Uncle Empire

Union is a pretty money sportswear shop down in SoHo. They sling a ton of sharp gear from Nike, 10 Deep, and more. And now, they sling Uncle.

Go to the shop, get a sweet t-shirt and 32 sweet pages of Unk goodness. If they're sold out, tell them to get more.

Union NYC
176 Spring Street
SoHo, New York
Map

Sitting in a coffee shop, I was thinking about other things and watching a delicate stock broker. He was picking his nails nervously underneath the table, telling a safe and pretty woman with a fur collar about how highly he regarded fashion. European. Six months ahead.

He spoke quietly and controlled, touching on the talking points of fine wine and fi-nonce, like he was giving a powerpoint presentation to a trout, careful not to scare her away with any sudden movements. But she wasn't scared, no. She didn't go hide under a river bank, or seek refuge at a nearby sample sale, where they were virtually giving away women's undergarments. She was delighted - well, excited in the possibility of delight - with potential for growth as early as next quarter. Oh, New York.

Kissed Her Little Sister on vacation in Siberia.

When these hipster costume parties start taking themselves too seriously, and everybody is dressed up like Velma from Scooby Doo, I'm tempted to eat glass and do the worm into oncoming traffic. Instead, I find the guy with the tightest pants and ask him if he's hard of imaginary bands I've made up. Usually, he'll adjust his spectacles made out of pipe cleaners and say, yeah, he liked Yin Yang Yarmulke or Baldin College two weeks ago, which was right before they sold out and actually played a song. So commercial.

Genuine music and new creation are beautiful things, and though there will always be skunks that fake the funk, there's usually the real deal in there somewhere, waiting in the wings.

Kissed Her Little Sister, an LA-based electro-folk astronaut and one-man band, is one such musician worth checking out. Blending acoustic instrumentation with electronic beats, loops, and virtually anything else he can get his dirty hands on, he has created an eclectic style all his own, running the gamut from Woody Guthrie to Girl Talk. Although he is currently unsigned, French people love him.

In Footloose, the Reverand John Lithgow banned dancing. What would you do if music were suddenly banned?
I would probably file a complaint with the world. The first rule of music is that there are no rules, which means banning music would probably not necessarily be against the rules, and that fucks with my head. But often I find that some of the best music is the shit that does.

How did they find out about in you in Paris and Montreal?
Business cards, computer-generated pre-recorded telephone spamming machines, afternoon tea meet and greets.

What kind of music do you make?
Concrete horrorcore loopism meets acoustic Appalachian folk music for kids.

Do you cover any other musicians?
Strictly Phil Collins.

How's the music scene in LA?
Fashionable.

Seen anything inspiring lately?
Yeah, a video on Youtube of [musician] Jay Reatard punching his fan in the face. Totally moving.

Why is music important?
Music might be a disease for all I know, or a drug to cure other diseases. Music can make me feel like Barry Bonds and Hakeem Olajuwon all wrapped into one, and conversely, that sad monkey in the zoo... I'm into it.

Anything else?
Yeah, the first song ever recorded was "Mary Had a Little Lamb" by Thomas Edison, and that might be just a rumor... Also, did you know that when you type "rumors" into iTunes Lindsay Lohan pops up, but when you type "rumours" some hot Fleetwood Mac shit pops up?

Yes, 'Rumors' is a great song. Last question - boxers or briefs?
Live free or die.

Kissed Her Little Sister MySpace Page

And coming dangerously soon: Uncle Presents: The Hi-Lo Mixtapes

Kiddies. Uncle is an Empire, but our humble little universe all comes together with Uncle Magazine, a real life piece of joy you can hold in your hands. Read it on the subway. Read it on the John. Heck, read it anywhere you motherfucking please.

We're figuring how we're going to distribute this thing, and as soon as the balloons pass through our systems, we'll let you know where to find us. Until then, you can email us at uncle.mag@gmail and we'll send you one in the mail.

And in case you just can't wait to jerk it to this bad boy, here's a PDF of Issue One. Thirty-two pages of naked supermodels, metaphorically speaking. Perfection in the nude. No filters, no filler. The raw.

Blue Self
Acryllic, Ink + Oil on Paper


Neil Enggist is a traveling artist, like a salesman without the commission. He has found inspiration across the globe, from the Southwest to the Far East. At times he has even traded his paintings as a form of rent. We asked Neil a couple (very thoughtful) questions, and he obliged, inviting us into the world of a rambling artist and the mystery of a blank canvas. Then he drank us under the table.

Uncle: To what extent is painting a necessary part of your travel experience?

Neil: When I am traveling, the urge to create is heightened as new places, images, people, languages, and color tumble into my senses. Painting always contains a degree of improvisation, but that degree is at its zenith when you are in a space that is utterly new – just you and your tools, which are extensions of you.

