Search Results for: Девятаев—Девятаев фильмы которые уже вышли фильм тут >>bit.ly/devataev-film-2021

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After half a decade spinning wheels on the Great American Highway, through the brutal heartbreaks and dire sacrifices that come with chasing the mythical rock & roll dragon, Great Peacock’s Andrew Nelson and Blount Floyd have finally eased up on the throttle. Like rock & roll as it transitioned from the erratic abandon of the late ’60s to the country-tinged storytelling of the early ’70s—donning cowboy boots and dipping its bucket in the well of American folk music—they’ve put their electric guitars back in the case, rolled their stacks back from 11, and let a serene hush wash over them. Their sound now? Beautiful, unadorned, moving—the bountiful harvest of a deep friendship and an unbreakable musical bond.

“The hangover is definitely starting to wear off,” Nelson says. “The amps had gotten a little too loud.”

 “With our old band, we’d been playing all this angsty downer rock,” Floyd explains. “So with Great Peacock, we wanted the songs to be simple, poppy—infectious.”

For the first time, Nelson and Floyd weren’t writing songs for themselves, but rather songs they hoped would connect with fans. With Great Peacock they would embrace an unselfish, unpretentious aesthetic. “I don’t want to alienate people any more,” Nelson says, laughing a bit as he recalls the darker, more confessional songs he used to write. “I’m at a point where I want as many people to like our music as possible.”

Floyd and Nelson met in their early 20s in Nashville, the former having come to MusicCity to break into recording and the latter to play rock & roll. When they first ran into each other, neither had any close friends in town yet, and their connection was instant. “From the moment we said ‘hello,’ we realized we were gonna be best friends,” Nelson says. “It’s the only time it’s ever happened in my life. Blount’s brother introduced us, and I was like, ‘This guy is cool!’”

About an hour later, they were shotgunning beers together. “And it’s not like there was a party going on, either,” Nelson explains. “We were talking about music and I said, ‘Let’s get some beer.’ So we went to the gas station and bought a 12 pack of Busch. At every moment in the night, we became better friends—I was like, ‘Dude, we should get the camouflage cans,’ and Blount was like, ‘Hell yes, let’s do it!’”

“And there was this guy in front of us buying a single gas-station rose,” Floyd recalls, “and he says, ‘Yo, can I get some cigarillos and a box of magnums?’”

“We were both like, ‘That’s real love, man. Real love,’” Nelson says. “‘This guy has his life figured out—we need to figure out ours!’ I don’t think we drank a single beer normal that night—we shotgunned the whole 12-pack.”

The new friends soon found that their musical chemistry was just as intense, and that their strengths and weaknesses were the perfect complement. “The big thing about us,” Nelson says, “is that I can’t sing harmony—I’m terrible at it. And Blount doesn’t have a strong lead voice. When we’re riding around listening to music, he never sings the melody; he naturally sings the harmony. So we’re a perfect fit—I need him to sound good, and he needs me.”

Since the pair started playing together, they’ve seen two bands—and about a dozen bandmates—come and go. Through it all, their musical partnership has been a constant. “We always seemed to get what each other was doing more than anyone else,” Nelson says. “He keeps me artistic, and I keep him grounded.”

As far as Great Peacock has already come—recording a stunning debut EP of harmony-driven acoustic pop, performing as part of stylish, socially conscious eyewear company Warby-Parker’s Class Trip, and landing a coveted spot at one of Paste magazine’s 2013 SXSW showcases—the group began, almost literally, as a lark. “We kept noticing this hilarious trend of bands with names like Fleet Foxes, Deer Tick, Vulture Whale—they all had two names,” Nelson says, “one of which was always an animal.”

Kidding around one night, Nelson and Floyd decided to start a new band called Great Peacock. “I thought it was gonna be this cockamamie joke,” Nelson says. “We’ve talked a million times about starting random bands—including a Southern-rock band called Swamp Ass—and didn’t follow through. But even for a while there, when we didn’t really have anything going, I never stopped writing songs because I have to write to maintain my sanity. It’s my version of therapy. And Blount hadn’t stopped, either. Writing gave us an excuse to hang out.

