#( patron saint of More. sounds pretty accurate )

[mercysought]

WHAT ARE YOU THE PATRON SAINT OF?

patron saint of creation. patron saint of explosions. patron saint of More. patron saint of something new entirely, something unfamiliar, something you can't recognize. was frankenstein's monster an abomination or had his like just never been seen before? you're the patron saint of all those new, beautiful things. you're the patron saint of the monsters, too.

tagging: steal it, and tag me 💘

[maibluemen]

ok while i'm working on which meta stuff i want to have on this blog, i do want to make a somewhat? detailed post on some name headcanons i have. so. some countries whose names i either tweak or change from the ones suggested by himaruya (arguably, there are no canon names. alfred is really the only one you could argue for lol)

🇷🇺 - ivan ivanovich morozov

hima doesn't give patronymics to the countries that would use them. ivanovich comes from ivan being very young and asked what his full name is, and the only male name he could think of was his own lol so he just stuck with it. and yes both sisters have teased him for this. morozov is derived from the russian word for "frost," which i find fitting; i wanted to find a non-jewish surname for him because i don't headcanon him as jewish and. of all the non-jewish countries to have a jewish surname.....well. no judgement on people who use braginsky and i doubt himaruya meant any harm or anything but yeah that's why i use a different surname for him lol

🇱🇹 - tolvydas jonas laurinaitis

shoutout to @hinotorihime who i believe was one of the first, if not the first person in the fandom to suggest tolys being a more accurate translation of トーリス (since japanese doesn’t distinguish between R/L sounds like indo-european languages do, and english doesn’t distinguish between I/Y the way lithuanian does, and tolys being an EXCEEDINGLY uncommon name, i don’t think “toris” is an unreasonable translation to have made after the game of language telephone from lithuanian->japanese-> english lol. トーリス would be directly transliterated like “to risu” for those unfamiliar with katakana. it’s worth noting that pixiv translates his character tag as “tolys”). uhh the source he gave me is a website that no longer exists and wasn't archived unfortunately, but "tolvydas" means something like "far seer" and tolys is a shortened form of it jonas is the name he added when he was finally baptized, and it's in reference to john the baptist anyway, here is an old post where she explains some name meanings!

🇪🇪 - eduard tamm

look i know eduard isn't really used in estonia but the guy simply gives off eduard vibes to me, sorry tamm, aside from being the most common surname, means "oak"

🇱🇻 - raivis bērziņš

bērziņš is, again, the most common surname and means "birch"

ed and raivis having the most common surnames in their countries i swear isn't me being lazy, i like the idea of all 3 baltics having tree names (laurinaitis referring to "laurel")

🇵🇱 - feliks mieczysław kazimierz łukasiewicz

who let the poles be catholic so. feliks has only been a name used in poland since around the 1800s? iirc, it was specifically brought over because of a fascination with french names but i might be wrong lol (and ultimately the origins of the name are latin, so variants of it are pretty old anyway). anyway. i've decided that his first name used to be mieczysław and he changed it around the time of the napoleonic wars to feliks, but kept the old name. kazimierz was chosen at his baptism and refers to st casimir, one of the many patron saints of poland (there's literally a wikipedia article dedicated to them all lol)

🐥 - gilbert maria beilschmidt

mary was just a hugely important aspect of gil's history as a knight (and the specific orders he represented also). he hasn't been catholic in centuries but he keeps maria in his legal name because that's his mom, guys

N. 🇮🇹 - felice luca veneziano

veneziano and romano being surnames (meaning "venetian" and "roman" respectively) i decided to just...assign the italy bros their uh. titles? as surnames. apparently siblings having separate surnames isn't unheard of for the nations lol, anyway. i thought it would be more fitting as i also headcanon that there's at least 20 italies (corresponding with each modern-day region though the actual history gets a bit messier, like my tuscany oc is more properly my florence oc.....that's another post, tho) and vene and romano represent. well. veneto (but originally venice) and lazio (but originally the city of rome...though i have yet to decide when he started representing rome because he's not an Ancient....anyway.....) felice being the italian variant of "felix" luca is a baptismal name referring to st luke, who is a patron of (amongst other things) artists

S. 🇮🇹 - lovino francesco romano

heh so lovino is in the category of not really a real name but i like it and have never really felt drawn to another name instead francesco refers to st francis of assisi who is hugely popular. well, in general. and is a patron of italy. i need to workshop some more headcanons about romano and religion because of....reasons lol, but this is definitely a name he took on relatively recently.

[americangirlstar]

American Girl 1899 Pitch Ideas – Yaren Suzan Osman

Note: I am having issues finding the popularity of Turkish names in the 1890s. The names may not be accurate and I’m open to changing them.

Basic Pitch:

Yaren was born in 1890 exactly. Her family immigrated to America for work in 1895; many Turkish immigrant men did this with the intention to return later, but Yaren’s family was planning to stay. I’m not sure why yet we’ll figure that out.

She is incredibly bookish, spending most of her time learning about anything she can, whether it be a scientific study or fantastical story. Her favorite fiction books are The Jungle Book, Dracula, and The Yellow Wallpaper, which are relatively recent. Her favorite hangout is the library, or a nook near a window in her apartment where she can look out at everyone. She’s not a good cook but she is very good at sewing. She also is very blunt and really hates lying, which becomes an issue in her story as you’ll see, but she is fiercely loyal to those she considers family, and will do anything to help those she loves.

Yaren lives with one older sister and one infant sibling, gender unsure atm, as well as her two parents. Her father and sister both work in factories while her mother works as a laundress. They live in a Slavic community in New York; I’m seeing a lot of different Turkish settlements in different parts of the state so that’s up for debate.

They live in an apartment, which is unfortunately not very good but not for lack of trying from the community, who stick together and help each other. Yaren’s mother is best friends with a Jewish woman who lives in the next apartment over, and Yaren is good friends with the woman’s daughter, who is her age. The Osmans are Muslim; most Turkish immigrants were not, so there’s only a few other Muslim families in her neighborhood, and they’re all pretty close.

The plot kickstarts when, much like Claudie, rent is raised and her family is in trouble. Yaren offers to drop school, continue her studies through her sister and friend’s books, and take work as a newsgirl to get them more money. Her parents, however, are very worried about her being a girl alone on the street, so she decides to do it disguised as a boy; still dangerous, but slightly safer.

Yaren calls herself “Oscar,” taking from her last name Osman. She joins the newsboys and while her shy and quiet personality gives her a rocky start, several of the boys take her under their wing and show her how to work, and she ends up getting a real knack for it, using her love of reading to sell well as she makes all the stories sound interesting.

She is however very conflicted about how a lot of the boys will lie to sell papers, pretending to be disabled, younger, dying, etc. They explain to her that they need to do anything to sell papers, but she is still uncomfortable with it.

That’s about when the Newsboys Strike happens; the papers raise prices for the Newsboys to try and get them to sell more papers for less of their own profit. The Newsies are furious and begin to strike. Yaren is, however, very concerned about whether or not she wants to join, as her family does really need the newspaper money, but she also wants the newsboys to be treated fairly.

This gets complicated more after her Dad is injured in a factory accident, which gets him fired and means that they lose a huge income source. Yaren is torn between working in order to get her family money and supporting the union, as a union could have saved her father his job and his health.

I’m not sure how the entirety of the book series will go, as I want to do more research on Turkish-American immigration and the Newsboys Strike, but I do have some ideas, such as her meeting and idolizing Annie Kelly, the only newswoman to support the strike who was considered a patron saint by the other boys.

I want her gender to be discovered around book 4 or 5, but it turns out the boys love her anyway and end up defending her as their cool sister. This makes her cry a lot.

Also I want a bit where she has to hide some of the striking boys in her apartment after they’re hurt in a police breakup, which again gets her mother worried about her safety, but also shows her family how much Yaren has matured as she takes care of her friends.

At some point I also want her to become friends with a newsgirl or matchgirl. Now she has TWO whole female friends!!! /j

The last book would take place at the end of the strike in August, with Yaren feeling hope for the future as they get a better deal. End of the book happens on New Years, as Yaren enthusiastically runs out to sell a paper on the New Century.

[slusheeduck]

Grace Note

Grace note:   A kind of music notation used to denote several kinds of musical ornaments--that is, notes that give the performer the opportunity to add expressiveness to a song or piece.

Part 1 - 2002

               “So you’ve been dead for two weeks and you’re still not used it? Man, two weeks in, I was already using my arm bones as bottle-openers.”

               “That’s…probably not safe, Chuy.”

               “I’m dead, Sebastián. It’s not gonna hurt me.” Chuy leaned back in his seat, shaking his skull. “Look, you can’t just wallow in being dead. I mean, look at this place!” He waved at the brightly lit city around them, with skeletons animatedly wandering the streets. “We’re here to party.”

               Sebastián crossed his arms and shrugged, rolling his eyes but not responding. Chuy stared at him, then huffed.

               “You know what you need?”

               “A party?” Sebastián asked dryly, then jumped as Chuy slammed a bony fist on the table.

               “Yes. You need to go somewhere where you can just forget about everything and have fun. You had tons of fun when we were alive! I saw you at, like, every party Toya threw.” He snapped his fingers. “You know what, though? I’ve got the perfect idea.”

               Sebastián grimaced. “I already don’t like it.”

               “No, cállate, listen.” Chuy leaned forward, giving Sebastián a wide grin. “I heard that Rodrigo Rivera’s having a party tonight. We’ll go to that and have the best time.”

               Sebastián stared at him, sockets so wide his eyes threatened to fall right out. “Rodrigo Rivera.”

               “Sí.”

               “The Rodrigo Rivera.”

               “Sí.”

               “Like, patron saint of parties and hungover students Rodrigo Rivera.”

               “Sí sí sí! You in?”

               Sebastián grimaced, automatically going to adjust his baseball cap. “I dunno. Don’t you need an invitation to go to celebrity parties?” He looked up as Chuy laughed.

               “For his stuff? Nah, it’s all open-invite. I’ve been to, like, three since I died last year. He just opens the doors and the party begins.” He leaned forward to give Sebastián a good-natured punch to his ribcage, making the bones rattle slightly. “So here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna go home, change into something decent, and we’re gonna have fun tonight at that party. Suena bien?”

               Sebastián crossed his arms again, debating. Going to a celebrity party was something he’d always wanted to do, even if the celebrity had been dead for over fifty years.  And…maybe it’d take his mind off the whole being dead thing. Definitely better than slamming his hands on his keyboard like he had for the past few days. He sighed.

