3:AM Magazine

Occasional 3:AM contributor, interviewee and general force of nature Lydia Lunch will be appearing at London’s Borderline on August 19 in her Retrovirus guise. Having worked with everyone from Nick Cave to Sonic Youth, expect electrifying material from Lydia’s classic units Teenage Jesus and the Jerks, 8-Eyed Spy and Shotgun Wedding, as well as touching […]

A present moment always vanishing. * Failure to fail. * What your unread books list reveals. * Literature R.I.P.. * Mayakovsky reading his poetry. * Rewriting Andy Warhol‘s a: A Novel. * On Flaubert‘s gueuloir. * On Alain Badiou. * John Cooper Clarke: “Happiness is the target one only has to aim at in order […]

Never answer the door at 5:45 AM on a Sunday morning. Either somebody’s too high, somebody has just died, or somebody has just arrived who wants to kill you.

By Lydia Lunch.

The ones that claim total recall, well, suffice it to say they’re lying. They have to be. For No Wave was the one, true Blank Generation. Yes. It took Aristotle’s tabula rasa, and with one flailing swipe per Attali, all the rest was noise. Noise being code for negation — a deliberate dithering of all things affirmative — No Wave is then best described not by what it was, but instead by what it wasn’t: no shirt, no shoes, no problem. No fucking future. None at all.

Logan K. Young on No New York.

Friend of 3:AM Tony O’Neill reads with Lydia Lunch and Bibbe Hansen at The Bowery Electric, as part of Shayni Rae‘s Truckstop Salon Sunday. The skinny: Two trouble making bad ass babes riddled with chemical and hormonal imbalance and a survivor of the methadone clinics, shooting galleries, crack-houses, and flophouse hotels of Los Angeles and […]

Lydia Lunch has talent on stage as well as in the kitchen. While playing underground music venues early in her career she earned her name cooking up banquet feasts out of whatever ingredients were on hand for fellow starving artists and musicians, including Sonic Youth, Suicide, the Dead Boys, and the Butthole Surfers. In her […]

I wish it had been me. Knocking on his door that fateful morning in early May. Don’t snicker. One of the few stints of gainful employment to which I’ve played slave to a weekly wage – was as a hotel maid in upstate New York. I needed cash and fast. I was underage but didn’t look it. But I had to cover my ass. I paid 20 bucks for a fake ID, which changed my address, date of birth and gave me a new name. “Betty Lou Harris” sounded like a nice piece of bible thumping Southern white trash. It had the ring of a lonely runaway in a Tom Waits song that glorifies diners and truck stops and the poor people that populate them.

Lydia Lunch on l’affaire DSK…

The trouble with Will Self’s blood. * More Self: “After all, I can remember times, albeit long gone, when young women, even the occasional man, did reach for my crotch while making cooing noises. True, they didn’t tend to do it in public but it happened nonetheless”. * Did we ever stop being postmodern? * […]

By Andrew Stevens. To the South Bank’s Purcell Room for Meltdown on Saturday night, which this year was curated by Ray Davies. The lion’s share of punters were across in the festival hall for the Wire/Sonics double bill, but a more select crowd of scuzz aficionados were prepared to grapple with the intense set laid […]

A century long samba
Littered with the beautiful corpses
Of hundreds of dead soldiers
Who had come to soil my battlefield
With their heavy artillery
Pumping into me like bullets
Fired at point blank range
Anointed with the hot molten lead
Which would mingle with the blood and cum
Eyes heavy with morphine, cocaine, MDMA or madness
Mind swill drunk on the uncountable contaminants
Whose steady diet I have feasted on for decades
As a tribute to my own survival of the sickest

By Lydia Lunch.