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by Phlebus Clay
- Phlebus hear agin. So's, as you all know, I'm the live musics editer here at the Lapin Herald. That mean I go out two concertz an then tell you how it make me feel on the insides and such. Well, this wekend was no axe seption. They tells me "Phelbus, you gots to take you a bus out t'wards the Boston aria and make your way up to some place cald Wintripp."

    "Why that is?" I questioned back to them. They saysd Jawzwa was playing a shoe there in some fine stablishment. I says, OK, but I needs my purdeem up front for living expenses. The big city aint cheap. I'd bee loukin at upwards of $40 per night for lodging aloan. Up in that carpetbagger part of the country they probably make me sip lahtays and kiss men on the lips by law. I aint know what to expect.

    So's the Grayhownd drops me off in downtown Boston, right? And the guy... well's, I thinked he was a guy... in the infomasion boof telled me I got to go northbound on one of there unnergrownd locomotives and then get on anuther buss. I says "well that's fuckin retarded. I was jussed on a goddamn buss. Why he aint taked me there direct-like?" They start jabberin away some nonsense about the city having a bunch of different busses what go in different diretshins. I's like, "you spect me to be leaf ure fancypants town has multi-pull busses?" Sounded fucking stoopid then, sounds fuckin stoopid now. Alls the same, I found my way to this sipposid "Winthrip". No thanks to the MBTA, honistly.

    I got into the goddamn place roundabouts 8PM. It's like, where the fuck everyone at? The place was dead as fuck, so I'm like "bartender, aint you done promotions?" He shuck his head and gave me some goddamn cosmopolitin to drink. Mind you, I ordered a pint of Golden Anniverzeree, but they said alls they had was cosmos or "chocotinis". I gues I got the lesser of too evils. Tasted like momma's nale polish remover, but inn a bad weigh.

    8:15 roles around and some fello goes up on the stage (cept weren't rely a stage, more like a part of the restaurant where folx wasn't sitin) and starts tappin away at his like computer box machine and drums start a playin'. I's like, how that be? Back home ifn' we want drums, we gotta call up one of the Percy boys from up the road and he comes by with a snare straped to his chest bangin' away like his grategrategranduncle did at the Battle of Pea Ridge. But the Percy boys are a bit ruff around the ejis, so we don't call them much. We just play our songs on the bango and Jew's harp, but I degress...

    This guy "Jawzwa" starts playing some things and singing bout his emotions and whatnot. Their was noises in betwixt the numbers. Not my cupatea. I had to all listen hard for the chorus and it was all like, stuff I wasn't expectin on, so it made me uncumfrtroble. I yeled out for him to maybe do a Creadince song or too, but he ingored me. By the fith song, I was all "bartender, get me anothr cosmo cuz it's gonna be a long night." But soon as I thought things was bleke, he finished up with a version of the Golden Girl theme song, like from the begining of the TV shoe.

    Man, I loved the Golden Girl. It all ways made me giggil. So I gess the evening wasn't a total loss.

    After the shoe, I headed back to the motor lodge to catch some shuteye. Cept, when I woke up, ready to head back home, I got a call sayin I had to hang around town a whiles longer and rite about another Jawzwa showe what was gonna happen on the upcoming Saturday. Grate, I thought... I gotta kill a hole weke in a citie I aint even no, and with no money to speak of (purdeem was spended alreddy on the cosmos).

    So I thought I would look round at all the histrical stuff Boston has to ofer. Like the Poll Revear statue and whatnot. Well, I takled that in about 3 ours and weren't much imprest. I spent the othar 6 days more or less layin' low in the alleywayz.

    Saturday aftornune comes around and I find mysef in the Dorchestar nayb or hood. A rele rachaelly diverz sorta place. Like downtown Little Rock. I got into the hall wear the Jawza things was sippose too go down. I relay licked this place. Much bettor than the Winthripp one. All the people at this shoe were on my level. They served my kinda bere and the opening act was grate. They war them caps like papa wears and some sports t-shirts and man was they lowd! Nocked my socks of. No what else was grate? There hole preformins was full of the kinda angor I can relaid too and they let me now rite off the bats what they ethnocentrificle back ground were. I was all, NOW THIS I LICK!

    But then Jawzwa pranced up to the mike.

