#based on my experience working at a ski hill in the early 2020s

[cedarboughs]

The Californians

The posters had been up all over town and the hill for a month. The International Junior Freeriding Cup, presented by a major car brand. They would rip down the rails and groomed jumps of the terrain park underneath the Lynx Quad, and everyone would cheer. We were dreading it. A competition meant a flood of athletes descending on Raven River in a loose horde, high on glory and just plain high, and every modifier on the poster winnowed the athletes, already a particular breed, into a narrower clan. Junior: teenage athletes. International Junior: American teenage athletes. Given that so particular flood, then, maybe the conversation I had on Hemlock Street was inevitable. 

We were headed down Hemlock to the Trapper’s Cabin liquor store, three of us, lifties all, from the rental house. Antoine and Pierre had moved in there a few weeks ago, just after the start of the season, during the second hiring spree. Antoine, from Trois-Rivieres, was a huge birdwatcher, and had taught me how to identify waxwings by the way they flocked. I had taught him Ticket to Ride - the board game, not the Beatles song. Pierre, from Gatineau, had given me his password to an online indie short film festival out of Montreal. I had found his best golf disc when he lost it in the snow. 

It was a warm night for January. We were in little more than sweaters, and wide Hemlock was alive. There were no fences on the residential side of the street, and between houses you could see and smell fires cracking in backyards, joints being passed around them. Somewhere down a side street, a guitar was playing some cowboy chords. We were just passing the bottle depot when footsteps fell in behind us, crunching on the old snow of the sidewalk. 

“Where’s the party?” said a voice, male, barely broken, and with a faintly detectable American-style fry on the syllables. 

I was in a good mood, so I glanced back and said, “Right here, man! This sidewalk is the party!” 

I expected in response a half-ironic but genuinely enthused fist pump and a mumbled ‘Hell yeah,’ an acknowledgement of the simple joy of existing, of standing on the cusp of the night, the unknown and, for all we knew then, the endless night, like a fresh-powder chute hidden by cliffs, and we were standing at the drop-in, clicking poles, ignorant of what the line might hold but ready to drop all the same. 

But there was no fist pump, no feeling of the drop back there. Instead, I turned and started walking switch to look at round faces, unmasked, deadly serious, hanging over shelf-creased Arc'teryx jackets. The one who’d spoken, I think, had a green jacket and was a bit shorter. The other was in orange and a little lankier.   

“Are you guys going to a party?” Green asked flatly. 

Now, I did really think that the party was there on the sidewalk. Not to get too woo-woo about it, but on some level it’s true that a party is a state of mind. That said, we were also on our way to a real party, that is to say, a physical party, nothing wild, but a living room in another rental, some drinks, and a Bluetooth speaker. Whoever brought a speaker somewhere was always hailed as a hero. Tunes out loud always brought things up, but a speaker cost well over a day’s wages for a liftie, probably close to a week’s rent. I had looked at them a half-dozen times, but never yet brought myself to justify it. It was an expensive sacrifice to the altar of kicks. Kicks! Did anyone actually call a fun night out ‘kicks?’ anymore? Not likely, but I didn’t mind thinking it. Whenever I started thinking in Kerouacisms, I knew my energy was right for the night. It was Margot Frances and Jimmy Anders, who had lived in the basement of the rental house before Antoine and Pierre, who had left On the Road in the kitchen for me when they moved out, after all. I could do a lot worse than taking some of the slang from it and leaving the homophobic and misogynistic bits. I wonder vaguely if Margot and Jimmy would be at the other house tonight. I had heard they were back in town, after tree-planting somewhere in the Cariboo for the summer. I had cooked my best chickpea pasta for Jimmy and Margot and given them the recipe. Margot had taught me Norwegian Wood – The Beatles song, not the Murakami novel. I had given Jimmy the novel. 

So, yes, we were going to a party. But we’d already agreed, without a word exchanged, that these guys wouldn't be following us there. 

“We’re looking for hookers,” said Green. 

“Hookers and molly,” said Orange. ”You know what molly is?” 

MDMA. I did know. I’d seen enough videos of glassy-eyed people grinding their teeth in dark parkades to know. It wasn’t much of a Raven drug. Oh, don’t get me wrong, there were drugs aplenty in town. I’d heard the rumours about how to get shrooms, and testimonies from lifties who insisted it was the only way to watch 2001. And of course, by my calculations there was a cannabis shop for every one-and-a-half-thousand people in the region, which had to be some kind of record, and that was just the legal trade. From what I’d heard, most people still got back-alley stuff, whether out of price or habit, since there was almost no enforcement on it anyway. Last summer during the public concert series, there was an opening act by the guy who owned the disc golf course, whose legal name was Eternity Equinox. He’d sung four songs, and three of them were about how pot was an herb that he grew in his garden and so should be legalized. I don’t think anyone had the heart to tell him that this had been the case for years. Margot said it was the best act of the season. 

But I’d never heard of MDMA in Raven River. I knew what it was, but didn’t know what it was, and maybe that was the difference. The drugs people wanted here were plants and mushrooms. You could imagine every step from growing in the woods to a backyard fire. Ecstasy was a pill, wasn’t it? Like Tylenol. Totally synthetic. I had no conception of where Eternity Equinox’s garden might come in. 

“Bro, d’you know where to find hookers?” Green said again. 

I didn’t know if there were sex workers in Raven. It was certainly possible, but I’d never heard of it. I was still in a good mood, though, so I joked back at them: “Everyone’s a hooker for a price, right? For a million bucks I’ll do anything!” 

Again, no laughter, but in the dark patch between street lights I could feel more than see a smirk come to Green’s face. ”My daddy’s a millionaire,” he said, “I could give you fifty thousand right now.” 

“Right now? For nothing? Deal!” 

“I’ll give you ten thousand to suck my cock,” he said. 

“We’re from California,” Orange put in, as if to support the claim. Only millionaires came from California, I guess he meant to say, and not from anywhere else. 

Antoine turned around for the first time and asked, “How old are you guys?”  

“I’m fifteen and he’s sixteen,” said Green. 

