24. Bohemia -- May 2014

may 2014• bohemia • 1

art, photography, poetry, fiction, fashion, music

BohemiaBohemia

Ryan Rabbass: and Rockabilly pinupvampires :heavy metal and cookies

+May 2014+

:I KNOW IT'S ONLY

ROCK N ROLL BUT I LIKE IT

Willie NelsonSpringsteen

Alice CooperWhite Stripes

ElvisGrail

Alice CooperOzzy Osbourne

Johnny CashRolling Stones

Alice CooperBob DylanStevie Ray

Guns N Roses

Bohemia

2 • bohemia • may 2014

6623 Las Vegas Blvd. South #245 LV, NV 89119 : : P 309.287.7521 F 702.852.0882

www.rockchromatic.com / [email protected]

My name is Ryan Rabbass and I am the artist behind RockChromatic. As a young pup,

I spent my days drawing and painting. In high school I got into graphic design, and

went on to attend Illinois State University to focus on both art and design. I studied at

North Carolina State University for a year in their design program. Once in Las Vegas,

I started an apparel screenprinting shop, and then moved into the corporate world,

designing for the casinos. I left that industry to start my own design company

PR Design, and within this I created RockChromatic to channel my passion for rock

music and art.

The pieces you see here are created from a revolving mixed-medium process that

utilizes both digital and traditional methods. I find a good stance or image of the

musician and begin the transformative process. I have different paint and texture

patterns that I blend within, and I project and recreate the pieces from scratch as well,

which I then may combine with the last version. Often the pieces are printed, then

painted on more, then scanned back in. This cycle continues until the piece is sold,

so the pieces are always evolving. I also sell my work at local shows such as the

Las Vegas Artwalks and First Friday.

Overall, it’s just a great fun thing to do on the side from design and advertising.

I’m able to listen to all my favorite bands and musicians, and do the work while I rock

out. I hope you like them!

All pieces, prints, and custom work is also avaialbe. Please check out www.

rockchromatic.com or email [email protected].

Thank you,

Bohemia

Cover art: Slash, Bob Dylan & Johnny CashThis page, Stevie Ray Vaughan

At right, Ozzy OsbourneNext, Willie Nelson

Inside back cover, Guns N RosesBack cover, Jack White

Artist is Ryan Rabbass of ROCKromatic










music and art.














Thank you,

Bohemia

Cover art: Slash, Bob Dylan & Johnny CashThis page, Stevie Ray Vaughan

At right, Ozzy OsbourneNext, Willie Nelson

Inside back cover, Guns N RosesBack cover, Jack White

Artist is Ryan Rabbass of ROCKromatic











music and art.














Thank you,

Our Rockin staffMay 2014Volume 4, Issue 5

EditorAmanda Hixson

Assistant editingPete Able

Bohemia is produced in Waco, TX. We take submissions from around the world. Bohemia is a thematic submissions-based publication and self-produced magazine.

Our incredible writers include: Peter Able, William Blackrose, Lottie Donahue, Caleb Farm-er, Sean Piper, Gary Lee Webb

Our photographers are a team and this issue contains work by Jon Goddi of Jon Goddi Photography and Cheri Schaffer of Bewitching Imagery.

Fashion editor: Aoife Gorey

Bohemia’s HMU team includes Alex Williams, Addie Garcia, & Konee Oliver who did work which is featured in this issue.

Props & crafting: Sharon Moore Smirl of Waco Furniture Hospital

The Boho model crew rocks various unique shoots with us throughout the year.

Buy this. Rip it apart. And tape it to your bedroom walls. www.bohemia-journal.com










music and art.














Thank you,

May 2014Volume 4, Issue 5

EditorAmanda Hixson

Assistant editingPete Able

Bohemia is produced in Waco, TX. We take submissions from around the world. Bohemia is a thematic submissions-based publication and self-produced magazine.

Our incredible writers include: Peter Able, William Blackrose, Lottie Donahue, Caleb Farm-er, Sean Piper, Gary Lee Webb

Our photographers are a team and this issue contains work by Jon Goddi of Jon Goddi Photography and Cheri Schaffer of Bewitching Imagery.

Fashion editor: Aoife Gorey

Bohemia’s HMU team includes Alex Williams, Addie Garcia, & Konee Oliver who did work which is featured in this issue.

Props & crafting: Sharon Moore Smirl of Waco Furniture Hospital

The Boho model crew rocks various unique shoots with us throughout the year.

Buy this. Rip it apart. And tape it to your bedroom walls. www.bohemia-journal.com


BohemiaBohemiaTable of Contents

7 Rockabilly - Rock Him Right10 Rockabilly Poetry23 Cat Dolan24 Nighthawks26 Rock N Roll Hoochie Koo28 Too Old To Rock32 Peanut Butter and Banana36 My Rock N Roll Love Affair45 Another Arm of the Green River



Bewitching Imagery & Jon Goddi Photography

Mark Fogarty, Safwan Khatib, Jennifer Jefferis

Poetry by Adam Amberg

Art by Zach Wallenfang

Fiction by Matthew Wilson Poetry by April Salzano, Ed Coletti, Jesse Jefferis

Article & recipes by Lottie Donahue

Article by Sean Piper

Fiction by Matt McGee


Table of Contents

47 Red49 Rock Gods51 Rock God Poetry53 Once Bitten Twice Shy72 Grail: Texas New Metal75 How To With a Record Producer78 Fargo Rock City80 Contributors82 Meg White



Fiction by Jan Ramming

Art by Nate Michaels

Colleen Michaels, Travis Blair, David S. Pointer, MatthewWilson

Jon Goddi Photography

Article by Caleb Farmer

Article by Josh Hayward

Book review by Pete Able

Art by Colm Fahy











music and art.














Thank you,


Jon Goddiphotography

RockabillyRock Him Right

Bewitching Imageryand Jon Goddi Photography

Boho Babe Whitney BradyHMU Addie Garcia


Bewitching Imagery <3Boho Babe Jonathan Newhouse

HMU Addie Garcia



Flame-Colored Dressby Mark Fogarty There’s a woman wearing A flame-colored dress. She swings her hips And where her hair strands drop They caress the deep designs Of her missionary dress. I am trying not to think Of the passing of fashion. Nature has given her Every passion. She dances with the men. She dances with the women. She dances by herself, Partnering the universe. She’ll do for now, Even though the crimson sun Has been doused in the bay. This music is immortal, Even without its genius, A painted ceiling without a painter. This is what happens When living fingers touch: The rousing force Of a flame-colored dress.