               “Okay, fine. But if there ends up being a bouncer, you’re the one who takes the blame.”

~

               It was probably the fifth time that Sebastián patted down his hair that he thought he might be overdoing it. Chuy had said they should take the trolley together, but first of all, being crammed against a whole mess of skeletons was not his idea of a good time. And second, the walk from his apartment to Rodrigo Rivera’s address gave him plenty of time to finish freaking out.

               Which, initially, he hadn’t planned to do. He’d always thought that he’d be very chill when meeting celebrities, but, given the way he kept straightening his shirt, that was not the case.

               Granted, meeting a musician he respected was definitely not the same as going to a literal national treasure’s party. Everyone who was even slightly interested in music knew who Rodrigo Rivera was. This was Rodrigo “wrote three of México’s best symphonies in a ten year time period” Rivera. Rodrigo “did more living in 26 years than most people do in 80” Rivera. Even though odds weren’t high that he’d actually see the man—he must have at least fifty year’s worth of fans surrounding him at all times—just the thought of being near him sent Sebastián’s nerves scattering.

               As he reached the plaza, he took a deep breath—remembering too late that he didn’t need to take it at all—and smoothed down the black dress shirt. Not his normal style, but he wanted to impress. This would be good. He’d go in, bask in being near Rodrigo Rivera, find Chuy and some fun, then feel better about the fact that he was nineteen and dead and would never accomplish everything he dreamed of.

               Okay.

               Time to go in.

               He glanced down at the little paper with the address, browbone furrowing as he looked around. It was all apartments. Surely there’d be a bigger house somewhere around here…right? No? Just the apartments? Well then it must be a penthouse or something, because…

               His eyes were drawn to a large group of people hanging outside of a teal-painted apartment. That…couldn’t be it. No, nooo. Someone like Rodrigo Rivera wouldn’t be living in a ground-floor apartment. He must have wound up in the wrong plaza—there were like eight Plaza de Rivera around this part of town, so he…

               “Oye! You made it!”

               Sebastián straightened up with a grimace as a hard slap on the back sent his ribs rattling, and he looked up as Chuy grinned at him.

               “So…this is the right plaza?”

               “Por supuesto.” Chuy nodded for Sebastián to follow him. “It’s that teal place, you can’t miss the crowds, man.”

               So…that really was Rodrigo Rivera’s place. Well, maybe he lived a bit simpler than people would think. That wasn’t too unusual, actually. Larger than life people tended to be pretty private, right?

               Well, if you could call an open-invite party with at least a hundred people in attendance private.

               As if he could sense Sebastián’s hesitance, Chuy grabbed his arm and dragged him forward, pushing his way into the actual house. Sebastián did his best to get in without pushing anyone, and his eyes went wide as they stepped in.

               Ah.

               So that’s where the money went.

               The apartment was far larger than it looked outside and, from what he could see between the throngs of people, it was full of paintings, statues, and what had to be the best sound system Seba had ever seen. Clearly Rodrigo Rivera knew how to live…even if he wasn’t actually living anymore.

               “Mira, Sebastián. That’s him over there.”

               Sebastián looked to where Chuy was pointing, eyes wide. He couldn’t believe it. He was about to see Rodrigo Rivera. In person. In his house.

               And…singing along to Shakira at the top of his non-existent lungs.

               Sebastián stared for at least thirty seconds, completely unsure of what exactly he was seeing. This was…not exactly what he’d expected with a composer who died in the fifties. Was it a joke? Was he being ironic? Could someone ironically know every lyric to a Shakira song? He finally broke his gaze as Chuy laughed.

               “Yeah, that’s everyone’s reaction to seeing him.”

               “He’s, uh…”

               “Way shorter than you thought, right?”

               Sebastián blinked, then furrowed his browbone at Chuy. “There were at least five other things that were more surprising than that.”

               Chuy laughed again. “No, no, he’s wild. No one ever expects him to be like…well, like that,” he said, nodding up as Mexican National Treasure Rodrigo Rivera started twirling his hips in an almost scarily-accurate Shakira impression. “There’s always at least one person staring like you are.” He stretched his neck up, then waved to someone on the other side of the apartment. “Bianca’s here! You’ll like her a lot.” He took Sebastián’s arm and started pulling him away. “Vamos, come on! You’ll lose your jaw if you keep it dropped like that.”

               “Shouldn’t we…I dunno, say hi or something? Since he’s the host?”

               “Naah, he’s usually busy with his friends. Everyone else just kind of does whatever.” As he passed a counter, Chuy grabbed two beer bottles, popping off the cap of one with his arm bones before handing it to Sebastián. “Just chill out, okay? You’ll have fun, and you can stop freaking out over being dead.”

               Sebastián was pretty sure it wasn’t that easy. But…well, what was there to argue? So he shrugged and took a swig of beer.

               At the very least, this party should be an interesting distraction.

~

               Time had passed.

               Sebastián wasn’t really sure how much time had passed. But he was probably on his…sixth?...beer, and he was tired, and the music was just starting to feel too loud and the apartment was suddenly very claustrophobic. Chuy’s friends were interesting, certainly, and for the past few hours, it’d been fun to talk with them. He was still very aware that he was dead and that everyone he was talking to was a skeleton, but after the third beer, that didn’t matter quite so much. Bianca was even starting to look a little cute with her pink and green face markings.

               Even so, it was time for him to find somewhere quiet. Preferably his apartment, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get all the way home. Did they have cabs here? He didn’t think so. He’d have to ask Chuy what…

               His hazy thoughts came to a quick halt, and he jolted upright in his seat as he felt something cold and wet slosh down the back of his shirt. Before he could stand up, a bony hand flopped onto his shoulder.

               “Ayyy, lo siento, guëy. I should’ve been more careful.”

               He blinked, then looked up to frown hard at the spiller. “Come on, that wasn’t…” Whatever he was about to say next died in his mouth as he made eye contact with Rodrigo Rivera.

               Dios. How many people got to say Rodrigo Rivera spilled a cocktail on them?

               “It’s…don’t worry ab—”

               “Shhh. Shhhhhhhhh.” Rodrigo leaned against the couch, patting Sebastián’s shoulder. “No, no. That’s not…it’s…whaaaat kinda host am I if I just…if I just spill things on people? I mean, mira, this shirt’s ruined now,” he slurred out.

               Sebastián glanced back at Chuy and the others, who were all caught somewhere between uncomfortable laughter and utter awe. So they were all in the same boat, then.

               “It’s not ruined,” he was finally able to say. “Don’t worry about it, Mae—” He was abruptly cut off by Rodrigo’s hand slamming over his mouth.

               “No. Don’t you…you don’t call me maestro if I’m, if we’re here. I’m just…I’m Ruy, y’know?” He pulled his hand away, leaning more over the couch so he could narrow his eyes at Sebastián. “You know what, guëy? I’m gonna…you’re gonna take one’a my shirts. S’least I can do ‘til we can get that one dry-cleaned. Don’t wanna smell like tequila…tequila? Maybe rum, I dunno what I put in that one…but you don’t wanna smell like that for the rest of the night. An’I’m a good host.” He pat Sebastián’s cheek, then stood up and started walking away.

               Sebastián blinked, then shook his head as he turned back to the group. “That was weird. Ow!” He scowled as Chuy smacked his arm.

               “What are you doing? Why are you still here?”

               Sebastián frowned as he rubbed his arm. “What?”

               “That was Rodrigo Rivera.”

               “Yeah, and he’s completely wasted.”

               “You don’t understand,” Bianca said as she leaned forward. “He never talks to people outside his orbit.”

               “But it’s an open in—”

               “Open invite doesn’t mean you get the chance to talk to him!” she whispered. “You gotta take this chance!”

               “Seriously, Sebastián. Don’t let this opportunity go!”

               Sebastián opened his mouth to argue, then looked up as he heard a shrill three-note whistle. Rodrigo, swaying slightly, waved him over.

               “Come on, guëy! ‘sjust…my room’s right over here!”

               Sebastián blinked, then turned back to Chuy. “He wants me to go to his bedroom?!” he hissed.

               “And? You know the things I would do for Rodrigo Rivera?” Chuy whispered back, then gave him a shove. “Go!”

               Sebastián gave him a hard look, then glanced back to Rodrigo, who beckoned him over again. He grimaced, then got to his feet, stumbling slightly as he got his bearings. Okay. So this was weird. But…well, it’d make a good story, wouldn’t it? And well, even if it was Rodrigo Rivera, he was still sober enough to stop things before they got out-of-hand weird.

               Rodrigo pointed at him as he got closer, swaying slightly at the movement. “Allá vamos. You don’t wanna be stuck in that all night. ‘Sright down this way.”

               Sebastián followed Rodrigo down a hallway, glancing around at the skeletons meandering around—most seemed to be busy getting a little closer than he thought skeletons could. He nearly walked right into Rodrigo as he came to a stop.

               “Oye, you guys know the rules. This doorway’s…this door’s off limits.” He waved off the suddenly mortified couple, then opened the door and nodded for Sebastián to follow. He took a breath and did his best to shake off the sheer weirdness of this situation, then walked in.

               “Uh…look, mae…uh, Señor Rivera, you really do—is that a horse?”

               Well, he thought it was a horse, but it definitely had feathers. A lot of feathers. And its multi-colored coat seemed to be glowing in the dim room. The kind-of-horse knickered at him, and Rodrigo shushed it as he walked over.

               “Be nice, Preese. I messed up his shirt.” He pressed his forehead against her muzzle. “But yeah, ‘sweird he called me Señor Rivera. That’s kinda funny.”

               “Why is there a horse in your room?”

               Rodrigo looked up at him with wide eyes as he gently stroked her nose. “She doesn’t like parties. Ev’ryone…they try and ride her, y’know? Like she’s some…some pony at a fair or something.” She whinnied at him, and Rodrigo imitated her before adding, “I always tell you when I’m gonna have ‘em. Don’…Don’be like that, Preese.” Rodrigo waved toward a closet. “Shirts’re in there. Take any of ‘em. Ponchos you gotta ask for, though, m’kay?”

               Sebastián blinked. “So…you were serious about giving me a shirt?”

               Rodrigo blinked, obviously trying to focus as he pressed his cheek to the horse’s nose. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m a…I’m a good host.”

