Not Dot - Helms Alee / Ladder Devils - Not Dot / Eye Of The Mundane (Vinyl)

They say that in dreams, people have an extra finger. He glances down and starts to back away when he sees that both his hands look absolutely normal, except for this mutilated one which is still bleeding, albeit with less intensity for the flow is blocked by the rapidly drying blood around the teeth-shaped holes. This is not fucking normal, he says to himself, because with the rain it shouldn't clog up the way it does. He panics, his chest rising up and down at an unnatural pace, because while he is bleeding less, his blood has become black.

The half-human, half-bird creature smiles maciously, its hands resting flat on the ground, claws scratching the surface irritatingly. Harry is getting more and more confused by the seconds and his body is growing weaker. It seems bizarre that he is reacting so badly to a bite wound, but again, the wound does not look normal. He staggers several meters back, his body meeting a car, the vehicle helping him remain upwards.

Harry puffs out an hysterical laugh. Of course. He has no idea of where to go, and it doesn't help that he is running away from his flat and into nothingness. The streetlamps start to flicker, their lights appearing and disappearing to a rhythm that matches his heartbeat. The woosh of wings slapping the air echoes behind him, growing closer.

The creature is flying close to the ground, fast, way too fast for him to make it. When he is sure he feels a warm breath against his neck, he throws his body sideways, crying out in pain when he hits his clothed shoulder against the hard road. The creature, as it has been flying at full speed, has trouble stopping and goes crumpling to the floor, hissing horrendously.

He knows this side of the city by heart and, with his heart hammering, he throws his upper body down a flight of stairs. The sound of a wall breaking echoes behind him, and he winces as another screech puts horrible pressure on his eardrums, and he fears he will end up deaf.

The alley is too narrow for it to follow him through, but he keeps moving, not trusting the sudden silence around him. He comes out of the alley somewhere between a flower shop and a Starbuck.

The streets are still deserted and the streetlamps have gone out completely, leaving him having to focus harder to see through the gloom. The moment he takes off a car is thrown in the air and lands where he had been seconds ago. He trips but cushions his fall with one hand, crouching and using every bit of strength left in his lower body to get his legs up and about again.

The adrenaline is pumping through his veins like alcohol, making him jump over a car to get faster to another block. He is fast and quick, and most importantly, silent, the urge to live outweighing the chilling fear within him. He goes to the only place he can think of, and where he might shelter himself.

A place where nature is abundant enough that its smell will overshadow his own, because it is clear his scent, whatever it is, is greatly helping the creature in locating him.

He has no idea of the time, and if the park is still open, nevertheless he pushes his body until the tall gate of the park comes into sight, barely visible against the pitch black sky.

He jumps on the thick gate and climbs, the wound on his hand not hurting even when a sharp edge scratches his palm, cutting it open. His forearm has gone numb and he struggles moving his fingers, but he stops himself from thinking about it lest he'll lose his composure completely. He is at the top of the gate when the creature shoots into the sky, a penetrating scream causing a second blast of wind to hit him full force, almost knocking him over.

Panicking, he only climbs down a third of the gate before jumping. He hears a crack, then feels pain. His mouth opens in a silent shout. When he tries to stand up, he finds out he can't manage to. He reaches down to one of his ankles with a shaky hand, feeling the unusual jutted out edge of a bone. Tears fall down his cheeks, showing just how vulnerable he truly feels but somehow, it also contrasts with the anger bubbling within him.

He doesn't understand why he is being chased by a creature that seems to have come straight from hell, a creature that he had no idea existed until tonight. His heart is pounding against his chest and the sound it makes fill both of his ears. Thump thump thump. He turns his head to the side and spits out a chunk of blood. He wants to Not Dot - Helms Alee / Ladder Devils - Not Dot / Eye Of The Mundane (Vinyl) it. It was fun while it lasted, though. I wonder who your dad is.

