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sudokuplayer · 1 year ago

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MY LOVE IS A WEAPON THROWN ONTO THE OBLIVION OF YOUR BODY (taken from booklet of original art and essays by Sufjan Stevens, written to accompany his new album Javelin)

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1.MY LOVE My first love was an involuntary sound – the music of the spheres – a subdued, white-noise shuddering of my heart, a fluster of hummingbird vibrations that I could taste in the prenatal hemispheres of my mouth, body against body and brain against brain, two conjoined selves conjuring an off-shore thunderstorm in the horizontal distance, dazzling with flashes of metallic music and elemental chaos in the safe harbor of my mother’s womb. There was no light and no dark, no semblance of simile or semaphore. There was only the blurred and audible presence of a distant and divine voice hovering above the waters where I balanced between the prism of absence and presence on an inflatable dirigible of sea foam, wandering into the oleaginous abyss with a half-smile of hazardry and wizardry – my maiden voyage into the “unbeknownst” of oblivion. For what did I really know at this point in my primordial mindlessness? Nothing at all. I was struck dumb, created from ignorance and ether, first without function or features, then without order or form. I was sensation and consciousness postponed, a wet and placid portion of monotonous fruit cut in quarters awaiting heaven’s blessing. My only occupation at this point was to occupy, be occupied, preoccupy, and prevail nature in a womb-world of benevolence and buoyancy. The music of the heartbeat of the universe danced me to sleep. Within this realm, I was love and life supreme, undivided by thought, word and deed, a small promise kept until the act of doing would undo me for good. My birth was my undoing. And then I was born into oblivion.

2.IS I remember in college, falling in love for the first time, two spring months of rapture, residing on the tail end of a helium balloon. I was so giddy about everything: washing the dishes, tying my shoes, scrambling eggs, binding books, pulling berries off juniper trees. My infatuation had such an arrogant persuasion on the world around me. Everything as metaphor ascribed with romance. I remember, while mowing lawns on the college campus, finding an injured fledgling crow by the dining hall. I carried it to the biology lab, where we called a woman who ran an animal sanctuary from her home. She met us on a bike with a wicker basket. “You are doing the universe a great favor,” she said, holding the bird to her breast, like Mother Goose. The event provided endless fodder: for prose poems and folk songs and long conversations on the roof of the aspirin factory, where we got drunk on Boone’s Farm sangria, speculating on cosmic intentions and the order of the universe. So much meaning, so little time. I was young and dumb and in love. Guided by a perverse curiosity and a voracious sensation-of-the-imagination pivoting at the tip of my tongue, I marveled at the mysteries of life laid out before me, awaiting in the calm commotion between innocence and experience.

3.A WEAPON And then experience pummeled me. Many years later, after the long-suffering exhaustion of life had driven me into the bleak underbelly of realism, my most profound thought was sad and static: that nothing really matters, nobody loves me, and loneliness would always be my most devoted companion. In my new sobering worldview, absent of love, I began to encounter everything as an object without meaning, without modifier. The homeless man selling day-old newspapers on the subway was just a homeless man selling day-old newspapers on the subway. There was no metaphor, no rapture, no cosmic intentions. I had to ask myself: does this make the man, the newspaper, the subway, or myself any less meaningful? No. Quite the opposite. For what resided in that substantial vacancy where I was always prone to symbolize the world to death is exactly what I needed right then: Opportunity. Presence of Mind. Peace On Earth. Stable Stoicism. Absence of Metaphor. Responsibility. And Hard Facts. That was my prayer: to shake off the doting artistry of an over-eager poet with a proclivity to create dreams from doldrums; to approach the world as a concrete object, a thing to be held, not a thing to behold, or allegorized; to remain at peace and in careful jurisprudence in spite of the resentful intonation of my overarching loneliness that devastated innocent bystanders with all the magic castles of the imagination. I told myself: I must snuff out the candle of candy-corn dreams. I must soldier on like a dead-end daydream undeterred. I must be steadfast in the stolid presence and essence of common sense and survival. I must be true to life internal and reside in resignation at last.

4.THROWN My second love was less ecstatic, but more tragic: the “gift” of sight – an elemental flash of lightning, which struck me like a bag of metal shavings thrown out onto ice reflecting back at the centerpiece of my sternum. A sucker punch to the chest. My cold consciousness came into sharp focus, rattled by illuminating waves invading everything around me. The light was loud and extraordinary. And even with my eyes closed, my pupils began pontificating at the pornography of sight, and I was momentarily carved into madness. Seeing is believing is birth. I shuddered and shirked at the tangible evidence of something else – the others – the imposition of a sensation outside myself, in which everything was separated into opposable armies: the land from the waters, the air from the earth, the seasons from the doldrums, the seen from the unseen, sin from sainthood, light from dark, good from evil. Everything was put in its place by the curse of namesake. The world was now before me, beneath me, above me, and ultimately against me, a pressure foot pressed down on all sides. I felt a cold claustrophobia, empty and alone, trans-natal and tragic, baffled by the violence of this new environmental context. And to think I was just a silly beansprout of a thing shivering under the medical lights, squirming like an open earthworm, now tasked with this terrible act of naming. God gave me a pen and a pad of parchment paper. “Transcribe your feelings and your findings,” she said. “Do your thing. First thought, best thought.” I did as I was commanded, a dutiful sea urchin inching its way to the possibility of words and wisdom.

5.ONTO A world without language was once the indication of certain death. Soundless, voiceless, nameless vapor. A typography of empty vessels. The void! But now, what of the tragedy of names, spoken into existence with the demystification of words? I was culprit and complicit, identifying all the divergences, differentiations, variations, permutations, diversities, dichotomies and double entendres. Categorizing the animals, cutting them down to size, organizing the parts of the body with the parts of speech, a fanatical grammar-game of possession, domination and death. I had to ask myself: Is this manner of identification in the name of higher knowledge even if it disregards purpose, analysis, and compassion (observation absent of intention)? And how could it be undertaken without idolatry and ulterior motive? I desired the objectivity of the photography of the baby-brain, whose fuzzy visionary reception was a delightful nebula of perfumed consciousness and joy. I wanted to see the world coherently and without discretion, discernment, reduction, and deduction – unintelligible intelligence. Instead I began to perceive how intimate knowledge generates prosperity (fullness) and progeny (fruitfulness) – of ideas and offspring. To be “made known” was to be consummated: “Adam knew Eve” – intercourse as discourse (knowledge as physical/sexual engagement). To know someone was to take possession (to gain access, in confidence and with confidentiality). The exchange would potentially unveil the secret knowledge between lovers (the nominative ordinances of arousal) – wherein posterity would become the observable antecedents of this sacred wisdom, and pleasure would be its misfortune (of infatuation and love, of chaos and order). My sexual discourse began to die a slow death of observation and objectification, a nonsense category of substances seen and deemed believable, predicating a cosmic break from the universe: a psychic rebirth, from which invisible things transformed into figures of speech, wherein figures of speech were left dead in the wake of rivulets and rivers, drowning in a molten waterfall of dread, where they would meet their maker in linguistic whimsy. My death was now new life. My reincarnation, a reverse sublimation. I was made known; therefore, I knew nothing.

6.THE For a short time, my pet peeves were my shortcomings: dry skin in the morning – brushing off the bed sheets with bits of outer insulation from my body. Was I molting? I needed to drink more bitter herbs, I thought. I had chronic stomach pain, below the clavicle, a small fist of air. Sweet antacid, mint leaves, fennel seed tea. Invisible Anxiety. The pain in my leg: a hypochondriac’s dream. Soothing myself with palm oil and camphor. Small applications on the surface. At dinner with guests, supplementing aspirin with ice-water, saying very little otherwise, a friend agreed with everyone’s assessment: “Yes, sometimes you are cold and unfeeling. You could warm it up a little.” My apparent coolness – was it a matter of objective safety? That remote vacancy which I brought to every engagement, keeping the world at arm’s length, the anthropologist’s vantage point, sustaining the presumptive: was that my vocation – the judicious spectator, an odd outlier outlining all this activity while staying behind the line of sight? As the youngest sibling, I was always evaluating my older sisters with fierce judgment from the corner of the room, just out of reach: eavesdropping on phone conversations, catching glimpses of padded bras, curling irons, and maxi pads passed between casual doorways. Taking stock of the panoply of premature adulthood (teenage pregnancy), unruly rebellion (sneaking out at night), clumsy and combative excursions with our wicked step-mother (cat fights with elegantly finger-nailed fisticuffs). I watched from a dutiful distance, careful not to engage, harboring a catalog of tragicomic events and all their moral assessments in order to avoid the worst-case scenario for myself. I was in the world, but not of it. I learned from the mistakes of others: that I was nothing more than a mistake waiting to happen, potential energy. I learned from the mistletoe to keep watch overhead so as to avoid the dangling modifier of accidental affection. I learned from the stone in my shoe to keep walking through the pain with a staggering refrain in my step, a constant reminder of the brokenness of my body and the indefatigable self-loathing of my own self-consciousness.

