I am happy to announce that i will be returning to the US for a short solo tour this coming January!
Hello Chicago, Toronto, Brooklyn NYC, Fort Worth, LA, San Francisco, Portland, Seattle and Atlanta!
There’ll be voice, confusing, disturbing sounds, Berlin beats, mausoleum guitar - check it.
Support from Chasms in LA and Where Are We in Atlanta.
For the first time, the multi-faceted poet, singer and musician takes to the stage alone, boldly reinterpreting the original tracks from the LP and EP (recorded together with Geoff Barrow of Portishead and his band Beak>) as solo works, as well as songs from her slowly building repertoire, giving the political, trashy, dub, punk, funk an edge of sinister dance.
Triggering tracks and layers, manipulating live, with a focus on the voice, diverted through varying reverbs and echoes, some sung, some spoken word, with reinterpretations of the first record, mixed in with Exploded View and some tracks completely new.
„A haunting performance that plays with different sound textures as well as stretching the capabilities of the voice for a truly dramatic and theatrical effect.“
01.22.19: Solo Live Set @ The Empty Bottle (Chicago, IL) Tickets
01.23.19: Solo Live Set @ Velvet Underground (Toronto, Canada) Tickets
01.24.19: Solo Live Set @ Zone One @ Elsewhere (Brooklyn, NY) Tickets
01.25.19: Solo Live Set @ Museum of Modern Art Fort Worth (Fort Worth, TX) Tickets
01.26.19: Solo Live Set @ El Cid w/Chasms (Los Angeles, CA) Tickets
01.27.19: Solo Live Set @ Rickshaw Stop (San Francisco, CA) Tickets
01.29.19: Solo Live Set @ Mississippi Studios (Portland, OR) Tickets
01.30.19: Solo Live Set @ The Vera Project (Seattle, WA) Tickets
02.01.19: Solo Live Set @ 529 w/ Where Are We, Nightcleaner + Twins (Atlanta, GA) Tickets
Chicago’s Aurora L’Orealis release sophomore album
Chicago natives Aurora L’Orealis recently released their sophomore effort plainly titled Aurora L’Orealis. The album has been a long time in the making, several years in fact. But that’s nothing new in the shoegaze genre, where perfectionism is almost as integral an ingredient as expansive pedalboards. For those unfamiliar, Aurora L’Orealis take heavy influence from the shoegaze greats like My Bloody Valentine and Slowdive, but with added a distinctly aggressive edge. The 4-piece have undergone a couple lineup changes and evident sonic maturation since releasing their first EP, Autumn Frequencies, back in 2013.
Aurora L’Orealis is 33 minutes in length and broken into an A side and a B side, a rarity in contemporary music. The album opens up with a spacey instrumental intro, ‘Booster Ignition,’ which sets the tone, easing the listener into a reverb-drenched soundscape that draws to mind a lone astronaut floating in the ether.
Things really turn up on the second half of the album, which starts with ‘Interstage Separation’ before launching into the driving, almost dancey number ‘Supercollider.’ Next up is the real standout track, ‘Swirlies,’ on which frontman Patrick Dunn sings “You are what I see before I go to sleep / And when I wake, you’re gone,” barely above a whisper accompanied by lush guitar melodies. The final track, ‘Waste,’ which will be featured on Shuga Records’ upcoming compilation Multi-Tone Chicago Vol. 1, is densely layered with distorted guitars, yearning vocals, and drum beats so spaced out they almost sound underwater.
While the real meat of the album is weighted towards the B-side, the overall effect is cohesive and accomplished. Each song is a thoughtfully crafted pattern of rhythms and tones. Additionally, the consistent drone melody weaving between the songs creates a far out, thematic effect. Despite the celestial nature of the song titles, the non-instrumental songs certainly deal with very terrestrial emotions. However, it is important to note that what vocals are present are minimal and serve more as another sonic texture. In the midst of the so-called shoegaze revival, Aurora L’Orealis have managed to create an album that draws from the past, but still establishes their own unique sound.
For those who live in Chicago, Aurora L’Orealis will be opening up for The Besnard Lakes and the Life and Times at the Empty Bottle on May 15th. In the meantime, you can listen to their new album here. And please, be sure to turn it up loud.
Harry Potter can say with certainty that he has seen a lot in his life, but he knows that he has not seen everything. In fact, he wonders how much he missed in the war he ended and how many lives he dismissed and failed to witness. There were times when the echoes of the war would play in his mind, catching him off guard, not only by the bad but by the good that slipped through his fingers while he struggled.
It would take him a minute to remember that it was all over. He had left the cupboard behind in the nightmares of his childhood; Tom Riddle lay dead, nothing more than ash in the wind, and he mourned those he lost but lived for those he kept safe.