The thing is, Harry has never felt welcomed in this world. Wherever he went, he was always the odd one out. He was the castaway coming back to the city. His body suddenly shakes, as if it got short-circuited. He feels his fear go down a notch, but his anger never alters in its intensity. He gets another shot of adrenaline and it allows him to stand up. Around them, the wind picks up and the branches of the trees clack against one another to join the cacophony of the night.

Above their heads, the sky shifts. The clouds grow bigger, more threatening and they take the colour of dark ash. The rain comes down harder and blurs the landscape around them. It drenches Harry completely, drops of water falling into his eyes but he finds that he can keep them open.

He can clearly decipher the creature despite the change of weather, can make out the way its feathers glisten under the sudden glow provided by a single lighting bolt as it cracks the sky open. It feels like a storm has swallowed New York whole, crashes of thunder resonating across the city like bombs landing on land. He takes pleasure in seeing the creature curl on itself, an aura of fear appearing around it.

He dodges it, as fast as lighting, his fingers brushing one of its wings. Upon contact, he senses energy transfers from his hand to the creature, sending it flying several meters away.

A blood-chilling screech comes out of its throat, and the murderous expression on its face is enough for Harry to know that this will be the last strike, the one that will send him to his grave, or send the creature to its downfall.

It charges at him. He moves swiftly to block its attack, trying to touch it again, hoping to wound it just like he did before. One of its claws gets him though, going down his bicep quickly and creating a gash there. He groans, falling down when feathers push him, and he rolls on his back to get into a crouching position. He looks up at the creature, breathing hard through his nostrils. It grabs the front of his hoodie and lifts him up in the air, its other hand ready to strike.

Still, he closes his eyes, waiting for the final blow to arrive. He feels drained now, the adrenaline fading from his system.

The only thing he feels other than dejection, is an unfamiliar but comforting tug in his guts, prominent and asking for his attention.

He reaches for it in his conscience, touching it, begging for something to happen. There is a crack above their heads, then the deadly sound of electricity meeting the air, growing louder and louder. When he opens his eyes, there is something diving from the sky at full speed, momentarily blinding him. The grip on him loosens and he falls on his back just as it strikes the creature with so much force that the energy goes through him too.

The surrounding trees burn along with the monster, the ground shaking and cracking under the pressure. He gets one last opportunity to see the creature disappear, the nauseous smell of sulfur polluting the air around him. His head falls back against the ground, his body sinking into the wet dirt, and darkness taints his consciousness. The sight of it is familiar and comforting, and once his headache dies down a notch, he straightens up so fast a wave of dizziness punishes him, making him groan and rub his temples.

He is in his bedroom, that much is sure. There is a pile of dirty clothes next to his desk chair that should have been washed a few days ago now, and there are several opened books on his desk, thick blocks of text highlighted in bright neon pink.

His candles have all burned out, he notices, leaving in their wake a faint smell of cinnamon. His trash can is filled to the top with balled up paper. His bedroom is messy, which isn't an exceptional thing. Nothing looks out of place, thankfully, and he closes his eyes as relief floods him. He throws his legs off the side of the bed, cold toes meeting a soft carpet, and attempts to stand up despite his whole body screaming at him to remain where he is.

He takes a few more seconds to compose himself, staring out of the window and gasping when he finally realises that he is in his bedroom. Not on the ground, passed out cold, in the middle of Central Park. He is so shocked by the realisation that he has to sit back down, eyes stinging with unshed tears. He's just so relieved that everything had been a dream, that the harpy, or whatever the creature was, had been just a fragment of his Not Dot - Helms Alee / Ladder Devils - Not Dot / Eye Of The Mundane (Vinyl) imagination.

He looks down at his right arm, turning it in every possible angle, looking for a wound or even a scar, but there's nothing. He only feels sick, as if he had caught a cold overnight. He's in his bathroom when he looks at himself in the mirror and sees that he has never looked worse. His usually shiny curls are falling down over his face, greasy, and he is as white as a corpse. Enormous bags add a bit of colour to his overall bland reflection.

