Essays, Opinion

The DIY Strength of the Sunkin Suns

When I first met Sam Catral, he was wearing a patterned button-down and a full beard that would give some the impression that he was much older than what his years were. Snow was still in drifts along the streets and you couldn’t go outside without shivering. After our toes had thawed, we made conversation about our shared love of guitar music. Being a full-time student and teacher of jazz guitar, he gave me some pointers that have served me since (Keep your hand still, let your fingers do the talking). He was giving me advice on life, which I thought was a bit bold – me being two years his senior, he at the time was only around 19 years old.  Despite, or perhaps because of this youth you’ll find Milton, Sam, and Yanni’s influence dominate in just about every stage in Milwaukee.

The Sunkin Suns are the human embodiment of the DIY culture that permeates the Milwaukee music scene. Their ethic is one of empowerment of the individual and the employment of alternative approaches outside of traditional mainstream consumer culture. They are as punk-spirit as it gets… but make it jazz. Since their conception, they have created Milwaukee music nights where other DIY bands have a place to excel. Be it in sweaty attic shows where the oppressive air seems to take on a cross breeze pushed only by their groovy guitar bends and eccentric drum lines or loud basement shows hosted by a local anarchist. They push on, despite societal and bureaucratic obstacles. Circumventing the traditional route of the creation of music. They take total control of their final product. The pleasure of watching the Sunkin Suns perform is like stepping outside of your comfort zone, outside of the established cultural community and finally being able to choose what you want your night to look like.

The Sunkin Suns was originally Sam’s pet project with his friend Milton. They officially met on the high school bus he informed me, introduced by a mutual friend. It was the beginning of a project that has survived through undercover jobs at jazz bars in Milwaukee; brief ill-fated forays with cover bands and has now culminated in a Psychedelic Jazz Trio Jam Band that plays everywhere that matters. Despite Milton and Sam having incredible talent, they were lucky enough to pick up one of the best drummers that I personally have ever been lucky enough to see, Yanni. The might of that man’s internal metronome and quick humor makes a person think that anything is possible. Their forces combined; the smooth music is like cold water on a sultry day and refreshes all parts of the good land from River Revitalization foundation fundraisers to Marquette University’s Straz Theater.

Four years later after Milton and Sam met, more often than not getting turned away from shows because of their age, you can find their sticker on every lamp-post of Milwaukee county’s streets from West Allis to Oak Creek. They have around eight songs in rotation that they wrote themselves and are more than willing to hop on the bill with other up and comings of the music scene in Milwaukee. Most famously, Cullah but also other lesser known but should be known Christian Porter, Graham Scott, Gnatcatchers, and Dogbad. There is so much to be seen in the streets and stages of Milwaukee both in snow and in sunshine. Like a duck, calm above the water, but below- a flurry of productive activity and everyone wants in.

The Sunkin Suns mixes old favorites with new takes like a twist of lemon on your mineral water carbonation of sound-buds. As their deft fingers pick out the classic melodies and lift up the spirits of every pair of ears they touch, they weave notes as if they were cotton strings set precisely on a loom. If the songs they create bring so much happiness, then the influences that they leave behind are DIY euphoria. Leave all of the out-moded disbeliever talk at the door and let your soul decipher the meaning of the connection of the melodies to your past, your present, and your future. Without realizing, you will find your head bobbing to the beat.

Essays, Opinion

Does Cullah Mind Tho?

It’s hard to believe, but over the last year, Cullah has created three music videos as well as producing yet another album. His natural intensity is reflected in this video, his newest accomplishment. Never a stranger to pushing the needle forward, he teamed up with local Milwaukee talent to create a flowing effortless portrayal of the rhythmic development of romance. Marina Dove, Dan Wein, and Cullah began working together they spoke over their plates of summer squash and lemonade homemade in Cullah’s childhood home. As they reworked section after section of the vibrant new world of “I Don’t Mind It” the message aged and maturated. According to Cullah, “I create my music to balance between my own individual expression and the forms in which others can digest them” He uses this approach as he salts the taste buds of our ocular and visual palates.

An aesthetic taste to sate appetites of all inclinations. Gliding across the screen, the natural and organic process of falling in love is absorbed. This pattern ingestion is not only the narrative of the music video but also of the viewer’s experience as they view the oftentimes psychedelic movement of Cullah’s music video. Even the choreography of the experience defied the expectations that society separates itself, and throughout the three minutes and thirty seconds, elevates it to high-brow. The three fates border Marina and Cullah as pervasively as society expects us to follow the rules and “natural progression” of love.