He did everything he could to uphold the morals and expectations of a true Gryffindor. Not in some misguided ideal of house rivalry- he had outground such foolishness- but to honor the memory of those who adore the house.
He did it for his parents, godfather, werewolf uncle, grandfatherly headmaster, and mischievous brother-in-law. They were the ones who made him proud to wear his red tie and cheer for lions.
But he also met people who made him proud of the other three colors. He thought about the clever potion master whose bravery made him reconsider the evil of Slytherin. He thought about the woman who ran away from her family to be with the man she loved and now raised her godson due to losing both her husband and daughter. He thought of the mother who lied to protect him and her son.
He thought of the whimsical, loving girl who smiled even when harassed by bullies who did not bother to get to know her before passing judgment. He thought of a cheerful and kind boy who merely wanted to represent his school and life cut for being in the wrong place and time.
He thought of the different colored ties that decorated the floor after the fallen fifty bodies were gathered in the grand hall.
Sometimes, while taking breaks from Auror training, he would ponder what life would have been like to not be a Gryffindor. Would that have changed anything? Or would it all have been the same since he was Harry Potter and a prophecy had hung over his head long before his birth would decide that for him?
It was useless to focus on the What-ifs. He knew this. He spent his whole life wondering- what if my parents were alive?- and that was long before he knew of magic. There was nothing to gain from pondering them for too long.
Nothing at all.
He had a life to live—one that so many died to ensure he would experience. He would not let their sacrifice be in vain. Harry spent years trying to find peace with himself, to smile at family gatherings, to stop and watch the leaves fall off the trees, to feel the sun rest on his skin, and to simply breathe.
He learned to compliment his reflections and started to believe them for the first time in his life. He learned to stop and listen—truly listen—when asking someone about their day. He learned to lower his walls, to speak about his hardships so that the youth who gawked at him in the streets learned it was okay to ask for help.
Even heroes needed moments of weakness.
He married the woman who knew when his eyes turned dark with unknown horrors but still held his face in her warm palms to ground him. They built a home together where they used to hide from killers, twisting the rooms until only warmth reminded them.
She brought three wonderful buddles of joy for him, and sometimes, when he would sit outside, listening to the rain mixed with his children's laughter, Harry knew that if his story ended now, it would be a happy one.
The hero had done his duty, and now he rested. He had a really long life, but he was young in age, and sometimes Harry swore it was unfair. Yet other times, he felt content with the simple, quiet life. He was alive, but he would welcome death, as he did the day he marched into the forest toward Riddle with no regrets.
This is why, the day he woke to find a floating black dog made of smoke above his head, he only had a moment to reach out and gently kiss Ginny's face one last time before the Grim took its claim.
It was gentle and peaceful in the end, even as the dog gently bit down on his neck and carried his soul. He felt no pain, just relief—like gentle rain on his skin on a spring morning and the sense of complete and utter freedom. The Grim pulled his bodiless soul until they were back at the King Cross, where Harry reformed. This time, there was no crying baby, twinkling eyes, fear, or confusion.
Just a man walking alongside a dog, hand resting on the canine head as it leads him to a train. He knows he is to board, and with one finally pat on the Grim's head, he does so.
Harry finds a comfortable sit in first cart, sliding into the plush cushions with a sign. He stares out the window, watching the mist roll by as the train departs. The Grim is happily watching him go, black tail wagging, and Harry can't help but wave at it as the rattling of the tracks gains volume the faster the speed picks up.
For a moment, there is nothing to view. A part of Harry always assumed that the mist would clear once he left King Cross', breaking way into a beautiful foreign landscape like the once fantasies of a boy stuck in a cupboard used to dream about.
He chuckles at his assumptions, for what man can claim to understand death? He leans back into his seat, closing his eyes. There is a moment when he wonders how Ginny and his children will handle his death. It saddens him to know that they will suffer for his loss, but it was Harry's time.
James would start Hogwarts in only three months. He prays his eldest enjoys his time there, even with his father's death so fresh. Harry knows Hermione and Ron will ensure that Ginny gets help to take their son to the train and will be there for his tears just as they had been when Harry was James' age
His death was natural, he went in his sleep, and he was content with it. He hopes they will live on just as he had when he lost those he loved.
Harry's eyes snap open at the sound of a knock on the door of his compartment. Through the small window, he can barely make out the head of a small boy, nervously peaking up at him as though he was standing on his tiptoes to see. It reminds him of Albus whenever his son wanted Harry to read him a bedtime story but was too shy to ask, and it causes a smile to twitch onto his face.
"Come in," He calls, watching the child scramble to open the door. He nearly reels back at the sight of someone so young on this death train before he remembers that death knows no age limit.