He is definitely tired, wanting nothing more than to crawl back into bed, but he also weirdly wants to go on a run. He sighs and grabs his toothbrush and toothpaste, planning on brushing his teeth in the shower, and starts undressing, which doesn't take long since he only has plain black boxers on and a white tank top.

He throws his dirty clothes in the clothes basket and hurries into the shower, turning the tab as far to the left as he can bear, his skin rapidly turning red under the steaming hot water.

He suddenly has the gut-wrenching need to scrub himself from head to toe, and he does exactly so, using a loofah, scrubbing and scrubbing until he is on the edge of peeling off his skin.

It's only when he feels more like himself that he steps out of the shower. The entire bathroom ends up clogged up with the scent of coconut, and a fog has settled over the mirror, which he's secretly grateful for since he doesn't have to gaze at his face. He wraps a towel around his hips, drying his hair with a smaller one.

He goes to his bedroom blindly, still focused on getting his hair dry. When he is satisfied, he throws the little towel aside, then dresses into comfortable clothes consisting of a simple white shirt and old black track pants. He slips on a pair of thick red socks and passes a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back from his face.

He is about to step out of his bedroom and in the corridor, but before doing so, he opens a drawer and takes a black hoop earring, putting it into his right ear.

As he goes into the living room, he's glad to find that nothing is out of place, though he has no idea of why he even feels that way; there's no reason for his flat to be upside down. It was a dream, Harry, pull yourself back together. His television is turned off, there is his favourite mug on the coffee table with a bunch of pencils in it, his cactus is on the window still, soaking up the bit of sun filtering through the glass.

He goes straight to his kitchen to put on the kettle, the need for a plain black coffee stronger than anything else. The machine is deafening in the otherwise silent flat, and it seems especially loud in his own ears, his eardrums beating to a non-existent rhythm, a headache forming in his temples.

He sighs and pours himself a tall mug of plain coffee, blowing on the steaming hot liquid while making his way to the couches. He sits there for a while, not knowing what to do.

He never watches the television, finding the documentaries on his laptop much more interesting than whatever programmes the basic channels diffuse when it still is early in the morning. Whenever he reaches a state of mind where nothing gets him going, where despite the borderless landscape of possibilities, nothing appeals to his conscience, he calls his mother. She lives in Boston in the flat she got from her parents, a medium-sized shoebox where Harry grew up, feeding the neighbouring cats as if they were his own.

She owns a flower shop and a bakery, and she tends to split her time between both stores, the morning usually dedicated to the bakery because to her, there is nothing better than the juvenile smell of freshly baked croissants paired up with the rising sun.

Harry used to love being in there, too, but the flower shop was his safe place when, as a teenager, nowhere else was peaceful enough.

The flowers were the only ones to truly never judge him. He longs to be back in the flower shop, is the thing. He is a fucking mess, to put it simply. He chugs the coffee, not even grimacing at the unsweetened mess, and does the only thing he can feel himself being able to do: he goes for a run, even if he has already showered. He could be doing a hundred other things, such as cleaning his flat seeing as it is dirty enough to be a source of shame, or puking some more words onto the half-arsed novel he started writing just because he wanted to, but somehow he chooses to go for a run.

Maybe he's got something to prove to himself. A dream, it was only a dream. He eyes the thin layer of dust that has collected over the furniture while he puts on dark grey jogging shorts which stops just above his knees, a black tee-shirt, then a neon green, red and blue Nike windbreaker.

He slips on his old running shoes, ties a homemade head scarf around his head to hold back his unruly curls, then leaves his flat, the door banging closed behind him, no doubt disturbing the person living on the opposite sides of the paper-thin walls. He locks it swiftly then starts to run down the stairs, somehow eager to be out and about. The streets are bustling with life.

People are rushing everywhere, in a hurry to get to their final destinations, and he never though he'd feel that way, hell, he has always avoided big gatherings, preferring to be in quiet places where he can think more clearly, but right now, as he gets a glare from a middle-aged man for standing in the middle of the street, he feels pure, unfiltered relief.

