitro photo by Michael ArroyoEn-Vitro photo by Michael ArroyoPhoto by Michael ArroyoEn-Vitro photo by Michael ArroyoEn-Vitro photo by Michael ArroyoPhoto by Michael ArroyoMakeout Reef photo by Michael ArroyoMakeout Reef photo by Michael ArroyoMakeout Reef photo by Michael ArroyoMakeout Reef photo by Michael ArroyoMakeout Reef photo by Michael ArroyoMakeout Reef photo by Michael ArroyoMakeout Reef photo by Michael ArroyoWillowake / En-VItro photo by Michael Arroyo
Michael Arroyo is a concert photographer, who recently began using a camera last year after enduring hardships. Seeking an outlet, finding that photography was that for him. Finding his way doing live photography for concerts due to the authentic nature of concerts.
The premise alone of “Quarantine Highway,” (Flowersong Press, Oct. 2022) the latest collection of poetry by Millicent Borges Accardi, is well worth the price of admission ‒ which is only about $16 right now on the Flowersong Press website.
The 68-poem collection, written during the early and mid-months of the global COVID-19 pandemic in 2020, records and examines the shared sense of fear, isolation and uncertainty that many of us nonessential workers, forced to socially distance, would experience for up to a year or more of working from home, home schooling or just sheltering in place.
The book itself emerged from a 30-by-30 writing challenge put to past and present CantoMundistas, AKA fellows of CantoMundo, a national poetry organization since 2009 who, according to its website, “cultivates a community of Latinx poets through workshops, symposia, public readings, and publications.” Accardi’s work here, intentional artifacts, were prompted by readings and themes influenced and initiated by this tightknit literary community who met regularly on Zoom to challenge, collaborate, inspire each other, and to help confront and navigate their forced isolation together with their shared love of poetry and reading, and the healing and safety of their strong connections (personally, professionally, and digitally). What a magnificent experiment and premise for a book of poetry!
One of my favorite poems in the book is “Bread,” which not only sets the stage for the dreaded “new normal” of our world plus social distancing, but it also highlights the vivid imagery, repetition, and surprising wordplay that feature in the best of Accardi’s work throughout the book.
In “Bread,” the speaker opens by telling us what we already “know, knew / know, known…”; that it was all just a big gamble, just a bet we all made “hoping for a last breaking of luck / before the world ran out.” Do you remember making that same bet before braving empty-shelved grocery stores, armed with only “sanitizer and hope,” trying to stock up on anything and everything (even toilet paper) our families might possibly need before “…life was forbidden and / everyone was an enemy”? Because I sure do.
This poem also brings up other important themes explored throughout the book: rampant misinformation from the media, new levels of political upheaval, and the growing divide (both physically and politically) between us and them.
“We were television-glued / as news rolled by and the rooms / misled us into doing the nonsense / we knew we shouldn’t:/ over-drinking, board games, /chanting curses at each other.”
Accardi’s use of first-person plural here, and in many of the subsequent poems in this collection, is a bold choice that clearly demonstrates, to me, the poet’s intention, despite its subject matter, to push past this hate in the time of the ‘rona to a much healthier and more productive place of hope, healing, self-reflection and the reckoning we all so sorely needed.
Listen to “Bread” read by the author
In “Bread,” a familiar cadence or rhythm also recalled for me the opening bit to T.S. Eliot’s “Waste Land” – and, considering the subject matter, it makes a lot of sense now. Accardi’s word choice and placement of “breaking…” “betting…” “binding…” and “bleeding” echoes the “breeding…” “mixing…” “stirring…” and “feeding…” from Eliot’s seminal Modernist work. And this was just one of many poems in the book that had me Googling other poets and books for hours and hours as I willingly dove down into literary rabbit holes of inspired reading and learning.
I talked to Accardi about “Bread,” and how much I liked it and all the allusions to other poets and their work. I shared with her that, for me, poetry has always been a kind of cosmic conversation between poets over time and space – and that this mystical feeling came over me quite a bit while I was reading her book and all the amazing writers her work references. I asked about her own objectives or goals when it came to writing her poetry.
“I write to try to make sense of the world,” she said, “to piece things together in my own mind. I write to learn and to research. I write to keep me sane.”
She told me, whether she was ranting or mumbling, celebrating or complaining, her writing is about vocalizing change and starting a conversation that could, ultimately, effect change.
I should point out that not all the poems in “Quarantine Highway” are specifically about COVID-19, like “Bread.” In fact, most of the poems, as part of the 30-by-30 writing challenge, are direct responses, written under the specter of the global pandemic, to specific poetry prompts: words, phrases or titles of poems, books, and songs.
In the second half of the book, the poet also takes on one of COVID-19’s favorite targets: immigrants and immigration. A proud Portuguese American, Accardi examines her own heritage in much of her writing, and “Quarantine Highway” is no different, especially themes concerning the loss, discovery, claiming, and reclaiming of identity.