“Ah,” said Pierre, and there was great understanding in the syllable. Fifteen. Children of the new millennium. It still struck me as odd that birth years could start with a 2 for people who knew what drugs were. The Californians were born well after the twin towers crumbled down, just around when the economy followed, when, as Arcade Fire put it, we watched the markets crash, and the promises we were made were torn. We had to make our own promises after that. It became clear after a few years that the things we were told in school, that we could all climb the ladder of work and profit, that hard work paid out in the end in the victorious capitalism in which we lived, all that was bunk. So, we had to figure out something else. I think we were all still trying to figure out what that was, but I don’t know. It’s not as if we talked about it. And for kids like these Californians, it was history anyway. They had their own shatterings. I sometimes lamented that my life beyond my hometown had been almost entirely pandemic, but hell, these kids’ whole teens had mostly been pandemic so far. 

“Ten thousand dollars, bro, if you want it.” 

“What do you guys do for fun around here?” asked Orange. 

I said, ”Ski,” just as Pierre said “Snowboard.” 

Well, it was the Kootenays in January. What answer did they expect? 

“I can do a backflip,” said Orange. 

“That’s really cool,” said Pierre, falling back with them a bit. It was cool. I couldn’t do a backflip. Pierre could, I’d seen it once, but he didn’t often. When we rode together we spent more time digging the resort and the sidecountry for hidden lines, untouched pockets of treacherous but ridable alpine terrain far down the remotest ends of ridges where no one had dared to go since the snow fell. Backflips by the chair were cool, but they took time away from that. 

“This place is kinds fucking lame,” said Green, “There’s really no hookers except you fags?” 

“We’re not hookers. Or gay,” said Antoine. 

“Ten thousand, dude.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Antoine. We crossed a side street and he picked up his pace, muttering to me, “Viens. On parle en Francais, ouais?” 

My French was hardly good enough to hold any sort of conversation even in the enunciated Parisian accent of school memories and Duolingo. In Quebec French I was hopeless. Antoine knew that, though. He was trying to talk so that the Californians couldn’t overhear. He would go easy on me. 

“D’accord,” I said, wondering if the Californians could tell how bad my accent was, how transparent our attempt at coding our words was from them. We had no clue that they didn’t also speak French, I suppose. Somehow it just seemed unlikely. 

“I think they are rich,” said Antoine, in a French that was much slower and more scholarly than his and Pierre’s usual cheerful chatter, “They think they can pay for anything. It changes you as a person.” 

“Oui,” I said back, “I mean, ouais. And they’re fifteen!” 

“Are you gonna suck my cock for ten thousand dollars?” Green shouted again. 

“You are going to do it?” asked Antoine, a smirk in his voice. 

I struggled to find the words in French to explain. Even “Non,” was too transparent, as it sounded just like the English word. So, I just said “They’re fifteen,“ again, ils on quinze ans, and Antoine nodded sagely.  

Pierre was hanging back, speaking with the Californians quietly. Antoine glanced at the three of them. “He’s good at talking to them,” he said. We were getting close to the liquor store now, and they could tell. The sign with the trapper in his David Thompson hat was lit and visible. They knew where we were going, and switched tactics accordingly. The ten thousand dollars to be added to a sex offenders registry seemed to be, mercifully, put to the wayside. 

“Will you buy us beer?” 

“Maybe,” Pierre said diplomatically. 

“We want PBR. Do you know what PBR is?” 

Do you know what PBR is? I wanted to say back to them, it’s cheap shit. Instead I said, “Yeah, I know PBR.” 

“Pabst?” asked Pierre. I nodded. “Ah,” he said, ”Cheap shit.” 

“Not bad as cheap shit goes,” I said, granting a concession to the Californians. It was true; it wasn’t like it was Kokanee. 

Pierre held the Californians back again as Antoine and I went ahead. With Pierre distracting them, we could talk in English now. 

“There’s no price for sucking underage dick,” he said. 

“No, of course not.” 

“I don’t want to be on a registry. It’s selling your freedom.” 

“And your self-respect. It’s just a horrible thing to do. I wouldn’t want to do it even if they were our age, but at least it wouldn’t be criminal. They think they can just pay us to become criminals. Do you think they were joking? They have to be just joking. Right?” 

“I don’t know, man. I really don’t know. Money does things to you. They think they can just own people.” 

We came to a stop at last, across the road from the Trapper’s Cabin, the five of us hemmed into a two-by-two line by the snowbanks.  Pierre came over to us, a messenger crossing No Man’s Land, and leaned in. “I told them we would get them beer as long as they don’t follow us.” Antoine and I nodded. This seemed like a fair price for peace. 

“Will you get me a six-pack of PBR?” asked Green. 

“I’ll get you one can,” I said. 

“Two,” said Green. 

PBR was cheap shit, and there were two of them. “Alright,” I said. 

We started off across the road. As we went, Green dug his hands into his pockets and said to Orange, “Bro. It’s kind of lame. I thought the team was gonna party.” 

The team. Somehow, until then, I hadn’t thought about the freeride competition. But of course, that was why they were here, wandering the streets unsupervised. This was probably one of the first times they had a weekend away from their parents, who were back in Los Angeles, busy with their millionaire business. If they were millionaires. As we crossed Hemlock I thought about the bad teen movies I’d seen, where the heroes - to stretch a term – pulled off such elaborate scams, whole layers of lies. I thought about the party scene in every movie like that, with flashing coloured lights coming from who-knew-where in a house full of people with their arms up, music blasting, not a speaker in sight. Part of me still thought that maybe parties like that did exist, and just like in high school, I still wasn‘t in enough loops to know about them. But no, I’m sure I would have seen one by now. I thought about pop songs and trap-hop songs, music videos and lyrics, popping pills and hoes in the back seat. Like I said, Hemlock is a wide street. 

