Words can't capture the absurdity of these times, so I'm giving you this picture of Napoleon Dynamite on a horse.

Prodigal's Chair has been in hibernation, but it's spring, and I'm not teaching (not really, though I'm trying) and COVID-19 is wrecking everything so I'm coming out of my digital cave. Not everyone will appreciate what I have to write. I may be accused of the pulling a Wonder Woman. "Why," people will ask, "do you think anyone should be interested in what you have to say right now?! People are dying!" And it's true. On the whole, I'm in great shape. I'm healthy, as are the people I care about. I am still receiving a paycheck. I have toilet paper. 

Blogging right now sorta smacks of hubris. Imagine...

But I miss people. I miss my students. I miss the colleagues I work and laugh with every day. So this is an effort to reach out. To stretch my legs. In the interest of social-distancing, I'll not be writing a targeted, arrow of an essay that reaches some sort of profoundly sharp and cutting point, and in deference to the times, I'll not be taking submissions for a "Virus Issue." This will be more like the ambling walks I've been taking lately, dictated by what's around, with a few tentative steps in the street to preserve an invisible moat the virus (hopefully) can't cross. This will be casual, yet pleasant, depending on the weather.

The etiquette of walks is changing. I read a post on social media by someone who was upset with a jogger who passed them from behind. He ran too close too suddenly. He should have worn a bell, the post said, or maybe carried a bike horn. In this viral age, walkers are birds, and joggers are dangerous cats. I get annoyed with couples who think it's okay to walk side by side, even when someone else is approaching from the opposite direction. Why should I have to push out an extra three feet into traffic because you bitches can't stroll front to back for a few heartbeats? It's not like I'm asking you to get divorced. Mostly, though, people are friendlier. They wave heartily and wear big smiles, whereas you'd only get a slight nod before. It's as if they're wanting to let you know that their move across the street when they see you coming isn't personal. I'll be a little deflated when things get back to normal. 

There's fear on my walks, now. There's fear everywhere, though, punctuated by the absurd. In fact, for me this pandemic is mostly about absurdity. We get a daily dose of it every time the President opens his mouth, as this ad Mr. Trump is trying to silence points out:

That's absurdity on a national scale, but the absurd, like politics, is ultimately local. It's absurd that schools are closed until May 4th in Massachusetts, where I live and work. It's absurd that people are hoarding toilet paper, as if two-ply will protect you from the virus (I said I have toilet paper, I didn't say I hoarded it). It's absurd that my mayor is asking people to stagger shopping days based on which ward they live in (my day is Friday, if you're curious). It's absurd that chilly beaches north of Boston have to be closed while sun-soaked beaches in South Florida weren't.

Then again, maybe "absurd" isn't really the right word -- for Trump's response, yes -- but not for the other things I've described. These things would definitely be absurd under normal circumstances, but things are not normal. The absurd has become both reasonable and  required, in many cases, in order to protect and preserve people's health and the common good. It's a duality Shakespeare would love  because "fair is foul, and foul is fair."

In case I've confused you, here's another benchmark for absurdity: Little Darlings, a strip club in my home town of Las Vegas, is staying open. How does one social distance at a strip club? Does the giver or the receiver of the lap dance wear the hazmat suit? Only in Vegas could one get a drive-up peep show featuring hand-sanitizer wrestling.

So here's a quiz: Which of the following is not an example of the  "absurd"?

1. Closing beaches and schools in the midst of a pandemic
2. Denying states access to critical resources during a pandemic because their governors didn't ask nicely
3. A strip club staying open and offering "corona virus-free lap dances" during a pandemic

​Let's turn the corner. Does everyone else spend most of their time thinking about what  other people are doing to fill theirs? It seems like it based on social media. On Facebook people want to know how many places their friends have visited (I've been to more than some, less than others). They want to know if you've seen a band live for every letter of the alphabet (Nope! I'm short E, of all letters, and Q, X, and Z). They want to know if you're good at math (the answer is 30). These are exchanges that require give and take; and, like Zoom meetings, they have become more common place that speaking face-to-face. I'm also curious about which song was number one on your 12th birthday, but I think about other things, too.

I think about my former students who were freshmen when I started my current job and have seen their senior year disrupted and potentially cut short. I hope they know that, regardless of how the rest of their year goes, COVID-19 cannot diminish what they've accomplished.