Ignoring the fates surrounded by the color blocks of red hotel stairs and cutting contrast of black costume and white. He believes that “Art is the most intense expression of individualism. A true artist believes in himself. A true artist must understand the society that they are formed by.” His struggle to maintain his freedom is clear in the dizzying melting patterns with brass saxophone. What, after all, separates an individual’s wants from the wants of their culture? The main character’s willful cold shoulder to the external elements that shape his art create a destructive paradox. In ignoring his culture, he is, at the same time subject to it. This excitement of love and staying in love that, in the end, resulted in the corrosion of his own artistic vision. Although, crossing the skyline of Milwaukee, it doesn’t seem that he minds following society’s expectations.

Again and again, Cullah goes above and beyond, not only through the stellar production work, but a masterful command of narrative. His methods are devoted to balance and a drive to deliver excellence of product and taste to truth. Heart and the ever-undulating pressures of society on the artistic mind are the central themes of Cullah’s newest production.

Essays, Opinion

Worldwide Black Inturnet Radio

On a cool October evening in the setting sun of the Montrose area of Houston, Texas the two young men who make up the Worldwide Black Inturnet Radio sit before me. With clear-rim glasses and beanie, Ike details to me his love of craft beer (Yellow Rose, Victory Golden Monkey, Voodoo Ranger, and Jai Alai) and Courtland, his love of sleep and equal love of photography.  Ike Ekwueme and Courtland Webb tag team production and develop their lyrical sound with the same level of respect that they approach with each other.

Drawing from their contemporary existence and influenced by old inspirations they make music a priority rather than an afterthought. Having art and presenting it to people, they have only been in this particular project since January of 2019. When I first met them, they were freshman performers trying out their craft on one of their first live crowds at Axelrad’s open mic. But when not performing at trendy art galleries and crowded chic bars, they dedicate a large chunk of time toward producing their sound.

Every Monday, the music comes first, using samples from the 70s and 80s and Courtland playing the guitar they embark on the germination of their up and coming self-titled album WBIR. Working weekly, WBIR is a production duo made up of two individuals who got along so well you could’ve sworn they’d grown their whole lives up with their houses right next to each other.

They had only played their first show this past October after having put out a single called Velvet Bed Spread. Insomnia gallery hosted and the two shared the stage with a band called Uncommon colors. They’ve been playing in every corner of Houston since then. Their epic vibrations are out of this world. But for them, it’s all about the down to earth love and friendship that places its roots in the music. The skeleton of beats made flesh by their mouthwatering lyrical feats. Their self-titled album will grace the networks of the worldwide web most likely by the end of the year. Bring your friends, and enjoy the time-transcendence cranial global experience of Worldwide Black Inturnet Radio.

Essays

The Versatile Beauty of Sweet Potatoes

I usually get my sweet potatoes from my local supermarket or farmer’s market when I can make it there on the weekends. A 2005 Gallup poll ranking the least favorite thanksgiving foods; sweet potatoes placed solidly in third most despised. Despite this poll, I have found a haven in the slightly sweet and earthy vegetables. During Thanksgiving meals, Twenty-one percent of Americans put cranberries as their least favorite, seventeen percent of United States citizens placed, all vegetables as their second least favorite. Finally, roughly one in ten Americans said sweet potatoes or yams were their least favorite food at the Thanksgiving dinner table.

But in 2019, health is the new trend. Begone from the millennial’s table are mashed sweet potatoes with marshmallows, welcome is the farro and sweet potato gratin. Although most are pleased and intrigued by the green and orange offerings made every turning of the leaves, most of my family members avoid it. According to sanfordhealth, Millennials value health the most, besides their family. Wellness is brought by daily achievements. One of those achievements, for me, is delivered sweet and steaming from the oven, preferably with garlic and thyme.