“But I still didn’t think we were actually gonna do it,” Nelson confesses about the new band. “Really, the only reason it happened is because we wrote ‘Desert Lark.’”

Without giving it much thought, Nelson and Floyd posted an acoustic demo of the song on Bandcamp. Friends, family and fans went crazy over it, begging them to follow through on the new project. “We didn’t expect that,” Nelson says. “I wasn’t planning on being in a band again. I really wasn’t.” The chiming, triumphant acoustic anthem would become the centerpiece of the Nashville duo’s new self-titled EP.

Great Peacock’s harmony-driven sound appeals to fans of indie-folk, but the group is different from contemporaries like Fleet Foxes and The Head and the Heart in that their music is inextricalbly linked with the South. It’s who they are—Floyd hailing from a family of Alabama peanut farmers, and Nelson a long line of Mississippi preachers and sharecroppers. “If I had my way in life,” Nelson admits, “I’d be a country singer. My dream is to be George Jones.”

“But those country singers don’t exist any more,” Floyd says.

So instead of trying to live in a long-gone past, Great Peacock draws from the same inspirations that once fueled their now-extinct forebears (geography, aging, love/hate family relationships, blood, death, birds), channeling them into an unmistakably modern sound. For Nelson and Floyd, it’s natural, inutitive. “We know that even though there’s a history we’re connected to, we’re of our time,” Nelson says. “We know most records aren’t made on tape any more, but we’re also very much aware that—no matter the year or the production style—the right melody can be timeless.”

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Publicist: Rachel Hurley

“I know that Rachel believed in our music. I also knew she’d do everything she could to get us covered. I wasn’t wrong about either thing. She far exceeded our expectations and went over and beyond what other publicists have done for us.” – Andrew Nelson

Bio

Filmmakers from all over Georgia and the Southeast will be given the opportunity to make comedy shorts and have them screened live at the Plaza Theater in Atlanta. Contestants will register for the event. On the Thursday start day at midnight, we email all registered teams the mystery prop & line of dialogue that must be included in each submission. Videos are due back by Sunday at 9pm (69 hours later) in digital form. Submissions shall not exceed 3 minutes in length. Videos are judged primarily on comedy, so don’t freak out if your video quality isn’t through the roof. Hell, shoot it on an iPhone, just make it hilarious. Pack these videos with as much funny as you can, and you may just win! Registration is $69 per team, and no limit to team members.

Judges for 2013:

Dave Willis started his career in 1996 as a producer on Space Ghost Coast to Coast. In 2000, he co-created Aqua Teen Hunger Force and provided the voice of Meatwad and the irascible next-door neighbor, Carl. Willis is also executive producer of Squidbillies and co-created and co-directed the live-action series, Your Pretty Face Is Going To Hell.

Jim Fortier is an executive producer and writer for Adult Swim’s Squidbillies. He was also a writer & producer for The Brak Show, Brak Presents the Brak Show Starring Brak, Adult Swim Eyewitness Nightbeat, and Space Ghost Coast to Coast.

Casper Kelly is co-creator, writer, and director of Adult Swim’s TV show Your Pretty Face is Going to Hell. He has also written for Squidbillies, Stroker & Hoop, Harvey Birdman: Attorney at Law, and Aqua Teen Hunger Force and is author of the book, “More Stories About Spaceships and Cancer”.

Austin L. Ray has covered pop culture for the likes of Rolling Stone, The A.V. Club, Creative Loafing, and one terrible gas station periodical. He’s interviewed countless comedians, including Louis CK, Patton Oswalt, David Cross, Marc Maron, and Kyle Kinane. One time at Bonnaroo, Zach Galifiankis screamed in his face.

Lucky Yates is from Detroit. He plays Dr. Krieger on Archer and was a bunch of different characters on Good Eats. He works at Dad’s Garage Theatre Co.

