alexsarll: (bernard)
First weekend of June was very much the first big weekend of the summer. Started early by playing to stereotypical associations of 'Japan', packing out [livejournal.com profile] xandratheblue's local sushi place and all being a bit disturbing. Saturday was her official birthday, in Highgate Woods, with a pinata who died too easy. I the interests of keeping the jovial violence going, wrestling ensued, as a result of which I am still nursing a slightly stiff ankle I SAID ANKLE. In between - Nuisance with JOHNNY RUDDY DEAN FROM MENSWEAR fronting the house band for a set of Bowie covers - and, inevitably, an encore of his own material. All of it excellent, except perhaps the rather idiosyncratic choice of 'Crash' among the latter. The final track was a version of 'All the Young Dudes', which also featured Jaime from Marion and the word 'YOLO'. A perfect fusion of seventies, nineties and 2010s, right?
On the Sunday, my Cthulhuson was most impressed by all the diggers and forklifts clearing up after the Stone Roses clusterfucked Finsbury Park. I can't say I was quite so fascinated, but it was certainly more appealing that watching a tuneless homophobe and three hypocrites massacre songs that used to be quite good.

The week after that had little to report here - certainly not our ignominious placing in the Doctor Who pub quiz, which wasn't even the only Whocentric socialising that week, not that I am a geek or anything. Then a quieter weekend, off to deepest Middlesex to see where [livejournal.com profile] wardytron lives now he's allegedly a grown-up. Say what you like about the suburbs, and I do, but I will always be likely to approve of any party with a friendly dog. Then home via another party, with me refusing vodka on the train - not because I hold to the laws on that, or had suddenly turned abstemious, but simply because it tasted like Malibu. Ick.

Made my first visit to Finsbury Park's new theatre last night. They've had various exciting new dramatists' stuff already, so obviously I went for the classic - School for Scandal. I've never seen any Sheridan before, and I'm still not entirely convinced that watching Sheridan is as good as reading Cabell's chapter about Sheridan as epitome of the "glorious mountebank" in Beyond Life, but the sheer wit and deviousness and moral vacancy of the whole affair was a delight. Could perhaps have done with spending more time on choreographing the key farce scene, though, and less on the musical interludes they'd added.
alexsarll: (Default)
Well, if we overlook an astonishing disappointing Dalek effort from the once-great Moffat, that was rather a lovely evening - lounging in a Crouch End gazebo by candlelight, all suitably louche. And at lunchtime I'd finally got round to attending one of the Union Chapel's daytime concerts, with (The Real) Tuesday Weld taking full advantage of the pulpit; the night before I'd walked through Holborn, along the South Bank and then down to the deep South for [livejournal.com profile] my_red_dream's wedding reception, where pretty much all the old faces were together again for the first time in I don't know how long. It has been, in brief, a pretty satisfactory weekend.

At some point I got very behind writing about shows I've seen; Edinburgh is done now, and I've not even caught up with the last of the previews I saw before it kicked off. Impressed to have caught three of the Best Newcomer nominees (including the rather surprising winner) courtesy of [livejournal.com profile] diamond_geyser (all mentioned in previous posts, I think) - but then there were also the very sweet Grainne Maguire (who is not a character act), curly-haired Matt Highton (for whom I became a professional gag-writer), Phil Nichol (a sort of Canadian Al Pacino who was probably great once he'd learned his material), and Nick Doody (wrong and brilliant). And then, at a normal venue, whatever the opposite of a preview is, so now I have *finally* seen Dinosaur Planet in full.

Also, there were plays! At the Bridewell Theatre, which is not just a name, for said well half-blocks the entrance to the basement bar. I was there to see [livejournal.com profile] perfectlyvague's Thatcher in Berkoff's Sink the Belgrano - which is treasonous rot, but part of being one of the good guys is being able to enjoy art even when it's wrong. Also on the bill was Man of Destiny, the first George Bernard Shaw I've seen in ages. He really was much better at speeches than drama, wasn't he?
alexsarll: (bernard)
London life appears to be cycling up again, the diary filling and the weeks of temperance (through illness or lack of event, not some talismanic fool belief in detox) coming to an end; if doubt remains, then you always know for sure that it's kicking off again once you're stood in the back room of the Wilmington watching giant robots fight off space dinosaurs with the help of indie rock. Back to the clubs and pubs and dinner parties - and back to Kentish Town. Did ever a district combine side street charm with high street horror to such an extent? Four places I wanted to go before Ale Meat Cider - one simply failed me, and three were on unscheduled shutdown (one by the fire brigade). In the meantime, I've been reading, and putting the new Necron list throught its paces on the tabletop*, and relishing Gregg Araki's Kaboom, which mixes his usual polymorphous perversity with apocalyptic conspiracy and creative swearing, and less so Arrietty which is, like every non-Miyazaki Ghibli film I've seen, faintly disappointing. The visual richness, the gardens into which you just want to melt, are present and correct - but the characters and the plot just feel a little...conventional, up until an ending which is at once conventional and not even a logical conclusion of what has gone before.

