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Razorcake #78
Razorcake

Razorcake #78

Regular price $3.00
Cover design by Mitch Clem (website) and watercolored by Nation of Amanda (website)

Low Culture: We spend our lives surrounded by screens. Whether they’re physical, emotional, or digital, they separate us from the mosh pit. Have you ever been in a band with a street punk who snowboards? Has Jeff Burke ever told you to keep working on it? Those aren’t rhetorical questions. Low Culture is definitely a desert band. They’re caustic, darkly numinous, and teeming with life. They’re also fucking hilarious and hard working. Let the record stand: Low Culture is a punk band.

Jabber: Kevin Dunn and Todd Taylor took a break long enough at Awesome Fest to get Jabber to elaborate on the nuances of bowling, pancakes, and the slippery slope of the cowbell. They discuss the spinning plates of being in a touring band and everyday life. They’re doing gymnastics at birthday parties, watching hamburger videos, and slinging vinyl. They’re unabashedly pop punk and don’t condone the six chord songs. Is that a big zit or is that a nipple? Read on.

Bümbklåått: Rene Navarro and Todd Taylor sit on the fence between Tijuana and San Diego to get the truth as Bümbklåått sees it. These dudes have some serious stories to tell about the veritable fuckstorm that is the border and being in a band that lives and operates on both sides of it. They’ve managed to make the best of a shitty situation, offering nachos and Jagermeister to friends, punks, and lush local officials. Bümbklåått is one of the most pants-dropping bands I’ve ever seen live. They’ll make you throw the horns and throw your friends around till it’s time to pay the I-don’t-remember-ordering-that-many-Fireball-shots-tab. Little Debbie, this one’s for you.

One Punk’s Guide to Silent Films: Donna Ramone offers up an erudite and entertaining walk through the history of silent films. She watches old timey porno, apologizes for the Black Face, and drools longingly at the nimble movements of Buster Keaton. From the incendiary nature of film (literally), to the murky racial waters of American history, to the unsung role of women during film’s early days, Donna writes with the knowledge of scholar and with a punk’s discerning eye for bullshit and pretence. It’s written with love and popcorn butter-covered fingers. This is seriously fucking amazing.

Sean Carswell is having a midlife crisis and playing PacMan. (website)

Jim Ruland spends his Halloween in a tow truck. He may not offer you candy, but he’s got a fist full of empathy. (blog, twitter)

Liz Prince goes to GreenDayUniversity and majors in Sociology with a minor in Ethics. (website, twitter)

Ben Snakepit puts on his nostalgia spectacles and provides an etymology of the Snakepit. (blog, twitter)

Cassie J. Sneider is not a qualified dietician, but would make a great life coach. There’s power in the blood kids. (blog, twitter)

Rev. Nørb is swimming in his jeans and pulls the permed wig off of the sausage rock. (website)

Adrian Chi wields a chainsaw and indulges in conspiracy theories. Keeners beware! (facebook)

Rhythm Chicken details the perks of being a Rhythm Chicken. He hates stress and loves beer. (facebook)

Art Fuentes has a religious experience and realizes he’s got enough Jesus.

Kiyoshi Nakazawa illustrates things his six year old says. (website)

Designated Dale goes all Dan Brown on Johnny’s Mosrite. A theft. A legend. A mystery.


And photos from the lovely and talented:

Shanty Cheryl (flickr)

Dan Monick (website, twitter)

Rachel Murray Framingheddu (website)

Matt Average (flickr)

If you’re reading this and you don’t have a subscription: you’re not doing your part. So, put down the luminous porn pad and take your grubby fingers out of Steve Jobs’ ghostly money rectum and Subscribe poser!

This issue is dedicated to the memory of Wanda Coleman

“American Sonnets: 91”
the gates of mercy slammed on the right foot.
they would not permit return and bent
a wing. there was no choice but
to learn to boogaloo. those horrid days
were not without their pleasure, learning
to swear and wearing mock leather so tight
eyes bulged, a stolen puff or two
behind crack-broken backs and tickled palms
in hallways dark, flirtations during choir practice
as the body organized itself against the will
(a mystic gone ballistic, not home but blood
on the range) as one descended on this effed-up
breeding hole of greeds—to suffer chronic seeings

was’t hunger or holiness spurred the sighting?

–Wanda Coleman

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