Dissolver Magazine


THE TURNBULL AC'S The Turnbull AC's (Self-released, 2006) by Jon Gorey \| Age: 30 \| Boston, MA Emphatic and complex, dark and twisted, The Turnbull ACs aren’t aiming for pop stardom—songs about morgues and murder are evidence enough of that. But while they write songs that casual listeners might find too challenging (both musically and lyrically), more discerning rock fans will find strokes of brilliance in their debut self-titled LP. Dan Mecher’s passionate vocals carry this album and never grow tiresome. His voice quakes and quivers with intensity like a deeper-timbered Conor Oberst, and his outbursts of emotion are capable of taking a song to the next level. Mecher’s musical compositions can wander a little too much at times, even by indie rock standards; but when he reins them into cohesive form, the results are extremely rewarding. The smart and dangerous opening track, “Disco Bomber,” is the best on the album. Its Bonnie and Clyde romanticism and wanderlust are as enticing as the exhilarating jangle of guitars that gracefully alight on dissonant notes before resolving themselves every time. Unfortunately, after such a high water mark, “Pretty Girls Don’t Go to Heaven” is a disappointment—Mecher’s vocals are buried in the mix, and the song itself is all over the place. “In the Attic” quickly makes up for it though, followed by the somber ballad “Funeral Kisses.” “Ghost Town Land” fails to deliver after an intriguing first verse, and at this point the album risks losing its way. “Virgin Ears,” “Come on Back,” and “St. Beale’s Hospital” all display flashes of brilliance, but don’t quite follow through. The first is a well-mixed and pleasing song with great lyrics, but would have been better served if it ended with its climactic “we all make mistakes" refrain; the latter sports fun backing vocal arrangements and interweaves a complicated verse composition with a terrifically catchy chorus… but again goes on longer than was probably necessary. The back end of the album seals the deal, however, as if there was ever any doubt. “Tek-9’s and Cadillacs” is a great, complex rock song, and “Red in the Fountain,” with its lurching, creepster feel, comes off like The Doors’ “People Are Strange” on steroids. And while the second best song doesn’t manifest itself until the very last track, “Angels on Highway 27” is well worth waiting for. Its gory intro, sung over the drone of a church organ, unfolds into a fun, up-tempo alt-country number with a redemptive storyline, truly wonderful lyrics, and a powerful crescendo. Listen to "Disco Bomber" by The Turnbull AC's.

CINEMA, CINEMA Viva (Digitone Records, 2006) by Kathryn Vercillo \| Age: 27 \| San Francisco, CA I’ve been lingering with my fingers over the keyboard for half the day now, trying to figure out what I was going to write about Cinema, Cinema. This isn’t because I have nothing to say but instead is because I vowed to myself that I wasn’t going to make any mention of film in my review. It’s just too obvious to listen to the music of a band named after a movement in film and then to draw comparisons to the world of movies; so obvious in fact that it’s been done again and again in reviews of the band’s music. So I wasn’t going to do it. But as I’ve been poised here listening to the four songs on my copy of Viva play again and again, I continue to think in terms of film. And the reason for this is obvious when you listen to the music; just like the technique for which the band is named, they take snippets of hyper-focused moments and put them side-by-side to tell you a story. Hearing music by Cinema, Cinema is a strangely visual experience. Images derived from both the lyrics and the sound inevitably filter into your mind and make a little multi-media movie there. The CD starts with “Four Alarm” which has an instrumental introduction that sets the stage for the initial meeting between the main characters of this audio film. It is followed by the rapid, immediate vocals of “Born in NYC” which is like the high-speed chase equivalent of heart-racing edge-of-your seat viewing. It pushes and pulls you into the music. The story develops with “Sunburn Eyes” which brings the emotion of the tale to your senses and leaves you wondering how it’s all going to turn out. The ending, “343 Miles Per Second” brings a twist, kicking off with a whiny sound that is experimental in nature and leaving you with the image that there is much more to this story than you yet understand. Accurately self-described as having an “early Radiohead, late Nirvana” sound, Cinema, Cinema is a band that leaves you with a picture in your mind and the feeling that you would probably see that movie twice in the theaters just to get a little bit more insight into it before it hits video stores. Artsy in style, it’s a band that you can see alone, with a group of buddies or as background for date material but you should be forewarned that you’ll leave this sound theater feeling like you’ve been slightly altered by the events you’ve witnessed.

JASON MYLES GOSS Not Just "Another Ghost" Another Ghost (Self-released, 2005) by Kristie Langone \| Lowell, MA Standing with his arms crossed at the back of the Paradise Lounge, Jason Myles Goss takes in the atmosphere of music and alcohol after just finishing his set. It’s not very long before his presence is noticed and he is bear-hugged by an intoxicated fan. Down-to-earth and approachable, Goss accepts the embrace like an amused friend—even if it’s only been ten minutes since he crooned, “All you sweethearts are just criminals in disguise.” The Massachusetts Native turned Brooklyn Dweller opened for Syd and delivered his short performance in casual jeans, a T-shirt and his trusty Sancho Panza: his guitar. That’s really all he needed. This one-man-show reminded everyone packed into the small venue what live acoustic performances are all about and why the up-and-coming deserve to be heard. Goss’ folk and acoustic sound makes him a deus ex machina for the quintessential story of the lover, the loner and the artist looking for a Muse. With a tone comparable to Jack Johnson and Ben Harper, he has a range that’s impressive and seamless. His voice—like butter—seductive, vulnerable and gritty. Yes, he has talent, but 25-year-old Goss has a killer personality too—one that comes with modesty on the side and quips of knowledge for dessert—each entrée making him stand out from your average heart-breaking acoustic engineer. “I have recently discovered Wikipedia, which is the equivalent of giving Nyquil to someone with narcolepsy. I really overdo it. I browse through the site and am overcome with this desire to know everything.” With an engine to keep learning, Goss doesn’t forget his roots either—he wrote a song about Chester Copperpot, the legendary explorer straight out of The Goonies. Goss’ second album, Another Ghost, is a mix-tape of musical innovation. Its road trip feel ruminates with poet Robert Frost’s “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening,” and the emotive colloquialism could be juxtaposed with the lyrical style of Bob Dylan. Another Ghost is conjured in the rhythmic and poignant song, “Burning Daylight” where Goss faces “shadows that drive you miles and miles from home.” But he isn’t always running from ghosts, he’s toasting to them too—in the dynamic, bourbon-ballad, “Take me Away.” “Shake ‘Em Down” is upbeat in its tempo and three steps off vengeful. It leaves you feeling vindicated and ambitious. Goss asserts, “Get ready boy ‘cause it coming round.” The catchy, head-bopping tune, “This One’s Gotta Little Blues in it (for ya)”delivers exactly what it promises (whether or not its title is sarcastic). “Irish Eyes” proves that the quarter-century-Goss has mastered the recipe of bare-bones sentiment in this narrative rendezvous. The harmonica alone, blended with Goss’ pipes in the last track, “Final Hour,” results in a beautiful, jaded lullaby that could relax an insomniac and evoke abstractions like the plastic bag in American Beauty or the feather in Forrest Gump. Goss would probably tell you that he’s “just your average bear,” but he is not just ‘another ghost’ like Chester Copperpot—his lungs are alive and well—and expanding. Jason Myles Goss plays The Baggot Inn (NYC) on April 22nd and Club Passim (Cambridge, MA) on June 17th.

GREYMARKET Dauntless (Self-released, 2006) by Mike Kelly \| Winthrop, MA When GreyMarket's Dauntless begins with "Back in Time," jagged guitar riffs and pulsing keyboards explode out of the speakers. After a suitable amount of time passes to give listeners that killer-robots-are-invading-my-town feeling, singer L. Cave McCoy jumps into the fray with the emotive warmth of his voice carrying a melody that will take up residence in the back of your head for days. This structure is roughly the formula for the entire album, although blues and folk undertones occasionally jump into the mix. While standout tracks such as "Clandestiny" and "Mayday" utilize this contrast perfectly, many others sag through instrumental passages before McCoy makes them soar again with another catchy hook. GreyMarket is still a young band, making waves in Tampa. They display enough talent and promise to give hopes of big things down the road. Hopefully, they will one day be able to fill an entire album with top-shelf material. Until then, Dauntless is a worthwhile effort that deserves a listen.

OLGA Now Is the Time (219records, 2006) by Jason Holloway \| Age: 28 \| Boston, MA Olga—not the Online Guitar Archives, but rather Olga Wilhelmine Munding-Mathus (and yes I think that mouthful of monikers may have something to do with her decision to perform simply as Olga)—is a bluesy balladeer with a sultry southern voice that falls somewhere between Bonnie Raitt's and Amy Ray's. Her latest album, Now Is the Time, mixes polished originals with raw recordings of traditional tunes, and reaches points of pure trancendence. Before we hit the good stuff, though, the title track kicks things off, and it admittedly feels a little awkward on the first listen. Olga sounds as though she's trying a bit too hard in some spots, and it took me a few minutes to get acclimated to the sound for some reason. I came back to this song after a run through the album, though, and it sounded fine—even if it's hardly a highlight. "Your Love Don't Work Like Mine," on the other hand, follows in the 2-hole, and its mellow melody, soft harmonies, jaunty beat, and stirring outro combine to make it a near perfect song. "Weary" begins with a driving blues beat that is familiar, but only just; Olga runs with it, allowing the song to differentiate itself from its simpler cousins. The slightly out-of-tune clang of "Ain't It a Shame" lends the song an honest, saloon-like feel, and Olga's ernest emotion and heartache match the lovingly played mandolin, fiddle, and accordion. "What's the Matter With the Mill" is the first of three traditional songs recorded with an exciting spontaneity. (Even better is the wonderfully addictive "Stealin'," complete with tuba and upright bass.) Co-producer and husband Jimbo Mathus's arrangements and backing vocals help make these tracks inviting and genuine; it makes me yearn to see them play together live. Though it's wedged between the distracting "I Won't Ask" and the uninteresting jazz flop "Fool," I can't forget to mention the best track on the album, "Can You Forgive Me." With its shaken-up rhythm, subtle backing vocals, and effortless melody, it's everything you could ask for in a song, and another showcase for Olga's expressive voice. While you wouldn't expect a San Francisco native—with Austrian roots, at that!—to take listeners deep into the heart of the Southern blues, Olga's warm, emotive voice, great feel for songwriting, and superb backup band make it happen on Now Is the Time.

