A fond farewell.

Friends and readers, the time is upon us that I make an announcement which has been a long time coming: I have chosen to discontinue thevolumejunkie.com. While it will always be online in its Blogger form (http://www.blogspot.com/thevolumejunkie) I will not be renewing the domain when it lapses in the next couple weeks.

With over seventy columns since September 2009, I look back at the work on this site with a great deal of nostalgia... When I look back at the amazing music I got to listen to, the shows I got to see, the artists I met, the friends I made, and the opportunities I had, my heart swells with so much amazement and gratitude I can barely keep from getting choked up. When I first started TVJ in '09, I was a 21-year-old misfit with little self esteem, bad grades, and few friends. I truly believe that through cultivating TVJ, I not only found my voice but learned how to be a friend, a comrade, a learner, and a real human being. For this, I want to thank each and every one of you who made it possible. I went from a sad, bored girl writing a clip about Kings of Leon to send to the Kalamazoo Gazette in hopes of writing for "Ticket," to a much more self-assured English-major-by-day, aspiring music-writer-by-evening who interviewed national acts and even got a chance to work for SPIN magazine.

While I owe thanks to more people than I can mention, I would be remiss not to lend a few shout-outs to those who supported me the most. First and foremost are my family, who have been incredibly supportive of my dreams to write and to finish college, and have been graciously open to every silly whim I've ever had. Thank you to my second family, my amazing group of friends: in no particular order, Nick, Chrissy, Rachel, Kaley, Alex, Bethany, Agata, Jackie, Elise, AJ and the rest-- thank you guys for your love and support of my various artistic endeavors. I would like to thank my designer and Web guru, Jonathon Trousseau, for his contributions to the site, which he provided for 100% free... Jon, this was incredibly generous of you and I can't thank you enough. Thank you to Will, who read nearly everything before it went live and offered more support and sensible advice than I ever could have asked for. Thank you also to the AMAZING, AMAZING folks of West Michigan NOISE!: Munson, Dustin, Devon, Dwayne Hoover, Kat and the rest: you guys are truly talented and passionate human beings and I admire each and every one of you for it. To the bands I met and wrote about: thank you for being good sports through my not-always-well-received remarks. Art is evolution, and I hope that even if you took anything I said as criticism, that it was nothing more than the observations of one person, and every artist is only made stronger through criticism-- myself included. The truth is, all I ever wanted to do was listen to music and talk about it, and even if I came off as negative, it was never my intent to foster negativity, only to offer up my proverbial two cents.

So if you're reading this, thank you-- this truly was an amazing experience and a dream come true.

Peace and love,
Meg (thevolumejunkie)

On Interchangeability

Now that I've sweet-talked my office's I.T. guy, Dale, into installing contraband (read: Adobe Flash player) on my work computer, I make it through the workdays a little easier with the soothing sounds of Pandora. This has revolutionized my daytime life, as you can imagine, starkly contrasting with what I've been listening to every day for the past year-and-a-half, which is my radio stations' Top 40, mainstream rock, or conservative news/talk-- respectively-- depending on the day. During a good moment I can pick from Matchbox 20 (on the Top 40) or the Rolling Stones (on the rock station) at any given time. On a bad day it's possible to roast on a spit of three concurrent flames torture (on the three-station cluster, I've heard us play a Ke$ha/ Nickleback/ Rush Limbaugh combo; not good; not good at all).

But these days I find myself energized by listening to music I actually like, since Pandora requires no download (not allowed-- even Dale has his limits; The Man rules all in Corporate Hell). Today it's the Black Crowes. And on this Crowes station I come across a live album of a show they did with Jimmy Page (Live at the Greek) and get so lost in the jam that I briefly retreat on a mind adventure about a tribute band that covers only this album, a band which I would call ZoCrowes. This band was increasingly appealing to me as I developed an expanding setlist of Black Crowes and Led Zeppelin covers (because, inside, I am a 45-year-old man). I became increasingly convinced that this was a band I would have to start. And front, since both Chris Robinson and Robert Plant look like chicks anyway.