My sweet potatoes are a robust orange. Their dark orange peels lining the bottom of my garbage can and they are properly prepared, I sharpen my Wusthof chef’s knife. I push the sharp blade into the tuber until I hear the clack of the knife against my fluorescent orange cutting board. It is a celebration of orange. Since moving to a big city after finishing my undergraduate career, I find myself going back again and again to the beautifully versatile and cheap sweet potato. Eat them with black beans and spicy salsa for a vegetarian taco. Another day, you could finally utilize the immersion blender that your mom got you for Christmas two years ago. You know the one that you have used a total of four times? It makes it a snap to boil and blend into a creamy soup with ginger and turmeric that warms your insides and lifts your spirits. You could even put it into a pie for Thanksgiving or really anytime is good for pie.

Rich in complex carbohydrates, gluten-free but still packed with dietary fiber and loaded with beta-carotene it is no wonder that it has graced the tables of American kitchens for centuries. Although they belong to a different biological family, often, they are treated like every other potato, whether Russet or Yukon. They are deep-fried. Eat them with ketchup or mayonnaise and whatever other condiments strike your fancy and let the grease help the bad feelings slide right out of you. You can roast them in the oven with paprika and eat them with leafy greens.

Funnily enough, despite my steadfast loyalty to the spud, I never grew up with it. Most likely because although now I live in humid Houston, Texas; my place of birth and coming of age was snowy and frosty Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Sweet potato plants, according to TheSpruce.com, because they are unrelated to regular potatoes they require the warm temperature to germinate full-sized and harvestable tubers.

Like most of us, sweet potatoes need a little bit of love and warmth to get to where they need to go. Despite being third-to-last in likeability in terms of thanksgiving, they have placed solidly in first in my apartment.

Short Story

Apocalypse at the Bus Stop

Marissa wakes on the volcanic concrete. The sun was high in the center of the sky. The day had been hot, despite the fact that it had rained last night.

Little dried worms and the dampness of her clothes are Marissa’s only company besides the dismembered limbs that are scattered about her. A rotting smell hangs in the air. A large crow caws at her from the other side of the parking lot.

Marissa groans as she sits up. Fumbling through her fanny pack she takes out a small wet wipe and dabs at her forehead. What a strange day. Having freshened up a little, she stands and steps over a piece of human leg. The evidence of the war aka development aka liberation from the former democratically elected oppressors.

Marissa hiccups and leans against the wall of the abandoned corner store. She had a half-finished bottle of rum tight in her grip. A freshly burned photograph that had pictured two small girls lie in a pile of ash at her feet. Shuffling away from her mess, Marissa sits at the bus stop. Marissa hiccups and drinks. Her eyes tried focusing on the horizon where it seemed to her that a black figure was approaching. Marissa hiccups again. A small percussive sound reverberated in her skull as she slouched against the dirty pole of the bus stop. No, two black figures.

By the time she had stopped hiccupping, the two figures had materialized into full-blown people. One, a small woman with wire-rimmed glasses and delicate wrists checks her watch. The second was an old man with chess pieces on his tie. The young woman rifles in her purse and sighs exasperatedly. Marissa starts to tap her feet on the ground. Another crow joins the other larger crow and they all seemed to be too many that she could reasonably talk to. So, she turns her attention to the two people in front of her.

            “Did anyone find anything useful?” The old man rubs his knees after sitting down carefully.

            Marissa just shakes her head.

            “When is this bus going to come?” The young woman exclaims.

            “You tell me” The old man lights a cigarette.

            “I’m not the one who has the radio.”

            “Shut up”

The sound of the wind grew louder. Marissa pulled her dirty clothes tighter around her torso.

            “Eugene, do you have another?” Marissa squawks at the man. He squints at her, spits on the ground and clears his throat ending in a finale of spit that he lugs at the ground.

            “Uck” Marissa’s face contorts.

            “Fuck yourself little B-I-T-C-H” She crosses her arms and settles back into staring into the neck of her bottle.

            “When is this bus gunna get here?” The young woman adjusts her scarf to block the smells coming from the body parts around the bus stop. Only the wind answered her repeated question.

            On the wings of the east wind you could hear them before you saw them. A great rumbling as if shaking the ground. Marissa groans in discomfort.

            “Fucking Harleys. Can’t they just keep their cacophony to themselves for just a split second?”

            “Big words for such a sad sack. Who’re you tryin to impress?” The old man’s chessboard tie fluttered in the wind. Marissa shot him a look that could kill and stood up, turning to the young woman.

            “Maria?” The delicate woman glanced back and looked forward. “Maria?”

            “What.”

            “I think- maybe this time…”

            “What?”