I hope the restaurants and the other small businesses in my community that have been figuratively infected by the coronavirus can survive. I want them to know that I'll be there when they reopen.

I miss sports. Liverpool was just two wins away from lifting the Premier League trophy, and March was still mad, but for reasons most of us never saw coming. There will be no Olympics this summer, and  maybe no baseball.

It sucks that bands I've been looking forward to seeing have had to reschedule their shows or have canceled them outright. I hope these small, indie artists like Caroline Rose, the Michigan Rattlers, and Hinds can survive until they can tour again.

I hope Nashville rises, knowing that the town was reeling from deadly tornadoes before the pandemic hit.

I think about my daughter.

I want everyone to stay safe and alive.

I started Prodigal's Chair with a few goals in mind. I wanted to write, and to find an outlet for my output, but more importantly, I wanted to create a space. As many of the pieces I've placed in these pages indicate, my life was shaped by my participation in and eventual break from a fundamentalist Christian church during my teenage years. With PC, I wanted to take the best of what that experience offered me -- acceptance, a chance to grow and feel loved for who you are -- without the strings that are attached to that kind of "freedom." I wanted to let people of all points of view and experience have their voices heard on a broad range of abstract and concrete topics.

And for a while, I fucking killed it. I won't bullet point the ways; anyone who's interested can look at the "PAST ISSUES" section to see who's been represented and what's been accomplished. PC has managed to bring together a fairly disparate group of peoples -- some writers, many not.

I am very proud of that.

But it's been a one man show, I do all of the artwork, editing, layout, etc., and to do PC right means giving it more time and attention than I currently can. For those who don't know me up close and personal-like, I'm a public school teacher who has headed back to grad school for more punishment. And I want my wife to see me from time to time, too.

So I'll be pushing in my chair for a bit. Prodigal's Chair is not ending outright, nor is it going completely dark. But you won't see any new issues for a while. There will be a few dispatches from time to time as the spirit moves, and when that happens I'll let you know through all of the usual channels.

​Until then... 

Two-thousand, two hundred and forty-six dollars.

That’s how much the man sitting next to me at the Immigration Forum had in his Citibank account. I know this, not because I’m a stalker (I’m nowhere near that stealthy) but because this guy was a careless, close-phone-holder.

And he was short.

Plus, he slouched.

All these factors, meant that it only took a slight left turn of my head – which happened often as I sought to give the forum’s speakers my attention – to see what drew close-phone-holder’s attention to his phablet and away from the forum.

In addition to his bank balance (which he checked at least a dozen times over the course of the two hour meeting), there was the text to an associate about how enjoyable drinks were at B-Dubs, queries about what older men should wear to clubs in Vegas, and a search for Miracle Ear hearing aids – which made sense given all of the “Huh?”s and “What?”s he loudly sent his son’s way during the forum.

Or maybe this man, who had the appearance of a just stopping off for a gallon of milk after a long day at the office – tailored shirt unbuttoned at the collar, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up – had no intention of listening in the first place? This became clear to me as the meeting went on. No, he was here to support his boy, who was the more disrespectfully engaged of the two, and to check his phone.
 
Junior, who appeared to be in his early twenties, beat-boxed his way through the meeting, scoffing and grunting at any mention of immigration’s historic role in weaving together the fabric of his community. His disapproving whispers scratch-scratch-scratched against the backbeat of the panelist’s comments, dismissing each person’s claims before they were finished making them.

Remember, I could see everything that danced across the screen of close-phone-holder’s phablet, including the texts his son was so feverishly sending him between gasps and guffaws. If these missives were to be believed, then junior knew more about the law than the chief of police AND the city’s solicitor. He knew more about immigration’s impact on the community than a professor who made the subject his specialty at the local university. The minister whose congregation dealt with immigrants on a daily basis? Useless, as was the vastly unqualified school district official. And – surely – this young man’s perspective as a lifelong city resident and ‘Murican citizen was more cogent to the conversation than a fellow resident’s who – while also a U.S. citizen – was not BORN here. When dad validated this claim with the assertion that junior had the wrong skin color, I snapped.