COURTNEY JONES The One (Tullio Music, 2006) by Kathryn Vercillo \| Age: 27 \| San Francisco, CA The first lines of the lyrics of “Ride," the very first song on The One, introduce the listener to the emotional space in which the heart of Courtney Jones' music beats. With a passionate voice that cascades across the waterfall of instrumentals setting the scenery behind her, Courtney tells you, “I am halfway in between hope and delusion … there is no clear line I can see between what’s real and illusion." This space is where most of us exist emotionally, somewhere in between understanding what is happening in our minds and being baffled by our own feelings. Courtney’s heart beats here, reverberating against the mountains of her own experience with assistance from guitars, drums and her own piano playing to create an echo which she skillfully articulates into insight through poignant lyrics. Courtney’s music is frequently compared to the likes of Sarah Maclachlan, Norah Jones, and Anna Nalick. The comparisons are warranted, as she has a sound which falls into this genre and the talent to make lists that include these ladies. But a listener who hears Courtney with the heart instead of with the ears is less likely to draw comparisons to other musicians than to be reminded of personal experiences. Listening to The One is like taking a long drive on quiet roads in the middle of the night. The wind whipping around you can’t capture your attention because you’re caught in the whirlwind of your own thoughts. And somehow, by the end of the drive, your messy mind has mostly sorted itself out and you feel better about where you’re at in life. Courtney Jones is one of those real girls. You feel like she knows where you’re coming from because she’s been there. And you don’t feel like she’s untouchable even though she’s garnered success in the form of awards (including topping the Alternative and All Genres charts on iacmusic.com with “Ride”). Instead of making her seem unreachable, her success makes you that much more certain that you can achieve your dreams as well as she’s accomplishing hers. Courtney’s music may reverberate in the space of her own emotions, but it makes you feel good about who you are.

DARRIN JAMES BAND Thrones of Gold (Bridge Street, 2006) by Jon Gorey \| Age: 30 \| Boston, MA Thrones of Gold, the debut from the Darrin James Band, is a strong disk the whole way through, incorporating an inspiring variety of musical styles and lyrical themes. With a rugged voice and virtuoso guitar skills, James and his band make the most of his well-written songs. To start, they couldn't have done better with the leadoff track "Trivial," which plays like a great Springsteen song. Immediately following is the funk-infused "Duct Tape," highlighted by an Allman-caliber guitar solo that deftly manages to check itself before getting too jam-band on us. The title track impresses as well, with a genuine Kentucky bluegrass feel to it, and James's voice never sounds deeper or more haunting than in the plaintive "Only a Woman." The fifth track, "Faith on the Run," borrows a little too much from Petty's "Last Dance with Mary Jane," but I like the sentiment of the song an awful lot. It's full of great social commentary ("Matching people like matching socks / In matching houses on matching blocks") and yet more excellent guitar work. "Hate That Word," an indictment of the word "love," succeeds in being honest instead of just overly cynical. Then along comes "Herie." It's not the only song betraying a strong Leonard Cohen influence, but it's certainly the most intense, and throws itself full force into deep global themes, something Cohen certainly wasn't afraid to do either. If "Herie" proves too dark or ominous for you, "Dusty Road" is a perfect (and well-placed) pick-me-up, making nice use of female harmonies to lighten the vocals. It takes 11 tracks to discover that James can hit high notes with astounding grace, as he does in the chorus of "Communion." And on "In the End," he unleashes an entire album's worth of pent-up guitar solos into the soulful 7-minute epic. Exhibiting a sound and lyrical wisdom well beyond his years, Darrin James touches on stories ranging from inspiration to disillusionment on this solo debut, while keeping listeners rapt with his husky voice and talented playing. Thrones of Gold was the result of years of hard work, and it shows. Listen to "Trivial" by the Darrin James Band.

MAX MIN Bright Is the Silence (Ayni Records, 2006) by Steve Brachmann \| Age: 19 \| Boston, MA The first time I had been introduced to anything that could be considered indie pop/rock was probably about three years ago, when I was a junior in high school. I had one of those friends who lived and breathed Death Cab for Cutie and the Flaming Lips. You know the kind: matted down black hair; slightly pale; glasses with those black, rectangular, plastic frames that were trendy a few years ago but every faux-intellectual and their mother wears them now. Sort of like me. Except for that black hair stuff, mines this weird dirty blond that neither is a color nor wants to be one. But, again, I digress… Anywho, said disciple of High Fidelity made me a mix CD, mostly because he had been on a recent kick of spreading his own personal gospel amongst his friends. I received the one with Neutral Milk Hotel, The Postal Service, and some tracks off of Transatlanticism. And it was pretty damned good. However, thank God/god(s)/G-d/Yahweh/Mohammed/Shiva/David Bowie that he also threw in “Blister in the Sun” by the Violent Femmes and a live track of “The Boxer” by Simon and Garfunkel; because if I didn’t have something to sing along to in the car while it was playing, then this disc was going to be relegated to the CD wallet where music goes to die, right next to the Soul Attorneys album I had bought ages ago. (Oh, on a sidenote: should anyone here ever, EVER, be tempted to purchase that one, just download “So They Say”, find whatever fast food joint that band is working at now, get a #9 combo meal, leave a three dollar tip, and call it even.) And therein lies my problem with the so-called ‘indie rock’ genre: yea, it’s nice to listen to at times, but give me a melody that gets stuck in my head. Otherwise, you then become the girl I met at my friend’s kegger last week - you look pretty and have some decent equipment, but I leave in the morning and never plan on calling you back because you seem to be incapable of holding a two-minute conversation without talking about your hairstyle or Beanie Babies. At least talking about XBox would give us some common ground. Don’t get me wrong, I can hum along to “Float On” by Modest Mouse, and I’ll sing some matt pond PA in the shower, but Bright Is the Silence, the debut album from max Min, certainly doesn’t get my juices flowing. It really isn’t bad, per se, but seems to have a niche simply as background music to whatever you might be doing at the moment, be it driving in the country or cooking dinner. All of the songs have the same subtle, mellow, soft-rock feel to them, which is a good thing normally, but all of the songs have it. I’m simply asking to switch it up every once in a while with something a bit more up-tempo, but I’ll give the benefit of the doubt and chalk that up to beginner’s cautiousness (by the way, personal pet peeve: “We” and “Easy Song (just 4 chords)” have the same arpeggiating chord intro. If you’re not going to switch styles, at least try not to copy yourself). And if anyone can listen to a song on here and get the lyrics right within the first five listens, I will personally give you a ten-spot, because I’m still having problems discerning words. Now, I can tell this is an album that, given half a chance, will grow on me a bit. “Easy Song” and “Lie” are two very interesting tracks, and there’s some nice piano laid down during “Feel The Purple”. Also, I like how max Min does make some interesting musical choices: instead of just sticking to piano, drums and guitar, a few tracks have some brass, and every song has these random sounds that have been used very well musically. I think I even heard a sitar at one point, which would be pretty sweet. As always, though, a couple of personal, nitpicking notes: the so-called ‘piano-hymn’ “I Don’t Let You Go” – umm… where’s the piano? Also, if you’re going to throw in a bonus track, great; but why do we have to wait a full five minutes after “Lazy Night” to hear a minute and a half of drum beats and the same note progression that someone decided to stick on repeat? Lastly, the lyrics in “Bright Is the Silence”: “How I wish/ That a song would end right now/ On a single major chord.” And, hey, guess what? The song ends after that line, and if you listen closely, it was ended on a major chord. Can you say “pretension”? All in all, I don’t know if I’d be racing to get this one. It’s okay, and you won’t bang your head against a concrete wall after the purchase (like I’ve been doing since the day I got that aforementioned Soul Attorney’s CD; man, that one blows). I’ll personally wait for max Min to come out with his second album before spending my hard earned cash on his work, but I do believe there’s plenty of promise in Bright Is the Silence. I’d leave you with a witty rejoinder, but I seem to have drained myself with that earlier David Bowie reference. Which is a shame, because I don’t even think it was that funny. Ta for now.