Dancersby Safwan Khatib the world is molding to the shape of our heels our soft bright heels birthed from the marrow of concrete whispering souls under the black wood floor of the Emerson we are grey-limbed echoes who loom then drift and writhe to mourn the quiet decay of midnight’s mouth wet and rheumatic unable to swallow the loud and invisible blinks of our eyes so we fade

Tutti Fruttiby Jennifer Jefferis

Tutti frutti, aw RudyThe joys of childhoodWith a dad whose humorTwinkled at memories of you

Rock 'n RollWas as much a part of meAs anything

Raised to rockBut forbidden to rollThe wild abandonIs part of my soul


Tutti Fruttiby Jennifer Jefferis

Tutti frutti, aw RudyThe joys of childhoodWith a dad whose humorTwinkled at memories of you

Rock 'n RollWas as much a part of meAs anything

Raised to rockBut forbidden to rollThe wild abandonIs part of my soul

Jon Goddi Photography

Boho Babe Aoife GoreyHMU Addie Garcia




Boho Babe Zach HillHMU Addie Garcia


I took a tour to TexasAnd from Waco I called youBut day by day no answerAnd I’m Big Bluebonnet blueI’m singing and they’re dancingBut I’m feeling Big D bad

I’m Sweetwater beatAnd I’m Texas City sadThe rhythm keeps me livingBut have you heard the newsThere’s a sad song singer comingWith the rockabilly blues

It’s hard to keep on singingWhen you’re lonesome to the bone10,000 happy people but I’m San Antone aloneOne night stands and the man demands

Rockabilly Blues (Texas 1955) by Johnny Cash


It’s hard to keep on singingWhen you’re lonesome to the bone10,000 happy people but I’m San Antone aloneOne night stands and the man demands

That I get up and goI’m Odessa desperateAnd San Angelo lowThe rhythm keeps me livingBut have you heard the newsThere’s a sad song singer comingWith the rockabilly blues

It’s the same old tune in TempleAbout the loving I ain’t hadI’m getting Beaumont bitterAnd Amarillo madI’m giving up on calling you‘Cause you’re evading meI’m coming home

and if you’re goneI’m gonna be Tennessee freeThe rhythm keeps me livingAnd have you heard the newsThere’s a sad song singer comingWith the rockabilly blues

Jon Goddi PhotographyJon Goddi Photography



BewitchingImagery <3




20 • bohemia • may 2014Location is Texas Tea House

in Waco, TX






Photograph by Dynamite DamesMUAH is Charlie Girl

Catherine Dolan, aka “Cat,” pictured bottom right, created the red polka dot

dress and halter top featured in this photo editorial. Cat is 33, living in Killeen Tex-as, and married to an army sergeant who is stationed in Korea. Cat sews, crafts, and volunteers at a local hospice. She is from San Antonio and has lived in Texas her en-tire life.

Cat’s grandmother taught her to sew before she passed. Cat feels as though she is carrying on the family tradition. Cat creates many types of clothes; however, she does hold a special fondness for the rockabilly and pin-up style. Her mother tells her that she was born in the wrong era! Cat says that hot tea and her sketch book are her best friends when it comes to designing patterns.

Cat’s tip for staying inspired is to try to do something crafty every day! Her husband recently made her a studio space in their backyard with a fridge and air conditioning. She has been designing and creating garments for renaissance fairs and comic conferences. She is hoping to change people’s views on crafting and sewing by showing them what wonder-ful things they can make!

Cat Dolan


Nighthawks by Adam Amberg The glass is too wide and the city isn’t lit by moonlight. Amber glows like a cold fire falling seething from street lamps silver silver silver we chat with the man in white who never leaves his roost. Lean soft and drink up, baby you’re wearing red and god I’ve never felt so lonely.



rock n roll hoochie koo

Art by Zack Wallenfang



Love:s the Last to Know* by April Salzano

Four years dead, and I still cannot listen without thinking my father is singing. Seger’s voice, my dad’s voice, matched perfectly in the arena of our living room. My father listened to music like no one else, felt every note like a bass guitar beating in his chest, internalized every line like a story he never got to tell. The opening bars of piano clink, falling rain, joined by an instrument more powerful than any other in the Silver Bullet Band. The lamenting sax, old-time guitar, heavy drums, all such worldly souls revolving the vinyl under a diamond- tipped needle on the turntable, transforming Saturday morning into a lonesome windy night. *Title from Bob Seger’s song from the album The Distance (Capitol Records, 1982)

I have never known a successful guitarist who retired.

Those who fail to make a splash fall without trace from the album charts, but even facing mon-ey worries, they will be grateful to entertain a small drunken crowd in some club. Like blood, passion to cre-ate something is vital for the mind. Singers make movies nowa-days or walk away from the micro-phone. But not guitarists! At home torturing guitar hero, our children roll their eyes in embarrassment, sure it’s time to put dad in a care home as we jump round the room, pressing yellow red, yellow, green feverishly. They mistake our expres-

sionism for madness. Singers stand still, but Gods do dance, firing lightning in all directions. Take this away and we will go mad. So when is old too old to rock? All guitarists are children at heart. Those who ran without di-rection, for the adventure of it years ago. Guitars are cool, the step up from pirate swords. We don’t want the spotlight, for that is a part of something. We are singular, lone wolves in the shadows, aimed to make the crowd melt, armed only with six strings. Monday - Friday is working for the family, support-ing ungrateful children who say we have no taste.

Too Old To Rock

by Matthew Wilson

So when should we stop rocking? God bless Keith Richards, when his time is up, he might have mementos lain with him. I’ll bet his favourite guitar will share his grave. Like Robert Johnson we are killed by time or others, but never lack of passion. So when is old too old to rock? When they pry it from your cold dead fingers of course, so rock on, and dance like Gods, before we are old men. And have to sit down to give the world our music.


In The Auditoriumby Jesse Jefferis

The auditorium at connally high school. I was dead center of the stage, ragged jeans, hospital scrubs stained with my own blood, I would not succumb to the bovine ways of my redneck pears, I was a coyote.

My pack with me.

I sang ‘rape me’ By Nirvana.

Those were my bulletsOf teenage angst.