He almost drops to his knees to kiss the ground. He remembers the distress he had felt in his dream, when he was running through the empty streets of New York city, steadily bleeding out, without anyone in sight to help him. He is so unbelievably happy that everything is back to normal that he smiles as he puts his earphones in, turns on his old and faithful iPod, and runs towards where the trees cast shadows over the cement. He quickly loses track of time. Physically-speaking, he has always been great, exceptional even, mostly back to when he was in school.

He has no trouble running for hours on end without breaking into a sweat or lifting extremely heavier weight. It is a sharp contrast to his severe dyslexia that has made him practically unfit to pursue his dream studies, even when he was offered an athletic scholarship. He started working when he turned eighteen, dropping out of school after he miraculously passed his SAT by the skin of his teeth.

When he finally comes to a stop, the sun is at its peak in the sky, its brightness muted by thin clouds. Not a single drop of sweat is running down his face, but he uncaps his tiny bottle of water, gulps half of it, and splashes the remaining on his face, the liquid coating the back of his neck and sliding down his back.

His muscles are unsurprisingly in pain, but he welcomes it, finding that the stinging sensation is more addictive than awful. He takes a few steps back, then turns around, planning on running all the way back to his street. He round the park until he is at the black gate, frowning at the yellow barricade tape forbidding people from going through. He gets as close as possible, curious to see what's going on. A truck is parked behind the gate, effectively blocking the view from bypassers.

He is standing right behind the barricade tape. The man looks him up and down, then shrugs. Harry pales, his heartbeat picking up, and an uncomfortable tug appears in his lower belly.

She looks troubled. Are we sure? His body is too hot, and he's sweating way more than he did a few minutes ago. He is just numb. So what if in his dream he had been lying right where the lightning bolt had apparently struck? He wants to fucking puke his guts out, actually. He clenches his jaw and breath harshly through his nose.

He needs to see it for himself. The blonde woman he had seen is the first one to spot him. This area is currently forbidden to people. He ignores her and approaches the blackened ground. The tip of his sneakers meet a thin crack in the ground, and when his eyes slowly trail up, he is shocked to see that there are probably thousands of fissures, all of them growing bigger in the middle to form a huge hole, undoubtedly where the bolt had struck.

Undoubtedly where his body had been. In your dream, he reminds himself, letting himself be guided back to the front of the gate. This is all a coincidence. The bald man behind him shoves him gently under the tape, and tells him to get out of here.

He shakes his head and stumbles towards the road, hastily crossing it, getting honked a few times. He needs to be there, to be in his familiar, safe zone, or else he's going to lose his bloody mind. People are narrowing their eyes at him in suspicion, and he can only imagine the picture he makes, a tall, twenty-two year old man who has the complexion of a ghost, who needs the wall to walk and who has his eyes wide open in terror.

At one point he swears he feels eyes on his back, which causes him to stop and look back, green orbs going from one stranger to another, expecting for the thing from his dream to be lurking in the crowd, its dark eyes and smirk directed at him. But nothing of the sort happens. He gets cursed a few times, a little boy runs head first into his legs and apologises with a toothy grin, a pregnant woman drops one of her gloves and Harry bends down to get it, passing it over with a small, fake smile.

And so he arrives at his flat, completely drained of energy. He has to lean against his door after he closes it, taking a deep breath. He is itching for a shower, and as he makes his way further into the room, he unzips the windbreaker and balls it into his hands, his grip too tight.

He strips completely while he makes his way to the bathroom, dumping the dirty clothes into the clothes basket. When he turns the water on, he grimaces when cold water gushes out of the shower head, and when several minutes pass and the water is still ice cold, he groans and punches the shower wall, ignoring the pain that sparks in his knuckles and accepting that he will have to shower in cold fucking water.

It does nothing to calm him down, instead making his muscles tense and his jaw clench. He feels like the universe is turning against him, purposely making his life a living hell. He just wants to work at the restaurant, write poetry when his brain allows him to do so, and maybe one day, once he has saved up enough money, build his own house on his own piece of land in the countryside, away from the busy streets.