NORAH JONES Not Too Late (Blue Note, 2007) by Adele Brito \| Age: 38 \| New York City At first listen, Norah Jones’ latest album, Not Too Late sounds as mellow and slow as her first two. However, a second take and more careful attention to her lyrics will prove that this new collection is darker, more mature, and socially-conscious than any of her previous material. Actually, fans of the Norah on Come Away With Me might not fully appreciate this subtler, more thoughtful and well-crafted set. On her third solo effort, Ms. Jones shows her songwriting skills have ripened. Her concern for the current state of our nation is evident here, especially on three tracks. The opener, “Wish I Could” tells of lovers who have been torn by war. Jones listens as her friend laments that ‘love in a time of war is not fair’ and that ‘her man was sent far away without a goodbye.’ This somber tune is followed by “Sinkin’ Soon,” a song about Hurricane Katrina. It possesses a true New Orleans sound with a trombone, mandolin, and some pots and pans. Musically, this song places the listener right there ‘on a boat that’s built of stick and hay’ with a ‘captain who’s too proud to say he dropped the oar.’ Track eight is the third jab at our foolish president. “My Dear Country” sounds like a lullaby but with words that are biting and not very soothing. Although she expresses her appreciation for freedom, she states what many of us have come to realize that ‘nothing is as scary as Election Day.’ Ms. Jones hits happier notes too. Although “Thinking About You” is a break-up song, Jones on a Wurlitzer electric piano - accompanied by a tenor sax and trumpet - creates a very soulful environment reminiscent of Al Green and Donny Hathaway. Jones’ roots and talent for country shine through on “Be My Somebody,” “Wake Me Up,” and “Little Room.” On the latter two, Ms. Jones tries her hand on the acoustic guitar and does it rather well. On Not Too Late, she blends elements of jazz, country, and soul quite seamlessly. The experimentation with a variety of instruments adds texture and charm to these songs. Her voice is still soothing and enchanting. She was great on her first two albums. Since then though, she has grown as a musician and songwriter. Here, she shines even brighter. Not Too Late is not just for Norah fans, but for anyone who enjoys thoughtful, experimental, and captivating music.

HALOBURN Ouroboros (Self-Released EP, 2006) by Kathryn Vercillo \| Age: 27 \| San Francisco, CA Many qualities make up a good band, but a good band which remains good over time has the distinct quality of offering consistently good material with a fresh sound on each new album. The title of Haloburn’s newest EP Ouroboros sums up that idea; it refers to the constant state of renewal which a band must be in to be newly inspiring, invigorating and impression-making. Ouroboros lives up to its name, taking the edge of the band’s previous album (Unspoken) and pushing it through a process of reincarnation, turning out a product which has higher energy and stronger musical skills than what came before it while retaining the metal heart which made the band stand out during its first go-round. In the lyrics of the first song of the EP, “Left For Dead," the statement is made: “Leave me for dead but I see the horizon,” and then the observation is offered: “Your new beginning starts with someone else’s end." The concept of Ouroboros extends beyond just renewal. As described in the liner notes of the EP, it is an ancient symbol in which a worm swallows itself, creating both a visual and metaphorical circle. You have to dig deep down into yourself to make the changes that result in your ultimate renewal; surface changes just won’t cut it. Haloburn has renewed itself from the inside out and Ouroboros exposes the spilled guts and cut veins that come during such a process of renewal. And if you don’t know Haloburn yet, you’ll still be able to sense the intense self-reflection which went into the making of the EP. You can hear it in the vocals which have a professional sound but retain the rawness that makes this a metal band through and through. You can feel it in the rapid instrumentals; listen between the lines of “In Circles” to get the gist of the mental frenzy that occurs during emotional renewal. You can sense the struggle and then the solutions found in the stories told through the lyrics from song to song. This is a CD that you’ll want to put on repeat because it gives you something new each time you listen through it.

*DAY TRIP* by Paul Conley \| Writer \| South Boston, MA Illustrated by Barry Maloney Tom Pearson raced up the cement steps leading to the Dorchester Heights Monument, his breath short, his heart beating furiously, more from anticipation and excitement than from exertion. He reached the top of the steps and looked uphill to see the magnificent sight of the monument, a stone, obelisk-like tower that jutted boldly against the deep blue sky. Tom was thrilled to the core. He was a history buff, and to think he was standing where George Washington and his troops were once encamped gave him literal goosebumps. He ran his hand along his forearm. Yep, actual, genuine goosebumps there. He excitedly circled the monument, taking it in from all angles, and then walked past it, stopping and luxuriating in the staggering view high above Boston Harbor. God, what a treat! Tom had only five hours to spend in the city – basically a day trip – and he was now near the end of his excursion, having spent the bulk of his time in downtown Boston rushing along the Freedom Trail. But he was a fit energetic 42 year-old, and he found all the hustling around invigorating rather than tiring. He had won a lottery back home allowing him to pick any place he might want to visit. Since he was a history buff, he had narrowed it down to either Boston or Philadelphia. Boston won out because his family had come from there, so there would be a nostalgia factor mixed in with his sightseeing. His great grandfather had long ago lived in this part of the city, South Boston – the locals apparently called it “Southie” – but he had never visited here before. On this glorious spring day it seemed a nice place to live – a beautiful little peninsula, very quaint, he thought. It was a shame, but it was very unlikely he’d ever be able to make another visit. He glanced at his watch – he’d be leaving for home in about an hour. He headed back to the cement steps leading back down to the neighborhood streets, a bit dejected by the briefness of his visit. He suddenly was hit by a mind-exploding inspiration, realizing he could possibly do something major in the limited time he had left. He quickly found a nearby convenience store which had a local telephone directory handy. Rifling through the book, he landed on the right name and felt a quiet thrill run through him – yes, he was listed, Richard Pearson, very possibly a distant relative of Tom. It turned out Richard Pearson’s home was only a few blocks from the store. Soon he was knocking on the front door of the house and a pretty woman in her mid-twenties answered, saying she was Dick Pearson’s wife and that Tom could find him just a block away at Dick’s favorite local tavern. Within minutes Tom swung through the door of the tavern, a quaint old rusticating urban dive which thrilled Tom, seeming so foreign and exotic to him, like visiting “Rick’s Place” in that old Bogie movie, “Casablanca”. There were three men scattered down the length of the old mahogany bar, and in no time Tom had found his man. Dick Pearson was a big strapping dark-haired young man closing in on thirty. Tom told him his name, saying he suspected they were distant relatives. Dick was visibly puzzled by this slightly eccentric stranger gushing about their possible family relation, but he gamely offered to buy him a beer. Tom sipped his beer with delight – it tasted heady, impossibly delicious – and he blurted out a foolish and risky revelation: “Where I come from, beer is very rare and expensive. As a matter of fact, I've only tasted it once before.” Dick’s eyebrows shot up in mildly annoyed skepticism. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. So why should ‘your’ beer be so rare and expensive?” "Er, well, it's because our water is tightly rationed." “Rationed? So you come from the Sahara or something?” Tom caught himself, realizing he had said too much. “No, not that far away,” he said with a sheepish smile. “So why is your water rationed?” Dick asked, now very obviously skeptical. Tom tried to shrug it off. “Well, it’s because of what you folks around here would call ‘global warming’.” He had to bite his tongue and not say that back at home they had an altogether other, more ominous catchphrase for it: “Geothermal Catastrophe”. Dick gulped another slug of beer and laughed. “Global warming? That’s all bunk purveyed by a bunch of alarmists. From what I’ve read it’s all just part of the normal historical climate cycle.” The last thing Tom wanted to do with the limited time he had was to get into an argument with a guy who was probably a long lost relative. He immediately changed the subject, telling Dick about his wife and two kids. It turned out that Dick also had an infant son, Jack, who, he said with both pride and exasperation, was already headstrong and precocious. Tom felt another quiet thrill when he heard the name of Dick’s son. Yeah, he was certain now that Dick was related to him. He couldn’t believe his luck. Tom glanced at his watch. Time was rapidly running out, he had to be going. He finished his ineffably delicious beer, stood up and hugged Dick warmly, which coming from a total stranger, totally confused and embarrassed Dick. Tom rushed a few blocks away from the tavern until he found a deserted alley tucked between a quaint municipal building and an equally quaint, old-timey telephone company building. Looking around to make sure no one was watching him, he pulled the tiny transporter out of his pocket. Such a powerful device in such a small package. The digital read-out indicated 15 seconds to launch. He took a deep breath as the read-out counted down. He had found that transporting made him feel a bit light-headed, almost nauseated. God, it had been wonderful to have sat in that tavern, sharing a beer with his great grandfather like that. A true gift from the gods. It was truly a shame that he hadn’t had enough time to also meet his infant grandfather, Jack, whom Tom had only known as a little kid when his grandfather was a very old man. His great grandfather had been good company, but there was no way he could understand that: A.) Tom was his great grandson – even though Tom was here at this moment about twelve years older than him – and B.) where Tom came from, Boston had been underwater for almost 50 years. As the read-out hit zero, he took one last look around, hungrily drinking in images of these strange and wonderful surroundings. The transporter emitted a piercing high-pitched whine. With a hiss a clear pliable bubble poured out of the front grid of the transporter, the bubble growing and expanding like a transparent balloon, until Tom was surrounded by the bubble. Then the bubble – along with Tom – disappeared with a low pop into thin air, bringing him back to his wife and two kids, who were anxiously awaiting his return to their oceanfront home in Worcester, Massachusetts, in the year 2117. The End