These mindless dronesHad thrown rocksAt me For myEffeminateLong black hairAnd their slack jawed expressionsOf my sense ofFreedomIn the face of parents,Student council (ha, what a joke!)Would set to rightTheir ignorance

In the face of me.

these old instrumental sugar blues by Ed Coletti ever that sweet funky groove. listening to Henry Vestine slow-picking “The Stumble” alternating rhythms, I’m dancing, rather I’m reclining with my right foot moving more soulful than my body moves too ponderous to do what my right foot can do now as it jumps to the muted trumpet, someone named Miles, doing a bank job for Jack Nitzsche with Taj Mahal and John

Lee Hooker —sweet— Snooky Pryor taking a walking boogie somewhere in Chicago on his harmonica, always that sweet funky groove right into Jimmy Reed’s “Boogie in the Dark,” sounds like an A-harp, bass, rhythm guitar, drums, and a slide, and ever and always, that sweet and funky groove! Oh, you now! Hound Dog Taylor, you fender-bender. And always with that most riffing denominator, yes, oh yes, you say it now— always and ever, that sweet funky groove


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Lottie’s Cookies

See Peanut Butter and Banana article and recipes on the following pages.

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Paying homage to the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll himself,

this month’s desserts get all shook up by featuring the famed duo of peanut but-ter and banana. And why not? Together both pack

a healthy dose of Potassium, Fi-ber, Vitamin C, Vitamin B-6 and Magnesium, not to mention great taste. Legend has it Elvis’ favor-ite craving and devil in disguise indulgence started by pairing pea-nut butter and banana, followed by

Peanut Butter and Banana


slices of crisp bacon and a drizzle of honey. This concoction was then layered between two pieces of Ha-waiian bread and fried in a skillet, often in bacon fat. Oh my, that’s a big hunk o’ love that will be stuck on you forever! But fear not, this

month’s goodies go from slimmed down vegan friendly to modestly healthy with a few creative twists and shouts. There’s even an over-the-top, Jailhouse Rock Cake that Elvis himself couldn’t help falling in love with. Thank you very much.

Peanut Butter and Bananaby Lottie Donahue


Photos 32-34 Lottie Donahue


2 Tbs Flaxseed + 5 Tbs water (let sit 5 min) 2 ripe bananas (not frozen) ½ cup natural peanut butter ½ tsp baking powder ½ tsp baking soda 2 Tbs refined coconut oil melted 3Tbs agave nectar (or maple syrup) Pinch salt 1 tsp pure vanilla 1 ½ cup gluten free rolled oats ½ cup rolled oats ground in processor ½ cup almond meal (ground almonds) ½ cup vegan dark chocolate chips (optional) Mash bananas then mix in peanut butter, baking pow-der, baking soda, coconut oil, agave nectar, salt, and vanilla. Mix together oats, oat flour and almond meal and add to banana mixture. Stir in chocolate chips is using. Refrigerate for 5 minutes then drop by spoon-ful on greased or parchment lined pans and bake 15-17 minutes in preheated 350* oven until slightly golden brown.

In a blender mix 2 chopped bananas (frozen or unfrozen) 2 cups dairy, almond or soy milk and ½ cup peanut butter. (For a thicker smoothie add ½ cup ice) Blend until smooth and enjoy!

This over the top recipe of Elvis’ famous Peanut but-ter Banana and Bacon sandwich is for a single layer cake. Feel free to double or even triple the recipe to your liking. Cake: ¼ cup unsalted butter, softened ½ cup smooth peanut butter ½ cup packed brown sugar 1 egg 2 tsp vanilla extract 1 ¼ cup flour 1 tsp baking soda ¼ tsp salt 2/3 cup milk (reg, almond or soy) In large bowl beat butter, peanut butter and brown sugar until smooth, light and fluffy. Add egg and va-nilla.

In a separate bowl, sift together flour, baking soda,

Jailhouse Rock Cake

Vegan Gluten Free Peanut Butter Banana Cookies Peanut Butter Banana Smoothie

and salt. Take turns adding dry mixture and milk to peanut butter mixture, beating well after each addition.

Pour into a greased, floured and parchment lined 8 x 8 pan and bake in a preheated 350* oven for 35-40 minutes or until toothpick inserted in the center comes out with moist crumbs. Cool completely. Frosting: ½ cup unsalted butter, softened 1 ripe banana mashed (not frozen) 1 tsp lemon juice ½ tsp vanilla Pinch of salt 3 Cups powdered sugar Honey or Agave Nectar for drizzle In mixing bowl, cream butter, banana, lemon juice, vanilla and salt. Slowly add powder sugar until desired consistency. After frosting, top with bacon, toasted peanuts and a drizzle of honey or agave.


I love going out to see bands. The music – pulsating. The air – elec-

tric. The crowd – passionate, like a mad temple crowd worshipping at the altar of rock. It is the perfect night, and I refuse to let it end on an empty stomach. After the show, there has always been one food and one food only that can soothe this restless heart; a hot, greasy, deli-cious hamburger. Since I can remember, I have been in search of the perfect burger. Whenever I am on the road I look for those greasy spoon grills you hear about in your parents’ folk music. A place where faded paint, memorabilia, and smells from the partially hidden kitchen tell stories that will make you regret all your past food decisions. My wife turned me onto one such local place called Beatnix Burger Barn. She in turn had heard about Beatnix from a co-worker. Word of mouth – that most impor-tant ingredient of hamburger ad-ventures – had found its way to me. My life would be ruined forever. This quaint establish-ment was nestled in an older part of our home town. The interior of the Burger Barn screamed Rock & Roll. Everywhere I looked I found myself wanting to “fight the sys-tem,” as doodles and signatures and local artist paintings plastered the walls in all directions. In the evenings I could hear poets or up

and coming musicians trying out their wares on eager crowds. Own-ers Penney and Benn were two of the greatest people you could meet. And the smells. Oh God, the smells coming from that kitchen. To this day, the Beatnix hamburger is the best I’ve ever had. The day they closed, their ham-burger became my white whale, and I became Captain Ahab, forev-er searching, obsessed with finding the perfect burger yet again. Don’t get me wrong. A lot of local plac-es get it right, and we should sup-port them. Food has this amazing way of bringing people of differ-ent backgrounds together to share these beautiful, dare I say magical, experiences. But it is strange how find-ing and losing the perfect hamburg-er left me changed. Maybe Beatnix wasn’t “the perfect burger.” Maybe such a thing doesn’t exist. Maybe it is just a symbol of something greater. When something like that is taken away, you learn to cher-ish what remains, and it fuels your search for something truly extraor-dinary. Places like Beatnix make me want to explore the world. They tell me not to head home after an evening rocking at the local music venues. They fuel my love affair with the American hamburger.

