One of the things I am most proud of is a comic called “The Blues” illustrated by the extremely talented Silent James.
The story that is the basis of so many blues songs – the devil, the crossroads, that deep down soulful music.
The comic is finally available for you to hold in your hands. Whether in paperback or on your e-Reader.
Have a look and let us know what you think!
You can find the comic on Amazon right HERE!
I’ve started a new blog. Stories that all run on a central theme. It will be it’s own beast. Journalistic dispatches from a world of the strange.
It’s here, if you’d care to have a look. I, for one, am enjoying the writing, so I hope you enjoy the reading.
-Lit Bandit.
There are some bands, once I discover them, I sink my teeth in and never let go.
It was around this time about two years ago. The leaves were yellow, the sun was working part time and it was dark earlier than usual. It might have been snowing a little.
I had just bought a book. A great Southern, gothic noir novel by Denis Johnson.
In other words, it was like the universe was pointing me towards O’Death.
Their new album just came out earlier this month. It’s great, fantastic, perfect…I could go on and on saying the same thing over and over.
I will tell you this. These guys are serious musicians. With each album they become tighter, more cohesive. They retain the rawness I fell in love with.
Those barren landscape vocals and pleasantly grating sounds are still there, unmistakable O’Death.
But they are growing, strengthening their sound, building upon a sound I’ve heard nowhere else.
They are the perfect October band. The band to listen to as the trees blacken, the nights grow chilly, the ghosts creep about.
O’Death fills me with the same anxiety I get when I realize I’m lost in a city I should know by heart. The music that plays for shadows to dance to around a bonfire.
Savannah halloween cemeteries.
Buy their new album. Buy all their albums. It’s not October unless you’re listening to O’Death as you walk down a yellow sidewalk in the purple dusk- hand in hand with your own demons.
It’s that time again.
The world becomes dying yellow oranges.
Night falls quicker and leaves fall onto sidewalks.
Devils begin to open their eyes, stretch and smile after hibernation.
Ghosts wander the streets.
I walk down a busy Queens street, but it’s not so busy anymore. It’s black out, the streetlights are dim…but I don’t feel alone.
I read more.
I become possessed by a death god and I consume constantly.
I feel like I’m being watched when I’m outside.
Shadows down side streets. Eyes in trees.
It’s October. It’s autumn.
It’s when the warmth fades and magic grows.
When the secret world comes alive.
Fuckin scary.
I open my eyes and the sky explodes.
I thought it would be bigger. It was more of a whimper than a bang.
It’s the end of the world and you can hear a whisper.
Everyone was wrong. There was no rapture, no aliens or zombies or world wide war.
It just started as a little spark. Tiny, really. Falling from a singular black cloud over the Pacific ocean.
Like God lit a cigarette and let the match fall.
The ocean caught fire. I think it was fire. It wasn’t hot though.
But it spread.
It spread to land, up mountains and slowly made its way to the sky.
The end of the world. I wasn’t even shocked. I always knew it would happen during my life time.
I mean, I hoped it wouldn’t, don’t get me wrong.
But here we are.
In a way it seems beautiful. Completely hopeless, but beautiful. Like those photographs you see of wars and violent protests.
There were no protests this time. No mass looting like you’d think.
It all went down like a horrible ballet. One spark in the ocean and society jerks and contorts like a Stravinsky firebird.
No pun intended.
If I had control over judgement day, I wouldn’t change anything.
Bright flames and ash falling – it’s peaceful, it’s quiet.
No one is screaming. I don’t hear crying. I don’t even see anyone else.
The end just slowly envelopes everything. Creeping along and leaving the void in it’s trail.
I’m just going to sit back, smoke this last cigarette, drop my match in the sea of flame like a god and wait.
I close my eyes.
I open my eyes and see nothing. Nothing at all.
***Opening sentence by Justin (Sithbomb)***
I am pleased to announce that I have a small, literally small, piece in an art show in Milan…tonight. Go see it! Quick!
Thank you to Cynthia von Buhler for allowing me to show with some amazingly talented people – artists whom I admire greatly.
I went to the Savannah College of Art and Design…and subsequently dropped out after a year. I just didn’t have the passion for art the way I had growing up. I fell in love with writing. I wrote constantly. Filling up notebook after notebook. I pursued writing to another school and got a degree in English.
And now, here I am, in an art show a decade after turning my back on illustration.
It’s a strange feeling. An old lover coming back into your life after you’ve scorned them. The awkward starts at conversation, the almost unnoticeable moment when you slip back into that groove.
I felt that. I struggled for weeks trying to come up with something. It couldn’t just be anything, you know? When it clicked, it went easy, it flowed and I looked down at this tiny little drawing and I was proud of it. I felt I had made something that should be seen in the world, not just on this blog.
It was a serious piece of art, and I fell in love again.
The show is called “Lilliput” and starts off in Milan and makes its way back to New York later in the year.