In “With Cascading, Iron Straight Hair,” we get all three of the book’s interesting elements in one playful yet poignant poem about a young immigrant teen’s cultural assimilation. “Slathering on lye from an orange jar…” to straighten out her “Portuguese Frizz waves…” in “a divorce of emotions between what /” she sees in the locker and who she sees far away “in the pages of Seventeen magazine…” which the poet calls “a catalogue of friends…” she “could never connect with…”
Composed after a line from “Heirlooms” by Luivette Resto, a Puerto Rican poet and CantoMundo fellow, this piece offers a hopeful “ever-present relief” from what seems a painful personal moment, a “charm of sweet conflict…” as true as true can be.
In “Unlearning America’s Languages” (on a theme by, “Lowering Your Standards for Food Stamps” by Sheryl Luna), another seemingly young voice tells us how her own generation “…form-fitted into a dress of forgetting / language culture, food, Fit in Fit in Fit in / disappear into America…” We learn that their “Parents came to California to rise above / blending inside a fairytale Knott’s Berry Farm…” Finally, the poem ends with devastating (yet still hopeful) image that left me shook and shaken like one of our infamous LA tremors:
“…Tell the counselors you will ride the bus and stave off the earthquakes, embracing a future that does not resemble any past you heard whispered and fought about at night after bedtime, where we lie in bed and draw words in the air, spelling out where we came from.
This book easily could’ve taken a much darker turn were it not for that bit of hope in this and other insightful poems in the collection. Accardi made sure to remind us throughout the book that, while hope may be free, real change has a very high and very real cost – it’s the pain, struggle, the fight, the fear, the anxiety, the potential and actual loss of identity, of self, of life, of limb, and of who we are and where we might and might not Fit in Fit in Fit in the world. Most importantly, we see that change, while often imperceptibly slow in the real world, can possibly accelerate through self-reflection, creativity, community, compassion, generosity, art, music, and – dammit, yes – the wise words of poetry!
I asked Accardi who influenced her writing and this hopeful view of her art. I was not surprised when her short list was made up of mostly educators and librarians, her parents and her amazing fellow fellows at CantoMundo. But there was one name on the list that really got my attention: Mrs. Virtue, her first-grade teacher.
Mrs. Virtue wasn’t just any teacher; she was that teacher for Accardi, the one who really left her mark. “Her dad was a poet,” Accardi said, “and she read us poems in class which I am sure were not part of the curriculum.” It turns out Mrs. Virtue’s dad wasn’t just any old poet. Her dad was Claude McKay, a key figure in the Harlem Renaissance.
I couldn’t help but recall a poem about Mrs. Virtue in “Quarantine Highway” called “The Truth would be from a Line” (inspired by Gastão Cruz) that I now knew I’d misread, and which I suddenly realized, I’d clearly misinterpreted as well.
Mrs. Virtue wasn’t a poetic personification of virtue or even some positive educator in general; she was an actual and important person from the poet’s real life. The poem discusses “…an old phrase, / like a poem dealing with / trees I memorized, along with everyone / else in Mrs. Virtue’s first grade [class] / at Luther Burbank…” This line, which would “…require / more sense than this crazy crisis / we are going through presently…” was the truth – the whole truth:
“For truth would have to be untouchable, like a hand we used to know, to hold – as if it were our own – the left reaching for the right, fumbling along thru this magnificent universe we kind of know, or at least pretended it to be so.”
This was interesting to me because, while I was reading “Quarantine Highway” for this review, my 8-year-old daughter, struck by the colorful cover art by Ralph Almeida, asked me what the book I was reading was about. I told her it was a poetry book written during the pandemic, which captured her attention. The pandemic is easily the biggest historical event of her young life so far. So, we talked about that difficult time for a little while when she suddenly asked me a question I didn’t know how to answer. Is poetry fiction or non-fiction?
I brought this up to Accardi, and she agreed that it might be an impossible question to answer properly, especially to my 8-year-old daughter. She then recalled how surprised she was one day when she went looking for poetry books at the Alamitos Library in Long Beach, her home-away-from-home as a child and discovered that the poetry books were stored in the non-fiction section. “Poetry was deep in the trenches between biographies and chemistry,” she said. “It made no sense to me.”
In the end, neither of us was sure which was which. And while Accardi gave me an answer for me to share with my daughter, I think I should end this review by sharing that answer here as well. Not only because I like her answer, but because I think it accurately represents what “Quarantine Highway,” the latest poetry collection by Millicent Borges Accardi is really about.
“My final answer is both,” she said. “With poetry, we write about the truth that is sometimes too painful to speak or mention unless it is couched in fairy tales, made-up characters, and lessons learned by strangers, so as not to harm the innocent and to make the truth easier to take.”
Quarantine Highway by Millicent Borges Accardi is available now from Flowersong Press.
Frank Mundo is a poet from Los Angeles. His latest chapbooks are Touched by an Anglo (Kattywompus Press) and Eleven Sundry Flowers (Antrim House).