Twitter: twitter.com/gwscissors

Sean Piper owns Gaming With Scissors (See ad, right). He says he is a “wonder-ing soul with a never ending hunger for amazing food.” Traveling at a young age, he developed a taste for the rare and ec-centric. Along with documenting his food explorations, he is also an artist, a teacher, and a musician.

Facebook: facebook.com/gamingwithscissors

YouTube: youtube.com/gamingwithscissors

My Rock and Roll Love Affair With the American Hamburgerby Sean Piper


Twitter: twitter.com/gwscissors


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I was lying on my couch one af-ternoon when George called up

and told me his wife had left him. “She took everything but the dog and my old bass.” I said “well look on the bright side, she left you the good stuff.” There’s static in the back of his call, like he’s on a cell while driv-ing. “Yeah. Max and I just jumped in the car and we’re coming over to pick you up.” I sat up, ready for adventure. I could see his Aussie hanging his head out the window as George drove. “Where we going?” “I was talking to Max about that. He says we need to go to Vegas.”

The three of us were passing through Utah, weakened and

hungry on our guys-only excursion. I finally stopped at a dusty steak joint that had been advertising itself for 25 miles on billboards promis-ing ‘A Taste of How the West Used to Be.’ George said “probably means I’ll be chewing some cowboy’s worn saddle.” I popped open my door, let-ting Max out to sniff at the bushes. George and I stepped toward the joint; the outside was fashioned like a saloon right up to the swing-ing doors. The sign in the doorway said: Enter at your own peril! George shook his head. “Can’t be that bad.” He told Max to stay outside and

the Aussie obediently curled up on the old wood porch. George and I stepped in and found a table. Lo-cal gunslingers turned to stare from all around. I was too hungry to be scared. George pointed at the jukebox in the corner. I strode over and start-ed flipping pages. “Mostly Patsy Cline and guys named Roger,” I announced. There were token Nir-vana and Weezer songs. I took out a crumpled bill and aimed for the slot. “Don’t play that.” An old gunslinger was leaned over the bar, his saggy square ass on a worn stool, cracked fingers wrapped around a sweating glass. I guessed that the Wranglers he was wearing were his Friday night goin-to-town jeans. George watched from across the room. “Why not?” The old man didn’t turn from his drink. “Tom don’t like it played.” “Who’s Tom?” “Owns the place.” “Tom hate music or something?” “Tom loves music. But he’s got-ta’ pay the jukebox guy to have that damn thing in here. We’re trying to show the guy we don’t need it. Now if it’s music you want…” The old gunslinger pointed at a pile of instruments in the corner. A guitar leaned against a dusty stand-ing piano and beside that was a

snare drum on a stand, a lone cym-bal tilted at its side. There was one drum stick. “Which one do you play,” I asked. “Me?” The gunslinger finally moved his eyes off his drink. “I play the drum. Course ain’t much of a kit, not like I played in my day.” “Bet you can still whack with the best of ‘em.” The old man rubbed what he hadn’t shaved off his cheek that morning. “Maybe I could.” George, the old man and I ate free steak that night when Tom came in around closing and found us banging out an original and never-to-be-heard-again version of Mudhoney’s ‘Touch Me I’m Sick,’ which the locals thought was hilari-ous. I made up most of the words and no one knew the difference. George got laid by the barmaid. Someone brought Max scraps from the kitchen. And that old man had a near perfect sense of rhythm, even as he nursed half a bottle of Jack out of Tom’s stock. I fell asleep in a corner booth around 3am, Max be-side me, both of us exhausted, the ghosts of a generation echoing in my head. When I closed my eyes, I could see them smiling.

Another Arm of the Green River by Matt McGee



He couldn’t wait to get back to her, but he wondered if she’d still be there.

He tried to make up over the phone, but the chill in her voice told him to back off. How much he wanted to hold her, make her believe in him again. He and the band were on a pri-vate plane, heading back home after a two-night gig. His bandmate, Derek, serenad-ed them in the plane’s small cabin, playing Clapton tunes on his guitar. He’d have just a few hours to see her. He hoped that would be enough time, that he would have the right words.

She waited in line at the all-night drug-store, sandwiching her purchase be-

tween a paperback romance novel and a package of Jolly Time Popcorn. The ca-shier looked like the mother of one of her students. Oh God. Her breasts were hard and swol-len, and she felt a little cramping now and then, down there. Her period was just around the corner, she had been telling herself. The nausea was probably just the flu. She would have gone on making ex-cuses, but a nagging voice inside her even-tually pierced her denial like sunlight on a hangover. She was late, very late. She had to find out. He would be back tonight. She was still angry with him for his latest stunt, wondered how he’d wrangle out of it this time. She knew he would be wres-tling for the words, when all she needed was that look that said please don’t leave me or I’ll die, and she’d be the one falling. It was almost five years ago, in a roughneck bar just over the state line, where she had walked in out of curiosity and ended up sitting so close that her bar-

stool vibrated. Oswald played bass with a heavy metal country and western band, Mild Bill and the Bad Asses, chain-smok-ing his way through each set, letting the dead ashes tumble down on his talented fingers. During every break, he stood near her at the corner of the bar and guzzled a beer. She looked through him, past him; shook her long red mane down her back, waited for him to get the nerve. On the last break, he slammed down his empty glass, pushed his dark hair out of his eyes, and introduced himself. He called her Red. She thought, who names their baby Os-wald?

He felt like he did that first night, when he took forever to get the courage

to talk to her. A long night in a dive bar, and then there she was. Mary Louise. He smiled when he said her name. Catholic women were always horny. But this one turned him down for weeks, until his balls turned blue and he thought they would fall off. He never pictured himself with someone like her, didn’t dare reach that high. She didn’t fall for any of his bullshit. He asked her to move in with him, and she told him to grow up first. She made him want to be better. He wondered what she saw in him, how the hell he was going to win her back this time. He hadn’t smoked a joint in over a year, hadn’t touched a beer for nearly as long. Then he fucked up, fell back in his old ways, when all he re-ally wanted was to marry her, settle down, have a kid.

