Encounters

As I walked a homeless man pointed out a memorial on a doorstep for a man shot in the head, that was bullrushed by police. And I felt like I lost a brother, like a large part of humanity was gone because of a man I didn't know.

And I saw the homeless man I met two weeks ago in the same spot. It was his birthday and he was hungry. Maybe the truth was stretched and his goal was to drown further in a dark pool, but maybe he was an honest man dreaming of a chicken sandwich. I could lose two dollars to a possible lie, or I could buy my own chicken sandwich to pile on the cereal, apple, yogurt, granola bar, roasted chicken, mac and cheese, and cornbread that I had eaten throughout the day. So I risked my two dollars for the hope of giving this man his birthday meal.

I had to do it for myself. I had to do it to believe that all of humanity wasn't gone, blasted away with the bullet hole in that strangers head. I needed to put forth an action that would be in favor of humanity and keep feeding it hope to stay alive. For if the rest of the world goes to shit, I won't let it go in my eyes. Because the day that I stop hoping and believing that the earth is surrounded in good will be the day that there is no point to the exhaling and inhaling of oxygen.

Enjoy your chicken sandwich Mister. I enjoyed your smile when I handed you the two dollars.

The complete video of Build Us Fiction at the cabin.

The full version of the first song my band played at my birthday party last year. We took all of the furniture out of the living room and replaced it with a drumset, amps, and a canopy of lights.

Grandpa poems (part 3 of 3)

don't pour sprinkles and a cherry on the cats, grandpa

he was leaning against our sink,

spiraling down the drain.

four years of washing memories

down like milk after dessert,

only to forget what the pie tasted like

or that he ever ate. 

he never understood what alzheimer's was.

"would those make good ice cream?"

he asked, pointing at our cats.

"what do you think these are?"

my dad questioned, worried.

"hah," he chuckled, and i didn't know

if he thought it was funny or confusing.

"grandpa, these are cats.... not ice cream."

my dad and i stared at him, searching

for the slightest sign that he was in there.

but there was nothing, so we laughed

to hide the fact that he was gone. 

Grandpa poems (part 2 of 3)

trinkets

all i could see was trinkets and knickknacks.

to the side was my grandpa's casket and all 

i could see were those damn collectibles.

the funeral home was cluttered with an assortment of antique memorabilia, things like an old unfunctional

sewing machine and 1950s tin coca-cola signs.

and porcelain dolls that never stopped staring

at me from across the room.

it's all i saw, all i loathed.

i was numb to everything else, except 

a burning rage towards those absolutely

worthless trinkets.

and the chairs we sat in.

metal cushioned and upholstered, 

but merely subtracting the coldness

that can be quite pleasant 

to a sweaty palm.   

Grandpa poems (part 1 of 3)

dear god,

i used to know you and him

until the alzheimer's hit.

you made him forget 

me as his grandson

and see his son as 

a friendly stranger visiting

the nursing home filled with 

passive zombies, void

of the love you promised.

the possibility of you and 

his disease coexisting, let alone

the rest of the world's suffereing

was illogical and insulting to 

anything good. and i was 

supposed to praise you, the thief 

of seventy one years of memory?

believers of you go to heaven to live in

peace. those who don't are fucked.

this is essentially what i was taught 

in twelve years of catholic schooling.

my grandpa believed in you and your 

son, going to your house every sunday. 

he loved our family dearly and was a good

honest man. from these criteria he should

have been on his way to heaven.

the problem is that he forgot who i was.

he forgot that he had been married

and who his children were.

who is to say that he remembered,

much less, believed in you?

throughout his last year he lost almost

all of his memory. by the end there weren't 

any signs to show even a hint.

a belief in god most likely escaped him.

by what i was taught, by these criteria, 

my grandpa was fucked.

goodbye god.

i forgot you.

sincerely,

michael schenk

Beware of the nightclub and its touchy, feely, grabbin and groppin hands

Part 2 of Poem Marathon. This one is the poem version of part of a short story I was writing. I found that I'm much better at poems because they are closer to writing songs. The inspiration came from going to a club in South Carolina and sitting on the edge of the room disgusted by the entire scene.


The Character

The rainbow array of lights seizured around the ceiling.
Bodies magnetized by sweat and spiced cologne
gyrated around traps of sticky puddles that
splashed from the rims of mixed drinks.
Hips and hands did all the moving, they did all the talking.
Gazes were driven by the prospect of sex and
body language preoccupied their limbs, making them forget to tread.
No limbs circling or scissor kicking to stay afloat.

