One often hears about the “preacher’s kid”—whether through gossip, public scandal, craftily woven novels, or personal stories. While I certainly would not want the kind of public attention preachers’ kids often receive, I can say that being the daughter of a musician is no less interesting. It is in fact an experience that one would have to live to fully understand.

I am probably my father’s biggest fan. A local saxophone player in Chicago, Illinois, he is neither rich nor world-renowned, but his passion for music has inspired me throughout my life. I Google him regularly to see what information is out there on him, ask him to save fliers, program copies and any other tangible items that I can place in a scrapbook, and sit proudly—front and center—whenever I have the privilege of attending one of his gigs. Whether he is writing and composing music at home, revving up at a rehearsal, playing at a local club, or performing at a festival, I get a rush from hearing my father play.

My earliest memories of music are from growing up in an apartment complex owned and occupied by local musicians on the South Side of Chicago. It was far from upscale, and not everyone would be able to stomach the beats and melodies that permeated the building throughout each day. For those of us who lived there, however, it was a way of life. And for me, it was routine to return home from school to the sound of drums, pianos, horns and singing as we walked toward the entrance to our apartment. Although my father and I shared many wonderful times together, I developed an understanding early on that rehearsal time at home was sacred. He would go into the den and close the double doors, and I knew that unless it was an emergency, I had better find something else to do besides bug him about trivial things! His music provided a wonderful background for all of my activities around the apartment—whether I was playing in my room, spending quality time with my mother, doing homework or writing poetry. At times my mother was irritated by his playing, but to me it was just “what Daddy does”; it came with the territory.

One of my favorite memories is going with my father to Old Town Chicago for rehearsals with a band he was playing with at the time. He always made the trips fun for me. There was a candy store we would stop at that featured giant barrels of candy. I remember developing a love for “rock candy” with its crystal-like appearance and super-sweet taste. We would stop there before or after rehearsal, and I would stock up on enough rock candy to last me until the next rehearsal.

Old Town was also where I developed my first crush on an “older man” named Kenny, who my father played with in the band. The rehearsals were in Kenny’s apartment in Old Town. He was in his late teens or very early twenties at that time, and I was still a little girl. However, I swore that when I grew up I was going to marry Kenny and we would grow old together in Old Town!

I will also never forget Donald, another musician that my father played with, who had mastered his Donald Duck impersonation and would have me laughing hysterically every time I saw him. He loved to make me smile, and his mission was always easily accomplished.People often ask if I play an instrument, and the answer is no. I always scored high on music aptitude tests that I took in school, but I never had a desire to become a musician. My father knows how to play a number of instruments besides the sax, and once I asked him to give me piano lessons. But I discovered learning to play the piano required much more patience and discipline than I was willing to devote as a young girl. Some time later I decided I wanted to become a singer, but that too proved to be a passing fancy. Instead of music, I chose writing as a form of creative expression. Ironically, whenever I write there is always music playing—if not actually in the background, then figuratively in my head.

The last time I had an opportunity to hear my father play was at last summer’s Chicago Jazz Festival. The annual festival showcases the talents of outstanding jazz musicians; some are known all over the world, and others are well-known and respected in the city. Seeing my father on stage brought back so many fond memories of growing up and learning about music through his life. My mind could not help but drift back in time to the days when I was a little girl who went with Daddy to rehearsals and relished the gift of music he so unselfishly shared with me. Each time I hear him play, that excited little girl returns. And although he is a humble man who tends to downplay his accomplishments, I could not be more proud of him for remaining true to himself and his craft.

                                                                            
                   Me with my father, Edwin A. Daugherty, Jr. at the 29th annual Chicago Jazz Festival. Summer 2007
                   Credit: Shirley A. Daugherty

Bio: Dr. Jamie Y. Marable is a “born-again writer” who has returned to her first love after a long hiatus. A journalism major in college who wrote features articles and editorials for her college newspaper, she later went on to become a higher education professional. Read more of her work at: Associated Content.

Here's to the maker,
The film double taker,
The illusion type faker.
Guaranteed shaker,
Paravision viewer.

Or it just may seem
you lost the real scope of life,
the hope of life,
to cope with life,
And found it on the screen.