*ISLAND ENLIGHTENMENT* by Megan Harrington \| Age: 24 \| Watertown, MA Martha’s Vineyard has beautiful beaches. Its gentle dunes are surrounded by winding roads ending at elegant cafes in the midst of pure green fields. And all of these things, beaches, dunes, roads, and fields, are swarming with tourists seeking cheap keepsakes, summer tans, and public restrooms. I have been spending summers on the Vineyard for several years since my mother began teaching at an Island school. Under a gentle yellow sun that highlights the soft colors of grass, sand, and ocean, I’ve explored serene forests, learned (finally) to swim, and dodged SUVs manned by vacationers in desperate need of rest, tranquility, and parking. Like other locals, my mother remains hidden in less populous areas, venturing occasionally near tourist attractions only to return with a shudder and the comment, “It’s wild out there.” I, on the other hand, have been drawn to quaint, eccentric shops that cater to visitors. Led by curiosity and a desire to keep a (small) part of my mind in touch with civilization, I have peered at beads in Edgartown and studied painted shells for sale in Vineyard Haven. One day, I wandered through the door of a Japanese store filled with Asian-style clothing, calligraphy scrolls, and Buddhist statuettes. My eye was caught by a pint-sized Buddha smiling as though he held an unfathomable secret. His face was plump, round, and jovial. His eyes were bronze like his complexion, but sad as well as merry. His expression acknowledged all sorrow in life, all frustration, anger and heartbreak that I or anyone had experienced, and overcame it all with a simple, joyful smile. While standing in front of him, I received a shove hard enough to send me sprawling toward the 99-cent incense sticks. I turned to face the culprit: an overstuffed backpack riding on the shoulders of a sandy-haired man. Sunglasses crowned the man’s forehead, revealing narrow blue eyes. “The Buddhas are over here!!!” he shouted. From across the store trudged a heavy-set blond woman pulling a map out of her fanny pack. “Hurry up!” she said. “We’re supposed to get to South Beach by six!” “I’m coming,” he said. “I want to buy this Buddha. He’s so fat and he’s grinning!” “Well, hurry up!” I watched the man snatch up the statue. “I’m coming! Where’s the price tag on this thing?” Buddha was still smiling.

ONLINE EXHIBITION "End of Dreams" by Gary Tucker Curated by Barry Maloney \| Age: 41 \| Dedham, MA The Dissolver is beginning a new offering in our Arts & Theater Section -- Curated Online Exhibitions. Each issue will feature a series or collection of works by a contemporary artist of note. Selections may be curated by resident art specialist Barry Maloney in collaboration with the artist, or by the artist alone, and presented in the form of an Online Solo Exhibition. For this exhibition, we are presenting a new collection of watercolors by Boston artist Gary Tucker. Nature and its manifestations, spirit and light are the concerns of this series of watercolor landscapes and abstracts created in 2006. The artist, who commonly draws plein air in one of the many natural oases available in the Boston metropolitan area -- is generally known for his watercolor landscapes, pencil renderings and travel drawings. We at The Dissolver are pleased to bring you this exclusive exhibition of contemporary artwork. "End of Dreams" by Gary Tucker Images in order of appearance: Passing Storm Winter Garden Autumn Light Runs Across Dry Field Morning My Winter Garden Blue Sky Red Maple Forest End of Dreams/Autumn Light Seeps In Autumn Color Floating By Autumn Field Moons Reflection To view additional work by Gary Tucker, please follow this link to www.tuckersdoodle.com.

*OUR TOWN* Trinity Repertory Company Providence, RI by Steve Brachmann \| Age: 19 \| Boston, MA One thing that not many of you can tell by reading my reviews is that I’m actually a fairly attractive dude. And, while I’m not modest, I’m certainly charismatic enough to get people to like me in spite of my massive ego. Put those characteristics together, and you have the makings of a damn good actor. Of course, that also makes for a halfway decent politician; unfortunately, I have a soul, and I adhere to the school of “practicing what you preach”, so there goes that option. I’ve been involved with drama most of my life, but I’ve only really been serious about it since sophomore year of high school (don’t forget, for me that’s only four years). For those of you who haven’t performed in a show before, one thing to keep in mind is that, although actors pretend to have a certain chemistry during a performance, it can be totally different behind the scenes. Sometimes a male extra is desperately in love with a girl he’s never on stage with; sometimes guys playing rivals are best friends when the curtain comes down. Personally, I’ve had to play a romantic lead opposite a person I had so much personal disdain for, I felt like retching in their face whenever an intimate scene came up. Normally, if you can’t see these relationships, that means the cast has done their job well. However, this normally concrete rule of theater is completely thrown out of the window in Trinity Repertory Company’s production of Our Town by Thornton Wilder. Our Town was revolutionary in its near complete refusal to use scenery or props to complement a production in an era where theater was known for elegant extravagance (other shows of the time include 42nd Street, and Cole Porter’s Anything Goes, just to give you an idea of the atmosphere). Unfortunately, one year’s revolutionary is quite often next year’s cliché; today, Sondheim is just a good songwriter with some serious melody issues, and Oklahoma! is cheesier than aerosol cheddar. So when an audience comes along that’s even slightly versed in drama, the normal response to Our Town’s theatrical conventions runs somewhere along the lines of an inner monologue mostly concerned with whether or not the oven was turned off before said audience member left home. Therefore, director Brian McEleney finds himself in quite a pickle: how does he take a tired piece of American history and create a work of art that is both relevant and eye-opening? His answer is half-stroke of brilliance, half-common sense. Trinity Rep prides itself on its connection with the Providence community, so what better way to develop that connection even further than by ripping away the walls concealing the dressing rooms? Most theater prides itself on keeping the audience suspended in illusion; Trinity Rep revels in reminding the audience that, “Hey, we hope you enjoy the show and all, but we’re people just like you. Wanna get a drink after the show?” It’s the simplest of ideas, but nothing could have better achieved the sense of community that Trinity Rep’s production was searching for. Of course, good direction can be rendered meaningless by an inadequate cast. Fortunately, the strength of this cast leaves very little to be desired. Of particular note is Susannah Flood in the role of Emily Webb. As an actor, you need to crack away the inhibitions that have been fostered inside of you by your upbringing in order to portray any character. You have to unlearn things such as how it’s not okay to cry when denied what you want. It only makes it that much harder to portray a child, someone who hasn’t been drilled yet on how to “act proper” in society. With that in mind, Flood puts in an inspired performance, going from carefree happiness with her family to youthful anxiety while with her budding love interest, George Gibbs. Almost as impressive is her ability to mature as her character grows older; the child in Act One turns into a teenager in Act Two, and then to a young adult in Act Three. The only unfortunate side effect of her performance is that it illuminates the only weak link in the show, Eric Murdoch as the aforementioned George. He’s certainly no Keanu Reeves, but it didn’t feel as though he was as dialed into his character’s portrayal as Flood. Then again, its not as if it’s entirely his fault; put John Coltrane and any high school band teacher on the same stage and you are certain to notice a difference. Also worth mentioning is the sound direction, led by Sound Designer Peter Sasha Hurowitz. Although the show has no props or scenery, Hurowitz perfectly emulates sounds such as the clopping of cow’s hooves or the clinking of a spoon hitting a glass. The latter was part of a brilliant scene in Act Two where Emily and George visit a soda shop, and, without glasses or a soda fountain, the sounds of pouring and stirring drinks were so perfectly in synch with the actions of the character of the Stage Manager that you could easily visualize the objects in your mind. It’s certainly something you need to see to fully grasp, but that moment alone was worth almost the entire price of admission. I paced around my dorm room for about ten, fifteen minutes, trying to figure out a way to end this review without making it sound like a half-assed essay conclusion you write for an English paper after your senioritis has set in. Of course, having [adult swim] on in the background can be quite distracting (on a sidenote: Moral Orel is absolutely hysterical, while the Tim & Eric Awesome Show is utter crap that deserves to be scoffed at in public). Then I tried to re-read what I had written to give me an idea of how to wrap it up, and all I have to say is: when the hell did I become such a sophisticated, self-important ass? Long story short: Our Town is awesome, Tim & Eric Awesome Show, ironically enough, isn’t, and apparently I need to stop reading The New Yorker.

*L'ENFANT* Written and Directed by Jean-Pierre Dardenne and Luc Dardenne by Jim Briggs \| Age: 23 \| Concord, CA "L’Enfant" translates to "The Child." I can’t imagine a more appropriate title. Bruno (Jérémie Renier), our protagonist, is a petty thug living in Paris with his girlfriend, Sonia (Déborah François). In the very first scene we learn that Bruno subletted Sonia’s apartment, possibly to strangers, to make a few extra bucks. What makes this truly unforgivable is that Sonia’s cradling her newborn child and Bruno is nowhere to be found. Bruno is a thug by profession, operating out of a dilapidated shack next to the Seine. This is where Sonia finds him and he meets his son for the first time. The two are understandably excited; they frolic on the ground like children who’ve just discovered that they enjoy doing so. Every encounter between them seems to end up this way, that is until Bruno sells the child on the black market and a similar encounter involves a knife and lots of shouting. Sonia does what any sensible woman would do; she kicks him out. The narrative abandons the baby and focuses on another child, Bruno. His “associates” are all children, none of whom are equipped to live in the real world. They don’t fully understand that their actions have real consequences, often negative in their line of “work.” At one point Bruno visits his mother to ask a favor, and she robotically does as he asks. His childhood must have been cake. When Bruno is forced to face the consequences of his actions head on it seems that everything in his life is at stake. He has literally nothing to lose, which makes his decision surprising and heroic, leading to an emotionally charged and completely earned dénouement. In a way, L’Enfant is a coming of age story with a protagonist that has already done so physically. At this point in his life, he must play catch up. What the filmmaker brothers Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne (Le Fils) have done so well is create chemistry between Sonia and Bruno. Sonia gives into Bruno’s childish quirks and seems to find them endearing. But she must draw the line somewhere, as do we. Wherever your line is, Bruno will probably cross it.