And, most importantly, I've been to the Isle of Wight with [livejournal.com profile] xandratheblue. Yes, it's still definitely England, even if it's not Great Britain, but it's my first time overseas in years, or with her. So we meandered around the island on a bus that seemed to be the equivalent of the Circle Line if it had a view and was faintly reliable, and saw clicking owls and cartwheeling monkeys and a Roman mosaic of a cock-headed man (NOT LIKE THAT), and stayed in a hotel on a lake, and because she's a city girl she seemed almost as excited to have rabbits and sheep pointed out from the train window as to travel on a hovercraft. Though it was noticeable that the other passengers were a lot more subdued on the return trip, presumably because of the Costa Concordia footage on the screens in the waiting room. I don't know why, given we were using a totally different means of transport and the captain wasn't Italian. Though in his shoes I wouldn't have been able to resist a loud 'Mamma mia!' or two within earshot of the nervous travellers.

*With most pleasing results, except against Blood Angels.
alexsarll: (pangolin)
Not been feeling too lively the past week or so, for no particular reason. I did make it out for the last wedding of the season, of course, and was very glad of it too - I love when the friends massively outnumber the family instead of vice versa, when the day feels like a ritualisation of joy rather than an obligation, and there can be no finer reading than the toast from Frida Kahlo's wedding. And the night before there was gigging - Bevan 17 with light reflecting from the metal on the bass keys to the mirrorball then back, Gyratory System ("This is great! They're so obnoxious!" - [livejournal.com profile] xandratheblue) and The Vichy Government playing like they were in the club scene from It Couldn't Happen Here. Otherwise, leisure time has largely been spent catching up with films. Zack Snyder's Sucker Punch got some dreadful reviews, but of the video game-influenced films I saw last week, it was vastly preferable to Zowie Bowie's Source Code. Seriously, if Jake Gyllenhaal's whiny prick of a character in Source Code is any kind of accurate representation of the modern US military, then no wonder they've been getting such underwhelming results lately. Every twist is visible at least ten minutes away, and the overall effect is of a very nicely-shot episode of Quantum sodding Leap, even down to the sciencey-but-wildly-misapplied title. Whereas Sucker Punch exists in the same genre - call it 'video game psychological/combat musical'? - as Scott Pilgrim. It's darker, more flawed, slightly alarming in places, but for all that, it feels personal, *necessary*, more than extruded Hollywood product, in a way that Source Code never does. And tonight it's Attack the Block, although obviously any Adam or Joe-directed take on London's vicious youth is going to have a hard time competing with Speeding on the Needlebliss.

...

Sep. 16th, 2011 12:08 pm
alexsarll: (Default)
The weekend again already, at least if one is using up annual leave, and as per last week it doesn't look to be the most raucous of weekends, but is nonetheless deeply cherished for all that. There are a lot of people moving away from Finsbury Park lately, and for all my science fiction-inspired futurism, on a domestic level I disapprove of change. Still, at least by happening in autumn it's seasonally appropriate (as ever, I prefer 'pathetic truism' to the nonsensical term 'pathetic fallacy' - because weather and human moods do tend to match up).
Often, the moments in life of which one feels proudest aren't really suitable for the internet; they're better held close and secret. But last Sunday, while picking up a book that makes dinosaur noises for my Cthulhuchild, I overheard a customer asking the shopkeeper where he should start with Avengers comics. And un-English as it was, I 'Excuse me, if I might assist'-ed, and explained the situation, and by the end of it the fellow was ordering the first volume of The Ultimates (because it's better than the originals, and much closer to the films, which were what had inspired him to ask in the first place). So I'd supported my local independent bookshop, done some comics evangelism and helped a slightly puzzled shopper, all in one. I fear this may make me part of the Big Society.