               Sebastián started to reply, then shook his head. “Uh, all right.” Well, now that they’d gone through all this trouble, he may as well actually borrow a shirt. The thought of spending the night smelling like tequila and orange juice didn’t sound that great, really. As he walked to the closet, he took a quick glance around the room. It was…surprisingly empty. A bed against one wall, a record player against the other, and stacks of old-looking records here and there. Huh. Based on the rest of the house, he’d assumed it’d be…well, like the rest of the house.

               He shook his head again, turning back to the closet and opening the door. He could hear Rodrigo murmuring to the horse, but he couldn’t quite make out the words. Well, he should focus on the shirts. There had to be something that wasn’t too expensive and easy to clean so he could send it back. How would he send it back? By mail? Would he drop by? Were there special delivery agents who gave things to celebrities? Ugh, that’d just be another thing he’d have to learn about here.

               “You a musician?”

               Sebastián blinked at the sudden question, at first assuming it was directed to the horse. He turned, finding Rodrigo crouched down and going through a few different records.

               “Me?”

               “Mmmmm-hm.”

               “Uh…yeah, I guess.”

               “What d’ya play?”

               “Um, piano.” He turned back to the shirts. “I was…actually going to school to become a concert pianist.”

               “Yeah? Jazz or classical?”

               “Jazz.”

               “Niiiiiice. You’re speaking to one of my first loves, guëy. You ever…you ever listen to these guys?”

               Sebastián glanced over his shoulder, then shook his head. Rodrigo’s head tipped back as he groaned.

               “Then you haven’t heard perfection, chico!” He pulled himself up to his feet, thanking the horse as she helped steady him, then walked over to the record player. “Ir…this one girl, I was head over heels for her, she loved these guys. And they hold up!” He popped the record in and switched it on, then sighed as quick, bright piano music filled the room. “Theeeere we go, that’s good.” He flopped down onto the floor, laughing as Sebastián started to lunge toward him worriedly. “Haaaa, you’re fresh, huh?”

               “What?”

               “Yooou’re a freshie. Just died. Still getting used all of this,” he said, holding up his hands to wiggle his bony fingers. “Am I right?”

               Sebastián glanced away. “Yeah, I’m still pretty new.”

               “You can always tell. Or I can, anyway.” He gasped and started snapping. “Escucha! This part’s the best.” He awkwardly patted at the floor. “Wait…wait a minute on the shirts. Lay down.”

               “What.”

               “You gotta lay down! Me an’ Iria, this is the only way we listened to this record!”

               Sebastián hesitated. Okay. This was getting weird to the point of ducking out. “I sho—”

               “Hurry!”

               The sheer urgency in Rodrigo’s voice made Sebastián drop down. Figuring he was down this far, he sighed and laid down, his head not far from Rodrigo’s.

               “You listening?”

               “Mm-hm.”

               “Good. This sorta music…if you wanna do jazz, this…I mean…just listen, okay?”

               “Okay.”

               Rodrigo fell silent, and Sebastián listened. It…was weirdly satisfying, laying down and just listening to the music. The record was a little scratchy, but that just added to the experience, oddly enough. Maybe it was the beer, or just him acclimating to the sheer weirdness of the situation, but he felt…relaxed. More relaxed than he had been in the past two weeks.

               He let out a breath, sinking down slightly into the rug as he shut his eyes.

               “You have a girl back home?”

               Sebastián opened his eyes, tilting his head back to look at Rodrigo. “Uh, yeah.”

               “You two close?”

               Sebastián swallowed, looking up at the ceiling. “Uh, yeah. We were.” Dios, he hadn’t thought of Sara once since he’d come here. Was she okay? Had she handled the news well? What if he’d ruined her life by dying?

                “You miss her.” This one wasn’t a question. “That’s good.”

               Sebastián tilted his head back again. “It is?”

               “Mm. Means it meant something. Not everyone gets that, you know.” He let out a breath, head falling back slightly. “There’s not a lot of good hurt out there, but that kind…that kind’s good. Hang on to that. Sometimes that’s enough to help you keep it together, especially with your first few weeks here.”

               “Uh, gracias.”

               Rodrigo waved a hand, then snapped again. “Ay, this song! This is one of my favorites. Listen to the piano in it, you’ll like it.”

               Sebastián watched Rodrigo for a moment, eyes following the easy movement of his hand in time to the music.

               This was weird.

               But…well, not everyone got to say they laid on the ground and listened to music with one of Mexico’s top composers. May as well go along with it.

               Besides, the record was really good.

~

               This wasn’t the first time Sebastián had woken up on the floor in a stranger’s house. He’d had his share of crashing at parties, after all.

               This was the first time this had happened since he’d died, though. And it was a little unfair that his back was sore, considering he didn’t have any muscles to tweak. He grimaced and rubbed his face as he sat up.

               The horse weirded him out a little less. So did seeing Mexican National Treasure Rodrigo Rivera curled up against her, fast asleep.

               Huh. What a weird night.

               Sebastián stretched, giving his spine a few satisfying pops, then got to his feet. Well, that’d be a story to tell. But it was kinda fun. As he headed to the door, the horse knickered, and he glanced back to see a skeletal hand wave at him.

               “Oye, get a clean shirt. I’m serious about that.”

               Sebastián blinked, but shrugged. Well. That just added to the story, didn’t it? He went to the closet and grabbed a plain gray t-shirt. He hesitated a moment, then shook his head as he started unbuttoning his tequila-soaked shirt. This just fit the night too well, really. He pulled on the t-shirt, then headed for the door.

               “Hey, guëy.”

               Sebastián glanced back. This time, Rodrigo—looking the most hungover he’d ever seen a skeleton look—popped his head over the horse’s side. “Good talking last night. You should drop by again.”

               “Uh, yeah. It was fun. Thanks for showing me that record.”

               “No, en serio, drop by again. Like…I dunno, Monday.”

               Sebastián blinked. “O…kay. I’ll drop by Monday.” That gave him a way to return the shirt, at least. “I’ll see you then, Maes—”

               “Ruy.”

               “…Ruy.”

               Rodrigo nodded, then collapsed back down against the horse. He lifted his hand to give Sebastián a thumb’s up and a wave before that disappeared, too. Sebastián gave an awkward wave, then made his way out.

               The house was much more empty than before, but there were still several skeletons fast asleep in various points of the house. Sebastián carefully picked his way through, staying as quiet as possible so as to not wake anyone up. Finally, he made it out of the apartment and out into Plaza de Rivera. He squinted at the sun, then took a deep breath that bubbled out of him as a laugh a moment later. He kept laughing as he walked, shaking his head.

               What. A. Night. He guessed Chuy was right, though; it definitely took his mind off being dead for a few hours.

[Part 2]

[guillemelgat]

Catalan Folk Music

As per request​, your favorite old person is here to give you some Catalan folk recommendations! (Actually I am neither old nor do I listen to large amounts of Catalan folk, but whatever, I’ll take any opportunity I get to talk about Catalan music.)

To begin with, the idea of “folk music” is kind of hard to define, since “folk” basically just means people and people are behind music most of the time. I’m not sure what Catalan folk Spotify thinks I’m listening to, but I’ll break down what I consider to be folk music from Catalunya and y’all can decide which one you think most accurately describes the style you like. 

(this is officially Too Long so will continue under the cut)

Real Folk (aka Weird Songs Your Avis Would Sing About Jesus and Other Such Topics)

Beldà + Sanjosex - This is probably why Spotify thinks I enjoy Catalan folk, but this album is really cool for me because as the child of an ethnomusicologist one of my favorite things in the world are the original songs that people used to sing in different places aka Real Folk Music™, and this album is the epitome of that. Neither Carles Beldà nor Sanjosex are explicitly folk artists, so don’t listen to any of their other albums expecting them to be the same, but this one is basically them reviving traditional Catalan folk songs (including samples from original recordings) and I think it’s super cool. If you speak Catalan, there’s a website (called Càntut like the album) dedicated to preserving these sorts of songs, with a wealth of songs, lyrics, and recordings.

“El divino vull cantar” - Token Jesus song with one of the people who taught them the song featured at the beginning and end (and at the end he sings a verse that Sanjosex comments is one he had never heard before). 

“El pomeró” - A cute song about a little apple tree of the sort that you would sing as a child except in a pretty polished version.

“Serrallonga” - A song about everyone’s favorite Catalan folk hero, this one has a bit more of an edge to it because Serrallonga was an edgy man.

Pep Gimeno “Botifarra” - I don’t know if Pep Botifarra should be here because he kind of transcends categories, but this was the best I could do. Basically, he’s a traditional singer in the Valencian cantaor style, and he makes a lot of traditional but also fun and modern music! In other words, the style he sings in is always traditional, and generally he’s accompanied by a traditional ensemble, but he also appears in collaboration with a range of groups from the País Valencià and the Països Catalans in general, especially groups like Obrint Pas. Also, a lot of his songs have more modern lyrics, and he’s generally just amazing.

“Malaguenya de Barxeta” - A rousing hymn to “el meu País Valencià” and honestly just The Best. Obrint Pas also have a version of this, which is also great, but less traditional.

“Jota de Xàtiva” - Feliu Ventura wrote at least some of the lyrics to this, but the music is old, which makes for a fun mix between modern and traditional.  

“Cant de batre” - Just because it’s absolutely gorgeous, not because it’s famous or important.

Nova Cançó (aka The Kind of Folk That Came From the 60s and Was Mostly For Hippies but in Catalunya It Was a Bit More Rooted In Actual Tradition)

Lluís Llach - I actually don’t listen to much Llach, but how can I not include him on this list? I don’t know if I would consider him 100% folk, but he’s definitely a leader of the Nova Cançó movement and a Catalan musician who you just can’t not know.

“L’estaca” - THE song by Lluís Llach, also probably a good example of him singing in a more folk-y style.

Maria del Mar Bonet - I've only listened to a bit of Maria del Mar Bonet, but she was another leader of Nova Cançó and her songs are really pretty and a lot more folksy. She’s also from Mallorca, which is always fun.

“Merhaba” - A song about the unity of Mediterranean cultures and their shared history as seafarers. This version sounds like it came from a movie soundtrack but it’s great.

“Què volen aquesta gent?” - A song about political repression and persecution during the dictatorship. It’s pretty famous and very moving.

“Carta a l’exili” - A song about writing to people from exile, making a definite reference to all the Catalans exiled after the Spanish Civil War and during the dictatorship.

