Get to Know the Artist: Geoff Ong

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Former mechanical engineer turned singer-songwriter, Geoff Ong writes typical breakup songs like a lot of artists, but his single “The Last Song I’ll Ever Write About You” “isn’t your typical breakup song: it features Ong’s buttery riffs and falsetto-filled vocals over an upbeat funk track.” Born and raised in New Zealand, Ong moved to Boston to attend the Berklee College of Music: a school with only a 19.2% acceptance rate that many of our featured artists have attended. Thus there is no doubt that these artists are talented, but why should you listen to Ong’s songs? In his own words, ”Ultimately, I hope that people will connect with the music on a more meaningful level than ‘Oh, this sounds nice,’ and that at some point in the future, they will look back and remember how my music was a real part of their lives.” Continue reading to learn about Ong and take a listen here to another single from his upcoming EP, The Boston EP.

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UnderGround

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“Are you sure about this?”
“I’m sure.”
“Stop scratching.”
“I’m sorry. It itches.”
“I know it itches, but I’m prepping your head. You’re lucky I went to med school.”
“Virtual med school.”
“Sit still. Okay. This might still sting.”
“Did they catch the other guy?”
“You know they did. They’ll catch you too. Facial Recognition.”

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The Language Barrier

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On his way back from the office, Donald Davenport called his wife Martha at home from the phone booth that stood outside The Small Theatre off Franklyn Street. Next Tuesday, there would be a performance of The Clock in the Sky, a new play that had recently been written up in a reliable newspaper. After speaking to Martha, Donald hung up and entered though the old revolving doors of the theatre. The familiar rustic interior, the smoke stained walls displaying posters of up-and-coming shows, the gleaming marble floor, and the usual staff whom Donald knew well were inside. Shaking off the dampness from the late evening drizzle, Donald made his way over to the ticket office. Jane the ticket attendant smiled from over her typewriter as Donald approached.

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Get to Know the Artist: Thousand Days

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Not a lot of our featured artists can say that they have their own Wikipedia page, but Pardis Sabeti can. Pardis is a “world-renowned evolutionary geneticist” who teaches at Harvard University. 2014 was a big year for her—she was named one of TIME Magazine’s people of the year for her work with the Ebola crisis in West Africa. Pardis is hoping 2015 will be a big year for her alterative rock band, Thousand Days. As front woman for the Boston trio, Pardis wrote about her experience with the virus and the people affected by it in “One Truth.” Yesterday, Pardis, guitarist Bob Katsiaficas, and drummer Matt Hayden released their latest album, Turkana Boy. We caught up with Pardis and Bob before the album release. Check out their first single from the album, “Shallow” here and continue reading to see what advice the two of them have for aspiring doctors and musicians.

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Creepy, Calculating and Controlling: All the Ways Big Brother Is Watching You

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“You had to live—did live, from habit that became instinct—in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.”—George Orwell, 1984 None of us are perfect. All of us bend the rules occasionally. Even before the age of overcriminalization, when the most upstanding citizen could be counted on to break at least three laws a day without knowing it, most of us have knowingly …continue…

Death Made a Pie

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I found old man Hendricks’s house fascinating. The sunken in roof. The broken rickety fence. The brown mass of grass. There were never any lights on except for the upstairs, and I don’t remember the last time I saw old man Hendricks. I wondered if he was even alive, but then a shadow moved against the window. Four kids hurried over to his property. They reached into their plastic pumpkins, dishing out apples, and without hesitation, they launched them at the windows. Most smashed against the outside. One was a home run, and glass shattered. The kids bolted, turned the corner, but my attention remained on the house. Its owner never emerged.

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