Dear London, let’s make this show happen. (TICKETS)
In 2011 I started pre-selling shows on Kickstarter. I sold tickets to concerts before I even booked them, ensuring an audience for myself and the venue before I did any of the heavy lifting. The idea made so much sense that I got a ton of press: BoingBoing, BBC’s World Service, CNN, and more. But the logistics were… tricky. Fast forward two years later and Songkick launches Detour - a way for fans to help bring the musicians they love to wherever there is enough demand to see them play (London only for now, but there are plans to expand once London proves the concept.)
I LOVE performing - it is essential to me. But being a truly DIY artist means I don’t have the cash flow required to tour at a loss until things pick up. Detour is the perfect solution for me to play a London show.
Fans pledge to buy tickets to come see me. Once enough tickets are pledged Detour will find a promoter who will take care of the logistics and then the show is booked and confirmed. Fans who pledge for tickets are only charged after the show is confirmed for a date they can make it to.
If you want to see me play in London (or the UK at all) this is the way of the very near future.
I need about 50 more pledges to make it onto the leader board and confirm a show. London, let’s do this thing.
*photo by Ruth Ann Arnold
UK pals…if you make this happen then I will try to come over as well! DO IT!
via a friend who just visited him in prison.
Andrew is currently serving 3.5 years for revealing a security flaw by AT&T. He has been in administrative segregation for twenty days as punishment for using his payphone calls to post to Soundcloud, and for sending pre-written tweets to a friend to…
There’s an American tendency to accuse those who want social services of entitlement. Who are you, the thinking goes, to demand college? To demand food? To think that you should work fewer than 12 hours a day, or not die of untreated illness, or have a dignified old age? The Cooper Union students are getting their share of that. But they make a particularly poor target. They are largely bright working class kids who passed brutal admissions to attend a school whose reason for existing is to educate them for free.
Cooper Union students are the paragons of that most sacred American myth: meritocracy.
Shits fucked up.
Number 59 “Bar built”. A spot illustration about how hypermuscular people can feel out-of-place in normal society. Gouache, watercolor and ink on paper. 2006
A nice spot by my friend Lyman!
A review by
Kathryn B. Wells
Today I am sitting with the Joe Bonham art exhibit, which documents wounded warriors in their hospital beds, in physical therapy and in various stages of recovery. Many of them are double or triple amputees and have scars you can see, and most assuredly, many you can’t. The gallery is adjacent to the student lounge; a loud place full of students laughing and cussing, the tv blaring the never-ending news cycle and the cacophony that is fast food service. Students are walking by the door, droning into their cell phones, yelling to their friends and complaining about mundane teenage drama… “Bitch, if you was real, you wouldn’t play with me. You gonna bump into me in the hallway? It’s gonna be like that?”
And here I am, surrounded by portraits of people in intense pain, who have given their service and their bodies to their country. The Americans depicted on the walls have lost limbs, faces, vision, the ability to walk or eat and drink normally. They have gained endless therapies, doctor appointments, surgeries, and a life that revolves around a grinding daily schedule. Attempting to gain ground against wasted muscles and emotional rawness. Or just maintain.
In the midst of the noise, I just want to be very still. Quiet. Drink it in. As if my doing so will somehow protect these men from further harm.
A young student comes in without the hesitation of most. 22, I’m guessing, from the class of ‘08 sweatshirt she wears. She immediately asks a lot of questions. “What’s an LED?” It’s an IED, I explain. Improvised Explosive Device. A homemade bomb. “Oh,” she says. She puts her bookbag down. Then her purse. And tears start to run. “Oh.”
She takes her time. Examines each piece. Portraits of men hooked to machines, bandaged and battered. Asks more questions… Are these all the same artist? What happened here? Is that the same man with the infection? Then her appreciation. “This shit is deep.” “These are someone’s brothers. And sons.” Then her wonder. “How can they do this?” “You just don’t realize… unless you know someone…” More tears flow that she wipes away before they get out of control. We talk some about the physical and emotional support these soldiers will need. “The scars you can’t see, bet those are worse.” She gathers her things and turns to go. She whispers a thank you, and goes back to her day.