The boy could be no older than nine- just like his Albus- and is dressed in a muggle hospital gown. His cheeks are hollow, his skin is unhealthy and pale, and the specific way he carries himself indicates weakness. Seeing as Harry is still wearing his pajamas, he can guess the boy passed in the hospital, likely due to illness.
"Hi, mister. Do you know where we are?" the child asks, his voice rising in an American accent. Harry isn't sure about the region, but he suspects it is somewhere south.
Harry smiles, patting the seat next to him. Without hesitation, the boy climbs up and sits down with a burst of energy that surprises him. "Yes. We're on a train heading to the Beyond."
"We aren't in a train." The boy giggles, putting the window that Harry is leaning on. "We're on a boat! What's the Beyond?"
Briefly, Harry wonders if everyone sees something different when coming to their deaths, but he doesn't correct the young boy. "You're right. Sorry, I was being silly. The Beyond is a surprise for everyone. We know when we get there."
"Is my momma there?" the boy asks with wide, sparkling eyes. I want to tell her I don't feel sick anymore!"
Harry's smile falters for a second. He is unsure if he should explain that they had died to someone so young, but something on his face must have given him away. The boy's dim, and he looks back to the window, watching the mist that Harry sees before he seems to shrink in on himself.
"Oh, I passed away. Momma is going to cry." He hunches his shoulders, and Harry suddenly wants to comfort him. Without much thought, he places a arm around the child's shoulders, bringing him into a hug that has the young child melting into him.
They stay like that for a moment; the only sound is the soft sniffs of the child who mourns his short life and the man who feels he lived long enough. Eventually, the child falls asleep, using Harry's lap as a pillow, small tears covering his face.
He wonders for the child's name as they travel, and a voice whispers into his head.
Hadrian Evans.
Strangely, he felt like he had known that his entire life.
Time moves on, and Harry loses count of it, watching hills of endless mist roll by. Hadrian stays by his side the entire time, sleeping peacefully and clutching his sleeve.
A second knock is made at his door a while later, which could have been minutes or hours. Harry turns to find a man wearing a train uniform waving at him. He's pushing the snack trolly, but rather than sweets and treats, there are various bottles.
"Good day," the man says, in Hadrian's accent. "It's time to choose. Can you wake up the kiddo?"
Harry wants to tell him no since Hadrian seems content with slumber, but something tells him not to question the stranger. He gently shakes Hadrian's shoulder, whispering, "Hadrian, love, time to get up."
The boy's face scrunches up before tiny blue eyes blink open. He makes a confused face at Harry, rubbing at his face, and the wizard's heart melts. He feels oddly parental towards the boy, in the same sense of love he would for his own children.
Harry thinks he would adopt him without a second thought if they had been alive.
The trolly man smiles wider, gesturing to his bottles as the boy finally notices him. Hadrian instantly clings to Harry's arm, seeking comfort from the wizard. "No need for that kiddo. Nothing to be afraid of. I'm just here to help you lads choose."
"Choose what?" Harry asks watching the man push in the trolly, the bottles clinking against each other. He notices that they resemble potions with various shapes and colors, but there are no labels. He isn't what any of them do.
"That's the fun part. You will know once you pick. You can just grab the three ones that seem best to you. Don't think too much-trust your gut." Trolly man chirps and something about his hand motions seems familiar in a way that scratches Harry's brain. Has he met him before?
Harry hesitates, but Hadrian reaches out for the long plum bottle that shimmers when he pulls it towards him. The bottle is almost as big as the boy's torso.
Hadrian giggles as it continues to shimmer and glow, likely never seen magic before. For some reason, Harry knows in his bones that Hadrian was born a muggle.
Then, the boy grabs a small blue bottle that is see-through enough to see the gold liquid inside. Finally, he picks up an empty bottle with a giggle.
The trolly man nods. "Good health. Good Wealth and Second Chance. Wonderful choices, Mr. Evans. Mr. Potter, if you please?"
Harry looks at all the bottles, ranking his eyes over the tall ones, the small ones, the shining ones, the glowing ones, and the ugly ones. Nothing really calls out to him because he hears his wife's lectures about not touching potions, and he does not know the effect of echoing in his mind.
Not only that, but none of them speak to him. None of them makes him want to reach out and grasp. That's not right. Deep in his soul, he knows he should want to grab three of the bottles, but he can't find out why.
He stares at the bottles, repeatedly focusing his eyes on them, trying to decide. The compartment falls silent as he tries to choose before Trolly Man sighs, pushing the cart away. "Again, you make my job so hard, Potter."