7.OBLIVION My third love was a surprise affection – ticklish touching and tender swaddles of terry towels and cotton cloth wrapped in armfuls of goose down feathers transfixed in the careful undertaking of childcare. A sensual delight! I was an object to be objectified, a thing to squeeze and prickle, caress and carry about in a breadbasket. I grew from a pinecone to a pine tree, from a newt to a dinosaur, from a poppy-seed to a poppy flower bursting with fireworks. This love then transferred its fornications onto something wet, wild and ornithological – a flying, feathery python ascending to its countenance as a bastion of bridegrooms in a flaming aviary chariot of leathery kisses all aimed at my elbows. Hope is a thing with bird feeders. So I watched the feathered fowl crowd around the seeds and suet, grubs and grains with dinosaur intensity, beaks and claws doing their vast prehistoric business with messy execution. My lovers cawed at their community of plumy mishaps like transcendental mother hens: nuthatch and creeper, tanager and titmouse, blue jay and junco gallivanting together like an armful of woolen throw blankets clapping the dust from their ornamental features. Our fairy dance of foreplay lasted for days. Cat calls as birdsong with balloons, iambic pentameter poems, chimes that rhymed with clanging crystals hung on fishing line, and all the fanciful costumes with sequins and fringe, flowered bell bottoms, metallic body suits, reggae music, ballroom dancing, charm bracelets, diamond rings, glimmering little earrings with fly-fishing ornaments, and, on the last day, a very long and serious monologue about global warming. Our lovemaking was quick and witty, a little slutty and clumsy – nothing more than a jaunt, a quick choreography of slaps and body slams, two pigeons in a mosh pit, working things out in juvenilia. Nature had done its work. Afterward we lounged together in the afterglow with soft pillow talk and dreams of nest eggs and parenting, protecting, foraging, feeding, and changing diapers, all the domestic labors of love. But for now, in a warm bird bath, sunning ourselves with a glistening glow, I could only think of the sweet bliss of here and now, the wetness of loving kisses on my nape, my neck, my back, my rump, my foreshortened wings and a sweet nectar nightcap. Hope is a thing deferred, but a dream fulfilled is a tree of life.

8.OF My fourth love was peripatetic: a suitcase stored in an overhead bin on an airplane. Things beget things beget responsibilities. I procrastinated my life by traveling far from it. A day before the voyage, I stayed up late in the polar forces of the night, diligently packing the baggage on the couch, opened up like can of tuna fish, a glass of lemon juice on the nightstand (master cleanse), the Siamese cat washing itself, the dollar store dishes in the sink, my dirty clothes in a paper bag. The last time I had left for this kind of trip, my things were in boxes in one room on the second floor of a gated town house in God-knows-where, New York. Now everything had been transferred as in a swap meet, boxes upon boxes, things upon things, other voices, other rooms. The living room was a labyrinth of speculative journeys, a crossword puzzle of travel prompts. Outside, gale force winds rose to the occasion, knocking on the windows like unwanted guests. I imagined the weather overtaking everything in an apocalyptic frenzy: cups and saucers trembling in tongues, plastic wrap coming undone in a transparent wedding train, pillowcases falling over our heads like hard hats, ceiling fans circumnavigating the neighborhood like helicopter rides, the colored crayons on the kitchen shelf thrown asunder to make slapdash hieroglyphs all over the window panes, the mysterious penmanship of the gods! My mind was preoccupied by disaster, a force majeure, an act of God, a ball of yarn, and the four horses of the Apocalypse. I wanted nothing of it: this origami suitcase lifestyle of travel and transition. I wanted to be here and now. I wanted silence, solace, and stillness. I wanted the simplest of things: a bowl of vanilla ice cream, a warm bath, and a quiet place to sit and stitch my hand-crafted cross-stitch of rainbows and sailboats framing a sexy cartoon portrait of Dionne Warwick diligently working the lines for the Psychic Friends Network from way back in the 1990s, when every solution to every problem was just a phone call away.

9.YOUR History repeats itself, defeats itself, cheats itself, berates and beats itself. I am not historic. I am histrionics. I must hate my mother and my father. I must hate myself and take up the cross and be born again. In this way, my fifth love was an immutable shadow following me with sticky tricks and schemes, a cancerous contamination of the mind that could only be cured with the deadly venom of a cone snail. I couldn’t quite shake it, the cobalt-blue memory of a ghost haunting my sophistry, a prescient reminder that the knowledge of faith and the substance of hope were right behind me this entire time (and not something to pursue, or follow, like an ornamental object on the horizon, dazzling, elusive and alive in the distant future). The Divine Inside was a “previously known encounter.” I could never see it face to face, but only feel it in my shadow, the former patterns of an aura left behind, pushing forward, pursuing, persuading, steering and navigating my memory through the valley of the shadow of death. I wanted so desperately to “have and to hold” the real substance of things (evidence!), the physical, intimate engagement with the body and the blood, which I actively sought out in transcendental activity, prayer and supplication, the sacraments, the feasts of the saints, a metaphysical substance to salivate and sublimate within the natural order of things. But this was a false pretense. God is not natural, but supernatural. The real material of divinity is ineffable, unassailable, unknowable, unutterable, and unreal. The evidence of providence is not within our line of sight, nor within our grasp, but instead beyond and behind our physical kinesphere. It is unapproachable, unspeakable, unobservable, and ultimately “erstwhile”. And yet still we continue to feel it “under our skin” and “within the universe” of our own personal history: The Past/The Passed/The Repossessed. God is our delayed consciousness – the nameless, faceless dichotomy of our secret truth. And we are made in its indistinguishable appearance. Therefore our own true “image” is without a name or a face – a baseless, shapeless cloud hovering above the waters, a countenance of empty atmosphere (signifying nothing) – a gothic apparition, a vision of love, a dance of the eternal travesty of life, a burrowing beetle of impenetrating curiosity. Digging for the true grit of life in the eternal dirt of the universe.

10.BODY My last love was a kind of science fiction. I was out running errands at the mall when I saw a fleet of lampshades falling like flying saucers from the sky. The alien robots came to me in an escalating beam of light and said: “We come in peace! The obverse seeks to make its face shine upon you, while the inverse hides in shame.” They did their thing with my body, prodding and poking around for some good news, but at first I would have none of it. I struggled and squirmed under nylon restraints strapped onto a stainless steel operating table. I was a basket case of curmudgeonly vitriol, pointing out everything that was wrong with the world around me: Fossil fuels. Cancer. Money. Greed. Sales Tax. Frozen Yoghurt. Religion. Varicose Veins. Junk Mail. But the alien robots were unflappable. They said, “We just need a little DNA, not a diatribe,” while swabbing the insides of my mouth with a cottony Q-tip. Then, after careful intubation and a slow drip of aesthesia, I eased into the abyss. They removed my clothes and covered my body with a marshmallowy spray foam. They swaddled me into a warm cocoon of maroon goo, where I remained in stasis to the end of the ages, slowly resuming into the soft, pillowy features of my former self – pre-natal, premature, pre-conceived – a slippery and succulent primordial membrane of soupy warmth and illuminating agency awaiting, once again, the cosmic journey laid out before me like a yellow-brick road of possibilities – the secret oblivion of love, the “unbeknownst!” Within this pinprick vision, I saw a tapestry of afterbirth in afterglow as an addendum to an immaculate after-thought of rapturous joy. I was born-again in fullness and truth. I was a peanut. I was a pretzel. I was a pan-fried shrimp. I was pandemonium personified. I was once again myself waiting to happen again and again and again and again and again … until the end.