THE TURNBULL AC'S The Turnbull AC's (Self-released, 2006) by Jon Gorey \| Age: 30 \| Boston, MA Emphatic and complex, dark and twisted, The Turnbull ACs aren’t aiming for pop stardom—songs about morgues and murder are evidence enough of that. But while they write songs that casual listeners might find too challenging (both musically and lyrically), more discerning rock fans will find strokes of brilliance in their debut self-titled LP. Dan Mecher’s passionate vocals carry this album and never grow tiresome. His voice quakes and quivers with intensity like a deeper-timbered Conor Oberst, and his outbursts of emotion are capable of taking a song to the next level. Mecher’s musical compositions can wander a little too much at times, even by indie rock standards; but when he reins them into cohesive form, the results are extremely rewarding. The smart and dangerous opening track, “Disco Bomber,” is the best on the album. Its Bonnie and Clyde romanticism and wanderlust are as enticing as the exhilarating jangle of guitars that gracefully alight on dissonant notes before resolving themselves every time. Unfortunately, after such a high water mark, “Pretty Girls Don’t Go to Heaven” is a disappointment—Mecher’s vocals are buried in the mix, and the song itself is all over the place. “In the Attic” quickly makes up for it though, followed by the somber ballad “Funeral Kisses.” “Ghost Town Land” fails to deliver after an intriguing first verse, and at this point the album risks losing its way. “Virgin Ears,” “Come on Back,” and “St. Beale’s Hospital” all display flashes of brilliance, but don’t quite follow through. The first is a well-mixed and pleasing song with great lyrics, but would have been better served if it ended with its climactic “we all make mistakes" refrain; the latter sports fun backing vocal arrangements and interweaves a complicated verse composition with a terrifically catchy chorus… but again goes on longer than was probably necessary. The back end of the album seals the deal, however, as if there was ever any doubt. “Tek-9’s and Cadillacs” is a great, complex rock song, and “Red in the Fountain,” with its lurching, creepster feel, comes off like The Doors’ “People Are Strange” on steroids. And while the second best song doesn’t manifest itself until the very last track, “Angels on Highway 27” is well worth waiting for. Its gory intro, sung over the drone of a church organ, unfolds into a fun, up-tempo alt-country number with a redemptive storyline, truly wonderful lyrics, and a powerful crescendo. Listen to "Disco Bomber" by The Turnbull AC's.

CINEMA, CINEMA Viva (Digitone Records, 2006) by Kathryn Vercillo \| Age: 27 \| San Francisco, CA I’ve been lingering with my fingers over the keyboard for half the day now, trying to figure out what I was going to write about Cinema, Cinema. This isn’t because I have nothing to say but instead is because I vowed to myself that I wasn’t going to make any mention of film in my review. It’s just too obvious to listen to the music of a band named after a movement in film and then to draw comparisons to the world of movies; so obvious in fact that it’s been done again and again in reviews of the band’s music. So I wasn’t going to do it. But as I’ve been poised here listening to the four songs on my copy of Viva play again and again, I continue to think in terms of film. And the reason for this is obvious when you listen to the music; just like the technique for which the band is named, they take snippets of hyper-focused moments and put them side-by-side to tell you a story. Hearing music by Cinema, Cinema is a strangely visual experience. Images derived from both the lyrics and the sound inevitably filter into your mind and make a little multi-media movie there. The CD starts with “Four Alarm” which has an instrumental introduction that sets the stage for the initial meeting between the main characters of this audio film. It is followed by the rapid, immediate vocals of “Born in NYC” which is like the high-speed chase equivalent of heart-racing edge-of-your seat viewing. It pushes and pulls you into the music. The story develops with “Sunburn Eyes” which brings the emotion of the tale to your senses and leaves you wondering how it’s all going to turn out. The ending, “343 Miles Per Second” brings a twist, kicking off with a whiny sound that is experimental in nature and leaving you with the image that there is much more to this story than you yet understand. Accurately self-described as having an “early Radiohead, late Nirvana” sound, Cinema, Cinema is a band that leaves you with a picture in your mind and the feeling that you would probably see that movie twice in the theaters just to get a little bit more insight into it before it hits video stores. Artsy in style, it’s a band that you can see alone, with a group of buddies or as background for date material but you should be forewarned that you’ll leave this sound theater feeling like you’ve been slightly altered by the events you’ve witnessed.

JASON MYLES GOSS Not Just "Another Ghost" Another Ghost (Self-released, 2005) by Kristie Langone \| Lowell, MA Standing with his arms crossed at the back of the Paradise Lounge, Jason Myles Goss takes in the atmosphere of music and alcohol after just finishing his set. It’s not very long before his presence is noticed and he is bear-hugged by an intoxicated fan. Down-to-earth and approachable, Goss accepts the embrace like an amused friend—even if it’s only been ten minutes since he crooned, “All you sweethearts are just criminals in disguise.” The Massachusetts Native turned Brooklyn Dweller opened for Syd and delivered his short performance in casual jeans, a T-shirt and his trusty Sancho Panza: his guitar. That’s really all he needed. This one-man-show reminded everyone packed into the small venue what live acoustic performances are all about and why the up-and-coming deserve to be heard. Goss’ folk and acoustic sound makes him a deus ex machina for the quintessential story of the lover, the loner and the artist looking for a Muse. With a tone comparable to Jack Johnson and Ben Harper, he has a range that’s impressive and seamless. His voice—like butter—seductive, vulnerable and gritty. Yes, he has talent, but 25-year-old Goss has a killer personality too—one that comes with modesty on the side and quips of knowledge for dessert—each entrée making him stand out from your average heart-breaking acoustic engineer. “I have recently discovered Wikipedia, which is the equivalent of giving Nyquil to someone with narcolepsy. I really overdo it. I browse through the site and am overcome with this desire to know everything.” With an engine to keep learning, Goss doesn’t forget his roots either—he wrote a song about Chester Copperpot, the legendary explorer straight out of The Goonies. Goss’ second album, Another Ghost, is a mix-tape of musical innovation. Its road trip feel ruminates with poet Robert Frost’s “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening,” and the emotive colloquialism could be juxtaposed with the lyrical style of Bob Dylan. Another Ghost is conjured in the rhythmic and poignant song, “Burning Daylight” where Goss faces “shadows that drive you miles and miles from home.” But he isn’t always running from ghosts, he’s toasting to them too—in the dynamic, bourbon-ballad, “Take me Away.” “Shake ‘Em Down” is upbeat in its tempo and three steps off vengeful. It leaves you feeling vindicated and ambitious. Goss asserts, “Get ready boy ‘cause it coming round.” The catchy, head-bopping tune, “This One’s Gotta Little Blues in it (for ya)”delivers exactly what it promises (whether or not its title is sarcastic). “Irish Eyes” proves that the quarter-century-Goss has mastered the recipe of bare-bones sentiment in this narrative rendezvous. The harmonica alone, blended with Goss’ pipes in the last track, “Final Hour,” results in a beautiful, jaded lullaby that could relax an insomniac and evoke abstractions like the plastic bag in American Beauty or the feather in Forrest Gump. Goss would probably tell you that he’s “just your average bear,” but he is not just ‘another ghost’ like Chester Copperpot—his lungs are alive and well—and expanding. Jason Myles Goss plays The Baggot Inn (NYC) on April 22nd and Club Passim (Cambridge, MA) on June 17th.

GREYMARKET Dauntless (Self-released, 2006) by Mike Kelly \| Winthrop, MA When GreyMarket's Dauntless begins with "Back in Time," jagged guitar riffs and pulsing keyboards explode out of the speakers. After a suitable amount of time passes to give listeners that killer-robots-are-invading-my-town feeling, singer L. Cave McCoy jumps into the fray with the emotive warmth of his voice carrying a melody that will take up residence in the back of your head for days. This structure is roughly the formula for the entire album, although blues and folk undertones occasionally jump into the mix. While standout tracks such as "Clandestiny" and "Mayday" utilize this contrast perfectly, many others sag through instrumental passages before McCoy makes them soar again with another catchy hook. GreyMarket is still a young band, making waves in Tampa. They display enough talent and promise to give hopes of big things down the road. Hopefully, they will one day be able to fill an entire album with top-shelf material. Until then, Dauntless is a worthwhile effort that deserves a listen.

OLGA Now Is the Time (219records, 2006) by Jason Holloway \| Age: 28 \| Boston, MA Olga—not the Online Guitar Archives, but rather Olga Wilhelmine Munding-Mathus (and yes I think that mouthful of monikers may have something to do with her decision to perform simply as Olga)—is a bluesy balladeer with a sultry southern voice that falls somewhere between Bonnie Raitt's and Amy Ray's. Her latest album, Now Is the Time, mixes polished originals with raw recordings of traditional tunes, and reaches points of pure trancendence. Before we hit the good stuff, though, the title track kicks things off, and it admittedly feels a little awkward on the first listen. Olga sounds as though she's trying a bit too hard in some spots, and it took me a few minutes to get acclimated to the sound for some reason. I came back to this song after a run through the album, though, and it sounded fine—even if it's hardly a highlight. "Your Love Don't Work Like Mine," on the other hand, follows in the 2-hole, and its mellow melody, soft harmonies, jaunty beat, and stirring outro combine to make it a near perfect song. "Weary" begins with a driving blues beat that is familiar, but only just; Olga runs with it, allowing the song to differentiate itself from its simpler cousins. The slightly out-of-tune clang of "Ain't It a Shame" lends the song an honest, saloon-like feel, and Olga's ernest emotion and heartache match the lovingly played mandolin, fiddle, and accordion. "What's the Matter With the Mill" is the first of three traditional songs recorded with an exciting spontaneity. (Even better is the wonderfully addictive "Stealin'," complete with tuba and upright bass.) Co-producer and husband Jimbo Mathus's arrangements and backing vocals help make these tracks inviting and genuine; it makes me yearn to see them play together live. Though it's wedged between the distracting "I Won't Ask" and the uninteresting jazz flop "Fool," I can't forget to mention the best track on the album, "Can You Forgive Me." With its shaken-up rhythm, subtle backing vocals, and effortless melody, it's everything you could ask for in a song, and another showcase for Olga's expressive voice. While you wouldn't expect a San Francisco native—with Austrian roots, at that!—to take listeners deep into the heart of the Southern blues, Olga's warm, emotive voice, great feel for songwriting, and superb backup band make it happen on Now Is the Time.