He has planned on getting a dog once he moves into said house, and then finds a partner to share everything with. He quickly washes himself, the coconut soap bringing sun-kissed streams of familiarity through the water-clogged clouds of struggles hovering above his head, then he steps out and brushes his teeth, wanting to get rid of the lingering taste of puke.

He dresses in casual, comfortable clothes, then grabs his laptop and goes to the living room. He plans on sitting down with a mug of steaming hot tea, and a few industrial cookies to get his blood going and his energy up, but instead he is met with a stranger sitting on a chair, legs crossed, eyes focused on their phone.

And Harry has experienced enough weird stuff in the span of twenty-four hours to not immediately freak out, but he does stop just before entering the living room, and he does let his laptop slip out of his fingers, barely flinching when it meets the ground in a painfully loud noise. It startles the stranger, causing them to look up and narrow their eyes at him. And no, this is not happening.

Harry angrily grabs the laptop, quickly checking for any broken parts, and when he finds none he throws it on the sofa. He stalks towards the boy? A fucking bull slash horse creature? Did you come to kill me, maybe? Go ahead, my ears are wide fucking open. His blood is boiling, but there is a drop of fear twisting his lower belly, reminding him that if the boy is indeed another monster, then he truly is fucked, because he has nowhere to go.

But the boy starts to laugh, a carefree, genuine laugh, until tears leak out of his dark eyes. It takes Harry by surprise and he loosens his digits, letting the stranger fall back on his two feet. A bull slash horse creature? He allows himself to look at the boy properly, taking in his charcoal black hair, his all black outfits that contrast with his flashy pink boots.

He is also extremely pale, to the point it makes Harry worry. The boy waves his hand in the air. Though do you happen to have some hot water around here? When the boy is done with the water, he smacks his lips in appreciation and focuses Not Dot - Helms Alee / Ladder Devils - Not Dot / Eye Of The Mundane (Vinyl) attention back on Harry.

We have to take you back to safety, and figure out how you were attacked in the streets without anyone figuring out that something was seriously wrong. I mean, I have yet to understand how you survived so long out there in the mortal world. Julien and I were the ones to find you and bring you back here.

We healed your injuries and extracted the poison from your blood system. Harry has to lean his forehead against his hand, shocked. What day is it? What the fuck? Harry knows his heart must have stopped beating. He missed three days of work. Now that he thinks about it, where is his phone? He had just assumed that he had woken up from a very bad dream, and that it was still Sunday, which is his day off. He wants to scream and bang his head against a wall, but mostly, he wants all of this to stop.

Maybe he can pretend he got a very bad flu? Now, please, hurry the fuck up, we have to go. We have to drive to Long Island. The boy huffs, but nods, and Harry stands up and walks quickly to his bedroom. Maybe this is all a prank, maybe he's stupid to go along with it all, but he doesn't see what's left for him to do. He needs to call his mother, and asks her whether she knows about this, and if his father, that apparently died in a car crash when he was still a baby, was his real father or not.

He sincerely doubts she is a goddess. He sighs and grabs a duffel bag in which he throws some clothes, all of his electronic devices, and a few books that he never managed to read entirely but that he holds close to his heart seeing as they are antic copies.

When he comes back into the kitchen, he adds his laptop to the pile, zips the bag closed and throws it over his shoulder. He takes a step out of his flat, the action oddly feeling symbolic, and an ache worms its way into his heart. Silently, he bids farewell to his home, eyes tickling with the need to shed tears.

He is not going to cry, goddammit. He bites his lips and tries not to grimace, thinking of how it's going to be when he'll end up jobless and unable to find another unskilled job that pays half as great as his job as a waiter at the Peal of Versailles did.

The car is a slick black Colorado, parked rather badly on the side road. The boy jumps behind the wheel, and when Harry notices that the passenger seat is already taken, he goes for the backseats, throwing his duffel bag next to him. Julien, he assumes, has got a pair of sunglasses on, a huge black hat pulled down to his eyebrows, and he is holding a magazine up, opened on an article that reads in bright yellow letters, Hephaestus jealous?