— Sufjan Stevens

#sufjan stevens #javelin

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elektrischemaidchen · 4 months ago

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Lisztober #13: Richard Wagner

Let's put it kindly: We f****in hate Wagner, @franzliszt-official

So much so, that we've been working on this song for three months (!!!) in a row and had to keep censoring ourselves, so that nobody from Bayreuth would sue us. I was foaming at the mouth when I wrote the lyrics and it was twice as long. The current version is way more harmless, but still very explicit. I still feel pruned.

In the meantime, we've pretty much agreed that our Wagner-rant will be the first single from our new album. And that we will actually be travelling 5 hours to Bayreuth for a music video. I'll start puking as soon as I see the city sign. You'll be surprised.

The actual song is a beautiful two-part ‘in your face’ electropunk song, which we will unfortunately only be able to present to you here after its release.

So today we're simply playing you an EXCLUSIVE acoustic, heavily (!!!!!!) wine influenced version with wrong notes and creepy laughter, which we tried to distort in advanced and failed. ( Also with a bit of a beat, otherwise it'll be too monotonous), Sooo we can all cuddle up to and hug each other in our hatred. (And this hatred has a long, long history, by the way: Coppelia and I met at the university, where the beginning of the song takes place. This also Weimar, everybody.)

But why do we actually despise Wagner?

Because he was a pompous, narcissistic megalomaniac. A two-faced, Janus-faced snake, a shitty anti-Semite of the worst kind who sucked everyone around him dry and then threw them away. Even Liszt. ESPECIALLY Liszt. A hypocrite before the Lord. And then there's the irony that his obvious gayass (Oh, come on! Ludwig II? Oscar Wilde? Any Wagner opera is gayer than a binge- marathon of „Drag Race“ with Strawberry Daiquiris) has constantly hung out with such Teutonic alphamales like Nietzsche. In short: A real-life-„Uriah Heep“, that not even Dickens could have thought up in a certanied f****ed up way.

And that's just Richard himself. There's also his work, which became the soundtrack to National Socialism and the all-time-favorite to all f****** Nazis, thanks to his zealous family. They all loved having ‘Uncle Wolf’, as Hitler was called at Wahnfried, around. „If I think of Germany in the night, I am jolted from my sleep.“ Thank you. Heine!

Then there is Cosima. Liszt's daughter, who later became Wagner's wife. Who had forbidden Franz to get any visits during the last days of his life in Bayreuth, but not at all for reasons of too much excitement, as one might think. Thanks to Franz's pupil Lina Schmalhausen, who stayed outside the house for days, we know: Cosima left the old man in his bed until he was sore, only came to check on him briefly in the morning and left him to moan and rattle alone at night. After all, there were more important things to do: the festival. A few hours before Franz's death, there was still a jolly supper for the Wagner family and friends. And oh, of course, a bust of Wagner at the feet of Liszt's corpse. Cosima refused him the last rites. Something was played at his funeral...right! Parsifal. Incidentally, no Wagner was present at the service. And the fact that Liszt was buried (there seems to be no English translation for the German word "verscharrt"...in German it's: Dig a hole and throw the corpse in, put some soil on it and continue on) in Bayreuth at all fitted perfectly into the marketing concept. They finally gained the last crown jewel missing from the collection of self-congratulation. Congratulations, you stupid, abusive, heartless, freakin bitch.

DISGUSTING!

What a completely insane, sadistic brainf****. I'll write another song about it. Maybe on the last day. I think I have something to process.

And yet, they all make the pilgrimage, the Wagnerians, to Bayreuth, sing songs together at Richard‘s grave, shed tears and lay flowers. All because of the ‘great’ operas and all that, of course. You just have to train yourself to forget.

Micdrop.

PS: Finally, I would just like to take up some cudos for Nike Wagner, the ‘outcast’. She is still keeping the memory of her great-great-grandfather alive. And I think she even looks a bit like him. Nike. We love you. Come back to Bonn <3

Lyrics:

My history prof(essor) Was a sweet guy But unfortunately there had been a problem With his love for Wagner For him, there was only Richard here and Richard there Although everyone knows How shitty that guy was Wagner! Persona non grata! it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for me listening to one of Wagner’s operas We just wanted to learn medieval studies Now we will be penetrated by Valkyries Wagner's ego Was enough for ten With which he could well To walk over corpses Wagner! Persona non grata! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for me listening to one of Wagner’s operas He was a mad Anti-Semite Who liked to f**** around with others He could not admit his own gayness And had to beg everyone for For money Wagner! Persona non grata! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than me listening to one of Wagner’s operas I puke over Cosima too Who unfortunately wasn't as cool Like her daddy was They trained Liszt to be a Their poodle And always craved his fame Wagner! Persona non grata! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for me listening to one of Wagner’s operas All oft hem just Infatuated with themselves The worst thing: They buried Franz In Bayreuth You have f****ed up Nietzsche too After that he Dismantled slowly Wagner! Persona non grata! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for me listening to one of Wagner’s operas In Wahnfried Adolf was a permanent guest The memory of it Seems faded already You just have to keep the myth alive Fold your hands Above Wagner busts You’ll just have to train How to forget Then it will be easier To mastr*ba*e to Lohengrin Wagner! Persona non grata! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for me listening to one of Wagner’s operas Richard, yo, if I were Your mistress on the hill I would give you a good Beating A good beating!

(Thank you.)

#lisztober #franz liszt #lisztomania #richard wagner #wagnerhate

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aspergirl-2006 · 4 months ago

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Hii there, new anon here love the ship name Marshady like damn that’s great !! I totally ship them, wish there was more content I’ve made fanart before but it’s totally a private thing

Yeah, they're amazing.

One of the main reasons I like them so much is because of what Slim represents in Marshall's life. He's all the things Em has had to overcome throughout his life; his trauma, anger, immaturity, pain, toxicity, addiction, and all the stuff he doesn't like about himself. I also see their messy dynamic as how Em sees his relationship with his career and the industry. I see him and Slim being together as Em coming to terms with his own flaws and learning to actually love himself, quite literally.

I came up with the idea the same day The Death of Slim Shady dropped. I remember texting my friend about what my thoughts were on the album as I listened to the songs, that first dialogue at the beginning of Habits already made me raise an eyebrow, but it wasn't until I listened to Trouble that I actually considered that Shady was acting like a bitter ex. C'mon, that last line?

“When are you gonna realize we fucking need each other?”

I told my friend –kinda joking– “Is it weird that my brain is telling me to ship them?”

While everyone else was clowning Em for the “Jenzimibrah”, I was making up gay scenarios between Eminem and an angry blonde (that line is fucking hilarious by the way, people just refuse to understand Trouble is a skit and not a song, it lasts 40 seconds, it ain't supposed to have the same complexity and structure of a song).

As the album kept going, and I listened to them just interacting with each other, the more fascinated I was, and as I kept finding new stuff in Em's discography (I'm a relatively new fan) I realized these two have been obssessed with each other since the very start (particularly Slim, who always finds new ways to haunt Marshall when his life is getting too stable). Literally the first time Slim Shady was introduced, he was trying to mess with Marshall's head, straight up telling him “YOU'RE NOTHING WITHOUT ME”

Slim Shady and Bill Cypher would be great friends honestly, both obsessive agents of chaos hyperfixated on a clever and tired brunette that they share a body with.

I could keep going forever about all those interactions that just get me foaming at the mouth, I'm so insane about these two I swear; but I will leave that for other posts.

About the ship name, I'm glad you like it. One day I was making a post and wanted to tag it as Marshall × Slim but didn't want to go with something basic as “marshall mathers x slim shady” so I thought for a couple of minutes and my brain just clicked.

Marshall, Marsh— Slim Shady, Sha–dy...

They both share this “sh” sound, it's perfect. Even their names complement each other.

Also, it's okay if you wanna keep your art private, I get it. But if you ever change your mind and decide to share it, I'd be more than happy to see it :)

Make me all the questions you want, I love to rant about my hyperfixations. You can share your thoughts, your ideas, I'm here to listen/read.