COURTNEY JONES The One (Tullio Music, 2006) by Kathryn Vercillo \| Age: 27 \| San Francisco, CA The first lines of the lyrics of “Ride," the very first song on The One, introduce the listener to the emotional space in which the heart of Courtney Jones' music beats. With a passionate voice that cascades across the waterfall of instrumentals setting the scenery behind her, Courtney tells you, “I am halfway in between hope and delusion … there is no clear line I can see between what’s real and illusion." This space is where most of us exist emotionally, somewhere in between understanding what is happening in our minds and being baffled by our own feelings. Courtney’s heart beats here, reverberating against the mountains of her own experience with assistance from guitars, drums and her own piano playing to create an echo which she skillfully articulates into insight through poignant lyrics. Courtney’s music is frequently compared to the likes of Sarah Maclachlan, Norah Jones, and Anna Nalick. The comparisons are warranted, as she has a sound which falls into this genre and the talent to make lists that include these ladies. But a listener who hears Courtney with the heart instead of with the ears is less likely to draw comparisons to other musicians than to be reminded of personal experiences. Listening to The One is like taking a long drive on quiet roads in the middle of the night. The wind whipping around you can’t capture your attention because you’re caught in the whirlwind of your own thoughts. And somehow, by the end of the drive, your messy mind has mostly sorted itself out and you feel better about where you’re at in life. Courtney Jones is one of those real girls. You feel like she knows where you’re coming from because she’s been there. And you don’t feel like she’s untouchable even though she’s garnered success in the form of awards (including topping the Alternative and All Genres charts on iacmusic.com with “Ride”). Instead of making her seem unreachable, her success makes you that much more certain that you can achieve your dreams as well as she’s accomplishing hers. Courtney’s music may reverberate in the space of her own emotions, but it makes you feel good about who you are.

DARRIN JAMES BAND Thrones of Gold (Bridge Street, 2006) by Jon Gorey \| Age: 30 \| Boston, MA Thrones of Gold, the debut from the Darrin James Band, is a strong disk the whole way through, incorporating an inspiring variety of musical styles and lyrical themes. With a rugged voice and virtuoso guitar skills, James and his band make the most of his well-written songs. To start, they couldn't have done better with the leadoff track "Trivial," which plays like a great Springsteen song. Immediately following is the funk-infused "Duct Tape," highlighted by an Allman-caliber guitar solo that deftly manages to check itself before getting too jam-band on us. The title track impresses as well, with a genuine Kentucky bluegrass feel to it, and James's voice never sounds deeper or more haunting than in the plaintive "Only a Woman." The fifth track, "Faith on the Run," borrows a little too much from Petty's "Last Dance with Mary Jane," but I like the sentiment of the song an awful lot. It's full of great social commentary ("Matching people like matching socks / In matching houses on matching blocks") and yet more excellent guitar work. "Hate That Word," an indictment of the word "love," succeeds in being honest instead of just overly cynical. Then along comes "Herie." It's not the only song betraying a strong Leonard Cohen influence, but it's certainly the most intense, and throws itself full force into deep global themes, something Cohen certainly wasn't afraid to do either. If "Herie" proves too dark or ominous for you, "Dusty Road" is a perfect (and well-placed) pick-me-up, making nice use of female harmonies to lighten the vocals. It takes 11 tracks to discover that James can hit high notes with astounding grace, as he does in the chorus of "Communion." And on "In the End," he unleashes an entire album's worth of pent-up guitar solos into the soulful 7-minute epic. Exhibiting a sound and lyrical wisdom well beyond his years, Darrin James touches on stories ranging from inspiration to disillusionment on this solo debut, while keeping listeners rapt with his husky voice and talented playing. Thrones of Gold was the result of years of hard work, and it shows. Listen to "Trivial" by the Darrin James Band.

MAX MIN Bright Is the Silence (Ayni Records, 2006) by Steve Brachmann \| Age: 19 \| Boston, MA The first time I had been introduced to anything that could be considered indie pop/rock was probably about three years ago, when I was a junior in high school. I had one of those friends who lived and breathed Death Cab for Cutie and the Flaming Lips. You know the kind: matted down black hair; slightly pale; glasses with those black, rectangular, plastic frames that were trendy a few years ago but every faux-intellectual and their mother wears them now. Sort of like me. Except for that black hair stuff, mines this weird dirty blond that neither is a color nor wants to be one. But, again, I digress… Anywho, said disciple of High Fidelity made me a mix CD, mostly because he had been on a recent kick of spreading his own personal gospel amongst his friends. I received the one with Neutral Milk Hotel, The Postal Service, and some tracks off of Transatlanticism. And it was pretty damned good. However, thank God/god(s)/G-d/Yahweh/Mohammed/Shiva/David Bowie that he also threw in “Blister in the Sun” by the Violent Femmes and a live track of “The Boxer” by Simon and Garfunkel; because if I didn’t have something to sing along to in the car while it was playing, then this disc was going to be relegated to the CD wallet where music goes to die, right next to the Soul Attorneys album I had bought ages ago. (Oh, on a sidenote: should anyone here ever, EVER, be tempted to purchase that one, just download “So They Say”, find whatever fast food joint that band is working at now, get a #9 combo meal, leave a three dollar tip, and call it even.) And therein lies my problem with the so-called ‘indie rock’ genre: yea, it’s nice to listen to at times, but give me a melody that gets stuck in my head. Otherwise, you then become the girl I met at my friend’s kegger last week - you look pretty and have some decent equipment, but I leave in the morning and never plan on calling you back because you seem to be incapable of holding a two-minute conversation without talking about your hairstyle or Beanie Babies. At least talking about XBox would give us some common ground. Don’t get me wrong, I can hum along to “Float On” by Modest Mouse, and I’ll sing some matt pond PA in the shower, but Bright Is the Silence, the debut album from max Min, certainly doesn’t get my juices flowing. It really isn’t bad, per se, but seems to have a niche simply as background music to whatever you might be doing at the moment, be it driving in the country or cooking dinner. All of the songs have the same subtle, mellow, soft-rock feel to them, which is a good thing normally, but all of the songs have it. I’m simply asking to switch it up every once in a while with something a bit more up-tempo, but I’ll give the benefit of the doubt and chalk that up to beginner’s cautiousness (by the way, personal pet peeve: “We” and “Easy Song (just 4 chords)” have the same arpeggiating chord intro. If you’re not going to switch styles, at least try not to copy yourself). And if anyone can listen to a song on here and get the lyrics right within the first five listens, I will personally give you a ten-spot, because I’m still having problems discerning words. Now, I can tell this is an album that, given half a chance, will grow on me a bit. “Easy Song” and “Lie” are two very interesting tracks, and there’s some nice piano laid down during “Feel The Purple”. Also, I like how max Min does make some interesting musical choices: instead of just sticking to piano, drums and guitar, a few tracks have some brass, and every song has these random sounds that have been used very well musically. I think I even heard a sitar at one point, which would be pretty sweet. As always, though, a couple of personal, nitpicking notes: the so-called ‘piano-hymn’ “I Don’t Let You Go” – umm… where’s the piano? Also, if you’re going to throw in a bonus track, great; but why do we have to wait a full five minutes after “Lazy Night” to hear a minute and a half of drum beats and the same note progression that someone decided to stick on repeat? Lastly, the lyrics in “Bright Is the Silence”: “How I wish/ That a song would end right now/ On a single major chord.” And, hey, guess what? The song ends after that line, and if you listen closely, it was ended on a major chord. Can you say “pretension”? All in all, I don’t know if I’d be racing to get this one. It’s okay, and you won’t bang your head against a concrete wall after the purchase (like I’ve been doing since the day I got that aforementioned Soul Attorney’s CD; man, that one blows). I’ll personally wait for max Min to come out with his second album before spending my hard earned cash on his work, but I do believe there’s plenty of promise in Bright Is the Silence. I’d leave you with a witty rejoinder, but I seem to have drained myself with that earlier David Bowie reference. Which is a shame, because I don’t even think it was that funny. Ta for now.

