#alex johnson

[hang-dog]

[keegansdarling]

Thanksgiving - Marines Era

Alex had him by the sleeve like a damn bouncer.

“C’mon, bro. You’re not spending Thanksgiving in the barracks. That’s sad as hell.”

Keegan dug his heels in. “I don’t do family shit, Ajax. Not my scene.”

“That’s exactly why you’re coming.” Alex tugged harder. “One night won’t kill you.”

“Debatable.”

By the time Keegan was shoved through the front door, the warmth and noise hit him like a wave. Music playing, laughter booming, a dozen voices overlapping. He stiffened, already looking for the exit.

“Alex! You made it!” A tall man, one of Alex’s brothers, apparently, engulfed him in a hug. Then another brother. Then another.

Keegan muttered, “Jesus Christ, how many of you are there?”

“Four,” Alex said cheerfully, pulling him deeper into the living room. “Not counting me, obviously. And don’t worry, they only fight when Grandma’s not looking.”

At the table, Keegan sat awkwardly with a mountain of food that only grew larger. Every time he cleared space, someone plopped something else down.

“Eat, man.” one of Alex’s brothers grinned. “You don’t like the oxtail?”

“I didn’t say that,” Keegan replied, chewing like his life depended on it. “Just… wasn’t prepared for a buffet on steroids.”

Grandma shuffled over, speaking fast and sharp in patois, gesturing at his plate.

Keegan looked helplessly at Alex. “She’s cursing me out, isn’t she?”

Alex smirked. “Nah, she said if you don’t eat more, she’ll think you don’t respect her cooking.”

Keegan immediately forked in another bite. “Respectfully… I’m dying.”

The brothers laughed. One nudged him. “You military boys can’t handle food?”

Keegan finally cracked a grin. “Put me in a warzone, fine. But this? This is an ambush.”

When Alex’s dad lined the five brothers and Keegan up for a photo, he squinted through the camera and shook his head.

“Lord have mercy. Y’all look like D12,” he chuckled. “And this one- ” he pointed at Keegan in the middle, pale as milk, “that’s Eminem right there.”

Keegan snorted into his drink. “That’s fucked up, but fair.”

The whole table erupted, even Grandma. Alex nearly fell over laughing.

By dessert, Keegan leaned back with his plate of sweet potato pie, groaning but actually smiling for once.

“You know what, Ajax,” he muttered, “maybe family shit isn’t so bad… as long as it comes with seconds.”

Alex grinned. “Told you, Slim Shady. You’re one of us now.”

—--------

The house was starting to wind down. The brothers were still arguing over who won the backyard football game, Grandma was humming in the kitchen, and Keegan was trying not to pass out in the armchair with his third slice of pie.

That’s when Alex’s mom came by. She wiped her hands on her apron, leaned down, and cupped Keegan’s cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You eat good, baby?” she asked warmly.

Keegan froze. Nobody had ever asked him that before, not like that, not with the weight of genuine care behind it. He swallowed hard. “…Yeah. Yeah, ma’am. Thank you.”

She smiled, smoothing a hand over his buzzed hair like he was one of her own. “Good. You're too skinny. We’ll fix that.” Then she pressed a kiss to the top of his head and went back to the kitchen like nothing happened.

Keegan sat there stiff, ears burning. Alex plopped down next to him with a grin.

“See? You’re an honorary Johnson now. You gotta come back every year.”

Keegan huffed out a laugh, still dazed. “Christ, Ajax. Your family’s gonna kill me with kindness.”

Alex elbowed him. “Better than the alternative, huh?”

For once, Keegan couldn’t argue.

--------------

Thanksgiving After Ajax’s Death

The Johnson house sounded just the same, laughter spilling out the windows, reggae and soul records playing low in the background, the smell of spice and roasting turkey. But for Keegan, standing on the porch, it felt wrong. Too alive without the man who used to drag him here by the sleeve.

