Genre: Indie Rock // Released: 2017
I remember things that I have business remembering. I remember things that are strangely specific and serve no purpose other than adding another aspect to a memory. It might be that it helps me connect to it easier, yet the last thing I desire is for it to remain in my head, its lingering ghost consistently roving about whenever a single thought drifts towards it. The crux of the occurrence is unchanged; I still ran out of a crowded room, I still ended up on a street corner in the cold winter of the Appalachian outskirts, I still got picked up by a patrolling police car, I was still at in a room where I heard the same comments as I’ve always heard, and I still ended up in my dorm—no escort or assistance other than a throwaway recommendation. But what constantly reappears during this recollection is that while curled up in a fetal position, rocking back and forth in a torn sweatshirt that hardly protected against the lowering temperature, I repeated to myself the same phrase: “It’s no cold.” I kept count and reached 121 utterances of this hollow mantra before the officers came by, doubtlessly believing I was yet another drunk college student out of control. Though the former was false, the latter was as specific as my condition at the time could be.
This was the second panic attack I ever had in my entire life. Considering the prior episode found me staring at the ground from a seven-story structure, I can gloss over it with some trademark dark humor, laugh and say that I had improved. The reason this emerges when discussing A Black Mile to the Surface is because anxiety is written across every song. That plague infects each number presented by Manchester Orchestra on their magnum opus. A series of tightly-constructed, reserved indie/alt-rock constructions, while outwardly uplifting or at least lacking harshness in their sonic output, are simply masquerading as something they’re not—an individual having total influence over their mental faculties. For the record at hand, the narrative revolves around the uncertainty of transitioning from a man to a father, attempting to cope with past demons that threaten the upbringing of this new, innocent child. Underneath that story are overarching themes that are relatable to any listener that accesses the material exhibited: inadequacy, fear, nervousness, depression, and even love—the attachment to a significant other, a devotion one performs as best as they can despite viewing themselves as not enough.
Proper introduction “The Gold” acts as that initial sensation of excitement and infatuation that happens in the beginning of a relationship or incredible change. The downward slope that occurs gradually afterwards is what makes A Black Mile to the Surface such an immersive, stellar experience that envelops its audience in its omnipresent darkness. The earworm choruses and heavily-layered vocals endure, but they are recontextualized regularly. The warning synth of “Lead, SD”—a siren wailing in the background—punctuates the heavier track, with Andy Hull’s singing sounding desperate rather than hopeful. Then there is the acoustic-led “The Alien,” which features Hull scaled back amidst a somber, pensive atmosphere fitting for the reflective lyricism. Its understated climax and subsequent conclusion is gorgeous to behold; it is as if a terrible memory rose to the surface, provoking an unavoidable moment of introspection, before quietly fading off, prepared to return whenever it’s activated again.
If the thesis of the disc was to be liberally condensed, it would doubtlessly lie in “The Grocery” and “The Wolf.” This is not to take credit away from the massive finale that is “The Silence,” as its near 7-minute duration and explosive crescendo is a massive spectacle. In the final lines of the titanic song, Hull is at his strongest vocally and lyrically, his voice resonating like a man desperate to make a positive impact in his life or the life of another. The pair aforementioned, however, fit together immaculately when regarding their thematic and sonic content. Inside the tale of the LP, this is where the main character encounters their breakdown in a market, entering the store and firing a gun wildly before trying to turn it on themselves. It’s an immensely miserable instance that is delicately managed here, the juxtaposition between the soft strumming of the verse passages clashing with the bombastic synth that supports the bridge. All of these elements coalesce into a reverberating pinnacle, Hull powerfully bellowing out his driving need to release himself from the pain abound in the album. As the dust begins to settle, “The Wolf” creeps into the fray, its foreboding drums and ominous ambiance pulsating as Hull reckons with the aftermath of the prior entry. It is Manchester Orchestra at their most potent: subtle, engaging compositions, impressive storytelling, instrumental depth, and a knack for knowing when to crank up the intensity.