She wondered sometimes if he was al-ways high. He would stay out all night,

tell her his friends made him do it. He’d smoke too much weed, drink too much beer. He told her he’d quit, then got lazy and sloppy and really thought he had his shit together, thought he could fool her. He’d call her from the road, slurring his words, telling her he’d be late again. Fi-nally she told him to stop it for good or she would leave him. A test, and he passed for so many months, the sober version of him being ev-erything she wanted in her future. She wanted to marry him, find a house, have a baby. Until last week, when he drowned her hopes for them in a bottle of gin and blew away her dreams for them with a $50 bag.

A blast from behind nearly knocked him from his seat. The plane shook, hard

at first and then trembled. He heard the pilot swearing as he looked around. Derek bled from a gash on his head. The other guys looked dazed. “Oswald, hand me a towel or something,” Derek yelled, trying to stop the blood. But they were going down fast, so fast he couldn’t breathe. He closed his eyes and held her there.

She got home from the store, and her phone buzzed in her pocket. Prob-

ably Oswald calling again. She knew they would have landed by then. She shook as she heard the news, fell down on her knees and trembled. Later she would take the test, not knowing what to hope, hoping she could handle it.

Red By Jan Ramming


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Rock GodsArt by Nate Michaels



When I was young after hours meant Mother Blues, that infamous house on Lemmon Avenue. You never knew who might drop in. I remember seeing David Bowie, Alice Cooper, young Robert Plant – shirt unbuttoned, showing off his bare Led Zeppelin chest. Once I watched Janis Joplin toke a fat one with T-Bone Walker before snatching the stage and bringing down the house with Ball and Chain. After Janis, I left because that was as good as it was gonna get, and who can resist Waffle House at 4AM when you’re stoned and pissing the blues.

After the first set,Bob, the light guy,calls us over to playdarts and drink beers.Everything is sticky here.Fish fry hangs in the air,greasing the palms andhair of cocktail waitresses whoignore me when I ask for a Molson Light.Just stay for the second set, I tell my friend,kill a little more time. We decide tolinger by the side of the stage,marking our territory like nobody’s business and usingovert leaning for cleavage sakeplaying the part of groupies,queens of the one night stand.Regrettably, it’s a Rush tribute band,so that changes everything. Taking out our eyeliner, weunderscore crib notes from Spinal Tap, verify the number 2112,wrestle with the lyrics toXanadu, tell the drummer we know YYZ is instrumental and thatZeppelin is our 2nd favorite band.

Guitar chords were never meantto soar as retro futuristic asylumvitamins or even pancake euphoriatreats, but at age 5 in 1967 whenI heard Pink Floyd Piper at theGates of Dawn it was like sonic

powder that could out float aspace buzz, and over the evolvingalbums and years the band expandedawareness often without languageduring the instrumental parts as if aneurosurgeon was leading a symphony

with sound, light-mail and literature

Rock and Roll is the devils melody,of the damned. Those who made menscream, howl their music as the devilplucks their heart, and makes his choir

sing. Skulls make his cymbals and tattooed skin is his drums as he fillsthe flames with music to sing hisdark heart to sleep. In the subterranean

caverns, he writes his notes in the bloodof adulterers. His loyal rock fans fashionribs into xylophone keys to lift his messageto the surface. And give the world his screams.

Rock Godby Matthew Wilson

After Hours by Travis Blair

Ladies Night Rush Tribute Band by Colleen Michaels

Remembering Pink Floydby David S. Pointer


once bitten: twice shy



once bitten: twice shy Photography byJon Goddi PhotographyMakeup Alex WilliamsHair by Konee Oliver

The times are getting hard for you little girl. You’re a huffin’ and a puffin’ all over God’s world. You can’t remember where you got your last meal, and you don’t know just how a woman feels. You didn’t know what rock n roll was, until you met my drummer on a gray tour bus. Half way home in the parking lot, by the look in your eyes -- you were given what you got.

My, my, my. I’m once bitten twice shy. Can’t keep you home. You’re out messing around. My best friend told me you’re the best lick in town. I said, my my my, I’m once bitten twice shy. - lyrics by Great White



Vampires will never hurt you.

And if they get me and the sun goes down into the groundAnd if they get me take this spike to my heart andAnd if they get me and the sun goes downAnd if they get me take this spike andYou put the spike in my heart

And if the sun comes up will it tear the skin right off our bonesAnd then as razor sharp white teeth rip out our necks I saw you thereSomeone get me to the doctor, someone get me to a churchWhere they can pump this venom gaping holeAnd you must keep your soul like a secret in your throatAnd if they come and get meWhat if you put the spike in my heart

And if they get me and the sun goes down...Can you take this spike?Will it fill our hearts with thoughts of endlessNight time sky?Can you take this spike?Will it wash away this jet black feeling?

*lyrics by My Chemical Romance

Can you take this spike?


Vampires will never hurt you.*lyrics by My Chemical Romance


...And now the nightclub sets the stage for this they come in pairs she saidWe’ll shoot back holy water like cheap whiskey they’re always thereSomeone get me to the doctor, and someone call the nurseAnd someone buy me roses, and someone burned the churchWe’re hanging out with corpses, and driving in this hearseAnd someone save my soul tonight, please save my soul

Can you take this spike?Will it fill our hearts with thoughts of endlessNight time sky?Can you take this spike?Will it wash away this jet black now?

Vampires will never hurt you.