NORAH JONES Not Too Late (Blue Note, 2007) by Adele Brito \| Age: 38 \| New York City At first listen, Norah Jones’ latest album, Not Too Late sounds as mellow and slow as her first two. However, a second take and more careful attention to her lyrics will prove that this new collection is darker, more mature, and socially-conscious than any of her previous material. Actually, fans of the Norah on Come Away With Me might not fully appreciate this subtler, more thoughtful and well-crafted set. On her third solo effort, Ms. Jones shows her songwriting skills have ripened. Her concern for the current state of our nation is evident here, especially on three tracks. The opener, “Wish I Could” tells of lovers who have been torn by war. Jones listens as her friend laments that ‘love in a time of war is not fair’ and that ‘her man was sent far away without a goodbye.’ This somber tune is followed by “Sinkin’ Soon,” a song about Hurricane Katrina. It possesses a true New Orleans sound with a trombone, mandolin, and some pots and pans. Musically, this song places the listener right there ‘on a boat that’s built of stick and hay’ with a ‘captain who’s too proud to say he dropped the oar.’ Track eight is the third jab at our foolish president. “My Dear Country” sounds like a lullaby but with words that are biting and not very soothing. Although she expresses her appreciation for freedom, she states what many of us have come to realize that ‘nothing is as scary as Election Day.’ Ms. Jones hits happier notes too. Although “Thinking About You” is a break-up song, Jones on a Wurlitzer electric piano - accompanied by a tenor sax and trumpet - creates a very soulful environment reminiscent of Al Green and Donny Hathaway. Jones’ roots and talent for country shine through on “Be My Somebody,” “Wake Me Up,” and “Little Room.” On the latter two, Ms. Jones tries her hand on the acoustic guitar and does it rather well. On Not Too Late, she blends elements of jazz, country, and soul quite seamlessly. The experimentation with a variety of instruments adds texture and charm to these songs. Her voice is still soothing and enchanting. She was great on her first two albums. Since then though, she has grown as a musician and songwriter. Here, she shines even brighter. Not Too Late is not just for Norah fans, but for anyone who enjoys thoughtful, experimental, and captivating music.

HALOBURN Ouroboros (Self-Released EP, 2006) by Kathryn Vercillo \| Age: 27 \| San Francisco, CA Many qualities make up a good band, but a good band which remains good over time has the distinct quality of offering consistently good material with a fresh sound on each new album. The title of Haloburn’s newest EP Ouroboros sums up that idea; it refers to the constant state of renewal which a band must be in to be newly inspiring, invigorating and impression-making. Ouroboros lives up to its name, taking the edge of the band’s previous album (Unspoken) and pushing it through a process of reincarnation, turning out a product which has higher energy and stronger musical skills than what came before it while retaining the metal heart which made the band stand out during its first go-round. In the lyrics of the first song of the EP, “Left For Dead," the statement is made: “Leave me for dead but I see the horizon,” and then the observation is offered: “Your new beginning starts with someone else’s end." The concept of Ouroboros extends beyond just renewal. As described in the liner notes of the EP, it is an ancient symbol in which a worm swallows itself, creating both a visual and metaphorical circle. You have to dig deep down into yourself to make the changes that result in your ultimate renewal; surface changes just won’t cut it. Haloburn has renewed itself from the inside out and Ouroboros exposes the spilled guts and cut veins that come during such a process of renewal. And if you don’t know Haloburn yet, you’ll still be able to sense the intense self-reflection which went into the making of the EP. You can hear it in the vocals which have a professional sound but retain the rawness that makes this a metal band through and through. You can feel it in the rapid instrumentals; listen between the lines of “In Circles” to get the gist of the mental frenzy that occurs during emotional renewal. You can sense the struggle and then the solutions found in the stories told through the lyrics from song to song. This is a CD that you’ll want to put on repeat because it gives you something new each time you listen through it.

*DAY TRIP* by Paul Conley \| Writer \| South Boston, MA Illustrated by Barry Maloney Tom Pearson raced up the cement steps leading to the Dorchester Heights Monument, his breath short, his heart beating furiously, more from anticipation and excitement than from exertion. He reached the top of the steps and looked uphill to see the magnificent sight of the monument, a stone, obelisk-like tower that jutted boldly against the deep blue sky. Tom was thrilled to the core. He was a history buff, and to think he was standing where George Washington and his troops were once encamped gave him literal goosebumps. He ran his hand along his forearm. Yep, actual, genuine goosebumps there. He excitedly circled the monument, taking it in from all angles, and then walked past it, stopping and luxuriating in the staggering view high above Boston Harbor. God, what a treat! Tom had only five hours to spend in the city – basically a day trip – and he was now near the end of his excursion, having spent the bulk of his time in downtown Boston rushing along the Freedom Trail. But he was a fit energetic 42 year-old, and he found all the hustling around invigorating rather than tiring. He had won a lottery back home allowing him to pick any place he might want to visit. Since he was a history buff, he had narrowed it down to either Boston or Philadelphia. Boston won out because his family had come from there, so there would be a nostalgia factor mixed in with his sightseeing. His great grandfather had long ago lived in this part of the city, South Boston – the locals apparently called it “Southie” – but he had never visited here before. On this glorious spring day it seemed a nice place to live – a beautiful little peninsula, very quaint, he thought. It was a shame, but it was very unlikely he’d ever be able to make another visit. He glanced at his watch – he’d be leaving for home in about an hour. He headed back to the cement steps leading back down to the neighborhood streets, a bit dejected by the briefness of his visit. He suddenly was hit by a mind-exploding inspiration, realizing he could possibly do something major in the limited time he had left. He quickly found a nearby convenience store which had a local telephone directory handy. Rifling through the book, he landed on the right name and felt a quiet thrill run through him – yes, he was listed, Richard Pearson, very possibly a distant relative of Tom. It turned out Richard Pearson’s home was only a few blocks from the store. Soon he was knocking on the front door of the house and a pretty woman in her mid-twenties answered, saying she was Dick Pearson’s wife and that Tom could find him just a block away at Dick’s favorite local tavern. Within minutes Tom swung through the door of the tavern, a quaint old rusticating urban dive which thrilled Tom, seeming so foreign and exotic to him, like visiting “Rick’s Place” in that old Bogie movie, “Casablanca”. There were three men scattered down the length of the old mahogany bar, and in no time Tom had found his man. Dick Pearson was a big strapping dark-haired young man closing in on thirty. Tom told him his name, saying he suspected they were distant relatives. Dick was visibly puzzled by this slightly eccentric stranger gushing about their possible family relation, but he gamely offered to buy him a beer. Tom sipped his beer with delight – it tasted heady, impossibly delicious – and he blurted out a foolish and risky revelation: “Where I come from, beer is very rare and expensive. As a matter of fact, I've only tasted it once before.” Dick’s eyebrows shot up in mildly annoyed skepticism. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. So why should ‘your’ beer be so rare and expensive?” "Er, well, it's because our water is tightly rationed." “Rationed? So you come from the Sahara or something?” Tom caught himself, realizing he had said too much. “No, not that far away,” he said with a sheepish smile. “So why is your water rationed?” Dick asked, now very obviously skeptical. Tom tried to shrug it off. “Well, it’s because of what you folks around here would call ‘global warming’.” He had to bite his tongue and not say that back at home they had an altogether other, more ominous catchphrase for it: “Geothermal Catastrophe”. Dick gulped another slug of beer and laughed. “Global warming? That’s all bunk purveyed by a bunch of alarmists. From what I’ve read it’s all just part of the normal historical climate cycle.” The last thing Tom wanted to do with the limited time he had was to get into an argument with a guy who was probably a long lost relative. He immediately changed the subject, telling Dick about his wife and two kids. It turned out that Dick also had an infant son, Jack, who, he said with both pride and exasperation, was already headstrong and precocious. Tom felt another quiet thrill when he heard the name of Dick’s son. Yeah, he was certain now that Dick was related to him. He couldn’t believe his luck. Tom glanced at his watch. Time was rapidly running out, he had to be going. He finished his ineffably delicious beer, stood up and hugged Dick warmly, which coming from a total stranger, totally confused and embarrassed Dick. Tom rushed a few blocks away from the tavern until he found a deserted alley tucked between a quaint municipal building and an equally quaint, old-timey telephone company building. Looking around to make sure no one was watching him, he pulled the tiny transporter out of his pocket. Such a powerful device in such a small package. The digital read-out indicated 15 seconds to launch. He took a deep breath as the read-out counted down. He had found that transporting made him feel a bit light-headed, almost nauseated. God, it had been wonderful to have sat in that tavern, sharing a beer with his great grandfather like that. A true gift from the gods. It was truly a shame that he hadn’t had enough time to also meet his infant grandfather, Jack, whom Tom had only known as a little kid when his grandfather was a very old man. His great grandfather had been good company, but there was no way he could understand that: A.) Tom was his great grandson – even though Tom was here at this moment about twelve years older than him – and B.) where Tom came from, Boston had been underwater for almost 50 years. As the read-out hit zero, he took one last look around, hungrily drinking in images of these strange and wonderful surroundings. The transporter emitted a piercing high-pitched whine. With a hiss a clear pliable bubble poured out of the front grid of the transporter, the bubble growing and expanding like a transparent balloon, until Tom was surrounded by the bubble. Then the bubble – along with Tom – disappeared with a low pop into thin air, bringing him back to his wife and two kids, who were anxiously awaiting his return to their oceanfront home in Worcester, Massachusetts, in the year 2117. The End

