rocked their hour long set. Playing hits such as This Disorder and Good Old Days, The Features executed their psychedelic, grunge sound with style. The band's foot tapping tunes echoed around the raddest venue in the Capital Region- the Plaza. The Empire State Plaza; which connects the EGG Center for the Performing Arts, the Corning Tower, the New York State Museum, the Capital Building, and several war and emergency service memorials, is decorated by artwork and gardens. Concert go-ers enjoyed not only the sounds of the night, but also the sights. the plaza across the water
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A week before I left for Indianapolis I got to spend a very special day on the lake with some great friends. I'm so glad I took so much footage of this sunshine day.
b&w photographs courtesy of Steven Schultz Photography Good Fiction, the dynamic, alternative rock trio, is taking Upstate New York one venue at a time. From the Fuze Box in Albany to Troy's RPI Union to Upstate Concert Hall of Clifton Park, Good Fiction has spent this season electrifying the Capital Region with their garage rock feel and compelling live act. The band consists of members Patrick Grace (Vocals, Drums), Alex Wollyung (Guitar), and Taylor Abbitt (Bass). Their sets include novel covers of The White Stripes, Alt-J, and Black Keys as well as several satisfying originals (most notably "Bassline", the band's first single, which can be found here). The band's most recent performance occurred at The Hollow + Kitchen where they opened for Mirk. The Venue- The Hollow Despite its numerous competitors on N Pearl Street, The Hollow has become one of Albany's brightest nightlife locations. This versatile spot hosts a bar, restaurant, and music venue (called The Low Beat) as well as modest prices and friendly staff. The wooden front room is accented with black trim, metal signs, and mason jar-ed light bulbs for a modern take on homey ambiance. Beyond the dining and bar sections is a small room coated in black which holds a billiard table, bar, and rugged stage. Colored lights pop on exposed pipelines and play across musician's faces as they perform. Fairy lights strung above the bar soften the night club vibes as bands like Good Fiction command audiences of up to 200 people. The Show- June 13th, 2015 Electric player, Alex Wollyung, impressed with his quick, accurate finger work, string-bending wails, and fondness for the whammy bar. His use of pedals and placement embodied the desired tone and filled the stage with vibrant musical lines. Wollyung played with intense fervor, conquering zig-zaging themes intently and without mistake. Screams erupted from the audience as Wollyung concluded particularly intricate sequences. The complexity of his playing makes you wonder how he manages to take up only the optimal amount of melodic space. Wollyung's playing showcases his abilities while simultaneously complimenting those of his bandmates'. When I was fifteen I spent three weeks in France through a foreign exchange program. I hosted a young man named Sylvain in my home and a couple months later stayed with him and his family in Paris. During that trip I visited places that tied my country to Sylvain’s- tied by victory and by loss. All these years later on Memorial Day re-remembering that foreign experience has a new context. It was April of 2009 and after two weeks in Paris, Sylvain and his family brought me on vacation with them to a rural, southern part of France where his grandparents live. After a four hour drive through French country-side, complete with poppy fields, Toy Story clouds, and chateaus, we arrived in a tiny cobblestoned village nestled between Oradour and Limoges. Between emerald fields of grazing sheep and cattle stood a two-story, stone structure that was old enough to look soft instead of cold. Violet posies boasted from flower boxes and the tiny, upstairs-bedroom balconies were gated by curling mint-green iron. A worn tire swing lazed from one of the thick, knobby oaks in the front yard. The door, bright red, provided perfect contrast to it’s dulled counterparts. Everything painted was peeling. Everything white was beige. Everything I could see was older than I, save Sylvain’s triplet cousins who were taking turns on the swing. There is a kind of inexplicable comfort in being surrounded by things that have tempted time and survived. That is how being in France feels. Especially Paris. We went inside and Sylvain’s grandfather, Leo, received me warmly. Speaking the broken English he learned as a boy he insisted on showing me a tiny town named Oradour-sur-Glane. Eager to see more adorable French homes I agreed. I was not prepared for what I would see next. Leo, Sylvain, and I drove out of the charming village and approached a town that looked at though it had been abandoned. We parked, walked past the memorial museum we would visit later, and followed a cobbled path into town. The first thing I noticed was the sound of the place. It was void of the normal outdoor noises. I did not hear birdsong. The buildings were crumbled, roofless, forgotten like Mayan ruins. All around were fences, houses, and trees scorched and stained with ash. The entire town was deserted- streets littered with cars made of rust and broken sewing machines of the same fate. This was unlike anything I had ever seen and a shocking disparity to the beautiful house I had just beheld. There is something inexplicably disturbing about such a setting. It was clear that something terrible had happened in Oradour, France. Leo explained (with the help of his grandson whose English is much better) that the town was attacked by two German platoons on June 10th, 1944. The Nazis were on their way to the beaches of Normandy to provide aid when they came across Oradour-sur-Glane and decided to “make an example” of it. The village-men were rounded up and gunned down while the women and children were herded into a church which was set on fire. The town was looted, destroyed with gunfire, and set ablaze. In total, 642 people were slaughtered. Five men and one woman survived. The town, which has become known as Martyr’s Village, was left in its ravaged state as a reminder of the destruction caused by war as well as a memorial to those murdered there. Seeing it all- feeling the weight of the tragedy- awoke a profoundly deep sadness in me that I did not recognize until later that day. We walked down the empty streets in silence. I kicked a rock. |
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November 2015
AuthorLaura Johnson is a junior writing major at Houghton College. Laura writes for The Houghton Star, Mousailink, and One Mission Society. This virtual space is a journal of things that matter to her; tales, musings, wanderings. |