#colossal magazine
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THE GARDEN by Iranian artist ARGHAVAN KHOSRAVI
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Colossal Article Feature
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Los Angeles Magazine, 50 Things Every Angeleno Must Do, #30 Make a Pilgrimage to the Hollywood Sign, February, 2014
#los angles magazine#los angeles#LA#hollywood#hollywood sign#architecture#design#sign#advertisement#scale#size#colossal#50 Things Every Angeleno Must Do#Make a Pilgrimage to the Hollywood Sign#Pilgrimage
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Little Bird: Chapter 12 is out on AO3
They knew how to move at night, and given their survey during daytime, they knew exactly where to go. The horses didn’t complain much, and it didn’t take long to reach the end of the sunflower field, at the border with the lands of the dowry.
Despite the last sliver of the moon and the stars, there was not much to be seen. The farmhouse was in the dark, and the common reed was just a mass of uneven spikes in the air.
Yet, they descended from their horses, crouched down between the sunflowers, and waited.
Considering the uneventful day, and trip, Annie should have expected it: nothing to be seen, or heard, in her dead mother’s lands.
Even the crickets’ cry was fainter there.
Connie was of a different opinion.
“Can’t you hear the dull sound in the background?”
“No,” Onyankopon said.
“Not really, no,” Armin said, pensive.
“You’re just too excited, Connie,” Annie replied.
“But I’m not! Listen…”
But she didn’t hear anything.
(continue >)
#little bird#little bird: chapter 12#aruani#aruani fanfiction#annie leonhart#annie leonhart fanfiction#aquietjune fics#aquietjune writes stories#vintage magazine cover#the magazine illustration is appropriate for winter but still it makes so much sense#happy holidays you all#hours later i managed to post the promo post i guess#sorry these are chilly days#in every aspect#please spare a thought for me#send me a colossal titan i don't know
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WORLD WRESTLING FEDERATION MAGAZINE : MAY 1990
NEWSBREAKERS
THE HART FOUNDATION THROWS DOWN THE GAUNTLET
Apparently, Bret “Hit Man” Hart and Jim “The Anvil” Neidhart had been thinking about it for a long time. They had been WWF Tag Team Champions, great champions who fought the best opposition around. Since that time, both as singles competitors and as a tag team, the Hit Man and the Anvil have demonstrated, time and time again, that they are among the best wrestlers in the WWF–wrestlers who should once again wear the gold.
It was but short weeks before Wrestlemania VI, with its title match between WWF Tag Team Champions Andre the Giant and Haku of the Colossal Connection and Ax and Smash of Demolition, the former titleholders. Hart and Neidhart could have waited until the outcome was decided, but they could no longer put off throwing down the gauntlet.
[The Hart Foundation challenged both Colossal Connection and Demolition to a title match, pending the outcome of WrestleMania VI.]
So, during an appearance on The Brother Love Show, the Foundation issued a challenge. “We want the winner of the WrestleMania VI title bout.”
Neidhart led up to the challenge by revealing what may be the motivation for the Foundation’s decision.
“The times,” he said, “Are changing all over. The big wall in Berlin’s coming down. We want the tag team belts back, and the only way to do it is to issue a challenge here and now.”
Asked by Brother Love what they would do if the title went to Ax and Smash, who are on friendly terms with the Hit Man and the Anvil, Bret left no doubts.
“We know Demolition’s big and powerful. But, let’s get something straight. Demolition, if you win, you’d better put up or shut up.”
As you read this, the issue of who will accept the Foundation’s challenge has been decided. Whichever team Hart and Niedhart will face, they seem supremely confident. In the words of the Anvil, the owners of the belts should be “ready for a great, big Hart Attack.”
#wwf#world wrestling federation#Bret Hart#bret the hitman heart#Bred#jim the anvil neidhart#jim neidhart#ax demolition#smash demolition#Demolition#haku#Andre the giant#Colossal Connection#magazine scan#magazine transcript#wwf magazine scan#wwf magazine
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«Le Petit Colosse de Symi» – The Nothing Else Review, No. 2, Edited by Daniel Spoerri, Galerie Bruno Bischofberger, Basel, 1966-1967 [Walker Art Center, Minneapolis, MN. MACBA, Barcelona. © Daniel Spoerri / ARS, New York / ProLitteris, Zürich]
#graphic design#art#fluxus#magazine#cover#magazine cover#le petit colosse de symi#daniel spoerri#galerie bruno bischofberger#walker art center#macba#1960s
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Eyelids — A Colossal Waste of Light (Jealous Butcher)
A Colossal Waste Of Light by Eyelids
The first thing you should know about the Eyelids is that they have, collectively, been in a lot of bands. To recap the high points, Chris Slusarenko has done time in Guided by Voices and the affiliated Boston Spaceships. John Moen played drums in the Decemberists, Heatmiser and the Jicks. Bassist Victor Krummenacher is a veteran of Camper van Beethoven and Cracker. Jonathan Drews played with Dolorean, Jim Talstra with Dharma Bums and Paul Pulvirenti with Atomic 61 and Nervous Christians. It’s not quite a supergroup on the Travelling Wilburys level, but there’s a lot of talent packed into its power-pop-into-psychedelic arsenal.
The second thing you might want to understand is that they wear their experience lightly. A Colossal Waste of Light has all the hallmarks of an album made for the pure love of the game, for kicks, if you want to put it bluntly. It’s loose and enthusiastic and full of joy. The radiant jangle, the bloopy bassline, the dreaming, coasting vocal line of the title track all speak to substantial talent and skill — but at play. There are hints of Pollard’s surreal tunefulness, of the Sadies’ psychedelic swirl, of Fountains of Wayne’s graceful way with a line, but very little stress or striving.
The Eyelids wrote these songs remotely during the pandemic, but there’s no trace of jerry-rigging in these pristine tunes. “Everything That I See You See Better” melds spirals of power pop guitar with roughhousing drums and bass without a seam, the vocal harmonies drift over with frictionless ease. Yet, as for many artists, COVID’s restrictions on in-person interaction opened up opportunities for wider online collaboration. They tapped Tim Buckley collaborator Larry Beckett to write lyrics, and got Peter Buck (who also produced) to play 12-string on two tracks. You can hear Buck in the expansive twang of surf-psychedelic “Lyin’ In Your Tomb” and in the more urgent and angsty “I Can’t Be Told.”
Colossal Waste of Light is garage-y power pop from a bunch of guys experienced enough to get the details right without sweating them. Good stuff.
Jennifer Kelly
#eyelids#a colossal waste of light#jealous butcher#jennifer kelly#albumreview#dusted magazine#power pop#garage rock#guitar rock#peter buck#guided by voices#decemberists
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COLOSSAL STREET JAM Unleashes New Single & Music Video, "Seconds"!
