by Ryan Diaz

Kevin Parker, also known as Tame Impala, dropped a scorching album on Oct. 17 featuring his true display of artistic expertise, hitting the global stages as his tour began Oct. 27 in New York City.

Parker has not released an album in five years, half of a decade since we’ve had a full release from the Tame Impala. Think back for a moment to just weeks right before the COVID-19 pandemic began — does that feel like forever ago to you? It feels like centuries ago to me. So, buckle up as we drive down this road that is Deadbeat.

Rising to prominence in the mid-2010s, Parker’s album Currents dropped in the summer of 2015. It featured hit songs many can recognize, like New Person, Same Old Mistakes, The Less I Know The Better and Eventually, to name a few. 

The intricacies of Deadbeat is a true exhibition. This album speaks to millions of people, including myself. According to Billboard 200, Parker’s album ranks fourth on the charts as of Oct. 30. The first song My Old Ways feels like a look over your shoulder into the past and embracing it. The song starts with a slow roll, then a sudden beat shift goes into the themes of falling back into temptations, human nature, sliding back into our old ways and the uncomfortable yet comforting feeling brought on by rescinding backwards. That’s how I interpret it, anyway. 

Dracula is yet another banger in this album, a song initially released slightly earlier than the full album. I’ve been anticipating this release for months, so when we got Dracula early, I listened to it at every chance I had. Dracula dropped just in time for Halloween, and is about running from the sun, like Dracula does. This reflects a way to run from reality, fitting for Halloween, when people can escape and be whoever they want. 

Oblivion is an absolute winner, likely my favorite song on this album. Oblivion has great vocals, good lyrics and tells a story of acceptance. Accepting the reality of the bitter end of a relationship — something we all experience in this life, yet always feel the familiar emotional toll of grief. The song is the acceptance of the loss and choosing of Oblivion, with lyrics like, “If I don’t get to you, my love, then I choose oblivion.” This song transcends me to a tesseract in the fourth dimension, where you can hear colors and taste sound as you observe the passage of time. Not absolute, but relative.

 I am a huge Tame Impala fan and have been for years. I feel like there are very few artists and songs you can listen to and truly never get sick of. Parker perfectly captures every lyric, every pause, every beat, every minute detail, intricately painting a picture of a broader story, theme or concept. Parker knows how to create his own genre of music unlike any other, a unique portrayal of the human experience, the passage of time and the ethereal connection to a past life. 

Ryan Diaz is a senior at Cal Poly Humboldt and a second-semester reporter with an ambition to work in the public relations field after graduation. He is also a DJ on KRFH 105.1 FM and krfh.net, hosting a weekly show on Thursday from 7 p.m. to 8 p.m..

by Kaylon Coleman

It’s November, which means a multitude of things. Veterans Day, Fall Break, Daylights Savings Ending, a few LJ editor birthdays, mine included. But, it also means flu season — and if you live in Humboldt County, you know this is when the rain really starts to ramp up. For the initiated, the “Humboldt Hack” is probably something you’re all too familiar with. For the freshman and transfers who may not be… trust me, you soon will be.

Now more than ever — except for when we had that pandemic a few years back — I implore you to wash your hands. 

Now, there’s a good chance some of you read that byline and thought, ‘Who doesn’t wash their hands?’ Which is completely valid and you’re right in thinking that.  I’m hoping it’s near the 0-2% range, but those aren’t the outliers I’m referring to. 

In my headcanon, a majority of people my age — or, hopefully a majority of people in general — were primarily taught to wash their hands post number one and number two; maybe skipping a cheeky pee here and there. But, I think the art of washing your hands without the excretion prerequisite has been lost.

Let me paint you a picture. It’s a Wednesday night, you decide to go to Harbor Lanes for $3 bowling with a couple friends. You play best of three — loser has to cop the winners In-N-Out. After some quaint belt-to-butt, you’re mad marved and rush to the car elated, thinking about this free double-double you’re about to buss down. Yet, in all your glutinous manifestations you forget one crucial thing — washing your hands. 