I turned towards father and son and, in my angriest, most condescending whisper, told them that I could see everything on dad’s screen. Why, I demanded, was he looking at his bank account so often?! No, showing off a little chest hair was NOT a good look for ANYONE, let alone someone his age; and – most importantly – can you hear me okay, because I’m trying to tell you how rude and disrespectful you are?
 
I had my say and I left my seat to take a walk.

Out in the hall, away from my wife, the crowd, one of my bosses who shared the stage, and those two trolls whose behavior so incensed me, I did what most people would do: I took out my phone, opened my search engine, and I started to Hyde. I knew junior’s name – it was on the screen right in front of me for more than half the meeting – and my joints popped and swelled as my now knobby fingers ran across my phone.

I trolled them. Blatantly.

I learned that junior survived a childhood illness that required two organ transplants. I discovered that as a teenager he had been arrested for driving around town and shooting kids with a pellet gun. Dad, on the other hand, was a local business owner. You could find his commercials, touting his years of dedication and service to the community he called home, online, his outsized personality filling the screen. How, I wondered, would he treat the woman he and his son mocked from behind their phones if she were to ever walk into his office looking for car insurance?

I learned that they had relatively open social media profiles, and I was tempted to call them out in a Facebook post – to challenge any of my friends who may have business with dad’s company to rethink who they paid their premiums to.

I looked around some more.
 
Despite their behavior at the forum, both father and son seemed relatively apolitical online. Junior's posts were typical for a college student who was looking to define himself by who he wanted to become as opposed to who he had been in high school. Look! I'm witty and ironic. I read things. I'm not the village idiot. I imagine my profile would've looked the same had Facebook been (ahem) around when I started college.

Dad's page reflected an older man's desire to embrace technology in a way that told the rest of the world, "No, I'm not too old for this!” He had many pictures, a few memes, and some general, emoji free status updates, with the occasional awkward accidental "message" that was really meant for one person and not his public wall. I saw no evidence online of the people they were sitting next to me. They had a lot friends. Tons of family. They seemed decent. They were loved.

I put my phone to sleep and went back to my seat. I was still mad, but not just at them. There was a bit of a stink on me. How do you reconcile and confront the shit that people do without becoming shitty yourself? This question followed me back to my seat.
 
The rest of the meeting was quiet, but I still had trouble staying focused on the speakers. When things drew to a close, a woman sitting in front of us – who wore the trappings of a Buddhist and had obviously heard the earlier commotion – turned to junior with a warm, radiant smile and asked, “Did you get your questions answered?” Dad was already moving to leave, but junior paused, stopped cold, really. He wasn’t expecting this. As my wife and I got up to leave, he and the Buddhist were talking politely. 

CHRISTOPHER MATERRA

MY JOURNEY DOWN THE COLORADO RIVER
A Photo Essay by Christopher Mattera

The Colorado is so named for its famed red brown color caused by sediment in the water — too thick to drink, too thin to plow — as the saying used to go. Historically, the river always ran reddish. Since the 1960's the river through Grand Canyon emerges upriver a few miles from below the retaining wall of the Glen Canyon Dam where it never sees daylight and remains a near constant 48 degrees throughout the year (historically the river ran warm in summer). The dam allows for the sediment to settle, and what is commonly seen on the river today is a deep green coloration… That is, unless there is rain anywhere downriver of the dam. In that case, the river fills with reddish sediment for a day or longer depending on the severity of the rains. Looking through the beams of Navajo Bridge, the river shows to be running green and clear. Environmentalists, the author included, often heap scorn on Glen Canyon Dam for multiple reasons. Future generations lost Glen Canyon, a canyon said to be as beautiful as Grand Canyon on a somewhat smaller scale and today lies hidden below Glen Canyon Dam's reservoir, ironically named Lake Powell. Additionally, the dam has changed conditions of the river in many ways. Due to the cold temperatures of the river the fish communities have changed. Additionally, the sediment trapped at the bottom of Lake Powell due to the dam, coupled with the lack of historical seasonal flooding which is now negated by the dam, have disallowed for the natural rebuilding process of the beautiful sandy beaches in the Canyon along the river. By the same regard, the lack of seasonal floods in Grand Canyon and the cold temps have allowed a proliferation of non native species to invade the riverbank, side canyons, creek beds, and grottoes. ​