The Aves, Ryane Nicole Granados’ debut YA novella is a coming of age story of a Black girl in a South Central neighborhood in Los Angeles in the 70’s. The Aves pays tribute to Black women sisterhood while dropping wisdom in gorgeous language. What I most cherish from Granados’ delicate prose stands out in tight curls decorated with barrettes.
This opening passage sets the reminiscent tone and the pre-teen female voice that carries throughout.
“… I wore my hair in three pigtails. Mercy parted two in the back and left one on the top of my head, which she brushed to either the left or the right side. She snapped plastic barrettes on the end of each braid and coordinated the colors to match my outfit for the day.”
The main character Zora Neale Rebecca Hunter sits at a salon to have her hair straightened with hot iron rods, which brings memories of the coming of age ritual in the life of Black girls. The description of this event laced with the girl’s reactions and emotions take up the first four pages, indicating that having her hair done at a salon for the first time became part of her identity.
Hair plays an important role in this brief and powerful tale of sisterhood. Hair not only marks their entrance into womanhood. Additionally, it serves as an instrument to express the Black woman identity.
“Sauda’s only daughter, Imani, is two years older than me and she once claimed she was a direct descendant from royalty because she had true African blood in her. She said … my hair was too fine and slippery to come from pure Black ancestry. … It was settled we were both African Princesses. We pricked our fingers and mixed royal bloodlines to make our nobility official.”
In The Aves, Black women’ hair comes in all textures to display their femininity.
“If I owned her windstorm of hair, … I would run my hand from scalp to hair’s end and roll each strand around my index finger to get the attention of the cute older boys. . . I would never, no matter what my sisters did, or mother did, or brothers expected, of father demanded, wrap it away from the eyes of the world.”
Although there are some male characters in the story, they do not move the plot. They are the dark shadow on Imani’s life, or a fictionalized memory of Zora’s father, or a young husband, Tomi marrying the girl who grew out of the foster care, or Zora’s brother, James, who only has a few lines of dialogue instigating conflict between mother and sisters, or a homeless man writing a thank you note. The only male character with some significant participation is the neighborhood thief who acts as some sort of Black Santa Claus. He is funny and caricatured.
In contrast, women are the protagonists of the action, the ones that twist the plot, who make things happen. The readers never see the shadow of the man holding Imani captive, but we certainly see Mercy’s action that liberates the 15 year old from her dark life. We see Luisa, the girl fighting the boy in the middle of the neighborhood with all the toxic passion learned from her dysfunctional parents.
The reader can also see a working class, African American neighborhood in South Central LA, not far from the LAX airport, where airplanes are so close their noise interrupt an afternoon game. These are one or two parent households. At least one character has outgrown the foster care system. They have their dysfunctionalities that serve as neighborhood evening entertainment. They celebrate their joy and small accomplishments. Homelessness has already made its appearance in this 70’s setting, but even the most innocent and fragile character does not feel threatened by a poor man living on the streets. The thief plays Santa, but the single mother with high moral standards can’t accept those gifts. Granados has treated this neighborhood with the same love and sense of nostalgia that she treated her best female characters; thus, she reinforces the power of community in creating a strong African American identity.
Although Granados never deviates from showing us The Aves through the eyes of a pre-teen girl, it is through the master use of dialogue that the author drops adult wisdom.
“Regret is a wasted emotion, Zora. Envision a life that when you grow old you will one day want to remember, and then spend the time in between making that life come true.”
With its textured hair and bold female characters, Ryane Nicole Granados laces a sweet and brief story of sisterhood. The Aves touched my heart with a reminiscent tone bringing up the shared memories of rites of passage for Black girls. The young reader will be delighted to find a character that looks like her and feels like her. I am sure Middle Grade readers, especially Black girls, will cherish The Aves as much as their souvenir barrettes.
The Aves by Ryane Nicole Granados is available now through Leapfrog Press
Lisbeth Coiman is a bilingual author and an avid reader. Her debut book, I Asked the Blue Heron: A Memoir (2017) explores the intersection between immigration and mental health. Her poetry collection, Uprising / Alzamiento (Finishing Line Press, 2021) raises awareness of the humanitarian crisis in her homeland. Her book reviews have been published in the New York Journal of Books, in Citron Review and The Compulsive Reader, LibroMobile, and Cultural Daily to name a few. She lives in Los Angeles, where she works and hikes.
On September 6th 2024 Sonic Sound Entertainment took over the Teragram Ballroom in Los Angeles for their first ever half day festival. The group brought out some of the best bands they work with (as well as some special guests) spanning the genres of emo, shoegaze, dreampop, and other adjacent genres to put on a night that was one for the books. Check out this photo reel and linked songs below to get a taste of some of the hottest up and coming bands in LA right now.