Al Tall - Al Tall are THE folk band from the País Valencià, even though they kind of don’t count as Nova Cançó. They sing a lot of really traditional Valencian songs, but as with a lot of these groups, some of them have a definitively anti-Spain and anti-Bourbon flavor (I’m looking at you, “Cant dels Maulets”). Also they use a lot of dolçaina, so if that annoys you then you’re probably not going to like them. Still, if you want folk from a certain era from Valencia, they are your go-to people.

“El cant dels Maulets” - I can’t not mention this song, sorry if you like the Bourbons but this is a legend and it deserves to be here.

“Cançó de la llum” - A good song about a town where the mayor is supposed to switch to electricity but siphons the funds away for other purpose and proceeds to get absolutely destroyed.

“Tio Canya” - I’m sorry but it’s kind of impossible to find a non-political song by Al Tall, this one is about the loss of the Valencian language and is probably one of their most famous.

Ovidi Montllor- Ovidi is also Nova Cançó and arguably does not count as folk but I don’t care because he’s amazing and y’all should listen to him. He’s very left-leaning and pro-Valencian/Països Catalans, so he’s basically eternally relevant to young Catalans and honestly to young people everywhere, which is why groups like Aspencat, La Gossa, El Diluvi, and even Txarango (see the opening line of “Agafant l’horitzó”) make constant references to him. 

“Perquè vull” - A classic. The ultimate petty song but honestly such a mood. This version featuring Ovidi speaking in French at the beginning.

“Homenatge a Teresa” - Not personally my favorite Ovidi song, but it’s legendary so I can’t not put it. It’s a lot more quiet and gentle than his other songs.

“Tot explota pel cap o per la pota” - This is not the most Communist song by Ovidi, but it’s probably up there. Basically just about how the proletariat is done with the bourgeoisie, is empowered, and is going to rise up. What more could you ask for?

Raimon - Another super important artist from the País Valencià who is a bit more rooted in folk than Ovidi but still a part of Nova Cançó. I haven’t listened to a lot of Raimon but songs like “Al Vent” are classics that you can’t not like.

“Al vent” - A song about fighting despite the darkness of the world we were born into. It’s absolutely gorgeous.

“Jo vinc d’un silenci” - A haunting song about remembering where you come from and not losing sight of your roots.

“D’un temps, d’un país” - A solemnly beautiful song about pushing on and slowly winning the world that we have fought so much to see. Interpret what that world is as you will.

Esquirols - If you have an image of folk from the 1960s, Esquirols are probably what you’re imagining. Basically just a bunch of hippies singing songs about joining together (and also fighting for Catalunya but I mean what else would you expect at this point). In my opinion the best group from the Principat during this era, but that’s entirely personal and I am usually a bad judge of these things.

“Torna, torna, Serrallonga” - It’s ya boy he’s back and also this is literally The Most Legendary Song Ever it’s so epic (and as a heads up it’s also exceedingly political).

“Fent camí” - This is basically the Catalan version of all the songs I grew up with from Rise Up Singing (aka just a book with all the pro-union/grassroots protest songs ever sung in the United States), which is not a thing anyone is going to know but I don’t know how else to describe it.

“Arrels” - I just posted this a week or so ago (albeit a different version) but it’s so pretty and just a really nice positive song about life in general except not in a cheesy way, it’s just gorgeous and you have to listen to it for yourself.

“Folk Calentó” (aka Catalans Are Great and Have Modern Cool Hip Bands Who Play Folk in a Fun Way That Is Enjoyable to Listen to)

Roba Estesa - This band is literally the most undervalued Catalan group in modern music. They are six women who basically sing either feminist adaptations of traditional songs or else original songs with lots of influences from cúmbia or rumba catalana, but still with a definitive folk feel. They are amazing and deserve much more love than they get.

“Una altra ronda” - A lively song about getting really drunk with your friends because screw the rules women don’t care about being well-behaved.

“A la muntanya” - An older song about how girls just wanna have fun screw their husbands.

“Les noies d’Olot” - More girls just being generally badass and too good for the men who are interested in them.

El Diluvi - Of a similar left-leaning, feminist vein to Roba Estesa, this group is also very Catalanist and big fans of Ovidi (see above). They have a lively folk sound, with influences from all around the world, but are definitely rooted in acoustic, with a violin and a bandúrria making up part of their ensemble. They are quite possibly one of my favorite Catalan groups of all time.

“I tu, sols tu” - A feminist hymn but also just a great song, based on a poem by Maria Mercè Marçal.

“Vell record” - More of a folk song, with a somewhat Celtic sound and vivid lyrics.

“Alegria” - A simple, happy song about being happy. (What would expect, given the title?)

Germà Negre - A group which claims they were formed when La Moreneta (patron saint of Catalunya) visited them in a dream and told them to revive traditional Catalan music, which regardless whether it’s true or not, is a good origin story. They mostly sing covers of other artists (including songs by several of the artists listed above), but they have lots of interesting instruments and I really like them.

“L’Hereu Riera” - I am personally a fan of this version of this song, even though I’m pretty sure no one else knows it exists. The video shows the traditional dance that goes along with it as well as the cobla, the traditional Catalan musical ensemble.

���Les noies maques” - A great cover of a Catalan kids’ song that is about 200 times better than the original (even though the video does not match with the music being played, which is annoying).

“Guarda la lluna” -  A more traditional song, but it’s really lively and energetic.

La Troba Kung-fú - Probably a stretch, but rumba catalana is definitely folk music, and La Troba are masters of it. They definitely have a lot of modern influences from reggae and other things, but they do some really fun versions of traditional songs, which is what I’ll put here.

"La cançó del lladre” - The definitive version of this traditional song, very rumbero and very good, albeit perhaps not the most folk-like song.

“El preso de Lleida” (with Sílvia Pérez-Cruz) - A beautiful rumba version of this traditional Catalan song, with Sílvia Pérez-Cruz, who is another amazing folk-ish singer. It’s kind of quiet in the beginning, so turn up the volume.

“Flor de primavera” - Not a traditional song, but a gentle, beautiful rumba that is so dreamy and light you will immediately fall in love with it.

Indie Folk (aka The Acoustic Airy Sound That You Probably Associate With Folk More Than Anything Else on This List)

Mazoni - I haven’t listened to everything by him, but a lot of his music is what I would consider folk in the current sense of the word, especially his latest album. He is very much defined by that acoustic guitar sound, but can also be wildly different, so it’s hard to say with him.

“La collita” - A fun song about the apocalypse that takes a dig at Goldman Sachs, which is always appreciated.

“Pedres” - I personally really enjoy this song, it’s a bit grittier and more intense than the simple melody would seem.

Cesk Freixas - While I would consider Cesk Freixas more singer-songwriter than explicitly folk, he definitely has that specific sound. I haven’t really listened to much by him, but here are a few songs that aren’t “La petita rambla del poble sec” even though I love that song, plus him doing a cover of some of the songs earlier on this list.

“Et dono casa meva” - A mix of singer-songwriter and folk, a love song to Catalunya and the Països Catalans. 

“Que no et falli mai la sort” - A good example of his unique brand of utopianism and hope for the future, which sounds silly but it’s honestly not.

“Al vent / L’estaca / Què volen aquesta gent?” - Cesk’s version of these three classics which you might recognize now :))))

Well, this ended up being more of a list of traditional Catalan music than Catalan folk music, but that’s more of what I listened to. This also turned out way too long, but am I even capable of writing short posts? Anyhow, enjoy!

[angeltriestoblog]

I’ve been thinking and writing and thinking about writing

This time last year, I spent my free time cooped up in my university’s study hall. There, I would drink from smuggled cups of vending machine coffee, in the hopes of converting my lethargy into caffeine, and the caffeine into words. My dream publication at the time had opened up internship applications, and though they set no deadline, I pressured myself to finish all the requirements as fast as I could. Every impulse decision I had was always coupled with this need to execute at the soonest possible time, like my brain knew if I took a second longer, my common sense would kick in and pull the brakes. I guess my failure to think everything through reflected in my cover letter template (lazy), resume (unremarkable), sample works (in retrospect, bland and uninspiring), and the absence of an acceptance letter in my inbox.

I have lost respect for said publication since then, though not because I harbored bitterness in my heart: their failure to compensate hardworking interns as well as the steep decline in the quality of their content should be enough reason. (Looks like I dodged a bullet back there.) Though it can’t be denied that at the time, I was heartbroken. The feeling lingered with me longer than I cared to admit. Despite getting featured on a national broadsheet and accepted into my school’s student paper less than a month later, I still couldn’t bring myself to be fully confident in my skill set because of that one specific, indirect rejection.

Which is why, being where I am now and having achieved as much as I have in a span of five short months feels like the highest form of vindication. Quarantine boredom compelled me to submit an article pitch to the then newly-launched Underdog, an online platform dedicated to the digital native’s latest preoccupation. It was a piece about the boybands I loved and lost (read: the dissolution of One Direction, and every other group I adored with the same degree of intensity), one I was actually planning to post on the blog. But in a span of a few weeks, my idea was accepted, refined, revised, and turned into a full-fledged essay that landed me my first ever paycheck.  

I was still on some euphoric high, emboldened beyond belief, when I chose to take it a notch higher and apply as a staff writer for one of my all-time favorite magazines. During the summer before college, I was paralyzed by a legitimate existential crisis that left me aimless and afraid. I turned to the Internet for solace, and in my search for a voice of reason, I found Lithium Magazine, and their collection of articles which viewed life in the authentic, critical, occasionally self-deprecating way only Gen Z teens know how. I was aware being turned down by them would easily mean a one-way ticket to retirement for me; thank God my inner critic was taking a power nap or else it would have talked me out of it for sure. The day after I submitted my accomplished application form and a far more impressive portfolio of sample articles (by my standards, at least), I woke up to an acceptance letter and just knew life was not going to be the same.

The past four months I’ve spent as a contributor for Lithium have been some of my most fulfilling as a writer. I am constantly being pushed to the limits of my imagination and creativity when it comes to the content I produce. I can’t find it in me to half-ass pitches or beat around the bush in paragraphs: I owe it to the effortlessly talented people I work with, and the impressive body of work they have managed to accumulate over the years. My first pieces for the month of July were about the effectivity of online therapy in a Filipino context, and the irony of being a low-maintenance friend during a time when the need for human connection is higher than ever. This was followed by my personal essay in defense of basic girls: my favorite one so far, and probably my boss’ too, considering that it’s an Editor’s Pick for the month of August. Though I am infinitely proud of them, as they are my first forays into the international publishing world, I know I can (and thus am determined to) do better.