New Jersey based, Bluesy, 70s influenced Rock Band COLOSSAL STREET JAM has released the Official Music Video for their new single, “Seconds”! With the music video filmed and produced by Soto / Sinestra Studios, “Seconds” is off of COLOSSAL STREET JAM’s critically praised new album, No Way To Live!
“The video shows the band singing live–and the song totally rocks. The lead singer’s voice reminds…
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#"Seconds"#2023#Blues Rock#Boston#Brad Delp#Colossal Street Jam#Deep Purple#Grand Funk Railroad#Greta Van Fleet#HiVoltage Music#music magazine#new album#New Classic Rock#new music#new music video#New Rock Music#New Rock Music Video#new single#New Wave of Classic Rock#No Way To Live#rival sons#rock magazine#Rock Revolt#Rock Revolt Magazine#RockRevolt#RockRevolt Magazine#Soto / Sinestra Studios#The Answer#Tony Lewis#White Reaper
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𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐏𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐔𝐓. + 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔
masterlist. / taglist. / any request?
synopsis. maybe you did have a skirt kink?
pairing. football player!gojo satoru x reader
word count. 3.4K
genre and warnings. +18 nsfw under the cut. minors dni, football player au, mutual pinning, pwp, don't squint at the plot too hard now, idk how sports work, secret relationship, hookups, commitment issues, skirt kink, jealousy, heated kissing, teasing, touchy gojo, pussy drunk, car sex, backseat sex, oral (f), fingering, slight bratty reader, mentions of praise kink, name calling, pet names, unprotected sex(wrap before you tap), leather against skin, NOT BETA'D | — feedback is always welcomed & don't forget to reblog 🤍
It was the night of Gojo’s homecoming game. Football players spread across the field as the crowd roared, cheering for their respective university teams.
In all honesty, you didn’t know little to anything about football, let alone sports, flinching out every time the students that sat on the bleachers next to you would scream out in excitement or shoot up from their seats to clap and cheer.
The word "bored" doesn't accurately convey how uninterested you were and how little you knew about college football. You didn't feel much better not understanding a single event that had unfolded while sitting in the brisk fall air.
Your ears and fingers were nearly numb from the absence of sufficient warming layers on your body, and you were shivering in the denim jacket you had stolen from Gojo's closet.
As the game entered the fourth quarter, you were trembling with each gust of wind and fidgeting with the gem-layered pendant that rested against your chest.
It was obvious from the scoreboard, which you had to squint your eyes to see from the stands, that Gojo's team would win. The final score resulting, 38-14, caused students to stand up and shout in unbridled joy as the rest of the football team ran towards the field to celebrate their victory.
You still felt out of place despite being surrounded by so much school spirit, chanting, and screaming. In an effort to blend in with the crowd as much as possible, you sat as far away from the field as you could.
Watching Gojo celebrate with his teammates, shouting out in excitement and playfully tackling them into hugs, his long arms slinging over players so effortlessly, you couldn't help but smile to yourself.
You found it strange to hear other women gossiping and giggling about Gojo, saying things that you would utterly concur with.
But the rumor that he was a sex god and was extremely strict about who he chose to hook up with was what you despised the most. How only the luckiest of pretty girls would he tempt back to his bedroom.
Even though you were hooking up with Gojo and had plans to return to his apartment tonight to give him some, you resisted the urge to lean in and let everyone know because you knew that doing so would make you appear crazy.
Realizing this would make you a colossal hypocrite since you were the ones who caused the difficulties in your relationship with Gojo.
Being overly protective of your own heart and unwilling to let the blue-eyed playboy with a long history of "sleeping around" have to close a relationship with you.
You managed to make out his trademark white hair, which is typically styled but was now pulled back over his eyes.
You also noticed his prince charming smile, the skin that peaked out from under his jersey, and the figure that shimmered from the sweat drips covering his entire body, making him look like a magazine model under the field lights.
His eyes scanned the sea of people until they finally met yours, sending a chill down your spine.
When he saw you so out of your element and knew you were doing it specifically for him, his Chester-like smile only got bigger.
He winked as he returned his focus to his coach, leaving you fiddling against the bitterly cold bleacher seats as well as the girls seated in front of you giggling as if the gesture was intended only for them to lean against each other in an out-of-control fit.
You reminded yourself that the only reason you had endured it all was because of the stupid deal Gojo had made with you as your hands clenched against your thighs in frustration.
“How about we make a little bet ___, if i win this game you have to give me a special reward.”
Any bet you placed with Gojo was akin to making a deal with the devil himself.
The winding game of cat and mouse with you resolutely giving in to his childish antics, beckoning your attention until you fall back into his trap with enough time to have you pressed against the cool tile of the guy's locker room way after practice hours.
Fucking you stupid until you gain back that tiny sense of commitment-related fear by ignoring him entirely the next day.
Gojo and you had been hooking up for long enough for him to understand that every time you pulled away, he would just snap back much harder despite your foul mood.
When you needed a quick reminder of how good he would make you feel or how well he already knew your body to turn you into a trembling mess unable to stand up by yourself, he was always there with open arms.
And each time you fall for it. The dick was simply too good to throw away entirely.
Because of this, you kept up your end of the bargain, swallowing the last of your pride, and stood in the parking lot's darkness to observe how the other students filed through the gates along the curb.
Around the time Gojo emerged from the locker room, the crowd had vanished quickly, going about their respective lives as they drove away in their cars.
Except for a few staff vehicles scattered about, the parking lot was deserted as you watched him approach closer while tossing his gym bag over his shoulder.
His phone initially caught his attention, not taking notice of you, swiping his thumb against the screen.
His head jerked up at the light ding notification from the phone in your pocket, and he followed it with his eyes, grinning to see you shivering by the curb for him.
He looked at your baggy outfit and lifted his brow, saying, "I'm going to be pretty disappointed if you aren't wearing my gift under that." He teases you by strolling past you with a yawn that seems uninterested, each long stride ending in the direction of his car as you simply followed his trail with a huff.
"Don't fucking worry. I've been freezing my ass the entire game wearing this stupid thing." Unbutton until the midsection of your torso to show a glimpse of the brightly colored cropped cheer uniform top you had tucked away under the fuzzy inside of his jacket, deciding there would be no harm in just giving him a peek.
The cut ending just under the curve of your ribs exposes the pudge of your stomach entirely. The uniform was very obviously designed for cookie-cutter, precisely shaped cheerleaders with pale skin, ponytails, and thin bodies who looked like they belonged in any stereotypical teen movie.
Gojo almost drooled at the material you had to squeeze yourself into, clinging to every curve and crevice of your body.
You pulled the hem down, but it still didn't cover much since you could see the skin of your torso next to the top's strangely clashing colors.