He used to be a charmer, conjuring spells and
weaving fabrications to make girls believe in him.
Living an alias for a single night, killing
off the character that she fell in love with.
Josh, Ryan, Nick, Steve, and Greg all disappeared
at the climax of their story. He had become a
hunter with a smile, mounting trophies on his bedpost
instead of the wall.

Living as Ben tonight, molded with a girl, working his
incantations on her drunken ears. He summoned her name
and she said Roselyn, his Grandmother's name.
The charm vanished as those pewter eyes pierced the roof
from the clouds. His ancient example of a woman
and why to respect them. Her regard, her care,
her unconditional love now had conditions.

His knees cracked the ground, palms compressing his brain,
fingers snagging his hair, and the gyrating mass opened up,
leaving him with the only private place in the building.
A foot and a half radius of space between him and the mob of sex
was a separate universe catalyzing an instantaneous evolution.

He dug a deep rectangle into his brain, kicking the monster into the grave,
but before he filled the dirt he raised the shovel into the air with both hands.
Muscles and gravity drove the metal tip into its throat.
Two inches of neck were gone and the shovel was removed.
Another strike and three more inches ere torn.
Two more gone, three more gone, and only four inches of skin
and vertebrae and veins held the head to the monster.
The shovel raised towards the sky and met with the ground,
passing through the last four inches of his past.

POEM MARATHON!!!!!!!!

IM GONNA POST A SHIT TON OF POEMSSSSS CAUSE IM MENTALLY HYPER RIGHT NOW!!!! JAAARRRHOOOOOOO! This one is inspired by the movie Into The Wild (#2 on my all time favorites list.)

Wilderness

Sitting silently still,
mistaken for apathy, yet
content as if it saw an
unshakable proof for God.
Like birds that have
whispered with the wind,
conversed with the sky.
A soft slumber spot and
food for worms, who may say
to each other, "We never
wrote a symphony, but
we didn't hurt a soul."

After 9 years of playing guitar I have finally decided to start singing. I am about 2 months into it and I feel like I am getting better. And it is SO much fun. Tell me what you think. Pwetty Pwease with a cherry on top?

Christmas Cheer

To offset the darkness of the last poem and to bring in the holidays with a big HOORAY!!! I present you with a Christmas time poem in the form of a letter titled, "Dear Santa."

Dear Santa

I have been a very, very good boy this year and I teased my little sister only a teeny bit. Somebody at school said that you weren't real and I called him a grumpy old man. I believe in you. I believe in you with all my heart because if I don't, then what else is there to believe in? God? Because that story seems to be made of magic too.

Well Santa, I hope I am on your good list because I don't want to disappoint you. The excitement of walking down the stairs to see a heap of presents under the glow of the tree can't be described in like images because it is what everything else is compared to. If only one of those boxes held a Lego set, the open possibility of anything that I can Imagine. A world that I can sink into and forget that it is my fingers that make their arms and legs move. Or maybe a toy gun so I can protect my family and the world across. BANG BANG! The hero is me! Or a bucket of army men that I can lead to the victory of everything good. Oh oh, it could be a ball glove and Dad can teach me how to play pastimes. But most of all now as a grown man, I'd love to be as excited about these toys or anything as I was back then. 

P.S. Cookies and milk will be waiting for you.

Michael Schenk

Brand New inspired

"The Archers Bows Are Broken" by Brand New inspired this poem. It's darker than the other poems I have been posting, but I don't think Brand new has ever written a happy song.

Hysterical grins and gurgled cackles

I tried to imitate humor rather

than horror because the mess is less

and nobody will start to worry.

This is funny, isn't it? 

A scalding wreckage of a 

lacerated body, unsettled and loose, 

like a cannon off its hinges,

careless of the firing commands. 

The wild man performing for everyone. 

A joke of a person, void of 

ambitions or stipulations

worthy to earn respect.

I danced on the bridge,

hat on the ground, begging 

only for a compliment or a friend. 

As I twirled and twisted, kicking piles 

of gravel rhythmically, believing that 

the pebbles sang, "You can only blame yourself."

and I agreed.

So I pinched my head long enough

and I hit my brain hard enough,

to cause a reaction,

to catalyze a movement

within myself to make a new disease. 

Something fierce enough,

something strong enough

I'd have to invent a new attack.