The Divines – Photo by Michael ArroyoThe Divines – Photo by Michael ArroyoClarion – Photo by Michael ArroyoClarion – Photo by Michael ArroyoWillowake – Photo by Michael ArroyoWillowake – Photo by Michael ArroyoHome View – Photo by Israel HernandezHome View – Photo by Israel HernandezEnvitro – Photo by Michael ArroyoEnvitro – Photo by Michael ArroyoWayword – Photo by Israel HernandezWayword – Photo by Israel HernandezIsrael’s Arcade – Photo by Michael ArroyoIsrael’s Arcade – Photo by Michael ArroyoMind’s Eye – Photo by Michael ArroyoMind’s Eye – Photo by Michael Arroyo
israel hernandez is a photographer and student at CSULB. Besides music he is interested in art, books, cool jackets and the color red. he is local to Montebello but is often in long beach as well.
Michael Arroyo is a concert photographer, who recently began using a camera last year after enduring hardships. Seeking an outlet, finding that photography was that for him. Finding his way doing live photography for concerts due to the authentic nature of concerts.
Katherine Haake’s What Happened Was captures the unsettling atmosphere of a post-apocalyptic world, a feeling that resonates profoundly in the aftermath of the 2019 pandemic. While Americans may have experienced the crisis with the comforts of modern living, Haake’s narrative reminds us that our version of the pandemic may have dulled our awareness of the true horrors felt globally.
“Someone turned the television news on to drown out the sounds of their whining, but no calamity on earth could compare now to our own.”
In her signature style, Haake delves into the mundane, transforming everyday moments into scenes of profound disturbance, reminiscent of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. The book, set in what I imagine in the present or leading up to it, immerses readers in the grim reality of growing up and aging in America, namely Los Angeles. Through a blend of science fiction and literary chaos, Haake’s “accounts” in the first part of the book leave readers with the haunting sense that, despite glimpsing a harsh truth, we are left knowing very little.
“That was the first thing we learned, but not the last, after they sent us away removed of everything, all the way down to our numbers.”
Haake also plays with language, questioning the very structure of communication. The narrator’s rediscovery of lost words feels less like forgetting and more like losing a vital organ. This loss of linguistic depression underscores the broader disconnection that Haake explores with depth and nuance.
“It’s a flower, she said, the italics all hers, as if otherwise it might have been a railroad or rhinoceros.”
A powerful undercurrent of loss permeates the book, particularly around themes of motherhood and aging. Though I have not experienced parenthood, Haake’s exploration of the void left by children leaving home — and the simultaneous aging of parents — struck a deeply emotional chord. Despite not being a parent, I felt the void left by the departure of “the boys” and the subsequent ennui that Haake portrays. Her exploration of the human condition is both relatable and thought-provoking.
“We want it to be known that we did everything we could. We were vigilant and thorough. We tried home remedies and discipline, a regular routine, counseling, prayer. We watched over as she slept. And while it could be said we loved her — she was our very own — when the vapors started trialing on the whistling of her dreambreath and the barking never stopped the whole night through, we knew — we just knew — what we had to do.”
Nostalgia is a prominent theme throughout What Happened Was. Haake deftly captures the ordinary moments we take for granted, from a simple text message to milk in our morning coffee, and makes them feel distant and unreachable by the book’s end. The hints of metaphorical aliens emphasize a profound sense of disconnection to parts of our world.
“If we still believed in writing, that’s what we would write. We would write about the aliens inside. That’s what hope is like. It’s like writing.”
Structurally, the book accelerated like a fever dream, leaving the reader disoriented yet captivated. The pacing intensifies as the stories spiral into chaos, and “interregnum” becomes a recurring motif, symbolizing the gaps in history and time that are more terrifying for what is left unsaid.
“There wasn’t so much that remained, but all that remained was there, where we were, and by the time we convened we had begun to understand this. The portals had all been so efficient, everything gone down them — gone, gone.”
“A child — the last child — spoke first. Now what are we going to do?”
In a broader historical context, the stories seem to emerge from the void between the pandemic and the present. The “interregnum” itself becomes a character, shaping the narrative and highlighting the small, often overlooked aspects of life that can have lasting impacts.
“Of all the times to go off on a cruise, right at the height of the interregnum. And really, at their age, we think.”
“But we don’t really mean it.”
“Here’s what we really mean: Well: here we are, two hapless orphans all alone on the planet. Now what are we going to do?”
What Happened Was is a challenging yet rewarding read, urging readers to question whether to view these moments with lightness or through a lens of trauma. In the wake of the pandemic, Haake’s work resonates with a sense of “after-ness” that I for one, am still grappling with as we navigate this new reality.
What Happened Was is available now through 11:11 Press
A plain white house in East Hollywood would normally not draw the attention of a passerby, but with a narrow and crowded driveway full of haphazardly parked cars and a long line of chattering young adults, it is now bound to pique curiosity. Lively conversations and cigarette smoke wafted into the air as the setting sun cast a subtle golden hour glow. The distorted cacophony of sound checks blared from within the house as fans waited right outside the door. They were here to have a chance to witness Blimp – a frenetic and at times explosive four-piece act – open for the loud and sonically unbound trio out of Orange County, Julie who would be celebrating the release of their debut album my anti-aircraft friend.