The camp kitchen is an important part of the journey. The boatmen are your chefs, and the dinners may range from salmon and salad to mango grilled chicken and rice to steak and night. Vegetarian options are always available and tasty. Cakes and other goodies round out the experience, and the beer and wine flows liberally as the wide eyed guests share stories of their adventures and gawk at landscapes which rival anywhere on earth with respect to natural magnificence. After dinner, if you have secured an AZ angling permit before the trip, one may cast for trout which your guides will gladly grill up for you at tomorrow's dinner. ​

At the Unkar Delta, Mile 73, the archaeological relics of a once seasonal population of Pre Puebloans dating back 1,500 years may be found. Some know these prehistoric people as the Anasazi a Navajo term loosely translated to mean ancient enemies. They were not enemies, however, as both groups populated the area at different times, with the Navajo migrating into the region as early as 500 years ago. Why exactly the Navajo named these ancients the Anasazi is not known. The direct ancestors of the Anasazi are the Pueblo Indians currently settled in north west Arizona and north eastern New Mexico. Subsequently, the term Pre Puebloans is more fitting and respectful for this once thriving culture living on the rim and river bottom of the Grand Canyon and along the Colorado River corridor in some of the harshest desert conditions in the world. Today, Pueblo cultures such as the Zuni and the Acoma create pottery in the styles similar to their ancient ancestors and have historically constructed dwellings in similar rock-and-adobe fashion as the Pre Puebloans who inhabited Unkar Delta. In this image potsherds, an arrow tip, and a piece of corn cob may be seen. ​

Mile 88, the Kaibab Trail Suspension Bridge, also known as the Black Bridge, allows hikers and mules to cross the river within the inner Grand Canyon. The South Kaibab Trail drops one vertical mile from Grand Canyon's South Rim, down seven miles of steep switchbacks, to this point where the hiker encounters Black Bridge. Once crossing the river, the hiker may then choose to hang at Boater's Beach — where our boats were currently tied off — or continue 14 miles up the North Kaibab Trail to the North Rim. If hiking, be advised, there is no water and little shade on the South Kaibab, but the North Kaibab offers both as well as camping. For those attempting a trans canyon traverse the author recommends descending the South Kaibab on the morning of day one, camping at Bright Angel Campground that evening, and spreading out the next two days hiking up the North Kaibab and camping at Cottonwood Campground before topping out on the North Rim the following day. There are other options, and knowledgeable canyoneers will have no problem putting together a suitable itinerary. ​

Looking for a wide sandy beach for camping... but not finding one here, that's for sure. ​

On the beach at Mile 101, while scouting Sapphire Rapid, a Slender Deadly Scorpion is spotted.The fellow is slender, that is certain. It is not deadly, however, except in rare and mostly undocumented instances of severe allergic reaction to the venom. Typically, if one is stung, and again it is a rarity for that to occur, the typical fallout is soreness at the sting site, general malaise, and possibly mild nausea. In general, those who dislike or are afraid of spiders will not fancy scorpions. The author has great respect and admiration for these inch long arachnids and became obsessed with photographic it, following it around for twenty minutes and taking dozens of photographs. In this photo, the Slender Deadly Scorpion has had enough and is clearly poised to strike. Not an unreasonable man, the author backed off and allowed the creature the peace and quiet it deserved. ​

Lizard tracks passing through camp photographed in the warm early evening light. ​

Here I'm making some field notes, trying to remember the experience of a lifetime for a lifetime to come. Photographs are invaluable tools to document one's experience on a Grand Canyon river trip. Major Powell kept and extensive journal on his historic first descent through Grand Canyon in 1869, and again in 1871, and turned those notes into the most exciting adventure tale of its day, The Exploration of the Colorado River and its Canyons.  ​

High above the narrows of Havasu Creek the hiker may enjoy an intimate sculpted canyon, gorgeous blue-green water, and access to the upper portion of the canyon which broadens out, allowing for swimming in the creek and basking on a rock in the sun. The Havasupai Indians have lived in Grand Canyon for 700 hundred years and indeed the name Havasupai means "people of the blue-green waters." ​

The confluence of Havasu Creek with the Colorado River demonstrates their profound difference with respect water color. ​