And in the hopes of a formula

I'd work a solution, into a being felt fit

to garner something more than a blink.

My mindest

*This is one from the bunch of poems i wrote for my creative poetry writing class during my last spring quarter in Athens. Wow, that is weird to say. And fuck, do I miss that place like crazy! I went back there a couple weekends ago to camp and completely surprised Mattias. The entire town still felt like a home to me. So in commemoration of the first place i found and turned into a home, here is a vintage Schenk poem.*

Grown-ups Not Allowed

I live in a nameless town that only wandering

children could find, only they could imagine it.

I was born twenty-two years ago and

a number six candle will illuminate

my next fifty birthday cakes.

A town where excitement worked as oxygen,

inhaling as we marched, zigzagging

through the trees and jousting sticks

upward with the rhythm of our song.

We folded pirate hats out of newspaper

and a cardboard box morphed 

into a ship before our eyes.

This ship let us triumph over rotting cold

and we floated past growing old.

Adventure roared and soared until

the day we found contentment.

The jubilee filled us like hot air balloons 

taking us around the world.

We exhaled our way to the ground, 

resting our bones that traveled the earth

and our eyes that still magically sparked. 

The dimming of our fire was prevented 

by the skipping of adulthood,

the dullness of over investing responsibility.

Instead we grew from children to elders,

basking in a life well lived. 

Hopefully some of my old Athens friends will read and remember back to the magical place that we were a part of, created, and enjoyed. I fucking miss all of you a ton. And as I said to you many times before, so long. 

Ice Cream Advice

Last summer while I was staying in Athens to take a summer class my age-old friends Aaron, Sam, and Anna came to visit me at my cabin. It is always a great time with the Gorman crew. I've been best friends with Aaron since we were two so we have inside jokes dating back to the early 90's. 

We were hanging out and watching some of our longtime movie faves when we our sweet tooths got the hankering for some apple pie and ice cream. So we trekked out to Wal-Mart for snacks and supplies. At the freezer section we stood in front of the isle of glass doors pondering which choice of the hundreds would satisfy the most. We were also trying to have a smigen of health consciousness during our indulgent snacking. The cartons that sported claims of half the calories, 1/3 the fat, or sugar free were earning our attention. Our decision was almost made on a lowfat peanut butter and chocolate chip delicacy when we heard...

"You don't wantta eat that shit."

Our attention drifted away from the ice cream and we found a peculiar man addressing us. Here was this strange man, wearing penny loafers and sockless, bidding his supposed seasoned and experienced advice on ice cream choices to four young college kids. My guestimation on his age was 46 and although I have no clue what his name was, I am dubbing him as Glen because nothing could fit better. He was rocking khaki shorts in which the fabric barely extended to the halfway mark of his waist and knees. The shorts were more white than the traditional khaki color and they contrasted the black tank top that let a tuft of blond and gray hair puff above the neck collar. A gold chain necklace sat cushioned on top of the curlies. Urgh.... hack.... Glen's head was highlighted by his large semi-tinted eyeglasses, mustache,  and the perimeter of blond and gray hair that circled the shiny bold spot on the peak.

"Huh?" I replied.
"That lowfat stuff has chemicals and shit in it. You don't want to eat that."

"Oh yeah, is that so?" Sam asked half joking. 

"Yeah, you want the all-natural ingredients. I've been going off of natural fat for a long time and it has done me no harm," Glen confirmed. 

"I guess that makes sense," Anna said cautiously. 

Aaron didn't say a word. His face blatantly showed how weird he thought this guy was.

Glen confessed, "I have to stock up on this stuff because when I go back to the East coast it is so expensive." He then continued to pile half gallon cartons into his arms until he had a selection of five different kinds. 

"It looks like you know what you are talking about," I said as I picked out an all-natural vanilla bean carton and the others okayed my decision. I think that we were half confused, partially convinced, and a little intimidated that his pals back on the East coast might come after us for disrespecting his experienced advice and choosing an ice cream with 1/3 of the calories and loads of chemicals. Glen was a small guy, but he could have some connections. 

We thanked Glen for his advice and parted ways because we needed to find our apple pie. After the apple pie was selected we headed towards the checkout. We were standing in line for a couple of minutes when Glen pops up behind us with his armful of ice cream. He sees our selection of the all-natural vanilla bean and exclaims, "That's what you want! That's the good stuff!" 

"We are looking forward to the natural way of eating ice cream," Sam said. Glen grinned at us so we left. 