As nighttime arrived by 7:30, people were now given entry into the unassuming house. Inside was a light wooden floor, posters of Linkin Park and The Fader hanging on cream colored walls, and an array of bright lights illuminating the space where the bands would perform. A drum kit with a kick drum that seems to have been scrawled with dark colored crayons was set up in front of a rack of electric guitars while tall and dark Sunn cabinet speakers stood menacingly in both corners. Photographers and videographers made their way to the very front as the house rapidly filled to capacity. Soon enough, Blimp took to the stage and played songs from their album Egg. A gritty energy replete with frantic drumming, furious strumming, a three string Ibanez bass, and harsh screaming coupled with a wonderfully chaotic dynamic set the tone for the audience, which they took very well. Blimp’s assault would have been enough for a final headlining act, but this certainly was not the end of the night’s performances.
Julie quietly set up their instruments as the house cheered upon their arrival. After a quick microphone check, guitarist Keyan Pourzand played one chord and everyone instantly knew what was coming. A dramatic shift in energy could be felt as fans braced themselves for the song that would bellow out of the monstrous Sunn cabinets. Alexandria Elizabeth slowly played the song’s distinctive bassline to create even more tension as the crowd anxiously moved in excitement. The guitar suddenly let out a sustained cry, waiting to be led into what was coming. Dillon Lee then hit the kick and snare drum, and with that, Julie unleashed their first single “flutter.” The crowd jumped and became a joyously writhing mass, freed from the inhibitions of daily life by the sounds of heavy distortion and thick low end. Despite the growing heat and humidity, the band would keep the momentum going as they played new songs from their album without letting up, finishing their set with an encore: an unreleased song titled “twee.” Julie’s performance is a confident step forward into their future as they continue to push their creative boundaries – and the durability of their amplifiers.
Blimp – Photo by Jeremy RuizBlimp – Photo by Jeremy RuizBlimp – Photo by Jeremy RuizBlimp – Photo by Jeremy RuizBlimp – Photo by Jeremy RuizBlimp – Photo by Jeremy RuizBlimp – Photo by Jeremy RuizJulie – Photo by Jeremy RuizJulie – Photo by Jeremy RuizJulie – Photo by Jeremy RuizJulie – Photo by Jeremy RuizJulie – Photo by Jeremy RuizJulie – Photo by Jeremy RuizJulie – Photo by Jeremy RuizJulie – Photo by Jeremy RuizJulie – Photo by Jeremy Ruiz
Jeremy Ruiz is an independent photographer based in the San Fernando Valley specializing in portraiture and live music photography. He spent three years training as a student photojournalist and photo editor for the Valley Star, the independent student newspaper of Los Angeles Valley College, and has gone on to win multiple awards from the Journalism Association of Community Colleges. In his spare time, he likes to brew coffee and practice bass. IG @itzalku_sfv
We live in a time in which women’s autonomy, especially bodily autonomy, is the subject of debate and conflict. An optimistic perspective would point out that real progress has been made, and that women probably have more autonomy now than at any point in American history. A more pragmatic perspective would, I think, point out that all of that progress has been made with the shedding of blood, sweat, and tears, fighting against systems and individuals who are more than happy to torture and kill to see their myopic hierarchies enforced, and is so long overdue that its lack of fulfillment is an ongoing insult to all of us. And one consistent facet of that insult is the simple refusal to not only listen to women on an issue like this but to get out of the way and allow them to control the conversation. It is in this context that I have read Show Me The Bells, a collection of poetry by Xochiquetzal Candelaria. And it brings me no small amount of joy to report that this book is not only a wonderful read but a brilliant exploration of change, autonomy, expectations, and love.
“She looks down and lets / me marry her dilated pupils / with mine, even as explosions are / heard in the distance.”
I have no doubt that many reads of this book will focus on motherhood as a dominant thematic element of Candelaria’s poetry, and with good reason. There is a wealth of maternal expression on display here. But I also think that there is a deeper layer to the text, one that explores the idea of the feminine self and how other concepts (including motherhood) relate to and shape it. Candelaria wrestles with the very idea of self on the psychological and physical levels. Her poetic voice speaks of the pull in multiple directions, from the needs of her children to the desires of her partner to the expectations of society to what she envisions in the moment. Her poems dance freely through time, as if she is looking forward and backward through her own story without bothering to keep a finger on any page. There is an almost desperate sensory immersion running throughout the book, lending an intensity tinged with fear of impermanence. It is a deeply humanizing thing to read and relate to, this contradictory and simultaneous yearning for stillness and movement.