#long post #ask #eminem #slim shady #marshall mathers #tdoss #the death of slim shady #marshady

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ribbonknot · 7 months ago

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ranking & rating tracks off of red velvet's cosmic !!

cosmic (10/10) - one of their best title tracks to date, and i mean that. may even take the cake for my favourite red velvet summer release, and that speaks volumes to just how much i love cosmic. there's a certain sadness to it that is reminiscent of umpah umpah. for 10 years of red velvet, this feels like just the song to celebrate their history. a great addition to the many phenomenal songs released this year.

bubble (10/10) - this one's for the mojito fans.. this one's for the cool world fans.. this one's for me specifically. perfectly encapsulates that soda pop, orange lollipop feeling so well i don't know how else to explain it. there's a nostalgic feel to it that speaks to me in a way that only certain songs could.

night drive (10/10) - never in red velvet's 10 year career have they ever closed off an album badly, and they certainly have not started now. night drive sounds like a glittery female friendship anthem (can't speak on the lyrics since the eng. translation isn't up yet lol). sounds exactly like how a summer night feels. you feel a little sticky, and the air's a little too dry, but the sky has never been clearer. the stars are shining so bright.

last drop (9/10) - this is why red velvet's known for their discography.. they just don't know how to make a bad song. i mentioned this on a previous post, but this could easily be a title track in of it of itself. it sort of reminds me of the perfect velvet but also mixed with aespa's lucid dream. kinda upset to know that this will never get the space-themed music video that it deserves but sigh, a reveluv can only dream. that bridge & last crazy are CRAZY though, like im foaming at the mouth with just how beautiful it sounds. god bless synths 🙏

sunflower (8/10) - CLASSIC red velvet. it sounds like something right off of rvf - day 1 (maybe it's because moonshine produced it). one thing i will say is red velvet knows has mastered that art of harmonizing their vocals.

love arcade (7/10) - weakest song on the ep for me. not that it's bad by any means, i just don't think i'm going to come back to the cosmic ep for this song specifically, you know what i mean? reminds me a LOT of cherry bullet's q&a, down to the sound effects. the chorus is really catchy, though 🫶🏻

final thoughts: i missed red velvet so much, and i was starting to get scared of what sm was going to do with them. this all but proves that (at least for now) they still have trust in the girls and their vision. i heard they had a lot of say over the creative direction of this release, and it does feel very personal. there's a sort of melancholy around it that feels a little different from the one that's in their other releases. i'm so lucky to be a reveluv and see them constantly flourish. 10 years in the game, and they're still here. very much thriving. overall rating is 9/10 for the ep. happy rv summer to all those who celebrate with me 🫶🏻

#00 #rv #red velvet #kpop

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dizzythegreat · 1 year ago

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we adore daisy the great in this house. opinion on the crane wives? 👀

ahhhh i've never listened to them! give me an album rec and i'll listen rn while i study <33

also YES DAISY THE GREAT AAHHHHHHH!!!!! smile pretty girl has me foaming at the mouth every time

#daisy the great #ask

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koool-thing · 1 year ago

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Rate all the csh albums right now !! On a scale of 1 to 10

I feel like I only have the right to rate the albums I actually listened to, so here we go 🫡

3- has me foaming at the mouth. It’s a rlly good album and I wish it was under a label so I could listen to it on streaming services and whatever else. I def wouldn’t want it to be remade tho cuz it would remove the lo-if feel to it fr. Some songs don’t go as hard as others, so 9.5/10

MBIKMB- I LOVE stoop kid (their live version version has me convulsing its so good), something soon, POW, and Happiness for Sadness? All. Bangers. 9/10

Monomania- depicts romance and break ups perfectly imo (I’m acting like I’ve dated multiple people..) . Sleeping With Strangers makes my heart melt every time, the instrumentals-seusbsjskjsjbsb. This is the album that makes me sing in the shower ong. I love every single song, all cohesive, perfect. 10/10.

HTLT-I often overlook this album because I forget, it’s hot people stuff and I’m not hot🔥🔥🔥 but I can’t explain why I like it, it’s different, but good at the same time. I like kimchi Warui sm, but, uh, I found that song by watching a Will Toledo fancam (I won’t elaborate <3) 10/10

Teens of Style-I don’t rlly care. No offense, but I don’t think there are any new songs, so unappealing. Whatever’s on there, though, is ok. 7/10.

Teens of Denial-I’m gonna say it now, I’m basic. I love this album a lot and I love Drunk Drivers/ Killer Whales (it doesn’t have to BE LIKE THISSSSS, killer WhAaales, killer whAAAAAles). 1937 Skate Park and Destroyed by Hippie Powers are great (what happened to that chubby little kIIId?!) so is Vincent, can u tell I’m into his voice cracks? I also like Unforgiving Girl, too. 10/10

Twin Fantasy (both pretty much,) - Everyone talks about this album, the favorite, the famous. I was reluctant to listen to the longer songs, but it was worth it. I love Beach Life-in-Death and especially Famous Prophets, the guitar riffs send me somewhere else, man. Nobody talks about Cute Thing, by the way?? Makes me kinda annoyed..underrated. Both versions have their ups and downs but yeah, I like the newer one. 10/10

Nervous Young Man-I have NOT listened to all 20 songs. Sorry. I love Knife in the Coffee (one of his first songs I heard fr), I Can Play the Piano, Jerks, Homes, We Can’t Afford and….yeah. To me, it feels like the perfect album to think about your life to. Not to be weird, but I’m a sad guy, and this album just hits different, and it’s not rlly about romance this time so you can relate it to other aspects of your life :) 10/10

MADLO-is this what you wanted to see? My rating here? Well, I’m based when I say I LIKE Hollywood. Yeah, fight me (please don’t, I’m weak), but I wish it wasn’t in the album. Martin’s good, Can’t Cool Me Down…haven’t listened to this album a lot. It’s alr, but not as good as the other ones, so 8/10

Living While Starving-Yesssss. I love ‘It’s Only Sex’, especially the intro. Oh! Starving originated from 3, but still good. I Hate Living isn’t one I listen to but it gets stuck in my head every time. 10/10

Disjetca Membra-nobody knows this album. Except me, I’m different. Drunk on a Work Night and Sinner do it for me, man. Drunk on a Work Night lets me think it’s ok to be PISSED, you can hear the distress in his voice as he sings it too fr. Sinner-omg-when I first heard the lyrics my jaw dropped, 10/10

TLDR, I’m too gay to rank anything below 8

#car seat headrest #AMA

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mickimomo · 2 years ago

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I just had a random thought (Just a headcannon not a suggestion). Do you think Wakanda would have popstars or celebs the way the rest of the world does? Because I imagine that if they did, it would be really local since they were so closed off from the world. Because I'm trying to imagine a Wakandan popstar wanting to perform at Attuma and Okoye's wedding now or actor from a Wakandan TV show showing up and I'm crying at how confused the Talokanil would be about it.

You know what. Yes.

Hear me out.

I think their dynamics with celebrities aren't as chaotic as they are in the rest of the world.

Like, you see how T'Challa and Shuri can roam around Wakanda. And everyone is really kind and respectful. No one is fainting because the King of Wakanda is walking down the street with his girlfriend in BP1. No one is foaming at the mouth working in a lab with Shuri.

So, I think that same dynamic would apply.

Like, maybe a really well-known Wakandan singer comes up and greets Okoye and Attuma, and he's very indifferent about her.

And Okoye is like- "She's an amazing singer. I listen to her while I'm training. Alllllll the time."

And Attuma is jealous, because he's a great singer.

And then the singer goes up there and gives us Beyoncé in Dubai vocals. And he has no choice but to be impressed. 🤣😭 So Okoye has him listen to one of her albums, and now he's a fan.

(I think the other talokanil people present would be impressed or have their own talents go up there to rep Talokan with a song. This may or may not lead to drunk karaoke later.)

Okoye is amused by the entire thing, because after the wedding and honeymoon Attuma is so invested in imitating her notes. Singing in xhosa, but not knowing what he's saying because he's still learning.

And Okoye is like: 🤭 "Baby, you just sang about fucking a woman you yearn for until daylight."

And Attuma is just: 😏 "Yeah. You."

(P.S. That last part was based on my love for music in other languages and how some of their best bops are freaky songs. 💀 You'll be getting down to a song about wet dreams and never know it until you google the lyrics. 🥹 Attuma has no shame though, so he'll be singing it to Okoye proudly.)

#okoye x attuma #attoye #okoye #attuma #attuma x okoye #okottuma #attuma has no shame

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socks-is-scared · 9 months ago

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You have invited me into your online home to talk about Trust Ceremony and boy, random person on the internet, you will regret it!