In retrospect, it makes all too much sense that the panic attack tune is the one that holds the most sway over me. The opening synth line immediately sends chills throughout me, placing my body hundreds of miles away on a street corner where my sweater is losing a battle against a winter chill and my mind is collapsing under the weight of insecurity. Hull’s carefree delivery and eventually transformation into something close to yelling is all too reminiscent of how I was and how many were before and after me: placing a façade on top of a crumbling structure. Once the cracks widen, there is nothing left but to cry out in the open space and let the whole damn thing go to pieces—the “only way” that the vocalist appears to reference. Much like the protagonist of A Black Mile to the Surface recognizes that this can’t truly be the correct solution, I find myself picking through the rubble and searching for a way to rebuild. A corner of my consciousness seems to be permanently trapped in a memory of 121 empty phrases and an unsatisfactory resolution—a cheap smile, a metaphorical pat on the back, and a resumption of ‘normalcy’ alongside self-loathing and all its comrades. Like many key albums for me, Manchester Orchestra’s offering is a 49-minute exhumation, an impromptu therapy session designed not to rid the agony, but to continue the struggle through it and over it. It’s the soundtrack to keeping one’s feet on a level plane. Most importantly, it is about believing in becoming more than a memory and breaking free from the boundaries set by anxiety. Step by step, track after track, the numbers start to mean less and less. – Mars
Genre: Noise Rock/Post Hardcore // Released: 2018
I have failed you Sputnik. I appointed myself as the right person to write about Daughters’ exultant return, but let me tell you about that time when You Won’t Get What You Want was released.
My memory may betray me but I remember several blackouts soon after the first 700 hundred reviews popped up on the front page. Hype then felt like being choked by an entire army of Daughters’ cenobites if the wrong words were chosen on any of those review threads. Those were times when navigating the site felt like dancing on a minefield with a blind cow as your waltzing partner. Even in the sheltering safety of my dreams, the hideous album cover screeched: “LET ME IN!!!! LET ME IN!!!!”. Startled, I would check my cell with one eye, refreshing maniacally, hoping that it was all just a nightmare caused by a tacos overdose but nope. Still, there it was: in the best music section, featured once, twice, on the front page, lists and lists of Daughters ranked, Daughters, Daughters, fucking DAUGHTERS!
So one day, friends, I gave in. I stripped myself off prejudice, I took off my armour, and I threw myself with a naked soul in the arms of Alexis Marshall and co.
Here’s how I was received:
I was punched in the larynge repeatedly with a fistful of downtown darkness while a psychopath moaned in ecstasy, probably turned on by my increasingly drying mouth and my craneal veins pumping like the irrigation system of Pakistan. Those guitars didn’t feel like guitars, no. They felt like a scalpel cutting and tearing apart my tympanic membrane with surgical precision. When Marshall preached, I listened, sundered, in Clockwork Orange fashion, to every drop of venom surfing my violated nervous system. A full collapse was imminent.
“THIS WORLD IS OPENING U…” That’s how far I got the first time. Those are the last words I remember before I took off my cans, 3’d it and jumped through the window. It wasn’t until the hype died down and many album incursions that I finally reached… enlightenment.
With YWGWYW, Daughters came back after years behind the curtain with an album that surpassed everyone’s expectations. Indeed, no one got what they wanted, they actually got something infinitely better. The four-piece from Rhode Island managed to reinvent themselves and redefine the whole noise psychobilly rock genre, turning it into a strangely alluring punishment of tortured guitars, pummeling beats and frantic poetry. The site relayed every blow coming from Daughters’ newest release with fervent passion, and now here we are, you, me and those maniacs laughing at their own joke. – Dewinged
Genre: Post Hardcore // Released: 2017
Although the last decade produced some timeless classics, this list has been full of implicit farewells to some albums. Goodbye Science Fiction.
It is presently enviable to view this album and Brand New’s work in general as much more than an extended unpacking of a singular troubled conscience. There’s been a time and place for fixating on this; as we settle into a new decade, the scope for this kind of attachment to Brand New or, indeed, their wider legacy are both dubious.
The correspondence between Jesse Lacey’s well-published misdeeds (and presumed feelings of guilt) with the themes and tone of Brand New’s lyrics has led many to return to their work hoping to impose some form of rationalisation on it. Unfortunately, they blur the lines between all things personal and performative so thoroughly that these attempts become inadvertently distorted, largely ending up as misplaced conjecture and obsessing over Lacey’s craft, psyche and articulation to the point of thinly veiled romanticisation. Their occasional concessions of problematisation seem betrayed by this distinct focus.