So anyway, naturally, it wasn't long before the first epic guitar solo and I was mortified when I couldn't immediately determine if it was Rich or Jimmy. Eek-- had my ear for stylistic nuance that I had so relied on when writing about music deafened THIS severely? I knew it was bad, but come on. I can't pick out a Jimmy Page guitar solo? What kind of music writer am I?

It was just then that the riff split into a harmony, and I realized that they had been playing in a tone-matched, decidedly-undetectable unison. A-ha.

After an epic riff-off and my resulting transcendence to a new state of mind, the jam was complete and I was lulled back into complacency by the Crowes classic "Thorn in My Pride," the warm, sexy, feel-good jam with its chill subtlety that even Page probably couldn't nail, and it set in that greatness is all relative. There is no greatest guitarist; there is no best type of music and no good (or bad) type of person. You don't even have a favorite song. There is no way you can truly love "Wish You Were Here" and "Communication Breakdown" the same amount, because you are two completely different people in the moments when you need to hear those songs the most. Everything is what we make it; every moment is heaven and hell and chaos and zen all in one unbroken wholeness.

Continue to live your life from jam to jam; enjoy every solo and every harmony and do your best to just stop asking yourself questions about it already.

Peace and love,

Meg

What You Lean On

And so, follow me low/ You are what you lean on. --Trey Anastasio

I've been waking up in the mornings with T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alred Prufrock" in my head like a song, the words streaming like lyrics monotonously read in the voice I've fabricated for Eliot, having accidentally memorized the lines from my old Norton anthology. And indeed there will be time/ To wonder Do I dare? And do I dare? floating sleepily through my own vacant expression as I straighten my unruly brown hair. It's abundantly clear to me that I am not ready to face this day. The murky post-Thanksgiving semi-Seasonal depression has set in, the way it does every year for me and nearly everyone else at this latitude. The warm, sleepy sense of nostalgia faded with the cooking-smells from the corn-yellow kitchens of Michigan and we're left with nothing but the sullen pressure of The Holidays. I grow old, I grow old...

Last weekend, after the last of the leftovers were wrapped I had long since had my fill of my family's signature Thanksgiving dish (read: double Kahlua and Coffee), I headed West to Chicago to catch two nights of my favorite band, Umphrey's McGee. The epic two-night run loosely replaced a New Years tradition, which, this year, is being held in St. Louis. While I love my boys more than life, the trek to ol' St. Louie is a long one and I, alas, will not make it-- not to mention Umphrey's in Chicago is always must-see anyway, so this weekend was a no-brainer. Meeting up with fellow Umphreak Steph, who I happened to meet in the bathroom at this show, I hit I94 running, and we rocked into the Central Time Zone at about seven on Friday, ready to rage. And rage we did, hitting the run like a 2-woman storm of musical bliss and nerdery. From classic Umphrey's staples to soaring jams backed by the Chicago Mass Choir, the two nights of music left stars in my eyes and I can still feel the resounding amazement in my soul...

Still, as I sped back toward home on Sunday morning, wolfing down my requisite hangover Sausage McMuffin, the warm, fuzzy memories of the shows faded with every mile past the Windy City. The memories echoing through my head from the weekend-- the smooth bump of "Booth Love," the sought-after ecstasy of "All in Time's" climactic end, and the kaleidoscopic swirl of the stagelights melted into the horizon of the putty-gray Indiana turnpike, and it was increasingly hard to deny that we were truly headed back to real life.

