HEY SHOLAY

In the beginning there was a song. The sound pleased us, and in the infinitely greedy mould of man we decided we would like another. Again we were pleased, and again we wanted more. On this went, and before long we were overrun with sounds and phrasings, tempos and signatures until it became apparent that everything in life must serve a purpose, and these ditties were treading water. So it was that a selection was made; nine of the finest raised above the rest to be all they could ever be. 

This would not be possible without assistance however, and several months ago - in a clandestine meeting behind an orange grove with a man dressed as a rather convincing elk - it was decided that we should venture west to find our calling. Bags were packed, goodbyes were tearfully exchanged and into the raft we climbed. Shoving off in Torquay we hoped the current might sweep us towards the Americas before our rations of space food were diminished. Three tubes of squeezie-cheese later we could neither make out the shores of home behind us nor the flickering torch of Lady Liberty ahead. Stranded and having damaged our oars to fend off a kraken, we were at the mercy of the deep. Fortunately one of us had anticipated the heat and packed a motorised hand fan. Though hot and unable to cool our faces, we were grateful that the small fan made a most suitable propellor. Months passed, beards grew and clothes frayed but maintained a consistent coverage in the appropriate areas thanks to Lou Ferrigno’s patented hulk design. The raft had developed an extremely slow puncture after a close run-in with a school of irritable tuna and a very lost goldfish, and by now had reduced to the size of a limp rubbery frisbee, threatening to finally overthrow its crew into the depths of the sea. That was when we ran ashore.

Seemingly surrounded by waves and rough seas it was decided that we were done for - prompting a lighthearted session of guessing which animal we were to be when reincarnated. As if from nowhere, and right before my turn to guess, we were driven headlong into a sprawling coast of sandy embankments. Dusting ourselves down it seemed entirely prudent to walk straight into the jungle with absolutely no effort beforehand to seek an alternate route or determine the risk factor from vague, cautionary tales told by villagers wary of outsiders. Unexpectedly the jungle proved to be but a very thick, soundproof barrier between the coast and the dense city beyond. A quick bowl of live squid was had by all as a small act of revenge towards the marauding kraken who had waylaid us on our journey. Communication proved difficult. We had overshot America quite considerably, somehow going so far west we had landed in the east. Knowing only one phrase of Mandarin Chinese, I asked the kindly man at the rollerblade store the best way to go west. We followed his directions, sightseeing from the great wall and seeking enlightenment in monasteries along the way, until we came to the central-western bamboo lowlands. The fastest route from here was up over the mountains, so we went up. For three days and nights we heard branches crack around us, watched birds fly away in droves, found mauled carcasses on our path wherever we turned or doubled back, but never did we see what stalked us until the fourth night. Black and white, big as a bear and bounding towards us with ravenous intent, you would be hard pressed to describe this panda as anything besides fierce. Backing us away from our encampment it became clear we were not the prey it searched for. From within our stereotypical, khaki hiking backpacks it took the bamboo and began to gnaw the shoots with its rear teeth. The panda finished every last morsel, rolling back and thanking us sincerely. 

For bringing him his favourite food, the panda decided he must do something to repay our kindness. Beyond arranging a private jet back to the UK, he also put us in touch with his cousins in London who would assist us in releasing our songs into the wild. As you read this, contracts are being scrutinised in dark rooms through magnifying glasses and the selected-songs are being mastered by a wizard at the zoo. 

DEBUT ALBUM COMING SOON

ON 

FIERCE PANDA RECORDS

LW 

Happy New Year everybody!!

Apologies for its belated delivery, and even more for the immense drought of tumblr-ing in the winter months. To call it a busy time would be an understatement, we have quite literally filled every waking second with music, artwork, touring, planning, haggling, repairing, replacing, commemorating, commiserating, celebrating and extrapolating as we near the final stages of completing our debut album. The release is still sans titre though not for the want of trying, so far I believe we are in the low thousands as we continuously try and fail to name the collected compositions. The most difficult decision by far has been what not to include, with our repertoire now far exceeding the reasonable limitations of even the most ambitious quota of delivered tracks. In short, we have too many songs. The decision was impossible, we could not choose one from the other and so we did the only reasonable thing we could. We wrote the names of every track on a piece of paper, which was placed inside an envelope with our home address and a first class stamp on the front. These envelopes were then attached to a single helium balloon each and released from the top of Hoober Stand, on a particularly windy day, and allowed to float across Yorkshire and beyond. It was quite simple from there, whichever track was returned to us in the post would be recorded that day, until we deemed the album complete. 