Now, the culmination of every germ that has encountered that bowling ball lies within your digits. The kid screaming ‘6, 7’ who couldn’t stop digging for gold. The Jerry Garcia lookalike whose chonies just weren’t sitting right. The party of four who ordered the extra, extra greasy pizza. Every germ now resides with you.

If it wasn’t already apparent, I’m somewhat of a germaphobe; I get it from my mom. I’mma always offer the last bite or a waterfall when I can. But above all, my hands are my tension point. If I’m out-and-about and I feel the muck and grime of the day accumulate, best believe I’m washing my hands first chance I get — it’s like a reset, it’s liberating. I can freely scratch my face without trillions of germs bombarding my forehead, or I can eat stress-free without the thought of any bacteria trying to cop a free meal.

We should normalize just going to the bathroom to wash our hands. Embrace and celebrate it, for it’s one of the most jubilant joys one can partake in. So, once again I’m pleading, as flu season looms near, just wash your hands. And if you still believe this article’s redundant, next time you go out to the mall, movies or lanes with your pals — when all’s said and done, just sit and observe, and you might be more appalled than you think.

Kaylon Coleman is a senior journalism major with a concentration in news and a minor in communications. He is the opinion editor for LJ. He is also the vice president of the Black Student Union at CPH, Marketing and Communications lead for the Umoja Center and a part-time radio DJ and merch manager for KRFH. If you have a topic you want him to discuss, email him at kc403@humboldt.edu

by Barley Lewis-McCabe

We’ve all seen him — you stop into Wildberries to briefly grab some lunch and you see the ragged hair and black t-shirt standing in front of the bulk foods. Maybe you stop into Pacific Paradise and see him walk out with an overflowing bag. You’re going down the road feeling fine; then, there’s a whiff of cigarettes and hot dog breath. He’s in us all: Jerry Garcia. 

If you live in Humboldt, you’ve surely heard the Grateful Dead, even if you only knew it as that weird song playing in a coffee shop that just doesn’t end.

Jerry Garcia was the unofficial frontman of the Grateful Dead, and no doubt you’ve seen one of the memorials to him; a photo in the window of Humboldt Glassblowers or a shrine to him in the window of Tomo, maybe even as an apostle in a painting at Arcata Pizza and Deli. But, Jerry’s presence goes beyond print on paper and canvas — chances are, you’ve seen his disciples out and about. 

Any man who settles down in Humboldt could inevitably start to look like Jerry Garcia. They let their beard grow, and over time, it slowly occupies more and more of the space on their head, all while their hair spreads out in any which direction creating the distinct silhouette. They let the smoke sit on their body, they shower less and let themselves live naturally — but they always wash their hands, because washing your hands is cool. Their eyebrows become bushier, the IPA belly gets bigger by the day and soon enough, he looks in the mirror and sees Garcia himself. 

In 1995, Jerry Garcia was found dead with a smile on his face. He was a man who often struggled with the demons that frequently come with great creativity. He self-medicated and allowed those feelings to overwhelm him. I’m sure some of the men who’ve been consumed by the Jerry Garcia effect have experienced similar struggles.

That’s why the Grateful Dead grows like a tie-dyed fungus in between two ears, cultivating in bodies sometimes filled with pain and grief, absorbing and turning the strife into something new. 

  It’s not bad to turn into Jerry; it’s just men growing into a new period of their lives. It’s a stage of leisure, and evidence of good nights and good meals. In our culture of wrinkle-preventing straws and frozen plastic bodies, a man who’s succumbed to the Jerry Garcia Effect might not fit the traditional beauty standard. But what’s more beautiful than a life well-lived being obvious when you see a stranger?

A man could look like Jerry Garcia when he lets himself fall victim to unhealthy habits, or he could look like Jerry when he lets himself relax. When he turns down The Golden Road to Unlimited Devotion, when he settles down and becomes comfortable in his own skin, when he lets loose and just exists not to exist, but to live! We could all be so lucky to embody the man himself. 

Barley is the photo editor and an untraditional reporter who focuses on social change and stories with a real human impact. If you’d like to reach him for whatever reason email bl258@humboldt.edu.