He almost turned back. Almost walked away, hands jammed in the pockets of his worn jacket, head bowed under the heaviness in his chest. He didn’t belong without Alex.

But then the door swung open. Alex’s mom stood there, apron dusted with flour, her eyes red but warm. For a long moment they just looked at each other, two people with the same hole in their heart.

“Keegan,” she breathed. “You're here,” she whispered.

For a split second, he thought maybe this was a mistake. He opened his mouth, voice rough. “Ma’am, I, I didn’t mean to intrude. I just…”

She didn’t let him say more. She just pulled him into her arms, tight, like he’d been hers all along. And Keegan, who never hugged first, who always held people at arm’s length, melted into it, eyes stinging

she pulled him inside, arms around him so tight he thought his ribs might crack. “Intrude? Baby, you’re home.”

The smell of jerk chicken and sweet potatoes hit him like a wave, along with the noise of cousins and brothers arguing in the background. For a moment, he almost turned to leave, he didn’t belong in this chaos, not without Ajax at his side.

Then Alex’s dad came forward, clapping a big hand on his shoulder. “About damn time you got here, son. Thought we were gonna have to send a search party.”

The brothers piled in next, one by one. Keegan got hugged, slapped on the back, dragged into the living room before he could protest. Someone shoved a plate into his hands before he even sat down. Grandma, in her old age but hardly grey, muttered in patois at him, shaking her head as she dumped another spoonful of rice and peas onto his already-loaded plate.

He sat there stiff, throat tight, staring at the ridiculous amount of food. Finally, one of Alex’s brothers leaned over. “You good, Slim Shady?”

Keegan let out a laugh he didn’t know was sitting in his chest. It cracked halfway through, but it was real. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Later, when the noise had quieted and dessert was being served, Alex’s mom came by again. She brushed her hand over his hair the same way she always had, kissed his temple softly.

“You’re an honorary Johnson. Always were,” she told him firmly. “You still gotta come back every year, you hear me?”

Keegan swallowed hard, blinking fast. “…Every year.”

And for the first time since Ajax’s death, the weight in his chest felt just a little lighter.

[keeganrussmybeloved]

Merrick was.. HOW OLD IN SANDVIPER??

Y'know keegan being 16 was pretty bad and so was ajax being 17.

But why is Merrick being 19 the most surprising 😭

[dustedmagazine]

Dusted Midyear 2026: Part I

Julianna Barwick and Mary Lattimore

The days are long, the grass smells sweet and insect buzz is an ever present ambient soundtrack. Mid-summer, yes, and time for another Dusted Midyear switch, the annual feature in which we all review other people’s favorite records, whether we like them or not.

We don’t agree on everything, obviously, but there did seem to be an unusual consensus this year around Julianna Barwick and Mary Lattimore’s Tragic Magic. Ditto for Marisa Anderson’s The Anthology of UnAmerican Folk Music Vol. 1 (though it wasn’t anyone’s #1 or #2) and Setting’s self-titled album.  

But mostly the midyear is an opportunity to marvel at the fact that, no matter how much music you listen to, you can’t listen to all of it, and some of what you routinely ignore is freaking great. So come join us as we venture into unfamiliar genres. Read about the records you already love, sure, but also check out a few that are way outside your center. It’ll be good for you.

Part 1 runs alphabetically by artist from Angine de Poitrine to Caroline Davis.  We’ll have the rest of the alphabet tomorrow in Part 2 and individual writer lists the following day. 

Angine de Poitrine — Vol.II (Spectacles Bonzaï)

Who picked it? Ian Mathers.

Did we review it? Yes, Ian wrote, "Precision, abandonment, spectacle; that’s Angine de Poitrine’s second record in a nutshell."