There was only one car parked at the Trapper’s Cabin. I hadn’t noticed it across the street, but it materialized in the red light up close. I was terrible at recognizing cars – these days they were uniformly bubbly and monochrome, the better to resell you to someone who might not like a certain colour, my dear - but this was a car I would remember for years. It was a pale green chevy pickup, circa early nineties model, with “protect parks” stickers on the tailgate and no less than three Rasta bobbleheads all lined up in the windshield. The roof was folded in a way that was definitely off-model, and I knew it was because it had collapsed in after a huge dump of snow, and then been punched back out and reinforced with two-by-fours nailed to the inside. This was Margot Frances and Jimmy Anders’ truck, a Genuine Kootenay Beater. When walking along the ski hill road with intent to get up there close to opening, it was generally known that if a clean black Mercedes SUV passed by, it wasn’t worth the muscle motion to send up a thumb. If a GKB the colour of road salt grumbled past, though, that was usually your way. And absent the quasi-trusty shuttle bus, Margot and Jimmy’s truck was my favourite way to ride up or down. There was just one back seat, which I had to fold into and sit sideways in, and feeling not at all like I’d be safe in a crash, we would set off around the hairpin switchbacks on the hill road, playing The Doors out loud on Margot’s Bluetooth and talking about our runs for the day.  

If one of them was shopping, I’d say hi. 

I’ve never thought of a liquor store as a refuge before, probably, and thankfully, because I’m not an alcoholic. But it was kind of nice having a place that we knew the Californians couldn’t follow. We could talk freely here, albeit with the restriction that we couldn't explicitly mention our plan to toss some cans to underage Americans, although in fairness, it was the Trapper's Cabin, the less refined of the two liquor stores in Raven River, and given it was Raven River, that was saying something, so I doubt the cashier would have cared in the least. He was slumped over the counter, head in his hands, hands breaking up the fall of his blond hair, which fell too around wire-framed round glasses – blond! Round glasses! So that was why the truck was outside. Jimmy was the cashier! 

“Hey!” I said, just as I’d promised myself. 

Jimmy jumped up a bit, activating Customer Service Mode, but shut it down when he saw me. “Jay!” he called out, “You’re still around!” 

I always went by J, or Jay, in Raven River. Jerry, what I’d been in Calgary, had been ditched after the first few weeks of jokes. I’d vaguely known that a Jerry was a term for a bad skier, but not realized quite how prevalent it was, or all the implications. Jerry wasn’t just someone who didn’t know how to ski, who was new, trying to figure things out. Jerry was someone from Calgary, or Toronto, who had a fresh snowsuit that matched pants to jacket, and slick skis with oiled bindings, and his toe in the heel piece of the bindings, because with the cash he’d spent on coming out here, somewhere along the line he must have bought the understanding of what he was doing. 

“I’m still around,” I said, “I heard you were back. And working here!” 

“Ayup. You’re liftying again?”  

“Yeah. Probably my last season.” 

“You said that last winter.” 

“I did. Yeah. I don’t know. Can’t beat the free pass, I guess.” 

“Yeah, for sure. It’s tough going back to paying for it. Margot’s just doing day passes, ‘cause she tore her ACL climbing in November.” 

“Oh, shit! Hope she’s alright?” 

“Yeah, she just lost enough riding days that buying the pass didn’t make sense. She’s working at the Lark Café now. Jill got her the position she used to have.” 

“Right, ‘cause Jill’s at that mid-mountain coffee hut now. I always get free hot chocolate from her. Well, if I’m scanning at the base, I’ll just let Margot up.” 

“Much obliged,” Jimmy nodded, and I went off to look at beers. 

For what I called a less refined store, the selection at the Trapper’s was good – two walls of beer and cider fridges and warm packages in pyramids between, good breweries from all around the West and any flavour profile or drinking style you might want. We rolled past plain sours and fruit sours and salted sours and goses, milk stouts and peanut butter porters, you name it. Antoine lingered in front of something called a Show-off Double IPA. I thought he might take it, but he pointed instead at the peacock on the label and said, “Green peafowl.” I think his bird-identifying was mostly somatic at this point, totally involuntary. 

The PBR was tucked in the slightly dismal back corner, under the little selection of Budweiser and the like. I grabbed a six-pack and brought it to Jimmy. Antoine settled on a box of ginger ciders. Pierre was still in the back, weighing a nice pack of honey ales with another pack of PBR. 

“I didn’t know you were big Pabst guys,” said Jimmy. 

“No,” said Pierre, “This is for someone else maybe. I will try to decide if I want to get it.” 

“Party?” 

“Yeah,” said Antoine, in a quick, shut-us-down sort of way. He didn’t know Jimmy, though. With any other cashier, not an old liftie, he’d have been right to be cautious. But I knew Jimmy. 

“Jimsy,” I said, using Margot’s pet name for him, which I didn’t know if I was allowed to do, but whatever. “You remember when you sent Napalm Chute in the work jacket and I didn’t tell?” 

“Yeah,” said Jimmy, unsure where this was going. 

“Right, that’s all. So you don’t need to tell whoever your boss is here that there are two fifteen-year-olds outside who won’t leave us alone unless we get them beer.” 

“One of them is sixteen,” said Pierre. 

“Sure. Some of the PBR is for them.” 

“Some?” 

“Two cans.” 

“Did they give you money?” 

“No,” said Antoine, “But they’re rich. They could have!” 

“I don’t think they were really rich,” I said. Putting it out loud changed the situation somehow. 

Jimmy went to the window, to the little maze of gaps between his back counter and the posters above, and peered out. “Those kids by the light?” 

I joined him at the window and looked. The Californians were kicking at a frozen snowbank under the halogen glow of a streetlamp. Maybe they were trying to cut a path through. That bank was solid ice though, weeks old, thawed and frozen a thousand times. It was hardly just snow anymore. At best there was a layer of avi-chute choss, three-day-old plow discard, on top of gravel ice. What’s that thing about the Inuit language having ten words for snow where English has one? Whoever started spreading that one wasn’t a skier. 

“They look kind of beat, don’t they?” I said. 

Jimmy nodded and considered this. “D’you mean like beaten up, or like, The Beats, like Kerouac?” 

“Both. Isn’t it the same thing, anyway? Like, he used the word the way it was used, beaten up, but then he added the other definition, the thing about beatific.” 

“You read it, Jay!” 

“Yeah. Thanks for leaving it there.” 

“I’m gonna get the honey ale,” Pierre broke in suddenly, “And I’m gonna give some to the kids as well. It’s more expensive but I’ll keep some.” 

“They wanted PBR,” I said. 

“But this is better,” said Pierre, “It’s sweet. They’ll like it. I’ll give them two.” 

