The Media

Expanding discourse about inclusion, access, and punk / by Sean Gray

I grew up in the typical suburban town of Ellicott City, Maryland. At 15 I started getting interested in punk, but I only had one friend who was actually in a band. I listened to his shitty demo tape in my room all the time; eventually, he invited me to a show he was playing. It was at some old church that turned into a DIY venue on Fridays. I had read about these kinds of shows but never experienced them. Like a lot of kids, I’d only ever been to arena shows. The idea that you could on a show yourself-- that people would come-- seemed unreal.

My father dropped me off at the show. Standing outside, I took everything in. The people hanging outside the venue; the bands loading in. It felt different. Instantly I knew this was something I wanted to take part in. I didn’t really know anyone here and my friends were already inside. I could hear the band starting and made my way to the entrance. I looked up. I couldn’t get in. There were three flights of stairs.

I have Cerebral Palsy, or what is commonly referred to as CP. Simply put, CP is a kind of brain damage that can affect everything from walking to

talking. It is believed that like many I developed CP at childbirth. Around age two or three, my parents and doctors noticed I wasn’t hitting certain milestones typical of my age, and after some testing I was diagnosed. I was extremely lucky-- it only affected my ability to walk, and certain motor skills. I used a walker at age four. Like many with a disability, I learned how to adjust to the world around, though there wasn’t really much “adjusting.” This disability was my world, and I’ve never known otherwise.

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I went to a public school. I entered at a young age and was able to grow with my peers. For some, growing up with a disability might mean extreme loneliness or disconnect from your community. I’ve luckily never felt that way. I wasn’t active as most able-bodied children, but, for the most part, I never had to deal with being the “other” too much.

My father had a huge record collection and made sure I knew it. From age six he showed me everything from the Ramones to Yes. At eight, my father bought me my . . .

MOM BABY GOD

Rebuilding a radical theater tradition / by Madeline Burrows

In January 2013, I shaved my legs, put on some lip gloss, and attended Students for Life of America Conference, a real day-long conference held annually

outside of Washington, D.C. I am fairly confident that among the 2,000 attendees, I was the only reproductive justice activist, socialist, and . . .

I CAN'T CREATE, I HATE IT HERE

Stream "White Flag" the new single from Philly's Slutever / by Faye Orlove

I had the awesome fortune of meeting Slutever in Boston last summer when they slept in my living room after a show at PA's Lounge. I was in a really crappy mood, and most of what I remember was sitting in a corner eating pizza Lunchables while a roomful of babes laughed a lot and passed around a spliff I kept declining. Fortunately, since then, I've gotten to spent more time with Slutever and quickly discovered that the Philly grunge duo might just be the coolest girls in the world.

This winter they're releasing a new single, "White Flag," as a flexi-disk [full disclosure: I designed the cover] on Quiet Year records. The song is an angsty withdrawal from a uninspiring environment and you can stream it for the first time here. Below is my interview with Slutever's Rachel Gagliardi and Nicole Snyder about the song, about Philadelphia, and about getting away.

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I feel like you stole these lyrics from my diary/tweet drafts/inner monologue. Who wrote them?

Nicole: I did. I think the first line I wrote for this song actually did come from a tweet draft...

Is the song more or less about Philly?

Rachel: I didnt write the song so it's hard for me to say, but I will say we recorded it at a very transitionary time. Nicole had decided to move to Seattle and we both had grown pretty . . .