So, now I have excused my lack of tumblr activity, it would appear a recap of 2011 is in order. I will do my best to keep thing chronological, if not factual. 

2011 began in a humble fashion, a series of low key shows dominated the first few months, the highlight being our first major headliner at The Forum in Sheffield. To play a sold out venue in your hometown is always special, particularly as it was the first time I had ever noticed people singing the words to our songs, one enthusiastic audience member also made a defiant effort to sing along with two new songs, both played for the first time at that show and one for the last. Spring saw us continue this trend of incessant track rotation, many were played live and recorded only to be cast into the purgatory of the ‘B-side’ pile, cursed to be forever spoken of in the past tense. It was early April when we were approached by the good folk at Label Fandango who won our hearts with a few crafty nudges and winks before kindly agreeing to release our single in the summer.

Flash forward to June and out comes our debut single, the double A-side of Dreamboat // The Bears, The Clocks, The Bees. Championed by more than a hearty selection of our favourite blogs and publications, it felt like a rather successful little wave in the immense sea of music. With this came our first flirtations with national radio, exposed to the world in all our shame and glory on a regular basis by Steve Lamacq and his 6music show. The good folks at NME saw this as an opportune time to have their wicked way with us too, staging a mock kidnapping before bundling us aboard an airplane, chaining us to a radiator without food or water for three days before releasing us to play a set at EXIT festival in Serbia. Confusion arose as we arrived to find the country was as hot as all the weather reports had suggested, and was in-fact not a frozen wasteland as many people had warned us that a festival in Siberia might be. 

We returned from the hottest and most elaborately executed show of our lives in time to perform not once, not twice but thrice at Tramlines Festival in Sheffield, our second inner-city UK festival after our appearance in May for DiS at The Great Escape in Brighton. Thoroughly festivaled out of our minds it was time for a little bit of regular gigging again, and so we ventured down to London to once again visit the wonderful Club Fandango before trekking north to Scotland for a long weekend. Truly one the most underrated countries in the world.

The following month we were invited out to play Into The Great Wide Open, our final festival of the summer, on the island of Vlieland approximately 17 miles off the coast of The Netherlands. This was my personal favourite of the shows for the year if only for the complete unknown nature of the entire experience. Later that month we once more took a van as our home as we embarked on our first extensive tour of the UK, taking in 15 cities along the way as support to Crystal Antlers. 

Returning home tired, bearded and aching we had just enough time to change our clothes and brush our teeth before disappearing into the studio with our dear friend and long-term producer David Sanderson to begin work on what we thought might be an EP. The recordings morphed over time into a much larger project, eventually becoming what will be our debut album. Ironically, as we distanced ourselves from the civilised world, further enveloped in the depths of the recording studio, our track Wishbone was being banded around on Radio 1 for a week as part of their ‘Introducing’ initiative earning us an unexpected boost in profile.

As was detailed earlier, what has followed since has been a rather introvert period, playing the occasional show in Southampton, Preston, Brighton and, as a fitting send off to a great year, a Christmas show in Sheffield.

LW

HOLLAND SEPT 2011 pt. VII - AN ENDING (ASCENT)

Memory is not something you can touch or see. Its existence is not measurable or quantifiable, nor is it disputed. Try picturing a bird flying in the sky, we all see the blue background, maybe some indistinct white clouds or vapour trails left by passing airplanes, but yet we aren’t really seeing it, only what our mind thinks a flying bird looks like. This is not knowledge, evidence or fact; it is a form of creation, we design our own idea of how a thing happens, has happened and will happen. Unlike knowledge, memory is subjective to the individual. It is influenced by past experience, by what we notice and what we miss, by the angle at which we view an event, by our proximity to the sounds to go with the motions, by our willingness to accept the impossible or rationalise the fantastic… and most importantly by the number of people present who will correct you when you blatantly change details to improve the story.