“I was going to give them two of the Pabst,” I said. 

Jimmy leaned in and laced his fingers conspiratorially. “Tell you what,” he said, “If you’re getting two half packs then you’re just buying one, really. Then the kids can have the rest. They look pretty beat, after all. So...” he took off his glasses, laid them on the counter, and looked to the ceiling, “It’d be too bad if you put one of those packs in your bag and I didn’t see it. You might forget to even pay for it.” 

Grinning, Pierre unshouldered his backpack and slid the honey ale in. We paid for the Pabst and Antoine’s cider, which came out to not much more than the honey ales by themselves. The cost, then, was around an hour’s liftying. Two if it hadn’t been for Jimmy. Of course, to say two hours of liftying meant nothing without specifying. Was that two hours of the top station at the out-of-the-way chair on an uncommonly quiet day, sitting in a hut with a thermos of hot chocolate and a paperback, watching snow fall on the valley cedars outside, and then occasionally, every two minutes or so, someone would get off, give a wave, and glide away? Or was that two hours at the base, the main base, on a mobbed-busy weekend, with an endless crowded maze of beginners needing the chair slowed down or even full-stopped for them, and others trying to skip the line while you were occupied, and rich Americans who didn’t think the rules about masks in line applied to them, and even the best most courteous guests were still part of the back-aching cycle of bumping, holding back the mass of each and every chair with a special calculated one-leg-up leanback and never a moment to sit down or even to simply stand at attention? Those shifts paid the same: not quite a six-pack per hour.

“Thanks, man,” said Pierre, as he packed up all the beer, ”From a liftie to another.” 

Jimmy only shrugged. “Not a liftie anymore,” he said. 

“But you were, man, and maybe you say, once a liftie, always a liftie. What were you saying about calling people Beat, Jay? It means two things?” 

“Sort of,” Jimmy explained, “It means, like, poor, beaten up, had a bad time. But these guys back, what, seventy years ago, made it that, but short for beatific, like, spiritual. Godly. They thought that one led to the other.” 

“Yes!” said Pierre, jabbing a finger, leaning close in over the glass bit of the counter where Jimmy scanned wine bottle bar codes, “And Liftie is like that. It’s the job where we put people on the lift, but it’s also, like. Hey. Answer me this. When you work on a chair, who’s your favourite person to see in line?” 

Jimmy and I had no answer for this, but without missing a beat, Antoine said, “Another Liftie.” 

“Exactly!” said Pierre, getting way into it now, “Because they are your friend, but not just that. Because they make you feel good about doing the job. They know what it’s like! And...” he was practically vibrating now, “Wherever you meet another liftie, an old liftie too, even years later, they also try to help, because they know you’re down, they know you’re working hard and you’re tired and they LIFT you up... and you LIFT them up sometimes. The people who own the ski hill, who own the shops, they want you to pay for everything. They want you to work more, they want you to be better than the other guy by buying more stuff by working harder so you have more stuff than him. You compete, always competition. Lifting just yourself up...” 

“By your bootstraps,” I nodded. I’d never understood that expression. The only boots I even knew of that had straps were ski boots with ratchet straps, and they were too tight to the boots to lift anything by. They were too busy holding you to the snow. 

“But you don’t have to. Instead, you let people have free beer. That’s what Liftie is. You lift each other!” 

Jimmy stood stunned for a long hanging moment. I thought about the songs we sang and taught on guitar, free beers and hot chocolates, bird facts, board games. I thought about Pierre and Antoine and Jimmy and Margot, and Jill at the mid-mountain hut. Then Jimmy hit a button on his screen, and my short receipt began to print with a sound like the Lynx Quad powering up in the morning, and he nodded, slowly at first and then picking up, and said “Hell yeah.” Then he turned to me and said, “Holy fuck, Jay. Where do you meet these people?” 

I said, “At the hill. Liftying. Where else?” 

The Californians were still hanging out under the streetlight when we left the store. They perked up when they saw us heading back their way. 

“You got our stuff?” Green called. 

In response I twisted two cans off my six-pack and tossed them one at a time at him. He caught each with the flawless reflexes of a seasoned backflipper. 

“Take some of this too,” said Pierre, tossing them two of his honey ales. 

“What’s this?” said Orange. 

“Try it!” said Pierre, “Expand your taste!” Then he jogged off. Antoine was already headed back the way we’d come from. 

The Californians didn’t comment on getting four beers when they asked for two, but then, neither did any of us.  I never saw them again after that, so I never got any more hints on whether they really were millionaires’ sons, or just ski team kids on the tournament dime. Right then, when they were huddling with their gloveless hands in their armpits on a lonely street, I decided it didn’t much matter. Green gave me a peace-sign salute, a universal gesture of cool accord, and we parted, we two victims of disparate hoped-for nights. 

As I ran to catch up with Pierre and Antoine, a big raven fell with a sound of wind from a nearby powerline, landing in the middle of Hemlock Street. I took a pause to curtsy a bit. I always bowed to a raven when I saw one alone. One of them, an immortal one, pulled the first humans out of a clam shell on the beach in Haida Gwaii, so it was always good to be respectful, because you never know. Two years ago, when I was browsing a list of ski resorts that were looking for applicants, I had seen Raven River and thought of that. 

Two days later, on the final day of the International Junior Freeriding Cup (presented by a major car brand,) I was working the Lynx Quad at the mid-station. A remarkable oddity for a chairlift, Lynx Mid lets riders get off halfway, or else to sit tight and carry on through. For those who carried on, up to where they entered the start gates at the top of the terrain park, all I had to do was watch them pass by, thrusting their numbered bibs out to the safety bar for all to see. I passed the time by collecting high-fives. As they glided past, all I had to do for a high-five was to extend my hand, inches from where the chair slid by. I always got one back, and they would cheer for me.

[bangsmusicandentertainment]

THE CULT TO PERFORM SELECT DATES IN NORTH AMERICA AND THE UK IN RECOGNITION OF THE FORTHCOMING REISSUE OF THE BAND'S PIVOTAL ALBUM 'SONIC TEMPLE'

In recognition of the forthcoming re-issue of THE CULT's multi-platinum-selling Sonic Temple album on Beggars Banquet Records, the British group that's led by Ian Astbury and guitarist Billy Duffy will embark on select dates in North America and the UK starting May 2 in Houston, TX (itinerary below). Tickets are on sale now for the "A Sonic Temple" tour and available here. 