    Yup, you guest it... more computer bleeps, delokit guitarring and senyouall vocals. I's like, BRING ON THE FIRST BAND! But know, it was more Jawzwa. Middleweigh through his set the deejay comes up and cuts him off, tellin the oddy yens we gotta anouns the rafle winners. I was rele excited cause I bought about $1,000 worth of tickets on credit, nowing that I was shore to win. Well... to make a long storey sured, I got zilch. Not even the fancy new 14" TV with a built in VCR that I was dreamin over. I'd like, "FUCKIN HELL! WHY ME?" The bartender came round axing me for the money I borrowt, so I skeedaddled on outta there and ran to the Greyhound station.

    In concluson, Jawzwa aint all he crakt up to be. But that opening act... them I like rele gud.


by Dandiford Y. Lion

- From the rolling hills north of this Catalan metropolis comes a new collection of Mediterranean poetic pop. The preceding years have shown this one man recording act to be a versatile, surprising and highly personal project by the enigmatic Demian. This November brings both a new Ô Paradis album entitled Nacimiento and a tribute CD featuring interpretations of Ô Paradis songs by his friends and contemporaries around the world. This tribute, Nada Que Perder: Una Celebración de Ô Paradis, includes covers by notable artists such as David E. Williams, Naevus, Mushroom's Patience and twelve others. This reporter has been provided with an advance promo of both this and Nacimiento, and I must say... good golly. What an action-packed joyride.

Upon landing at Barcelona's Demian Nada Intergalactic Spaceport, I quickly ran through customs despite the protests of security mercenaries. "No time to talk, kids. I've got an important interview to conduct," I clarified. I jumped into a rental hovercraft, threw its owners to the curb and jettisoned off to a nude beach to catch a bit of sun. Several hours later, I recalled the purpose of my trip and redirected myself to Demian's mountainside compound.

The artist's residence at first struck me with a sense of awe at its understated elegance and electrified razorwire fencing. "Nasty business that would be," I noted inwardly. "I'll take the old-fashioned route and gain ingress via finger-centric doorbell activation methods." I rang.

"¿Como?" asked the help through the intercom.

"Dandy Lion here from the States. I'm looking to pick Demian's brainian."


"Au contraire, servant. I'm gonna be meeting the lord of the house whether you like it or not. Now, we can do this the easy way, or I can resort to violence. Being a peaceful man, I say let's go with option A. Otherwise, I'll be taking out my puños americanos. Capisce?" The gates opened.

The precocious cover of Nada Que Perder features a young Demian gazing out at a world he did not yet understand. Does he understand it now?

Casa Demian was revealed before me with topiary animals and frescoes depicting ancient Japanese erotica. "Que elegante," I didn't say, though I could have.

"I like my peace and quiet," Demian began. "Please infer no ill will from the butler's initial attitude. It is his job to keep out the riff-raff."

Demian takes a break from a musical performance to massage his scalp.

"Fair enough. I'm on business here."

Demian reclined in his throne and mused. "I have poured my soul into this album. Spilled my blood. Things of that nature. Put something like that in your article. It sounds dramatic." I suggested that we tour his home studio to get a first hand view of the recording process, but he rebuffed my request by claiming that he had burned it down immediately following the recording of Nacimiento. This curious (and expensive) habit was difficult to take seriously. I played along and suggested that we sit a while by one of his pools and dig deeper into the album's back story.

"Nacimiento involves Rorsach tests converted to audio formats... a spilled gallon of electric blue paint." He said many things along this line. A small cyclops holding a tray of empty martini glasses approached him and I cut him off. "Enough of these pleasantries, Demian. What of the tribute album?"

"I know nothing of this."

Nacimiento. One must guess what is being born.

It was with this final obstruction that I left Demian completely and high-tailed it across town to the abandoned building that Raul Lopez of Comando Suzie was using for shelter. He was burning books and clothing in an oil barrel and warming his hands. The independent music industry had been good to him. Summoning him with stale bread crusts, I questioned him about his approach to the version of "Conversaciones Con Un Mismo" he supplied to Nada Que Perder. Lopez noted that his involvement in the tribute was mainly based on promises of royalties from Lapin. These promises were not real, he later clarified, and instead should have been interpreted with the intended sarcasm.

"The Lapin executives said much about the inevitable riches to come my way after the release of this album. I took them at their word. And now, well, you see where I am." Lopez made hand gestures at his new, for lack of a better word, home. I slinked away and boarded a plane for London, the city well known for its most notable resident: Lloyd James of Naevus.