Since then, I’ve churned out articles on an almost-daily basis for an array of online and print zines. I scout for inspiration in the morning and once struck by lightning, I type away until roosters start to crow once again. Most days, I only took a time out for the daily two-hour movie. It seemed like I was working a part-time job instead of nurturing a hobby. But it never felt like a chore to me. I simply love what I do and I feel like the fact that it shows is the reason why sites are kind enough to publish my work. 

You can view my portfolio if you want to see everything I’ve put out so far but here are five of my most recommended, in case you’re too lazy for that!

The story of my coming-of-age based on the usernames I had on social media platforms, for Uniquely Aligned;

An expose on all-girls Catholic high schools in the Philippines and their inaction towards sexual harassment cases, for Ashamed Magazine;

A part-review of Patron Saints of Nothing by Randy Ribay, part-rant on the evident lack in Western media that accurately portrays Filipino life, for Reclamation Magazine;

A piece on why talking about mental health should never be a one-way street, for Gen Rise Media;

A love letter to one of my favorite movies of all time, and its flawed eponymous protagonist, for Mid-Heaven Magazine

On a rather tangential note, I also started expanding my network on LinkedIn, though I wasn’t exactly sure what I was hoping to get out of this exercise. I simply enjoyed the process of generating new variations of the same job descriptions. One day, I was sent an email by Riya, the Executive Director of The Young Writers Initiative, a nonprofit that provides resources for aspiring authors to improve their craft and advance their career. They wanted to recruit me to be a mentor for freelancing for their upcoming summer internship program. I had just woken up then and had to rub the sleep from my eyes to read it properly. Apparently, I was recommended by a connection (hi, Srilekha!) who took my sample works as an obvious display of my credibility in the field. Given that this sounded like an exciting opportunity, I immediately agreed. Everything happened at a pretty fast pace after that, as I got swept up in the process of selecting a mentee and figuring out what I could possibly teach them. I guess I didn’t find the time to process what exactly was going on, and what it meant for me as a writer.

It didn’t take long for the impostor syndrome to hit. And quite hard, if I may add. I was due for an interview with Madison, one of my fellow TYWI mentors and I had scanned the questions she sent me. Though I clearly knew what advice I would give to aspiring freelance writers, or had a routine in mind that allowed me to balance all my existing priorities, my hands felt like they were loaded with cement. I could barely type on the document before me. I must have had a staring contest with my taunting cursor for an hour.

I mean, maybe I couldn’t say anything because I didn’t have the right to say them. After all, whatever I knew, I borrowed from someone else - perhaps an actual authority in the field. Wasn’t I just some girl who got lucky during the quarantine? While the current state of the world forced everyone into stagnancy, I coped best with the help of the written word. Had everyone else been under the same circumstances, I wouldn’t be in my current situation. Needless to say, when the actual feature came out, I spiraled. 

I wish I could claim that I only had to do x and y for the storm cloud above my head to go away. But as controversial as it sounds, I maintain that no writer fully gets rid of impostor syndrome. In fact, let me widen the scope of my statement: no creative can do it. I have never known anybody with both an inclination toward the arts and a strong sense of confidence. It’s like our limitless imagination only raises the already impossibly high standards we hold ourselves against. We never really think highly of ourselves to begin with, so when we meet a goal, achieve something we’ve only ever dreamt of, we bring ourselves down. We invalidate our hard work and dismiss it as an act of charity by the karmic forces of the universe.

Thankfully, I have an amazing support system: my immediate family members and closest friends, always ready to offer reassurance when it’s scarce (hold on, I got these intense Economics war flashbacks GOD). I seriously don’t know where I’d be without them. Actually, I do know. Probably wallowing in pools of self-deprecation. I think I would’ve ended up chickening out of new opportunities on the sole basis of my self-imposed inexperience. My loved ones were the quickest to remind me that I was only a beginner in freelancing but I had been writing since I learned how to grip a pen in my hand. I have prepared for this all my life and I was finally reaping the fruits of my labor. Who was I to shy away from the blessings that were so generously being lavished upon me?

In fact, just a few hours ago, I bagged two very exciting contributor roles for organizations that I admire very deeply. I have several pitches in the pipeline as of now, which I absolutely cannot wait to bring to life and share with you guys. As far-fetched as this sounds, this is only the beginning for me. I am so grateful to everyone who has believed in me, read my work (or even a mere paragraph of it because I know how underappreciated the written word can be these days), and left encouraging comments. 

WIshing you nothing but love and light always, always, always,

Angel

[slayerbook]

Talkin’ Tori

This is one of my career highlights. I quickly talked to the goddess Tori Amos about her entire catalog (to that point), in terms of characters she was representing in the songs, and how the related to her real personality. At the end of it, she said it was a good interview. (And at the beginning, she said “Hi, Ferris!”) So I’ll take that.

Man. The vagaries of online content. One of my favorite pieces doesn’t fully exist online anymore. Writer brothers and sisters, never trust anybody to archive your stuff.

Little Earthquakes turned 25 today, which doesn’t seem right, but hey, you know? The “how’s that thought for ya?” from “Silent All These Years” might be the best STFU in the history of pop music. So, if you came to this blog for metal content, rest assured: Tori is metal as shit.

Anyhow, here’s Tori, from 2007. Various incomplete versions of it are floating around on some VVM-affiliated sites, but this is the full director’s cut. Some of the supergenius editors gave the pieces imaginative, reverent, respectful titles like “Piano Girl” and “Tori Goes Schizo” — I didn’t write that shit.

Content after the jump...

The Amos Posse

Patron Saint of Piano Girls Looks Back at the Women Who Sang Her Songs

       Tori Amos has taken to the road with the girls of American Doll Posse, her catchiest release in years. It’s her tenth studio album -- if you count the eponymous debut of her self-titled group Y Kant Tori Read, a cringe-inducing hair-rock serenading of material excess in 1980s Los Angeles, where she actually spent her early 20s scraping by, playing piano in hotel cantinas and bars.

       The new album finds that young singer grown into a mother and world traveler who’s riding with good company: The songs are delivered in the voice of four other characters, each further realized through her own costume and blog: Isabel the indignant politico photographer, Clyde the wounded soul-seeker, Pip the fierce rubber enthusiast, and Santa the glitzy sensualist. They’re also on tour.

            For this trek, Amos is performing sets over two hours long. They’ll close with a set by Tori and her band. She’ll play solo on her Bösendorfer piano. And she’ll take the stage dressed and in character as one of the Posse -- Amos says she doesn’t finalize a set list and decide which girl will perform until an hour before the show.

            Even if they can’t travel, Tori’s loyal legion can catch every show. The night of each concert – if everything goes as planned – official bootlegs called Legs and Boots will be available on ToriAmos.com.

            The cast of characters is the album’s narrative hook and talking point, but it’s not a new approach for Amos. After her proper solo debut, 1992’s starkly autobiographical Little Earthquakes, she’s since branched into more oblique lyrics and presented different characters in many of her songs. Amos talked to Scene about all her albums and the women who sang them. Visit blogs.CleveScene.com for an expanded version of Amos’ look at her entire catalog.

 Of the American Doll Posse characters, which is least like you?

“The least like me, the way I’ve known me all these years, would be Santa. She was patterned after Aphrodite [the Greek goddess of love, lust, and beauty, the counterpart of the Roman Venus]. I thought she was a tart. After really immersing myself in her story, I began to see how she would use her sexuality, and how she was really comfortable with her body. She didn’t live a life of guilt where men decided how she felt about her physicality.”

 Was The Beekeeper [2005] more a character or concept?

“I didn’t see it as a character. It was more about the structure of the garden, and I like the idea that songs were coming from an expression in nature. And we developed each song coming from a specific garden. And I liked that, especially since our Biblical story starts in a garden. As a minister’s daughter, I don’t accept that their read of history is the accurate read. So the Beekeeper was really about another viewpoint of the feminine coming from the garden.”

 And Scarlet’s Walk [2002] was more of an overt alter-ego?

“Yes. [Scarlett’s Walk] was a journey through America, post 9/11, trying to go back and cross the country, trying to find ancient sacred sites the spiritual vortexes that Native Americans have held secret and sacred. Scarlet is a woman, but she is a thread that is weaving across the country, trying to remember the story of the real keepers of this land, who had been practically erased from our history.”

 In the cover-songs album Strange Little Girls [2001], each song was a character-driven narrative. Did you feel particularly close to any of them?

“It’s not that I related to some of them more than others. I think [Eminem’s] ’ ‘97 Bonnie and Clyde’ was powerful, because the song itself – when you have a woman murdered in the back [seat of a car] -- I took the point of view that she wasn’t quite yet dead. And all men have to remember: When their wives aren’t quite yet dead, that’s the most dangerous five minutes.”

 To Venus and Back [1999] had some abstract lyrics, but was it pretty much Tori?

“You had a double album of the live show -- a collection of songs that had accumulated for many years, and then you had the future as we were approaching the millennium. It seem to me that the Earth, as it was approaching the millennium, needed a girlfriend. And so Venus seemed to me a friend for her to have.”

From the Choirgirl Hotel [1998] had some very obviously personal songs like “Spark,” but did “Playboy Mommy” or “Jackie’s Strength” represent a character?

“In a way, as you’re composing, the songs are their own entities. And they don’t have arms and legs, but they do have consciousness. As a composer, I’m able to contain the song and write it and translate it. Because you shape-shift. I make it as a half-decent playwright: Characters can embody you. They come and they visit.”

 Boys for Pele [1996] was based on some of your experiences beyond the average every-day. Where were you for that album?

“That album, I was stepping into, in a big way, the confrontational side of the psyche. And having spent some time in Hawaii with [volcano goddess] Pele herself, I was in a place where I began to question the authority of the male. So, in a way, I think there was a bit of Boudica, the great warrior women.”

 Under the Pink [1994] was departure form very direct, very literal Little Earthquakes. Did you see songs like “Past the Mission” as more of a creative narrative?

“I was spending some time in New Mexico, and I was studying the history of the Spanish and the conquistadors came in and set up the missions, and subjugated the native people to Christianity, because their beliefs were thought of as something of the devil, blasphemous. And, of course, that justified all [the conquistadors’] killing, slavery, and abuse. So I guess as a minister’s daughter, I’m made up of many characters – we all are. Any good writer, I think, maybe just allows themselves a little more freedom to let different aspects out.”