Ray Garraty’s take:

These Canadian mutants draw their origins from two distinct influences. One is Arto Lindsay and his contemporaries; the other is much more recent: the various punk and weirdo rockers who populated underground tape labels in the 2000s. It is difficult to figure out why this band generated so much buzz when similar weirdos still struggle to sell their home-dubbed tapes. Perhaps it is because Angine de Poitrine is cleaner, less punky and more visually oriented (it wasn’t even the music that initially drew attention to them). Still, the album offers 36 minutes of pure fun. It is hard to highlight just one track out of the six; the entire tape is catchy and deserves repeated listens.

Juliana Barwick and Mary Lattimore — Tragic Magic (Infiné)

Who nominated it? Jennifer Kelly

Did we review it? Yes, Ian wrote, “However singular or slightly uncanny their work together seems, one thing that’s much less mysterious is just how good it sounds.”

Christian Carey’s take:

Vocalist/electronic musician Juliana Barwick and harpist Mary Lattimore are a simpatico duo. Barwick’s use of vocal processing and gently wrought electronics matches well with Lattimore’s atmospheric harp playing. Their Infiné recording Tragic Magic embraces the ambient aesthetic while never succumbing to its cliches.

Barwick has a beautiful soprano voice, which in “Perpetual Adoration” is deployed in ethereal overdubs, reveling in reverb. Lattimore responds with cascading arpeggios that swirl around the vocals, both supporting their harmonies and extrapolating from them in nimble passage work. There are some aphoristic selections, like “Temple of the Winds,” where a modal sequence of chords underpins a simple, eloquent vocalise. “Rachel’s Song” features soaring singing and some of Lattimore’s most florid arpeggiations.

Elsewhere, such as on the multilayered yet still ethereal “Stardust,” the music is stretched out, building into multifaceted textures. “A Haze With No Haze” uses successive stacking of loops to good effect. Particularly winning is “The Four Princesses,” which begins with a folk-like melody on the harp that is gradually morphed into syncopated lines and augmented by haloing vocals and mellifluous counter melodies on synths. On the final track, “Melted Moon,” cascading polyrhythms in harp lines create a phase-like rhythmic structure, over which Barwick provides ostinato synth passages. The belated arrival of vocals finds them nimbly fitting into the already detailed musical landscape, with chorused singing leading the music aloft, a stirring valediction to an arresting recording.

Bobbie — Lessons (Orindal)

Who nominated it? Ian Mathers

Did we review it? Yes, Jennifer Kelly wrote, “There’s real pleasure to be had in watching these cuts take shape like pictures in the clouds, the swell of electronic sounds accumulating into melodies, then sputtering out like sparkler trails.”

Christian Carey’s take:

On bobbie’s second full length recording, Lessons, they lean hard into the glistening textures made by an Omnichord, a synth where you make harmonies by pressing a button and then sliding fingers across the “strumplate” found on main body of the instrument, kind of like a Casio crossed with an autoharp. Reverberant guitars, synthesizer drones and delicate singing are also part of the atmosphere, and the session’s engineer, Felix Walworth, adds a judicious dose of drumming to the proceedings. These coalesce beautifully in the song “I Could Call You,” on which strumming and shimmer appear in equal measure. “To My Core I’m a Lover” takes an ambling path through a set of classic pop chord changes, with bobbie earnestly singing a gradually unfurling melody. The title song has a diaphanous cast and a lilting vocal, with the Omnichord providing a seraphic accompaniment. It builds into a yearning chorus of multitracked singing awash in ambient electronics. The final track “I Don’t Wanna Stay” luxuriates in reverb and sustain, with a long-breathed vocal accompanied by distorted Omnichord, guitar and a glockenspiel countermelody.

Boldy James X Rome Streetz — Manhunt (Mass Appeal)

Who nominated it? Ray Garraty

Did we review it? No but Ray has been all over Boldy James in the past.