The sticking point here is that this is such an excellent and occasionally thought-provoking album that it would be disingenuous to clamour for writing it off altogether. It’s rare for the strength of an album’s craft to stand as the elephant in the room, but Science Fiction is almost uncomfortably robust in this department. It’s disarmingly humane, its voice a mobile interpolation between cleverness and cliche, where both ends of the spectrum are arresting and relatable. This feeds into its prominent undercurrent of weariness; if the album really is an expression of longstanding unpunished guilt, it’s easy to see why so many have come to share its author’s creative attachment to these feelings. I’m sure many of us, at one point or another, have found ourselves close enough to Jesse Lacey’s engrossing qualities that we can hardly tell the wood from the trees.
There’s some merit in this. Brand New’s greyscale worldview and focus on a complex personal voice has never been better showcased than on this record – and yet, at the end of the day, it is first and foremost a valuable lesson in the link between art and artist, underscored by tangentially solid songwriting. Anarchists and apologists alike have stumbled over the politik of approaching Science Fiction; if the album holds any enduring value, it will lie in the attention we pay to their precedent. It was a good dream. – Johnny
Genre: Experimental/Post Punk // Released: 2016
I am someone woefully unprepared to attempt a statement on the lasting legacy and impact of David Bowie. On the other hand, I am someone who loves Blackstar dearly, so I’ll start with that.
Yes, this record was my first experience with David Bowie, and one of my first with experimental music in general. Its jagged bursts of jazz, flirtings with electronic, and hazy, noirish stabs at rock music all captured my attention vividly. I was caught in a kaleidoscope of music that I’d never encountered before, yet Bowie’s songwriting and musicianship drew me straight into his tantalizing atmosphere. Bowie’s lyrics manage to be both cryptic yet alarmingly personal, drawing from a vast well of life and songwriting experience. It’s at once engaging and uneasy, depending on how far you can remove it from the allegations that have since marred his legacy.
For by many accounts, David Bowie was not the best person out there. He left behind an increasingly disturbing amount of purported actions and inactions for us to pick apart, and without the artist here to defend himself, it’s impossible for us to ever understand the scope of it. I would never say that record’s emphasis on regret stems from guilt over these instances, nor that it somehow absolves him over it (for a more in-depth and better-written treatise on this subject read JohnnyoftheWell’s Science Fiction blurb above). But I will say that what makes the record compelling is the push-and-pull between its regret and satisfaction with life—something that anyone can relate to, not just those on their deathbed.
The biggest compliment one can give to Blackstar perhaps is how essential it is, even without context. Without knowing anything about the life of Bowie or the music that came before it, it still stands a deeply arresting listen and a pinnacle of 2010s music. It’s a dilapidated swirl of disparate sounds and self-referential lyrics that are so singular and vibrant that Blackstar truly exists on a planet of its own. Time is frozen in this world, just days before Bowie’s passing. Because unlike many last albums, this one manages to feel all-encompassing and final—the true essence of what the artist wanted to say with his closing breaths. I suppose it was naive of us to ever want to make a final statement on David Bowie’s legacy; on Blackstar, he did it for us. – Neek
Genre: Indie Rock/Americana // Released: 2010
I was about 13 years old when High Violet came out. At that time I was beginning to find music by recording late night talk shows to see what bands were playing on them, a trick that I first learned when Anberlin had played on The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson. When I saw The National play “Terrible Love” on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon I immediately fell in love with Matt Berninger’s voice, the first voice I heard that wasn’t a Christian rock belter, a nasally pop punk tenor, or some twee indie voice over jangly guitars. Based on that performance, I decided to use my small life savings to buy High Violet from the closest Borders. Being the basic 13 year old that I was, I was drawn immediately towards “Bloodbuzz Ohio” since it had the most classic song structure and a killer chorus, leading me to sing along with my early teenage tenor to a song about an alcoholic who misses the industrial Midwest.
Of course, my feelings towards High Violet have changed as I’ve aged and actually learned what I was singing along to (or at least have come up with my own interpretations of Matt Berninger’s poetry). However, that initial draw to the album hasn’t changed in the slightest, which is odd as The National aren’t a band known for larger than life choruses, climaxes that make a person weep, or goosebump-raising moments. High Violet is the most “The National” album that the National have made: a largely subdued selection of consecutive ballads that sees Berninger’s baritone at its most monotone. High Violet doesn’t make you dance or sway or bob your head – what High Violet does do is make you listen.