*ISLAND ENLIGHTENMENT* by Megan Harrington \| Age: 24 \| Watertown, MA Martha’s Vineyard has beautiful beaches. Its gentle dunes are surrounded by winding roads ending at elegant cafes in the midst of pure green fields. And all of these things, beaches, dunes, roads, and fields, are swarming with tourists seeking cheap keepsakes, summer tans, and public restrooms. I have been spending summers on the Vineyard for several years since my mother began teaching at an Island school. Under a gentle yellow sun that highlights the soft colors of grass, sand, and ocean, I’ve explored serene forests, learned (finally) to swim, and dodged SUVs manned by vacationers in desperate need of rest, tranquility, and parking. Like other locals, my mother remains hidden in less populous areas, venturing occasionally near tourist attractions only to return with a shudder and the comment, “It’s wild out there.” I, on the other hand, have been drawn to quaint, eccentric shops that cater to visitors. Led by curiosity and a desire to keep a (small) part of my mind in touch with civilization, I have peered at beads in Edgartown and studied painted shells for sale in Vineyard Haven. One day, I wandered through the door of a Japanese store filled with Asian-style clothing, calligraphy scrolls, and Buddhist statuettes. My eye was caught by a pint-sized Buddha smiling as though he held an unfathomable secret. His face was plump, round, and jovial. His eyes were bronze like his complexion, but sad as well as merry. His expression acknowledged all sorrow in life, all frustration, anger and heartbreak that I or anyone had experienced, and overcame it all with a simple, joyful smile. While standing in front of him, I received a shove hard enough to send me sprawling toward the 99-cent incense sticks. I turned to face the culprit: an overstuffed backpack riding on the shoulders of a sandy-haired man. Sunglasses crowned the man’s forehead, revealing narrow blue eyes. “The Buddhas are over here!!!” he shouted. From across the store trudged a heavy-set blond woman pulling a map out of her fanny pack. “Hurry up!” she said. “We’re supposed to get to South Beach by six!” “I’m coming,” he said. “I want to buy this Buddha. He’s so fat and he’s grinning!” “Well, hurry up!” I watched the man snatch up the statue. “I’m coming! Where’s the price tag on this thing?” Buddha was still smiling.

ONLINE EXHIBITION "End of Dreams" by Gary Tucker Curated by Barry Maloney \| Age: 41 \| Dedham, MA The Dissolver is beginning a new offering in our Arts & Theater Section -- Curated Online Exhibitions. Each issue will feature a series or collection of works by a contemporary artist of note. Selections may be curated by resident art specialist Barry Maloney in collaboration with the artist, or by the artist alone, and presented in the form of an Online Solo Exhibition. For this exhibition, we are presenting a new collection of watercolors by Boston artist Gary Tucker. Nature and its manifestations, spirit and light are the concerns of this series of watercolor landscapes and abstracts created in 2006. The artist, who commonly draws plein air in one of the many natural oases available in the Boston metropolitan area -- is generally known for his watercolor landscapes, pencil renderings and travel drawings. We at The Dissolver are pleased to bring you this exclusive exhibition of contemporary artwork. "End of Dreams" by Gary Tucker Images in order of appearance: Passing Storm Winter Garden Autumn Light Runs Across Dry Field Morning My Winter Garden Blue Sky Red Maple Forest End of Dreams/Autumn Light Seeps In Autumn Color Floating By Autumn Field Moons Reflection To view additional work by Gary Tucker, please follow this link to www.tuckersdoodle.com.

*OUR TOWN* Trinity Repertory Company Providence, RI by Steve Brachmann \| Age: 19 \| Boston, MA One thing that not many of you can tell by reading my reviews is that I’m actually a fairly attractive dude. And, while I’m not modest, I’m certainly charismatic enough to get people to like me in spite of my massive ego. Put those characteristics together, and you have the makings of a damn good actor. Of course, that also makes for a halfway decent politician; unfortunately, I have a soul, and I adhere to the school of “practicing what you preach”, so there goes that option. I’ve been involved with drama most of my life, but I’ve only really been serious about it since sophomore year of high school (don’t forget, for me that’s only four years). For those of you who haven’t performed in a show before, one thing to keep in mind is that, although actors pretend to have a certain chemistry during a performance, it can be totally different behind the scenes. Sometimes a male extra is desperately in love with a girl he’s never on stage with; sometimes guys playing rivals are best friends when the curtain comes down. Personally, I’ve had to play a romantic lead opposite a person I had so much personal disdain for, I felt like retching in their face whenever an intimate scene came up. Normally, if you can’t see these relationships, that means the cast has done their job well. However, this normally concrete rule of theater is completely thrown out of the window in Trinity Repertory Company’s production of Our Town by Thornton Wilder. Our Town was revolutionary in its near complete refusal to use scenery or props to complement a production in an era where theater was known for elegant extravagance (other shows of the time include 42nd Street, and Cole Porter’s Anything Goes, just to give you an idea of the atmosphere). Unfortunately, one year’s revolutionary is quite often next year’s cliché; today, Sondheim is just a good songwriter with some serious melody issues, and Oklahoma! is cheesier than aerosol cheddar. So when an audience comes along that’s even slightly versed in drama, the normal response to Our Town’s theatrical conventions runs somewhere along the lines of an inner monologue mostly concerned with whether or not the oven was turned off before said audience member left home. Therefore, director Brian McEleney finds himself in quite a pickle: how does he take a tired piece of American history and create a work of art that is both relevant and eye-opening? His answer is half-stroke of brilliance, half-common sense. Trinity Rep prides itself on its connection with the Providence community, so what better way to develop that connection even further than by ripping away the walls concealing the dressing rooms? Most theater prides itself on keeping the audience suspended in illusion; Trinity Rep revels in reminding the audience that, “Hey, we hope you enjoy the show and all, but we’re people just like you. Wanna get a drink after the show?” It’s the simplest of ideas, but nothing could have better achieved the sense of community that Trinity Rep’s production was searching for. Of course, good direction can be rendered meaningless by an inadequate cast. Fortunately, the strength of this cast leaves very little to be desired. Of particular note is Susannah Flood in the role of Emily Webb. As an actor, you need to crack away the inhibitions that have been fostered inside of you by your upbringing in order to portray any character. You have to unlearn things such as how it’s not okay to cry when denied what you want. It only makes it that much harder to portray a child, someone who hasn’t been drilled yet on how to “act proper” in society. With that in mind, Flood puts in an inspired performance, going from carefree happiness with her family to youthful anxiety while with her budding love interest, George Gibbs. Almost as impressive is her ability to mature as her character grows older; the child in Act One turns into a teenager in Act Two, and then to a young adult in Act Three. The only unfortunate side effect of her performance is that it illuminates the only weak link in the show, Eric Murdoch as the aforementioned George. He’s certainly no Keanu Reeves, but it didn’t feel as though he was as dialed into his character’s portrayal as Flood. Then again, its not as if it’s entirely his fault; put John Coltrane and any high school band teacher on the same stage and you are certain to notice a difference. Also worth mentioning is the sound direction, led by Sound Designer Peter Sasha Hurowitz. Although the show has no props or scenery, Hurowitz perfectly emulates sounds such as the clopping of cow’s hooves or the clinking of a spoon hitting a glass. The latter was part of a brilliant scene in Act Two where Emily and George visit a soda shop, and, without glasses or a soda fountain, the sounds of pouring and stirring drinks were so perfectly in synch with the actions of the character of the Stage Manager that you could easily visualize the objects in your mind. It’s certainly something you need to see to fully grasp, but that moment alone was worth almost the entire price of admission. I paced around my dorm room for about ten, fifteen minutes, trying to figure out a way to end this review without making it sound like a half-assed essay conclusion you write for an English paper after your senioritis has set in. Of course, having [adult swim] on in the background can be quite distracting (on a sidenote: Moral Orel is absolutely hysterical, while the Tim & Eric Awesome Show is utter crap that deserves to be scoffed at in public). Then I tried to re-read what I had written to give me an idea of how to wrap it up, and all I have to say is: when the hell did I become such a sophisticated, self-important ass? Long story short: Our Town is awesome, Tim & Eric Awesome Show, ironically enough, isn’t, and apparently I need to stop reading The New Yorker.

*L'ENFANT* Written and Directed by Jean-Pierre Dardenne and Luc Dardenne by Jim Briggs \| Age: 23 \| Concord, CA "L’Enfant" translates to "The Child." I can’t imagine a more appropriate title. Bruno (Jérémie Renier), our protagonist, is a petty thug living in Paris with his girlfriend, Sonia (Déborah François). In the very first scene we learn that Bruno subletted Sonia’s apartment, possibly to strangers, to make a few extra bucks. What makes this truly unforgivable is that Sonia’s cradling her newborn child and Bruno is nowhere to be found. Bruno is a thug by profession, operating out of a dilapidated shack next to the Seine. This is where Sonia finds him and he meets his son for the first time. The two are understandably excited; they frolic on the ground like children who’ve just discovered that they enjoy doing so. Every encounter between them seems to end up this way, that is until Bruno sells the child on the black market and a similar encounter involves a knife and lots of shouting. Sonia does what any sensible woman would do; she kicks him out. The narrative abandons the baby and focuses on another child, Bruno. His “associates” are all children, none of whom are equipped to live in the real world. They don’t fully understand that their actions have real consequences, often negative in their line of “work.” At one point Bruno visits his mother to ask a favor, and she robotically does as he asks. His childhood must have been cake. When Bruno is forced to face the consequences of his actions head on it seems that everything in his life is at stake. He has literally nothing to lose, which makes his decision surprising and heroic, leading to an emotionally charged and completely earned dénouement. In a way, L’Enfant is a coming of age story with a protagonist that has already done so physically. At this point in his life, he must play catch up. What the filmmaker brothers Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne (Le Fils) have done so well is create chemistry between Sonia and Bruno. Sonia gives into Bruno’s childish quirks and seems to find them endearing. But she must draw the line somewhere, as do we. Wherever your line is, Bruno will probably cross it.