So, increasingly clear to me was something I hadn't bothered to tell Stephanie, or anyone else, all weekend: on the following day was my first appointment with a therapist. Having stubbornly fought therapy my whole life, I had decided it was time to reckon with some issues I had noticed lurking from my dad's passing when I was a child. The only thing stronger than my stubbornness to talk to anyone about what had been on my mind for years was my staunch vow of secrecy I had taken towards the whole thing; I lived under a strong facade I had created over the years to convince everyone that I had somehow escaped the pain altogether (There will be time, there will be time/ To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet.). I was determined to have triumphed over my dad's death, and the rest of my past, without a single scar; like the Blues Brothers in that scene where they survive Carrie Fischer's flamethrower, standing up and merely brushing the dust from the wreckage off of their shoulders.

But the truth is, I didn't. And I've spent every year since filling the void created by my father's absence with everything I could find that brought me the smallest amount of happiness or joy. Most of all: music. I'm coming to the strange conclusion that maybe every song I've ever liked, every band I've ever loved, was-- at least in part-- replacing a small part of what I lost when I lost my dad. Maybe that relief I felt from that soothing shelter of the most amazing pieces of music was a replacement of those times I wasn't able to curl up in my dad's lap as a little girl, and let him tell me everything would be ok. Maybe those gentle words of wisdom from my favorite rock stars and poets replaced the lessons I knew I should have learned from my father.

I guess that's what I'm trying to reconcile. And I guess getting a little older, and a little wiser (ideally) is going to help me sort out all of this... because I guess sixteen years isn't long enough to reconcile the excruciating pain of losing someone you love. Regardless, I'm back in the real world (post-therapy sesh, and by the way, it went great!) and the view from here isn't so bad.

Hope is an amazing thing.


There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

Writing "Spots"

Sitting in my office of the radio station cluster where I work, I'm tuned in to one of our stations during an ad break, wincing at a commercial advertising a "Diva"-themed holiday party at Wayside (for you out-of-towners, the most notorious BroHo bar in Kalamazoo).

My face is contorted as though I've actually just eaten something sour, my left eye squeezed shut and lips and nose pursed into one big wrinkle; against the dull hum of the office in the late afternoon, the morning DJ's nasally chirp sounds especially shrill, reaching stratospheric pitches with each and every fun, frilly, and oft alliterative verb. So while I'm wincing for an ostensibly very good reason, it might not be the reason or reasons you're thinking.

The truth is, I wrote this commercial. I wrote this commercial and a ton just like it, hawking everything from theme parties to air quality control to trailer repair to gourmet pizza. This is what I do: market research, commercial copywriting and a plethora of related sellout, ex-writer tasks.

A genuine queasiness set in as I listened to the rest of the commercial for the diva party, and I came to the sick conclusion that this is my life not only as a professional, but as a writer now. I guess the reasons for this are sundry. Looking back, my creative volume had decreased significantly as my blog neared its second birthday, and to make matters worse, West Michigan Noise-- not only a creative stimulus, but a network of friends and readers that create a huge support system-- scaled back from obscure print 'zine to its Internet roots and eventually withered to nonexistence. And I'm continually haunted by the fact that I've all but completely deserted my blog; not on an "ego" level, or out of a sense of any sort of obligation (as I've long since accepted that no one cares anymore, if they ever did [ed. note: not a cry for help or attention! A simple statement of facts.]) But the fact that I simply don't care anymore is what's truly disturbing.

So what does this mean? Is it simply that I'm almost 24, and I simply can't reconcile my current self, who gets paid to write public broadcasts (no matter how low-quality), with my twenty-year-old self, who struggled financially while pouring hours into a blog for no pay and next to no recognition, for no reason other than passion?

I guess that's the trouble with blogging. Blogs are started by people with nothing but time and passion. Those people are, more often than not, kids. Kids grow up into adults, whose supplies of time and passion are inversely proportionate with their practical needs. Like paying rent. And so it goes: the "I have to pay my rent" creative alibi. The groovy thing about it is that no one can shut it down. We all grow up, and reach the only thing more cliche than being a starving, hated artist: being a sellout ex-artist content with paying rent and a marginal amount of professional recognition.