Gojo trapped you against the passenger side door, looming over you, and murmuring, "I think you've got to be the prettiest girl on the team ___." He spoke in a deep voice that made it difficult for you to look him in the eye, your thighs threatening to squeeze together as his hands crept under the jacket around your hips.
"Yeah, yeah, I know I look exactly like your basic ass type. Can you hurry and just unlock your car before someone fucking sees us already?" The Gojo was giving you all of his attention, but you were good at ignoring him to a point, pressing your palm flat against his muscular chest.
His fingers reached out to grab you by the jaw as he only leaned in closer, maintaining his smile the entire time. He did this to forcefully draw all of your attention to him.
"That’s not very school spirit of you, ___. Shouldn’t you be congratulating me on winning?" It was all an act to enrage you even more, but it was working due to the pout on his lips and the way he glared down at you.
You try to stop your heart from racing by pulling your face away from his hold and crossing your arms.
It appeared as though he had cornered you and was treating you like prey—just another bug that had gotten caught in his web. You could feel Gojo's words brushing against your skin as he hummed, "You know, you have such a fucking potty mouth," sending a shiver up your spine.
His long fingers caressed your hips as he purposefully wedged his leg between yours. His light touch now extended under the jacket with both of his hands.
He pressed against you until you could feel the print of his erection against your stomach as your back rested against the car window. "I’ll forgive you if you show me the skirt."
"Gojo." In a plea, you breathe out his name.
The last thing you wanted to do was to be caught flaunting some poor girl's stolen uniform when you were already feeling self-conscious about only showing the top.
"___." He rolled his eyes and moved away, saying, "That's too bad, I only give rides to pretty girls in skirts." In a bored tone, he told you. His normally innocent smile had been replaced by an uninterested glare as he cocked his head.
He was practically swinging bait in your face, and you knew that the only thing he seemed to enjoy more than playing football was teasing you.
As a result, you became the first to play along with his scheme.
As you reached down and untied your sweatpants, shimming to pull them down to your thighs, a matching skirt set was revealed from beneath the gray cotton, his eyes never leaving yours until you broke eye contact first.
He breathed out at the view of your thighs crammed into the snug cuffed ends of the skirt's safety shorts watching as his eyes take in the sight of your body.
You weren't sure why you were acting so shocked when Gojo chuckled and reached out to pinch the plush of your legs, but he quickly pulled back before he could become overly excited by touching you.
"Okay, you've persuaded both my dick and me. If you don't want me to fuck you in the open parking lot, get in the car, slut."
The journey to wherever he was taking you seemed a lot worse to you. Your exposed thigh is being squeezed by his hand, which seems to be rising steadily.
If you knew he was going to tease you for the next twenty minutes, you would much rather have him fuck you in the parking lot. Not enough of the music blaring from the radio could help you calm down as you writhed at the growing need from beneath your skirt.
Even with the sun gone and the roads seeming like a maze at night, you could tell from the turns and exits which spot he had turned into.
His fingers danced across the precarious line of fingering you in his car or not while his eyes were fixed firmly on the road.
You even spread your legs wide to get the perfect angle for his hand, but he moved quickly to step back just far enough to deny you what you were pleading for.
What a fucking tease.
"You're so fucking insufferable," you grumbled, causing him to laugh heartily.
"Oh, shut the fuck up," he quips. "You act like you're not eating this shit up."
"You think I like being dressed like this?"
"You agreed to it," he reminded you, his hand laying a teasing smack against your thigh. "Just admit that you fantasize about being folded like some cheap slut in a porno. I won't kink shame, angel."
"Don't call me that," you whined. "I’m not some fucking slut."
“Well yeah duh,” he grinned side eyeing you only for a second. “But you’ll sound like one when I'm done with you.”
He backed into a more private space further into the deserted parking lot, engaged the car in park, and turned the radio volume down until it was barely audible over the sound of the late night.
He slapped his hands against the steering wheel, leaned back against his seat, let out an exasperated sigh, and then grinned impishly in your direction.
“The stars look just as pretty as you, ___.”
"Oh yeah, and how many girls do you usually say that to?" Rolling your eyes, you tried to contain the warmth that accompanied the sincere compliment.
"Only to the cheap sluts that I really want to fuck." He responded dryly, watching with a gulp as his eyes glanced at your lips. "You’re driving me crazy, baby." He finally snapped, leaning over the dash to kiss you, only being able to hold the whole arrogant persona for so long before he needed you as much as you needed him.
You couldn't claim to have much prior experience having sex in a vehicle.
His room or yours would typically be where the two of you would spend time alone, but since your roommates were home and Gojo's fraternity was probably packed with people throwing a party in his honor, you had to make do with getting down in his car.
Holding yourself in place and pushing yourself closer so that you wouldn't completely topple forward, all you had to do was twist and strain.
You could just tell from the low grunts and small sighs that Gojo was getting a bit frustrated, his long limbs cramped into the small space. "Can’t you just sneak me into your place?"
"Oh yeah, you could just introduce yourself to my roommates while your balls are deep inside of me, maybe even shake my parent's hand and tell them about your skirt kink too."
"God, you're such a fucking bitch." Gojo sighed, nipping at your bottom lip, "you're lucky I'm into that." Gojo sighed, licking his lips before opening his door.
After he slammed the door shut, the overhead light flickered, and you puzzledly watched as he opened the back door rather than crawling into his seat before turning to you with an expectant look that beckoned you to join him.
You managed to crawl through the seats with a bit of a struggle, settling yourself against the other door as Gojo guided your legs apart to make room to slot himself in. "Best gift ever," he muttered as you changed into your full-fledged outfit, shedding the jacket and sweats that had covered you to the ground.
The moment that Gojo had ducked under the hem of your skirt, your fingers tangled a handful of his hair in a fist, shivering at his eagerness, feeling his teeth tease against the skin of your thigh. Finally, paying much attention to the eagerness between them, his fingers probed and nudged against your clit until he had hooked your underwear to the side.
Your body responded before you could even process what was happening. His tongue teased at your clit, his fingers dipped between your folds, and the sound of your breathy groans spurred him on to move swiftly.
With your needy whimpers, fingers clamping down firmly in the nest of his hair, grinding against his fingers, and the sensation of your legs twitching and quivering, just the taste of you on his tongue was like unwrapping another reward.
However, you weren't a fool.
You were aware of how pussy drunk Gojo became each time he would eat you out, usually wanting to have you stumble out his name with tears threatening to prickle your eyes. When it came to going down on you, he was the type to lick the plate clean.
This is why you were taken aback when Gojo suddenly stopped and raised the material on your skirt to look you in the eyes.
He continued to work his fingers in and out of you as if he weren't attempting to carry on a conversation while teasing, "Be honest, you so have a skirt kink."
As you attempted to comprehend the question, let alone provide a sarcastic response, your lashes fluttered and your head spun.