            “Maybe this time you could talk to them? We got your back you know and they’ll stop, you know that they always-“

            “I know that they always stop” Maria cut her off. Maria checked her watch again. “I would’ve thought that – with everything going on that I wouldn’t have to deal with this”

            “I know Maria” The old man interjected. “It’s just that I talked to them the last two times and the last time Marissa talked to them.”

            There was a flash of black leather a studs turning the corner. The old man placed a small bottle of asprin in her hand. Maria gripped it lightly but didn’t move her other hand from her face.

            “WHOA NELLIE!” A big voice exploded from a small man on an even bigger Harley Davidson. “WHAT DOYOU SEE HERE” Maria said nothing. “I SAID- I SAID WHAT DO YOU SEE HERE?” Maria’s lips moved but nothing came out. “SHY??”

            Maria was visibly pale and trembling as she held out the bottle of asprin. The biker looked at it and took it from her, inspecting the bottle thoroughly. Looking through every pill by dumping the lot into his palm and putting on his bifocals. He nodded appreciatively.

            “THANK YOU FOR YOUR DONATION.” He laughed hugely and carefully put every pill back into its bottle. “DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING ELSE THAT YOU CAN SPARE?”

            Maria shook her head.

            “WHAT ABOUT YOU TWO?”

            “What about us?” the old man protested the attention.

            “WHAT ABOUT YOU TWO?”

            “We don’t have anything else.”

            “WHAT ARE YOU GUYS STANDIN HERE FOR?”

            Maria piped up- “We’re- we’re waiting for the bus.”

            “THE BUS TO WHERE?” The Harley was the only sound in response. Marissa started laughing and took another swig of her bottle. “THAT BOTTLE LOOKS YUMMY” Marissa stopped laughing and put it behind her back. The biker laughed again and flashed a gun at his hip. She capped the bottle and offered it to Maria. Maria edged back, not letting her back face the biker and handed the small amount of liquor left to the biker. The biker uncapped the warm alcohol and downed all of it. The stream of clear drink making his beard shinier than it already was. He smashed the bottle near Maria’s feet and laughed again at her jump and rode away.

            Maria looked at her wrist again. “When is the bus going to come?”

Essays

Gaming: a lifestyle and a career

Click. Buzzz. Katizz. In the Heights area of Houston, Texas at the tail end of September, a group of around 20-30 Millennials gather around the television on a hot Sunday afternoon. They flick through the channels to cheer on their favorite Houston team. But something makes this event different from the Sundays past, it is not to cheer on any soccer game or football or even tennis. It is The Overwatch League 2019 Grand Finals. Twitch and even ESPN have helped make gaming the single largest entertainment business in the world. By a long shot.

These platforms provide live coverage of the matches that are viewed by a little under than half a million people. The viewership is only growing and is fast outpacing all mainstream physical sporting events. The world of competitive gaming has swelled, and with it; the potential winnings. According to Overwatch’s website there is around 5 million dollars at stake for those willing to put in the work. There are salaries to be earned and online forums to troll. Split between the Atlantic and Pacific, 6v6 teams ranging from cities like Guangzhou and Toronto to compete in the regular season to play live at an arena built by Blizzard, the video game developer company itself in Los Angeles.

 I was first introduced to the gaming world by my older brothers. One brother in particular was very tech savvy and in the early 2000s would go around our suburban neighborhood with his high school friends and haul back big monitors with giant convex glass screens that flickered and hummed whenever you turned them on. With whatever tech supplies that he could scrounge up he would hook together something called a Local Area Network (LAN) and would invite his friends so that they could play Warcraft III. Now, 20 years later, Blizzard is still maintaining a solid grip on the gaming industry. Blizzard has been able to adapt and anticipate new markets such as first-person shooter games like Overwatch.

First-person shooter games are heralded by conservative older Boomers at its worst as a poison that stokes violence among the youth and at its best; a waste of time. But we can’t deny that video games are the domain of Millennials like my brother and has become a huge part of our world culture. First person shooter games have become so pervasive in our society that if continuing the current trajectory will overtake even the most steadfast of American traditions, football. Rather than torn ACLs, carpel tunnel has the potential to take over as the predominant sporting injury that costs professional gamers money according to a 2016 article by The eSports Observer.