So it's after five on the day before the Thanksgiving holiday; my boss and I are the last ones in our half-dark office and all this has got me thinking. He's in a band and as soon as part of me wonders if he gave up his dream to work here, I realize that he must have. If you're an artist, if you've ever known what it means to create anything, part of you truly wants to do that, and only that, every day for the rest of time. I'm reminded of something I read in a Martin Scorcese interview recently; he'd said that, realistically, anyone who creates anything just wants to be remembered. And I think that's why I'm weirdly fulfilled by writing radio spots. Because I know that even if people remember my clients' businesses, or if they remember having a good time at some event I planned or a silly party I promoted, part of me-- at least a small part-- is satisfied.

So I'm still here. Working. With the boss. And with every click of the clock past five, all I can think about is wondering what I'm waiting for... What I'm hiding from.

But at least I'm writing.

The 5 Best Things About Festivals

Spring has sprung in Michigan, and while we in the Midwest can never be too sure when we’re going to get a freak hailstorm or other one of nature’s bitch-slaps, most of us are breathing that deep sigh of relief that means that summer is finally on its way.


For me personally, the agitated energy built up over the course of a long, gray winter is morphing from restlessness into giddy excitement as my favorite time of year—festival season—bears down on us. With the rise of McFestivals like Bonnaroo, attendance at music festivals has skyrocketed in the past few years (Coachella sold out in a record-breaking three days this year) and more and more music fans representing all tastes and age groups are coming out to enjoy weekends full of nothing but sunshine, friends, and music.

So, basically, this month, all I have to say is May, schmay. Bring on the summertime. Until then: let’s get stoked.

5.) The drive.

You’ve finally crossed the seemingly innumerable days until today off your calendar, and now, it’s time to leave. The van is packed with a weekend’s worth of supplies (read: beer and sunscreen. Mostly beer) and your best friends are fighting over shotgun.

Is there a better moment than this? Magically, yes; the drive is only the first of many excruciatingly blissful moments that you are about to experience, but there is nothing quite like the anticipation of loading up the car and setting out on those first few miles of highway standing between you and three days of pure, unadulterated happiness. And while your mind might be on nothing but the festival itself, it’s true what they say: it really is the journey, not the destination. And if you’ve never been cruising down the freeway, watching the sun set over a sea of cornfields, knowing that soon you’ll be seeing all the bands you’ve been blasting full-volume for the whole drive, you’re yet to learn that there really is only one kind of road trip: a festie road trip.

4.) The “vibe.”

The word utopia is a Latin joke on the English-speaking world. My fellow nerds know what I’m talking about: the word ‘utopia,’ meaning a perfect society, actually translates from Latin to a word meaning “nowhere,” which is to say, someone seems to think that the perfect society can not exist.

Wrong. With an economy of perfectly-balanced microcapitalism, a culture based on shared learning experiences and support of the arts, and an abounding spirit of sharing, community, and helping one’s fellow (wo)man, festivalgoers comprise the most perfect nation conceivable. This atmosphere of support and camaraderie creates an almost-palpable “vibe” of oneness that one can really get used to; it is absolutely possible to experience “culture shock” upon re-entering the “real” world. You might say that festivals are the world that the world should strive to be.

3.) Stuff falling on you at shows.

It’s Saturday Night at the festival and the whole field is rockin’; you’ve got your scummy little hands in the air like you just don’t care. And over the course of a night, you find yourself bestowed with a bevy of new gear: volleyballs, glowsticks, blow-up dolls, stuffed animals, dance toys, crowdsurfers… you name it. At late-night shows, it is not at all uncommon for random objects to come your way when you least expect it. And while festie etiquette stipulates that you should probably keep it moving, it’s alright to sneak yourself a little souvenir once in awhile.

Also, the festival world is enjoying yet another wonder of the social networking world: mass organizations of glowstick wars, which are, if you’ve never experienced one, exactly how they sound… fun to participate in; more fun to watch… Just watch your head.