Meanwhile, the band expects to announce another block of dates very soon for2019/2020. The set list will draw from THE CULT's 10 studio albums with the centerpiece being a superset that's focused on the core songs from Sonic Temple; some of these songs have not been performed since the album (their fourth) was originally released in 1989. Sonic Temple--a pivotal, game-changing album that brought together the alternative and hard rock audiences--will be reissued in a 30th-anniversary edition by Beggars Banquet Records (exact release date TBA). Sonic Temple features the singles "Fire Woman," "Edie (Ciao Baby)," "Sweet Soul Sister" and "Sun King." Read a new Q&A with Astbury and Duffy below. Each show will be a gathering and celebration for Cult fans--an opportunity to come together for one night--an event that will be memorable for all who attend. In Los Angeles only, where Astbury and Duffy live, the band has created something extra special. The Greek Theatre will become "A Sonic Temple" on June 15 with a diverse multi-act bill that has roots in THE CULTlead singer Ian Astbury's pioneering pre-Lollapalooza festival "A Gathering of the Tribes" (1990).Prayers, Zola Jesus and Vowws will join headliners THE CULT. Read the press release here. Q&A WITH IAN ASTBURY AND BILLY DUFFY(April 2019)

Q&A  WITH IAN ASTBURY AND BILLY DUFFY: IAN ASTBURY: What was your mindset as a musician and as a person when you began to write the songs for the album? IA: We decamped from London to Los Angeles for a break in early '88, 87 had been particularly intense with The Electric album being released and touring. London had become difficult to live in for various reasons even walking the streets was challenging at times, I was receiving unwelcome attention from the way I looked I received a lot of unwanted attention. L.A. was a mystical paradise. I was drawn by myths that surrounded the canyons and hills of the city and the vibrant music film and art scene. Eventually, we began to feel more comfortable during this extended stay and soon fell into writing songs. We then went to Vancouver to spend time with Bob Rock in pre-production. He was the anchor and had a vision of what the band should sound like. I was traveling further inward. My instinct was to create a cinematic album that contained visceral landscapes, nuanced and textured. We certainly felt it was time for the next evolutionary step. 'Sonic Temple' is one of the few albums that brought together the divergent hard rock and alternative audiences. Can you reflect on this and how the band navigated this terrain? IA: We certainly didn't want to repeat ourselves. We wanted to retain our core DNA as we went deeper into psych and hard rock influences. It was a complete immersion for me into art, film, music, poetry, and literature, weaving those influences into what was to become Sonic Temple. The band was becoming more popular. We were in uncharted waters. Most of the bands we had come up with had split up or fallen off. We were accelerating. There was no real time to breathe. We were forming new allegiances and breaking the glass ceiling of "the indie outsider." How did 'Sonic Temple' change the band as you found success all over the world and toured relentlessly? IA: The lifestyle pressures were intense before 'Sonic Temple.' In 1987 we had already completed a sold-out tour of the UK, immediately jumping into a tour opening for Billy Idol that was total chaos. We then opened for Iggy Pop (who later appeared as a guest vocalist on the song NYC) and David Bowie in Europe and then went on a headline tour of the US and Canada with GNR opening. That was also chaotic as one could imagine. Expectations were high and we had a lot riding on ST being an artistic and commercial success. We blazed the trail in some way. Later that year we had to cancel a tour of Japan due to nervous exhaustion but were given the go ahead to play Wembley Arena and Brixton Academy needless to mention an infamous Australian tour. It's impossible to quantify the experience unless you've lived through it. Several critics made judgments during that time without any real experience or insight into what it was like to be that young inside of a whirlwind. The subsequent touring for 'Sonic Temple' picked up where we left off in '87. Our lives where irreversibly changed as we began to soar the platinum skies. In some ways the success of the biggest songs and videos from the album dwarfed other songs from the album that were illuminating so many subjects and the chaos of the times. What are your thoughts about this? IA: Certainly, MTV amplified the commercial success of, say, Fire Woman but for me the heart of the album was really in songs like Edie, NYC and American Horse and Soul Asylum. We pushed to create tension drama and vibrant layers I was trying to create a soundtrack for an imagined film. As you tour this year with 'Sonic Temple' as the centerpiece of your set, what do you want audiences to take away from it? IA: I hope people coming to the concerts take away a sense of love and optimism, connection and communion. 

BILLY DUFFY: 'Sonic Temple' is one of the few albums that brought together the divergent hard rock and alternative audiences. Can you reflect on this and how the band navigated this terrain? BD: I believe in retrospect the album was basically the culmination of all the work the band had put in since our inception in 1983 as the Death Cult. It was an evolution of the partnership as writers and performers of Ian and me. At the time in that decade, we basically put one foot after the other as you do when starting out and followed our gut instincts as how best to develop as a team and always look to move forward. In simpler terms maybe we tried specifically on ST to take elements of our sound from the Love album and from Electric--both sonically quite different--and make a cohesive third album having the best of both all the while still moving forward and being of our time. I'd agree that perhaps it was one of the few albums that did indeed marry hard and indie rock and that was simply how things evolved with the Cult--not really part of any master plan. However, we have always tried to avoid being pigeonholed since the very early days so it's just how we operated. I think the greater shock to the Cult's early fan base was from Love to Electric, so by ST we felt we had established ourselves as more a rock n roll band than an indie one, even though of course that was our background. What was your mindset when writing the music for the album? BD: I think as always we were reflecting as honestly as we could our lives and environment at that time. I do feel we did manage to put together some great songs, which can be a challenge when your life is mostly spent on the road. Personally I was proud to have gotten the band so far and wanted to enjoy and experience making a truly full-sounding rock album like the ones that had so inspired me back in Manchester in the early 70s. How did Sonic Temple change the band as you found success all over the world and toured relentlessly? BD: I think we had gotten used to touring with Electric a fair bit by then but did embark on a serious year-long tour for ST. I'm not exactly sure we felt successful, but it was reassuring for me to see the band get to another level of recognition. The momentum was always forward and upward. We never looked back too much and never second guessed ourselves. We did have to grow into a 'arena' band and present a somewhat larger than life stage show but that was what was required of us at the time and we did it as best we could. And in the end, I had a lot of fun doing it. As you tour this year with Sonic Temple as the centerpiece of your set, what do you want audiences to take away from it? BD: I think as time has passed our music has endured fairly well. I'd like fans to not only allow themselves a little indulgence into maybe simpler happier times of the late 80s for a few hours at a ST 19 show but also be happy that the music is now really their possession, not ours, and to do with it what they will. For the most part, once an album is done, Ian and I never look back too much and let it go out there with few regrets. Let them celebrate those good times back then but not dwell in them and even more so look forward to new and different experiences in the future.  