I am foaming at the mouth in happiness, the album is literally amazing!!!! All my creative urges have been strengthened by tenfold and I think I could cry!!! This dude wrote a song about a Naruto character and I think that is fucking awesome! Can you believe he’s his own writer AND composer??? That is some serious Talent! Maybe-later Dance is the best song I have ever heard hands-down omg. Out of the thirteen songs in the album, ten are in my playlist and there’s a big chance that, once I’ve warmed up to them, the three remaining will soon follow. God I wish they’d be able to tour outside of the us because I’d do anything in my power (which, admittedly, isn’t much) to go to their concert. I adore the way Tooth Pact and Trust Ceremony loop into eachother. If I had the skill to edit them into eachother, I would. They almost feel like two parts of one song while still being powerful and great stand-alone tracks. I am slowly going feral over this album. Give me a week or so and I’ll need to be caged. I’m afraid it’s terminal/j

The fact that Jhariah is still somewhat underground is wild with how good Trust Ceremony is. I feel like this is gonna be how he breaks into massive popularity. RE: CONCERNS is a fucking bop that I have to force myself not to loop every time i listen to the album in its entirety. I also hope we get more fun music videos. Thank you stranger for bursting into my home screaming :3

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sizzlingpatrolfox · 2 years ago

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Antis choking, mouths foaming with Jimin’s success lol 🤭 AOTY 👑

Oh I never expect anything from charts and things like that but I've been enjoying this so much 😭 never imagined the album would do so well. He deserves it. Both on personal terms and artistic ones because it really is a great albums and the performances so far have been nothing short of brilliant. That Jimmy Fallon stage is exquisite. Now my only wish is that he'd want to watch the world burn a little and he'd shift the formation so the male dancers are where the female ones are in the current choreo. C'mon Jimin you can do itttt 🫂🙏🫂🙏🫂🙏🫂🙏🫂🙏. We should all manifest this.

Youtube is killing meeee tho what is wrong with them?!? AND HANTEO DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THAT

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salorade · 1 month ago

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if im nonstop here (sorry) i also have to share others by no one's album book ii where stories come from. i promise it has good songs that make me foam at the mouth. yeah it has weird songs but also. also. ohhh they make great characters.

this is my the song the origianl character song

#Spotify

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itsawhumpsideblog · 5 months ago

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And Guide Their Way Home, Book 1

Content notes: It's Christmas, and a birthday; homesickness, midnight mass and lots of good singing Our opening lyrics are the Connemara Cradle Song. If you're following the links to listen to the music, you're getting a nice and accurate picture of what my dad usually played in the car when we went places. I've seen these guys play live a couple times and they sounded great last time I heard them, but the picture on all their albums is... well, from some years ago. Listen here: https://youtu.be/PncKPO2ZUhI

"Oh, winds of the night, may your fury be crossed, May no one who's dear to our island be lost Blow the winds gently, calm be the foam Shine the light brightly and guide their way home."

~Connemara Cradle Song

We were sent south to Washington on the train, and then we were marched to a place called Camp California. A few other regiments joined us there, and mostly what we did was drill, day in and day out. My everyday life was less than exciting, but my friends and I learned to make our own fun, and to keep ourselves as entertained as we could while we were stuck in camp that winter.

The first snow fell early that year, at least by Virginian standards. It snowed the first week in December, and we came out of the hut we had constructed to find a blanket of white all over the ground.

"Great," I grumbled. "Now we've got to walk through this for the firewood, so we'll really appreciate it." I had been on picket duty the night before, and exhaustion was making me sarcastic.

"Cheer up, Micheál," Jack grinned. I rolled my eyes and felt something hit my chest. When I looked down, my coat was covered with cold, powdery snow. Jack was grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

"What did you do that for?" I asked, and Jack opened his mouth with a smart answer only to find himself with a faceful of snow. Just like that, his expression went from self satisfied to shocked. I looked to the direction the snowball had come from to find Patrick calmly dusting his hands off, his nose stuck a little too high in the air.

"You're welcome," he told me and started to walk off, when he and I were both hit at once by huge icy projectiles, more the size of cannonballs than snowballs. A little went down my collar and I shivered.

It was Ted, and Jack let out a cheer before he too was hit with a snowball the same size. He spluttered, and Ted let out a hearty laugh.

"Thought you were safe, did you, lad?" he chortled, and the three of us bent over to gather handfuls of snow and began to pelt him with them.

To Ted's credit, he fought well, but there were three of us and only one of him and he was going to lose the fight. He knew it as well as we did, but he kept on flinging snow, until all of a sudden Rory came walking over from behind him. Rory was watching the snowball fight and grinning, his arms full of logs for the fire, and he was making a beeline for the little tent we had constructed to sleep in for the winter when Patrick's snowball missed its intended target and smacked Rory in the chest.

We all froze and there was a long pause as Rory looked down at the snow, surprised, and then a scramble as he dropped the wood to the ground and picked up a handful to fling back at Patrick.

"That's the way!" Ted cheered, laughing, and he and Rory began packing more snow and flinging it back at us until all the snow in front of our tent was muddy and all five of us were laughing and exhausted.

Our uniforms were also wet and muddy, and when the last cannon-sized snowball smacked into Jack's chest, he cried out,

"Lads, they got me," and fell over into the snow, laughing so hard he had to gasp for air.

"And the Union wins, of course," Ted said slyly, scooping up a few logs before retreating into the neutral territory of our winter quarters.

We had gotten creative with the construction of these quarters, digging down into the ground, building up very short walls of logs, and putting our tents on top for a roof. This gave us just enough space for four bunks, two on each side, and for Ted, the biggest and therefore the worst strain on our bunks, to sleep on the floor in the middle. To get out, we had to climb a couple feet to ground level, but we were warmer and better insulated down there, mostly underground. We had packed the walls with sticks to keep out the cold and wet and stomped down the dirt floor, then put in a rudimentary fireplace with a barrel Ted had scrounged from somewhere for a chimney. It was very cozy, and actually warm enough at night, so that it was difficult to convince ourselves to go outside, particularly on windy days. We had even rigged up a door flap which kept the snow out.

It was very like a home, we thought, and it was nice to have some place permanent. I got to know my friends a little better for living so closely with all of them at once- almost too well. We learned that Ted snored and that when Jack got up to go to the sinks in the middle of the night he didn't look where he was going, and the result was usually that Ted woke us all up swearing after Jack stepped on him.

Rory, in contrast, was a near perfect housemate. He was quiet, which we had all known since the previous spring, when we had boarded the train together, and he slept silently, too. He was also good to have around on boring evenings, because he was for some reason not shy when music was involved, and he was willing to play his fife as long as we liked, or to sing for us. His voice was deepening practically as we listened, as he approached his 17th birthday, and he was a pleasure to listen to. He barely spoke to us, and never to strangers, but he was often invited to the firesides of various members of our unit to sing and he never turned down an offer, nor did he seem nervous about performing. It amazed us all, and it pleased us immensely so see him so happy.

A week before Christmas, I was sitting on the lower bunk which was what passed for my personal space that winter (Patrick had taken the bunk on top, Rory and Jack shared the bunk opposite) when Patrick came through the door holding a well tied package.

"We've got mail," he announced, tossing the package and catching it again.

"Don't drop that," I cautioned. "You don't know what they've put in it."

"Yes, Mother," Patrick teased and I sat up to open it with him. On the bunk opposite mine, Jack sat up to watch and Rory climbed down from his bunk, where he had been lying on his back playing his fife.

I took out my knife and cut the string on the package, and we spread it out on my bunk, our friends watching curiously. Rory had a sad look in his eyes, as he always did when we spoke of our families, or received letters from them.

This time, however, we found three letters inside the package, three warm pairs of socks and three new pairs of gloves, each with a different set of initials embroidered into the right-hand glove. There was also cheese and sausage, handkerchiefs, and a little whiskey, purely for medicinal purposes of course.

"Look at that," Patrick said, with a sly smile as he spread out the contents of the package. "The girls have knitted you gloves, Rory, and socks." He handed Rory his pair and stuck his own on his bunk. "And there's a letter for you, too. Read them aloud, Micheál."

I handed Rory his letter to open while I sliced the envelope of my own with my knife. I saw him turn it over to examine the wax seal on the back- Maura had put her best into the first letter Rory had ever gotten- the result of a discreet letter home from Patrick- and Rory was enchanted. With one finger he traced his name on the front, moving his lips as if sounding it out, and he smiled.