2.) Hearing the song you came to hear.

For me, it’s Umphrey’s McGee’s “Gulf Stream,” whose refrain, to me, sums up everything beautiful about a festival: “All my friends are here now/ this is what we came to do.”

Enough said.

1.) Flying your freak flag.

The increasing popularity of festivals is noticeably shaping counterculture as a whole: the festie scene in recent years has seen an unlikely melding of two seemingly opposing groups: jam band-following hippies, and electronica-loving ravers. While, in 90s, most kids would probably never check out Phish and Paul Oakenfold in the same summer, festival kids nowadays are blurring the “scene”-based lines that sometimes dictate live music culture.

Perhaps it’s that we weirdoes are feeling more and more out-of-place with every season of Jersey Shore and the various barrages of quarreling housewives, but the safe “bubble” of a festival provides the perfect environment for everyone to be as weird as possible… and love it. A festival is one of the few places where the weirdest guy at the show is the coolest guy at a show. Weird clothes? No worries. No clothes? No problem! Feathers in your hair: power to you. Paint on your face; goddess circlet; ubiquitous hula-hoop? Done; done; and done.

So basically, the way things are shaping up, 2011 could be the next Summer of Love. And we in the festival world have one thing to say: hell yeah.



(run in the May issue of West Michigan Noise)

On the Enduring Popularity of Hootie and the Blowfish in West Michigan

This morning I was enjoying a mug of Water Street coffee at a quintessentially Kalamazooian breakfast nook. This the kind of place that namedrops a specific grandmother for her sausage-gravy recipe on the menu, and has historic photos of prominent local buildings tacked onto the exposed-brick walls; the kind of place where the employees know nearly everyone who comes in, including myself and my breakfast companion, by name; the kind of place where the mailman strolls in to leave the mail by the register and you hear a disembodied (but sincere) "THANK YOU!" emanate from across the restaurant.

After Manfred Mann's cover of "Blinded by the Light," (which plays, inexplicably, at some point during every single visit to said breakfast establishment) we hear the first jingly chords of Hootie and the Blowfish's "Only Wanna Be With You." There's a palpable buzz in the air and I overhear a waitress singing along; looking across to the opposite row of booths, I see a hippie couple smile, nod, and begin to jam.

Fun fact: Hootie and the Blowfish's 1994 debut Cracked Rear View is currently the 15th best-selling album of all time in the United States. It went platinum a mind-boggling 16 times. So, chalk it up, if you will, to this: that Cracked Rear View was a 90s phenomenon, filled with laid-back, singalong-ready singles designed to not only appeal to the masses but to allow Yuppie white-collar types a chance to fulfill, if only for the 45-minute duration of the album, the hippie fantasies that abounded so readily in the 90s, when late-60s-style counterculture was experiencing a revitalizing gasp of fresh air (thanks, Phish). The 90s Yuppie patted himself on the back for digging such breezy tunes, as it felt for him that this was his way of getting in touch with his Earthy, soulful side, and his way of exorcising the specific brand of mania that only 9-to-5 office rats experience. This phenomenon would later reach new heights with the release of Dave Matthews' Crash.

Somewhere in between the shimmering major-chord progression and one of Ruckers' infamously non-enunciated choruses ("Ah-onleh-wanna-be-wi' YOUUUUU") the waitress returns to take our order: for me, a veggie "Smothered and Covered"-- a delicious dish including a glorious hash of veggies, eggs, and potatoes, and perhaps an allusion to to HATB's compilation of almost the exact same name? Very provocative indeed.

So, not unlike the many, many albums just like it (in terms of popularity), Cracked Rear View-- and its signature singles, still in fairly regular rotation on pop stations today (like my personal favorite, the innocuous "Hold My Hand")-- is just another boom-and-bust pop album that most people don't even know by name, and HATB, as a band, is all but forgotten by music lovers, and music likers, everywhere. Right? Right.

