Swinging my limbs, tossing the line into a sea of prose. Capturing the words without a net to explore. I implore you my friends, to turn back to the sun - feel the radiant heat pouring down like constant sheets. Skies, filled with magpies. Crows crown the streetlights. Mad beats drop.

live from an 'antikraak' gallery

During my first European Tour I had the pleasure of meeting a lot of new people and forging some great new friendships. In the city of Leiden, I met an artist named Justus. He is a very skilled painter and he was living at an antikraak pad turned gallery. Late one night I stopped by and shot this live video for my song 'Amsterdamned'. I hope you enjoy it!

-J04L

let the mud flow

I've got five minutes to 7 AM, yet it's 10:55 PM local time. I've got thoughts whirling through the head, is hard to rest my mind. I'm calling out into the night skies - awake and rise? Smile just one more time? I know there are likelier situations, but I am bullheaded, stubborn; headstrong. I'm not about ready to let this slip through my fingers. Regrets? I've had them. Hurts? I carry them. Wounds? I bear them. But all of this is done in hope - don't let me down. Though I know, if truth be told, that I'm the one who always lets you down. I ain't close to perfect; I ain't close to anything good. I'm a dark broken cistern - dog-paddling through the very mud I hold.

reminders

I'm learning to turn my heart back to you; again. Names and dates fade and all that I can cling to is you. Teach me your ways; write them deep into my flesh. Guide my steps, my anxious acts. Bridle my tongue and make me to sit silently waiting for you.

black tower friend power

The hour approaches and the midnight sun is high in the sky. A stained wooden table before me is covered with remnants of the days events. Enjoying the company of a good friend and the tunes of S. Stevens, the swelling of a red tide breakis over my lips. My glass is full; the day is good and full. I am thankful, and try to remain so even as the morning now approaches and the coming day brings it's new challenges. Yet even tomorrow, amidst the daily grind, a beam of light is expected from across the seas shorelines - with a little message just for me. Does that make me selfish or does that make me shellfish? I'll hold onto it as a clam does it's pearl.

Telescope tell me something?

Looking for compassion in the passive masses, but I can't find anyone who cares to share passes or lift glasses to each exciting day we've amassed on this passage. Putting pen to paper making a map in hopes of calling out a classy lass, for across the seas another shore holds the treasure I'm in search for. X marks the spots and I'm digging this thing that we've got going -- so raise your glass, here's to hoping that we can find a way to see this friendship sail across the expanses, through uncharted waters, to claim new land; and a life hand in hand.

Brother Moon

Oh lonely moon, I wonder if God made you to be my brother.

Though you are perched way up there in the heavens and I am far below, we share the same father and mother. I imagine we are similar—you and I. Likely our experiences paralleled. For in our brief vein of existence we live on different, yet universal levels.

Oh lonely moon, how many nights have you spent all by yourself alone up in the skies with no one to dry your tears? How do you keep your ancient eyes open through the generations gone by—filled with wars and fears? Who is there to wipe the moon dust from your eyes? Perhaps I should take note and let love die, for there is nothing worse than pursuing a life-long lie.

But then as my eyes drift about in the sky, I consider how pale I must be in compare, for I haven’t lived that long and I haven’t much light to share. You are my older brother; you give example for the life I wish to live—shining light in the dark of night, a reflection of the love He gives. For when I consider the light you shed, I remember that it comes from the [Son], which gives us both reason to live. There is hope; there is love.

Oh lonely moon, please take hope and hold fast, anchored way up in the skies. I need your daily reminder to open my eyes and allow me to realize that though I may never grow to your stature or magnitude, I will match your light. If there is one thing I know the [Son] can do, it is assured in that even in the midst of my plight, He is there to guide my steps towards the goal He has in mind. Forever in Him you and I will both take delight.

So sleep well oh lonely moon, in time I shall join you soon. Soon enough, and then we shall share stories of the light and the glory of Christ as we gaze towards eternity, yearning to learn from the source of light Himself.

Until then, however, the horizon beckons and the [Son] calls; so I will let my light shine brother, and I will see you tomorrow.

REFUSED: The Shape of Punk to Come

Amidst a sea of copycats and relatively bland hardcore bands of the mid 90's era, I, and many other true music lovers, view a grim future for hardcore music—the near genocide of an entire genre. Enter stage right: innovative design team, REFUSED. These four young, wiry Swedes come decked out in formal wear and dress shoes, with a taste for over the top stage antics and gaudy flair. Armed with danceable manifestos and catchy declarations of 'evil' capitalist philosophy, these gentlemen are here to sway your political thought and rock your socks right off—all the while never missing a tightly timed beat.

"REFUSED: A psychological scrutiny of their motives," reads the CD insert of their classic offering 'The Shape of Punk to Come.' After allowing this unexpected literature to permeate the folds of my mind, I know that I'm about to hear the likes of nothing I've ever experienced before. Musical revolution: the birth of genre(s).