Jennifer Kelly’s take:

Two veterans of Detroit’s Griselda Collective trade molasses-paced noir-ish narratives, surrounded by a woozy blend of dragging beats, electronic shimmer and old style soul hooks in this brief, between-albums EP. Luxe, decadent violence lurks in the lyrics of “Hot Plate,” doing battle with brutish income inequality; says Boldy, “With Percival on the river, he servin' 'em with inflation/Work for the low, brodie got the chirps and them bitches takin'/Shinin' and they flakin' like the diamonds in my bracelet.“ Throughout, the two mcs drop references to rap forebears and peers, naming Big Daddy Kane and nodding to verses from Nas and Kendrick Lamar. The heartfelt tribute, however, comes up in “Like Biggie Did.” Here lavish soul vocals and spattered rhymes coalesce in genuine, positive affirmation. Says Streetz, “I left it all to faith like Biggie did /Now we so far ahead in this race, ain't no one in this shit.”

Bill Callahan — My Days of 58 (Drag City)

Who picked it? Jonathan Shaw

Did we review it? Yes. Jonathan Shaw wrote, “My Days of 58, Callahan’s new LP, is a return to the sustained unease expressed on a record like Apocalypse, for this listener the highwater mark in the singer’s career."

Ray Garraty’s take:

It’s often said that poetry doesn’t translate well into other languages. It seems age doesn’t translate, either. My Days of 58 is memoiristic and intimate, featuring clearly stated lyrics, and it is heavily preoccupied with thoughts of death. While death is something we all share, our perspectives on it are not universal. Callahan’s view of mortality is distinctly that of an urban white male from artistic circles. This will certainly resonate with some listeners, but isn’t it the aim of art to transcend the differences between us?

Cancer House — The Moth (Motion Ward)

Who Picked It? Tim Clarke

Did We Review It? No

Alex’s take:

In the beginning of “Flowers Over There,” we hear a see-saw sound. I say sound but I really mean there’s something. As in, something see-saws. This is such a cinematic, corporeal record. Bodies emerge from the otherworldly sonics, giving definition to the often muffled, somewhat obscured music. In fact, “Flowers Over There” is a bit of an exception, given the raw rock power of its crescendo. Within the deep folds of the record’s atmosphere, I felt a jolt when the bass bubbles up and the hopeful, progressive guitar rides a strident beat forward. The Moth tends to linger, wandering its fog and bog, but here the music accelerates, building a ragged, undulating wall for the vocalist’s scratched scream to batter against. When I say cinematic and corporeal I mean tactile and formed and visual, full of character. I’m thinking of the banshee synth howling over the morass on “Bloodchimes” and the long, drawn strings of “In My Pocket A Letter, A Red Wrecked Line.” Those strings have a slow, shifting personality, at times mournful and at times a little nauseating in their complaint. Either way, unsettling. The drums are almost spat, which I’ve never thought about drums before. This sort of monstrous presence meant I never quite lay back into the record, despite the aforementioned deep folds. The more literal personification is also notable. The way the strangled, nasal voice on “Waterscene” gets most of the way to vocoded Tom Fec without, to my ears, a vocoder, or how the compressed-to-indecipherable conversation on “Camera Obscura” is at once intimate and intriguing and unreachable. Speaking of monstrous presence, I recently saw the movie Obsession. Besides an array of sinister voices and violent impacts, it shares with The Moth a grim, scrappy artistry in which the effects aren’t high gloss but all the more satisfying and disturbed for it.

Amalie Dahl’s Dafnie EXTENDED — Live at Moldejazz (Sonic Transmission)

Who nominated it? Bill Meyer

Did we review it? No

Jennifer Kelly’s take:

Danish saxophonist and composer Amalie Dahl’s Dafnie was already a large-ish ensemble when it won Danish Music Awards Jazz single of the year in 2024. At its core, it was a quintet comprised of Dahl, Oscar Andreas Haug (trumpet), Jørgen Bjelkerud (trombone), Nicolas Leirtrø (bass) and Veslemøy Narvesen (drums). But for this live performance at one of the oldest jazz festivals in Europe, she expanded her group to include no less than 12 musicians, with multiple acoustic bass players, two drummers, horns, woodwinds and several varieties of keyboards. That sounds like a crowd, but the sound is often lean and focused, for instance. letting silvery chimes and high, metallic keyboards dominate a long passage of “Floating” or focusing intently on the woozy roar of bowed bass at the opening of “Drifting Turning.” Still, the exciting parts are the all-hands bits, such as the bass-thumping, synth-squiggling, drum battering, horn spattered climax of that same cut, which almost literally lifts you up off your feet and carries you off. Bill Meyer would doubtless have more to say about the individual players, but even I recognize the name of Dahl collaborator Ingebrigt Håker Flaten, whose double bass skitters and thuds and rumbles and dances like a very large man who is surprisingly adept at soft shoe. The music cascades and eddies, with different parts taking precedence at different points in the mix. It’s a big, ambitious sound, wildly energetic but always in complete control.

Damaged Bug — ZUZAX (Deathgod Corp)

Who nominated it? Byron Hayes

Did we review it? Yep. Byron wrote, “Vocals, synths and drums form the core of ZUZAX, as [John] Dwyer and his pals pit vintage tech against beefy rhythms.”

Jonathan Shaw’s take:

My sharpest interest in John Dwyer’s continuous cataract of music peaked with Thee Oh Sees’ Warm Slime (2010), a terrific record, and started to peter out when he changed that band’s name for the third or fourth time — who can keep track? I have sometimes felt about his musical output the same way I feel about Karl Ove Knausgaard’s often insufferable books: dude needs an editor. When I have tuned back in to Dwyer’s stuff, here and there I have heard some very good records. A Weird Exits (2016) and Endless Garbage (2021) represent markedly different but effective modes of Dwyer’s creativity that sustain themselves beyond three or four songs. This record, his fifth under the Damaged Bug moniker, includes some of the best elements of listening to Dwyer. ZUZAX has the benefit of hanging together as a record, sounding like a band at work rather than an intractable studio rat at distractable play. I really love “Over-Exposed,” and I really like “Sike Witch” and “End of the War.” The strength of those songs makes misfires like “Man Without a Planet” easier to take. The best tunes here are not equal to Thee Oh Sees’ “I Was Denied,” or even “Plastic Plant,” but they are interesting in their own Damaged Bug sort of way. They often make me want to dance, a useful quality in this shitty, shitty Spring of 2026.

Caroline Davis — Fallows (Ropeadope)

Who nominated it? Christian Carey

Did we review it? Yes, Christian wrote, “Fallows may be conceived for a soloist, but it contains multitudes.”

Bill Meyer’s take:

While I’ve been aware of alto saxophonist Caroline Davis for a couple decades, the overlap between her preferences and mine is small enough that I’d barely written about her before Accept When, her collaboration with Wendy Eisenberg, knocked me off my perch in 2024. This project, the product of a month-long residency in Wyoming, continues Davis’ effort to shake off old habits, and the further she goes, the more I like it. So, her overtly lyrical treatment of “Barbara Allen” is a little too soft-centered for me, but I’m all in with the echocardiogram beat on “Flower Sway.” I don’t know how often I’ll play Fallows moving forward, but it’s heartening to hear an artist push themselves harder this far into their career.  

Bill Meyer

[nailgun-lover]

Definitely one of my favorite couples ever.

I took me sooo much time to do this. I first started doing this when my friends and I were chatting about stuff and I needed something to do in the background. The idea to do something with flowers came first! ＼(^-^)／

@decaying-gal

[alix-rose-r0rke]

Ajax (Aka THE most underrated Ghost) art!

(Ignore the creepy lighting I’ve been messing with filters recently)

[clubnate]

Decaydance Records & WhatABabe.com

[geasthewritingrat]

Keegan: you see, i dont smell Hesh: Logan: Riley: Merrick: Ajax's ghost: Keegan: when i say that, youre meant to agree with me