Achtung! Tomorrow, we will be updating the Coilhouse shop with several new merch items, some of which we’ve been working on since January. In addition to a new, snug unisex hoodie and a relaxed-fit eco-heather summer dress, we’re also issuing our first “luxury” item: a boxed set of three small porcelain plates, encased in a silver-stamped black box bearing a custom Coilhouse inscription.
In addition to the new round of merch, we will be offering a very small number of copies of an out-of-print issue of Coilhouse at a reduced price. Which issue? Check back tomorrow to find out!
This is a super-limited merch run. There are 50 hoodies, 50 dresses, 50 boxes of plates (3 plates in each box), and 25 copies of the mystery issue. Because of the small quantities, we anticipate that this round of merch will sell out fast. Stay tuned for the full reveal.
If internet historians like the ladies and gentlemen at Everything is Terrible have demonstrated anything it is the supposition that commercials are only annoying at the time of their original airing. It is only when one of these terrifying mishmashes of imagery and catchphrases interrupts an episode of Dick Wolf’s newest fetish that we turn to our DVR to save us. Only years later will their genius truly be appreciated. Such is the reasoning behind posting this, over nine glorious minutes of commercials from the Fort Worth/ Dallas are, circa 1990. Come for Westway Ford and Trophy Nissan; stay for Channel 21 KTXA’s prime time lineup.
Last weekend, I ventured to a fundraising bash at the gargantuan, labyrinthine Vulcan complex in industrial Oakland. Coilhouse correspondent Neil Girling has aptly described the bohemian warehouse collective as “something of a dollhouse mixed with a rabbit warren.” Magical place. The folks over there literally just finished building out their new Vulcan Theater wing. Tons of gonzo musical acts and DJs came out to help them raise some cash and celebrate: Thee Hobo Gobbelins, David Satori of Beats Antique, Totter, Sour Mash Hug, various Vau de Vire Society performers, Sisters of Honk, Gooferman, Barry Syska, and a band I’d never heard of before, Tornado Rider:
From the back of the crowded room, I watched the butch-yet-elfin trio set up their gear and line check. Warming up, drummer Scott Manke and bassist Graham Terry displayed precise and prodigious punk/metal chops and sported broad, welcoming smiles. Bad asses, both. They were soon joined by singer/cellist Rushad Eggleston, who wore a Robin Hood cap with hot pink lightning bolts adhered to it, a matching pair of exercise shorts, lime green tights, sneakers, and little else.
Two words sum up Eggleston’s persona succinctly: delightfully implausible. His countenance and physique are a bit like Frodo Baggins’… that is, if Frodo was hella manic, worked out a lot and washed down his lembas bread with entire crates of Volt High Performance Energy Drinks.
Eggleston plugged his axe (lav mic’d, plastered with day-glo stickers, guitar strapped) into a batch of effects pedals and let loose with a string of arpeggiations that could leave no doubt: this fella had been classically schooled out the wazoo, but long since abandoned baroque, powdered wig fare for PURE UNTRAMMELED RAWKNESS.
Tornado Rider launched fists first into a blazing 40 minute set that peaked with a song called “I’m a Falcon”. Manke and Terry provided thunderous vamping as Eggelston leaped from the stage, scaled the wall with his cello slung over his shoulder and perched, teetering, on the balcony railing to rock out, howling “I’M A FALCON. I’M A FALCON. YEAH… THE FASTEST BIRD ALIVE. THE MASTER OF THE SKY. YEEAAHHYUH!” Here’s a clip of that same song performed at the Magnolia Festival a while ago. Eggleston took the madness a step further, launching into a tuneful, shredding solo while hanging upside down from the ceiling:
Eggleston’s jaw-dropping climb begins about 4 minutes in.