Any train of thought that tried to escape your mind as Gojo's fingers worked their magic "I-i'm." is the only thing you could stutter out.
"I-I, you what baby?" His laughter made you squint your eyes shut, and you covered your face with your hands as he mocked you in a flat tone.
Gojo leaned up and grabbed you by the wrist, pulling your hands away from your face to give you a more delicate kiss on the lips, muttering mostly to himself, "You're so cute."
Leaning into his touch, you suddenly felt his fingers pull away from you, making a humiliating wet sound that you ignored since Gojo had already diverted his attention to another part of your body. He was fondling your breast through the crop top as his fingers explored.
You could tell from the way Gojo smiled against your mouth that he was biting back on making some stupid joke the moment that his fingers made out the bud of your nipples.
As he pulls away, his other hand switches back to tracing the plush of your thighs before quickly removing your skirt.
He peeled it off of you without a bat of the eye, not wanting to struggle with the safety shorts that were sewn in under it like he had to do when he had blindly gone down on you.
Bumping his elbow and leg against leather seats as he sat up trying to strip his own shirt, a loud thump jortles you from your daze. Only then had you realized Gojo’s hiss of pain.
His normally pale face was now flushed pink, and he scrunched his brow, rubbing the back of his head. "This is the thanks I get for having such a big dick.”
He leaned back down, perfectly squeezing himself between your spread legs, and asked, "Wanna kiss it better?" while getting dangerously close to your lips. He didn't wait for a response simply because he could tell you were only glancing at his lips.
His head dove to hide in the crook of your neck with a grunt, as your fingers searched for the bulge that reacted with a twitch after you had grabbed him by the elastic of his shorts.
You didn't hesitate, never did, knowing what you both wanted as his fingers spread your pussy apart.
You couldn't help but feel intoxicated while listening to his shift in breathing as your hand guided his length to press against exactly where you wanted it.
Sharing a relieved gasp as he shifted his hips against yours, the feeling of him burying himself inside you completely, Gojo was too lost in the bliss to joke about how good it felt to have you clench around him.
Your hips move in unison, seemingly motivated by a primal urge to pursue the intense arousing sensation that had been building up.
Gojo, rubbing his thumb in circles against your clit while whimpering into your neck about how gorgeous you were.
As the intensity of his thrusts increased, steam built up on the car's windows, and the air became humid as the car's slight creak gave way to the weight shifting inside.
Few actual words were spoken because the two of you were too preoccupied with making each other feel good to even form sentences that had any proper finishes.
Gojo readjusted himself, finding the spot that caused your muscles to tighten and spasm. Hooking your leg over his shoulder, nearly causing it to hit the ceiling as he grunted at you while clenching around you continuing his pace until your orgasm unfurled.
Despite being athletic, Gojo went completely slack, falling with his entire weight against your chest, panting as if he were in practice running a mile.
He found calm in the thump of his heartbeat against your chest. "Hey, so about the roommate thing," Gojo spoke after he had eventually caught his breath, cuddling against your chest as his fingers played with your pendant. "I wouldn't mind meeting them, or your parents, or telling anyone honestly; I just would prefer to do it fully clothed if that's okay."
You blinked. "You mean you want this to be like an official thing?" you asked, finally working up enough energy to sit up against the side of the door.
Wincing at the uncomfortable feeling of your sweaty bare skin dragging against the leather material of the seats. "Like this, you no longer refer to me as a slut but as your girlfriend instead."
"Well, I still want you to be my slut, but calling you girlfriend doesn't sound too bad either, does it?" Gojo shrugged.
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From the History Center of Olmsted County Collection via @itscolossal
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arctic monkeys for q magazine, june 2011 (x) (x)
ARCTIC MONKEYS: Inside Alex Turner's Head
Words Sylvia Patterson
Portrait John Wright
The day Arctic Monkeys moved into their six bedroom, Spanish-style villa in the Hollywood Hills, where the first-floor balcony looked over the patio swimming pool, they knew exactly what to do.
"From the balcony, you could get on t'roof and jump in't pool," chirps the Monkeys' most gregarious member, drummer Matt Helders, in his homely Yorkshire way. "We looked at it and said, That's definitely gonna happen. So by the end, we did a couple of 'em. Somersaults in t'pool, from the roof. At night time."
In January 2011, as Sheffield and the rest of Britain endured its bitterest winter in a century, Arctic Monkeys capered among the palm trees, eschewing hotels for a millionaire's Hollywood homestead as they recorded and mixed their fourth studio album, Suck It and See.
The four Monkeys, alongside producer James Ford and engineer James Brown, lived what they called the "American man thing": watched Super Bowl on giant TVs, played ping-pong, hired two Mustangs, cooked cartoon Tom And Jerry-sized steaks on barbecues on Sundays, had girlfriends over to visit, all cooking and drinking around the colossal outdoor kitchen area featuring a fridge and two dishwashers. Living atop the Hills, they could see the Pacific Ocean beyond by day, the infinite glittering lights of downtown LA by night.
Every day, en route to Sound City Studios, they'd travel in a seven-seater four-by-four through the mountains, via bohemian 60s enclave Laurel Canyon, blaring out the tunes: The Stones Roses, The Cramps, the Misfits' Hollywood Babylon. For the sometime teenage art-punk renegades whose guitarist, Jamie Cook, was once ejected from London's Met Bar for refusing to pay €22 for two beers, the comedy rock'n'roll life still feels, however, absolutely nothing like reality.
NICK O'MALLEY: "It were really as if we were on holiday. When we came back it's the most post-holiday blues I've ever had!"
JAMIE COOK: "It's hard to comment on that. It were just really good fun."
MATT HELDERS: "We always said, As soon as things like that feel normal, we're in trouble. But it's just funny. You might think it would get more and more serious as you get older but it's getting funnier. We've done four albums now and I'm still only 24, I'm still immature to an extent. So who cares?"
Alex? Al? Are you there?
ALEX TURNER: "Yeah, it were good times. But we were in the studio most of the time. So there's no real wild Hollywood stories. Hmn. Yeah."
Wednesday, 16 March 2011, Strongroom Bar, Shoreditch, East London, 11am. Alex Turner, 25, slips entirely alone into an empty art-crowd brasserie looking like an indie girl's indie dream boy: mop-top bouffant hair which coils, in curlicues, directly into his cheekbones, army-green waist-length jacket, baggy-arsed skinny jeans, black cord zip-up cardigan, simple gold chain, supermoon sized chocolate-brown eyes.
Almost six years after I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor became the indie-punk anthem of a generation (from the first of Arctic Monkeys' three Number 1 albums), and nothing prepares you for the curious phenomenon of Alex Turner "in conversation". Unlike so many of the Monkeys frenetic early songs, he operates in slow motion, seemingly underwater, carrying a protective shell on his back, perhaps indie rock's very own diamond-backed terrapin. The most celebrated young wordsmith in rock'n roll today talks fulsomely, in fact, only in shapeless, curling sentences punctuated with "maybe... hmn.. yeah", an anecdotal wilderness sketching pictures as vague as a cloud. He is, though, simultaneously adorable: amenable, gentle, graceful, and as Northern as a 70s grandpa who literally greets you with "ey oop?".