“She seems to be breaking through herself, / beyond her shell-like body; she is all becoming, all flash of explosion…”
This contradiction is reinforced by a consistent emphasis on the transitory nature of that feminine self. There is a visceral engrossment in how the body transforms under pressure from biological function, random chance, and psychological pressure (both external and internal). It highlights the body’s astonishing resilience and ability to adapt, but also tacitly acknowledges that such capacity requires irreversible change. This is intimately juxtaposed with the power of the mind, which is often free to, as mentioned above, dance through time. While undeniably part of that physical self, the mind is the means by which we revisit the past and the future, playing witness to the experience of the whole. It is the thing that allows us to understand the contradiction and, perhaps more importantly, the impossibility of “now”.
“Or if we had regularly looked / into the eyes of horses, / lived in their wetness for a while, / celebrated our desire to be still / just as much as our desire to move / up and down, in and out, / to move for the sake of it…”
But I also think there is an important distinction to be made here: Candelaria not only ignores dread, but often rejects it outright. In their back-of-the-book statement about Show Me The Bells, author Donna Masini describes the text as “a lyric cry of possibility for those of us who cannot afford the luxury of despair.” This is, in my opinion, an extremely appropriate description. The kinds of metamorphosis the poetry concerns itself with can be intimidating, dramatically at times, and the pressures that force those changes even more so. But the simple truth is that, in our allegedly progressive society, we do not allow women the “luxury of despair” in the face of the things that happen to them. We treat women as the means by which we achieve our goals, and no small part of the aforementioned resilience and capacity to adapt comes from resisting manipulation and constantly having to establish and protect independence. And, as the poetry lays out in full, the effort to dominate women is both self-destructive and futile.
“I want to be not Eurydice’s fox or snake but the darkness / she moved in, the great living darkness.”
Those of you reading this review can probably hear me describing sentiments that could be applied to the experiences of other disenfranchised groups, at least in the broad strokes, and by no means is Show Me The Bells unaware of these connections. A distinctly Latina heritage permeates the text. seemingly functioning as a source of both pride and humility; pride, in the unique cultural and geographical legacies that give the author such power in their voice, and humility in understanding that that very uniqueness inherently means the author’s experience cannot be universal in scope. When she writes of skylarks by Lago de Texcoco or bells on a paletero’s cart, she reminds us that the physical and psychological experiences she has been describing are happening all around us, constantly, by the Latinas you may have the good fortune of passing on the street.
“The Ma, Ma, Ma, my body uttered in a staccato / like the burbling of Vesuvius before lava and ash / burst out and covered the city in stillness.”
In case it wasn’t obvious by this point, I strongly recommend Show Me The Bells, and not just as a one time experience. The poetry is short but deliciously dense, demanding multiple reads in the best way. It is the kind of collection that can and should make it into your personal rotation, especially when we live in such a reactionary age. It is a book that reveals that all of these contradictions are not really contradictions at all; they are interconnected pieces of a whole, disfigured with arbitrary borders that have been raised to set us in opposition to each other.
On July 20th, 2024 it was a Saturday summer day. It was another hot summer night when we hit ninety-degree weather. However, Pound Booking had something in store for us to do this Saturday. They were having a festival at the Echoplex, a music venue in Echo Park Los Angeles, California. Showcasing eleven bands in total and the headliner band was Slow Hollows. They had a two-stage system to make everything run smoothly where the main stage was inside the venue and the side stage was their outside patio. This patio is where I stayed most of my time since I appreciate a more intimate stage where I can be face-to-face with the band as they play their set. I just feel more connected with the band and feed off their energy as they play their set. These are the bands that played on the patio stage.
Dunk Pacino
An L.A.-based punk band fueled by donuts and rage!
Whoremones
Can’t tell from the smiles but this band makes angry music!
Trash Day
This is an indie/punk band from Santa Cruz, CA delivering unadulterated musical garbage in the best way possible!
Love letter
This band carried a lot of emotion in their set. Couldn’t help but scream along with them.
FLOATS
These tract suit-wearing Texas boys love to give a great show! I am always astonished at how they travel so much from Texas to LA just to play one night and then go home the next day! They gave one incredible performance leaving us wanting more.
Michael Arroyo is a concert photographer, who recently began using a camera last year after enduring hardships. Seeking an outlet, finding that photography was that for him. Finding his way doing live photography for concerts due to the authentic nature of concerts.
Elusive Love, Loss, and Healing in the Electrifying Story of Psychiatric Treatment
As a writer who suffers from a mental disorder, I was immediately drawn to The Electric Love Song of Fleischl Berger, by David Rocklin, which tells us about the fictionalized life of a Jewish-German psychiatrist born under electrifying circumstances on the shores of the Baltic Sea.
A fascinating reading, The Electric Love Song of Fleischl Berger speaks about a man’s obsession with his own near-death experience, which led him to design the early versions of the Electroencephalogram (EEG). The novel also links EEG to the birth of the motion picture industry at the turn of the century.
Few historical novels can keep the weight of the facts as the backdrop of the story. David Rocklin masterfully develops an intriguing plot that takes place between the Great War and the rise of the Nazi Germany, while presenting the history of psychiatric treatment in an imaginative love story without overwhelming the reader with historical facts. Instead, the historic events depicted in the story function as catalyst for plot development.