You might be thinking to yourself at this point, why am i being served a delicious slice of perspective pie? You might also be asking why am i washing it down with a nice tall glass of information juice? Should i expect a serving of anecdote for desert? Perhaps. In all honesty I really have no idea where this one is going, but what i am essentially trying to say is that after two very hectic weeks recording our album and preparing to go on tour, some of the finer points of the trip might be ever-so-slightly lost to me…forever, resulting in some minor guesswork and full-blown exaggeration. So it is without further delay I bring to you the concluding instalment of our Netherlands odyssey. 

The morning passed with relatively little to report. An unexplained pillar of dirty smoke rose high up from the mainland less than mile from where we landed, distracting us just long enough to allow an unprovoked attack on our stuffed rabbit Andy. A rather confused little dog decided to bite the rabbit’s face, and though it did scare itself stupid for 30 to 45 seconds trying to understand why Andy did not move, the dog came to realise that those who embody death do not fear it. Once again we were on the road, heading towards a port to catch a ferry, and once more we were early. So early in-fact, that we decided to detour for the next 6 hours to Amsterdam. Having visited before, we were no strangers to what this city had to offer, culture and sleaze in equal measures. Fear not, we did not sully our reputations and honour by venturing into questionable establishments to engage in illicit activity, though judging by the general attitude of the, ahem, window-based under-dressed females of this particular district of Amsterdam it would seem difficult to draw their attention from their phones should you require their services at 3:30 on a monday afternoon. Having scoured the local record stores for hidden gems and consumed a few leisurely pints in the square, we set out onto the highways of Holland one final time. It would appear that we left at just the right time too as a nuclear bomb was detonated, destroying much of the surrounding area of the port. The blast almost caught up with us, but fortunately we managed to hit a ramp at top speed and land on the ferry which had been forced to leave early to avoid total destruction. So far this incident appears to have gone unreported due to a massive government cover up, but here at last is the only known photographic evidence. 

So there you have it, our short trip from beginning to end, unedited, unabridged and unlikely to be made into a major motion picture anytime soon.

LW

HOLLAND SEPT 2011 pt. VI - FESTIVAL

We awoke to find all of us had made it back unscathed, save for a few items of clothing which were sand encrusted and still dripping with last night’s rain, and it was not long before we were reminded of our early afternoon obligation, in which two of us were summoned for an impromptu acoustic session. The session went down swimmingly, as did the remaining three of us, who went swimming. Later, we made the trip along last nights route back towards the festival, this time in the daylight and able to see so much that we missed. We watched bands, ate food, exchanged pleasantries with friends from the beach and once again ran into our old pal Dave Driver (remember him?) who had a whole fish and a baguette for his lunch. A combination favoured by many, though i never actually saw how anyone actually went about eating this. Did they make sandwiches? Was the fish still full of entrails and bones? Presumably so, since it had a head. One day i intend to know everything, starting with this.

The festival area itself was designed to look like a fort, surrounded by wooden tied fencing with a large sentry station positioned centrally. It all had a very homemade feel to it, with all of the signs and adornments of each area hand-painted and incredibly individual. Relatively small in comparison to many festivals i had been to previously, it seemed fitting for this island i had never heard of to hold a festival that felt so exclusive it could be secret. When entering the main arena you were asked to show your wristband and had your bag checked in an apologetic manner by a group of half a dozen polite and welcoming young ladies. This is perhaps the polar opposite of entering Exit Festival as we had done earlier this summer in Serbia, where upon arrival you are greeted by two armed police who hear English and reload their machine guns. 

The last night of the festival wrapped up early, as did we due to our early boat back to the mainland the next day.

LW

HOLLAND SEPT 2011 pt. V -  ITS NOT DARK YET, BUT IT’S GETTING THERE…

It was a moment of pure cinematic serendipity, a night drifting away so seamlessly that each person present might never have felt the need to return back to their tents, hotels and other overnight establishments. Some might call it divine intervention, others the handiwork of the devil, the truth being that we simply neglected to check the weather reports for that night. But whatever the influence, it was the effects which we felt. 

