Judas Thunderhead – Rock Goddess


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.

 

 

 

 

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Atrocity Exhibition


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…

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Something is Happening in St. Louis – Ferguson


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.

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Love Will Tear Us Apart…Again.


“Why is this room so cold?”

He sits wrapped in a blanket, trying to see his breath against the window.

She sits across the room from him, playing mindlessly with a rubber band, a cigarette hanging from her lips.
“You’re just being dramatic. Everything is fine.”

He pushes his head against the window, hoping that the glass will relieve his headache.

“Did you see her?”

“You’re just being dramatic. Everything is fine.” She shoots the rubber band towards the ceiling and watches it fall between her feet.

She lights another cigarette.

She stubs her cigarette out on the bare floor and wipes the sweat from her head with a dirty sock. She takes the rubber band from between her feet and begins to twirl it around her finger, holding it tight, watching the skin turn blue.

“Is it my timing that’s flawed? Or…” He pulls the blanket over his head and stands up, leaning against the wall. He tries to light a cigarette and fails. Sighing loudly he drops back down to the floor.

She pulls herself up off the floor and walks over to him. She lights a cigarette, takes a drag, and then places it between his lips. Leaning over, she kisses him on the head, smoke curling from her nostrils.
“You’re just being dramatic…everything is fine.” She crosses the room and lays down with her back to him.

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We Are Groot: Guardians of the Galaxy and Family.


Guardians of the Galaxy – I loved that movie.
I’ve seen some reviews panning it for being silly, contrived, etc. Yes, it is, but that’s half the fun. It’s poking fun at certain things. Like when Star-Lord mentions the Arc of the Covenant and the Maltese Falcon in relation to the power gem, or during the typical slow-mo walk to save the world, Gamora yawns. This movie knows it’s tropes and knows how to have fun with them.

But there’s something that I haven’t seen anyone talking about: Family.
Family is something Marvel has always done well. Spider-Man, Fantastic Four, X-Men, Avengers…all act and react like families.

Guardians of the Galaxy is about families. It’s about losing families, making families, standing up to families…it goes on and on.
Peter Quill loses his mother, then loses the rest of his family when the aliens take him away. Drax has his family taken away from him by Thanos. Rocket and Groot are each others family, being the only two that start out together in the film. Gamora is related to the big baddie, well, two of the big baddies.

Yes, GotG is a fun, space adventure super-hero movie, but at its core it’s a movie about family, and what it means to become a family.

Space outlaws banding together. Like the tree says, “We are Groot.” And that sums up the movie better than anything I could write.

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Ruth Bader Ginsburg or Wonder Woman?


Am I right or am I right? She is a superhero.

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Bad Parents


The gods are terrible parents.

Zeus, flying around with his junk out, impregnating everything at lightning speed while his sister-wife Hera has children out of spite- children out of anger that breed War gods and discord and malformed cast outs.

Incest between war and love breeds all kinds of adoration – unrequited and obsessive, winged and wanton Cupids and Anteros. Wooden arrows and steel dart love letters.

Incest between love and theft breeds the two-person, half man half woman and the most humane.

The gods are terrible parents. Their seeds breeding one eyed monsters and half bulls. Women turning into swans and trees for escape, men falling into their own reflections.

The gods are horrible parents. Letting their children roam the lands, killing Hydras and Medusas and whatever other monsters a jealous lover god can throw at them.

We are their children and we are just toys.

My mother wasn’t a god, but she was close. Clothed in poetry and song she danced across the minds and talents of men. My father was a man, a great man some say, a king – but what’s a king to me?

My father is gone, but my mother is immortal. Where is she?

I used to sing her songs from my shrine. The locals mistook them for prophecy. I let them, I enjoyed their company. Missing my body, their prayers made me somewhat whole.

The god are horrible parents.

I told their secrets once and received a lightning bolt in thanks. My own grand father.

My uncle has since silenced me. The light bringer giving my life only darkness.

If I hadn’t looked back…I wonder…if I hadn’t looked back and my wife was freed…would I follow in the gods footsteps and be a horrible parent?

 

 

 

 

 

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