Well, clearly, except for West Michigan.

You may or may not have noticed that an unusual number of people in the greater Kalamazoo-Grand Rapids have an unusual fondness for Hootie and the Blowfish. I have been lucky enough to have lived a couple of places overseas, have done a little bit of traveling, and can be, at times, a known talker-to-strangers. And while the subject of Hootie and the Blowfish doesn't always come up, it is an observable fact that, although a couple of the singles from HATB's debut album are still a part of the mainstream pop canon, most of the 'outside' world has forgotten HATB and, as a result, all but completely forsaken Darius Rucker's solo career. Still, here we are in Kalamazoo, still diggin' HATB and keeping their singles in the rotation just as strongly as any new single. But why?

I've spoken with many people since I first began noticing this trend, and the theories are sundry. First and foremost is the obvious explanation that Michiganders are notoriously unhip: why shouldn't we cling to Hootie's wholesale pop skylarkings? We are a very "If it ain't broke, don't fix it" culture, after all. Isn't it still 1995 in Michigan anyway?

Less snarky explanations also abound among some theorists, and many simply don't even believe that we are the last culture who still thoroughly enjoys Hootie.

Another theory, popular among many studying the Hootie/Kzoo correlation phenomenon is that a female host of the 90s morning show from Kalamazoo's Top 40 Station, WKFR, was rumored to have had a fling of sorts with Darius Rucker himself. Subscribers to this theory maintain that because of her affinity for Rucker, HATB received even more air time in the Kalamazoo area than he did in other parts of the country; in time, it became so ingrained within us that we began to crave Hootie's charming ditties hourly. Supposedly this claim is rooted in truth, but I am yet to discover any indisputable evidence to support this claim.

Whatever the case, this is a phenomenon that, had you not noticed it before, you will probably observe yourself from time to time. Regardless of how crazy I may or may not sound, I still maintain that at any point in time in Kalamazoo, there is at least one public establishment somewhere in the city in which you can hear one of Hootie's blissfully noncontroversial tunes that we Kalamazooians will probably argue shaped the entire 90s pop-music paradigm.

Kalamazoo Destruct: the 'Alternative' Alternative

[Ed. note: a version of this story ran in the Feb issue of West Michigan NOISE!; here is the full story, and a reminder that KD is still throwing parties/ shows almost every week... so get out and shake that moneymakah]

“I just wanna dance. Is that a crime?” –J.Lo (2002)


I admit: I thought I knew the Kalamazoo scene. But after an in-depth interview with some of the folks behind Kalamazoo Destruct—a new event series sweeping Kalamazoo, featuring a kaleidoscopic array of dance-oriented music—I discovered not only an entire enclave of music in Kalamazoo’s past and present, but the passion of the artists who make it happen.

It would be easy to call it “electronica” or even “techno,” but the deejays I spoke with, the brains of the Kalamazoo Destruct operation—Alexander Roelandt (Mr. Shed), Dustin Alexander (Baby D), and Tahif Attiek (Nunca Duerma)—are not your stereotypical “techno deejays:” the white sunglasses; the flashy outfits; the frosted hair. These are not only professional, but truly smart dudes—and not just about music. They ruminated on the history of electronica in the Kalamazoo scene and abroad; they’ve organized a series of hugely successful events that not only create an alternative party scenario to the average, rock-dominated “bar scene,” and used these events to give back to the community (the guys of KD recently discounted cover charges at a show in exchange for canned goods, which they donated to the Food Bank). They schooled me on everything from Kzoo’s warehouse-rave days to their methods of onstage mixing, and in the end, Roelandt, Alexander, and Attiek gave me an entirely new perspective on a scene I thought I knew.

On behalf of the Kalamazoo Destruct crew, Roelandt prefaced the interview by making sure we were on the same page with term usage: “When asking questions just for clarification purposes, we would rather you use the words ‘electronic music’ or ‘EDM’ instead of words like ‘electro.’ That usually refers to a specific type of electronic music and we want people to know that our shows contain all types of electronic music.” It became immediately clear to me that these guys meant business.