Guys, you really need to see this shit live. It’s raw, joyful, silly, gorgeous virtuosity. Go. Seriously. GO. Dance. Get your asses rocked and grin until your faces hurt. You won’t regret it, I promise. Tornado Rider is touring all over the States this year, with more dates in the works for Europe at some point down the line. Deep southerners, a heads up to you especially– they’ll be playing the fuck of Florida this week and next. GO. GO. GO. GO. And a very good morning to you all.
Photo by Tim Palen. (Patti LaBelle, eat yer heart out!)
Selene Luna, our lovely and amazing Issue 02 cover girl, just announced her new one-woman show, Born to Be Alive, which will be running at the Davidson/Valentini Theatre from May 28-June 27. Written by John T. Stapleton and Selene Luna, and directed by Derick Lasalla, Born to Be Alive sounds like Luna’s most ambitious solo project yet. From the press release:
Selene Luna’s story is unlike anything being presented on stage today. The diminutive actress/writer/burlesque artist/stand-up comic/fashion model/activist has faced more obstacles than most as a woman born a little person who emigrated from Mexico to the U.S. with her family when she was just three years old. Confronting and overcoming multiple levels of discrimination, the Logo Award nominee has become one of the hottest members of Hollywood’s “eccentric artist community” and has crossed over into mainstream film, television, theatre and the print fashion world.
Aspects of Luna’s improbable odyssey have been explored in her previous plays, but Born to Be Alive is different. “I’ve evolved so much as a writer and performer,” Luna explains, “and I’ve also become much more willing to be open and vulnerable. This will be my most honest show ever, as well as my happiest and funniest.” It’s also the first time she’s had the support of a director (Derick LaSalla) and production team. The luxury of focusing exclusively on the creative elements of the show gives Luna the ability to go places she’s never touched before.
photo by Matthew Cope
Tickets available here, and more info here. Net proceeds from the production will benefit the Center’s broad array of services for the LGBT community.
Okay, so, obviously, this isn’t the first time the name Rachel Brice has shown up on Coilhouse. Nor will it be the last. (Which no one should mind too terribly, unless they’re allergic to amazingness.) Later this month, Bricey’s coming out with a new instructional DVD set, called Serpentine. This is awesome news for many reasons, least of which being that it offers an excuse to post this stunning photo of her, taken by Trinette Reed:
by Trinette Reed
Ever thought about trying to learn Tribal Fusion Style Belly Dance, or just improving upon your existing skill sets? Maybe you’d like to merge core-strengthening yoga into your practice? How about being able to safely bend over backwards at close to a 90 degree angle… or maybe just feeling really solid and present and lovely in your own bones? If yes, then this is a woman to watch and learn from.
Heck, even if you DON’T want to try this at home, this is a woman to watch and to learn from, because decades of devotion to both her yoga and her dance practice has gifted Rachel with a level of grace and serenity that is deeply gratifying to observe. Whether she’s regally dolled up and performing, or breaking down isolation drills in workshop scrubs, R.B. is incandescent:
In an effort to flesh out its library, today the FAM presents Un Chien Andalou (An Andalusian Dog), the 1928 film by surrealists Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí and the quintessential “art film”. Most famous for its opening scene, in which a man, played by Buñuel, slices open the eye of a woman with a straight razor, Un Chien Andalou is an almost perfect summation of the Surrealist movement. Things happen in Un Chien Andalou, their relationship to one another dictated by the logic of dreams. Scenes lurch violently along in time and characters exhibit a confusing, rapid-fire succession of emotions. It’s a movie that is open to a vast range of interpretations, and in true Surrealist form Buñuel rejected every one of them, stating, “Nothing, in the film, symbolizes anything. The only method of investigation of the symbols would be, perhaps, psychoanalysis.”
Despite the director’s expectations — they supposedly attended the premier with pockets full of rocks should a horrified audience become violent — the film was well received. In a sad twist, both of the leading actors of the film eventually committed suicide. Pierre Batcheff overdosed on Veronal in a hotel in Paris in 1932, and Simone Mareuil doused herself in gasoline and burned herself to death in a public square in Périgueux, Dordogne in 1954. In the ensuing years since its debut Un Chien Andalou has been recognized as a seminal moment in the history of cinema, a staple of any film buff’s diet. Now the FAM can rest easy, knowing that there is at least some modicum of credibility found herein should it be placed under the glaring eye of some future, internet historian.