Lava Falls Day: the most feared rapid on the river by most passengers, mainly due to the guides building it up over the course of a few weeks, though it is not the most technical rapid for boatmen. Hard technical rapids such as Hance at Mile 77 and Crystal at Mile 98.5 are more concerning to boatmen. Statistically, more can and does go wrong in rapids like Crystal. But the absolute huge water of Lava coupled with the multi week hype up leaves the layman and women scared absolutely shitless. The boatmen ease the rafts into the tongue of the rapid, hopefully enter the rapid at their desired point, and make every necessary adjustment of navigation necessary to exit the rapid thirty seconds later, or else they flip. To the rafters freaked out to begin with from the hype the 30 seconds feels like forever but when it is over, and safety assured, the accompanying high is soaring, yet the body and mind is calmed. This photo was taken of the author and his wife Carol and son Joshua on the morning of Lava Falls Day. Our entire party wore the paints to make peace with the Lava Gods and it must have worked, we all came through the rapid upright and unscathed. ​

Pumpkin Springs is a travertine bowl which when active drips bitter, poisonous water into the Colorado River below. Throughout the history of recreational river running on the Colorado rafting parties have stopped and soaked in the warm waters of Pumpkin Spring. Several years ago the National Park Service put a stop to that when it came to light the springs contain arsenic among other poisons. ​

The end of the line, almost. Goofing around on the morning of the last day. This group will travel thirty river miles on this last day and take out at Mile 280 at Pearce Ferry on Lake Mead, the huge reservoir backed up behind the Hoover Dam. ​

By Paul Borst

When Barack Obama became president, one thing was brought to the forefront of the United States’ consciousness. Universal healthcare was something that had never been talked about by those around me, besides mentioning it in the same breath as that neighbor to the north. But with the implementation of the highly controversial Affordable Healthcare Act, few things have been as polarizing as the idea of providing healthcare as a right, as opposed to a privilege. Of course, any discussion on universal healthcare will include divisive political stances, but I’m going to try to take the politics out of the equation.           
 
As it stands today, some believe that healthcare should be a right guaranteed for all US citizens, as advocated by 2016 presidential hopeful Bernie Sanders. Others contend that a free market economy needs competition to manage costs and to spur innovation. But with the costs of healthcare and insurance spiraling higher, as well as the United States' poor standing among industrialized nations with regards to quality of care, many feel strongly that an overhaul of the current system should happen. A Commonwealth Fund study of healthcare quality versus cost saw the US ranked behind France, Australia, Germany, Canada, Sweden, New Zealand, Norway, the Netherlands, Switzerland, and the United Kingdom. We have the most expensive healthcare system in the world, but it ranks lowest in efficiency, equity, and outcomes. In other words, we don’t get the job done. Poorer people don’t get equal care or access to services, and the outcomes don’t match up with costs. Many liberals feel this is reason for the government to step in. The insurance companies and healthcare providers are driving up the cost of healthcare with no discernible increase in quality. Many feel that's because the goals of for-profit healthcare are incompatible with keeping people healthy.
 
Take a look at your next statement of benefits, and take note of what’s being charged to your insurance company. Doctors can and do charge exorbitant sums to insurance companies knowing full well that they will get paid by the insurer. This profoundly impacts you, the patient. The average cost of a family plan, according to the National Conference of State Legislatures, was $16,800 in 2015, paid by employee premiums as well as employer contributions. This is before reported requests for increases up to 54% requested by insurance companies, who found that people insured by the Affordable Care Act were sicker than expected. On average, 32% of your income is being spent on the chance you might get sick or injured. Using the socialist viewpoint with an equal distribution of wealth, you could argue that replacing our current system with a government subsidized program, a la the National Health System in the U.K., would reduce the costs to the average American by creating an escalating tax system based on taxable income. In other words, the more you make, the more you pay. Using a conservative lens, where this benefits the market is in costs to an employer. We can reduce the cost of healthcare-related spending to an employer by using that same escalating tax system. Universal healthcare could also decrease days missed from work due to health-related issues, as people start practicing proactive healthcare as opposed to defensive healthcare (when you put off going to the doctor because of the high cost). Furthermore, taking care of your fellow man is a tenet of common decency and many religious beliefs. Buddha, Jesus, Confucius or any other religious figure never add a monetary caveat onto the golden rule.
 