"People think I'm a miserable bastard," he notes, cheerfully, "but it's just the way me face falls." Still profoundly private, if not as hermetically sealed as a vacuum-packed length of Frankfurter, his fante-shy reticence extends not only to his personal life (his four-year relationship with It-girl/TV presenter Alexa Chung, whom he never mentions) but to insider details generally. Take the Monkeys’ Hollywood high jinks documented above: not one word of it was described by Turner. Before Q was informed by his other Monkey bandmates, Turner’s anecdotal aversion unfolded like this:
Describe the lovely villa you were in.
AT: "Well... we certainly had a... good view."
Of what?
AT: "Well, we were up quite high."
The downtown LA lights going on forever?
AT: "I dunno. It was definitely that thing of getting a bit of sort of sunshine. Is it vitamin D? If you can get vitamin D on your record, you've got a bit of a head start. So we'd get up and drive to the studio."
What were you driving?
AT: "Nothing... spectacular. But yeah, we'd drive up the studio, spend all day there and sort of, y know, get back. To be honest... we had limited time. So we spent as much time as possible kind of getting into it, like, in the studio.
So your favourite adventures were what?
AT: "Well, they were really… minimal. We were working out there!"
Any nightclubs or anything, perhaps?
AT: "You really want the goss 'ere, don't you?"
Yes, please.
AT: "I could make some up. Nah!"
And this was on the second time of asking. It's perhaps obvious: Alex Turner, one of the most prolific songwriters of his generation (four Monkeys albums and two EPs in five years, The Last Shadow Puppets side-project, a bewitching acoustic soundtrack for his actor/video director friend Richard Ayoade's feature-length debut Submarine), is dedicated only to the cause – of being the best he can possibly be. He simply remembers the songs much more than the somersaults.
Throughout 2009, Arctic Monkeys toured third album Humbug – the record mostly made in the Californian desert with Queens Of The Stone Age man-monolith Josh Homme – across the planet. While hardly some cranium-blistering opus, its heavier sonic meanderings considerably slowed the Arctic Monkeys' live sets and on 23 August 2009, Q watched them headline the Lowlands Festival, Holland and witnessed a hitherto unthinkable sight – swathes of perplexed Monkeys fans trudging away from the stage. With the sludge rock mood matching their cascading dude-rock hair it seemed obvious: they'd smoked way too much outrageously strong weed in the desert.
"Heheheh, yeah," responds Turner, unperturbed. "That's your theory. You probably weren't alone."
Back in the Strongroom Bar, Turner's arm is now nonchalantly draped along the back of a beaten-up brown leather sofa. He ponders his band's somewhat contrary reputation…
"I think starting the headline set at Reading with a cover of a Nick Cave tune perhaps was a bit contrary. D'youknowhat Imean?! But to be honest, that summer, at those festivals, we had a great time. And I know some fans enjoyed those sets 10 times more. And you can't just do, y’know, another Mardy Bum or whatever. Because how could you, really?"
With Humbug, notes Turner, "I went into corners I hadn't before, because I needed to see what were there," but by spring 2010 he wanted their fourth album to be "more song-based" and less lyrically "removed". He was "organised this time", studied "the good songwriters" (from Nick Cave, The Byrds and Leonard Cohen to country colossi Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline), discovered "the other three strings" on his guitar, and wrote 12 songs through the spring and summer of 2010, mostly in the fourth-floor New York flat he shared with Chung before the couple moved back to London late last summer (the New York MTV show It's On With Alexa Chung was cancelled after two seasons). The result: major-key melodies, harmonised singing and classic song structures.
At the same time he revisited the opposite extreme: bands such as Black Sabbath and The Stooges ("we wanted a few wig-outs as well"); he was also still heavily influenced by the oil-thick grinder rock of Josh Homme, who is clearly now a permanent Monkeys hero. After four months' rehearsals in London, on 8 January the Monkeys relocated to LA for five swift weeks of production and Homme came to visit, singing backing vocals on All My Own Stunts. Tequila was involved.
"Tequila is probably me favourite," manages Turner, by way of an anecdote. "But it takes a certain climate... It's not the same... in the rain. Yeah. [Looks to be contemplating a lyric] Tequila in the rain."
Vocally, he developed the caramel richness first unveiled on The Last Shadow Puppets' Scott Walker-esque The Age Of The Understatement, finding a crooner's vibrato. "Everything before was so tight,” he notes, clutching his neck. "Probably just through nerves. That's just not there any more." Suck It and See contains at least four of the most glittering, sing-along, world-class pop songs (and obvious singles) of Arctic Monkeys' career: the towering, clanging She's Thunderstorms, the summertime stunner The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala, the heavenly harmonised title track and the Echo & The Bunnymen-esque jangly pop of closer That's Where You're Wrong.
Elsewhere, in typically contrary "fashion", there's preposterous head-banger bedlam (Brick By Brick, the rollicking faux-heavy rock download they released in March "just for fun", featuring vocals by Helders; Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair, and Library Pictures). News arrives that the first single proper will be Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair. Q is perplexed. Brilliantly titled, certainly, but arriving after Brick By Brick, the new album will appear to the planet as some comedy pastiche metal album for 12-year-old boys.
You've got all these colossal, summery, indie-pop classics and you've gone for... The Chair?
AT: [Laughing uproariously] "The Chair! I'm now calling it The Chair, that's cool. Well for once it weren't even our suggestion. It was Laurence's (Bell, Domino label boss). And I were, Fucking too right! He's awesome. It'd be good to get a bit of fucking rock'n'roll out there, won't it? It's riffs. It's loud. It's funny."
If you don't release The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala as a single I'm going round Domino to kick Laurence's "awesome" butt.
AT: "I think it'll be the next one!"
The record's title, meanwhile, could've been more enigmatically original than the un-loved phrase Suck It and See. The band, struggling with ideas due to the opposing sonic moods, invented an inspiration-conjuring ruse: to think of new names for effects pedals in the style of Tom Wolfe, Turner being long enamoured with the American author's legendarily psychedelic books The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test and The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby, "cos that just sounds awesome".
"There's the Big Muff pedal," he elaborates, "That’s the classic. I've got the Valve Slapper. And there's the Tube Screamer. So we came up with the Thunder Suckle Fuzz Canyon. And… wait till I assemble it in me mind… em… it'll come to me… The Blonde-O-Sonic Shimmer Trap. So we were going for summat like that."
A wasted opportunity?