He frowns and is about to read the rest of the article, pleasantly surprised that he can read the thing with so much ease, but Julien snaps it closed and turns towards him, grinning. He thinks it makes him more mysterious or something, but really, it just makes him creepier than he already looks.

Julien turns red. Bold of you to make fun of how I look when you look like a corpse. And not even the freshly kind, but a thousand year old, rotten to the core fucking corpse.

When they finally stop, Hamlet turns the engine on and pulls the car into drive while Julien opens the magazine again. Harry is actually curious about that odd article, so he leans forward to read too, and Julien seems to pick up on it because he angles the magazine in a way that allows Harry to see the whole thing, but then Harry leans forward so much that when he glances down, he Not Dot - Helms Alee / Ladder Devils - Not Dot / Eye Of The Mundane (Vinyl) to swallow a scream.

He snaps his eyes back on the block of texts, trying to calm himself down. He decides right there and then that he cannot be dreaming, because he's never had a great imagination and he surely did not muster the mental ability to come up with — all of this.

Hamlet radiates death, fear and anxiety. Up close, Hamlet does look like a corpse. His skin is alabaster white, there are profound dark circles underneath his eyes and his lips are devoid of any colour. Harry takes his attention off him and glances out of the window again, watching the landscape fly by, the city getting blurry the further away from it they drive and the closer to Long Island they get. They have been driving for thirty minutes when Harry straightens up and remembers something.

Hamlet looks particularly young, no older than fifteen years old, and Harry does not want to die in a car crash after surviving an attack from a harpy, or fury, whatever it is called. The landscape is a mix of buildings and forest, and in the distance there are hills crossing each other and calling out for him. He loves hiking. It does help that even back then, his stamina was exceptionally great, and whenever his mother had to sit down to catch her breath, he was hopping on place and pointing out to the birds in the tree foliage or the occasional lizards on the trunks, impatient to get going.

Looking at the serenity surrounding him is making him yearn for his mother, and as much as it embarrasses him to be so emotionally dependent on her when she lives so far away from him, she has been the only constant friend in his life. His attention shifts from the window to Julien when the satyr he was told what Julien is earlier when he had made the mistake of confusing him for a centaur turns on the radio and slips a CD in.

Instantly, loud music fills the vehicle. Harry chooses to hum at one point, a happy little smile on his face. He should be sulking and maybe freaking out a lot more after being told he's a A demigod, but instead he's jamming to a happy-go-lucky tune with two strangers. Tupac Resurrected at Coachella:. Obama Says that Kanye West is a "Jackass":.

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Remembering Notorious B. The Joy Formidable: Capturing the battle between the eternal optimist and the manic-depressive. Los Lonely Boys: Feb. Bebe: Un Pokito de Rocanrol. Snow Patrol: Fallen Empires. Lana Del Rey: Born to Die. Ryan Adams: Feb. Jack Wilson: Jack Wilson. Grandma Pays Tribute to Whitney Houston:. Rodrigo y Gabriela and C. Enrique Bunbury: Licenciado Cantinas.

Los Amigos Invisibles: Feb. Whitney Houston Remembered:. Adele Conquers Grammy Awards:. Best, Worst Dressed at Grammys:. Grammy Protest Takes Place at L.

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What Early Has To Offer:. Ziggy Marley: Dec. Andres Cuervo: Dec. Gucci Mane and V-Nasty: Baytl. Camp Freddy: Dec. Mary J. Blige: A second chance at "Life" for soulful survivor. Holiday Music, Zack de la Rocha and more.

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Canyons: Keep Your Dreams. Cyndi Lauper: Nov. Honeyhoney: Prepares for a Homecoming. November Concerts:. Jonathan Coulton: Artificial Heart.

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Facebook and Music:. Marc Anthony: Sept. Belanova: Sept. Chickenfoot: Supergroup stays open to new ideas. Gomez: Closes Tour in L.