I remember being down on Pfeiffer Beach, along the Big Sur coast, and posting up on a massive rock jutting into the Pacific. The wind was kicking sand into my eyes and mean waves were coming at me, completely surrounding my rock at points. I had an impression that death could come as a thoughtless swell of the ocean, but as long as I was painting, I wasn't so much keeping safe as keeping alive.

While traveling you must let yourself be thrown off balance by what is unknown and disarming. Then, through the act of painting, you bring all these things into balance. I have the most vivid memory of places I have painted. Painting is my ultimate communion with the world.



















Requieum
Acryllic, Ink + Oil on Canvas


Uncle: A lot of your work seems to have a mystic quality. What do you see when you look into a blank canvas?

Neil: The blankness of the beginning is complete freedom and, as a painting bears itself, you start to feel responsible for listening and helping it become what it wants to be. The mystical part can never be pinned down.

As you look into a painting, you are looking simultaneously into your depths and mine. In its terrain, we, though we may never meet, have achieved a union. This, I think, begins to speak of a mystic quality. But the blank canvas is complete freedom. And as the paint hits, freedom becomes charged and bonded to life. Life brings color. Color is a reason for life.


















The Sol
Acryllic, Ink + Oil on Canvas


You can find Neil online at neilenggist.com.

Dear High School Basketball Hall of Fame,

Yesterday, while meeting in my Tuesday night dodge ball league, I heard the dismaying news that a teenage werewolf was being considered to enter the sacred hall. As the head coach of the Indians – Canton, Indiana’s most tenacious freshman boys basketball team – trust me when I tell you that I know high school basketball. And as a former high school basketball player myself (center, team MVP my senior year), and a person, I can also tell quite plainly that Scott Howard/Teen Wolf is not a human. He is a werewolf.



Good sirs, I am a Christian and a firm believer in acceptance of all people, but, as demonstrated by the string of six consecutive backflips he pulled off while recklessly surfing on the roof of Styles’ WolfMobile, Mr. Wolf clearly is no such thing. His vertical leap and wolfish agility alone put him at a considerable athletic advantage. Not to mention the competitive psychological edge he unfairly gains by going up for jump balls with glowing red eyes, fangs, and a body covered in sweat-matted fur (his headband is not enough!). What if he’s contagious? You think I want my son, Toby, spending the rest of his life chasing Frisbees?

As Americans, it is our duty to draw the line somewhere, and somewhere things have gotten
terribly out of hand. Just yesterday I was talking to Old Man Wilson, who owns a liquor store
the town over, and he said Mr. Howard came in the night before the big kegger and wanted
to be served alcohol, even though he was clearly underage. As a law-abiding citizen, Old
Man Wilson refused him service, only to have Mr. Howard/Mr. Wolf let loose a menacing werewolf growl and demand a keg of beer. Old Man Wilson is a veteran, and that wolf bastard is lucky he caught him off-guard that day. Otherwise, I assure you, that animal would’ve
been sent to the taxidermist right then and there.

If that wasn’t enough, my wife has spent the last ten years raising a brood of prized peahens.
And last night, two of them went missing! I may not have proof that Mr. Wolf burrowed un-
der the fence in my backyard and callously drank the blood of two innocent hens beneath
the light of a full moon, but I have my suspicions! All over town, I’ve heard horrible stories
about this monster breakdancing, fornicating with the prom queen, and thinking he’s really
somethin’ else wearing sunglasses indoors. Quite frankly, I am just plain sick of the whole
mess. I haven’t been this riled up since the day my Indians scalped the Avon Warthogs and
took home the conference trophy. Regretfully, I must warn you, if there is no decency left in
this great country, and a teenage werewolf is inducted into the High School Basketball Hall
of Fame, it will put a stain on the memory of the best four years of my life playing high school
ball. It will also put a stain on the hall itself – to such an extent, in fact, that I would request
any nominations I may have personally received over the years for induction be immediately
doused with gasoline and set ablaze.

This situation, gentlemen, is a very slippery slope, and I for one would rather die than know
that maybe someday, even if I’m dead, my picture might be seen in the same building as that of a no-good, red-eyed, binge-drinking, chicken-stealing, werewolf! If we let him in, we have lost a battle of all things holy. What’s next – Magilla Gorilla on the district court?

I thank you for your time and consideration, and pray that you will not lead high school basketball down a path of disgrace and ungodly ruin.

Sincerely,
Whitey Beigeface
Head Coach
Canton Indians, 9th Grade Boys

Sam met Tony in a record store in Miami. The stench of rum, the gold pinky ring, the mention of hookers he used to love - all of it said Uncle. He promised to send us some records - "only the good shit" - and he followed through.