Goldband Studios is gone. Here I have been spending the past few years singing the praises of Research Turtles— I call them the boys from Lake Charles— without realizing that the city/town/parish also was home to Eddie Shuler and Goldband. Dumb me. I have known of Goldband since I was in college, having found them through That Dorm Guy who was somehow plugged into anything and everything musical. I look back now at him and wonder how he was able to find so much music in a land with pretty much nothing but Billboard Magazine to guide him, but he did.
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Archive for Dementians
Frank Gutch Jr: Paradise Is Paved, Here Comes the Parking Lot… plus a Voluminous Collection of Note(s)
Posted in Opinion, Review with tags Beth Garner, Bobby Charles, Boo Ray, Buddy Whittington, Chris Strachwitz, DBAWIS, Dementians, Devon Sproule, Don't Believe a Word I Say, Drew Gibson, Dustbowl Revival, Eddie Shuler, Frank Gutch Jr., Goldband Studios, Harry Hoggard, Heather Trost, I Am What I Play, Indie Artists, Indie Music, Jim of Seattle, John Broven, Los Colognes, Morgan Cornwell, music, Music Radio, music videos, Paul Curreri, radio, Records, Research Turtles, Secret Sisters, segarini, Shantell Ogden, South to Louisiana, Sun Ra, Sweet Home Oregon, The Ratboys, This Ain;t No Mouse Music on May 23, 2017 by segariniFrank Gutch Jr: O Canada! (You’re Music to My Ears)
Posted in Opinion with tags DBAWIS, Dementians, Don't Believe a Word I Say, Eric Corne, Frank Gutch Jr., Laura Biagini, Lester Quitzau, Lisa O'Neill, Redgy Blackout, Shade, The White Light Machine on September 21, 2011 by segariniRepeat after me. “There just isn’t any good music out there these days.” Repeat it again. And again. And again. Repeat it a thousand times and it will be no truer than it was the first time. There is more good music out there than there has ever been. Truth is, we have forgotten how to listen. We went through a golden age of radio and had our music handed to us by a system controlled by people who supposedly knew what they were doing and we’ve gotten lazy. We are the fattened calves, awaiting sustenance from the gods. We are pools of fat melted on the car seat. And seriously, dude, there just isn’t any good music out there any more.