Dear Micheál, I read,

I wish I had more interesting information to share, but life is going on as normal here at home. Mother and I are working, and so is Bridget. She and Colleen knitted the gloves for you themselves, and they are very proud of their work, especially the idea of putting your initials on them. Bridget sends all her love, and she wants you to know she's putting special care into the next package. She would also like you to send her greetings to Rory and Patrick and all your friends in the army. Mother sends her love as well, and she prays for you each morning and night as do I,

Your sister,

Maura

Patrick's letter was next.

Dear Patrick,

Do you like the gloves? Bridget and I knitted them specially for you. They are the warmest we could make and so are the socks. Mother would like to know if you have heard from Declan, or if he is maybe with you? He ran away from home a week ago, and Mother and Da are sure he's gone to join the army, and they are hoping he's with you. We would feel much better if he was, then we would know he was safe. We are hoping for word from him soon and we will let you know if we hear anything.

Love

Colleen

When I had finished reading Patrick's letter, Rory cut his open slowly and carefully, almost reverently. He split the top of the envelope, taking pains not to cut the letter inside, nor to disturb the seal, and he handed me his letter, looking a little ashamed.

Dear Rory, I read, enjoying the pleased expression on his face immensely,

We were so pleased to have you staying with us this summer! It was nice to meet one of Micheál's friends and we enjoyed your company, particularly your music. Are you still playing the fife in the army? Bridget has some music she will send you in the next package and she hopes you like it. It is very pretty, and she will try to find a few more songs to make it worth your while. We pray for your safety as we pray for Micheál and Patrick, and hope you will return with them when you get furlough.

Yours truly,

Bridget, Colleen and Maura

Rory's face was glowing and he was grinning from ear to ear when I finished reading the letter to him.

"How do you like that," Ted said amiably. "And those nice warm socks, too," he added, examining the gloves and socks enviously. "Guess you won't be going cold on picket duty."

"I guess not," Rory said quietly, still smiling broadly. We toasted our sisters in the whiskey they had sent and ate some of the food and it was then that I noticed that Patrick was brooding. After the celebrations were over, he dropped down to sit next to me on my bunk and put his chin in his hands.

"What's wrong?" I asked, studying his face.

"Declan," he replied. I had suspected as much.

"I should have known he would run off," Patrick burst out, and the other three looked over in surprise. It was completely unlike Patrick to get upset.

Patrick sighed, ignoring the looks our friends were giving him. "I hope they hear from him soon," he said, "and I hope they write me when they do."

"They will," I comforted him. "Declan's no fool. He'll get what he wants and then write home- you know how your brother is." Patrick cracked a smile.

"You're probably right," he admitted, and clapped me on the shoulder before climbing back into his own bunk. I heard him tossing and turning late into the night.

Much of the next week was spent in making plans. There were a couple of occasions coming up- one was Christmas and the other was Rory's seventeenth birthday. In fact, they came in the opposite order, with Rory's birthday on the 24th and Christmas the next day. It was clear to us that if Rory had ever celebrated his birthday, which we doubted, it had not been for many years now. We had great plans in the works and the only downside to it all was that Rory was beginning to look left out whenever we snuck around with the preparations.

There had been a letter to the girls, since the mail was still moving reliably in those days, requesting a scarf or similar for a present and Patrick was organizing the decoration of a somewhat lopsided cake into which Jack had put his best efforts- and some of the skin on his right hand. He'd had a difficult time convincing Rory that he had burnt it putting wood on the fire while the rest of us slept. Rory knew better than to believe that Jack would willingly get up in the night.

By the night of the twenty third, we had received an impressive package from home and had decorated the cake with fruit and some whipped cream and hidden it with Sergeant O'Malley. We spent most of the 23rd sneaking around to make sure the preparations were finished. We were planning to decorate the tent while Rory slept, with popcorn balls and a small fir tree so that the decorations would be useful to both holidays.

That night, we waited until Rory had gone to sleep. In order for this to work, we had to feign sleep ourselves and I had thought I was doing well until I felt something poking me. I rolled over and opened my eyes to find Patrick standing over me holding a lantern and looking amused.

"Got a little too into the act, did you, lad?" he whispered. He chuckled, and I had to smile as I rubbed my eyes.

"Maybe a bit," I acknowledged as I rolled out of my bunk. I narrowly missed Ted, who was also just waking up, but when we left the tent as stealthily as we could, Jack was already standing outside with his coat pulled tight around him, blowing on his hands to warm them. He had an axe tucked under his arm to chop down the tree.

"Let's get this over with," he whispered, "and then we should build the fire up as hot as we can. I'm frozen already." There was a chill wind whipping around us, and my coat did little to protect me from it.

"We've got to find a tree," Patrick whispered. "Let's go see if the sentry will let us go into the woods." We nodded, too cold to stand around and talk about it, and we headed in the direction of the forest, near which a sentry was posted. Inside my mittens I had my fingers crossed. If the sentry was friendly, there would be no problem. I could come up with the names of a few men, however, who would be more than happy to detain us a while. Long enough for hypothermia to set in, at least, I thought sourly.

Luckily for us, the man on sentry duty was a friend of Jack's from home. He had lived in Jack's building and let us by with a cheery threat of, "If you desert, Jack Lynch, I know where you'll be heading back to," and a laugh.

We walked into the forest by the light of Patrick's lantern and drew a little closer to each other. Somehow, darkness is more frightening in the biting cold and we wanted to be closer to the light. Luckily for us, we didn't have to go very far to find a tree we liked. It was about as tall as my waist, and had room for the popcorn balls we had made, at great expense, and which were intended to be eaten as dessert, so as not to let them go to waste. We cut the tree with the axe Jack had borrowed- I can't really say that we chopped it, because it was too small for that. With just a little more patience we could have uprooted it entirely. As it was, Ted took the tree on his shoulder and we hurried back in the direction of camp.

"Friend or foe?" the sentry greeted us.

"Friend," Patrick told him confidently.

"Advance, friend, and give the countersign."

We were at a complete loss. We didn't know the countersign and couldn't begin to guess.

"Don't you know it?" came the sentry's laughing voice.

"Christmas tree?" Patrick joked.

"How about 'let me through, Aiden Connor, or I'll hit you in the nose'," Jack supplied dryly.

"That sounds about right," Connor chuckled. "Happy Christmas, lads."

"Happy Christmas, Connor," we replied and headed back to our own tent.

Once we got there, we stole next door to fetch the popcorn strings and decorate the tree with them. We dug a hole in the floor, which was just dirt anyway, off to one side of the door, nearest Rory's bed, and set the tree trunk in it, then used the excess dirt to hold the tree in place. We wrapped the popcorn strings around it, and at last went to bed, still shivering. Ted was the last to lie down, having drawn the short stick and therefore being the one responsible for stoking the fire.

This time, I found it extremely difficult to go to sleep. I couldn't wait to wake in the morning and see Rory's face. When I finally drifted off, however, I slept heavily all night long.

I woke in the morning when Patrick nudged me with his foot- he was climbing down from his bunk. I rubbed my eyes and it took me a second to remember the night before. Then, I was wide awake and my eyes swung to where Rory sat, his legs dangling over the side of his bunk. He was eyeing the tree, and looking as though he had questions he was afraid to ask.

"It's for you," Ted supplied. "Happy birthday, Rory."

"Happy birthday!" the other three of us chimed in.

Rory ducked his head, but we could see how wide his smile was. "Thanks, lads," he said in his shy voice.

"What's more," Patrick jumped in, "We have presents for you." He produced the package from where he had hidden it under his greatcoat at the foot of his bunk.

"For me?" Rory asked, wide eyed. Patrick nodded, his own grin as broad as Rory's. It was one of those aspects of Patrick's personality that was just about too good to be true. He loved to give things to other people, and he seemed to enjoy it more than receiving things himself. He told me once that he liked the looks on their faces- it made his time seem worthwhile.

"Open it," Jack urged, leaning over Rory to join in the fun.

Rory pulled his knife out of his pocket and slowly cut the string on the package, savoring every moment. He folded the paper back from the items carefully and to his obvious delight the first thing on top was a card.