Many services today are socialized. Do you pay a fire department deductible? How about that pesky police premium? Did you remember to leave your payment in the mail for the postal service? You don’t pay directly for these because these are all in some way subsidized by the government. You are already paying more for other people. Would you expect the fire department to let someone else’s house burn because you pay more in taxes than the other guy? Why can’t we have this same thinking when it comes to healthcare? I understand other factors are in play. I would find it difficult to know that my tax dollars are paying for a lifetime smoker’s cancer treatment. But at the same time, I would rest easy knowing that my neighbors are covered against catastrophic ailments that befell them unexpectedly.
 
Dipping our foot into the ethical waters of healthcare reform can be a tricky business.  Health insurance corporations are making profits off of our premiums. According to the Securities and Exchange Commission, the CEO of Anthem Blue Cross Blue Shield, Joseph Swedish (an ironic name, really), made $8.1 million dollars in 2014. Stephen Hemsley, the CEO of United Healthcare (the contractor for Tricare West, the healthcare coverage provider for military members in the western US) made $66.1 million in 2014. To put this another way, we have people whose annual compensation is dependent on whether they decide to pay someone’s healthcare costs.  This isn’t an oversimplification of anything either. Health insurance claims agents get bonuses based on how much they pay out to members. 
 
Universal Healthcare can and does work in the United States. Multiple cases already exist where people are receiving it. For instance, your tax dollars are covering federal prisoners’ healthcare. All service members and veterans receive healthcare free of charge, including myself. Before I joined the Air Force in 2009, I had an issue with ingrown toenails. I often put off care because of the cost. Despite paying $80 per week for health insurance ($4,160 annually for single coverage), I had to pay $100 out of pocket to get the toe nail removed. It doesn’t sound like much now, but at the time I was the sole source of income for a family of 3, and $100 went a long way. As a result I would live with an ingrown toenail for months at a time until I could afford to have it taken care of. That’s fairly routine healthcare. What about ER visits? That’s where costs pile up. I personally haven’t incurred any personal ER visits before I enlisted. I know I went to one after I joined though. I received 3 staples in my head as a result of a basketball injury. The cost to the insurer was over $1000. I paid $0. Zilch, zero, nadda. Why do I deserve this over someone who isn’t in the military? I understand the argument of risking my life for my country, but I have all kinds of other benefits because of that. I’m willing to sacrifice free healthcare being an exclusive benefit to me. I still have a nearly guaranteed job, I still have education benefits, and I still have other benefits that the average American won’t get without serving.
 
What happened to us, America? This country was founded on those unalienable rights of life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness. When did it become life (so long as you’re willing to pay), liberty (provided you can afford to be choosy), and the pursuit of happiness (as long as you’re ok being sick)? We should look after our fellow man. Not a day goes by that I don’t hear of an effort to raise money for a sick child, or an unfortunate family that’s dealing with a catastrophic illness. I’m overjoyed to hear of when they meet their needs through donations. What if we didn’t have to donate? With universal healthcare, that child, or that family would be covered. I know the system wouldn’t be perfect. The NHS has issues. Canada’s healthcare service has issues. But last time I checked, they just beat us in the rankings.

Despite his full time gig as a Staff Sergeant in the United States Air Force, Paul Borst still finds time to pretend to be a rock star. Having served previously as a singer-songwriter/guitar poseur in the Shacks, of Albuquerque, New Mexico, and as songwriter/bass legend in The Standards of Saranac Lake/Tupper Lake, New York, Paul now bides his time as a solo performer in the acoustic mold. He currently resides in Albuquerque, still working as a full time nylon compression specialist (parachute rigger).  He can be reached via Twitter (@riggerlovin), Instagram (paulborst7) or email (paulborst7@gmail.com). ​

By Tom Guzzio.

Modern audiences will never hear Buddy Bolden, the cornetist considered to be the founding father of the first truly American musical form. There are no known recordings of his work. Despite the far reach of Bolden’s influence on artists like Louis Armstrong and Wynton Marsalis, the sound he created with his instrument – his musical fingerprint – is left to our imaginations, his tone a casualty of Bolden being too far ahead of his time.

This is just one of the many wrongs that litter the history of music, along with the fact that Sammy Davis Jr. couldn’t stay at many of the hotels he performed in, or with A Taste of Honey beating out Elvis Costello for Best New Artist at the 1978 Grammy Awards (hell, let’s just throw the Grammys as a concept in as a collective wrong).