The novel grabs the reader with suspense from the opening line,
“The first time Fleischl Berger almost died…”
With the word “almost” David Rocklin sets a tone of anticipation and commits the reader to the entire story, which delves into each stage of this man’s life his historical backdrop.
Fleischl Berger is raised by a grief ridden father and mentored by the men in his community: a rabbi, a merchant, and a psychiatrist all of whom influenced the young man’s devotion to service. Gifted with the power of attentive listening and empathy, Fleischl discovers that he can help others recover from their emotional wounds, if not actually heal them. In his mentor’s words,
“…in the end all men of psychiatry do is tend their wounds. We can’t heal anything.”
Eventually young Fleischl Berger falls in love with the merchant’s daughter, but as circumstances will have it, their love is interrupted by Fleischl’s decision to find his father, who is lost at sea. Shortly after, Fleischl nearly dies in an accident during a military exercise.
Fleischl Berger becomes obsessed with the experience in the aftermath of the explosion that almost killed him. Inspired by the creative spirit of his childhood friend and lover, he designs a machine to capture brain activity to explain what happened to him. Thus he creates a scientific instrument that will eventually revolutionize neurological research.
He carries out these extraordinary experiments as movie productions–and his justification to try to observe the human mind more closely.
“To the addled mind,” he said as the audience watched him closely, “illusions are real. They are the world left to them. To us, such people are lost in a world of their own. We try talking to them, but we can’t get through. We try showing them things they ought to know. Their wives, husbands, children, homes, even their own reflections. It’s as if they see something we can’t. Or else they see nothing at all. Our sounds and visions are no longer theirs. How can we reach them?
“I have a way. We give their minds something else. A piece of them that they’ve lost, only at undeniable levels to pry the window of their mind open. I’ve seen it happen – “
“… But this work will help those we think we’ve lost to injury, infirmity, to psychosis. I believe it with all my heart. And I’m here with your kind permission to show you. The louder and brighter the sounds and visions, the wider the window.”
As Fleischl explains his controversial and dramatic experiments with altruistic arguments, he paves the way to unprecedented progress in neuroscience.
Meanwhile, hidden in Berlin’s theatrical scene of the early 1900s, the elusive lover observes Fleischl growing as a scientist and entering the most influential circles of Berlin’s society. As he finds financial support for his experiments, Fleischl gets entangled in social intrigue and power struggles foreign to his personal search, but that will be crucial in his survival.
First the reader must understand that for Fleischl survival means more than beating death. Fleischl’s actions are driven by a sense of loss: the mother who died at his birth, the father who disappeared at sea, the lover who left after he broke her heart,
“I miss home,” he said, because he wasn’t sure what he felt and had nothing else to say that might explain the hole where surely something ought to be.”
The novel carries this nostalgic tone, a longing for what does not exist anymore.
The setting helps create the nostalgic tone. This is particularly true at the beginning where the laconic landscape of a village on the shores of the Baltic Sea sets the tone with which the young Fleischl will grow. The sea appears first on view, dangerous, dark. It is followed by a row of small, rudimentary buildings, functional for a basic life where the merchants do business near the house where he grows. On top of a hill, sits the asylum that will inspire Fleischl’s vocation for healing. However, the setting also serves as a plot catalyst. Later in the story, the rough sea scenes set the tone for dramatic turns and plot twists. And when Fleischl moves to Berlin, the busy urban landscape of the turn of the century accelerates the action as the social scene moves between small theater venues, ball rooms, mansions, and academic lecture halls.
In The Electric Love Song of Fleischl Berger, David Rocklin gifts us with simple phrases filled with wisdom, like aphorisms,
“You will fail and fail, and with luck one day succeed. Go fail, Fleischl Berger.”
With these phrases, Rocklin offers the reader an opportunity for reflection, enriching the reading experience.
Fleischl Berger’s journey is the story of an extraordinary man, the history of the ECG, and historical fiction of a crucial moment in German history. But ultimately, what held me turning pages is David Rocklin’s ability to weave in the historical facts in fictional narrative using a love story as a thread. In his own words,
“Do you want to know a secret I learned, Ava? All stories are woven with love. Maybe when all the stories come to have their silences broken, when they come to be heard, they come to those who love them. Who listens just for them.”
Perhaps what I love more about The Electric Love Song of Fleischl Berger is the way this historical novel drew me to learn more about the man, and what is not in the story: the scientific research behind contemporary psychiatric treatment, and the creation of the instrument widely used today in the diagnosis of neurological conditions. By far, The Electric Love Song of Fleischl Berger is one of the best stories I have read in 2024.