The ice cream and apple pie did end up to be quite delicious and it was an interesting encounter with my good friends since the beginning of time. I just hope that I avoided a bio-nuclear stomach ache because we followed Glen's advice about getting the natural kind. 

Build Us Fiction live at The Cabin March 13, 2010.

Thanks a million times over to Sam Gorman for learning a crazy amount of our strange material in only one day for us and rocking out on drums.

When Kid A was finished...

Thom Yorke was asked in an interview with Spin magazine, "You once said of OK Computer: "'At the 11th hour, when we realized what we had done, we had qualms about the fact that we had created this thing that was quite revolting.'" Any similar (or otherwise) thoughts about the new record?"

Thom said, "When we finished it made me cry sitting in the back of a car from start to finish... does that help?"

Amazing.

Another dimension in The Spacement

It has been a long time since I wrote anything so I will do just that. Maybe a few things. 

On February 6th my band and I played a show at my friend Logan's house. Mike Shine was out of town for the weekend so Zach, Pat, and I trashed as an instrumental group for the night. Logan has a big empty basement that has been converted into a bomb shelter-like venue that allows curious ears to trudge through the tide of snow that appears in one large falling, recedes and melts away, then cycles back to another onslaught. Those ears track water on the basement floor from the shoes that carry them up to the wooden stage built at the far end. The spray painted wall depicting outer space and a gigantic space monkey are illuminated by blue and green lights on the ceiling. Christmas lights lace around the stage corners. Build Us Fiction was in zero gravity on February 6th.

We played there once before with a couple of jam bands. The first set belonged to us and the crowd had not built up yet nor did we fit perfectly well with the jam bands. But this night, it was post rock night and that is our haven. EPIC.

The first act was a single person playing loops and samples. It was really mellow and a great way to open the show and get everyone's earbuds hungerin' for big guitars, bass, and drums. I had previously recorded dialogue from Donnie Darko and edited it together to make a creepy 4 minute clip. We turned off all the lights in The Spacement and began the clip. "I've been seeing stuff... like really messed up stuff," confessed Donnie and Frank the Bunny immediately replied with "Wake up," in his spine shivering voice. The drums and bass began their thumping forewarning of war, apocalypse, whatever else may come. As the pulsation of drums and bass carried onward, Donnie and his therapist discussed what would happen if the sky were to open up and bring the conclusion of the world. The thumping continued and Donnie asked Frank, "When is this going to stop?" in a childish voice.

"You should already know that." 

I enter with bowed guitar and the sonic atmosphere truly is in outer space. The three of us slowly grow more aggressive. The drums become more sporadic and intense. The bass moves from its gradual thumping to the pounding melody of the entire song. My drones spin out of control, collecting anything in its path with an encompassing swirl of sound. The hairs on my bow split and lash out like tentacles. We went wild and ferocious and then calmed down, watching our storm blow away and the next one rearing in the distance. 

The crowd made more noise and applause than I am used to. It was a warm feeling. 

In came the ominous bowed guitar to begin "Sleep Is Gone." It's slow and wavering like the next storm holding back to build the fear of what might come. The rains came without an ounce of mercy so even the rocks and stones were waterlogged. The drums set the rhythm for a march towards war with our blood stained swords dangling next to our hips above mud that hasn't seen grass in years. The bass keeps the pace of our heartbeats that haven't known rest in a very long time. Bowed guitar circles around the entire scene, trapping the field in a vortex we can't escape. This is a song about war in your head. Conflict has torn you apart and resolution hasn't come. You can't find peace so sleep is gone. 

I finally get to smile during the next song. "Waking Into the Sky," is my moment of realization. In this song I am content with the sorrow because it makes the happy times fill with so much importance. For the first time I leave my bow and wall of effects that I use to escape into another dimension. I strip it down and let it go exposed. People can now hear my mistakes, but it feels good and even when the song is bare of its usual otherworldly effects I like to build up to something bigger than realities we occupy. 

Our fourth and last song of the night was a new one called, "Figment of my Imagination." It is made up of three movements and no repeating verses or choruses. In the first movement we groove. Imagine that, a post rock band grooving. But this song embodies a fascination of mine. I find wonder in the polar opposites of the scale. Really intense things and extremely delicate moments are spectacular to me. The middle ground is unbearably boring. My obsession with Sigur Rós is perfect proof of this statement. The only feeling I can muster while listening to Incubus is nostalgia. I listened to them everyday for six years and now it's like looking at old memories in a photo album. They fall into the middle ground while Sigur Rós is stampeding on the intense terrain  and tip toeing through the tall grass. That is the core of this song. The ending is by far our most intense finale and I was in another galaxy while playing it. The applause at the end woke me up from my dream. I fucking love that alarm clock. 

