You can feel cultivated inspiration seeping out the first moment you hear Baxu. A confident intelligence tows their line. They are bigger than what they offer—and what they offer is pretty damn fine. Michael Regino and Mike Garrido create music vibing with the feeling of carrying a guitar case through the front door of a sold-out show you are headlining. It comes on as you settle into the corner booth with some black and leather babes sitting on both your sides. Cool, cool, cool.
Crawford does a damn fine job calling out, as the magazine has done since the very beginning, to those of us born with the stifling boot heel attempts of plastic herd culture to snuff the sense of passion and purpose eating us black sheep alive in the nowhere nothing cul-de-sac wasteland, his words a reassuring echo in the darkness that we are not islands waiting to silently be forgotten beneath the rising tide of cultural cardboard climate change.
Kerouacian in the finest most brilliant sense, "Frank Sinatra's Yacht" reads somewhere between coming down out of the mountain in Desolation Angels and saying goodbye to the mice in Big Sur; every line, every note owning us as Andrew Cashen cries out to eternity, "what I do now next? Chop wood?."
Spoken through Kerouacian prose allowing your mind belief in the transcendence of a moment and meaning and everything else which our hearts find positive and defeating in these beat days of our karmic souls