Save my soul tonight


Vampires will never hurt you.*lyrics by My Chemical Romance


Stranded in this spooky townStoplight is swaying And the phone lines are downSnow is crackling cold She took my heart, I think she took my soulWith the moon I run far From the carnage of the fiery sun

Driven by the strangle of vein Showing no mercy I do it againOpen up your eyesYou keep on crying baby I’ll bleed you drySkies they blink at me I see a storm bubbling Up from the sea

Closer*lyrics by Kings of Leon


And it’s coming closerAnd it’s coming closer

You shimmy shook my boat Leaving me stranded All in love on my ownWhat do you think of me? Where am I now? Baby where do I sleep?Feel so good but I’m old2000 years of chasing taking its toll

And its coming closerAnd its coming closerAnd its coming closerAnd its coming closer




The world is a vampireSecret destoyers, hold you up to the flamesAnd what do I get, for my painBetrayed desires, and a piece of the game

Despite all my rage, I am still just a ratIn a cage

Bullet With Butterfly Wingslyrics by The Smashing Pumpkins


The world is a vampireSecret destoyers, hold you up to the flamesAnd what do I get, for my painBetrayed desires, and a piece of the game

Despite all my rage, I am still just a ratIn a cage

Bullet With Butterfly Wingslyrics by The Smashing Pumpkins



Caught up in this madness Too blind to seeWoke animal feelings in meTook over my sense And I lost controlI’ll taste your blood tonight

You know I make you wanna screamYou know I make you wanna Run from me babyBut know it’s too late You’ve wasted all your time, yeah

Relax while you’re closing Your eyes to meSo warm as I’m setting you freeWith your arms by your side There’s no strugglingPleasure’s all mine this time

You know I make you wanna screamYou know I make you wanna Run from me babyBut know it’s too late You’ve wasted all your time

Cherishing, those feelings pleasuringCover me, unwanted clemencyScream till there’s silenceScream while there’s life left, VanishingScream from the pleasure Unmask your desirePerishing

Scream*lyrics by Avenged Sevenfold


Edith Wharton (1903)

I

A thin moon faints in the sky o’erhead,And dumb in the churchyard lie the dead.

Walk we not, Sweet, by garden ways,Where the late rose hangs and the phlox delays,

But forth of the gate and down the road,Past the church and the yews, to their dim abode.

For it’s turn of the year and All Souls’ night,When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.

II

Fear not that sound like wind in the trees:It is only their call that comes on the breeze;

Fear not the shudder that seems to pass:It is only the tread of their feet on the grass;Fear not the drip of the bough as you stoop:

It is only the touch of their hands that grope —For the year’s on the turn, and it’s All Souls’ night,When the dead can yearn and the dead can smite.

III

And where should a man bring his sweet to wooBut here, where such hundreds were lovers too?

Where lie the dead lips that thirst to kiss,The empty hands that their fellows miss,

Where the maid and her lover, from sere to green,Sleep bed by bed, with the worm between?For it’s turn of the year and All Souls’ night,

When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.

IV

And now that they rise and walk in the cold,Let us warm their blood and give youth to the old.

Let them see us and hear us, and say: “Ah, thusIn the prime of the year it went with us!”

Till their lips drawn close, and so long unkist,Forget they are mist that mingles with mist!

For the year’s on the turn, and it’s All Souls’ night,When the dead can burn and the dead can smite.

All Souls




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I had the opportunity to sit down with Shay Scranton, the bass-

ist for Grail, whose music has been described as “psychedelic punk with a southern demonic desert grove.” The band’s artwork does tend to move in the darker direc-tion, but that’s just Scranton’s pref-erence when it comes to his art sensibilities. He designs all of the band’s graphics and posters. Grail is one of those groups who has a lot of history together, a history in-terwoven in complex ways before this project even came together. Founding members Clint McCa-rdy and Daniel Beaty first had the idea for Grail, and when Scranton ultimately joined, he brought with him Robert Ramirez who had had drummed with Scranton in the past. Grail is a very raw project, fronted by a sense of desperation in the vocal delivery with a lot of noise present after builds to intensi-fy the mania of the moment. There is the clear nod to the heavy punk and metal genres with plenty of hooks to add memorability to many moments on their new EP One. Explaining how Grail got its name, Scranton says, “Grail got its name from member Clint, who was looking for one very loaded word that is connected with some-thing ancient and cool. The idea of Grail stemmed from the idea that someone can spend their entire life searching for this concept and nev-er find it, whether it is something like the Holy Grail or something that is our own personal grail. Any-thing you put on a pedestal can be disappointing and sometimes the supreme ultimate truth can hap-

pen as much from the journey for searching as anything that is ever found.” The group has benefited from their ties to the Waco music scene and the Waco Music Co-op. The new EP was mixed at Silver Shoes Studio in Waco by longtime friends of the group Jared Himst-edt and Tim Jenkins. It was mixed by another friend and local musi-cian Gaylon Thompson, and the album art was designed by Scran-ton himself. The EP was recorded at a studio space shared by many of the Co-op groups. Shay stated it simply, “Without the Co-op, we wouldn’t have an EP.” In a similar way each band members employs their areas of ex-pertise to further benefit the band. Scranton handles the online pres-ence along with the artwork. Mc-Carty plays guitar, vocals, writes most of the lyrics and is the origi-nator of most of the bands ideas. Beaty plays guitars and handles booking and creating connections with contacts in Waco and Austin. Roberto Ramerez supplies drums for the group. While Grail has made an engaging and interesting EP, the group especially shines on stage. Their live shows are full of energy and the group knows their mate-rial frontwards and backwards, re-sulting in a tight live set played to precision. The first thing you will notice during a Grail show is that Scranton, the group’s bass player, occupies center stage despite hav-ing minimal vocalist duties, and while his boyish good looks are no doubt a major reason for his loca-

tion, his place in the center is more pragmatic. With real estate being at a premium on stage, being in the center gives Scranton the space he needs to thrash and fully embody the music. “I can’t help but play how I always have. Playing music and being very physical and active on stage. Playing with Grail, every single show I am reminded I am not 17 anymore.” When asked about influ-ences, Scranton truly sums up the full nature of the band: “We latched onto the more underground stuff. We saw a sense that it was more important than what was on the radio. We didn’t want to create art that was made for the masses. We couldn’t do it if we tried. It is dif-ficult enough to write a song that are catchy that everyone likes. It is more difficult to write something that most people won’t like and not care who likes it, but we aren’t go-ing to go out of our way to please people and compromise.” Even without trying to be likeable, plenty of people have en-joyed and will continue to enjoy Grail as they get become familiar with this band’s music. You can stream and purchase their debut EP One at http://grail1715.bandcamp.com/ and see them regularly around Waco, including upcoming shows scheduled at TrueLove.