Surely he would be able to give me some useful information about one of the two songs he worked on for this tribute. James met with me in a parking lot he cheekily referred to as a "car park". Leaning against his Jaguar, Mr. James began to quote Proust. I interrupted and asked for some tea and crumpets for the full-on English experience. He clarified that, racially, he was Welsh. I nearly admitted to knowing nothing about the country of Welshia.

However Lloyd quickly got me to wager 50 pounds that I could name a stereotype about his people. I failed to do so, but I refused to pay my debt all the same.
And with that, I left the England and their muffins behind me.

Though I have scoured the Earth trying to independently verify the details of these upcoming albums, I have sadly been unable to do so. Instead, I must rely on the soulless press release from Lapin operatives. As they dryly put it, "Nacimiento and Nada Que Perder will be released simultaneously in November on compact disque and available through"

Time will tell if this is a lie.

by Sierra Leone

PORDENONE, ITALY - In an audacious move that will surely inflame the still delicate truce between England and the colonies, Old Europa Cafe of Italy has boldly issued a 10" E.P. by Neo-revolutionary post-colonial supergroup The Muskets. Featuring the talents of b9 InViD of Et Nihil, Thomas Nöla, Erin Powell of Awen and David E. Williams, the debut album "Allegiance To No Crown" reinterprets traditional songs of the American Revolution for a modern audience (SPOILER ALERT: Britain loses, creating a democratic republic known for centuries of peace and fair play).

We spoke with musket Erin Powell from his rural Texas compound where he was firing a pistol into the side of his fortified bunker in what can only be called an act of theatrical bravado.

"I played percussive bones on this record," he began. "The rest is mainly a blur. I'm told that the final mix is pleasing to the ears, but I am too busy to find out for myself." He returned to canning tomatoes for the upcoming electromagnetic pulse attack that he believes will "end human existence as we know it."

We attempted to interview Mr. InVid at his Chicago penthouse, but our cab was riddled with bullets immediately upon entering the Windy City. We didn't even dare to try visiting the Philadelphia neighborhood that David E. Williams calls home, fearing a similar fate. Nöla did not return any of our voicemails. We are left to fill in the holes regarding this release.

What we can tell, after taking a listen to our promotional copy, is that this record is red and completely round. What's more, it contains audio. Upon closer inspection, we found that The Muskets employed the spoken word expertise of England's Andrew King to play the part of the nefarious King George III in colorful vignettes between the proper songs. This adds another dimension indeed. His smug interludes show a despot worthy of revolt.

The classic and melancholic "Johnny Has Gone For A Soldier" begins the record on an acoustic yet urgent footing, while the bombastic "Ballad Of The Green Mountain Boys" evokes a scene of carnage and defiance. Curious.

Side B brings the album from Lexington and Concord to Haight Ashbury with "Address To The Ladies", before the ghostly "Come Let Us Drink About" shows us the pre-battle anxieties of colonial soldiers.

In all, I am left with the queer aftertaste of nationalism and a ringing in my ears. I can only wonder how they tackle the War of 1812.


by Lord Paddington


Unverified reports on the wire allege that several days of well-attended, financially rewarding musical performances by Thomas Nöla have taken place. Initial details point to New York City, Western Massachusetts and Boston as the likely locations. My contact, speaking on the condition of anonymity, stands by his/her assertion that sounds were heard and visions were seen.

Upon sneaking into Manhattan's Otto's Shrunken Head, we found throngs of audience member(s) lined up at the door for this concert. One enthralled fan referred to the night as "OK" and "maybe (a culmination of a lifelong fantasy or at least certainly more than just) alright."

The other person in the audience refused to utter English.

Joshua Ferrao holding a tuba or possibly an Austrian maribma.
Nöla, helped by the festooned Joshua Ferrao, performed numerous tracks from his last few albums, while also premiering several from his upcoming "Animal Soul" LP.

"It sounded adequate," exclaimed Olga Donglehopper of Cement, NJ. "I'm not used to going outside."

Nöla and David E. Williams were seen performing two Muskets songs together, I'm told. Following the Nöla set, the pyrotechnic displays were setup for the Williams/Jerome Deppe shared set.

