Frontier Ruckus
- "see we unravel like travels drunk and sore"
- Location: Lansing, MI
- Website:
- Bio: FRONTIER RUCKUS
Bio (Long but it explains everything):
Figuratively speaking, Frontier Ruckus was founded in Michigan's thumb, a ways into the flatland sun, leaving the affluence of the painted ... (more) - Bio: FRONTIER RUCKUS
Bio (Long but it explains everything):
Figuratively speaking, Frontier Ruckus was founded in Michigan's thumb, a ways into the flatland sun, leaving the affluence of the painted Boulevard towns. There the grid is sparing and scarce, with sunlit water towers and cabin fields full of sugar beets. We sleep in overheated dew-tents under the roar of sunbeams in bearded billboard fields earshot of the lake bluffs in summer. Frontier Ruckus resides in the north town mansions where carpets have long-sponged ethnic food smells and have been matted and branded by aging creaking pianos. Frontier Ruckus is currently the color of the smiling, smirking, ghostly hole in a barnyard soul out north of both shoulders of the city at the time of day when a dream is showing its first aching signs of fruition. You can smell it in the air and see it in the gas station lights driving home from the blind-night-frontier-church-yard-home of your old love who taught you the North in the first place—and then, hear it in the harmony-horn and you feel like abstraction is salvation. You think of the city rooms and paper walls and how everything is merely a degree—of distance, time, light. All a degree of ONE THING! Is it? All these places and dreams connect and shade and fade as if relative degrees of hope and confidence and embarrassment and pity. Do they? Pity is beauty and pity is everything. Frontier Ruckus is the slow barge to Ogdensburg on the heartland Highway Seaway. Every word we say on deck is like a fifty year old bridge spanning from dusty iceboxes in Canada back to rusty iceboxes on taffy tourist porches in our Americas. A bridge that your north swamp cousin Bill hung off when he painted it red. A bridge that has a wood shack tollbooth where a man who used to sell shoes with your great uncle stares off inland—his back to the river—off and out to the Amish duskfields and the mountains rolling invisibly miles and towns away. You are everything too.
Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/23989147@N05/2281303185/
Wed 12 March
3:00PM SXSW Day Party @ Victory Grill, Austin TX
8:00PM Quite Scientific / Quack! Media Official SXSW Showcase @ Soho Lounge, Austin TX
Sat 15 March
1:40PM A Prelude To Heat Death, Pt. 2 (Quite Scientific + Friends Day Party) @ Lamberts Downtown Barbecue, Austin TX
Worth reading they're lyrics, definitely:
The black figure of my body above your window as you're dreamin'
I came to wake you and take you up north
The yard was wet, the heavens forget the way things are seemin'
For us who must stumble in yards dark as horses
Your dream went like this, John the Baptist came back vapor veiled
With grand expectations for what he had started
And you couldn't resist, you gave him the gist about how things failed
And how all but one fire-heart had departed
And that you were her, and you were sure
That you had the Blood, that you had the Blood
That all is made of
And that is alright, that is alright
I can't think of a better dove
To carry the Blood
The canal was bright, its innards ignite when moon stretches tight
To show the cargo the floating is gliding
The edges are dark, it's channeled by bark, it carries the mark
Of every speckle of guilt I was hiding
The bathroom does taste of menstruation chasing night-musk through window screen
Like wounded doves all pretty things bleed
Like my highway dream, Judas redeemed for the one kiss he rode on
Our spirits ride canals and never in deeds
Deeds do go, and deeds do not
Carry the Blood, carry the Blood
That all is made of
Carry it right, all through the night
Till you see what we are of
A dove that carries the Blood (less)