Beyond that...well, it's all been a bit science-fictional. Had my first games of Cosmic Encounter, a game which manages both to be very simple to pick up, surprisingly tactical, and completely different each time depending what combination of alien powers the players get. Went to the British Library's Out of this World exhibition, full of manuscripts, old editions, life-size props (though I could tell the TARDIS was a fake - no warmth or hum) of science fiction classics. But 'science fiction classics' as defined by someone who actually knows their stuff - Olaf Stapledon got due respect (they even had the original hand-drawn timelines for the millions of years covered in his majestic Last and First Men), and John Brunner was well-represented too (I never knew he'd come up with the computer sense of 'worm'). So much there that I'd love to go back if only I hadn't come along so late in the run, and a perfect gallery for it too, somehow. If I had one quibble it would be the absence of Simak, but then everyone forgets about Simak nowadays, and in an odd way that fits the backwoods, leaving-the-city-folk-to-do-city-things nature of his work. Seriously, though - melancholy pastoral SF. It's excellent.
Oh, yes, and there was Torchwood. Of which the best that can be said is that about half of the last episode was quite good, and maybe five minutes really kicked arse.

Untitled

Jun. 2nd, 2010 10:57 am
alexsarll: (Default)
Brilliant word discovery of the weekend: 'pratagonist'. Sadly, I'm fairly sure that its appearance in an Observer review was a typo, because the piece had another on the next line which definitely was, but recognising a good mistake as valid is the sort of thing Oblique Strategies encourages, so I'm having it. I'm reading a noir book at the moment where at least one of the three leads is a definite pratagonist.

Big weekend! A Cheeze & Whine where I was strangely close to sober(ish) for all the hits, but then also three birthdays where I was not. Fine parties all, but also wonderful moments en route. On Saturday, listening to the new Hold Steady as I turned into Clissold Park, just as Craig Finn exhaustedly advises "You can't get every girl, you get the ones you love the most", I looked up and saw the rainbow. And on Sunday, crossing Finsbury Park, a very excitable puppy, who had clearly not been out on his lead before and thus found its falling-over possibilities most fun, decided to make friends with me while my earphones played, of all things, the Indelicates' 'Stars'.

I had expected Saturday's Doctor Who to be an improvement on Part One and, while the first third had some customary Chibnallisms on the surface, after that it impressed me by quite how old Who it was. They even had the escape/run around corridors/recapture sequence! At the same time, that glorious darkness in showing parental instincts as the thing which make some humans so very much less than the best. Oh, they may have had a shoddy redesign, but I've missed the Earth Reptiles - like the Ice Warriors, a rare case where Who's monsters don't sit in uneasy tension with its message of tolerance of the other and always judging by individuals' actions.
Plus: Amy single without being given loads of angst into the bargain. Result.
Because I am an addict, I also watched The Masque of Mandragora, which I had never seen before and which is up legally and in full on Youtube. Some shoddy effects and half-arsed acting even for the time, but when an idea hits him and he curses not having realised sooner, you can really see how Tom Baker grows up to become Matt Smith.

Dirghic

Aug. 17th, 2009 03:12 pm
alexsarll: (bernard)
Spent Friday night in the Queens, which I don't recall visiting since its brief stint as the local, a stint ended when [livejournal.com profile] missfrost ceased to be its most local local and the centre of social gravity shifted. It hasn't changed, except that it now employs a pirate, something I mentioned just as he picked up my glass from behind. Ooops.
On Saturday, I got the train to Oxford rather than the coach, which also meant using Paddington rail station for I think the first time ever. It has a disappointing lack of bears. I was amongst the dreaming spires for a wedding attended by many people from university who were already married, draped in children or otherwise giving me the fear. What I had thought a rather over-ambitious scheme for the day in fact worked very smoothly, and the river journey in particular was perfectly English - motoring gently along the Thames, gentle meadows to the side and gentler cumulus above, plenty of cava. And, inevitably, the goth boating party coming the other way. One friend of the groom refused to believe that my flatmate could be among them - "How can they have flatmates? They're river gypsies!" West Londoners can be so entertaining. Later, I attempt to scramble up some creepers. This is not a great plan - you can trust trees, but creepers are deceptive. I fall on my arse, and am in a not inconsiderable amount of pain for the rest of proceedings, and onwards. Between this and my cowboy boots (long story, but they really were the only sensible footwear given the itinerary), on Sunday in particular I am reduced to walking at the speed most people walk at. I honestly don't know how they cope - it takes so long to get anywhere! Suddenly I understand why so many people get public transport everywhere or are simply reluctant to leave the house.
On Sunday, [livejournal.com profile] fugitivemotel gets his send-off. All associated parties are late to the pub in various degrees, but some other people I know have been there since mid-afternoon, so I hang with them for a bit, then manage to disperse most of them with the assertion (I can offer no sources, but still recall hearing it somewhere credible) that one major omission from Gorillas in the Mist was quite how friendly Dian Fossey got with the gorillas. This means we can get their big table. Result. And have a nice USA, [livejournal.com profile] fugitivemotel.