Posting this here was preceded by a long, arduous internal debate. It’s true that I’m far from a Devendra Banhart fan. In fact, I’m fairly allergic to just about everything I’ve seen of him, little as that may be. Until this video, that is. Taking a big step away from his neo-flower-child-meets-Castro-Jesus look, Devendra, along with director Isaiah Seret, made a video for the song Foolin’ thatpays tribute to tender man-love, old school pulp films, as well as to their biggest fan ever, Tarantino. What I love most about it is the fact that it shows a heavy S&M relationship in a positive, humorous, light. It’s just so darn happy-making, I can’t help myself!
Marking this NSFW for gratuitous use of bloodied butt-crack, sexy violence, and dangerous thongs. Dig it:
The Icelandic volcano Eyjafjallajökull has received a fair bit of attention of late. Not unexpected, buy cialis considering that its insidious ash cloud momentarily brought air travel in the vicinity of Europe to a standstill. No doubt, advice this is some sort of evil, ailment Nordic plot, the ins and outs of which are of no concern here. What we wish to call attention to here is the footage above, a bit of geological geekery. As the volcano continues to erupt one can see the shock waves from each explosion of magma ripple through the plumes of smoke and debris. Such is nature that it can be so beautiful and fascinating in its destruction.
Jeremy Geddes, an accomplished artist from Australia, is working on a series of cosmonauts that has me wishing for a modern, minimally-decorated living space so that I may grace my walls with his work.
The White Cosmonaut
Whether they’re suspended in monochrome space, seemingly ascending with flocks of doves, or floating across barren cityscapes, these cosmonauts’ head-to-toe space armor makes them into blank representations of ourselves. Almost any emotion can be projected into these paintings: is the cosmonaut doing a happy air dance, or is he dead in his suit? Or maybe they’re just awesome space people, placed into aesthetically-pleasing, universally-appealing settings.
Heat Death
OK, the title of the piece above leaves less to the imagination, but I prefer to think of him merrily romping through the empty, radioactive streets, enjoying the lack of gravity. Geddes hasconsistentlysaid that he wants these pieces to raise questions, rather than answer them, which is precisely what makes me love them more each time I look. Whatever the case may be, this series is gorgeous beyond belief.
The Red Cosmonaut
There are more, bigger cosmonauts on Geddes’ website. Click the jump for two more images here.
“Iron Jaw Kimball Twins, click 1920s” by Frederick W. Glasier (John and Mable Ringling Museum of Art & Eakins Press Foundation)
“Glasier spent the beginning of the 20th century capturing the Greatest Show on Earth. Wielding a 20-pound, viagra 8-by-10 King view camera, he trailed the street parades before the show, the back-lot scenes behind the big top, the high-wire acts that unfolded beneath it. His photographic feats conjured the entire spectacle of the show.”
“Zelda Boden, around 1924” by Frederick W. Glasier (John and Mable Ringling Museum of Art & Eakins Press Foundation)
“But that’s not all. Through his portraits of clowns and other performers, Glasier also revealed the soul of the circus. The haunting stares and intimate poses of his subjects speak directly to the viewer and offer everything from delight to despair. They collapse the distance between us and them.”
“Maude Banvard in The Catch, at the Brockton Fair, Brockton, Mass, 1907” by Frederick W. Glasier (John and Mable Ringling Museum of Art & Eakins Press Foundation)
Coilhouse readers are strongly urged to view these photographs in full screen mode at the NY Times site.Heyday, a full exhibition of Glasier’s work –much of it never presented before now– begins May 15 at the Ringling Museum in Sarasota, Florida.