With an ominous crack the thunder rolled in across the seas, a few singular drops of rain fell, and as we all stood open palmed, staring aimlessly upwards in unison, the downpour arrived in tremendous style. Without warning or delay the rains fell, large heavy drops bombarding the masses who scattered desperately towards the narrow pathway to escape the exposed terrain of the beach. Perhaps the drama has been cranked in my mind but to me it felt like the first night scene in Jurassic Park, at any moment i expected to see a man on a toilet being devoured whole by a T-Rex. As we came over the brow of the hill towards the makeshift civilisation of tents and temporary structures the first bolt of lightning struck, and for a split-second there we all stood, our drenched clothes hanging off us, shoes caked in wet sand and it was bright as day. This particular split-second did have another half however, and the light continued to flood our senses until it became too bright, until it was all that there was, total whiteness, the purest sight. Then the light was gone, back to the dim glow of infrequent streetlamps whose area of coverage did not overlap, leaving us to drop in and out of intermittent circles of dull yellow directly below them. As the saturated herd neared the foot of the hill it began to disperse into two categories, those who knew where they were going and those who didn’t. We were the latter. Taking temporary respite under the cover of the De Bolde backstage area we now realised the prospect of what lay ahead of us, navigating through the darkness and woodlands back to our hotel. 

The rain had stopped but that did not spare us, wet and exposed to the elements we began along the pathway. After a brief stint along an incorrect route we soon found our bearings and were at least able to head in what we unanimously sort-of-thought was pretty much the right direction. So then we walked, and we walked, and we walked. The edge of each side of the road was marked with the towering trees belonging to the masses of forest and wilderness sprawling beyond. The braver of us dared look out into the forests for a brief moment, but there was nothing human eyes could see. The darkness was too thick, if anyone or anything was in there, they are either completely without sight, or so attuned to the darkness they have been watching us all the way. Our thought wandered onto the subject of ‘what ifs’. What if there was something in there? A wolf? A bear? It’s hard to know how to carry yourself when in this mindset. On one hand you want to stay quiet, hope you don’t attract attention. On the other, nervous conversation drowns out the noises you keep hearing, the distinct sounds that perhaps a wolf or a murderer would make. Not wanting to contradict our pre-historic urges to remain calm and macho in moments of adversity, we also had to keep finding legitimate reasons to need to speak to whoever was at the centre of our walking line, forcing us to abandon our position at the edge. This bout of underpants-ruining mind games went on for the best part of 45 minutes before we noticed our hotel name on the bus stops, whose route we followed until houses and safety were once again the constructs of our surroundings.

LW

HOLLAND SEPT 2011 pt. IV - THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

So here it is, the centrepiece of our most eloquent banquet, the diamond set within the most lavish ring, the first edition of Moby Dick in a library full to bursting with modern classics, the priceless Picasso in a museum of masterpieces, the… well you get the point. The gig itself is something special, yet the spectacular nature of every other aspect of this trip makes the show feel like a piece to a bigger puzzle rather than the defining moment it so often embodies in more underwhelming circumstances. Before we know it we are exiting the stage in triumphant fashion, applause ensues, a handful of eager onlookers approach for merchandise and general kudos, and then we humbly retreat back into our roles as patrons of the festival, our brief stint as the focal point completed and relinquished.

Here i feel i must digress from the narrative slightly to discuss a phenomena that was experienced throughout the weekend for the first time, particularly for the days following our performance. Being recognised. We have all been approached following a show as it is quite easy to spot the heavily sweating gentleman who was on stage in front of you only moments earlier, though it is quite unusual for us to be recognised hours and days later in multiple settings with no excessively overt signs of us being a band, which is no mean feat giving our regular press photos often hide our faces in some way. At this point i must point out that should you be imagining the opening scenes to “A Hard Days Night” you are gravely mistaken. Think more like you are shopping in Tesco and are wearing a plain white shirt and some well pressed black trousers, you have finished work less than ten minutes earlier and decided to pop in on your way home as your bus isn’t for another 20 minutes and although there is another bus you can catch you know that you don’t have any good food in the house, plus the other bus stops near the local shops and walking past there these days would mean walking past a group of young people, and although they aren’t going to do anything its just awkward trying not to make eye contact incase they engage in a bit of name calling or maybe throw yoghurt on you? So anyway, you are in Tesco and an old lady sees you in your smart clothes, she ambles over, shoulders hunched, head slightly tilted upwards, her gaze darting between yourself and the jar of bland pasta sauce she is thrusting in your direction, you double take at her, glance behind you and realise you are all alone. Just you and Grandma. She inquires as to the price of the sauce. No problem. Question answered without highlighting her error in assuming you are an employee of the supermarket, feelings spared, no harm done. But wait, in she swoops again, this time asking if you could could see if there are any more in the back. You freeze. A moment passes and the silence is only broken momentarily by you stumbling for words. Her diminished eyesight thankfully spares her from the sight of the beads of sweat tumbling down your forehead. The fallacy is exposed as you capitulate from within, you come clean, admit your deception and shatter her entire belief in her own ability to recognise a person for what they are. 