Links

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Bio

Iron Jayne is a supergroup of the Atlanta underground. Hailing from one of the most vibrant music scenes in the country, this danceable new post-punk-inflected indie pop band is comprised of members from four of the city’s most beloved, buzz-worthy projects—bizarro art-punk collective The Back Pockets, junkyard carnival rockers Gun Party, instrumental noise progsters Vegan Coke and the shoegazey Cassandras.

Chad LeBlanc (Vegan Coke), hails originally from Houma, La., (swampland) and nestles comfortably inside his 10th band as Iron Jayne’s bassist. Born to tour, Chad already has his name embroidered on a seat in the mini-van—the front seat of course.

Ryan Odom (Cassandras), the only Northerner in the band, spawns from Bow, N.H. Self- proclaimed “bedroom guitarist” since he was a wee lad of 13, Odom now heads up lead guitar in Iron Jayne. Ryan is the cutest person on the face of the planet, and wore matching white polar bear hats with his girlfriend this past Halloween. He works at a local restaurant across the street from his lovely, over priced apartment and considers himself “domesticated as fuck.”

Garrett Goss (Gun Party) holds down the rhythm fort in Iron Jayne with his focused, inventive drum patterns. Goss spends his days teaching pre-school, but reserves his nights and weekends for breaking hearts & epic partying. He hails from Stone Mountain, Ga., and is the hottest member of the band.

Iron Jayne is now Pyramyds.

Links

Facebook / Pyramyds

Powerkompany | It’s Not the Last (Official Video) from Landon Donoho on Vimeo.

Bio

Clad in black, red hair tousling in the wind, Powerkompany’s Marie Davon is a pixie engulfed by emerald waters and ancient mountains. The deep thrum of her baritone ukulele vibrates back and forth through time. She’s dreaming. She’s awake. She’s on an ivy-choked front porch in Athens, Ga., bandmate Andrew Heaton at her side. Shazzan! He is the gleaming other half of that golden Arabian ring, the missing piece to her creative jigsaw puzzle—towering, dusky, his leather boots stomping between guitar strums while cicadas and surging electricity create a hypnotic rhythm track.

For the band’s debut LP, I Am More Than This, Powerkompany has channeled a brand new set of songs… futuristic, nostalgic, electric—high-voltage ghosts flailing in the current. Davon’s voice cascades like a waterfall over them one minute and the next punctures eardrums as if Cupid’s arrow to an unsuspecting heart. It is Dolly Parton’s frail warble filtered through Warhol’s Factory, the sound of tiny incandescent angels trapped like butterflies in a moonshine mason jar. On the new record, Davon’s inventive melodies are draped by sonic tapestries that unfurl in Fibonacci spirals, as if the band had just peeled 1960s Phil Spector from a tinfoil time capsule, held a gun to his head and demanded he update the Wall of Sound for a new generation.

While I Am More Than This scrolls, Davon and Heaton walk arm in arm through the blinking city, wooden hearts glued together at the seams, loping beats marching them past cinematic vistas of a New South. Theirs is a world of fragile, triumphant daydream pop, sips of Stoli, pale blue lights, never-ending goodbyes and fanciful Catherine-wheel anthems, the latter’s flaming pinwheels illuminating man, woman and machine—acoustic serenity, cacophonous synths. Davon’s verses seep like blood from a pinprick. She’s a medium, a vessel for these songs, which materialize for the prolific writer about as often as the sun rises. Some are terrible, she says, and some are good. She plays them for Andrew. She trusts his feedback. He is her mirror. He sculpts her ideas—twisting knobs, shifting chords, filling in plot holes between her cryptic lines. Together, they are scientists, alchemists, creative escapists, their buoyant soundscapes transporting them far from the pressures of now. Their music and lyrics are the dance of the corporeal and incorporeal—dualistic panoramas of truth, space-dark and earthbound, lush green and crumbling brown.