Sparks of Color and Sound

Erasing his own 

presence, the past that built

a space without stars. Losing

his flaw to restrain, denouncing 

the crippling realities of reality.

He induced everything at the end,

freely dispelling the truths in

exchange for magic, that

bone chilling apparition. 

The effect as if he knew

that he was trapped, but 

still flaring the end of

spontaneous,

gorgeous

   crescendos. 

Here's a snippet of my fiction story/short book/tale

*I was in South Carolina with Jake  last weekend to visit David and the three of us had tickets to see Brand New in Myrtle beach. Brand New decimated and destroyed as usual, but the night before the concert David took us to a couple bars and a dance club. Since I don't drink, it was rather awkward for me dance (more like dry hump) with a drunk girl so I stayed on the sidelines. At least creative inspiration struck and it lead to an addition to the fictional story I have been working on and off for the past year or so. I like it, so here it is. The title of the story is Inside The Brain Library. *

The rainbow array of lights seizured around the ceiling. Bodies magnetized by sweat and spiced cologne gyrated with movements that would clench the fists of their fathers'. Feet didn't move due to the traps of sticky puddles that splashed from the rims of fruity mixed drinks. Hips and hands did all the moving, they did all the talking. Gazes were driven by the prospect of sex and body language was the only form of communication. Nobody spoke with words because it would have been too sloppy to understand from the liquor and the deafening bass frequencies spit out by the speakers. Everybody was drowning in alcohol.

Luke Bright stood cemented to the floor. Ten minutes ago he was molded with a girl, working his drunken charm on her drunken ears. He thought her name was Monica, it was Carey. Now the gyrating mass stayed from his blank stares towards the flashing lights, leaving him with the only private place in the building. A foot and a half radius of space between him and the mob of sex was a separate universe going through an instantaneous evolution. His desire for quick gratification was done.

 

He didn't know how or why, but Luke's brain was holding a shovel, taking up the earth to bury his old ways that he was not proud to have done. Luke had tried to hide his past deeds  in the farthest regions of his brain, but had failed time and time again. The memories always resurfaced, no matter how much dirt he piled on top, his past would eventually crawl out and find him again. This was the last hole his brain would ever dig. 

 

Luke's past had always came after him like a monster tearing apart everything he started to build. Relationships and life goals never went anywhere promising. Every flame he ignited was blown out with suffocating effectiveness. Now his brain had the monster in the grave, but before he filled the dirt back into the hole he raised the shovel into the air with both hands. Muscles and gravity drove the metal tip into the throat of the monster. Two inches of neck were gone and the shovel was removed. Another strike and three more inches were torn. Two more gone, three more gone and only four inches of skin and vertebrae and veins held the head to the monster. The shovel raised towards the sky and them met with the ground, passing through the last four inches of his past. The crowded space in Luke's head was cleared. His brain had space to move around, space to think. There wasn't a trace of past to piece together as clues. With the disappearance of the victim, so did the suspect and the act fade into nothingness. It is impossible to tell about Luke's history because even he became unaware of it. The past that haunted him had been destroyed, decimated to leave only an empty space with no residue of what had been there before. 

This evolution happened as the mob continued to gyrate, clueless that Darwin's theory was taking place inside a brain standing in their center. 

Sigur Rós at the Filmore in Detroit

The four translators of sound bow

under glowing spheres, floating 

replicas of the planets and stars.

Gracing this one from across the sea with

greetings in their native Icelandic tongue.

Beams radiate in color, my insides illuminate. 

A cello bow saws at a guitar and

this small world of listeners explode

in applause, thank yous for transcendental euphoria.

My skin tingles with hair rising

as my muscles relax.

I hit the wave of awe centered around

the rush from chest to brain, 

from brain to sky and

for a moment I forget the confetti in my hair

and the thousand others being reborn

in the rainbow blizzard.

Survival Essentials

I'm going to start putting up some of the poems I have written. I took a creative poetry writing class last spring and it peaked my interest. It's a lot like writing songs, so I likes it a lots. This one is about my childhood at the Gormans' old house on Cedar Avenue. Imaginations grew wild there.