The Electric Love Song of Fleischl Berger by David Rocklin is available now through Thane & Prose
Lisbeth Coiman is a bilingual author and an avid reader. Her debut book, I Asked the Blue Heron: A Memoir (2017) explores the intersection between immigration and mental health. Her poetry collection, Uprising / Alzamiento (Finishing Line Press, 2021) raises awareness of the humanitarian crisis in her homeland. Her book reviews have been published in the New York Journal of Books, in Citron Review and The Compulsive Reader, LibroMobile, and Cultural Daily to name a few. She lives in Los Angeles, where she works and hikes.
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Oscar Celis is a photographer and founder of First Class Studios based out of SoCal . Growing up in Southern California, he was always part of the music scene his sister use to be a music photographer he often went with her to local shows and concerts of his favorite bands.
Oscar used to think about how great it would have been to have those big shows documented better. That’s what drives him now to capture this era so future fans can appreciate it like he does. He leans towards music photography because, honestly, he’s terrible at making music himself, but he loves being part of the scene.
After a five-year absence, in part due to the pandemic causing disruptions in touring, Dávila 666 has returned to the west coast like a drug-addled bat out of hell. Doing 19 dates in just about the same amount of time, the band has proven that they are still as locked in as ever. For those unfamiliar, Dávila 666 is a band from Puerto Rico (a territory of the colonial United States) that blends elements of 77-style punk, garage rock, and psychedelia together to create a sound that is at once nostalgic and fresh. They sing and belt in Spanish with a fervor that can be enjoyed with or without knowing the language. Their songs can be at one moment filled existential myopia and philosophical dread then shift to moments of resistance and resilience with some good old fashion carnal and romantic notions sprinkled in for good measure. The band sounds amazing when recorded; the layers of the dueling vocals and group harmonizations, the aggressive guitar and bass rhythms on some songs, with multiple layers of percussion coming from both the drummer and tambourine, and an unnameable playfulness that all comes together in a way that can hype up any moment.
Hearing the recordings does little to prepare you for the experience of seeing them live. We checked out the band on one of their earlier dates of the tour at Alex’s Bar in Long Beach and they did not disappoint. The venue is a storied place where many punk rock legends have come to play smaller shows. There is a charm and grit to the space that definitely has a punk rock vibe, but also a bit of Mexican influence to their décor. You might recognize the space if you’re a fan of the HBO series True Blood. From the moment the band took the stage they were on. The songs were loud and blaring but not overwhelming. The banter between the band members (only five members were on this tour) was humorous as well as pulled in the crowd. You could feel the emotions of the songs and the energy of the band. The band moved across the stage, playing off of one another’s energies. There was a level of impromptu choreography to the movements that made everything always feel tight and put together. A Puerto Rican poet friend of mine casually mentioned while smiling that they were getting Menudo (the boy group not the food) vibes from them. I, without as deep of a cultural context of Puerto Rico and boy groups in general latch more onto the punk and garage elements of the band, casually pushed that notion aside. But the very next day a post promoting their show in Lancaster, CA mentioned that Dávila 666 was a Menudo on drugs. You’d be right to guess that I promptly received an “I told you so message” that day. That’s one of the band’s charms, their ability to reach different audiences and give completely different, though complimentary, experiences all at once. If you missed their dates in Long Beach and San Pedro, you are in luck because they are heading to The Paramount in Boyle Heights on July 4th before they swing into Arizona to close out the tour. Here’s to hoping that they come back sooner than another five years.
Honorable mention goes to the band Mad Menace and the Murder Dogs who had their debut show opening the night. While bringing in a bit of garage rock to the mix, they really channeled the energy and essence of Motorhead with hard hitting rock songs that packed a punch. The band has that classic straight ahead rock energy going for them that is missing in a lot of bands these days. For a first show, MMMD was quite tight in their set and the songs, while calling back to older genres didn’t feel like a recycling of a genre. Keep an eye out for them as their songs will be up on SoundCloud and Bandcamp soon.
Zachary C Jensen
Dávila 666 Photo by Bowie De La PenaDávila 666 Photo by Bowie De La PenaDávila 666 Photo by Bowie De La PenaDávila 666 Photo by Bowie De La PenaDávila 666 Photo by Bowie De La PenaDávila 666 Photo by Bowie De La PenaDávila 666 Photo by Bowie De La PenaDávila 666 Photo by Bowie De La PenaDávila 666 Photo by Bowie De La PenaDávila 666 Photo by Bowie De La PenaDávila 666 Photo by Bowie De La PenaDávila 666 Photo by Bowie De La PenaMMMD Photo by Bowie De La PenaMMMD Photo by Bowie De La PenaMMMD Photo by Bowie De La PenaMMMD Photo by Bowie De La Pena
Bowie De La Pena, a native of Southern California, is a dedicated photographer and student at Cal State Long Beach, a decision influenced by the city’s vibrant music scene. Bowie has been honing his photography skills for six years, with a particular focus on music photography for the past four. Initially inspired by friends who were talented musicians and skaters, Bowie picked up a camera as he found his true passion behind the lens. He started with a Canon 7D borrowed from his high school, which he used extensively before acquiring his own camera. His work can be found on his Instagram @bowie_stop