The girls had clearly gone to a lot of work with it. Maura, who drew well, had sketched a camp scene with a group of boys who were clearly us. I was impressed- you could tell from the picture which of us was which. There was Jack grinning at Ted, who was poking the fire with something. Patrick's head was thrown back in laughter and I looked to be shaking my head over something. Rory wore his usual solemn look, but Maura had managed to capture the sparkle in his eyes and that soft way he had of smiling to himself. I couldn't imagine where she had gotten the supplies to make this.

Rory marveled over the drawing for long minutes, examining the fire, each of our faces, the trees. "It looks just like us," he said in amazement. We agreed.

"Open the letter," Jack suggested, his patience gone. Rory did so and, with a light blush, handed it to me to read.

Dear Rory,

Happy Birthday! We hope that you have a wonderful celebration and many happy returns of the day.

Then each family member had written a short note and signed their name:

Son,

La breithe shona dhuit and Happy Christmas!

~ Finbar and Kathleen Murphy

Dear Rory,

We hope you enjoy the card, Maura put lots of work into the drawing. Bridget hopes you have the chance to eat lots of sweets and that they are not too expensive for soldiers. If they are, she will send you some more in the future.

Yours,

Bridget and Maura

Rory,

Be careful of Patrick, he believes in birthday punches, or at least he does for his little sister,

Colleen

But the best letter came from my mother. When I read it aloud, Rory looked down at his hands and smiled that dreamy smile that meant he was thinking seriously. His eyes were shining with tears that he didn't want to shed when he looked back up.

Dear Rory,

Take care of yourself, and enjoy your day! I hope you like the preparations the lads have made. They think the world of you, if you don't know it you should. We agree with them- it was a joy to have you with us this fall, and the house seems quite empty without you. We are anxiously awaiting the day when we can see you again.

Love,

Mother Ní Shúillebheán

Rory stared at his hands for a long time. His chin was trembling and he was taking deep breaths, as though to keep himself from crying. After a few minutes, we pretended not to see a tear drop from his face to his hand, or to see him draw a hand across his eyes.

As soon as he felt it was proper, Jack burst out, "Have a look at your presents!"

Rory laughed and put the card aside with great care before turning back to the package.

The most obvious item was a scarf, a lovely blue one, with long tassels at each end. Rory picked it up to admire it, and embroidered near the tassels were his initials, R. C. in lighter blue. He wrapped it around his neck, grinning, and turned back to the package. The next thing there was a St. Christopher medal, something I recognized as Mother's choice. St. Christopher was the patron saint of the military and travelers, and Mother had been praying to him for us every night since we had first enlisted, and this gift would come with her special blessing.

There was an orange in there, too, which the cold had kept good for Rory, and a generous handful of candy. Rory removed all his gifts to examine them, and handed around one piece of candy for each of us. We tried to refuse, but he wouldn't let us and I realized as I took the gift that this was his way of trying to do something for us, a chance he didn't often get. We thanked him and ate the candy, good molasses candy I could see my sister having made herself.

Rory took me aside that afternoon when Jack, Patrick and Ted had gone out to get firewood and, probably, throw snowballs at each other. I was reading a bible that Mother had put into my haversack so that I might not be too tempted by racy novels when there was the sound of someone clearing his throat, perhaps a little nervously.

"Micheál?" Rory asked.

"Mmhmm?" I replied absently, replacing the piece of paper I had been using to mark my page and sitting up.

"Would you… could you teach me to read?" he burst out, and then looked ashamed.

"Sure," I said. "Now?"

Rory looked as though he was about to say yes when the other three burst back through the door, wet and carrying armloads of wood.

"Maybe later," Rory said quietly, but he looked pleased at the idea.

"Whatever you like," I answered, and put my Bible aside.

That evening, there was the cake. Rory had walked around all day wearing his new scarf, his chest stuck out proudly, showing off for the first time. The other men noticed as well.

"That's a nice scarf you've got, lad," Sergeant O'Malley said with a wink. "Present from your sweetheart?"

Rory went scarlet. "It- I- it was-" he stuttered and the Sergeant laughed. He winked again and walked on without another word, leaving Rory standing there speechless, his hand on the tassels of his scarf. There was a long pause, during which Jack bit his lip until it nearly bled to keep from laughing, his face turning red from bottled-up mirth. Patrick was grinning widely, and I had a feeling that he was also trying to hold in his laughter.

"Rory, lad, come back here for a minute," he suggested. Ted was in the tent next door, waiting for the signal to come in with the cake. Rory, who never disagreed with what was asked of him, followed Patrick inside.

Before ducking in, however, Jack doubled up, his laughter exploding.

"Did you see the look on his face?" he asked between gales of laughter, holding his sides, tears running down his face. He wiped them with his sleeve. "Ah, poor Rory," he chuckled, "but it was just so funny…" he had a good laugh and I waited as patiently as I could, rolling my eyes, and after a second, Patrick stuck his head out.

"Jack, do you know we can hear every word in here?"

Jack's eyes went wide. "Oops."

"That's right. Now why don't you come inside?"

"Right. Sorry, Rory," Jack said, still snickering as he went inside, but Rory just shrugged. He was laughing a little too, though he was still blushing.

Looking around at us, Patrick raised his eyebrows and Jack and I nodded. Rory looked mystified. Without warning, Patrick stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled so loudly that the three of us instinctively ducked and covered our ears.

Ted came through the door just a second later.

"Jesus Mary and Joseph, lad, what the hell did you do that for?" he grumbled, shaking his head, but after a second he brightened up. He was holding the cake and he offered it to Rory.

"Happy Birthday," he said and Rory's jaw all but dropped.

"Cake?" he blurted out, and we were so happy to have shocked him out of himself that we all started to laugh again.

"Cake," Ted affirmed, and he pulled out his pocket knife in anticipation. "Would you like a slice, then?" Rory nodded enthusiastically, and slices of cake were handed all around.

Out of the darkness that night came a voice, the last thing we heard before going to sleep- "Thanks for the birthday, lads." It was Rory, masking his shyness with the dark, but sounding as though he had never been happier.

The next day was Christmas, with more gifts from home for everyone and more sweet things from my sister. It was almost less eventful than Rory's birthday. We had eaten most of our food to celebrate that, though we were careful with the cake and finished it for Christmas dinner.

There was one surprise, though, and it was for Jack. It seemed that Sergeant O'Malley had been holding onto the latest shipment of mail and waiting until Christmas Day to distribute it. The men complained when they discovered this, but not bitterly- letters from home were agreed upon as the best present a man could receive.

The rest of us had letters in the packages from home that had arrived somewhat earlier- Ted's mother had gotten together with Mrs. Murphy and Mother and had included Ted's package with Rory's birthday gifts and our Christmas presents- and so Jack was the only one to get a letter.

As you might have guessed, it was from Sinead and Jack grinned like a fool from the moment he saw the handwriting on the envelope until long after he had finished reading the letter.

"What does she say, then?" Patrick asked.

"She's in New York," Jack reported. "My landlady went to meet her, and she's staying in my rooms. They get along well, she says, and she's found work already." He looked proud.

"Good for you, lad," Patrick grinned, and we left Jack to his lovesick daydreaming.

We spent the night with the rest of the regiment around a huge fire that company B had made. It was a chilly night, but we sat as close as we could to the fire and ended up in the middle of a huge crowd of men and so were warm enough.

There was music, and a boy even younger than Rory played the fiddle while his father played the bagpipes. They played the old songs I remembered from Ireland, songs I had always heard sung at celebrations in town, or songs my Mother had sung to us. Everyone was quiet and listening intently, no doubt remembering the old country and the families we had left behind. That boy sure could play.

When they finished their concert, there was a long silence. I looked around at my friends- I'm that kind of person- and studied their faces. Jack was grinning, probably thinking of Sinead, and Rory was looking dreamily into the fire. Patrick had his chin in one hand and I was surprised to see Ted actually wipe away what might have been a tear- although then again, it might just have been a speck of dust.

Finally somebody broke the silence and a group of men danced a jig and performed a little, and then we all sang in unison, the entire regiment belting out whatever tunes we could think of to sing. "The Girl I Left Behind Me" was sung twice, as was "Silent Night" and my throat was sore by the time we were finished.

There was a midnight Mass to be celebrated, and all five of us went in a group.

"It's been years since I went to Mass," Rory confessed quietly as we took our places. "On the farm, they didn't believe in that."