And how many times have we heard that line?
Do you think I'm blind, to trade my mind for what you call fine?
Never in my time—I’m not in your movie.

Do I have a theme song?

No. But “At the Movies” by Bad Brains is certainly a contender.

I have a strange relationship with this band. Like many others of my generation, my favorite hardcore punk band is arguably the most unique of the genre. In an overwhelmingly white subculture of punk rock, Bad Brains were black. In a musical and cultural movement that defied the authoritarianism and conformity of the Reagan era, Bad Brains were ultra-religious (Rastafarians, later born-again Christians) and homophobic. Like so many others touched by artistic genius, they were complex, and often contradictory. Yet at the same time there was jubilation, a love for life, a positive mental attitude, and a creative zeal that was simply beyond inspiring, especially in their earliest work of the late 1970s and early 1980s.

They were also helped by the fact that no one—and I mean, no one—could touch them, on stage or in the studio. Forget it. Stop trying. You simply accepted that they were the reigning champions of rock, and you were fine with that. Shit man, it’s Bad Brains.

I say “were,” because for me their career was largely over after their second full-length album I Against I. It represented a major shift in style, yet maintained all their brilliance and creativity. As for what came after this album, I don’t bother.

So, “At the Movies.” It begins with an effect-drenched reggae guitar intro, then shifts into high gear with an aggressive riff. The drums come crashing in, and we’re off. Forget about trying to understand the lyrics in this one. For one thing, the first 12 or 13 lines of the song are sung in about six seconds, and I think H.R. (singer) skips about half of them. Whatever. You don’t care, because your head is swirling in the rhythm and the rage.

Then something about “stale popcorn, don’t you stand in your chair.” What the…? Never mind. After a lead guitar break that’s over before it begins comes the second verse:

A child is influenced by the make believe
To take advantage of this truth is a cold-hearted sin.
So I say to youth right now:
Don't sway to the unjust!
No matter what they say,
Never give in, never give in.

I understand this will sound corny as hell, but every time I hear these lines, my heart just moves into my throat. Half of me wants to cry, and the other half wants to start throwing chairs at walls because the energy of the music is so undeniable. I feel like I’m performing some injustice by not wrecking shit, you know? Or I want to grab anyone in the room by the shoulders and shake them, pleading “don’t you hear this? Please tell me you understand how beautiful this is!”

There are songs that make me feel like I can get up, grab the world by the throat and say “Not today, motherfucker—I’m the wrong one to fuck with.” This one is on that list.

Bio: Frank Little is very much in love, and doesn't regard much else about himself as being of real consequence.  However, he feels it is important to point out that the war is over, if you want it.

The girls in my class faint at the mention of his name, the boys all have his stuff on their mp3s. And I have to sadly shake my head and admit, “Don’t trust any one over 30”.  -Teach

Noemi Martinez
http://www.hermanaresist.com

For example, we once took a crazy taxi ride high into the mountains of Acapulco in search of a tiny, hidden restaurant we’d heard tales of. After a bit of wandering we finally found it, and were welcomed by the old chef. He mixed his favorite rum cocktail for us, and told us there was no menu; you ate whatever he felt like cooking. Fine with us. That night, as we watched the sun dip below the mountains, we feasted on a dinner of quail eggs, pork in a smoky sauce and several other dishes I can’t recall, thanks to those rum cocktails.

We’ve aided political organizers in London defending the rights of asylum-seekers and immigrants, and visited crowded hostels—there were many of these—filled with people desperate to find a better life. Our hosts ushered us into their tiny rooms where we listened to harrowing stories about growing up in refugee camps or as child-soldiers. We heard from orphans and people who escaped the kind of hunger and poverty we will never know. We also learned not to refuse when our hosts offered us their only can of Coke or piece of fresh fruit, because refusal was a sign of disrespect, the type of rude behavior no amount of apologizing would erase. So we would share that can of warm soda or slice of pear, amazed at the genuine pleasure it gave them to be able to offer their guests something, anything, while we listened.

