#trevor rich

[kazeo2se]

The Disappointments (2020-) — 1.01 "Let The Sh*t Show Begin"

[a-fix-of-muses]

Currently Listening To: "Elevate (feat. Denzel Curry, YBN Cordae, SwaVay, Trevor Rich)" by DJ Khalil, Denzel Curry, Cordae, SwaVay, Trevor Rich

[hell0jon]

Yeah Jon and Martin would be around 50 years old in this universe if they weren’t dead

Yeah Basira is a teacher in this universe

Yeah Georgie is paranoid in this universe

BUT TREVOR IS RICH??? NUH UH

[pageofqueens]

WHOM YOU ARE ABSOLUTELY GA-GA ABOUT!

[jausters]

[dustedmagazine]

Danny Paul Grody Duo — Arc of Night (Three Lobed)

Photo by Ian Albert

The guitar-drums duo concept has produced a lot of good music lately, whether in Gunn-Truscinski’s abstract explorations (sometimes augmented with Bill Nace) or Jim White’s percussive conversations with Marisa Anderson. Like these outfits, the Danny Paul Grody Duo often allows the drummer (in this case Rich Douthit of The Drift) to range free form, using percussion as a color and a mood as much as a timekeeper.

Arc of Night follows the similarly titled Arc of Day by about a year, and it’s very similar in texture and vibe, though perhaps a little moodier and introspective.  Once again, the tracks foreground Grody’s lyrical guitar lines but this time, there’s more space for Douthit and other guests are kept to a minimum.  Only two tracks feature artists outside the duo. Trevor Montgomery adds some electric bass to eerie, hovering “Hawk Hill,” while Chuck Johnson joins on pedal steel for the slow-blooming, very nocturnal “Moon Garden.” 

Both of those cuts have their own appeal, but perhaps it makes sense to focus first on unassisted tracks. Grody and Douthit have an undeniable chemistry that comes through best when it’s just the two of them. Consider, for instance, the opening “Last Light,” which unfolds in a free-form, unhurried, unconstrained way. Grody unspools a thoughtful melody, his tone full of force and clarity, but with long meditative pauses between phrases. Into those gaps, Douthit inserts abstracted bits of cymbal shimmer, short drum rolls and unexpected thwacks. Their interaction sounds like a conversation, the guitar proposing, the drums answering with bursts of conciliatory or contradictory energy. There’s a fluidity to the piece, which moves as it will, without the guardrails of obvious time signature.

Later, the two extend their dialogue into a longer form in “Coyote Valley at Dusk.” The guitar licks flurry upwards from a single lingering low note. At first, the percussion simmers a barely audible jangle of bells. Then, in time, a rhythm asserts itself, first in the guitar line, later picked up in a minimalist cadence of cymbal and snare. The piece takes on purpose and propulsion; it sounds a bit like Chris Forsyth’s extended grooves with Solar Motel Band. You can hear the two musicians testing cracks in the repetition, finding ways to make a repeated motif fresh from measure to measure without violating its integrity. The addition of slide (or maybe e-bow?) in the second half infuses ethereal spirituality, turning the music from chug to free flight.

The music is quite beautiful in a somnolent, dusky sort of way. It can fade into the background if you let it, but there are details worth hearing if you take care and listen closely.

Jennifer Kelly

[tomorrowusa]

A Conservative politician is making millions off of slavery 190 years after slavery was abolished in Britain and its territories.

Tory Richard Drax comes from a filthy rich family notorious for having established the model for slave-based sugar plantations in the Caribbean in the 1620s. Even by the standards of a slave-based economy, the record of the Drax family was appalling.

The Barbados plantation was worked by up to 327 slaves at a time, with the death rate for both adults and children high. Sir Hilary Beckles, chairman of the 20-state Caribbean Community’s (Caricom) Reparations Commission and vice-chancellor of the University of the West Indies, estimates that as many 30,000 slaves died on the Drax plantations in Barbados and Jamaica over 200 years.

Thanks largely to their their ill-gained riches, the Drax family owns a 700 acre walled estate in Dorset which includes a deer park. And apparently they are getting even richer.

Despite threats to make Richard Drax pay reparations and seize his family’s plantation – described by one historian as a “killing field” of enslaved Africans – the government is now planning to pay market value for 21 hectares (about 15 football pitches) of his land for housing. The move has angered many Barbadians, especially those who say the Drax family played a pivotal role in the development of slavery-based sugar production and the Barbados slave code in the 17th century. This denied Black Africans basic human rights, including the right to life. Critics have called the planned deal an “atrocity” and said this is “one plantation that the government should not be paying a cent for”. Trevor Prescod, MP and chair of the Barbados National Taskforce on Reparations, said: “What a bad example this is. Reparations and Drax Hall are now top of the global agenda. How do we explain this to the world? “The government should not be entering into any [commercial] relationship with Richard Drax, especially as we are negotiating with him regarding reparations.”

It's baffling why the Barbadian government would enter into such a deal.

Drax, the MP for South Dorset, travelled to Barbados to meet prime minister Mia Mottley. It is understood he was asked to hand over all or a substantial part of Drax Hall plantation. If he refused, legal action would follow. Mottley’s spokesperson said the current Drax Hall purchase was not linked to reparations and the government “constantly acquires land through this process”. Mottley has pledged to build 10,000 new homes to meet demand on the island, where there are 20,000 applications for housing. A senior valuation surveyor said the market value for agricultural land with an alternative use for housing would be about Bds$150,000 (£60,000) an acre. At this price, the 21 hectares could net Drax Bds$8m (£3.2m). The land would be for 500 low- and middle-income family homes, which would be for sale.

I'd just grab the land and pay Drax a token £1 just so he legally can't claim he wasn't compensated at all for the transfer.

Barbados poet laureate Esther Phillips, who grew up next to Drax Hall, said the planned deal was an “atrocity” and a case of the victims’ descendants now compensating the descendant of the enslaver. “He should be giving us this land as reparations, not further enriching himself … at the expense of Barbadians. As Barbadians, we must speak out against this.”

And with the reported thousands of deaths during the 200+ years of slavery at the Drax plantation, how many people will be comfortable with the idea that their new home is built on what was essentially a forced labor camp which became a model for regional slavery? Isn't the Drax property on Barbados a large cemetery?

[kstarlitchaotics]

Funny how Steve can be this sweet romantic guy in one panel

But then quickly changes once WW was being threatened

The man ain't messing around no one threatens his angel

[paganminiskirt]

Lamar has an eight step ball trimming routine and Trevor might wash his dick with dish soap if he’s feeling generous & they have better sex than half of Los Santos send tweet

[ghostinacardboardbox]

Trevor Ghosts on a Train you will always be famous to me. He's so pathetic. His dad is a train. Andrel says that having to comfort him about his dead dad being the train is "The worst interaction I've had since Jaimie was on the train." Talking to her sad coworker is worse than her childhood friend giving up his soul and summoning an eldritch horror that posessed her most competent coworker. No one does pathetic like Trevor. King shit.

[browsethestacks]

Wonder Woman (1978)

[jasposeyblog]

My commission from at Granite State Comicon 2022 of Black Lightning sketch cover by Trevor Von Eeden has now been digitally colored by Rich Seetoo

[innytoes]

So @hawkguyhasstarbucks prompted me 27+Carrie/Flynn for the A/B/O prompts and this went way angsty. Special thanks to the Rulie Canoe Crew for answering my very weird hypotheticals aboutTaylor Swift.

Being the daughter of Trevor Wilson, it felt like Carrie had to work twice as hard to get acknowledged for her own talents. Being an Omega on top of that, and sometimes it felt like she was climbing a mountain through an avalanche while other people looked down at her from their heated gondola ski lifts and told her maybe she just wasn’t cut out for it.

But she was making headway. She finally found a label that actually spoke to her, the leader of the group, and not Kayla, the only Alpha, when they had in person meetings. That didn’t want to play up the ‘sweet demure helpless Omega’ angle, but instead kept it about what Carrie wrote her songs about: strong, powerful women who could be whatever they wanted to be.

Even if what they wanted to be was pink and sparkly, because femininity wasn’t something to look down on.

Of course, with all that work and the extra fame and being Trevor Wilson’s Daughter, that didn’t leave much room for finding a heat partner. If she picked someone up at the clubs, she was painted as a whore. If she went on the apps, it would be all over the internet. Kayla had offered, and while she loved Kayla, she loved her like a sister, not a heat partner.

The other two Omegas in the group both had long-term partners, and Heather, who was a Beta, had offered to set her up with some of her Alpha friends from her D&D group, but Carrie didn’t want a pity date. She could handle things on her own. She did, sometimes.

And sometimes, when she could tell it was going to be a really bad one, she called a Heat Agency. Because sometimes, being Trevor Wilson’s Daughter had its perks, and when Taylor Swift had taken one look at fourteen-year-old Carrie at one of Dad’s ridiculous parties, she’d slipped her a card for a heat agency and told her not to trust just any Alpha.

The heat agency had been very discrete and very accommodating. Hell, the nice lady on the phone had even talked her through her first heat at fifteen, after Dad smelled one whiff of pheromones and booked it to the helicopter, shouting something about a week long meditation retreat. They hadn’t even sent a person that time, but a box with everything she’d needed had been magically delivered to her doorstep within an hour, along with a cooler full of food and drinks.

The box had been cute and pink and she still had it, though these days it was used to store her nail polish.

After Carrie broke up with Nick her senior year (who she thankfully had been able to trust, because deep down Nick was just a golden retriever), she’d used the service a few times. By then they’d had an app, and she could click on her basic preferences, and then scroll through profiles with little blurbs and reviews (anonymous, of course, all from vetted users). She’d never had a bad experience, and everyone the agency had sent had been professional, discrete, and very good to her.  

So when she knew her heat was going to be bad, she opened the app. The pre-heat syndrome had been so bad she’d actually sent all the Candis apology chocolates for being such bitch during their last dance rehearsal. She flicked through the little questionnaire, filling in her preferences. Age, sex, secondary sex. The app already knew how long her heats averaged and only showed her people available for that time.

She finally picked someone who could be there in two hours, which gave Carrie enough time to take a shower, put on some comfortable sweats, and nest a little, letting down her walls. It was always hard for her to allow herself to be vulnerable, but the nesting did help with that. It made her feel more secure.

So she got out her favourite blankets, making her bed cozy and pink and perfect, changing her mood lighting to a soft pink as well. She was pretty satisfied when the doorbell rang. Just in time, because she could feel her cheeks starting to flush, her unsexy but incredibly comfortable panties (the ones with little lolly pops on them) starting to dampen.

Only when she opened the door with a smile, it wasn’t a beautiful woman there to take care of her, it was Flynn Taylor.

Or more accurately, it was a beautiful woman sent to take care of her (she was holding up her Heat Agency ID and was carrying a cooler with all Carrie’s favourite heat snacks), but that beautiful woman was Flynn Taylor.

Her high school nemesis.

“Carrie,” she said, startled.

“Flynn,” she said, feeling faint, and embarrassed, and flustered. Immediately, she pulled her walls back up. “There must have been some kind of mistake.”

“Don’t think so, Princess,” Flynn said. “I got this address, and you know the Agency doesn’t mess up. I should have known, who else in the world would ask for chocolate covered Doritos?”

Flynn had been there, that time her dad had ordered a chocolate fountain on a whim for one of their sleepovers with Julie, and they spent the evening dunking all kinds of things under the spray.

“Are you going to let me in and put this stuff in the fridge?” Flynn asked, and she couldn’t, could she? After the way Carrie had treated her? The thought of allowing herself to be vulnerable with someone who would want revenge on her for any number of reasons just didn’t sit right, even though she knew everyone at the Agency had signed an NDA.

“Only if it will make you leave faster,” she said, and then winced. She sounded just like her fifteen-year-old self.

Flynn just rolled her eyes at her, and when she walked by Carrie to put away the snacks and drinks, she almost whimpered. Flynn smelled so good.

“I can call the Agency and have them send an emergency replacement,” Flynn said as she Tetris’ed food and drinks into Carrie’s fridge, finding a bowl in her cupboards and plopping the chocolate Doritos in them, and pushing them over. “Willie drives like a maniac, he could pick someone else up and have them here in forty-five minutes.”

But Carrie didn’t want anyone else, she realised, munching on her favourite heat snack, watching Flynn be all cool and competent. Still, she knew what she had to do, and was about to agree, but what came out of her mouth instead was: “I’m sorry I was such a bitch in high school.”

Flynn stopped, looking over her shoulder. Whatever she saw in Carrie’s face, it softened her posture considerably. “Ditto. Teen girls can be vicious,” she agreed. “We probably all had stuff going on back then.”

Which was the nicest spin anyone had ever put on why her relationship with Flynn and Julie fell apart so rapidly after Rose got sick. Between Carrie’s heartbreak at losing what was basically the only female role model in her life, her jealousy at the way Julie was treated like glass, while her own grief at her dead mom and absent dad was always something that had generally been shrugged off as ‘you never even knew her and your daddy’s rich, get over it’. The way Carrie learned to lash out and project this mean girl persona, while Julie put her pain into her music, once she finally started singing again, allowed herself to be vulnerable, and how that was just fuel to the fire of Carrie’s jealousy and rage when it got her everything, a record deal and an album before she even finished high school…

When she looked up from her trip down memory lane – heats always made her spacey, she hated it – the Doritos were gone and Flynn was standing in front of her. “Have you picked someone else in the app yet?” she asked.

She was so close, and she smelled so good, and Carrie just wanted to cry, to keen, to have someone treat her like glass, like she was precious, just once…

“Please don’t go,” she said, hiding her face in Flynn’s shoulder, inhaling the smell of Alpha, of safety, or memories of sleepovers and hiding under the covers together after they all thought they were mature enough to watch IT despite Mr Molina warning them it was a bad idea, of the life she could have had if she hadn’t been so singularly focussed on making it, on being the best.

“Are you sure?” Flynn asked, even as her hand came up to cradle the back of Carrie’s head, fingers soft and gentle in her head.

“Please, I’m sorry, please…” Carrie blinked away the tears, because she hated this part as well, the emotions, the vulnerability.

“Okay,” Flynn said, a hint of Alpha steel in her voice that made Carrie’s knees go all weak. “I forgive you, Carrie. We were both assholes in high school. Let’s get you more comfortable, okay?”

“You’ll take care of me?” she asked, hopeful and pitiful and she hated this, she hated it…

Except when Flynn smiled and wiped her tears away, something inside her just melted, and everything went hazy when Flynn promised: “I’ll take care of you.”

[arielmagicesi]

OK so after finishing BBC Ghosts, I started watching CBS Ghosts, and at first I was underwhelmed because it felt like literally an exact copy of the BBC one and also with worse acting and special effects. But then I kept watching and it’s charming in its way, like a Disney Channel AU of the BBC version, and there’s heartwarming moments and decent jokes, plus original ideas like the idea of every ghost having a “ghost power” and Sam going to see her mom’s ghost. That said, I did think it would have been more interesting if instead of doing a nearly one-to-one copy of the ghost ensemble in the BBC version (friendly arrow guy from the 80s, corrupt rich douche with no pants, proper lady of the manor, oldest guy who wears furs and is rough and tough, gay soldier guy, flighty naive girl... and then instead of Thomas and Mary they do have Sass and Alberta, that IS some originality) they could’ve just come up with entirely new American ghosts. I would’ve loved to see some more originality. I actually had been hoping they would include a Jewish ghost, like an immigrant making his way as a peddler in the Hudson Valley somehow idk. And uh, turns out they do have a Jewish ghost, cause in episode 16 it becomes obvious that the corrupt rich douche with no pants is Jewish, and every person he worked with in his corrupt finance firm was Jewish, and also he was friends with Bernie Madoff. So that’s fun

THIS IS NOT ME “CANCELLING” THE SHOW FOR ANTISEMITISM. I DO NOT THINK THAT’S WHAT’S HAPPENING. I AM JUST COMPLAINING

[blueiscoool]

Trevor Noah’s $13 Million NYC Penthouse

The 3,596-square-foot Hell’s Kitchen condo was extensively renovated during Noah’s ownership and is now listed for a cool $12.95 million with Nick Gavin of Compass. The three-bedroom, three-and-a-half-bathroom duplex is located within Manhattan’s century-old Stella Tower. Formerly known as the New York Telephone Building, it was originally designed by architect Ralph Walker in 1927 and in 2014, reimagined as a luxury residence. The late-night talk show host’s former digs occupy the 17th and 18th floors.

[dustedmagazine]

Danny Paul Grody — Arc of Day (Three Lobed)

Arc of Day by Danny Paul Grody

Danny Paul Grody got his start in Tarentel and the Drift, both abstract post-rock bands out of San Francisco who leaned towards the quieter end of the guitar rock experiment. Just over a decade ago, he ventured out on his own in The Fountain, a gorgeous, mostly solo guitar album that found serenity in repeated picked patterns and subtle threads of melody. Since then, he’s made a half dozen albums under his own name, showcasing a self-taught facility with finger-picked styles and an expansive open-minded outlook that seeks the boundaries of blues, jazz, folk and drone.

Arc of Day starts with Grody on his own, but slowly adds other textures—drums and bass from his mates in the Drift, Rich and Trevor Montgomery, an especially haunting clarinet from Jonathan Sielaff of Golden Retriever and, on one track, Chuck Johnson on pedal steel.  

He begins on acoustic 12-string in “Daybreak” a serene and introspective reverie in simple, octave-jumping figures, repeated like clockwork and surrounded with shivering clouds of overtone. “Light Blooms” brings in his collaborators, adding a faint touch of electric distortion and a whisper of shaken maracas to his mandala-like guitar motifs. Grody sets the piece in motion, executing the same rhythmic figure again and again, keeping it going (and also very still) through changes in mood and key. We hear the clarinet for the first time in this second cut. It cuts through with pensive clarity and, at one point, frays into a vibrato, the held note unfurling like a pennant in strong wind.

One more player—the natural world—joins in “California Angelica.” We drift into the piece on a roar of surf, a little foghorn tucked into it. “Cathedral Tree” adds the unmistakable silvery sheen of Chuck Johnson’s axe to one of the disc’s most rock-like entries. “Slow Walk” electrifies Grody’s patient picking, adding a buzz and heft of dissonance to its limpid surfaces. The disc isn’t long, but it builds its own calm, centered world. It quiets the noise and pulls you in. Beautiful.  

Jennifer Kelly