THE CULT 2019 Initial Tour Dates 

DATE LOCATION VENUE THU5/2Houston, TXHouse of Blues FRI5/3New Orleans, LAThe Fillmore SAT5/4Jacksonville, FLWelcome To Rockville Festival THU5/9Dallas, TXHouse of Blues FRI5/10Atlanta, GATabernacle SAT5/11Marston, NC (Charlotte)Epicenter Festival SUN5/17Grand Rapids, MI20 Monroe Live MON5/18Columbus, OHSonic Temple Festival TUE5/19Chicago, ILChicago Open Air Festival WED5/25Catton, United KingdomBearded Theory Festival THU5/26Gateshead, United KingdomThe Sage FRI5/28St. John's, NL CanadaMile One Center SAT5/30Moncton, NB CanadaCasino New Brunswick SUN6/1Montreal, QC CanadaMTELUS MON6/2Rama, ON CanadaCasino Rama TUE6/5Winnipeg, MB CanadaClub Regent Casino - Event Centre WED6/7Enoch, AB CanadaRiver Cree Resort & Casino THU6/9Vancouver, BCCanada Vogue Theatre FRI6/10Seattle, WAMoore Theatre SAT6/12San Francisco, CAThe Regency Ballroom SUN6/14Reno, NVGrand Sierra Resort Casino - Grand Theatre MON6/15Los Angeles, CAGreek Theatre SAT6/22Vitoria, SpainAzkena Rock Festival FRI9/13San Diego, CAKaaboo Festival

  The Cult by Tim Cadiente Visit THE CULT's social platforms for all tour dates, news and updates: WebsiteFacebookTwitterInstagram

[jacewilliams1]

NotKosh—a year without AirVenture

To paraphrase the old quote:

“When once you have tasted AirVenture, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned toward Oshkosh, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.”

There was no Oshkosh in 2020.

All the past weeks spent at Oshkosh under Wisconsin summer skies are memorable; some more memorable than others. I remember one Oshkosh of constant rain, ever present rumbles of thunder, ubiquitous puddles, muddy grounds, but always pleasant dispositions. That summer became known as “SloshKosh.”

Some years, Oshkosh is truly unforgettable.

Other summers held promising prospects of seeing things close up most of us in general aviation never have a chance to experience. The sleek Concorde, performing not one, but two eye-catching passes prior to touchdown; the Airbus A380 hanging, low and slow, on short final; walking through an Air Force C-5 Galaxy transport; Bob Hoover entertaining in his Shrike Aero Commander; Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, and Michael Collins, the crew of Apollo 11, appearing together on the 25th anniversary of the Moon landing; and, of course, who can forget Jet Man, one of the few attractions the summer our elected representatives (in their infinite wisdom and in keeping with their interminable rounds of political warfare) decided to reduce the Defense Dept. budget, grounding all military aircraft from performing demonstrations or participating in static displays.

Because Wittman Field stood empty and silent, the summer of 2020 deserves a name as well. I believe it is entirely appropriate to tag this particular part of the last week of July and first week of August 2020 as “NotKosh.”

We have had little control over the sometimes random, sometimes contrived, events that unfolded in front of us in 2020. A worldwide pandemic and its inevitable economic recession, a hotly contested Presidential election, peaceful protests, and out of control riots and looting. In 2020, possibly more than ever before, we needed Oshkosh.

My son and my daughter have been attending Oshkosh with me since they were little. One of our best memories, among many, was watching the afternoon air shows while reclining in the long shadow of the east side of the old control tower. The shade the tower provided, the perfect angle of the grassy hill for viewing, and the close proximity of the tower to cold drinks or ice cream, made that venue a perfect spot to spread our Tweety Bird bedsheet and relax. I had hopes that my grandson would join us at Oshkosh for the first time this past year.

The old tower is gone now. A new tower has taken its place. Change is inevitable. We have found other locations for enjoying the air shows. But even as we seek out the familiar and comfortable, we are continually amazed by the new attractions AirVenture offers each year. More aviation interests are being served and promoted and, even if you are not a pilot, there is more for you to do and see as well. One spectacular success is the Wednesday and Saturday night airshows. If you have experienced one, you know how fantastic they are.

I have always found it interesting that there are so many shared memories of AirVenture, and so many individual, personal memories as well. Oshkosh, in one sense, has always been comfortable and predictable. We all enjoy coming back to the same campsites; engaging again with groups of wonderful friends; having breakfast in the Warbird Café; visiting the Red Barn for lunch; standing three deep in front of an avionics vendor’s booth in an exhibit hangar; enjoying a bag of freshly popped popcorn in the Vintage aircraft area; drinking cool water from the tree-shaded bubblers next to the Brown Arch; delighting in “Jerry’s One Man Band;” watching the endless line of ultralights departing and arriving on the grass strip on the south end of the grounds; and sitting with a handheld radio under the wing of a DC-3 and tracking the arriving aircraft on Runway 27. “Red and blue RV, make your base turn now. Green dot, land on the green dot.” “Yellow and white Cessna high wing on downwind, rock your wings now.” “Piper Cherokee, nice job, exit onto the grass when able, and follow the flagmen to parking. Welcome to Oshkosh!”

The night air show has been a big hit in recent years.