It's early morning—possibly after a night of sweaty rock and roll and heavy partying in some smoked out underground club. An interview is taking place out on a cafe patio in the foggy streets of some European city. I hear the busy sounds of rush hour traffic drone on in the background and the slosh of gutter water—there has been fresh rain. The raspy voiced man pauses to lean over and tap his cigarette butt onto the cobblestone ground and then continues on with the interview, reminiscing about the days of old. It's practically a production scene right out of a motion picture, yet this is the record's first track, 'Worms of the senses/Faculties of the skull.' I am in fact, listening to the soothingly stripped vocal chords of front man, Dennis Lyxzen, who gives a brief rant about the predictable death of musical genres due to the loss of passion and creativity, and the fervent angst he holds as an artist—with the self-realization of responsibility.

Baby, this is the shape of punk to come.

Like a mixed palette of oil paints, digital effects and guitar feedback lead me like the Milky Way through space and time, to be suddenly confronted by the first lyrics of the album, which hit me like a brick wall of sound. A brutalizing declaration of political motivation and blazing beats ring out with the opening line, "I've got a bone to pick with capitalism, and a few to break!" My body quivers. I lean over and turn up the volume dial. This is an album that can only be appreciated in the full glory of its majestic swells of sound.

These politically charged tracks continue throughout the rest of the record repeating fanatical statements such as, "I took the first bus out of Coca-Cola city cause it made me feel all nauseous and shitty," and "Human life is not commodity, figures, statistics or make believe. And yeah I like eating excrement and not getting paid for it." Bold and offensive claims riddled with socialist philosophy: this is what the band has been based on since its inception in the early 90's.

The songs play on with self indulgent demonstrations of musicianship, polyrhythms, and tempo changes filling the senses. These displays can be found throughout the record, yet nothing remains predictable. It's all been cleverly thought out and precisely timed—pure genius.

The eccentricity of this album continues to impress: the folkish radio-airwave manifesto 'Liberation Frequency,' and the brilliant beats of the percussive jazz infused 'The Deadly Rhythm.'
"But how can this be," you ask, "musical genres can't be blended!" Oh but they can darling, they can.

Shortly after the band's percussive demigod, David Sandstrom, finishes his breathtaking jazz drum work, angst filled punk rock hybrids keep my feet tapping and my blood pumping. Tracks like 'Summer Holidays Vs Punk Routine' boast such evocative lyrics as "We're all tired of dying—so sick of not trying. Scared that we might fail—we'll accomplish nothing. Not even failure," yet remain high energy and incredibly danceable, attesting to the status of these heavy hitting hardcore heroes. Refused proves those shoes were made for dancing.

Just before I reach the pinnacle of 'The Shape of Punk to Come,' a brief section of jungle beat drum and bass (known as goa), plays out. Jon Brannstrom, the experimental guitarist and sampling mastermind behind much of the revolutionary record, takes great pride in this ingenious installation. It's timely and executes the perfect lead up into the heart-pounding foot-stomping anthem, 'New Noise.'

This single, serves as the standard that Refused is establishing with their boldly zealous title claim. A repetition of tremolo work in fast cyclic fashion, credited to Kristopher Steen, the band's other guitarist prodigy, begins one of the most epic crescendos I have ever experienced—this record cannot just be heard. Jazz, electronica, anthemic choruses, pounding bass, and trade-off vocals blend together to form arena rock at its finest. Both live performance and studio work are fused into this track, giving this song an electric feel so alive that your heart rate sky rockets and your mouth dries out while hanging open in utter awe.

'The Shape of Punk to Come,' prophetic in nature, is an action packed, 12 tracked steam engine, blasting forward into the bright distance of the ever expanding horizon, forever pushing the boundaries of musical composition and predictable genre faux pas. Never did I think that a hardcore band would rid me of my musical innocence—this genre of music is typically heavy hitting, fast punching conventional hard rock, known for its trademark vocal stylings of blood curling screams: the music your parents warned you about. However, in such a predictable cesspool of sound, the band Refused did the unthinkable—they started a coup d'état (which oddly enough, was predicted by their previous release, 'Songs to Fan the Flames of Discontent').

By not playing by the typically confining rules of the hardcore genre, they created a new sound with 'The Shape of Punk to Come,' and forever birthed a generation of innovation. This musical masterpiece will shock the masses with its unprecedented creativity, and easily earn Refused a coveted spot in the hearts of many, and in the halls of musical ingenuity and reclamation forever.

Bravo fellows, bravo.

Seasons Change; Challenges Have New Names

Who will dare to ascend these ice laden peaks with me? Is there not but one out there who will not tremble in fear at the groans of this cursed earth?

Pick in hand—a bandaged hand at that—I gaze up at the frosty angles that shoot up into the sky like a razor’s edge. Some of the dried blood on my fingers cracks apart as I stiffen my grip on the handle of the pick and sink the first row of teeth several inches into a solid face of ice. My jaw tightens, and I grit my teeth deciding on the best route to begin my new venture. Looking back over my shoulder for a just second, I see a vast horizon. I suddenly remember that I’ve been climbing for years. This new face before me is merely another ledge that I will have to overcome. Things don’t look as big and scary now. Someone has seen me through this far and will see me through till the end. I’m sure of it.