GRail::: TEXAS NEW METALby Caleb Farmer



A musician walks into a bar...Seriously! He arrives early; music on his mind, because

he’s playing for a crowd of people for the first time. By the end of the night, he decides he is going to make his music industry dreams come true after playing many suc-cessful shows, but he doesn’t know where to begin... That’s where I come in. My name is Josh Hayward and I’m a professional recording/mixing en-gineer and A&R, owner of Astral Plane Studios. When Bohemia put out the call for a music section, I had to take the opportunity. There is a lot to learn about the ins and outs of the music industry and I hope to help your career as much as possible through these columns. “Where do I start?” is the question most artists have when

they feel they have the ability to truly entertain others with their mu-sic. A focused path is the best way to truly achieve one’s goal. The first thing you must realize if you choose to make a career out of your music, (even if it’s a side gig) is that your music is becoming a business, so it’s time to think like a business owner even if you’re just making it for the love of music. The best thing to do is begin with a rough outline of your goals, where do you want to be 6 months from now? 1 year from now? 5 years? Do you want to be a national act? Regional? Studio only? Every-one has different goals and it’s im-portant to get them out onto paper. Once you have this rough outline, you’ll want to come up with a solid business plan to keep you in line with your goals and plan for basic

expenses that come with a music industry career. That means mer-chandise, production, marketing, etc. You’ll want to make sure to join ASCAP, BMI or SESAC as well so you can register your mu-sic with the Dept of Copyright and keep track of royalties. Protecting your music is important because unlicensed usage is a real prob-ability, so it’s wise to copyright your material. You never know what may happen with your music and if someone sampled without your permission, you’d have legal grounds to stand on. This is vital, no matter what level you’re at. Artist or band names don’t typically need legal protection other than a copyright/trademark claim for the name you’re work-ing under, an LLC would be used

How To Work With a Record Producerby Josh Hayward

“This is where the magic happens.”



for a parent company you may be promoting yourself under, which is fairly common, so either route you wish to take will protect you from many potential legal issues. This is the beginning of your journey so it’s important you get these details covered so you start off on great footing with all the goals you may have. Being or-ganized in goals is just as important as organizing your practice room, and most importantly, all of it will keep you and your music safe! Once those are in place, it comes down to recording and get-ting yourself out there through so-cial media, reviews and other pro-motional avenues as well as radio plays (spins). However you’ll want someone else to handle most of

these other aspects, the reason be-ing: You’re the musician, you need to focus on writing the music, not trying to write it, record it, mix it, master it and distribute it. Industry professionals ex-ist for a reason, use them to your advantage and take unneeded stress off yourself. It’s important to have a circle of people you trust to han-dle the various aspects of your ca-reer and who also help you succeed with your goals. More and more people are trying to do everything themselves and it’s generally not the best choice. I’m sure many have heard of or read horror stories from other artists who’ve gone through some rough stuff or taken for a ride, how-ever it’s important to research the

people you work with rather than work off hearsay. You don’t know all the specifics so it’s best to talk with those people yourselves and make your own judgment and deci-sion. Some are fictional, some are false. The best way to research music professionals is to simply visit their website. You’ll know they’re legitimate based on active blogs, social media accounts, fresh samples/testimonials and more. I hope this has given you some insight on just where to start and how to handle common begin-ner issues. Plan smart, research and always ask questions!

The Beatles with George Martin - Wikipedia


Let’s get something out of the way right from the start. If you

believe rock and roll began with Elvis, peaked with the Beatles, and then began a long, slow, tortuous death culminating with the demise of John Bonham and the release of Led Zeppelin’s eighth and final (Coda’s outtakes doesn’t count, sorry) studio album, then don’t read Fargo Rock City by Chuck Klosterman. If, on the other hand, you grew up with hair metal bands - glam rock if you must, then by all means, pick up what I consider one of the finest manifestos on music’s societal impact ever written. Klosterman, a media-in-fused romantic of unparalleled genius, waxes nostalgic about his days growing up in rural North Dakota listening to the often short-lived careers of metal bands that dominated 1980’s radio waves. He effortlessly weaves milestone dates of heavy metal with intimate details of his own life, effectively writing a memoir while at the same time chronicling a subculture of

music that some ignore at best, or revile at worst. Fargo Rock City is an unapologetic defense of a brand of sound that spoke to a generation of mostly skinny, mostly white, al-most entirely male teenage angst. Sound crazy? Consider that Klosterman spends the bulk of an entire chapter trying to define hard rock versus heavy metal versus glam metal. He concedes to mu-sic critic Rob Halford’s point that much of the subtext in metal bands revolved around anti-authoritarian messages and desires for power, sex, or simple greed. But as he dives into discussions about the lyr-ical differences between Gene Sim-mons and Paul Stanley of KISS, or psycho-analyzes Ozzy Osbourne, he finds that, in his own words, “sometimes what seems obvious is not, particularly when you’re trying to categorize what an artist repre-sents culturally.” Ozzy writes in Blizzard of Oz - “the wreckage of my past keeps haunting me / It just won’t leave me alone / Don’t look to me for answers / Don’t ask me I don’t know.”

Fargo Rock City by Chuck Klosterman

Yes, sometimes metal was about power. Sometimes it was about wishing you had some. If the bands Def Leppard, Poison, Skid Row, Warrant, and others of that ilk hold a special place in your heart (that you are too embarrassed to share with your close friends for fear they will force you to karaoke “Every Rose Has it’s Thorn”) then let me encour-age you to spend a few dollars on the soft copy or Kindle edition of Chuck Klosterman’s Fargo Rock City. Then you too can understand the significance of dates like June 6, 1985 - when Axl Rose fired gui-tarist Traci Guns and joined forces with Slash - finalizing the lineup of the ironically named “Guns and Roses” for recording Appetite for Destruction. Or dates like December 31, 1984 - when Def Leppard’s drum-mer Rick Allen lost his left arm in a car accident. Or dates like October 10, 1987 - when....oh come on now, just read for yourself.

Skid Row, Youth Gone Wild

A Review: by Pete Able

Guns N Roses, Appetite For Destruction Ozzy Osbourne, Blizzrd of Ozz


Ozzy Osbourne, Blizzrd of Ozz

Spanish language promotional poster for book, see story (left)


Pete Able has been writing stories and poetry since college, or almost 20 years. His screenplays have been final-ists with Scriptapalooza, PAGE Inter-national, and the New York Television Festival, among others. He lives in Woodway TX with his wife, Melissa, and daughters Joanna and Lila.

A.K. Amberg moved to Waco six years ago and hasn’t looked back since. He finds the quirkiness of Cen-tral Texas far more poetic than any of his pre-vious surround- ings. He’s published in the UK and the US, in-cluding a book of original poetry and prose, The Least of These.