I often started my mornings at Oshkosh with warm, freshly made donuts (plain, sugar, or cinnamon) and coffee. This operation, a not-so-well-kept secret, started in a tent next to the IAC display area many years ago, approximately at the corner of Wittman Road and Boeing Plaza. Several years later it was moved slightly farther north where it now shares enclosed space with several hamburger/hotdog/chicken sandwich vendors. Wooden picnic tables with colorful blue and orange umbrellas providing mostly unrestricted views of the flight line and Runway 18-36 are set out in front of the walk up windows.

When not flying, I cannot envision a better place to be than sitting under an umbrella, sun coming up, coffee and donuts within easy reach, and watching AirVenture wake up slowly in the coolness of an early morning. In the distance, the Ford Trimotor’s engines are belching and turning over. The relative calm is broken only by a few GA aircraft landing or departing, or the thunderous roar of a formation of T-6s gracefully climbing and banking their polished wings in the direction of Lake Winnebago. Delivery trucks, transmissions grinding, occasionally pass in front of me. Pilots and families at other tables smile and talk in low voices about their arrival experiences, how they spent the previous night, or formulate plans for the day ahead.

I am at a point in my life where there is no compelling need for me to buy stuff, but I want to walk through the Fly Market anyway. It would be a challenge to attempt to describe the Fly Market. Like Las Vegas, better to counsel others to walk through it and see for themselves. If you are a pilot or builder, often you can find exactly what you are looking for. To everyone else, it is a swap meet/garage sale; an outdoor museum; and sort of an open-air Walmart, offering everything from flight suits, aviation books, sunglasses, one of a kind aircraft parts, Ginsu knives, hand tools, massage chairs, aviation apparel, bed pillows, and cookware. Whatever you are looking for, you will likely find it there.

In 2020, EAA offered many virtual seminars and presentations to fill the void left by the Forums and Workshops remaining dark and empty. Online is fine, but it is not the same. No aviation celebrities on stage or sitting just a few feet away from you when you are participating only with your laptop from home. No arriving flight of F-22 Raptors in full afterburner to drown out any speaker’s voice. You can miss out by not being there.

Several years ago, I attended a talk on the Grumman A6 Intruder, the Navy’s primary attack aircraft until retired in 1997. I watched a gentleman come in and take a seat a few rows away from me. He had shoulder length, tied-back hair, and a long beard. He sported denim bib overalls and sandals. He could easily be mistaken for a member of the Smith Brothers of cough drop fame or, if holding a guitar, a member of the band ZZ Top. I surmised he was connected with a commune and probably sold dope out of the trunk of his car. He must have become lost and just wandered in.

The presenter, neat and trim, was a retired naval aviator who flew A6s off a carrier deck in Vietnam. About halfway through the presentation, the guy in the bib overalls raised his hand. He proceeded to stand up and advise that he was a Marine Corps pilot who flew A6s out of Da Nang. He wanted to correct a technical point the presenter made concerning the A6, as the presenter was apparently accurate when referring to the Navy’s aircraft, but inaccurate as it related to the Marine’s land-based ops. Once I recovered from the shock, I remembered something about not judging a book by its cover.

A summer with Oshkosh was a strange summer.

I missed taking the bus to the EAA Museum and the strangers you meet on the short commute. You can walk there, but it is easier to walk to the Bus Park and take the regularly scheduled transportation. Always lines, but everyone is courteous and happy. On the bus, it was not unusual to discover that the young couple in front of me flew in from North Carolina, the older couple behind me flew in from New Mexico, and the two young men sitting across the aisle, wide-eyed and excited, are from Brazil on their first trip to Oshkosh.

The Seaplane Base (96W), located on a photogenic bay on the west shore of Lake Winnebago south of Oshkosh, stood quiet and green and ready in 2020. The colorful Super Cubs, Cessnas, Lakes, de Havillands, and larger multiengine types, were not circling overhead or carving Winnebago’s placid waters last summer. They were elsewhere. The woods, always inviting for its shade, was silent, with only the faint humming of insects and the chirping birds who make their homes within. Out on the lake, a few motorboats in the distance pulled water skiers or returned from a morning’s fishing. If you went there, you found the moorings empty and the bay’s waters still.

There are ghosts who attend Oshkosh. Not scary phantoms. Not frightful spooks of disasters or mayhem, but good and endearing memories of pilots who once were and are no more. They may be a mom or a dad, a spouse, a brother, a daughter, or a good friend. If you look closely when you are on the AirVenture grounds, you can see their ethereal images sitting on a bench enjoying ice cream on a typical hot, humid Oshkosh afternoon. You can see them on the flight line, excited about being there, and proudly discussing the work and long hours they put in to build or restore their airplanes. You can see them at the Theater in the Woods enjoying the warm breeze in the company of friends while taking in the evening’s program. You can see them in Paul’s Woods, or Camp Scholler, or the North 40, relaxing on lawn chairs outside of their campers and tents, laughing and talking late into the dark and gentle night.

Some say that if you love airplanes, Oshkosh is airplane heaven.

I plan on returning to that heaven this year.

The post NotKosh—a year without AirVenture appeared first on Air Facts Journal.

from Engineering Blog https://airfactsjournal.com/2021/06/notkosh-a-year-without-airventure/#utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=notkosh-a-year-without-airventure

[entergamingxp]

A Brit’s guide to Forza Horizon 4 • Eurogamer.net

When considering ideal locations for open world racers, I’m not sure Britain would top many lists. Need for Speed typically opted for fictional, neon-soaked cities, while the likes of Test Drive Unlimited and Forza Horizon threw players towards epic, sun-drenched road trips in Oahu and Colorado. By the time the Forza Horizon series had powered through Southern France and Australia though, British studio Playground Games thought it might be best to do things a little differently. When fans were treated to a first glimpse at Horizon 4’s “Historic Britain”, I was inclined to agree. It’s not often anywhere north of the Watford Gap is represented in video games, yet here we are, on modern tech, barrelling around Bamburgh Castle with reckless abandon. A new Forza set in a far-flung location will likely be on the horizon very soon, but before we move on, let’s celebrate the stunning locations presented in Horizon 4.