One can point to plenty of templates for The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen's stitching together of different fictions into one grand tapesty - Philip Jose Farmer's Wold Newton series is often mentioned, or there are Kim Newman's Dracula books. In one sense it's a foolish endeavour, because back before copyright started messing intertextuality up, myths would always mingle - look at the way the Matter of Britain incorporated other chivalrous myths, previously self-sufficient characters like Lancelot being brought into Arthur's orbit. Nonetheless, I've found another work on the same theme which I'm rather enjoying, David Thomson's Suspects. Thomson is probably best known for his gleefully partial Biographical Dictionary of Film, though I only know it through the entries the Guardian sometimes runs; I was turned on to him by his experimental Orson Welles biography Rosebud, and then confirmed as a fan by The Whole Equation which explains all those bits and pieces you never quite knew you didn't know about how Hollywood works. Suspects started as an outgrowth of the Biographical Dictionary, except instead of actors and directors it addresses the characters, telling you what happened before the film starts and after the credits roll. In the interests of a coherent world, it limits itself to film noir - but Thomson defines this term pretty widely, taking it out to borders like It's A Wonderful Life and Taxi Driver which, if not canonical, become inarguable the way Thomson tells it. So in the style of a reference book, we learn how Noah Cross from Chinatown and Sunset Boulevard's Norma Desmond were lovers, say - and the identity of her child - and yet as it goes on it becomes clear that, non-objective as Thomson has always been, the narrator here is not Thomson, but someone involved in this noir-verse. I'm hampered by only knowing about a quarter of the films referenced, and none of them all that well, but still love it; if you're a film noir obsessive I imagine it's even better.

Smiling

Jun. 21st, 2009 11:08 pm
alexsarll: (crest)
Spent today in Valentines Park, which I barely even knew existed before this week, but which is big and beautiful and contains a rather odd mansion full of art and fancy dress and the odd Victorian fixture, as well as being home to baby frogs (one of which some small children inadvertently squashed after we pointed them out; that's the problem with trying to share the joy of nature). Then ate pizza and watched The Little Norse Prince, an early Ghibli animation by the guy who isn't Miyazaki, and who hadn't found his style yet when he made this, and which frankly made no sense whatsoever though we think it *might* be a figurative biography of [livejournal.com profile] retrosoup. And walking home afterwards in the solstice gloaming, I was already thinking about how the sky gets so unbearably beautiful at this time of year that it's almost tragic, when the fireworks started. Maybe reading Donleavy's Darcy Dancer on the Tube helped, but I realised on my journey's final stage that I was ablaze with that pure and synchronised misty, mysterious clarity that I got the first few times I drank, all without having touched a drop today (though who knows what effect that orange squash might have had? I don't normally touch the stuff these days). Whereas what I get from booze these days is more...comfort, maybe conviviality?* Not sensations to be scorned by any means, but it helps to remember these specifics when one is in the business of emotional engineering, and aren't we all?

*It varies further drink by drink, of course. Consider Saturday when, between a picnic on the pink wine (and horror stories) and a Prom on pints (and mainlined eighties), I had a couple of bottles of a cider called Green Goblin, and found myself suddenly wanting to go to bridges with blondes and/or subvert the intelligence institutions of the USA.
alexsarll: (crest)
A moment of unexpected beauty: walking to the dole office, hardly the highlight of my week, I find myself striding through a rain of blossom just as, on my earphones, the Indelicates' 'Unity Mitford' peaks. I've just found a lovely map of fairy places, but can't help but feel it has slightly missed the point when enchantment lurks around every corner if you get the moment right. And so often this week, the moment has been right - spring just starting to feel confident that it's here to stay, the grass going mad to get as close to the sun as quickly as possible, everything alive. Everything possible.