Tragic isn’t it? The essence of what i intended to express here might have been slightly lost somewhere along the way, so i will rephrase. My personal belief is that in any instance where we were recognised, i would attribute it to our appearance as a group of five 20-something males dressed in band-like attire, speaking English at a Dutch festival, and despite this being flattering, lets not get carried away!

Whilst i was distracting you with this unnecessary trip down ‘we aren’t famous yet’ lane, several hours have passed. The sights, smells, textures and tastes of the festival have been sampled and we are now stood atop a hill. Behind us, looking left to right, lay a series of tents scattered lightly over the fields where the majority of the festival-goers call home for the weekend. Beside this stands the De Bolde stage where we had played earlier that day, and beyond there was a darkened hallway made of trees and parked bicycles leading to the Main Arena of the festival. Shadows fell over any remaining sights to be seen behind us, and in front was yet more darkness. We had stood in this exact spot several hours earlier, looking out into the sea, beyond a golden beach in the searing heat. It was difficult to imagine this was all still there, just invisible. We headed down onto the beach, walking out beyond the point where the tide had settled during the day, each footstep sinking a little further into the wet sand. Along the beach were small campfires every few hundred yards, each with its own captive audience and set of folk songs to please those gathered. Long into the small hours we sat with hundreds of other people whose faces were only clear should they get close enough to want to see yours, and everyone was so calm, relaxed and peaceful. The wind held no chill and there seemed no reason to ever leave. This was of course until the storm came.

LW

HOLLAND SEPT 2011 pt. III - INTO THE GREAT WIDE OPEN

Gear aboard? Check. Band aboard? Check. Andy the stuffed rabbit* aboard? Check. Or so we assumed our Dutch-speaking water taxi pilot had checked… fortunately all were aboard before we hit speeds normally reserved for re-entry from space across the coastal waves of Harlingen. Moments later we were out to sea, the land just a whisper of shapes on a shrinking horizon pressing further behind us by the second, and now we lean against the side of our private water taxi, look out into the sea, wave to the passing boats and take stock for the first time in a very long summer. 45 minutes to feel like rock stars before we hit reality again. This is for every drive in the rain, every gig playing to only the support band, every payment which was less than what it cost to get there, every burst practice room water pipe, every dropped synth, every broken string, every stolen bass amp, every faulty projector, every burst tyre, every crashed car, every warm beer, every sleep in the van, every faulty sat-nav, every lost job, every angry girlfriend, every disappointed parent, every late night, every early morning… 

And like all moments of reflection in life, it was ended with a bump, or to be precise two bumps, as our pilot  / driver / captain (?) had neglected to apply the boat version of a handbrake and left us brushing lazily against the wall of the Vlieland port. Another loaded van later and we were off to our hotel with what turned out to be our first recurring character of the trip, Dave Driver. “wow” i hear you say “what a coincidence that he is a driver and his surname is driver”. yes it is a coincidence isn’t it…and its also my story, now leave it. 

A brief nod of the head, stroke of the beard and general approval of our accommodation later and we were once again whisked forth by our new found van-based buddy. Onwards to The De Bolde Stage for the entire reason we have come this far.

* those of you with an inhuman amount of free time may have found yourselves browsing older entries of our blog, at which time you may have heard reference to Mr Baritone Bunny. You would be correct in believing this to be the very same rabbit as is referred to herein as ‘Andy’. How can i explain this anomalous duplicity of identity? 

Andy = Baritone Bunny

Paul David Hewson = Bono

Get it?

LW

HOLLAND SEPT 2011 pt. II - A SCHWARZ NIGHT

Aboard the ferry we laboured through the inevitable references to infamous nautical disasters to bring about some sort of anti-jinx which operates under the same rules and regulations as a birthday wish, if you say it out loud it will not come true.