After Latest Experiment. Taylor Swift, Yellowcard and more. Fall Album Releases:. Fall Show Guide:. Derek Sherinian: Oceana. Maria Muldaur: Steady Love. Maylene and the Sons of Disaster: IV. The Janks: Hands of Time. Elks: Destined for the Sun.

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Volbeat: Beyond Genre Lines. Dyland y Lenny: Aug. Iggy and the Stooges: Still Lusting for Life. Identity Festival: Stops off in L. Status Quo: Not Dot - Helms Alee / Ladder Devils - Not Dot / Eye Of The Mundane (Vinyl) Live at Montreux. Patti Smith: Outside Society. Icon For Hire: Scripted. Dead Sara: Self-titled. Whole Notes, Half Notes and more.

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Kings of Leon U. An Appreciation: Amy Winehous:. Those Darlins: Get Loose at the Echo. The Man: July 19 El Cid. Theophilus London: July 18 The Troubadour.

Dead Sara: July 7 Viper Room. Rising: July 30 L. Amy LaVere: Stranger Me. Fink: Perfect Darkness. Zomby: Dedication. Tomorrows Tulips: Eternally Teenage. Burlap to Cashmere: Self-titled.

Widespread Panic: Stops in L. Vans Warped Tour Go Radio: Lucked In. Godsmack: Still Causing Mayhem. Foster the People: Returns to L. Under Bigger, Brighter Lights. Small Sur: Tones. Diamond Rings: Special Affections. Short Circuit: June 13 Dragonfly. Marissa Nadler: June 11 Bootleg Theater. Davina and the Vagabonds: Black Cloud.

UK: The Latest Fashion. Maria Taylor: Not One to Overlook. The Vaccines: June 3 The Palladium. Afrojack: May 31 The Music Box. The Tender Box: Reverence. Duncan Sheik: Multitasking Mastermind. City and Colour: Raising a Milder Hell. Asobi Seksu: May 28 The Satellite. Yeasayer: May 24 The Music Box. The Postelles: Self-titled. Mike Bloom: King of Circles.

Joe Jackson Trio: Live Music. Dawes: Nothing is Wrong. Skeme: Makes a Statement. Yelle: May 21 The Music Box. Rival Schools: May 21 Bootleg Theater. Rammstein: May 20 The Forum. Leftover Cuties: Places to Go. Gallhammer: The End. Autopsy: Macabre Eternal. Carlos y Alejandra: May 14 Margarita Jones. Amon Tobin: Isam. Scarlet Season: The Taxidermist. Thurston Moore: Demolished Thoughts. Friendly Fires: Pala.

The Raveonettes: May 6 The Troubadour. Ravishers: Self-titled. The Pleasure Field: Arson. Glorie: Self-titled. Explosions in the Sky: April 30 Hollywood Forever. New Boyz: Continue the Cool. James Blunt: May 4 The Wiltern. Skold: Anomie. Joan of Arc: Life Like. Kent Gowran. Brian Bodine. Jeff Hargraves. Justin Willis. David Forbis. Kris Dale. Limited to copies on black vinyl! Purchasable with gift card.

No Dot Eye of the Mundane Scabby Tags Philadelphia. Nasleep 4 dagen geleden. Bullet Ratings - October 21 [I] 6 dagen geleden. Ride With The Devil. Upon This Earth Ear Munchies. Musical Coma. Julia Reidy — Vanish Editions Mego, 1 jaar geleden.

Epicus Doomicus Metallicus. Cu bicicletele MTB vezi natura din jurul tau din alta perspectiva 1 jaar geleden. Sonic Wolves 3 jaar geleden. The Day After The Sabbath. Forgotten songs. Forgotten Songs dk Top 10 LPs of 3 jaar geleden. Stoner Mountain. Wedge - Lucid Video 3 jaar geleden. Son O' Floppy Boot Stomp. We Don't Live Here Anymore Growing Bored For a Living. Eighties Covers Redux! Guitar Maniacs. Spaceslug - Time Travel Dilemma 4 jaar geleden.


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