Many would argue that the way popular music gets created today is another wrong, with songs written by committee for marginally talented “artists” whose looks are as important as their voices, if not more so.

But I disagree. The same technology that allows marginal vocalists to be auto-tuned into “artists” has also given legitimate musicians a platform previously unavailable when the recording industry held all the cards. Yes, there still exists a vast corporate music machine that vacuums up cash for a handful of Clive Davis wannabees. But there’s also a vibrant, independent industry outside of the industry, one that has embraced artists and musicians who can’t dance better than they sing, but who can create well-crafted songs that deserve to be heard, and are enjoyed when they are.

This is the place where The Solid Suns live.

There’s this idea that our tastes literally and figuratively mellow with age, and while I find the range of music I appreciate expanding (and, in some cases, getting softer), there’s still something about loud, ossicle-rattling rock and roll that never gets old, no matter how much I do. And while it may never crack the Billboard 200, Ungodly Hour – the latest album from the Las Vegas trio – makes my stereocillia stand up and shake, shake, shake, and that’s a damn good thing.

The album is sonically alluring from the start. “Buttons + Strings,” the album’s opener is a vapor trail of driving funk with a slinky pop flavor courtesy of Jim Campbell’s excellent bass playing. Jon Gamboa’s vocals groove in and out of Campbell’s wake, a smooth falsetto croon that falls a few notches during the menacing chorus: “Come on back! I’ll tear you to pieces...”
 
This gives way to the whiplash inducing “Existential Queen,” which is driven by Brian Keen’s relentless drumming and it’s marriage with Campbell’s bass. The rhythmic foundation Keen and Campbell create give Gamboa’s guitar and vocals a huge sonic canvas, and he uses every inch of it until he counts us out at the end.

Next comes “Overcast” – a song that repaints the blues with shades of gray. This is a band that knows the shoulders on which they stand. “Overcast” incorporates the blues form for the modern age in a way that’s authentic and not purely imitative. It’s a field song for the suburban retail worker who, as he looks at the Kardashian fueled glow coming off his flat-screen, can’t help but feel “the sun likes to shine on everyone but me.”
 
"Speak Easy" follows with a riff rooted at the bottom end of the scale. It's a slow song, not quite as bluesy as "Overcast," but with a weight that you feel in your chest if you play it loud enough. It's another fine showcase for Gamboa's vocal range, and his guitar solo around the 3:30 mark is razor sharp.

The band brings more playfulness to the next track, "The Little Things" which again showcases their ability to play punch-drunk funk infused rock. It's a foot stomper that's bound to be a favorite of the band's live shows, and I challenge anyone to listen to it without bobbing their head along in time.

They go deep with "Questions." Gamboa has a rebel spirit, and it takes center stage here: "who the fuck are you to tell us what to do?" It's a question that all good rock and roll should ask at one time or another, and it places The Suns within the tradition of Josh White, Woodie Guthrie, The Clash, and Rage Against the Machine.

Gamboa turns that cynical eye on himself with "Black Matter," another percussive rocker that declares "I am the perfect liar, perfect liar, now watch and learn." It's a heavy song sonically and lyrically - one that challenges fundamental notions of belief as a motivating force. One man's righteous act is another man's senseless one; your martyr is my villain.

"Voight-Kampff" is a love song of sorts. The title alludes to Blade Runner, and the test used to distinguish humans from replicants. Are we the architects of the ones we love? Do we create unattainable expectations for those we objectify?

"Violate" begins as so many of the songs on Ungodly Hour do: with a bouncy bass line from Campbell. This band is so good at playing with and around each other, something this song illustrates as each musician's part grows around the other's like wisteria, especially around the 2:50 mark, when things breakdown only to rebuild. It's a great shift tonally.

"Remember" is a classic closer (only it isn't - wink, wink). It takes everything that's good about Ungodly Hour and draws a logical, effective musical conclusion. We will remember the song, and the album, and we will listen again. It's that simple, and hidden within it is a track whose title perfectly sums up what Ungodly Hour is about: "Heavy."

Truly. Ungodly Hour is an imaginative, finely crafted rock and roll album. So why is it part of the lead up to "The Wrong Issue?" It's because of the circumstances in which it was made.