The artists in the show, like I just wrote, amaze me, blow me away and I can’t believe I’m included with them. Just look at this list:
Anita Kunz, Cathie Bleck, Kathy Osborn, Walter Sickert, Dean Haspiel, Christina Carrozza, Molly Crabapple, Silent James, Esther Westwood, Katelan Foisy, Jen Ferguson, Cynthia von Buhler, Rita J. King, Zoë Williams, Aaron Lazar, Pamela Martin, Logan Riley, Bibiana, Scott Bakal, David Mack, Melissa Dowell, Michelle Vaughan, Paul Weiner, Dana McDonald and Kat Mon Dieu.
Right???
Totally honored and blown away.
To see more about the show click here.
I am music.
I am rock and country, hip hop, blues, dub step, scratch, fucking yodeling.
I am music.
Once a journalist for some mediocre music rag asked me how it felt to be one of the top “female musicians.”
I threw a guitar at him.
It was a nice guitar.
Of course, that story was more popular than any story about any awards I’ve won.
I am music.
I sing with soul and play until my fingers bleed in a sacrifice onstage. I give my all to my fans, I love them. Every single one of them.
Now, I’m sitting by the pool in some desert hotel far from home, smoking a cigarette and drinking some kind of expensive fizzy water wondering when I’ll stop being a female musician and finally be qualified as a musician.
Another journalist asked about my name – Judas Thunderhead. I just laughed, told him it was a spiritual name from my ancestors. Bullshit. I was 17 and it sounded fucking cool. It’s the name of power chords and Woodstock riots, of leather and spikes and pyrotechnics. It’s strong and sexy and, fuck, it just fit me, you know?
There’s power in names. Especially in a name that you choose for yourself. You just have to learn to embrace it, to own it and everything that comes with it.
Like Queen Joan said “I don’t give a damn about my reputation.” People can think whatever they want of me. I’ve been called a bitch so many times, mostly by men, that it’s become a totally meaningless word.
My music is what’s important to me. Does it elicit some kind of response from you? Good, then I did my job.
I am music.
I’m sitting in torn jeans and a stained t-shirt. Oh, if the internet could see me now! “Female Musician gains weight. Goes out in public dressed like a hobo.” Fuck that, I’m comfortable.
I was asked to write about my process. Explain “to the masses” what it takes to write a hit song. Reveal my secret.
My secret? There is no fucking secret.The words come from my heart and the music follows. Melodies follow me from the toilet to the shower to a dive bar in the Village. There is no process. It’s more of an obsession.
I wish I could have helped you more. It’s got to be in your veins. You have to be music.
Smoke cigarettes. Drink whiskey. Sleep around. Make friends. Start fires. Get into fights. Fall in love. Have a family. Read a book. There, that’s the process for you. Just, live, kiddos.
Judas Thunderhead
Somewhere in the desert
August, 2014.
This is the way step inside…
He stands in front of the big windows, surveying the room. Covered in trash – they haven’t left in days. It’s a museum, a shrine to filth and relationships.
“I still exist” he says.
“Could you imagine an entire city on fire?”
She holds the flame an inch from her cigarette, watching it flicker, burning her thumb.
He climbs over empty wine bottles and takes her cigarette and touches it to the flame.
“Let me hold your hand.”
She smiles and takes the cigarette back.
“What if all the forests died? What if they turned into miles and miles of dead, rotted wood?”
“Let me hold your hand.”
This is the way step inside…
The room is hot but he shivers. She’s on the bed in her underwear playing with a string.
He’s on his knees. “Let me hold your hand.”
She drops the string and looks at him.
“Remember how things were? How you promised they would be? Take my hand, I’ll show you.”
She reaches out her hand. He pulls a blanket around his shoulders and walks back to the windows.
This is the way step inside…
Something is happening in St. Louis.
Ferguson.
There’s an army on the ground, dressed to kill. Corralling the locals, threatening the media.
Stirring up hate and fear.
Something is happening in St. Louis.
Ferguson
They’re waiting for that sweet, sweet riot that they have always dreamed of. An excuse to use their new toys. An excuse to show the local population who’s boss.
Something is happening in St. Louis.
Ferguson.
“Hands up, don’t shoot” should be a non violent command. Not a wish, not a prayer, not a plea.
Something is happening in St. Louis.
Ferguson.
This is how revolutions start. Tear gas streets and broken glass.
Rubber bullets and riot shields.
Something is happening in St. Louis.
Ferguson.
Holy shit, is that a tank?
There’s no such thing as innocent bystanders.
Something is happening in St. Louis.
Ferguson.
Mothers cry. Fathers cry. Neighbours cry.
The dead don’t. But they would.
Something is happening in St. Louis.
Ferguson.
“I can’t believe what they are doing. They are animals.” He says.
I agree, thinking he’s talking about the police. He’s being racist and we stop talking.
Something is happening in St. Louis.
Baghdad? No. Ferguson.
But it’s hard to tell.
Monday night will go in History.
Something is happening in St. Louis.
Ferguson.
It’s not vandals, it’s not looting or rioting. It’s revolution.
They will not be stopped by a cops dream of the new world order.
Something is happening in St. Louis.
Ferguson.
It can happen anywhere. Don’t let it.
There is a clear line between peace keeping and brutality.
That line has been crossed.
In Ferguson.
The Literary Bandit 