Rear Admiral Ichabod Krang of the Swiss Navy was also in attendance, though he left in the middle of "Gert Flirts With Dirt Shirt Bert", calling it "a degenerate use of free-association rhyme, devoid of any clear purpose." He did, however, concede that the execution was precise and pleasing to his internal clock and overall sense of rhythm.

In a strange twist, Deppe was heard to sing lead on the Williams number "Pumpernickel Crust." You weren't expecting that, were you? The Williams/Deppe duo strikes again.

But the good times could not last forever, and all involved had to leave and get on with their lives.

Williams, Deppe & more in a state of post-show ecstasy.

Williams and Nöla share the stage in an act of cooperation.

Two Deppes perform, though the audience is only charged for one.

Next up, Western Massachusetts. In Easthampton, a flood of paying customers stormed through the door as opener Polly Eurothane started into his opening number. Realizing that they were at The Platinum Pony and not the blood bank, as intended, they scattered, heading in the correct direction. The remaining spectators were treated to an intimate recital lasting until midnightish.

                           Polly Eurothane entertains.                           

Nöla and Ferrao headed east on the Massachusetts Turnpike. The location: the clean and in no way repulsive Boston neighborhood of Allston. Indeed, this is the part of town where the venue they were scheduled to perform in is located. It all made sense.

On the evening of Monday September 8th, 2014,
Nöla again performed with Polly Eurothane on the bill. Pleasantries were exchanged, a performance was given and the venue showered the artists with lavish compensation and respect.

At the show's conclusion, I rushed the stage to ask the sweat-drenched
Nöla what was next.

"Will there be more performances? Are the rumors of a Maine tour true?"

As one of his assistants handed him a monogrammed cashmere scarf,
Nöla wiped his brow and mused.

"Methinks this god-forsaken country deserves no more from me."
Nöla and Ferrao in a candid, pre-pancake pose.

by Randy Lion

- 'Twas upon a mild and clear September morn that I strolled over from Lapin Headquarters to the company garden. Talk around the water bubbler was that another fine growing season had come to its inevitable conclusion. The summer months of 2014 had been plentiful ones, with a bounty of produce springing forth from Mother Earth. Beginning with French breakfast radishes in May, the garden offered up beets a'plenty by July and perhaps too many cucumbers and summer squash shortly after. The celery mainly went unpicked, but rainbow chard provided nutritious greens for over 4 months. The lettuce, consisting of 4 massive heads, peaked by the end of June and made many a salad.

For Lapin, this is a land of plenty.

Heirloom tomatoes flourished, with bulbous fruit of green, purple, brown and the more familiar red. A surprisingly perennial crop of yellow bell cherry tomatoes came up unannounced, producing a bucketful.

The herb section included lemon balm, chives, basil, dill, rosemary and aloe vera, for sure. But the juggernaut of the season was undoubtedly mint. This fragrant plant spread from a single seedling in April to at least a dozen tributaries. The word "invasive" comes to mind, but without the negative connotations. It left many from the Lapin staff with cups of fresh mint tea, harkening back to our Marrakech days.

The strawberries waited until the last moment, but they did not disappoint. As of this writing, kale, cabbage, green tomatoes and a couple sunflowers continue their futile attempts against the oncoming frost. We hold little hope for them. But that is nature.

As the season concludes and we look towards pumpkins, we praise the soil gods for their generosity. At the Midwinter human sacrifice, Lapin staff will happily spread the flowing blood across winter's frozen ground in hopes of a successful 2015, as is our custom.

by Pierre Shovel

- The Lapin Herald has just recently confirmed the disturbing details of Thomas Nöla's downward spiral into obscurity and financial ruin. While trying to gather together the meager funds needed to press his latest set of albums, Animal Soul and Animal Clouds, on vinyl and cassette (respectively), Mr.
Nöla has simply proved himself to not have "what it takes" to be an underground cult music figure of importance.

I took the first ship to Los Angeles to see the depravity first hand.

A street urchin from L.A.'s colorful Skid Row neighborhood named Bobby McDoogle reported seeing Nöla from time to time under a large pile of newspapers. Nearby working girls relayed stories of seeing him crying in a nearby underpass. One mentioned hearing between tears talk about his broken dreams.

As an investigative journalist, I had to get to the source of the story, so I scoured the area. Eventually I came upon a discount blood bank and found
Nöla at a booth inside making the $2 he needed for his daily meal.