"Do I know you?" Harry asks, confused, as the trolly rolls out into the hall, vanishing into ash, all its bottles gone.
"Yes." The man rubs his hand down his face as if greatly inconvenienced. Harry waits for an explanation, but no one comes, and Hadrian plays with his bottles.
"From where?" He asks at last, unable to help himself.
One dark eye- utterly devoid of any features, just darkness. Harry reels back at the inhuman-looking gaze, clutching to Hadrian protectively- peaks at him through fingers. "You escaped me before, and my dog led you here."
Oh.
"Death." He breathes.
"Yes. It seems you escaped me again." Death sighs. "And to think you made it all the reincarnation bottles."
"The what?"
"Reincarnation Bottles. The ones you pick before Life crafts you a new body, and Fate uses the potions in them to create your luck of the draw. You, however, are not going to reincarnate. You would have been going back, but your body has expired, and unlike the killing curse, there was too much damage to fix for Life to put you back in. Guess you will spend all eternity here."
Death glances down at Hadrian with a gentle smile. "Kiddo here is going to stop at the next port."
"Why can't he come with me?" Hadrian pouts "Why does he have to stay?"
"He didn't get a bottle, kiddo."
"He can have one of mine!" Hadrian hands Harry the empty bottle. It's the size of his thumb and has a round golden bottle top. A rush of warmth runs through his body the moment he touches it. Death tilts his head considering before he snaps his figures.
At once, Harry watches as Hadrian goes from a small, sickly child to a healthy, angelic one with sunny curls that fall over his ears and wide blue eyes that gleam. There is a moment where Hadrian stares in wonder at himself before Harry starts to shrink and ends up at eye level with the surprised child.
Death grins. "If it's freely given, then the Second Chance can be transferred. Harry Potter, you will go back, but not as the Boy Who Lived. You will return as Hadrian Evans, an identity and a healthy body bestowed by a kind soul. Don't waste it."
Harry opens his mouth to demand a better explanation, but between one blink and the next, he vanishes into a bright light. He clutches his eyes closed, feeling his body, his soul, and his memories shift in a whirlpool of emotions.
He is Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, Slayer of Voldemort, Father of Three, Husband of a Professional Quidditch Player, born and raised in England.
He is Hadrian Evans, a wizard of two Squibs. He was born and raised in America due to his American mother. He was sick all his life up until he was ten years old, when surgery saved his life. He moved to England after his father realized his son had developed magic.
Per tradition, despite not being allowed to carry his magical family name due to his Father's disownment for his lack of magic, Hadrian was to be sent to Hogwarts and permitted access to the family vaults. He was the last heir to the family bloodline, and his father's scorn family portraits would rather a Squib-mutt keep their line of work alive than let the family magic die out.
He is eleven years old and stands before the open door of a compartment Hogwarts Express in 1991, nervous and unsure of his place.
Both memories, personalities, and souls mix until Harry Potter takes over and realizes Death has allowed him to take over a version of Hadrian Evans's life in a similar timeline.
How does he know?
"Are you just going to stand there, or will you come in?" A young boy with red hair demands. Across from a boy with baggy clothes, untidy hair, and deep, deep green eyes staring back at him.
It's himself or a version of himself.
Harry gulps, licking his lips and gathering his thoughts. He smiles hesitantly. "Are you sure it's okay for me to sit here?"
"Of course. There's space enough," Other Harry Potter tells him with a shy smile, and he is suddenly hit with the reminder that he was once reserved and cripplingly socially awkward due to his treatment by the Dursleys. It's one thing to live through it, but to see the effects of abuse on a child is another thing.
"Thank you." He says, pushing in his trunk, memories of his parents helping him pack with childlike excitement flashing behind his eyes. Strange to think of the Evans as strangers and loving parents of eleven years all at once.
Despite the contradiction, he knows that should he ask if they will open their home to Harry due to suspected abuse, the Evans would have Harry's room painted and decorated long before he arrived at their house.
Both adults know what living with a family that hates you is like.
"My name's Hadrian Evans," He tells the boys, accepting the name in a second. He had lived as Harry Potter and had been comfortable with its end. But now he had a new beginning, and that was rather exciting.
"Ron Weasley. Cool accent. You from the States?"
Hadrian grins with a sudden rush for life that he has not felt in a long time. "Yeah, I am."
Ron's eyes widen as a soft blush develops over the top of his cheekbones, and Harry coughs into his fist, looking flustered. Confused, Hadrian tilts his head as Ron stutters about which Hogwarts House they like to get into, attempting to change the topic.
Harry admits to not knowing what that is, and thus, the redhead launches into a fast-paced explanation, grateful for the olive branch. Hadrian settles in his seat, smiling softly, watching the two children speak.