Then there was the Christmas we spent in Key West. At the end of a long day walking streets packed with chickens and tourists, we somehow wound up in a club watching the most god-awful drag show I had ever seen. One of the performers touted herself as the world’s oldest female impersonator. Seriously, it was bad. But fueled by holiday cheer and the realization that if you’re shimmying around on a stage to “Bootylicious” on Christmas, you definitely have no one else to be with, we emptied our wallets for the girls that night. Merry Christmas, Ladies!

From there we went on to South Beach where we had the misfortune of being in a hotel room next to a man who played the same Lionel Richie song on a continuous loop for hours.

There were and will be more cities, more adventures, and more lessons learned. Having A. as a traveling partner rocks. Nothing bonds you with someone like being stranded in a freezing train station or calling in sick to work to extend that trip that just doesn’t want to end. In fact, it’s been a while since we’ve had such an adventure, and I have a feeling another trip is not far off.





Melisa Resch
Editor-in-Chief

Soon after moving out of the studio, however, I was hired as a multi-lingual singer/entertainer on board Chandris Cruise Lines. I was in love with the fact that I would be traveling to all the major ports in the Baltic and Mediterranean. Learning the material for eight different shows in five different languages was a slight challenge, especially since I was only fluent in English and Spanish. But this paled to the day I was almost killed in Casablanca.

On the cruise, I had made great friends with Craig, the sound engineer. Craig was broad-shouldered, blonde, blue-eyed, Ivy League-educated, and a spoiled rich kid from Wales. He’d been forced on the ship as punishment by his parents for burning down their guest house. I’d also befriended Debbie, a leggy young 19 year-old dancer out of Liverpool who had filled the last spot in the dance troupe. These girls were pretty impressive; they could do flips, cartwheels, and tap dance in circles while the ship swayed up, down, to and fro, in calm and not-so-calm sea weather. Debbie had a wild streak, and could drink any of the officers under the table. Craig loved looking preppy, playing monopoly and shopping in all ports we visited. We all got along well.

We docked in Casablanca on a bright sunny spring Saturday, and the three of us decided to spend the day shopping for leather goods. We’d heard the craftsmanship of leather goods in Casablanca was of the highest quality and very cheap. I was looking for a leather brief case, Debbie a leather purse, and Craig wanted a black leather biker jacket. Craig had serious expectations for this jacket, and his search for the perfect leather jacket dominated the trip. We literally spent an hour in every shop we passed so he could examine the stitching and inseam of every jacket that caught his eye.

The shops in Casablanca were poorly built. They had dirt flooring, the goods were protected with plastic tarps, if at all, and the rickety wood roofs were insulated with dusty hand-woven cotton fabrics bleached by the hot sun.

Craig spotted a row of jackets swaying in the wind at another shop. When we walked in, we fell upon the silent stare of the three hundred and fifty pound bearded shop owner. He sat below his prized collection of coats, his arms and legs folded, chewing on a piece of wood. He smiled, revealing his tobacco stained teeth. This man had the body of a sumo wrestler and probably the speed of an arthritic old man, or so I assumed.

Like a cat clinging to a screen, he strategically held onto corners of tables, using them to hoist himself up to a towering six foot three inches. He handed Craig the first jacket he wanted to see, then the second, then the third. After Craig’s fourth jacket, our shop keeper started to growl to himself. Craig was oblivious, and acting like a snob. By the sixth jacket inspection, the owner began to hiss under his breath, and his toxic foreign inflections spat venom at the nape of Craig’s neck. Debbie and I subtly suggested to Craig that his compulsive jacket obsession needed to end. It was clear that things were going to get bad.

Acting as if he never heard us, Craig announced he was done, and walked out of the shop like one of those soldiers marching in front of the Queen’s Palace. As soon as he turned the corner, the shop owner screamed, “You fucking Americans!”

Fucking Americans?? My blood began to boil, and my thoughts raced at lightning speed. I stood there between the Dragon Slayer and Prince What-the-Fuck, the following questions running through my head: how can this blonde bitch just walk around in a foreign country and have no clue how to act?  Why the hell does this shop owner think all American men are blonde and blue-eyed? Didn’t he hear Craig’s British brogue? Why couldn’t Craig sense he was royally pissing off this poor man trying to make a living? Was he doing it on purpose? What did fucking America do to that made this man hate Americans so passionately? What did I do to have this man to include me in his hatred? My pulse was racing. I can’t allow someone to treat me with disrespect, especially when I did nothing to provoke it. My mouth flew open, my diaphragm expanded, and at the top of my lungs I screamed, “Fuck you too!” Almost immediately, I knew this was not the smartest move. The next 20 seconds were the most horrific moments of my life.