While a lot of less talented acts get as much money and studio time as they need to record their work, Ungodly Hour was made on a shoestring. It just doesn't sound like it. It is the product of blood, sweat, and an Indiegogo campaign. There's something inherently wrong about the way major labels decide who gets their support and who doesn't. Maybe any or all of the Suns should've had roles on a Disney show when they were kids? Maybe the bassist needs to put out a sex tape, or at least accidentally tweet a dick pic to get the media attention the band's music merits and deserves?

Still, the fact that something so good can be born from a small studio in a town not known as a musical hotbed does say something positive about what's possible in music today, so long as one loves making it. And the Solid Suns love for the music they make is evident throughout Ungodly Hour. Even as so much of the music industry seems so shallow and cardboard, Ungodly Hour exists and is available for all to hear. I'm not sure if that was possible before the digital age. And that makes me hopeful for the Suns' long term prospects.

Get Ungodly Hour via The Solid Suns' Bandcamp page, from iTunes, Amazon, or "wherever music is sold." Additionally, the album is available as a free digital download for all veterans, active military, police, fire, and rescue workers, and teachers. Contact the band via their Facebook page for details.

Help me out. Is there a space where sports and music meet that doesn’t wind up looking and sounding like a Looney Tune? As I moved from music to sports while prepping for the upcoming issue, I tried to find a convergence of the two topics that leaves both with some dignity, but it was just not happening. Maybe it’s because the seminal volume of sports-related music is called, Jock Jams. Maybe I needed to look a little deeper.

There are a lot of songs out there related to and / or inspired by sports, but they seem trite and trend towards novelty. I’m thinking of songs like “Basketball” by Kurtis Blow (who's a Hip-Hop legend), or “Centerfield” by John Fogerty (another legendary artist). On the other hand, songs unrelated to athletic competition often get co-opted by sports, and thereby have a second (or maybe even a first) life seemingly unrelated to their stated themes or lyrical intent. 

Take “Song 2” by Brit-Pop icons Blur. Released in 1997, and originally intended as a satire of American grunge music, it’s now become a stadium staple, it’s two-syllable hook used to pump up crowds the world over, joining songs like The White Stripe’s “Seven Nation Army” and Guns N’ Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle” as unlikely declarations of fandom.

Eventually, I stumbled upon songs that, for one reason or another, have become so associated with certain teams as to transcend their original context and purpose, like the Rodgers and Hammerstein's, “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” which found life beyond Carousel – the musical it was written for – as Jerry Lewis’s telethon showpiece and also as Liverpool F.C.’s anthem. Unlike “Song 2,” one can actually establish a connection between the song and the team that adopted it. In 1963 “You’ll Never Walk Alone” became a number one single for Gerry and the Pacemakers, who hailed from Liverpool. Legend has it that Gerry Marsden – the group’s leader and vocalist – gave a copy of the song to Liverpool manager Bill Shankly, who was so moved that he insisted the song be played before home games. In reality, the song’s presence at Anfield is the result of the club’s music director simply doing his job. It was practice at the time to countdown the hits of the day prior to the start of a game. When “YNWA” topped the charts, therefore becoming the last song the stadium DJ played just before game time, LFC fans simply sang along as a show of support to the Merseybeat group. The DJ played it, the fans liked it, and it stuck – so much so that members of the team joined Gerry and the Pacemakers on stage when they performed the song on The Ed Sullivan show. The song has since become part of the team’s iconography, adorning its official crest, and watching over those who pass through Anfield’s Shankly Gates.

“You’ll Never Walk Alone” illustrates how when a piece becomes so associated with a particular team, there’s a tendency to want to elevate that association to the point where the origin of said song’s connection to said team becomes mythic. This is true of other music – sports connections as well, like Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline,” which is played during the 8th inning intermission at every Boston Red Sox home game, and the song that is said to be the third most popular song in American history (after “The Star Spangled Banner” and “Happy Birthday to You”): “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” These songs have come to serve the same function as hymns, in a way, as they bring people worshipping at modern day “temples” together behind a common cause, and this is a powerful thing. Liverpool fans alive at the time will note how important “You’ll Never Walk Alone” became in the wake of the Hillsborough Disaster, which saw 96 LFC fans die in the crush of an overcrowded stadium in 1989. In the end, how the songs got here isn’t important. It’s the fact that they’re here that counts. At their best, music and sport serve similar functions. They celebrate excellence. They bring people together.