"Nah. Because some of those things ended up in the lyrics anyway. Suck It and See was just easier."
Alex Turner, rock'n'roll's premier descriptive art-poet, still writes his lyrics long-hand in spiral-bound notebooks. "Writing lyrics is a craft that I've practised a bit now," he avers. "In me notebook it looks like sums. Theories. There's words and arrows going everywhere. There's always a few possibilities and I write the word 'OR' in a square."
For our most celebrated colloquial sketch-writer of the everyday observation (all betting pencils, boy slags and ice-cream van aggravations) the more successful he becomes, the less he orbits the ordinary. "I'm not struggling with that, to be honest," he decides. "In fact I'm enjoying writing lyrics much more than I did. Stories. Describing a picture. Um. There's quite a bit of weather and time in this one. Which is probably not reassuring. 'Oh God, he's writing about the weather.' Maybe leave that out!"
There are also some direct, funny, romantic observations: "That's not a skirt, girl, that's a sawn-off shotgun/And I only hope you've got it aimed at me..." (from the title track).
Some of your romantic quips, now, must be about Alexa.
AT: "Right. Yeah. Definitely. Well... there's always been that side to our songs, when we weren't writing about... the fucking taxi rank. It's kind of inevitably... people you're with." [At the mention of Chung's name, Turner is visibly aggrieved, head sliding into his neck, terrapin-esque indeed.]
It must have been very grounding being in a proper relationship through all this madness. Because if you weren't, girls would be jumping all over your head.
AT: "Em. Hmn. Well, of course that helps you to... I don't really know.. what the other way would be."
Does Alexa wonder if the lyrics are about her?
AT: "Oh there's none of that. Yeah, no, there's no looking over the shoulder."
She must be curious, at least.
"Maybe."
Did you ever watch Popworld?
AT: [Nervous laughter] "Em! Now and again."
Did you ever see the episode where she helps Paul McCartney write a song about shoes?
AT: "Ah, yeah I think so, maybe I did see that."
Well, if I was you, I'd have been thinking, "She's the one for me."
AT: "Well. Yeah... maybe that would've... sealed the deal! Hmn. But maybe that wasn't when i got the ray of light. When was? Nah [buries head in hands]. I might have to go for a cigarette..."
Q can't torture him any more and joins him for a snout. Turner smokes Camels from a crumpled, sad, soft-pack and resembles a teenager again. As early song You Probably Couldn't See For The Lights But You Were Staring Straight At Me says, "Never tenser/Could all go a bit Frank Spencer…”
In January 2006, when Arctic Monkeys' Number 1 album Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not became the fastest-selling debut in UK history, inadvertently redefining the concept of autonomy and further imploding the decimated music industry (& wasn't their idea to be "the MySpace band", it was their fans': the Monkeys merely kick-started viral marketing by giving away demos at gigs), the 19- and 20-year-old Monkeys were terrible at fame. They weren't so much insurrectionary teenage upstarts as teenage innocents culturally traumatised by the peak-era fame democracy.
To their generation (born in the mid-'80s) fame was now synonymous with some-twat-off-the-telly a world of foaming tabloid hysteria where renown and celebrity meant, in fact, you were talentless. Hence their interview diffidence and receiving awards via videos dressed up as the Wizard OfOz and the Village People. Which only, ironically, made them even more celebrated and famous. (“That were a product of us just trying to hold onto the reins," thinks Turner today. "Being uncooperative.")
Q meets The Other Three one morning at 11am, in the well-appointed, empty bar of the Bethnal Green, Bast London hotel they're staying in (all three live in Sheffield, with their girlfriends, in their own homes). First to arrive is the industrious, sensible and cheerful Helders, crunching into a hangover-curing green apple. He has recovered from last year's boxing accident at the gym, which left his broken arm requiring a fitted plate. Now impressively purple-scarred, the break felt "interesting" and the doctor couldn't resist the one-armed drummer jest: "D'you like Def Leppard?"
Currently enjoying an enduring bromance with Diddy, he still doesn't feel famous, "it just doesn't feel that real, there's no paparazzi waiting for me to trip up." He and Turner, during the four-month rehearsals last year, became an accomplished roast dinner cooking duo for the band. "I reckon we could have us our own cookbook," he beams. "Pictures of us stirring, with a whisk."
O'Malley, an agreeable, twinkly-eyed 25-year-old with a strikingly deep voice and a winningly huge smile, is still coyly embarrassed by the interview process. A replacement for the departed original bass player Andy Nicholson in May 2006, he went from Asda shelf-filler to Glastonbury headliner in 13 months and still finds the Monkeys "a massive adventure". His life in Sheffield is profoundly normal – he's delighted that his new home since last October has an open-hearth fireplace: "Me parents had electric bars." He has also discovered cooking. “I’m just a pretty shit-hot housewife, most of the time," he smiles. "I cook stews, fish combinations, curries, chillies. I made a beef pho noodle soup the other day, Vietnamese, I surprised meself, had some mates round for that."
Recently, at his dad's 50th birthday bash, the party band, made up of family and friends, insisted he join them onstage "for ...The Dancefloor. So I were up there [mimes playing bass, all sheepish] and it were the wrong pitch, they didn't know the words or 'owt, going, Makin eyes... er..." He has no extra-curricular musical ambitions. "I'm happy just playing bass," he smiles. "I've never had the skill of doing songs meself. It'd be shit!"
Cook, 25, is still spectacularly embarrassed by the interview process. He perches upright, with a fixed nervous smile, newly shorn of the beard and ponytail he sported in LA: "Rockin' a pone, yeah, because I could get away with it." With his classic preppy haircut and dapper green military coat (from London's swish department store, Liberty), he looks like a handsome '40s film star. (Turner deems Cook "the band heartbreaker" and had a word with him post-LA: "I said to him, Come on, mate, you've got to get that beard shaved off. Get the girls back into us. Shift some posters.")
His life in Sheffield is also profoundly normal. He still plays Sunday League football with his local pub team, The Pack Horse FC (position, left back), remains in his long-term relationship with page-three-model-turned-make-up-artist Katie Downes and "potters about" at home, refusing to describe said home, "cos I'll get burgled".
A tiler by trade, he always vowed, should the Monkeys sign a deal, that he'd throw his trowel in a Sheffield river on his last day of work. "I never did fling me trowel," he confirms. "Probably still in me shed." He's never considered what his band represents to his generation. "I'd go insane thinking about it, I'm pretty good at not thinking about it… Oh God. I'm terrible at this!"
Back in the Strongroom Bar, Alex Turner is cloudily describing his everyday life. "I just keep meself to meself," he confounds. He mostly stays indoors and his perfect night in with Alexa is "watching loads of Sopranos. And doing roast dinners".
No longer spindle-limbed, he attends a gym and has handsomely well-defined arms – "You have to look after yourself."
