High

High

BandRockJam

High. Melodic psychedelia took a wrong turn smacking into a solid formation of dense, ultra-pissed honeybees. There is no shoegazing, or moping allowed in High. Don’t get comfortable with the hooks and melodies; for the sky may open up and rain down shards of noisy ice directly into your earhole.

Biography

What is it about the Pacific Northwest that makes
it’s residents so crazy
and weird? What is it about this mildewed patch? One
doesn’t have to walk
far from the backyard to experience the creeping
menace found in the woods,
the soul-cracking expansiveness and desolation in
the desert, or the hollow
feeling in the stomach one grows accustomed to when
living between angry
volcanic peaks and the hopeless eternity of that
cold ocean. Perhaps it’s
this residence in an area where four distinct
ecosystems wallop into one
another that fucks up the brains equilibrium. Is it
any wonder that the
music emanating from Earth’s wet end is instantly
recognizable as only being
able to come from here?
High comes from a time before kids needed to wear
psuedogoth makeup to
identify themselves as practitioners of pussy
emoting punk. They aren’t
about to fake a suicide on some broads lawn to find
attention. Likewise,
they aren’t about to dress like Mexican Hip-Hoppers
while crying like
Coldplay. Music isn’t about therapy. It’s about
moving the body, moving the
mind, joyous ecstatic journeys for the soul. There
was a time before
post-grunge, emo, nu-metal and Bright Eyes when kids
took drugs. And had
sex. And practiced occult rituals, that usually
involved drugs and sex. That
was a good time to grow up. No one cared about
fashion. To look like
everyone else wasn’t cool. Punk was the ability to
have good taste, not a
store at the mall. A time when a good night involved
hot unprotected sex on
acid with psychedelic rock playing loud on the
stereo, not limp handjobs
with tears for lube and the drug of choice is
swapping each other’s SSRI’s
while reading passages from each other’s internet
diaries. Youthful hedonism
versus the pussification of young adulthood. High
says fuck that and fuck
you.
So let’s explore the sound of High. They ARE that
psychedelic band on the
stereo when you pull your teenage panties down
around your ankles. They are
there to put images in your mind, images of heat
waves rising from the
desert , a desert space-ritual, where your naked
mud-caked body detaches
from your brain. Your essence leaves your dying form
and you are pure, as
pure as you were at birth. The electric-erotic
tingles your non-physically
bonded form, and you are able to become the
superhuman you always wanted to
be, ageless, powerful, sexy and violent.
But all good things can never last, and this
self-induced gnosis comes
crashing back down to earth, its dark now. Your
boatman knows what must
happen. get the fuck out of the desert, WE MUST MAKE
OCEAN BY DAYBREAK. You
barely remember the trees on that mountain pass ,
speeding to that icy
expanse, cleanse the gods’ fingerprints from your
body, there is hope in
haste. Smokestack Lightning, the city passes like a
hazy frozen ghost and
sleep takes hold.
“eat some more, let’s get strange.” You’re dancing
on string you porky
fucking puppet, what did you think, you could
control this? You better keep
swaying in the breeze like a swamp tree before your
mind shatters. And when
it does you might like it. You found the candy under
the dancer and the
ocean beckons with a cleansing. Twirl with all your
might until the sun
shoots stars into your veins and the trees are
backwards, you have reached
madness, your eyes are gone, looking into the back
of your pink skull.
The beach is empty, you scared the birds away. You
stink, confused and
alone. Now you have an excuse to eat Prozac. To
write internet poetry and
see a shrink. Not because the TV tells you, but
because you really are
damaged, according to society. High welcomes you to
them. Just know what
it is that you really want before you hug back.
It was a great time to grow up. A great place too.

“Buy the ticket, take the ride. - Hunter S.
Thompson”

“It will make you a stronger human”
Dr. Meyer ‘06

Lyrics

desert

Written By: J.L. Barker

We wake up at twilight to watch the cold wind blow the night out from the sky

The stars are breathing the sun up revealing a blanket of brutal orange and bloody red

And casting the shadows that have been chasing us; across a white hot desert in search of his home

Feel like I'm slowly slipping away
Dragging me down under the sand
Mescalito has his way
and the desert wins again

Walking through golden grains of time we find a little slit a hole in time

The winds are screaming shards of glass a blue hued door into his world at last

Eyes are melting down our face as were purging up bottons and heaving up our souls

the Desert wins again...

boatman

Written By: J.L. Barker

Darkness Darkness
Shrouds you like a blanket

Nightmares Nightmares
Clothed in a spechters shadow

Coldness Coldness
ripping the breath and life out from me

Hang down your head little frightened one
hang down your head and don't you look the boat man in the eyes

hold out your hand little frightened one Hold out your hand and Put your shiny coin into his hand

Into the darkness of Death my friend
Into the darkness or wander the shores of Acheron for good

The Shadow of Death will consume us all The spechters are howling for in his boat you never will return.

Discography

www.highmusic.org

http://www.myspace.com/bandhigh

Set List

45 minutes to 1 1/2 hours