Obviously when I was 13 I wasn’t picking up on many of the intricacies of Berninger’s lyrics, as a man who was three times my age was singing, essentially, about being three times my age. There was something haunting about his words though, something that I couldn’t (and still can’t) tear myself away from. I’m still not sure what a Lemonworld is; “I was afraid I would eat your brain ‘cause I’m evil” was hilarious then and heartbreaking now, and “Live alone/Eat your cake” sounded like a pipe dream to a 13-year-old, as opposed to the double entendre of loneliness and depression that it truly is.
The National’s brand of melancholy tone and heart-on-sleeve nonsense has never been more poignant than it is here. It’s also never been more pleasant to listen to. Bryan Devendorf is one of the best drummers in the scene and is just as integral to the band as Berninger, for the wall of sound they create wouldn’t be possible without him. Every song is intentional and made with deep love and care, as every strike of a key, strum of a guitar, and blare of a horn is perfectly placed. High Violet disguises itself as a low-key album, but is anything but that in its composition and execution.
Obviously a lot has changed since I first discovered High Violet. Matt Berninger was triple my age, but in just three years he’ll only be double it. Jimmy Fallon now hosts The Tonight Show. The National have released three new albums, each of them cementing the band as one of the most consistently great acts in the indie scene. One thing that hasn’t changed, however, is the fact that I’ll probably never fully understand the depths of High Violet, both on a lyrical and musical scale. At the same time, I’ll never want to stop trying to understand it, meaning that as long as I remain delightfully confused, the appeal and longevity of High Violet will never fade. – Mathias
Genre: Hip-Hop/Funk/Jazz // Released: 2012
There is an uncanny nuance to the way that good kid, m.A.A.d city’s story winds around itself, nudging the album back toward its heart-thumping central narrative periodically, conserving momentum and drip-feeding information from a thousand different autobiographical stories to provide context all the while.
“Sherane a.k.a Master Splinter’s Daughter” crashes out of the starting gates like a juiced-up thoroughbred. Kendrick’s blistering opening verses and the quasi-diagetic audio clips that frame them introduce themes of sin and forgiveness, the reckless abandon and irrationality of youth, drug addiction, family complications, gang culture, poverty, alcohol abuse, and more- all of which are expanded upon in contemplative and meaningful ways as the album winds on, with even the aforementioned audio clips developing and returning to signal progression in the narrative without feeling repetitive or laborious on repeat listens (unlike a particular poem on a particular album that all of us can likely recite word-for-word by now). The emotions that lace the messages left on Kendrick’s phone by his parents gently morph from annoyance to worry, energetic conversations we hear from his friends begin to reveal conflict as an insidious aspiration of the city’s misled young, and even the cliched sinner’s prayer returns after Kendrick addresses some exceedingly formidable topics in his career-defining verses on “Sing About Me, I’m Dying of Thirst”, providing a foundation for the positive affirmation that he miraculously closes the album with.
good kid, m.A.A.d city remains a nuanced, contemplative, and insidious ride to this day precisely because it’s so easy to get wrapped up in the minutiae, to deliberate on the autobiographical snippets provided, to identify the elegant homages to classic sounds laced into contemporary beats, to just latch onto the vibe and rap and sing along. Perhaps it’s easy to lose sight of the big picture, particularly around the time that Drake pokes his freshly-faded head into the fray, but it makes it all the more shocking when you feel cold steel pressed against the back of your neck courtesy of the two eponymous tracks that follow his appearance- weathered, gnarly fucking trees that have brought the whole forest with them, and suddenly you’re getting tossed by vegetation of such variety that you wonder how you managed to make so many enemies in the first place. The gangs that you idolised as a youth, the authority that’s supposed to protect you, the friends that are supposed to treat you with respect, all of them join forces for an absolute fuckshow of a beatdown on your seemingly innocent ass, and- illogical as it seems- you’ll find yourself eternally revisiting the trauma like a repressed Catholic revisits extreme BDSM. – MiloRuggles
Genre: Pop Punk/Indie Rock // Released: 2014
In order to properly write about the importance of this album I’ll need to get a bit too personal. And yet, I think that’s the case for everyone with an album like this, despite being based in fiction and overly poetic and definitely surpassing the imaginary word limit for lyrics on a pop/punk emo album. It’s not the fact that we all can come together and reflect on how great we thought this was, as others may have tried to explain in past attempts at evaluating the “Sputnikmusic” importance of such an album. Although there’s merit in sharing our personal experiences, I doubt I could name more than 10 people I know personally that I’d want to sit down with and listen to this entire album in full, explaining to one another why certain lines invoke goosebumps and tears and which specific parts to songs we swear we’ll never forget. And although this is purely imaginary and speculative, I truly can only remember the times I’ve been and felt the most alone when thinking about this album. Yet, here I am writing about yet another personal connection that can really only scrape the surface at this album’s grand importance across the world.