But can you even define gaming as a sport? Fans of Overwatch would argue steadfastly for the affirmative. Activision Blizzard, the publisher of Overwatch along with many other highly successful games has permeated the market has made millions, just like in real life (IRL) sports. Blizzard is the brains behind Call of Duty, Guitar Hero, and most famously World of Warcraft. Game developers have found other ways to make money according to the Atlantic like loot boxes which is surprisingly close to gambling.

In conclusion, the rise of professional paid gaming is just in its infancy. Gaming competitively will further embed itself into the norms of American culture and a world denied to all but jocks will see the revenge of the geek. There is are high stakes to be tackled, and much nerd-ary to be embraced. Oh yeah, and millions be made.

Essays

My first five hours in Beijing

The year was newly 2018. January was just peeking its head around the corner of the calendar when I got on the plane to live in a country that I had only read articles about and seen in smog-filled photos. When I landed (a day early, a mistake I still blame on my father’s insistence that I keep in mind the time change) I dragged my bright red suitcase behind me. My goal was to find my way to a hotel for that first night. I did not think at the time to buy a new sim card to account for the Chinese firewall and was operating solely on a well-worn stack of papers that I had printed at my parent’s house. Forging ahead toward where I thought made the most sense; the line of taxis outside of the airport. Sweaty palms gripped my small amount of Yuan and I flagged down one and showed them the messy Chinese that I had painstakingly copied down onto one of the pieces of paper that I clung to like a life vest. But what I didn’t understand (besides the Mandarin that covered every tongue and street sign), was that I had made a mistake with my choice of taxi-driver. It wasn’t until I was standing in front of a nondescript building that was most certainly not my hotel without any method of getting back to the airport. I was effectively on my own. But by taking a deep breath and thanking my lucky stars that I had the foresight to download the offline-google translate of English-Mandarin I was able to find someone to call me a taxi back to the airport and I ended the day (if not a little shaken up) safe and sound where I was supposed to be.

Poetry

Under-Discovered

Other people always bothered me anyways.

When I spoke wrong, which was often-

They would stare or take pictures of themselves

Because if I couldn’t speak like they could

They weren’t interested.

I found a solid gold iron pyrite in the ground

While I was taking a walk in the park.

When I extracted it;

I sat down and examined it

The glittering fool’s gold casted

Splatter across my face

Gilded with dirt.

I run the bath hot.

And when a spider drops in,

uninvited,

and I feel as if he were already on my skin

Swimming eight legs and hair and eight eyes

Swimming two legs and hair and two eyes

Two feet and one face curl in disgust

There’s nothing wrong with choosing space.

Gripping the fools gold tightly

Value is what you make of the glitter

Understudied invertebrate

Under-discovered treasure

Like a cloud in front of the moon or

Is it the moon behind the clouds

Is it the traffic killing you

Or you, being a part of the line

stretched across the stop-

light

like

A

Ladder.

Opinion

Spectacullah: your New Favorite Album

The inauguration of Cullah to the office of established name takes place as small wood violets bloom in the north woods. It is impossible to go down streets of Milwaukee without Cullah’s voice drifting out the open doors of the residents of Riverwest (a vibrant small neighborhood that represents the infusion of eccentric socialist intellectuals, DIY punk anarchists, and afrofuturistic creatives). Cullah has not only created and released a truly awesome amount of tunes; they have traveled the distance. From Milwaukee’s own Cactus club in Bay View, and to as far north as Sweden and as far south as Chile; Cullah’s cultural footprint has been painstakingly engraved. It’s alright if you haven’t heard of Cullah before. Like Milwaukee, he has been underrated and sometimes even written off (not enough “it” factor he was told). His iconoclastic courage told him that only he could tell his story. Therefore, he has kept total creative control of the production of his work. You can see the singular vision of the artist unify in Spectacullah.

Spectacullah has shown off Cullah’s unwavering and broad talents, as well as pulling his sound from the things most personal to him. “I Want you to Be Kind to Yourself” is written to his mother, who has been experiencing health problems. Cullah’s new album represents the month that he was born in. To that season of new growth -he has pledged to dedicate the fully-formed creation, execution, and manifestation of his virtuoso. To understand his capabilities you only need to listen to “Love You Gotta Be” this particular song incorporates three different key signatures and the wild heart of his sister’s songwriting. To only call him technically talented- that would be underselling. To call him the next greatest artist – that would be only logical.

www.cullah.com album art – BigShotRobot

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