Suddenly, Crying Lightning from Humbug rumbles over the bar stereo. "Wow. How about that? I was quite happy the other morning cos Brick By Brick were on the round-up goals on Soccer AM. It's still exciting when that happens. It was like Brick By Brick is real."
He spends his days writing music, "listening to records", and recommends Blues Run The Game by doomed '60s minstrel Jackson C Frank ("who's that lass?... Laura Marling, she did a cover recently), a simple, acoustic, deep and regretful stunner about missing someone on the road.
Lyrically, he cites as an example of greatness the Nick Cave B-side Little Empty Boat [from ‘97 single Into My Arms ], a comically sinister paean to a sexual power struggle: "Your knowledge is impressive and your argument is good/But I am the resurrection babe and you're standing on my foot."
"I need a hobby," he suddenly decides. "I'd like to learn another language." Since his mum is a German teacher (his dad teaches music), surely he can speak some German? "I know how to ask somebody if they've had fun at Christmas." Go on, then. "Nah!"
Where Turner's creative gifts stem from remains a contemporary rock'n'roll mystery; he became a fledgling songwriter at 16, after the gift of a guitar at Christmas from his parents. An only child, did his folks, perhaps, foresee artistic greatness? "I doubt it!" he balks. "Cos I didn't. I wasn't... a show kid." Like the others, he doesn't analyse the past, or the future.
"You can't constantly be thinking about what's happened," he reasons, "it's just about getting on with it." The elaborate pinky ring he now constantly wears, however, a silver, gold and ruby metal-goth corker featuring the words DEATH RAMPS is a permanent reminder of he and his best friends’ past. The Death Ramps is not only a Monkeys pseudonym and B-side to Teddy Picker, but a place they used to ride their bikes in Sheffield as kids.
"Up in the woods near where we lived," he nods. "Just little hills. But when you're eight years old they're death ramps." The ring was custom made by a friend of his, who runs top-end rock'n'roll jewellery emporium The Great Frog near London's Carnaby Street. Ask Turner why he thinks the chase between his writing and speaking eloquence is quite so mesmerisingly vast and he attempts a theory.
"Well, writing isn't the same as speaking," he muses. "Not for me. I seem to struggle more and more with... conversation. Talking onstage... I can't do it any more. Hmn. I'll have to work on that."
The ever-helpful Helders has a better theory.
"Since he's been writing songs," he ponders, “It seems like he’s always thinking about that. So even when he’s talking to you now, he’s thinking about the next thing that rhymes with a word. Even when he’s driving. We joke he’s a bad driver, his focus is never 100 per cent on what he’s doing. Which is good for us cos it means he’s got another 12 songs up his sleeve. I think music must be the easiest way for him to be concise and get everything out. Otherwise his head would explode.”
The Shoreditch.com photo studios, 18 March. Alex Turner, today, is more ethereally distracted than ever, transfixed by the studio iPod, playing Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, a version of I’d Rather Go Blind. Occasionally, he’ll completely lose his conversational thread, “Um. I’ve dropped a stitch.”
The first to arrive for Q’s photoshoot, he greets his incoming bandmates with enormous hugs (and also hugs them goodbye). Today, Q feels it’s pointless poking its pickaxe of serious enquiry further into Turner’s vacuum-packed soul and wonders if he’ll play, instead, a daft game. It’s called Popworld Questions, as first posed by someone he knows rather well.
“Oh, OK. Let’s do it,” he blinks, now perched in an empty dressing room. He then vigorously shakes his head, “Um…I’ve gotta snap back into it.”
Here, then, are some genuine “Alexa Chung on Popworld” questions (2006-2007), as originally posed to Matt Willis, Amy Winehouse, Robbie Williams, Pussycat Dolls, Kaiser Chiefs and Diddy.
Why do indie bands wear such tight jeans?
AT: “Um. I supposed they do. They haven’t always. When we first were playing I was definitely in flares. You need to be quite tall to get the full effect, though. So, that's why this indie band wears such tight jeans, cos we've not got the legs for flares."
What makes you tick in the sexy department?
AT: "Wow. Pass. What do I find most attractive in a woman? Something in the head? That's definitely a requirement. Well... Hmn. I'm struggling."
Tell us about all the lovely groupies.
AT: "No!"
If dogs had human hands instead of paws, would you consider trying to teach them to play the piano?
AT: "Absolutely. I'd teach Hey Jude."
How many plums d'you think you can comfortably fit in one hand?
AT: "They're not very big. [Holds small, pale, girly hand up for inspection] It's a shame. Probably three. Diddy only managed two? Maybe not then. I can carry a lot of glasses at once, though. If they're small ones I can do four."
Are you cool?
AT: "Not as much as I'd like to be. There's this clip where Clint Eastwood is on a talkshow and he gets asked, Everybody thinks of you as defining cool, what d'you think about that? And he gets his cigs out, takes one out, flicks it into his mouth, lights it and says, I have no idea what you're talking about."
Here, Turner locates his Camels soft-pack and attempts to do a Clint Eastwood. He flicks one upwards towards his mouth. And misses. Flicks another. And misses. "Third time lucky?" He misses. "I'll get it the next time." And succeeds. "Hey. Fourth time. Don't put that in! So there you go. I'm four steps away from where I wanna be."
Thank you very much for joining me here on Popworld, here's my clammy hand again. There it is, let it slip, hmmn. You can let go now.
AT: "OK! Were you a Popworld fan, then? It was funny. Cool. What were we talking about, before?"
Blimey, Alex. What must you be like when you're completely stoned out of your head?
AT: "Stoned? What d'you mean, cos I seem like that anyway? Yeah. A lot of people... tell me I'm a bit... dreamy. But I like the idea of that. Of being somewhere else."
Two days earlier, Turner had contemplated what he wanted from all this, in the end. Many seconds later he gave his deceptively ambitious answer.
"I just wanna write better songs," he decided. "And better lyrics. I just definitely wanna be good at it. Hmn. Yeah.”
—
RUFUS BLACK: AKA Matt Helders, on his ongoing bromance with Diddy
Matt Helders has known preposterous rap titan Diddy since they met in Miami in 2008. “He goes, Arctic Monkeys! Then he said summat about a B-side and I was like, He's not lying! I just thought, This is funny, I'm gonna go with this for a while." Last October Diddy texted Helders, suggesting he play drums with his Diddy Dirty Money band on Friday Night With Jonathan Ross, to give his own drummer a day off. “I were bowling with me girifriend at the time. In Sheffield, on a Sunday." On the day of recording, says Helder, "We had a musical director. That were one of the maddest times of my life. Next day Diddy said, Why don't you just stay? Come along with me. So I went everywhere with him." Diddy had "a convoy of cars" and made sure Helders was always in his. "He'd stop his car and go, Where's Matt? You're coming with me! So I'd get in his car. Just me, him, his security, driver." Diddy, by now, had given him a pseudonym - Rufus Black. "He kept saying, I don't wanna fuck up your image. And I'm, I don't think it's gonna do me any harm!" He stayed in Diddy's spectacularly expensive hotel. Some weeks later, Helders almost returned to the Dirty Money drumstool for a gig in Glasgow. "But we were rehearsing in London. I were like, I might come, how are you getting there? And he were like, Jet. Jump on t’jet with me. But I had to stay in Bethnal Green instead.”
