In this week's Alibi, August March writes,
"In Justin Bendell’s work as fuguers cove, there are moments when comparisons are apt but it’s still like walking out on the wing of a really big and fast jet airliner when it comes to the rocanrol that this dude makes in a home studio.
"Yeah this could have come from a four-track sitting in a basement in Dayton, Ohio or New Hope, Pa.—but it’s coming from right now, out of an expansively, exquisitely and ironically fertile desert. You can tell by the twang."
Here's the album, fully released and ready for streaming.
Hey Crime Writers in the Albuquerque Area:
Join this group:
This group is a place for greater Albuquerque writers of crime fiction (including but not limited to the noir, hardboiled, detective, mystery and thriller subgenres) to gather, discuss and share their work.
fuguers cove got some mid-summer kudos from the Weekly Alibi for our sampler LP In Twenty:
Much like Bee Thousand, there’s too much delicious stuff on this recording to list all the fabulous flavas, but please put your ears into action for these, at a minimum, playaz: “Encyclopedia of Stars,” “I Choose the Moroccan Dance,” “Colonel Cactus” and “The Fuel Burners.”
I'm crowdsourcing for folks to review my new fuguers cove album, titled "Satanism".
Are you, or do you know anyone in the music press, or someone who may know someone?
If you know anyone who might be interested, send me a note.
I'll send any potential reviewer a free download link.
Justin / fuguers cove
#press #music #reviews #indierock #rock
Manzano Mountain Review Issue No. 2 (Summer 2018) is now live and it's filled with so much brave, haunting, and captivating work.
I have a tiny western story called "Consequence" published in 50 Word Stories. It's cute. Check it out.
The house is warm. I melt in my pants. I'm hot like a red river hog going after tree fruit. My pink knees are hot and pink. It feels like I'm bleeding, but I'm not. I'm tired is all. I'm full of stallion. I'm full of viper. I need to get laid.
The miracle worker is on the job. I can call her but I can't. She doesn't like it.
The phone screams.
I know who it is. No one calls but him. I let it ring. I know what he needs. It's like sex the way he needs it. AIDS and I'm the cure. His fix. I am his light. I open the fridge. The milk is bad.
I remember cigarettes and milk.
The fat and the smoke, the way it mingled. The way they danced on my tongue and in my lungs and in my pants. A jar of pickles. Yellow mustard. A radish. I bought it but I didn't want it. I ate its brothers. Devoured, skinned, and suckled while the moon hung over the mountains.
The phone screams.
Just a little bit.
Then I laugh like a red river hog, then I pick up the phone.
Do I post blog entries? Rarely. But I'll try to put something up every once in a while. My true blog can be found at Mountain Standard.