 Was Little Earthquakes [1992], as it seems, straight-up you?

“It’s a diary form, I would say – a journal. But you really can only write your journal once, in my opinion. I think you can maybe write it twice. But you need to have a lot of time lapse before you write the second one.”

 When you look back at Y Kant Tori Read [1988], can you relate to that girl, all these years later?

“What I understand about that is: When you get rejected as a composer for so many years, if you are a capable composer, you can pretty much compose anything. And my natural inclination as a writer was not going to be thwarted by the record companies, and I couldn’t sing in another bar for much longer; I’d done it for 11 years. So everyody has a different breaking point. And I realized: Unless I would write something that they felt they would sign, I was never gonna get out. So, of course, I chose to give them what I thought was a contemporary sound at the time, a pop-rock record. And I guess when you shop at Retail Slut one too many times, that’s what that’s what it’s going to look like.”

[son-of-a-duck]

February 27, 2017

I didn't take notes today.  I thought about it once but nothing came of it.  Luckily, it wasn't a very exciting day.

I watched and took notes on the first lecture for the week.  The main goal for this week is to actually make the tutorial because next week we are going to do the peer review thing.  Good grief.  I came up with a lot of ideas for what I want to do but I don't really have it all put together yet.  The ideas are a bit scattered.  I'm thinking I can make a table of contents for the tutorial and skipping between “chapters” by using annotations in a YouTube video.  I also think I can make a quiz because I've taken quizzes in YouTube videos before.  I need to play around with how accurately I can make the annotation outlines on videos, because I've never messed around with them before, and I need to see if I can create “buttons” on my video that are then surrounded by the annotation link so that people can click the button.  There are lots of possibilities and I don't have a lot of time.  I think it will help having the experience of making a tutorial in one of my last grad school classes, but that was a pain in the butt and I've tried to forget it.  I imagine the hardest and most time-consuming part will be the subtitles, because that was the hardest and most time-consuming part of my last tutorial.  Those will be saved for last and if I can't get to them I'll just say they are forthcoming.  The instructors said a rough draft or work-in-progress is okay, so I might take them up on that.

I was reminded that this is a short month and that displays switch over on Wednesday, so I made a sign for my display.  A month or two ago one of the other librarians did a display that only had books with blue covers.  We decided it would be a cool idea to do the same thing for March with green books, and because I like green, I was elected to make the display.  It took a little while to figure out my background image but then I found a really good picture of clovers and it was perfect.  The green is just right and it makes sense with the month.  And I think I've got my title: “Feeling Lucky?”  And a subtitle: “Well Do You?”  I'm afraid people might take the title literally and expect the display to be more about luck or something.  But I am hoping they will catch on to all of the books having green covers.  Although it would also be a fitting title for a display filled with books wrapped in paper so you couldn't see what they were about.  I may bend the rules a little bit to include books about Ireland and Saint Patrick, even if they don't have primarily green covers.

I was on desk for two hours this afternoon and did all the reference things.  I helped patrons in person, over the phone, in chat, and through email.  And when I wasn't helping people I caught up on chat stats for the month.  I hadn't updated my table since the eighth, which left a lot of chats not added to the table.  I'm glad I got assigned all the stats stuff mostly for the chat stat thing because it is interesting and informative to look through all of the chats that we have.  Most of them I only skim but frequently there are ones that are pretty good, either because it is something I wouldn't know for sure how to answer or because it's just an interesting exchange. I almost think it should be required reading for everyone in the department.

One of the IT guys stopped by when I was on desk to tell me he had read through my email and that the other IT person was incorporating it into the training she was making, which she was almost finished with.  This was news to me but I didn't point that out.  It was my understanding that I was going to be doing the training because the other IT person has been saying for years that it wasn't part of her job every time someone asked her about it.  We'll see what my boss has to say about it when she's back at work tomorrow.  If the idea of me training people on IT-related things was enough to spur a little motivation in the IT staff to do what should be their job, and it saves me that extra work, I'm cool with it.  I am a little annoyed by the lack of communication on their part.  My first thought is that they were avoiding it so they could get the training started and almost finished so they could keep me out of it.  Office politics are an interesting thing.  I have not really had to deal with it since the movie theater when the occasional manager would go on a power trip.  There really needs to be a required interpersonal class for IT people in general.  That field seems to attract people who are lacking interpersonal skills, but so often that type of work involves interacting with people, and so often they fall short.  My social skills are definitely not great but I can usually fake it when it comes to the workplace.

My shock mount for my microphone came today.  It was missing the screw adapter but thankfully I was able to take one out of the microphone clip that came with the arm I got recently. Unfortunately, the shock mount makes absolutely no difference in the sound being transferred to the microphone when I hit the table or use my keyboard.  I can't say I'm surprised for the price I paid for it but I'm still a little disappointed.  Life goes on.

I spent my night watching YouTube videos and researching possible art prints that I want to buy.  I found two that I want to get but I've been spending too much money recently so I'm going to hold off.  It also didn't help that my gas bill was almost $100 this month.  That was almost twice my bill from last month.  I'm wondering if it is my increased use of the stove for cooking.  We'll have to see if I stay consistent with the cooking next month and if the bill stays high.

Now I'm going to record my audio journal so I can go to bed.  I'm not doing great about getting to bed at a decent time.  I need to work on that.

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 71: You Need a Supply Company

Table of Contents. Third Instar, Chapter 2. Go to previous. Go to next. TWs: First aid descriptions, allusions to human experimentation.

No matter what happens, don’t name it after me.

___________________________

Lacking the tow chains to do so, Angel followed behind Little Boy Blue instead of re-docking atop it. The composite Mister Handy alternated its position and speed to optimize its scans for threat assessment. They had cleared a majority of their travel time between Concord and Nashua, so it wouldn’t have to follow far to their destination.

Now that Sticks kept below forty miles an hour, ‘Choly could make out so much more of their surroundings. Where a sea of scrap metal, driftwood, and patchwork sunshades had comprised the flea market to the South of the mall, locally recovered steel and concrete had repaired and rebuilt the satellite strips that once lay around and just within the fringes of the mall’s parking lot. He nodded vaguely to himself at the understanding that the amount of steel required to repair the mall and its satellite stores definitely explained why the parking lot had been entirely devoid of any vehicles besides their Chryslus. Certain patches of parking lot had been ripped up to accommodate farmland, and he noted several dozen people tending these crops. He saw just as many people walking between the satellites and the flea market.

“Do they live up here? Or is all this more commerce?”

“Every inch of Ant Lane is commerce. Once a mall, always a mall. Folks usually live out of their stalls and shops.”

“So people do live inside the mall, too...”

“Everybody up here does, some of the time, I guess.”

“Now that I can see just how big this settlement is, I understand why they’re using the military checkpoint to control through traffic, but they keep it set up for cars? Do they really see very many?”

‘Choly flinched when Sticks didn’t stop at a lighted intersection, only to remind himself that stoplights no longer worked... and that they were the only running vehicle around.

“Not if they have anything to say about it. They’re mostly set up for caravans, not cars. Wagons, brahmin. You get the idea. They don’t do tech, and with the exception of caravan tourism, they generally keep to themselves. They can be pretty mean, and have a better memory than most settlements.”

“Something tells me they’re only mean if you piss them off...” ‘Choly faltered before leaning into firmness. Doing his best not to glare at the ghoul’s Pip-Boy, his eyes locked intent on Sticks’s gloved left hand. “You want me to heed your judgment calls, you need to tell me the because part. A lot of my mistakes happen because I’m being withheld vital info. If I’m not on the same page... You’ve got to keep me caught up, is all. Or it just isn’t fair to expect me to understand how the world works these days! We’re traveling together for the foreseeable future. We’re partners. Trust needs to go both ways.”

Sticks glanced to him but favored an eye on the road.

“You have questions? Shoot.”

“You made it sound like we were headed into another ruin when you agreed to escort me to Nashua. The two biggest groups of people I’ve encountered in Mass were the fifty or so raiders in Lexington, and the hundred Unfolded in Lowell. You knew Ant Lane was an enormous settlement, and it’s obvious you’ve been here before. You’re going to be up front with me this time.”

“Nashua is a ruin,” Sticks nitpicked, rolling his shoulders to relax his neck. “Ant is pretty much all that’s survived of it. How I understand it, the mall itself was a prototype above-ground vault from Vault-Tec. Most of the mall’s citizens are descendants of the people who were shopping the morning of the Great War.”

“What did you do to piss them off? And does that have anything to do with why you live in the middle of nowhere instead of here?”

“I travel every few years to make the circuit between Ant, Lowell, and the various settlements around what you know as Boston. I’m a major cog in the supply line for Ant’s chem habit. Inside the mall’s a gated community. Lot of ‘em are hoity-toity as sin. Chems are frowned upon. But you know human nature. Forbidding vices just makes them more irresistible. I may have liberated someone of their entire savings in one weekend,” he grinned. “Anyway, don’t worry about it. Bea just has trouble letting go of grudges, even when they aren’t hers.”

“You’ve already calculated exactly how you plan to pull one over on these folks again, haven’t you? You’re not the type to learn better.”

“Sounds like you’re the one who doesn’t trust me.” Something the brunet had said got the blond ghoul fidgeting. “Thanks to you, I’m still riding the high of achieving my lifetime grail of a job. Buuut, you may be onto something. Surely, there’s some kind of trouble we can get into.”

‘Choly drooped.

“I’m worried that it may be harder to stay out of it than it is to find it.”

The first major landmark on their directions passed to their left. Once a sizable Luxurique car lot, the property resembled the robotics scrapyard in some ways, though little more than steel skeletons littered its perimeter as a makeshift fence. The entire pavement had been ripped up to plant an orchard. When ‘Choly caught sight of the next landmark, the historical cemetery adjacent the car lot, he thought to how Angel and Bogey considered scrap parts analogous to gore. He could appreciate the reverence that the Satellite settlers had not repurposed the cemetery in the same way.

At the next block should have stood the Walden Drugs Warehouse of Nashua, NH. ‘Choly ripped off his visor, and practically crawled up onto the dashboard to press himself against the windshield in grief. Nothing around the location could possibly be mistaken for such a building. At the foot of a demolished hill-high retaining wall lay piles of concrete, steel, and wood far too rotted by the elements to be of any value.

Sticks slowed to a stop before the turn-in, and slid down in his seat, head askew.