Before I had a chance to turn and run, I was on the ground, flat on my back, with 350 pounds of man on top of me and 1,000 pounds of hatred radiating from his hands. He gripped my arm with one hand and the other was coming for my neck. I was choking on a cloud of dust, disoriented, and fighting to breathe with his knee on my chest, when four babbling younger versions of the shop owner came from behind and with all their strength pulled their father off me and dragged him back into his hovel. One of the four brothers helped me off the ground, and whispered in my ear “run, he will kill you, he is our father and he hates Americans.” No kidding.

I was completely helpless, in a foreign country, and with Craig and Debbie nowhere to be seen, on my own at that moment. Thankfully I managed to find my way back to the ship, and spent the afternoon in the infirmary getting a bandage put on my swollen and bruised arm, where the imprint of the man’s hand was still visible.

As I write this, I still don’t know what the fuck happened in this man’s life for him to hate Americans so much, but knowing wouldn’t make the moment any less terrifying.

Bio: Mykel is a singer/performer, artist/producer. Visit him here.

When I was 17 years old, I went on a hiking trip in Wales with my best friend. I’m not sure why I agreed to go with her. I was completely uninterested in endless fields full of sheep, and time has not changed this. We were planning to hike every day for about 20 miles, or however far it was to the next camping site. This would not have been too bad, except for the fact that Wales was experiencing a heat wave for the first time in 15 years. On top of that, the camping sites were a little more “basic” than I had anticipated; often it was just a field near a farm, without so much as running water. Before long, I started to complain, blaming my friend for suggesting the trip in the first place.

After a few days of hiking, we visited some of her friends. They had a lovely little house at the end of a narrow, winding road. Next to the road was an abyss, about 70 feet deep. While we were there, my friend decided she wanted to learn to drive a car, and that she would learn under the guidance of her 17-year-old friend, who did not have her driver’s license. And stupid me got in the back of the car. To this day, I still don’t know what made me get in the car.

My friend was driving slowly along the little winding road. She was doing well; she paid attention to what she was doing, and did a fine job avoiding some sheep. All of a sudden she accidentally hit the accelerator instead of the clutch, and the car raced forward. Both girls in the front panicked, started to scream, and if things weren’t bad enough already, my friend let go of the steering wheel. I can picture myself sitting in that car so vividly. I grew very quiet, and watched as the car sped faster and out of control off the road, heading straight for the abyss. I remember thinking, “I cannot believe this is happening”, and “I am going to die.” I was waiting for my life to flash before my eyes, but nothing happened. Then again, at 17 I hadn’t accumulated very much life. 

Instead of falling down into the abyss, we crashed into the one lone tree standing on the side of the little winding road. In fact, we wrapped the entire car around the tree. Lucky for us, the tree did not break, and even luckier that none of us were hurt, besides my friend needing four stitches in her chin. But that was the extent of the damage to us.

I had never been so scared before in my life, and I had never been so glad to be alive. I can honestly say that this hiking trip in Wales changed my life. Not only did it teach me to never again do something so stupid, but it also made me value being alive in a completely new way. It has been 14 years since that hiking trip, but I still remember it like it was yesterday.

Bio: Natazzz is an academic researcher, with a PhD. in psychology, a love for the written word, sarcasm, cute girls and anything geeky. She is currently living in Germany, but in the midst of looking for a new country to call home. 

Women, let's praise our pants. In fact, give your pants the pleasure of you, sans underwear. Have fun in your pants. You earned 'em.


Bio: Fritz is a frustrated writer and a frustrated woman. She still smokes and is a passionate advocate for fellow smokers. Mostly, she's planning her next diatribe or her next knitting project. She lives and works in the Detroit Metro area, but she dreams in red. Her home includes one saintly husband and one demonic cat.