Gigging galore over the past week; last night was the first full Soft Close-Ups show, in the Vibe Bar. Does Brick Lane have more curry houses or complete tossers? It's a close-run thing. The Vibe Bar seems to acquire new rooms every time I visit, and now has an atrium, a giant eagle, a postbox and what looks like a hotel. The set was hampered by the poor sound quality one comes to expect at multimedia art happening experiences, but otherwise wonderful, and I'm not just saying that because [livejournal.com profile] augstone took my advice after the last show about resurrecting the axe god moves, pedals and feather boa. Or feather boar, as I just typed.
On Tuesday at the less up-own-jacksie Lexington, Jonny Cola & the A-Grades and Glam Chops, both as stylish and pop as ever, the latter with a new jumpsuit for Eddie, whose new Art Brut album came out the day before but who was still here playing small shows with two of his side-projects. The other being Keith Top Of The Pops And His Minor UK Indie Celebrity All-Star Backing Band, a poorly-recorded version of whose excellent show you can see here. I can't decide whether the highlight was 'I Hate Your Band', with [livejournal.com profile] thedavidx and James Rocks playing each other's guitars while Keith sings "you could swap members, you could swap songs", or Fvck The MSP, with its rousing final chant of "Nicky Wire can suck my cock", something I hesitate to mention on the internet lest someone write the slash fic where Nicky Wire does exactly that to all 16 members of the band, including the girls.

Listening to the new Decemberists album, I wonder, as I did with the last two, why the same band who can sound so genuinely...unearthly is the wrong word, because I think of our Earth's past, or at least our Earth's past as it should have been, so say 'out of time'...on most of the songs, manage to sound so like a pedestrian indie outfit on the rest. The one which appears to have escaped from a poor PJ Harvey album in particular. Still, all considerably better than the new Bat For Lashes, which I don't even know why I bothered stealing - it doesn't even have one delightfully eerie single like the first album, it's just boil-in-the-bag kookiness for dull people.
alexsarll: (bernard)
I find myself worrying that Charlie Brooker might be the new Bill Hicks - ie, awesome, and usually right, but too easily quoted in too many situations in a way which makes the over-quoter seem a bit of a prick. And I'm as guilty of this as anyone, and I think maybe I need to scale it back a bit. Except why did this revelation hit me in the same week he returns to our TV screens? Ah, my timing.

Philipp Blom's The Vertigo Years aims to overturn the idea that the first 14 years of the twentieth century were a peaceful, if shadowed, idyll, the last days of the old world before the wars and revolutions made the modern world. Like most history with an agenda, the hand is overplayed, but if only as a counterbalance, it's a valuable take on how much was as new and strange and unsettling a hundred years ago as whatever's causing the latest panic now. More than the old 'how very similar then was to now' trick, though, it was little details which caught my attention. Wooden ships of the line, Trafalgar-style, when would you think the last of those was launched by the Royal Navy? 1879. The creator of Bambi also wrote p0rn (I'm surprised that didn't somehow make it into Lost Girls, though the Rite of Spring riot is here in detail). The borders between 'a very long time ago' and 'a long time ago', in other words, are as permeable as those between 'the old days' and 'I remember when'. Oh, and while I knew the Belgians had been utter gits in the Congo, I had no idea the death toll was ten million. Hitler gets all the press, but he doesn't even have the twentieth century's second highest total for genocide by a European ruler. Lightweight.