To keep it brief, a friend of mine died the summer before I went to college. I had never experienced death’s breath creep up on my neck in such a fashion before this point, as quite literally we sat next to each other while we were in a symphony band (I played trumpet, him French horn). While I was never too close with him, the funeral invite is what finalized my feelings when I realized I had to go to this service alone. While I could tell you the full story of listening to this album on the long drive over, screaming along to the lyrics “I called in sick…” while working up the courage to even show up and park my car, I think there’s no perfect way to write out the emotional impact and comfort this album was to me in that time. It’s this memory that constantly reappears and the feelings only slightly fade in potency every time I listen. I’m not saying you have to go through death or a traumatic life event in order to like this album but I am trying to point out the simple fact that when people tell you that they love this album, there’s usually something behind that love. This is an amalgamation of not just Midwest emo and pop punk for modern times, but also a huge melting pot of pain, doubt, and desperation that screams through to the people that want to listen and learn from someone’s own past mistakes and successes. It’s the personal stories you choose to share that end up mattering, and that’s what Home, Like NoPlace is There truly means to me. – Con
Genre: Indie Folk/Electronic // Released: 2015
In the Àngel Guimerà play Terra Baixa, the goat herder Manelich is told that he is going to leave his solitary existence to marry Martha, a woman in the neighboring town. overcome with joy as he realizes he is about to experience love, as he has heard wonderful things about it and has created the perfect image of love in his mind. However, he quickly realizes love isn’t what he had imagined, with Martha being distant and closed off. Throughout the play, Manelich doesn’t know whether to fight for love or retreat back to his life in the mountains. He ultimately decides to stay and fight, as he knows that returning to the life he once knew would not be an escape from this newfound pain. The play ends with Manelich killing a man tormenting Martha, leading Martha and Manelich to find the love that can exist in their brokenness.
It’s odd that such an obscure reference finds its way into Carrie and Lowell, an intensely personal album that describes Sufjan Steven’s childhood and his mother Carrie, as well as her death. Sufjan loved Carrie deeply, despite their complicated relationship. She left him at a young age, suffering from depression, schizophrenia, and alcoholism, leading Sufjan to remark that “It was in our best interest for our mother to abandon us”. They had recently reconnected before Carrie’s sudden death. The mythos of the album is well-known, unlike the the story of Manelich.
In contrast to the rest of the album’s lyrical content, Manelich isn’t a direct observation on Sufjan’s life. Before Carrie and Lowell, Stevens chose to share fables and stories that were inspired by his life experiences, with his immediate life being fairly unknown. In contrast, each lyric on Carrie and Lowell is deeply visceral as Sufjan shares everything – Abandonment at a video store, suicidal contemplations, being called “Subara” by his swim instructor – These observations are beautiful in their symplicity, a beauty which is maintained in the musical backdrop.
So why reference a Catalan play? Manelich is paired with perhaps the most blunt lyric of the whole album: “You checked your texts while I masturbated/Manelich, I feel so used”. I had always assumed Manelich was the name of the lover checking the texts, but once dived deeper into Manelich on a whim, assuming to find another biblical reference. That search changed my entire view of Carrie and Lowell. It was always heartbreakingly beautiful, but I never understood why it resonated deeply with me when the experiences described were so far from my own. I realize now it is because Sufjan is sharing his Manelich moment. At some point in our lives, we will all experience what Manelich did. It may not be as dramatic as it was for him or Sufjan, but we will all have a moment where we will persevere through a love that isn’t quite what we imagined it to be. Sufjan’s experience came very young and hasn’t yet ended, while mine has yet to begin. Carrie and Lowell has shown me the depths of emotion to expect from my Manelich moment. But who knows? Perhaps Manelich is just a name. – Mathias
Genre: Post Black Metal // Released: 2013
I find the black metal purists who knock Deafheaven for being too soft both frustrating and hilarious, but admittedly, it’s not like they have absolutely no ammo. Take the infamous last lines of “Dream House”:
Is it blissful?