Survival Essentials

I remember my first decade 

when thinking was an adventure at

our wooden house on Cedar Avenue.

A tree house forewarned our fears

with a misspelled sign reading,

"ON GIRLS ALLOWED!"

I remember my Ninja Turtle toys in

the sandbox, how that single square of the 

world was a universe to us and 

the little plastic became living people.

At the edge of the yard, honeysuckle bushes

arched together to form a tunnel.

I remember it led to another realm

where we went to live, not to escape.

I remember our tent indoors.

Trusting our flashlight defenses 

because those beams of light scattered

darkness, and bathed the frightening faces

with the comfort of dawn.

I remember how everything existed and nothing mattered.

We lived inside our minds

and the outside world embraced us.

Now I must see adventure in the

future of children and careers. 

To never become trapped by the

indestructible walls of a cubicle. 

To search for honeysuckle tunnels

lining the path that is essential

for my vital systems' survival,

to still believe everything exists and nothing matters.

*Side note* I really want to see the new movie Where The Wild Things Are. By just seeing the commercials, it seems to capture exactly what I'm trying to say in the poem. My belief that holding onto your head and heart from childhood is one of the most important things anyone could possibly do. Also the song "Wake Up" by Arcade Fire in the commercial is oh so glorious. Where The Wild Things Are trailer

So long Russenorsk...

This was the magic of Russenorsk.

I really miss Russenorsk. They began during our freshman year at OU and I was even part of the jam that brought Tim and Jack together. Our dorm from freshman year, Washington Hall, absorbed their energy and their concerts were the single way that I kept contact with some friends from Washington Hall. Now that Russenorsk is gone, it feels like those friendships will fade as well. Conor Hogan and I were the two biggest fans, and we went to an uncountable amount of shows. There was a core group of people, mostly all from Washington Hall, that were always there with me, pumping our fists in the air and jumping around as we sang every word. 

There was a magic about Russenorsk. They grew with me through college and they represented what Athens was to me. There was a sense of friendship in the music. A feeling of adventure, that no matter how small and unimportant the adventure may be to the rest of the world, it was vital to the me. Their music was kind. It had despair, yet carried a hope. Russenorsk mirrored a lot of what I loved about my favorite author, Kurt Vonnegut. They shared these themes and feelings and messages.  I finished the ending of Slaughter House-5 while sitting on the sand of the Atlantic coast and listening to "Long Winter's Coming" on repeat.

Tim, Jack, and Zach of Russenorsk... I want to thank you for growing with me and giving us all some very wonderful music. The memories of the shows are still strong. The beginning shows when it was only 2 members and you were still trying to figure out what you were doing. The first album release show and how I was amazed at how good the record was. The acoustic show at the donkey when the power went out and we in the crowd kicked in as a room full of backup singers. The countless shows at The Union where you guys made it your home. The second album release and the growth and maturity of "Comforts."

Russenorsk went out in perfect fashion. Bidding farewell with a final show at The Union, they played for about 90 minutes, twice the normal set for a local show. My friend Sam from Cincinnati was finally able to see them live after 3 years of loving their music. They played all of the favorites and we were able to sing along the loudest that our voices would allow. We yelled "No Crash!" as the music stopped for a second and Jack pointed his cello bow out to the crowd. They played their last song, "Long Winter's Coming" and the Athens music giant was falling down, just as the capsules of fire do in the song. I looked over at Conor at this point and could see that he too was going to deeply miss this band. It felt as if a vital part of what the town of Athens and Ohio University were to me was dying prematurely. I had expected them to last until we all graduated at the end of the year, but it didn't work out that way and a hole has been left unfilled. Once the chaos and mayhem of "Long Winter's Coming" came to a halt Tim went to the side of the stage and grabbed his acoustic guitar. Russenorsk had been playing all electric for at least a year. Jack grabbed his cello. Zach grabbed his floor tom. They walked off the stage and into the crowd. Unplugged, they began playing "Science Tells Me" and the crowd sang along. It was pure. Russenorsk was ending , perhaps burying, their music with the people who had loved them so dearly. As "Science Tells Me" ended they went right into "Long Winter's Coming" again.  As the last chorus of the song came, the crowd was off time with their singing. Tim asked for one more time to get it right and we gave it to him. They deserved it. It was beautifully sad.

Thank you Russenorsk for more than you could ever know. I know you appreciated it with everything you had in your hearts. Take a listen to understand what I'm talking about. http://www.myspace.com/russenorskband