Jack shook his head and Ted looked angry- we heard little about Rory's years on that farm, but what little we had heard gave us cause to hate the place intensely. Patrick just put his arm around Rory's shoulders and said,

"Well, you'll celebrate Mass in style tonight, lad. No place like an army camp, eh?" He laughed a little. "And my mother said the army'd ruin me." There were chuckles from the few men within earshot, and we made ourselves comfortable for a Mass that was very cold, but which still managed to feel like home.

We finally headed back to our tent more than an hour later. On the one hand, I was unwilling for the evening, which I had enjoyed immensely, to be over and on the other I was suddenly so homesick that I wanted to go to sleep and wake up on another ordinary day when there was nothing to miss at home.

January consisted of more drill, more snow, more picket duty and monotony. We near froze and it took all the wood we could find to keep warm at night, which didn't keep us all from getting sick, one after the other. In early February, however, Thomas Francis Meagher took command of our Irish Brigade, as a Brigadier General, and when the news was passed around camp- and news passes particularly quickly in army camps- there was a huge spontaneous celebration. There was more dancing and singing, whiskey was removed from the hiding places in which any man with whiskey left to hide had been secreting it, and the bottles were passed around.

Our officers watched and participated in the celebrations with great amusement, and even toasted the General themselves.

Out by one of the many bonfires that had sprung up, fire being a necessity for any celebration that winter, I was standing with my friends, warming my hands, when one of the men looked over in our direction.

"Coleman, lad?" he asked. Rory looked up, curious.

"Would you sing for us, or play something on that fife of yours?" The man looked slyly at Jack. "No need to accompany him, though, Lynch. He makes pretty enough music without your thumping." Jack laughed good-naturedly. His drumming was better than it had been, to be certain, but it was nowhere near as good as Rory's fife music, nor so pleasing to the ear.

Rory nodded and drew from his pocket the fife that he always kept close by him- I had seen him sleep with it in his hand- and blew experimentally over the instrument. It was freezing cold and he needed a minute to warm it up, but after a few seconds he began a beautiful rendition of "Home Sweet Home" and the group around the fire lapsed into a silence. After that was finished, he put his fife away and sang a few tunes. We all sang along- beautiful though Rory's voice was, it was more fun to sing these songs in chorus.

Those events were the high point of our winter- other than that, it was lots of drilling and plenty of trying to keep warm. I was actually grateful when, one day in March, we were told to gather what we needed and prepare to march. At least, we thought, we would be warm.

Masterpost

#historical whump #whump #slow burn whump #history whump

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music-industry-updates · 7 months ago

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From Studio to Podcast: A Musician's Journey into Podcasting

For musicians, podcasting is an exciting way to connect with fans and share more of their artistic journey. Whether you're looking to discuss your latest album, interview other artists, or dive into music industry trends, podcasting offers a unique platform. This guide will walk you through the steps of starting your own podcast and making it a success.

Podcasting offers musicians the chance to engage with their audience in a more intimate and personal way. It allows you to share stories behind your music, discuss the industry, and connect with listeners who are eager to learn more about your creative process. With the right approach, your podcast can become an essential part of your overall music brand, enhancing your relationship with fans and attracting new listeners.

1. Finding Your Podcast Voice

Identifying Your Unique Podcasting Style

Your podcast voice is an extension of your musical persona. Consider what makes you unique as a musician and how you can translate that into your podcast. Are you humorous, insightful, or inspirational? Your podcast should reflect your personality and resonate with your audience.

Choosing Your Podcast Format

Select a format that suits your style and content. Common podcast formats for musicians include:

Interview-Based Podcasts: Talk with other musicians, producers, and industry professionals.

Solo Shows: Share your thoughts on music, industry trends, and personal experiences.

Co-Hosted Shows: Partner with another musician or friend to discuss various topics.

Narrative Podcasts: Create storytelling episodes that explore music history, album breakdowns, or thematic stories.

2. Equipment Essentials

Must-Have Gear for Podcasting

High-quality audio is crucial for a successful podcast. Invest in essential equipment, including:

Microphones: Dynamic microphones like the Shure SM7B or condenser microphones like the Rode NT1-A provide excellent sound quality.

Audio Interface: Devices like the Focusrite Scarlett 2i2 convert analog signals from your microphone into digital format for your computer.

Headphones: Closed-back headphones such as the Audio-Technica ATH-M50x help you monitor your recordings accurately.

Pop Filter: Reduces plosive sounds and enhances vocal clarity.

Recording Software: Free options like Audacity or paid software like Adobe Audition or Logic Pro are great for editing your episodes.

3. Creating Engaging Content

Planning Your Episodes

Content planning is key to maintaining consistency and quality. Create a content calendar to organize your episodes and topics. Consider including:

Episode Themes: Outline the main focus of each episode.

Guest Lists: Plan interviews with other musicians, producers, or industry experts.

Story Arcs: Develop ongoing narratives or series that keep listeners coming back.

Tips for Engaging Storytelling

Engaging storytelling can captivate your audience and keep them coming back for more. Here are some tips:

Be Authentic: Share genuine stories and experiences.

Use a Hook: Start with an interesting fact or story to grab attention.

Structure Your Episodes: Follow a clear structure with a beginning, middle, and end.

Incorporate Sound Design: Use music, sound effects, and ambient sounds to enhance your storytelling.

4. Recording and Editing

Best Practices for Recording High-Quality Audio

To achieve professional-sounding audio, follow these best practices:

Mic Placement: Position your microphone about 6-8 inches from your mouth, angled slightly to avoid plosive sounds.

Soundproofing: Record in a quiet room and use acoustic treatments like foam panels or blankets to reduce echo.

Consistent Volume Levels: Maintain a consistent distance from the microphone and use a pop filter to ensure even volume levels.

Editing Tools and Techniques

Editing can transform raw recordings into polished episodes. Techniques include:

Cutting Out Mistakes: Remove long pauses, filler words, and errors.

Volume Normalization: Ensure consistent volume levels throughout the episode.

Adding Music and Effects: Enhance your podcast with intro and outro music, sound effects, and transitions.

5. Launching Your Podcast

Selecting a Hosting Platform

A podcast hosting platform stores your audio files and distributes your episodes to various podcast directories. Popular options include Libsyn, Podbean, and Anchor. Consider factors like storage limits, pricing, and analytics features when choosing a platform.

Getting Listed on Major Podcast Directories

To reach a wider audience, submit your podcast to major directories such as Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Google Podcasts, and Stitcher. Follow each directory's submission guidelines to ensure your podcast gets approved.

6. Growing Your Audience

Marketing Strategies for Musicians

Promote your podcast using a variety of marketing strategies:

Social Media: Share episodes on platforms like Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook. Use relevant hashtags to reach a broader audience.

Email Newsletters: Build an email list and send newsletters to inform your audience about new episodes, upcoming guests, and other podcast-related news.

Collaborations: Partner with other podcasters or musicians to cross-promote your shows.

Leveraging Social Media and Collaborations

Social media is a powerful tool for growing your podcast audience. Engage with your followers by sharing behind-the-scenes content, conducting polls, and encouraging feedback. Collaborations with other musicians or influencers can also introduce your podcast to new listeners.

7. Monetizing Your Podcast

Sponsorship Opportunities

Once your podcast gains traction, consider pursuing sponsorship opportunities. Reach out to companies and brands that align with your podcast's theme and audience. Sponsored segments or ads can provide a steady income stream.

Listener Support and Crowdfunding

Platforms like Patreon allow listeners to support your podcast financially. Offer exclusive content, early access to episodes, or merchandise as incentives for supporters. Crowdfunding campaigns on sites like Kickstarter or GoFundMe can also help fund your podcasting endeavors.

Podcasting can open new doors for musicians, allowing them to connect with fans in innovative ways. By following this guide, you can create a podcast that showcases your talent and passion for music. Embrace the journey from studio to podcast and see where it takes you!

Starting a podcast may seem daunting at first, but with careful planning and dedication, you can create a show that entertains, educates, and inspires your listeners. Remember, the key to success is consistency, authenticity, and engagement. Share your unique perspective, engage with your audience, and let your passion for music shine through every episode.

What do you hope to achieve with your podcast as a musician? Share your aspirations in the comments below! Additionally, if you’ve already started a podcast, share your experiences and tips to help fellow musicians embark on their podcasting journey. Let’s create a community of podcasters who support and inspire each other!

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