Love’s young dream: Diddy (left) with Helders
#arctic monkeys#alex turner#matt helders#nick o'malley#jamie cook#sias era#interview#q magazine#my image id#bands#this is such a funny interview honestly shfjwjs#self proclaimed housewife nick my beloved......#also why did the interviewer describe alex's hands as small pale and girly HELPME#btw im missing page 93 it's probabky just a photospread but yeah#i managed to find the dead links' images on vk#eye contact#not my scan
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Spicy Sunset on the Beach
The sun caressed the horizon, painting the sky in shades of oranges and pinks, and there he was, Adrián, a bodybuilder with thighs like boulders, on the edge of the beach. His goatee beard gave him that air of a dominant male, and the messy hair completed the image of a magazine model. There wasn't a soul on the beach who didn't stop to look at the scene.
Ahead of him, he wore a white thong that had become almost a second skin with every wave licking his body. The transparency of the fabric left little to the imagination, outlining a colossal dick and a pair of balls that seemed to weigh with the gravity of an uncontrollable desire. Each step he took set that wet package in motion, and the stubbles of pubic hair escaping from the sides were evidence of his overflowing virility.
The rays of the sunset reflected on his huge legs, which made the thong seem even smaller against such proportions. It was a stamp of pure visual pleasure, a walking invitation to the most 'húmedas' fantasies. As salt water dripped over his tanned skin, I did nothing but capture with my camera the essence of that modern Apollo.
Beyond a simple model, Adrián was the living image of desire that with each pose not only seduced my lens but invited to a wordless erotic game. The beach had been our improvised studio, and his body, the most perfect artwork under the last light of the day.
Available now at Patreon and Fanvue!
#gay hot#gay male#gay muscular#gay#gay underwear#gay black#gayhot#gay men#gay latin men#gay hairy#gay ai#ai guys#ai men#aigay#aiblack#aibodybuilder#aibushy#ai bulge
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This was shown to me by somebody on Discord and this is apparently part of a review of the game? And... what... just... what... Everything about this is so cringe. Like, why even mention Claris just to imply that they would admit to lusting over her if she was of legal age? That's so creepy, even as a joke.
And everything about Tillis is just so weird. Like they call her a cool and strong female lead, but then there's that weird tangent about how hot she is that their Art Editor is drooling over her and just... why... why anything. xD 90s gaming mags were certainly something...
Also, the internet would very much prove this writer wrong about people not being hot and bothered for Amy Rose >_>
As for the picture itself, all I can think of is "We have Asuka Evangelion at home."
(Review of Burning Rangers from Sega Saturn Magazine #31)
Transcript of text:
Burning Ranger: Raunch Factor 10
It's about time that the Sonic Team produced a strong female lead for one of their games. After all, no-one's really got all hot and bothered about Amy Rose from the Sonic games (insert your own hedgehog-based "prick" gag here). And as for the "budding" 15 year-old Claris in NiGHTS... well, we're not saying anything. Not until we've cleared it thoroughly with our legal people.
The advent of Burning Rangers brings an end to this sad, sordid tale. Tillis is cool. In fact, our very own Art Editor, Mr McEvoy has this very image on his desktop at work. When we think he's staring at his latest layout for the mag, he's actually drooling feverishly at the picture you're looking at on this page. The words "pervert" and "colossal" spring to mind...
#Burning Rangers#Sega#Tillis [Burning Rangers]#video games#promotional material#gratuitous breasts#general sexism#representation#general portrayal of women in fiction#magazines#sega saturn magazine
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Photo by Albert Harlingue/Roger-Viollet/Getty Images
The theft was dubbed “the most colossal crime of modern times” and reported by every single big newspaper of the time.
The Heist of the Mona Lisa
The mysterious heist led to a high-profile police investigation and extensive coverage in newspapers around the world, quickly elevating the Mona Lisa or La Gioconda, into the public consciousness. Museum visitors crowded around the empty space on the gallery wall, which was referred to as Paris’s “mark of shame.” Renowned cubist Pablo Picasso and Wall Street tycoon J.P. Morgan were both investigated as suspects—but the real culprit turned out to be someone named Vincenzo Peruggia.
From left to right
Vincenzo Peruggia, the mastermind behind the Heist.
"Theft of Mona Lisa" (magazine cover) illustrated by Achille Beltrame, 1911.
Paris’s “mark of shame,” the empty space on the gallery wall where Mona had been displayed.
How he did it
Vincenzo Peruggia worked at the Louvre— he was a handyman and former Louvre employee familiar with the lay out, how the painting had been installed and museum procedures.
Security at the Louvre was low—unlike today’s high-tech security systems and CCTV, there was little in place during the early 20th century to stop criminals.
He had the help of 2 henchmen—brothers, Vincenzo and Michele Lancelotti assisted him with the theft.
It took over 2 years to catch him—He hid the painting in a false-bottom trunk in his apartment for 2 years while trying to find a buyer.
Details
Peruggia hid in a closet and waited for the gallery to close. with the help of his 2 accomplices, they lifted the artwork off the wall, removed its glass case and frame, and wrapped it up in a drop cloth. They smuggled the painting out of the museum, and nobody noticed it was missing for over twenty-four hours.
Because the Mona Lisa’s popularity exploded in the wake of the heist, Peruggia could not simply sell it as planned. After hiding the painting in his Paris apartment for 2 years, he finally attempted to sell it to an art dealer in Florence. Peruggia was arrested on the spot and the masterpiece was triumphantly returned to the Louvre with newfound notoriety to its name.
So it was actually Peruggia’s shady criminal activities that helped make the Mona Lisa famous around the world.
#mona lisa#vincenzo peruggia#art#mona lisa stolen#louvre#shoplifting at the louvre#j.p. morgan#pablo picasso#art theft#art heist#leonardo#leonardo da vinci#cliff clavin
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«Le Petit Colosse de Symi» – The Nothing Else Review, No. 4, Edited by Daniel Spoerri, Galerie Bruno Bischofberger, Basel, 1967 [Unoriginal Sins, The Old Primary School, Temple, Midlothian. © Daniel Spoerri / ARS, New York / ProLitteris, Zürich]
#graphic design#art#fluxus#magazine#le petit colosse de symi#daniel spoerri#galerie bruno bischofberger#unoriginal sins#1960s
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