“Well, I was expecting less of a looting job, and more of a shopping list, coming up here.”

“Please drive up there. We can’t have come all this way and gone through all this for nothing. I can’t be oh-for-three looking for these things.” Sticks wouldn’t budge until ‘Choly sat back down, so he did so with a frown. He trembled, hands shoved in his lap. “Dragged us across state lines for nothing... Maybe I’m not meant to locate accommodations. Karma wouldn’t be so kind.”

“If karma were real, you’d be in the dirt by now.” The ghoul pulled into the broken parking lot and stopped beside what remained of the building. “Are you sure this is the place?”

“This directory helped me find the Lexington Walden. The landmark directions are far more useful now than having the street names. It’s accurate as far as what used to be here.”

Angel came up to the passenger window.

“What’s all this then?”

“The warehouse is gone.” Sticks lifted the gull door to get out, but didn’t close it. He stooped slightly, with a sympathetic lower lip. “But maybe not the stuff. I’m getting out and poking around a bit. Look for those corset things. And maybe a Stimpak. Who knows? Maybe Angel and I will get lucky. If you want to stay put, we’re both within earshot. Come on, chap. Peel your eyes.”

With a broken mumbling, ‘Choly reclined the seat in defeat to stare up into the ceiling of the car.

"You remember what they look like.”

“--Of course, Sir. Nothing would please me more. ...Such disarray. I wouldn't know where to begin if I had to clean up this mess...”

The ghoul first circled the vehicle to survey the damages. He ran a pitying hand over the trunk.

“Oh, Lil’ Boy. Haven’t even had you up and running a full day yet and you’ve already got in a fistfight. Don’t you worry. I’ll smooth all that out. Promise.” He poked his head in the passenger window, then wagged a nod to the rubble. “I doubt there’s more than some ants around here, maybe a Radfowl. I’m not going to stop you if you want to poke around for yourself, too, but Angel and I will do our best.”

“Thank you. I’m going to stay here, though.”

'Choly melted into the moving blanket to shut his ringing eyes. After some time, he glanced up at the Nuka Girl figure on the dashboard, and spaced out. If everything he’d experienced in Lexington and Lowell were universal, then Nuka Cola was a symbol of the wasteland’s economic valuation. What better patron saint of an aggrandized opportunist, then, than a leatherette coquette cosmonaut riding a bottle rocket side-saddle on the smoothest sail to the stars? If the Commonwealth still minted currency, Nuka Girl may well have appeared in lieu of Lady Liberty.

Sticks wasn’t gone long before returning to the car. He sat down in the driver’s seat with a labored wheeze. ‘Choly looked to him expectantly, but quickly noticed the ghoul sweating and breathing hard.

“You wouldn’t happen to know first aid, would you? The bleeding hasn’t stopped.”

Sticks motioned to his left upper arm, leaning his head against the back of the armchair. ‘Choly sat up and looked to where the blood had soaked through the ghoul’s golden oiled wool sleeve.

“I have field medic training, yes.” ‘Choly opened his door, too, but didn’t get out. “The most I’ve ever had to do was stabilize a soldier until my lieutenants could take over. Often, an emergency situation on site at Deenwood was rapidly fatal, fortunately.”

Sticks’s gaze soured on him, and he put his hands up defensively.

“The acute cases died with minimal suffering,” ‘Choly insisted. “--But anyway this isn’t about instantaneous chem necrosis. Let’s see what we can do about your arm. Show me your health diagnostics. Vitals should tell me the specific damage, and the extent.”

“How do I do that?”

“Here.” ‘Choly yanked the arm across the center console. His gestures softened apologetically as he clicked through the dials at the top left. Confusion knit his brow, but he did eventually locate the screen he sought. “It’s almost nothing like my model, but at least it shares some functions in common.”

As he read what appeared, ‘Choly drooped in recognition that Sticks was not, in fact, a simple burn victim survivor. The Pip-Boy 3000 Mark-V measured vitals in far greater depth than the Mark-IV.

Error: Too many vitals out of range. Diagnostics shifted to custom theoretical matrix as of October 5, 2287. Measurements taken not cross-referenced against standard ranges.

Blood pressure: 99/88 (avg. 110/78) Pulse: 102 (avg. 95) SPO₂: 85% (avg. 93%) Temperature: 88.8°F (avg. 92.3°F) Respiration: 13 (avg. 9) BMI: 24.5 (individual is 6′0″ 180lbs.) Pain: 6. Unilateral, localized in left arm (avg. 0) Mental state: Scattered. Faint

S/4 P/3 E/8 C/9 I/1 A/1 L/1 (-1 to all, compared to genetic data)

Systemic analysis: Spinal column and thyroid mutated by gamma particles embedded throughout nervous and lymphatic system. Gamma particles still positive throughout CNS. All healing factors heightened and currently racing, compared to weekly average. Larynx and trachea scarred from radiation exposure. Skin all but absent; organ replaced with heavy keloidal layer, through which thermoregulation and immune barriers still maintained. Connective tissues, chiefly collagen and cartilage, deteriorated but still functional. Multiple genetic sources concentrated in left arm.

Chemical analysis: Diminished coordination and reflexes resulting from psychedelic stimulant abuse. Neurological dysregulation resulting in suppressed pyramidal function. Regulatory hormones reflect decrease from individual’s normal levels since first log Oct 1, 2287, but have stabilized at current level since three days ago.

Theoretical diagnosis: Nearing threshold of Stage 2 hypovolemia. Deep untreated wound to left arm. Suspected sequelae of undocumented immunosuppressant related to grafting rejection. Addiction to psychedelic stimulant. Left hand amputee.

Recommended recourse: • Either Addictol to eliminate withdrawals of the stimulant, or further regimen of the same stimulant, microdosed, to curtail negative effects. • Stimpaks to left arm to mitigate transplant rejection; for related systemic sequelae, consider off-label use of Limit 115 supplements to administer Stimpaks orally. • Electrolyte replacement and attention to hydration. • Blood transfusion may be necessary if bleeding lasts longer than another four hours. • Mentats to keep patient’s alarmingly low wits until faculties can be restored.

Despite the urgency between his ears, it first stunned ‘Choly to see the advanced metrics the Mark-V could pull even without a Vault Suit synced to it. Might as well have a portable Auto-Doc on your fucking arm. Another pang of jealousy overcame him, and he snorted to swat it off.

“Alarmingly low-- Ugh. Let’s see what I can do! You need to take off your coat, and your shirt, too, if it’s got sleeves. Can you manage that yourself, or do you need--”

“--Your guardian Angel to your rescue,” the Handy projected, returning as well.

Sticks unlatched his Pip-Boy and, once Angel had helped him out of his coat and shirt, kept it in his lap. ‘Choly got out of the vehicle to come around, to survey the damage. He pulled up his sweater sleeves then rolled his sleeves to match. As he expected, Radfowl teeth didn’t lacerate: they shredded.

“First is to clean it.” ‘Choly reached to pull the key from the ignition, and went to the front of the car to open the trunk. He rooted around to put his hands on soap. “There isn’t any needle and thread, is there? Or Wonderglue?”

“Wonderglue?” Sticks echoed, not sure he’d heard him right. “Yeah, no needle and thread. I forgot. But there’s a bottle of glue in the toolkit. Why Wonderglue?”

“Because we’re out of Stimpaks, that’s why!” He retrieved the tiny teardrop bottle and some dish rags, and returned to the driver’s side.

“You’re not just gluing me shut.”

“To Hell I’m not. It works in a pinch. Wonderglue saw its first praises as a field medic’s replacement for stitches. Predates the Stimpak for medical care! Just about everything you can think of started as a military application before adaptation for the masses. And today, it’s going to keep you from losing more of that arm. Angel, water, please.” With the bar and water he washed his hands. “All right. Your turn.”

‘Choly rubbed at the soap with both hands, then pocketed it while he used the lather to clean up the pulpy wound best he could. Sticks flinched but couldn’t object as ‘Choly patted him dry, then applied pressure.

“Well, the Pip-Boy managed to help with that, too,” the ghoul commented.

‘Choly stopped and ran a pinky along the underside of his own left forearm, smiling faintly as he thought back to the Radroaches.

“Oh, I know how that goes.” He snapped out of it. “Mm. What am I saying? You haven’t been applying pressure to it and I know it. It’s not just going to stop on its own. Hold down on it for a while. I’ll look at it again in a few minutes.”

Sticks nodded. ‘Choly handed the rag to him to take over holding the wound firmly, then returned to the passenger seat.

“Angel, you came back empty-handed yourself, didn’t you?”

The Mister Handy’s shaky apology built into resolute findings.

“I came back because I worried for you and Mister Hawthorne, but... I’m afraid so, Sir. Yet, that in itself does posit some hope: Nothing left at all means it surely must have gone somewhere. There’s only building rubble left, and even that looks like a lot of it has probably got incorporated elsewhere nearby. There’s very little garbage. Hardly anything at all! I believe it’s safe to say, this warehouse’s contents were definitely not destroyed, but rather redistributed.”

Sticks and ‘Choly both gawked at it in an awed stupor.

“I don’t know what I can manage, without those orthotics. It’s taken a lot out of me just to be on my feet enough to manage this.”

“Allow me to be more precise: I suspect that, if such a place were medically vital before the war, the humans in the area surely would have relocated that stock somewhere more secure and readily accessible. And with how well established this Ant Lane place is, there’s plenty of such security to pore over! Ha hah!”

The blond ghoul grinned and nodded at length, chuckling. He almost forgot to continue holding his arm.

“You’re onto something, chap.”

“I do my best, Sir.”

“So what do we do with this information, then?” ‘Choly hadn’t entirely set down his defeat just yet, but was ready to accept a change of plans. “Where do we even start?”

“It’s almost dinner time, and we didn’t even eat lunch. I say we double back to the mall and nab a bite to eat and a bed. Regroup on this tomorrow. We’re here, and those things aren’t going anywhere they weren’t already.”

‘Choly frowned.

“I thought they hated you.”

“So I didn’t get a warm welcome. Big deal. We’ll tuck Lil’ Boy in the parking garage. With a little edit to Angel, they should even let him inside.”

‘Choly jerked up to glower at him, incredulous.

“You won’t lay a damn finger on my Handy.”

“Whatever. One of you’ll have to. They confiscate all weapons at the door. If we don’t remove Angel’s saws and guns, they’ll do it themselves--and if they do it, you’re not getting them back when we head out. That’s for damn sure.”