As well they should. All three of these guys have studied the art of mixing and have a rich array of influences—between the three of them, they list a staggering variety of artists from Detroit and Chicago house artists to P-funk to Claude Von Stroke and J Dilla—that make the Kalamazoo Destruct shows not only unique, but truly entertaining. “My grandfather gave me a large collection of music he used to listen to when he was my age,” said Attiek. “He gave me his crate of vinyl that he never listens to and I’ve been slowly working through that.” Alexander notes that
his musical career began when he played violin, guitar, and upright bass as a kid.

“Kalamazoo Destruct, as a reoccurring event, really took off in June of 2010,” explains Roelandt. “From there, Tahif and I agreed we worked well together and had the resources to throw quality events in our city. Fortunately for us, we had a lot of support from the start. It can be said that many people were waiting for this to happen in Kalamazoo. After the first couple of shows, we brought in our third member, Dustin Alexander who recently moved here from the Detroit Metro Area. Having three members [who were] into different types of music has helped us achieve our initial goal of creating a multi-genre electronic music night that appeals to a lot of people in Kalamazoo that would normally only be involved with their own cliques.”

As a result of the shows’ popularity with both fans and artists, the Kalamazoo Destruct series has fostered a growth within the local electronic “scene” which no one had anticipated. “Our initial goal was to bring a successful electronic music night to Kalamazoo, not the whole scene. Not because we didn’t want to, but because we didn’t think we had the ability to. Now we see that we can act as a catalyst to keep the scene alive with everyone’s help. It’s our future goal to keep this night alive and well as long as possible, and our even bigger goal [is] to keep the scene alive and well as long as possible,” says Alexander.

As it turns out, Kalamazoo is actually the perfect place for a thriving electronic music scene. “Kalamazoo is right in the middle [of] Detroit and Chicago, the two most important cities for electronic music,” explains Roelandt. “It’s the perfect place to combine the influences of house and techno. The thing most people don’t realize is that Kalamazoo has a rich history of electronic music. In fact, to many record collectors, ‘Kalamazoo Techno’ is known as a subgenre in its own right.

Roelandt then dives into an impressively detailed history lesson about a record label established in Kalamazoo, Black Nation Records, which would become an important part of techno history. “Black Nation Records was established in 1992 in Kalamazoo by Jay Denham after completing several original productions and remixes for Detroit’s Kevin Saunderson and Derrick May,” Roelandt said. “The records released on this Kalamazoo label gained worldwide attention, and allowed some of Black Nation’s artists to tour over the world.”

“Black Nation… spearheaded the scene, but many extremely reputable artists have come and gone through the underground scene here in Kalamazoo,” added Alexander. “Many people have tried to throw parties in Kalamazoo with some really great artists and great intentions, but they didn’t quite take off because of the volatile and ever-changing vibe of the music community here. We would really like to see a more reciprocal approach to the electronic music party scene; we’d
like to see a lot of cross influencing going on and less competition, and I think Kalamazoo is really on its way to exactly that.”

Alexander, who opened for legendary hip-hop deejay Afrika Bambaataa in January, performs on an analog system, spinning actual vinyl as opposed to a digital setup. He notes the importance of recognizing that the purpose of Kalamazoo Destruct is to unify a wide variety of artists and sounds for which “electronic music” is too broad a term: “It’s like saying ‘I like rock.’ The next question would be ‘what kind of rock?’ The same goes for electronic music… you probably wouldn’t see the same crowd at a Death Cab for Cutie show as you would for a band like Poison
or Nickelback. So what usually happens is that there are many different factions of electronic music that are just as divided as in any other broad musical form.

What Kalamazoo Destruct is trying to do is bring them all together to highlight the one thing that really does set them apart from fans of other music. They dance more, fight less, and party harder.”