Once upon a time, before it was a band name, Powerkompany was Davon’s AIM handle and the main vehicle for communication between her and her musician brother, Paul. The two were close friends and constant collaborators. She loved him dearly. Nine years ago, when Paul was just 20, he committed suicide. The experience was earth-shattering for Davon, forever changing her life. All of the music she’s made since then—including Powerkompany’s new record—is dedicated to Paul. She sees her body of work as an ongoing conversation with him, a way of continuing their relationship, which—even these days—is far from one-sided. When she writes, Davon explains, something happens. Suddenly, a song is just there. She’s doesn’t know if it’s from her brother. She just feels very close to him when she creates and performs. And she thinks having that outlet, and being able to keep their connection alive, has kept her alive.

Before Powerkompany, Davon played pretty-as-a-picture orchestra pop with Venice Is Sinking, and Heaton double-stopped up a storm, fiddling bluegrass with the Packway Handle Band. On the precipice of the divergent worlds of indie rock and Americana, the two found each other, arms outstretched, muses in full astral synch. Their new band formed to play a birthday party. From there, it beat on, hastened by the current, borne forward ceaselessly into the future. Which is where one goes to find hope, freedom, possibility—something more than this.

For Heaton, his musical partnership with Davon has provided an outlet for his more serious, dramatic side. In 2011, they made a spontaneous EP called Comfort. It captures the band in zygote form, as it searches the recesses of outer and inner space for itself, settling on an ethereal black-and-white sound, the aural equivalent of Ansel Adams’ stark landscape photography. A set of daring remixes, Pulse, was released the following year. Now, I Am More Than This (out April 30), finds Powerkompany moving in a relatively terrestrial, sepia-toned direction. That said, the band’s eponymous studio, where they recorded the new album, is still an other place, somewhere between Twin Peaks’ Black Lodge, a Vegas casino and the bridge of starship. There are no windows. When you’re inside, you can’t really tell where you are, or whether it’s day or night. It’s new, sleek, clean, awash in tiny rows of flashing lights like a bustling metropolis on final descent from the night sky. You can hear it in the music.

The songs on I Am More Than This were written by Davon during a tumultuous three-month span, a period of motion and transition—moving to a different house, connecting with strange new people and processing all of the wild, perspective-shifting experiences. As a result, the record is frenetic—at times angry, blindsided and defiant, but also obsessed with freedom and new beginnings. It is the sound of turning a corner, of better things to come. When Powerkompany incorporates futuristic elements into its sound, or looks forward in its songs, Davon says, it’s because the future makes her feel hopeful. And if you’re making hopeful music, perhaps you can inspire other people to see the future as hopeful, too. It all goes back to her brother’s death, and a desire to give people in similarly bleak situations something to hold on to.

A lot of the songs on the new record were written to have an anthemic optimism, Heaton says. Lead single “Not the Last” is a perfect example. The song is in E flat major, a historically triumphant key—the key of love and devotion, of intimate conversation with God. From Beethoven’s Emeperor Concerto to Bruckner’s Fourth Symphony and Strauss’ Hero’s Life, the explosive “Not the Last” and its trumpet-like fanfare are tied to an ancient tradition of bold and courageous sounds.

It’s all of a piece with the record’s multi-layered, wide-open title. The phrase—I am more than this—popped into Davon’s head after seeing a friend’s gorgeous illustration of a sad panda bear. But it wasn’t the bear itself she was interested in, it was the intense emotion she felt while looking at the drawing. “You guys are treating me like shit!” it seemed to scream. “But I’m more than what I appear to be.” The whole record is tied together in that one line—I am more than this. Depending on context, it’s a  refusal to be casually filed away; aggression and anger at the world for not offering the benefit of the doubt, and at one’s self over perceived shortcomings and failures; it’s an aching, deeply sincere plea for human connection, acceptance and understanding; a cry of hope and determination, to carry on, to be a more complete version of one’s self.

I Am More Than This—both the record and the idea behind it—is a challenge. It hurls a gauntlet at our feet, begging us see music and each other in a new, more open way.

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