"I'm not proud of what I've become,"
Nöla admitted. "But this money could buy me a vegan donut, or maybe a couple of day-olds if I'm lucky." The blood flowed sadly into a nearby plastic bag and the phlebotomist ultimately made us both leave the premises.

Nöla's colorful new "home".

At Gonzalez's Vegan Donuttery on Wilshire,
Nöla sat down to talk. He was in notably better spirits after his first bearclaw.

"I had dreams once. It wasn't supposed to come to this."
Nöla sipped from a cup purportedly to contain coffee. "In 2007 I played to a full theater in Leipzig. I even made it to Mexico City." His voice trailed off in confusion. "But if I want to put these new albums out, well, I'm gonna have to do some things I'm not comfortable with."

Between bites of his 2nd pastry, he went on to elaborate on the mundane details of an Indiegogo campaign. Honestly, I began to tune him out when he described the proposed randomly colored vinyl it would be pressed on and its curiously non-geographically specific exotic sound. Then he mentioned cassettes and I had to excuse myself.

I headed back to the area after taking a strong shower and letting night fall. In the neon haze of a downtown Los Angeles night, I couldn't help but make out the figure soliciting men in passing cars. Leaning into each window, a painted, frilly
Nöla handed out printed-out URLs to his campaign to each client.

I am obliged by a verbal contract to note that its address is At last check,
Nöla has gathered roughly enough money for his bus ticket to Tijuana. That's where he plans on some donkey-related performances to raise a pocketful of pesos.

by Phlebus Clay

- No wat's pissin me of theas dayes? Whalefare. It's like, why come I has too work all day long at the fude cannery, taken pride in my laber when some whalefear kween with 15 igelitamutt kids gets her food 4 free from guvemint? Probably free trailer two. Prolly a doublewide, while I live in just the singlewide. It's like, godamn... I'm pized off.

I walked 'round bouts my downtwon aria the oter day and there was all kinds of brown folk. Some of them were Mexicans from godamn Porto Ricko. They was carying on in godamn Mexican all high falootin' and not osimilatin'. It's like, you come to my country, lern to talk ENGLISCH! It aint hard to talk good. Lookit me.

'Slike I said the other day to my unkle Dad. "People is godamn DUM!" My brother Bingo's all ways provin this point, onostly. He aint the brightest skrewdrivor in the tulebocks.

He comed over to my traylor other day and was all "Phlebus, I's gonna be richer than a polecat wearin' suspenders." And I was all "OK, what the details to THAT be?" He tolled me about some sissyboy plan to sell a computar pro gram that he inveded called DECIDE-O-TRON. He say it suppose to make disizions for persons who is to indycisive to make they own disitions. You axe the computor like "What color overalls should I ware to the wedding this afternoon?" or "Does I has to take a shour this week? I feel OK as-is." You tock to the pro gram and it tocks back with wisdom.

Now Bingo aint never went to emelantry scool like I done, and he aint edercationed and the like, so I cut him a bit a slack from time a time. But this was just fukkin stuped. I saysed as much to him.

"Bingo," I talked, "That's just fukkin retardid. Why I'ma pay my hard earned monee for some little box of computar magik to tell me how to live my life? I aint need no Big Bruther. I makeup my own mind." He starts jabberin' away bout computar codes and some investars from a store he calls "Gugle" bein real intrested in his work... even oferrin' to pay him $1,000,000 for it. I convinsed him that don't sound right and to just go back to tillin' the turnip field like he's gud at.

Bingo's fukkin dum.

Suzie jussed sorta mining her own busyness.

But I's startin' to get it into my mined that most folk in these parts, acterally the hole cuntry reley, are godamn stoopid as dirt. I was ridin my cow into the town skware yestorday and the poleaseman saysed to me I gotta ware a helmut on my hed so's I don't split my skul open if'n I fall of. I told the ocifer that I been ridin' Suzie since I was 6 month old and I no what I'm doin. Suzie never bucks or nothin. She just mosey real peaceful down the avenue and we take in the sites.

The cop says "No, I'ma give you a godamn $5 tickit, Phlebus. I done telled you 87 times about this. You gotta cumply."

Five fukkin dollars. This cop was tryin to take away my retirmint nest eg. No way, hosay. I punched him up in his ugly mouth and turned Suzie back t'words home and we galloped off.

Dammnit I's gettin all agitatered rite now just rememberin on it. Damnit. I caint right no more. I'm to fukkin pized of.