Obviously it's great news that Grant Morrison is back with Frank Quitely for (some of) the new Batman & Robin comic, and that he's getting to continue with Seaguy and do a Multiverse book and various other bits and pieces. But..."I’ve just been doing an Earth Four book, which is the Charlton characters but I’ve decided to write it like “Watchmen.” [laughs] So it’s written backwards and sideways and filled with all kinds of symbolism". It was obvious from the first time we glimpsed Earth Four in 52 that it was very much a Dark Charlton world, playing up the Watchmen correspondences; they even showed Peacemaker in a window as a nod to the exit of his analogue, the Comedian. I assumed that world would be used in passing for the sort of third-stringer-written continuity frottage that makes up so much of DC's output - it may have cropped up in Countdown for all I know, and that was very much the sort of place where I assumed it would stay. Morrison's use of a multiversal Captain Atom as a Dr Manhattan piss-take in Superman Beyond...well, it was one of the weakest things in there, but it was forgivable. A whole series, though? Morrison is the second best comics writer in the world. Moore has pretty much departed comics. Is it not about time that Morrison got over the anxiety of influence?
(In arguably related news, I swear our team could have done better at the pub quiz last night had it not been for the distractingly cute girl two tables over with a copy and a badge of Watchmen)

Last week I was asked to write something about my journey, and it turned out rather well, so in the parlance of Nu-Facebook, I thought I might 'share': Stroud Green )
alexsarll: (pangolin)
Outside my window the sun is slowly sinking behind an enormous mountain range of snowcloud, with the peachy glimmers of its light just flowing around the uppermost edge, and most of the cloud left totally opaque. I say 'slowly', but you can very nearly see the sun move - think London Eye speed - and because the cloud is so thick you can look straight at it. It's an old light it gives, but not a tired light, and that's so reassuring. It's not snowing here right at the moment, but my walk earlier took me through a couple of flurries - happily, as when that first lot came I had wet hair, so couldn't go outside to play in it. Worrying over missing things is usually unnecessary, and always unhelpful.
alexsarll: (Default)
Am finding it difficult coherently to express the wonder of Saturday's Black Plastic, especially since I think it was done so well on the night by that tune with the chorus of "I am here with all of my people", whatever that is. Some not-my-people too - hence shocked initial reaction of "A queue? At one of my clubs?" - but they mostly seemed OK, and they weren't crowding the place to the point of unuseability like the cocking Neil Morrissey acolytes at the Noble. Though on that note - by 8 last night the Noble was back to its charming old self. I reckon we're OK on schoolnights because the new clutter are the sort who have to get up early to drive Tarquin and Jemima to extra classes.
Anyway, yes, Black Plastic. Awesomeness, to the extent that it even bled into the nightbus and made it a really jolly nightbus with Mamas and Papas singalongs and a man who said I looked like Paul Morley, which I can't say I'm 100% happy with but it at least gives me an excuse to extemporise Morley pastiches about buses, my face &c.
edit: And I forgot about the Acton Tubewalk! There was a prison and model aircraft and the Grand Union Canal where I poked a coconut with my umbrella.

Much discussion on the friendslist lately of cyclists who jump lights. Which plenty of them do, but I'm always more bothered by the cars and vans and trucks which do likewise. OK, they seldom come up to a light which is already red and then sail through as some two-wheelers seem to feel is their right, but counting an amber or even a new red as somehow not applicable, I see a lot of that. Often, I stare 'em down and walk through, subject to my assessment of just how much of a w@nker they are. Yesterday, I saw a woman who I don't think was doing that, but was walking across a pelican in Highgate Village, holding a baby, as the lights for traffic went red. And one man was in such a hurry to get wherever it was he was going that he damn near flattened the pair of them. Fortunately, some other passers by got his number. Unfortunately, even if that does go anywhere he's clearly not going to get the punishment he deserves of a five year driving ban at the very least.

I was as glad as anyone when I heard that BBC3's supernatural house-share tale Being Human was getting a full series - except much of what I liked about the pilot was the chemistry, and they've changed two thirds of the cast. They swap the ghost out for Sugar? Fine by me. If they'd lost Russell Tovey as the werewolf, I could have lived with that; instead, he stayed but now that he's more famous as a Young Gay Actor, he seems to feel obliged to be shriller. What I cannot fathom is that they lost that perfect, perfect Mitchell and brought in a generic vampire at precisely the time when any new screen vampire most needs to distinguish himself from the herd.

2009 has already brought two more disappointing albums from Bruce Springsteen, whose latest is one of those disappointingly lumpen efforts he seems to produce from time to time, and White Lies. I really enjoyed 'Death' in spite of suspecting there wasn't much to it; at album length that hollowness becomes inescapable, and horrible. After aforementioned let-downs, this is not shaping up to be a vintage year for music.

December 2017

S M T W T F S
     12
3456789
10111213141516
1718192021 2223
24252627282930
31      

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jun. 15th, 2025 07:01 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios