I survived another birthday and the wild August week around it, where I traveled up and down NYC end to end, then to Buffalo, then to Mexico and back. They call 33 the Jesus year (because that’s when He was crucified under Pontius Pilate, suffered, died, and was buried, etc.), let’s see what He has to offer me¹.

Anyway, for today! Recs, music writing, a root beer round-up of a delicious German soda, and a wordy heart-to-heart from the All America City.

¹I am not religious but was raised Catholic, these Nicene Creed and capitalize-the-H habits are hard to shake.

A piece I wrote about my vinyl copy of Marvin Gaye’s I Want You is up on the site I Have That On Vinyl!

He told me a wide-eyed man came into his shop and traded it away for a nip of whiskey. He didn't know what he was giving away, my dad said. Or maybe he did and didn't care. 

You can read the rest here. It would mean a lot to me if you checked it out. There are some really good artist interviews over there too!

I have a ko-fi page! If you wanted to support this newsletter with money, you can do so here.

Misc. Stuff I’m Into…

Movies:

Mississippi Masala [1991, dir. Mira Nair]

Incredible ni de aqui ni de alla cinema by Zohran’s mom.

The Samurai and the Prisoner [2026, dir. Kiyoshi Kurosawa]

“when you’re Irish Catholic, The Samurai and The Prisoner are the same guy: your self” - Jawn

Tony [2026, dir. Matt Johnson]

Delicious Provincetown propaganda.

Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma [2026, dir. Jane Schoenbrun]

I want to write more about this one but all I can add for now is that I can’t stop saying the title of this film in a New Zealand accent. I’m also scared I’ll like it less on a rewatch!

Across the Universe [2007, dir. Julie Taymor]

After a few false starts at watching this over the past few decades, Em finally sat me down to see the whole thing. I’m glad I finally got to watch it with someone who it’s really important to!

Filipiñana [2026, dir. Rafael Manuel]

The war on the hated golf is won, thanks to this beautiful and haunting film. Please watch this in theaters if you get the chance.

The Doom Generation [1995, dir. Gregg Araki]

I was pretty disappointed by I Want Your Sex, so it was nice to witness a time capsule of when Gregg Araki still had the juice.

Music:

Some revisits, some new stuff.

Denzel Curry & Kenny Beats - ii (hip-hop)

Keta Ester - Love Apple (indie folk)

Joanna Sternberg - I’ve Got Me (indie folk)

Portrayal of Guilt - …Beginning of the End (grindcore)

Nate Smith, Kiefer, CARRTOONS & Kenny Beats - FATHERS (jazzy)

Lip Critic - Theft World (industrial hip-hop)

Ratboys - Singin’ to an Empty Chair (indie rock)

Converge - Love Is Not Enough (hardcore)

Interpol - This Mirror Weighs a Ton (post-punk)

Chat Pile - Who Loves the Sun (sludge metal)

Rebecca Black - Age of the Exhibitionist (hyperpop/dance)

Medium Build - King of Having Fun (indie americana)

Behemoth - The Shit Ov God (extreme metal)

Games:

Blood Dungeon - Vampire Survivors meets Spelunky meets your favorite Newgrounds flash game, but really more than the sum of its parts. It’s kinda ugly, but in a way so charming that I can’t look away nor put it down.

Denshattack! - You flip a colorful train around a colorful world like a chunky Tech Deck riding the loose, freewheeling rails of your imagination.

Star of Providence - cute lil spaceship in a roguelike dungeon from hell.

Mewgenics - I have been waiting for this game for 13 years and it’s finally on Switch 2. Will I get beyond a few hours in after over a decade of hype? Who’s to say. But I really like it so far.

Rhythm Heaven Groove - Cake Wait is my GOTY.

and finally, I’ve been reading the manga Kagurabachi, and it whips absolute ass.

This week: Fritz-kola from Hamburg, Germany.

My friend Ian is quite often bouncing back and forth across the Atlantic, and this time he brought back the greatest birthday gift of all: soda.

The bottle instantly charmed me with its simple and clean logo, just the founders’ faces. Lorenz Hampl and Mirco Wiegert may not be in business together anymore, but the promise implied by their wide smiles was met and exceeded.

Miraculously not flattened by constant warm-cold cycles and international travel, this cola had character I’ve been longing for. A cooling, menthol-like sensation amidst vanilla notes, lemon, and subtle complexities that had me wanting to run out and buy an overhyped Mexican Coke just to throw it directly in the trash. After every sip, I said ‘wow’ out loud, and Ian said ‘I know.’ It wasn’t too sweet, which was perfect for me as I’ve grown a distaste for ‘sugar’ being the most prominent, or sometimes only, feature of a soda. Also, the deceptively high caffeine content kept me alive for the evening adventures that followed.

I kept the bottle caps, and I know the first thing I’m going to be drinking should I ever make it to Germany. It ain’t beer.

Fritz-kola: 10/10 🎉

Recently, I made my first trip to Niagara Falls in years, with my good friend and bandmate Kenny (aka Lenny). On the ride up to Buffalo, he told me what everyone's been telling him, and something I've heard dozens of times at this point: "you have to go to the Canada side! It's so much better." I have always disagreed with this, to the point where I wonder if all of these wannabe expatriates to Ontario have even experienced the Canadian side of the falls that they so worship, or if they're just parroting the Canada side propaganda they've been told, by someone else who's parroting the Canada side propaganda they've been told, etc. The Canada side of Niagara Falls is one of the most overrated locations on earth, a mini-Vegas that turns a natural wonder of the world into misty keys jingled at a safe distance from any sort of actualization brought on by the roar of falling water. For all their envy for our parts of the Niagara River, snaking around several islands of lush greens, Canada built a city at the edge of the Horseshoe, grasping at their claim to a nook beneath the farthest edge of the falls.

I was actually heading out west from NYC for a Ghost Down performance, friends of mine having sung the praises of my mostly-improvised anxiety music to a burgeoning Buffalo noise collective. When I brought up my one-show weekender to Overheard on a catch-up call, Lenny asked if he could tag along. I've done the drive to Buffalo enough times to know that a buddy turns the mind-numbing plains of Western New York into easy wonder. Everything feels a little newer with a friend, even when it's a drive you've done a thousand times, and one that very friend had just done two weeks prior.

After traveling by subway almost end-to-end through three boroughs to pick up my old car Friday night, I made my way upstate early Saturday morning for a pit stop at my friend Colton's house. Even though I spend most of my time as a crotchety NYC resident espousing my hatred of cars and love of public transit, those train rides were draining, and hypocrisy sits smugly on my shoulder as I carve my way about the Hudson Valley's beautiful backroads in a Honda HR-V I've known well for a decade. It's impossible to drive over the Bear Mountain Bridge and not smile, to catch glimpses of the small towns I've known and loved, those I only really get the chance to see while behind the wheel. The word 'freedom' tickles the back of my brain, and I swat at it. Like a fly, the word 'freedom' zips away right before my hand lands, and bounces tediously about my mind.

I arrived at Colton's moments after his daughter had apparently referred to me as 'Beluga' (like 'whale,' which is what she heard instead of 'Will'). Colton and his wife Alexa live a more realistic approximation of the lofty American Dream, steady jobs, reasonable aspirations, healthily oscillating income, with their two little dreams lining the home they own in myriad toys. Their daughter did show and tell with her toys, just dropping one in my hands with an incoherently babbled explanation and jumping right to the next. As I tiptoed into the nursery to meet their newborn(ish) son, some of my rebelling against the platonic ideal of the American nuclear family fell away; it had to. I was powerless against this large, swaddled, and slumbering potato, and I felt it my civic duty to Colton, Alexa, and my country to make sure he was not awoken by my carelessness.

I tiptoed out and made my way up the Taconic State Parkway, a drive rife with tantalizing tree-lined bends and power-mad state troopers, to pick up Lenny. We talked about a lot of stuff that's not for the newsletter and popped into Kiki's Convenience, a caliber of roadside store that is unshakably American. Black and white tile evoking Twin Peaks, teal shelves and all manner of sugary beverage, complemented by a bathroom that assaults you with yellow brick, reminiscent of the road behind and foreshadowing that ahead. Our CD round robin would soundtrack the crossing of the Rip Van Winkle Bridge back west, another beautiful structure offering mouthwatering views of the Hudson River and Catskill Mountains, another vista made unavailable to me upon my move to the Greatest City on Earth. I know I hate driving, I know my life is better now, but I silently wept for what wonders these wheels used to offer me.

Our next stop was First Prize Mike's, a favorite hot dog joint in Schenectady, NY. It was my first time back since reading Jamie Loftus's 2025 book Raw Dog, and (I'm pretty sure) Mike's was one of the spots she had heaped praise on amidst her sausage sandwich-fueled journey across America. Raw Dog was in part Loftus’s memoir of taking that hot dog journey with an ex, I had been introduced to this greasy spoon by an ex who grew up in the Capital Region, and Lenny and I talked about holding onto the good things people provide us amidst the inevitable hardships and pain of loving someone. The chili on the hot dogs looked like throwup, and they were delicious despite it all.

The aortal nightmare didn't stop there. After a long drive along New York's western plains made easier by banter and tunes, we stumbled into Duff's Famous Wings on Sheridan, and could barely get in the door for the sardine can of University at Buffalo class of 2026 orientation crowd. We pivoted to Elmo's just outside UB's North Campus. I know North Campus as the miles-wide purgatory whose brutalist towers housed me for four years. In tandem with the prison-like experience I had attending engineering school at UB, I was unaware of what joys lied just outside of its borders in the form of a chili-and-Frank's-rub chicken wing at Elmo's until over ten years later.

We are so fucking good at bad-for-you food, in a way I think the rest of the world simply cannot compare to. I love buffalo wings, hot dogs, donuts, hamburgers, funnel cake, and every other unhealthy adventure that makes it into our melting pot. Lenny and I sat there putting away wings as I described what joy awaits when we hit Donut Kraze [sic] tomorrow morning before Niagara Falls. It almost had me forget that I had to play a show in an hour.

Thankfully, the simplicity of a noise scene tends to ease any pre-performance anxiety; not because curating walls of sound doesn't take effort, but because freaks tend to be welcoming of other freaks. I was sharing a bill with Humiliated Supplicant, Energy Weapon, and Explainer, Buffalo acts maneuvering shattered glass, toy pianos, basses, guitars, and a sort of self-parody where the person doing sound manipulated feedback between microphones and mixing boards. Pulling up were all manner of Buffalo friend I have inexplicably maintained over the past decade, from anime and hardcore enthusiast Zak to poets Matty and Spencer to Jawn and Al of "My Dinner with Jawn" fame. Even Pete of Humiliated Supplicant, who I was just meeting that night, was the sibling of Sam and sibling-in-law of Max, longtime homies moved on from their Buffalo doldrums but not forgotten. The fast fried greasies haphazardly combined within me were not the only cocktail granting me power, as I watched my more local-to-me friends Lenny and Patch interact with cohorts in combinations I never could have imagined. Community is magic, but when your communities smash together, it's something else entirely.

Just before my set closed out the show, I walked outside and watched Jawn help Pete pour gallons of shattered glass and porcelain out of a sinister rectangular prism (four sides of plywood, one side of glass pane, one opening, and a lot of nails) into a large contractor bag. I was mesmerized by this contraption all night, its fraught jimmy down a slim staircase into the basement being the first thing I saw upon arriving at the venue. I had participated in the ceremonial chucking of dishes and cups into it, creating a communal sound collage. Though I had been taking pictures of it all night, I just happened to leave my camera inside and loudly lamented missing this moment. It was Jawn who reminded me that I was experiencing the moment as we spoke, getting to watch the barely-avoided ceramic bloodshed in real time with my eyes, God's camera. Dudes rockin', not a safety glove or goggle in sight as sharp pieces of spent and abandoned dishware trickled on out, some into the garbage bag, some onto the driveway a car and its tires might have hoped to pull out of.

As if some sort of cosmic callback joke, my intention to record my performance to share later was foiled by lapsed firmware on my sampler. God's camera won out again, and I played what might have been my best Ghost Down set ever without the pressure of landing it all in an Ableton recording. There is evidence, as Pete recorded the set on their phone (and you can watch that here), but even letting go of control and putting that capture in someone else's hands felt liberating. I waved a radio antenna about to capture and filter different colors of static amidst admittedly oppressive kick drums, washes of cricket-like filter resonance feedback and my attempt at granular clouds, eventually folding into a slow ambient bassline that I'm still humming to this day. It was really cool! Those words all mean things, I promise. Projected behind me was a VHS(!) of the 2023 Matt Johnson film Blackberry, another begrudging Canadian monument to the infectiousness of an American capitalist mindset. The film has an excellent soundtrack by Jay McCarrol, so I was honored to be told after my set that my synth explorations aligned with the vibes the muted movie afforded me.

The pre-show yerba mate that powered me through the evening still had a little more to say, so after we all parted ways I ended up awake into the wee hours. I wandered about the area of our Cheektowaga Quality Inn motel, captivated by its sign that was barely standing, a section of the parking lot cleared out for its inevitable collapse. I crossed the street and stared up at the Donut Kraze sign, near the Balloon Masters warehouse, both sandwiching a 7-Eleven where late night Buffalo denizens would come and go. I found this trio deeply affecting, as Buffalo itself is this trifecta of ill-advised New York tenacity, the blanketing ennui of the American Midwest, and shattered Rust Belt dreams. The kind old ladies who run Donut Kraze insist on maintaining a slapdash drive-thru window. The ceiling of that 7-Eleven is so high you could disappear into it. I've never been inside of Balloon Masters and never will be, but hold hope that they can tie their wares to the Quality Inn sign and keep it aloft a little longer. Then a torrential rain came, and I was forced to hide in my car before making my way back inside and collapsing into the motel mattress, Lenny snoozing and none the wiser.

After three hours of sleep, I woke up Lenny and we made our way to Niagara Falls, equipped with sour cream glazed donuts and dinky CVS umbrellas. I told him about my history with the America side of Niagara Falls: How my grandma would bring my little brother and I here almost annually, and we'd stare in awe at the implied journeys of the parking lots' license plates. Alaska! North Dakota! Arizona! How one year before I went to UB, I got to see the falls frozen, felt my fingers go numb as we approached the solid walls of ice and the temperatures sank. How Em and I went to Niagara Falls for our first anniversary and could do nothing but laugh at the howling winds and February slush blizzard we should have expected. How I find this park so beautiful, and being next to the falls means so much more to me than just looking at them from afar.

I don't yearn for a Rainforest Cafe, a casino, a border crossing, a Dave & Busters, a town built entirely on gift shops, and a nice view, this comfortable facsimile of the cheap shit America already does best anyway. There are some places, some moments, some people, some flashes of light in this fascistic darkness, where the America side has everything I need, actually fulfills its promise. I am going to take them where I can get them.

Lenny and I were both stricken with the power, the deafening roar of the water around us, as we stood between the American and Bridal Veil Falls. It was hard not to be moved, watching wildflowers sway along the edge, and the gulls fly freely amidst the spray. All but one, who instead chose to sit on a log right on the edge of the American Falls. I looked at that gull, in a position seemingly so precarious. Their flight granted them the freedom to leave at any moment, should the log fall. But the log wasn't moving, not yet, and their wings also granted them the freedom to stay.

We made our way through to the edge of the park, talking about the past, talking about the future. On America's end of the Horseshoe, we couldn't see a thing for the mist, and our freshly bought umbrellas were almost carried away.

- Will