In 2017, The English Lake District was granted status as a Unesco World Heritage site. Its beautiful mountainous landscape is deemed to be of “Outstanding Universal Value”, and the team at Playground did quite a job at showing that off. Derwent Water, a vast lake situated in the north west of the Lake District is depicted in-game and is a must visit, especially during Horizon’s winter season. The frozen expanse becomes a playground for drifting, drag racing and general off-roading, and those mountains to the north aren’t a bad view either. However, it’s certainly worth a visit in the spring season too, if only to catch a glimpse of The Lakes in a more natural light. When I spoke with Conar Cross, associate lead concept artist at Playground Games, he had a little more to say about The Lakes in spring.

“Seasonally it would have to be spring. In fact, any location in spring is pretty idyllic in my opinion, the dramatic stormy weather coupled with the uplifting palette from the blossoming foliage is so inviting. I particularly love the area around Derwent Water, with the brilliant mountain vista and the bluebells from the surrounding forest generously spreading out onto the sides of the roads.”

The beautiful surroundings of Derwent Water in Forza Horizon 4.

Head a little farther south and you’ll come across the peaceful village of Ambleside. Another gem of the lakes, this popular holiday destination provides some twisty-turny road racing circuits in Forza Horizon 4. The sunflower meadows player house is a useful early-game base for all your Lake District travels, or to simply fulfil a dream of owning an idyllic, countryside cottage. What’s particularly inviting about this location is how true to English village life it is. The narrow, village streets become home to some tight driving manoeuvres, and the various pubs, homes and hotels are thematically spot on. In fact, after playing Horizon 4 I had to visit Ambleside, so I took a little trip last summer. There, I visited a popular lakeside pub on a rather blustery August day – the very same pub that can be found in-game at the boat docks, just south of Ambleside.

The Forza Horizon 4 version of the lovely pub I visited at Ambleside Pier.

The Ambleside boat docks at the tip of Lake Windermere in August.

Moving east from the lakes, the Astmoor region provides a completely different gameplay experience. Still authentically British, this open area of heather-filled hills is where off-road enthusiasts will want to drive. Never a few moments away from a ‘what’s over the ridge?” moment, this Yorkshire Moors-looking playing field is dirt racing heaven. Astmoor is also a great place to pull up, stick the handbrake on and admire Horizon 4’s dynamic weather system. This sprawling, open landscape shows huge skyboxes that illustrate Britain’s historically dodgy weather in an honest light, and the season alters the look of the land drastically.

“It [the season system] forced us to consider precisely which assets/foliage we were including in our concepts and if/how they would be influenced by seasons,” Cross said. “Everything was very deliberate. If it didn’t look great in one season or wasn’t particularly fantastic in any, we didn’t include it.” The Yorkshire Moors were a popular holiday destination for my family growing up, and the reminiscent Astmoor region was a proper nostalgia trip on a personal note. Its rolling hills of purple heather reminded me so much of those drives into the seaside town of Whitby when I was younger, so much so that I made it another location to visit last year.

A quiet downhill view in the Yorkshire Moors, looking very Astmoor-like.

Now, we can’t mention Forza Horizon 4 without talking about its choice of main city. London has been a video game mainstay for years, but Edinburgh not so much. Thematically it fits much better alongside the countryside locations within Horizon 4, yet it still provides those street racing thrills a driving game city should. The in-game version is incredibly authentic, showcasing some of Edinburgh’s most iconic landmarks. From the Scott Monument and the iconic Edinburgh Castle to famous outskirts locations such as the Arthur’s Seat mountain peak, Edinburgh serves as Forza Horizon 4’s epicentre. In a neat touch, you can straight up buy Edinburgh Castle as a player house, although it’ll cost you an eye-watering 15m credits.

The historic Scott Monument in the winter season of Forza Horizon 4.

A short drive west from Edinburgh takes us to Glen Rannoch and the Scottish Highlands. A cross country event lover’s heaven, this dramatic landscape is home to some of Forza Horizon 4’s most memorable racing. The Behemoth Showcase has you speeding down towards the lakes in a huge hovercraft, only beaten in ridiculousness by The Halo Experience Showcase event. Elsewhere, the Scottish Highlands provide some incredible views over the world of Horizon 4, right down to the tiny village of Ambleside we visited earlier. This area of the map is probably the most exotic of any present in the base game, so I asked Cross if the team ever thought that could be a problem.

“I think a lot of us Brits like to consider it to be grey skies and rain all the time. It was eye-opening to stop and examine what is around us, rather than take it for granted. I certainly discovered areas of Britain that really took my breath away and I think the game does a fantastic job of showcasing just how beautiful Britain really is.”

In fact, the only location in Forza Horizon 4 that goes beyond Glen Rannoch is the first add-on; Fortune Island. This fictional land might be just that, but it’s still based in British reality. Although never confirmed, the levels of dramatic rock formations and general verticality look similar to The Isle of Skye, a large island in northwest Scotland. Fortune Island brings sweeping mountain passes, perilous dirt trails and the bonkers Trailblazer challenges (as the crow flies time trials) to Forza Horizon 4. There’s something old-timey about Fortune Island, and just cruising around its small but varied landscape is a thrill. Playground’s link to Britain is evident not only on the base map, but here in the most rugged of Scottish islands, too.

A sunken village on Forza Horizon 4’s Fortune Island.

“We all had this innate ability to look at our work and agree ‘yep that feels like Britain’ or alternatively, tell if something was off,” Cross explains. “Knowing the areas we were referencing first-hand allowed us to add those little details and nuances of reality that often go unnoticed. It really helped ground the designs.”

Forza Horizon 4 is an incredible realisation of an open-world driving game set in Britain. From quaint little villages to sprawling skyboxes filled with breathtaking views, it really is a giant road trip showing what these Isles have to offer. So much so that even as a resident, I was inspired to visit areas I’d never seen in real life, re-tread old paths from my childhood and take the time to appreciate my surroundings. We’re on the eve of the next generation in gaming, and Forza Horizon 4 is quite possibly my favourite game of the current one. Not only for how it plays, but for the incredible British locations it allows us to explore.

from EnterGamingXP https://entergamingxp.com/2020/03/a-brits-guide-to-forza-horizon-4-%e2%80%a2-eurogamer-net/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=a-brits-guide-to-forza-horizon-4-%25e2%2580%25a2-eurogamer-net