His indignity softened into deferential concern.

“Angel, are you all right with that...?”

“If it keeps me from getting separated from you, I’m afraid we don’t have much choice. Mind you, we did pack the correct G.A.-compliant socket wrench... Oh, this day is just awful.”

“Tell me about it,” ‘Choly sighed. “Let me see your arm.”

The bleeding still hadn’t stopped.

“Is it glue time?”

“Normally, it’s not ideal to seal up animal bites like this. But nothing about this situation’s ideal. Keep holding it. Angel, I’m going to sit on the trunk and... disarm you. Sticks, can I at least leave its pincers?”

“Should be fine.”

“How does that phrase go? Something about brass balls?”

“Sir!” it gasped. “What a crass way to sing praises of Bogey. ...You really think I’m that plucky?”

“Moy Angel, you’re going places. Like the mall.”

“Carpe diem?”

Go to Next »»»

[themusicenthusiast]

Friday, July 20th, 2018 – Rowdiness Ensues as Beach Fossils Rock the Box Garden at Legacy Hall on a Sweltering Summer Night

Typically, there’s a pretty casual vibe about the Box Garden at Legacy Hall. The rows of tables for people to sit at while they dine on the assortment of food that the food hall, Legacy Hall, has to offer keeps things rather laidback, even on the nights when they have a band gracing the stage. That wasn’t the case this night. Beach Fossils was coming to Texas for a round of headline shows – their first in the state in a few years -- and people were ecstatic about that. So excited, in fact, that many made the brief trek from Dallas – and elsewhere – to the suburbs, opting to spend their Friday night in Plano. The turnout was impressive. (It was a free event, making it near impossible to pass up.) An ample amount of space had been freed up by moving several tables out of the way in order to accommodate patrons; and with a couple hundred or so fans in attendance the vibe was conducive of the true concert experience. On this night there was no doubting that people were there specifically for the band, not the food and that atmosphere which may include some live music. That intimate feel of a club show that one might expect from the venues in Deep Ellum, the Box Garden had it. And in line with that, things were a little less punctual at the venue that always keeps a tight schedule. Originally slated to start at nine, Beach Fossils wouldn’t take the stage until 9:22. That upside to that was it further fueled the anticipation concertgoers were experiencing. Groups of fans broke into fanfare from time to time, acting as if the quartet had walked into sight, or perhaps hoping that would coax them out of the green room. By the time they did appear the audience was dying to hear whatever the New York-based indie rock outfit had prepared for them.

What that would wind up being was a barrage of hits, much of their early stuff this night being fan favorites, or so suggested the gleeful cheers and applause from onlookers. That included Beach Fossils’ opener, “Generational Synthetic”, which helped establish the mood for the next 50-minutes. There are so many layers to the bands’ brand of lo-fi indie rock, as was demonstrated nicely by the fairly vibrant and upbeat music bed, countered by the somewhat melancholic tone of Dustin Payseur’s voice. The conflicting styles pair together so well, though; and the quartet quickly followed it up with another cut from Clash the Truth, seamlessly bleeding that number into the exhilarating “Shallow”. The audience, particularly those congregated right at the front of the stage, were feeling what they were hearing. Out of nowhere one guy began crowd surfing. He would be a trendsetter for the night, plenty more men and women to follow suit. “Plano is getting rowdy. I’m liking it,” Payseur remarked afterwards, being legitimately surprised by the enthusiastic reaction he and his band mates were already receiving. It would ultimately get more intense, a small handful of people even making it on stage, the staff being quick to remove those who got that far. They hastily changed roles for their next song, the lead track and single from 2017’s Somersault (out via Secretly Publishing). Tinged with hope, the somewhat introspective “This Year” saw Tommy Davidson swapping from an electric to an acoustic guitar, while Jack Doyle Smith passed his bass off to Payseur and then grabbed a guitar. Out for a little over a year now, the tracks from Beach Fossils’ third LP weren’t as celebrated as the material fans were more familiar with, though there was still a lot of enjoyment in experiencing those songs live. That was readily apparent when Davidson proceeded to clap his hands to the beat at one point, most of the spectators joining him. Beach Fossils already had an enthralling hold over everyone, and they were still just warming up. (No pun intended for this scorcher of a day, a new daily record having been set thanks to the 110° high. And it was still fairly brutal out even at that time of night.) As they returned to their initial instruments it was Anton Hochheim who helped kill the time, the drummer laying down some heavy and pronounced beats as he transitioned them into another offering from their latest release. They would perform around half of the songs found on Somersault this night, Payseur almost warning everyone that they had more coming up when they arrived at the next one a few songs later. “It’s called Freak on a Leash,” he quipped, the joke almost going over the heads of some people before they finally caught it. There may even be another way to read into that, given that “Saint Ivy” is political in nature; the serene song sounding beautiful, despite the palpable frustration and unhappiness that the lyrics exude. Shortly after they tackled the penultimate track from that record, “Be Nothing” elevating Payseur, Smith, Davidson and Hochheim to a whole new level as performers. They owned it as the dreamy, gauzy soundscape morphed into a form of powerhouse rock at the instrumental break down. Hochheim led the charge as he pummeled his drum kit; the riffs being far more blistering though no less mesmerizing, all of them looking totally in their element as gave themselves fully to the music. The pace had picked up dramatically with that song, Beach Fossils becoming more invigorated and dynamic, and they would only build upon that from there on out. “…Wow!” Payseur stated a little later on in the night, still totally blown away by the turnout and the adoration the fans were displaying. He questioned how far Dallas was from here, even asking if anyone had come up from there. A ton of hands shot up into the air. “Is this part of Dallas?” he questioned, ultimately apologizing for any sort of “party foul”; Davidson laughing as he assumed that was perhaps like asking if Queens was close to Brooklyn. At their behest the front lighting went totally dark, the few lights at the back of the stage being the only ones still on as they wanted to cultivate something more atmospheric for what they described as a “slow burn”. It was behooving to the vibe that “Sleep Apnea” boasts, fitting its depressive state; its hypnotic grip being all the tighter because of it. That was one of many that had fans roaring once they recognized it, the final stretch of their set being loaded with more favorites. “Daydream” was one of those and it broke the more somber mood that had pervaded some of those songs, allowing things to end on a slightly more upbeat note; the musicians expressing their gratitude to everyone before taking their leave. It was as if they had sped up time. It just felt like a quick show, and it was surprising to see just how much time had passed once they had finished. Despite the unforgiving heat that still lingered the music of Beach Fossils had helped everyone get caught up in the moment, kind of forgetting about the weather. And no one wanted it to stop there. The chants for one more song stretched on for a few minutes and it began to seem as if they may not be answered. But then Payseur, Smith, Davidson and Hochheim reemerged. “I just want to take a second to tell you how incredible you are…” Payseur stated. It was overwhelmingly genuine and from the heart, the singer and guitarist truly amazed by the turnout, especially after being away from Texas for so long. They had not just one but a few songs left to play, and their encore didn’t go off without a hitch. To say Payseur flubbed the lyrics to “Sugar” wouldn’t be accurate, as he spaced on pretty much all of the second verse. He owned it, though, and he deserves kudos for that. “…I forgot my lyrics,” he said, laughing it off, picking back up come the chorus. That was the only misstep that Beach Fossils made this night. And it wasn’t really all that bad. Sure, it wasn’t ideal, either, though it didn’t derail everything. And Payseur didn’t try to come up with any excuses or fake his way through it. And that deserves a certain amount of respect. The encore portion primarily served to further push the music from Somersault, but sandwiched in-between those was “Clash the Truth”, which seemed to fully satisfy everyone in attendance. “I love each and every one of you!” Payseur declared after a truly epic finish to the show, smiling as they took their leave. They certainly did love everyone who had ventured out this night. As if the temperature wasn’t bad enough, the body heat from so many people being clustered together made it even more overbearing. The musicians were well aware of that. Throughout the night they handed out some of the bottles of water they had to fans in need, occasionally throwing water on people as well. They did what they could to attempt to keep people cool, all while enduring it themselves and working to put on a show that made up for their lengthy absence. They excelled in that aspect. Beach Fossils is a live band in the sense that one really needs to witness them in order to fully appreciate the intricacies of their music and the manner in which they finesse a crowd. As a group they coalesced to be something stunning, working in excellent harmony with one another, their cohesion as a unit being remarkable. At the same time, there were multiple moments where each of the four of them got to put their musical prowess on full display, momentarily taking the spotlight and dazzling the onlookers before focus returned to them as a unit. That chemistry and the self-assured demeanor they exhibited was Beach Fossils most riveting quality as they constantly demonstrated their mastery over the indie rock genre. Even with a lo-fi approach, the sound isn’t necessarily anything new, though Beach Fossils act as an archetype for that style of music, having carved out their niche and further perfected it with each release. The somber air that hangs heavy on so many of their pieces contributes significantly to their depth. Payseur’s voice articulates that perfectly, while the knack he has for penning songs of that ilk ensures that the music is identifiable to an array of people. As was evident this night, in a decently packed Box Garden. The venue has hosted a couple of heavyweights from the D-FW music scene thus far -- another big show coming up soon. But this one with Beach Fossils set a new benchmark for what the free events the venue regularly hosts can be. It proved what was expected: The Box Garden can host touring bands that typically would be performing at a club in Dallas. And people will make a point to head up to the suburbs to see it. Some people were there simply to hang out, but for the most part it was a legion of loyal Beach Fossil fans. It has only been open a couple of months, but already the Box Garden is starting to realize its full potential. It’s a growing experience, as is to be expected, but the show this night was crucial in further establishing it as a hot spot for concerts. Hopefully they’ll pull in more touring acts in the future, something to provide more balance between the topnotch local talent that graces the stage a few nights out of each week. As for Beach Fossils, their next shows will be in Mexico, specifically in Guadalajara, Mexico City and Ciudad Juarez on July 25th, 26th and 27th, respectively. Their full tour itinerary can be found HERE. And check out their albums in iTUNES or GOOGLE PLAY. Set List: 1) “Generational Synthetic” 2) “Shallow” 3) “This Year” 4) “Down the Line” 5) “Adversity” 6) “What a Pleasure” 7) “Saint Ivy” 8) “Out In The Way” 9) “Be Nothing” 10) “Calyer” 11) “Sleep Apnea” 12) “Careless” 13) “Daydream” Encore 14) “Sugar” 15) “Clash the Truth” 16) “May 1st”