"I don't think about it in terms of 'here we go into the dark thicket of audacity' you know?" Cline laughs. "We are playing our music together for people who are aware and share in this anger. We have to get through it and music helps us transcend a lot of these anxieties."

"I think we're sharing positivity, not just disseminating it."

Read the full interview in Detroit Metro Times HERE





"To compare, Asciutto is a former American Idol runner-up, days away from the release of her debut full-length record, Cold Fame, a remarkably well-rounded collection that flirts with the space between spotlight and darkness. (The record was released earlier this month on Original 1265 Recordings, a label launched by the Detroit Institute of Music Education.) Meanwhile, I had just received an overdraft notification from my bank stating that my account is currently in the red by $14. Asciutto is unabashedly optimistic about the future. Yet I can't help but find myself a bit callused, bitter, and resentful of her endless supply of ambition and positivity, and her blindingly white teeth. In this moment, I feel old."


" I think I know who you are. Yeah. So,  I fucked your ex boyfriend once after karaoke in the summer and your best friend is now sleeping with my ex and my ex used to live with that guy you slept with last Halloween who then went on to fuck that girl from that one band who was clearly sleeping with that guy I thought looked like Anderson Cooper while we were breaking up and now he's apparently trying to get with your roommates girl because my friend saw her out and said she was doing blow with someone in the mens room at UFO and when you were seeing that girl with the weird eyebrows around your birthday she ended up posting some shit on instagram about being single when she clearly wasn't and that's how my ex ended up fucking her at that shitty art party in southwest where I heard that the drummer you and I fucked last year brought his new girlfriend who had just broken up with that fucker from that non-profit that I slept with around Christmas who stopped talking to me I think because he heard I was blowing the guy who works at MCW on weekends  Oh. Wait. Were you at that satanist thing a few months back? Or was it that warehouse after party thrown by that one guy I lived with in B.E?  I think I saw you at DIB that morning I was there with the guy with the dirty Carhartt and the Nazi haircut. Cool, cool. That's chill. So, do you live in Detroit?"


Since being smacked across the mouth during sex a few months ago (and liking it) I’ve recalculated my intimacy parameters. Romance has become an inconvenience.  Neglect has become the norm. Sincerity is now sinister.  I held his hand from across the bar table once and that was the last time I gave permission to such grand perversion, an intimacy reserved only for those who are truly capable of hurting me. This is why walls are built. Not because of the fucking or public bathroom indiscretions but rather the weight of their hand in mine, palm to palm, true closeness. I haven't made love since I stopped believing there was a difference. 

I drove past his house twice; once by force of loose intent and then again by unbridled instability. I wasn’t running early to work, but I wasn’t late either. There was just enough time to fulfill both my predatory desire to do something wrong and my unmatched need to hate myself. Possessed by sunrise I was starved for a glimpse of his shitty truck and his shitty house and the shitty life that I would have liked to be a part of.  This was a momentary lapse in sanity, although not my first run in with losing control or silent pledges of passion. I came to a stop just after the driveway, craning my neck to see if this particular, erratic still life was as I left it. It was. Except I wasn't making my early morning escape down the patio stairs, smoothing my bed head, smiling like an idiot with a secret. Instead, I lingered and stared from the passenger window (also like an idiot) waiting to be magically transported to the bed in the room behind the very walls I found myself lingering and staring at. The semi truck behind me halted to a confused stop and let out an exasperated sigh of smoke or steam or whatever it is comes out of the tops of trucks, hissing impatiently. My uninvited voyeur trance was broken and suddenly I felt as though my parents had just caught me masturbating, ashamed but mostly frustrated that I wasn't able to finish. Morning sun spilled over the house and quickly fell out of view as I jerked the car into drive, a speckled mess of goodbye. 

So I adjust. We adjust. We fill various emptinesses with people, pills and parties and pseudo comforts so at the end of our day we feel like we might matter. It's not cowardly to hurt someone just because you've been hurt. It's learned survival. It's sad, yes, but it's survival. Not of the fittest or smartest but survival of the broken. We share in our battered pasts, silently comparing bruises and scars under hazy bar room light, wondering if our bodies will make room for more.