It’s like a dream
I want to dream
These lyrics originated as a text conversation between George Clarke and a girl he liked, and on paper, it sounds exactly like the kind of overdramatic cheese that sappy goth teenagers would qualify as both deep poetry and effective flirting. On paper, a lot about Deafheaven seems silly and campy, so I can at least see where the purists are coming from.
I do have retorts, though. First, metal in general and black metal in specific have always carried a degree of camp, and if you haven’t figured that out by now, you might be stanning the wrong genre. Second, have you fucking HEARD Sunbather??
I don’t wonder whether Sunbather is “soft” by black metal standards while the seismic opening of the title track is rattling the foundations of my chest. I don’t think of Deafheaven as the least bit silly or campy when “The Pecan Tree” erupts violently into being, or when it melts into a blissfully cathartic coda. I don’t even worry that the interludes are pretentious or excessive, because in context, I cannot imagine Sunbather transitioning directly into “Vertigo” without the exquisite palate cleanser of “Please Remember.” In a decade when purism and gatekeeping were wrested out of the hands of fandoms of all kinds, Sunbather was among the best arguments against that kind of mindset. Deafheaven can’t be bothered to care what black metal should sound like, and when deep in the throes of the euphoric experience they crafted as a result, it’s hard for their audience to care, either. The last lines of “Dream House” might be silly on paper, but when that climax grips me by the spine like a lightning rod and reverberates from my skull to my fingertips… Fuck it. I want to dream, too. – hesperus
Genre: Hip Hop/Jazz/Funk // Released: 2015
In his Top Albums of the 2000s write-up for Arcade Fire’s Funeral, Sputnikmusic emeritus Nick Butler lamented the death of album releases as world-shaking events, the last of which, it seemed, was Funeral in 2004. “The fear is that such a thing will never happen again–that there’ll never be another OK Computer, or Nevermind, or Automatic for the People. Truthfully, there probably won’t be.” But there was. A little over a decade after Funeral and five years after Butler wrote those words, Kendrick Lamar dropped To Pimp a Butterfly and promptly became the epicenter of a rapidly infectious pop culture discussion. The album sparked a feeding frenzy among everyone who enjoys or makes a living talking about music and proved that it is still possible for albums to be truly massive events in the music world, as long as the artist puts in a lot of hard work to make the album fulfill two criteria: thematic density and gripping presentation.
In discussing the album, most critics and fans have focused on the former quality–the meaning of the album’s title, the true identity of recurring character Lucy, the significance of Lamar’s imagined conversation with Tupac Shakur, and what it all says about Black identity and Black existence in America–but Lamar deserves just as much credit for nailing the latter criterion. To Pimp a Butterfly undoubtedly has a lot to say, but how many of us would have truly listened had the album itself not commanded us to do so–via the strikingly charged imagery on its cover, or the infectiously catchy production from collaborators like Pharrell Williams and Thundercat, or Lamar’s downright theatrical delivery of lines like “This dick ain’t free” and “Loving you is complicated”? How many of us would have been compelled to dig deeper had we not collectively gasped a “Holy shit” upon hearing the album for the first time? It is important and rewarding to delve into the intricacies of Lamar’s lyrics and musical choices on To Pimp a Butterfly, but the irony is that, even if you somehow don’t pay attention to a single word Lamar spits on the album, To Pimp a Butterfly still speaks. Subsequently, we were swayed to speak about it, to find more aspects of the album to discuss, to turn To Pimp a Butterfly into the first true event album in over a decade. To Pimp a Butterfly was the first and perhaps only album this decade that damn near everyone could agree deserved its place in the cultural zeitgeist, so it’s no wonder that it tops our list of the best albums of the decade. – hesperus
AsleepInTheBack // bludngorevidal // TheBoneyKing // BroFro // CalculatingInfinity // calmrose // Conmaniac // dbizzles // dmathias52 // Dewinged // hesperus // granitenotebook // JohnnyoftheWell // Marskid //MiloRuggles // Mongi123 // neekafat // Nocte // OmairSh // onionbubs // Pheromone // Ramon // sinternet // SitarHero // Slex // Waior