Satisfied that we were not to perish in the north sea on this particular occasion, we settled on the deck to take in the surprising warmth of the british coast circa 11pm. It was there that we met an interesting gentleman by the name of Michael Schwarz, though he did us the courtesy of translating his name. Regaling us with tales of his occupation and musical preferences, Michael Black soon whittled away our remaining journey time leaving us to stumble to our rooms with barely a wink of sleep left to be had. What seemed like moments later we were awoken from our pleasant and motion-free slumber by an announcement thrust into the heart of each and every cabin. The message was delivered in a calm, robotic, female voice with no discernible dialect to speak of, the kind of voice most commonly associated with safety videos only found aboard modes of transport where survival in an emergency is comparable in likelihood to being volleyed by a farmyard animal into a bolt of lightning… or so i’m told.

Early morning drives often fail to inspire me, a fact i believe is equal parts formulated from my own desire to sleep through the first grey of the day and equally by how little i have witnessed at that time of day to alter my mindset. My first impression of the Netherlands was an understated one, miles of flatlands which didn’t seem to lead anywhere, much like the vastness of Norfolk, the last place i stared at through a window. This was soon replaced with a more fitting wonder reserved for the unknown, from the subtleties of unfamiliar international architecture down to driving on the opposite side of the road, it was becoming more apparent that our comfort zone was a long forgotten memory. Shaken from the temporary haze of a light sleep and a long night we arrived at the port of Harlingen to board the water taxi which would soon propel us towards the Island of Vlieland.

LW

HOLLAND SEPT 2011 pt. I - ON A HIGHWAY TO HARWICH

Ordinarily we are running late.

Quite often our arrival will fall victim to traffic, unrealistic timescales and poor time management. So, for our Dutch debut we thought a colossal overestimation of the required travelling time would ensure there would be no such incident. However, we neglected to accept that our fates are not in our own hands, but instead are the plaything of an interplanetary astral-projecting orb that decides the fate of all mankind through oscillation and resonation. And so it was that on this particular day we began our four hour journey to the southern port of Harwich with eight hours to spare before departure, an overly cautious attempt to pre-empt all unforseeables which is practically begging the universe to cook up an intervening occurrence… we laid out our stall, and the universe duly obliged to answer. 

After getting some serious miles under our belts we hit a snaking queue of traffic positioned parallel to a slip road designated for entry to a horse show, which we originally believed to be the cause of the delay…a fair assumption at the time, but laughable in hindsight considering the traffic eventually spanned a large enough portion of the country to be visible from space. This particular delay was eventually identified as the result of a light aircraft being grounded after clipping a power line, an incident in which, unfortunately, the pilot did not survive. This news filtered through slowly to ourselves and other stranded members of the endless queue, many of whom were contemplating detours and abandonment of their plans (or vehicles), while others settled into a quiet rage and frustration. 

One can only imagine the thoughts drifting in and out of the hundreds of minds trapped inside their overheating, petrol-desperately-needing, kids-screaming-in-the-back-while-dad-grinds-his-teeth cars. Some would dream of being so rich that for some reason traffic was never an issue again, presumably the wealthy only travel at off-peak times. Others were anxiously craning their necks and double taking at watches in acts of futility, edging their car inches closer to the static bumper in front, or creeping across to the equally stationary traffic queue in the other lane, all the while rapping their fingers across steering wheels and dashboards to accompany the perpetual hum of surrounding engines with the tiny gallop of four restless fingers.

Looking back we perhaps squandered an opportunity to play to a crowd of hundreds who would have had no choice but to watch us, but who might also have been so drained of patience we could have been playing holland a member down…

And so it was, as is the case with many of my most memorable run-ins with heavy traffic, that we shuffled along at a rate of barely an inch per minute for what seemed an eternity until we eventually filed down into a single lane… guided most ably by the freshly assembled curvature of cones on the motorway, and at a time like this to see cones on the motorway means you are close to where everything has gone wrong. A brief stint of rubbernecking later and the masses of motorists were sent forth to spill into the capillaries of Norfolk in all directions, scrambling to be the first to re-establish the most time-effective route to their destination. With this newfound freedom we set about the peripheral access routes of Peterborough to weave our way back to the desolate carriageways of the A1, miles beyond the scene of the accident, and cruise onwards with the setting sun on our backs down to the port of Harwich to catch our ferry in good, but not great time.

LW

ordovicianfauna:

Hand-cut paper and wood sculptures by Jen Stark

fer1972:

Dark Skies by CUR3ES