Travis Blair of Arlington, Texas, is author of two poetry books, Train to Chihuahua and Little Sandwiches. His work has appeared in literary journals throughout the U.S., England, South Africa, and Australia. He has two daughters, five grandkids, and hides from them frequently in Manhattan and Mazatlán.

Ed Coletti’s recent poems appear in Hawai’i Pacific Review, Spillway, and North American Review. His book, When Hearts Outlive Minds - June 2011. Germs, Viruses, and Catechisms published this Winter by Civil Defense Publications (SF). Coletti working on Apollo Blue’s Harp, the poetic-story of music. [email protected]

Lottie Donahue started baking cook-ies out of her home 15 years ago and has grown her menu and clientele on word of mouth alone. An avid believer that recipes are merely guidelines, she makes her creations using as many fresh and creative ingredients as pos-sible.

Jon Goddi says, “Photography is my calling, my profession, and the thing that will undoubtedly drive me insane someday. I don’t photograph subjects. I photograph the way they make me feel. I’m very raw, bold and edgy with my style.”

Caleb Farmer was born a Hoosier before making his way to Waco TX. He enjoys playing music with his band Cellar Door and collaborating with the Waco Music Co-op. Some of his fa-vorite musicians are A.A. Bondy, Josh Garrels, and Andrew Bird. He’s been writing for Bohemia for three years.

Mark Fogarty is a poet, musician and journo from Rutherford, NJ. He emcees the monthly poetry/music readings at GainVille Cafe. And is managing edi-tor of The Rutherford Red Wheelbar-row. He’s published in Hawaii Review, Vietnam Generation, Eclectic Literary Forum, Exit 13, Journal of NJ Poets, Footwork and others.

Jennifer Jefferis has been publishing with Bohemia for 3 years. She paints, writes, and models. Jen has recently relocated to Seattle, Washington with her husband, writer and orator Jesse Jefferis, with their doggie, Gracie.

Jesse Jefferis is a poet, activist, and gardener. He works to experience his life in an authentic and humble capac-ity, acknowledging his shortcomings to do so almost every day. He grew up influenced by punk rock music and lifestyle in Texas and currently resides in Seattle with his wife Jennifer.

Safwan Khatib is a 17 year old student and writer from Indianapolis, Indiana. His poetry has recently appeared in Surrealist Star Cluster Illuminations, The Literary Yard, Contraposition, Manic Fervor, and The Noisy Island.

Nate Michaels is a visual artist based in northern Wisconsin. Specializing in portraits, Nate’s medium of choice is watercolor and ink, but he has been known to dabble in graphite and acryl-ic paint. Nate is also available for cus-tom work and can be found at: face-book.com/NateMichaels.Artist

Contributors


Sean Piper is a wondering soul with a never ending hunger for amazing food. Traveling at a young age, he developed a taste for the rare and eccentric. Along with documenting his food explora-tions, he is also an artist, a teacher, and a musician.

Matt McGee writes short fiction in the local library until the staff makes him go home. His recent collection Leav-ing Rayette is available on Amazon.

Colleen Michaels’ poetry publications include Barrelhouse, The Paterson Literary Review, Blue Collar Review, The Mom Egg, Paper Nautilus, and the anthologies Here Come the Brides: Reflections on Love and Lesbian Mar-riage and Modern Grimmoire. She di-rects the Writing Studio at Montserrat College of Art in Beverly, Massachu-setts.

David S. Pointer’s most recent book of poetry is titled Oncoming Crime Facts. He currently lives in Murfrees-boro, TN with his two daughters.

Jan Ramming was a freelance jour-nalist for the Beacon News and North-west Quarterly Magazine. She dabbles in fiction from her home near Chica-go, where she lives with my husband, daughter, and two crazy dogs.

Recent Puschart nominee, April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two sons. Her work has appeared in Poetry Salzburg, The Camel Saloon, Blue Stem, Writing To-morrow and Rattle. She serves as co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press.

Cheri Schaffer was born December 19, 1986 in Worcester, Massachusetts. She spent most of her childhood in the nearby town of Sterling. She moved to Texas in the year of 2001, where she has been ever since. Schaffer was in-troduced to photography through mod-eling for others in 2012

Zack Wallenfang, Minneapolis, MN, is a graduate from the Minneapolis College of Art & Design with a Bach-elor of Fine Arts. He enjoys getting paid for creating things. Past clients include the Target Corporation, Abso-lut Vodka, Bass Ale, House of Ronald McDonald, Petco, Ecolab, Stand Up! Records, Babyhemyth Productions, etc.

Matthew Wilson, 30, has had over 100 stories accepted / appearances in such places as Horror Zine, Star*Line, Spellbound, Illumen, James Ward Kirk Publishing, Static Movement, Apokru-pha Press, Hazardous Press, Gaslight Press, Sorcerers Signal and more. He is currently editing his first novel and can be contacted on twitter @mat-thew94544267.


Colm Fahy

is originally from a Gaelic

speaking community off the west coast

of Ireland. A human rights law specialist and

trained lawyer who practised in Ireland for almost

decade before moving to Madrid, Spain, from where he

participates in EU Election Observation work, mainly in

Africa, Colm is an accomplished painter with several

exhibitions in Ireland and Spain to his credit.

He has also been writing fiction, poetry, short stories and

scripts for many years. Colm has been published as a

legal writer and political and human rights

commentator in the UK Family Law Journal and the

Irish Times. He is lover of all things creative and

and is currently working on his first novel.

http://colmvfahy.wix.com/fish

“It is a dream inspired painting of Meg White climbing down from her drum kit in the fash-ion of the Japanese horror classic The Ring”





Colm Fahy

is originally from a Gaelic

speaking community off the west coast

of Ireland. A human rights law specialist and

trained lawyer who practised in Ireland for almost

decade before moving to Madrid, Spain, from where he

participates in EU Election Observation work, mainly in

Africa, Colm is an accomplished painter with several

exhibitions in Ireland and Spain to his credit.

He has also been writing fiction, poetry, short stories and

scripts for many years. Colm has been published as a

legal writer and political and human rights

commentator in the UK Family Law Journal and the

Irish Times. He is lover of all things creative and

and is currently working on his first novel.

http://colmvfahy.wix.com/fish

“Meg White” by Colm Fahy




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