#AND DESTROY THAT WITH HIS SUPERIOR PIANO BALLAD

[bandsanitizer]

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[hesesols]

For Queen & Country

Day 17 of Ichiruki month 2020: Coronation

Summary: She knows her place. She is merely a pretender to a princess and marries the King in the former’s stead.

Rating: M

FF/ao3

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"Father, what is marriage?"

Byakuya Kuchiki, Lord of Western Rukongai – father, duke, kingmaker; stilled.

Bright violet eyes stared back defiantly, wisps of midnight black hair teasing her nape; taking after his late wife in both temperament and appearance. She was tiny- barely reaching his knees and he easily picked her up, setting her on his lap.

"It is what happens when two people decide to live together forever," he told her.

Here, the child frowned. Forever, sounded far too long. A quarter-hour for lessons and a day for songs under the sun- those were reasonable terms of engagement. She couldn't even sit still for her lessons much less consider something that would mean longer than a day.

Still, she thought of the potential advantages to the arrangement. Miss Hinamori gave her sweets if she behaved during her lessons and sat very very still. Some days, when she was especially good, she would ask Miss Hinamori for chocolate.

The governess had laughed and called her a word- shrewd, she wondered what it meant.

Her eyes narrowed, if she could endure her lessons for sweets and desserts- surely that must mean that there are greater things to be gained from a long-suffering pact as this?

Folding her arms very solemnly, she asked her father to name the price.

"What would it mean for me?"

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A bride- fine gossamer silk, bolts of colourful fabrics woven of every colour known to man, bone-china, her mother's pearls; blessed, cherished, happy, loved.

A wife- bearer of the world, the silent matriarch, keeper of secrets, manageress of a household and an empty bed; tried, dignified, wise, experienced.

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But those are visions of a man old and weary of the world, she will learn of the Truth at her own pace. He gave her something less tangible- facts.

"When you marry, you take on your husband's last name and share your fortunes with him, take care of him, obey him, give him ch-"

He caught himself just in time. As fascinating as the conversation was, Lord Byakuya did not fancy a conversation with his daughter on the matter of baby-making and answer her queries on how children were made.

That would come much later and at the hands of an experienced governess, preferably.

He cleared his throat loudly and looked at his daughter who had the most thoughtful expression set on her face while chewing on the ends of her braids. The cogs in her brain turned.

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Everything?

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Her young mind was devastated- that meant her favourite cakes and sweets, even that sweet little rabbit that she had rescued, half of everything she had was some horrible boy's future property?

Boys- like Renji, were horrible and mean, they had no appreciation for fine, pretty things like her drawings, they liked to tug her hair and call her names. They were rough, rude and were more wont to destroy than build.

Her dolls- china, and straw-made, still bore scars as a testament to their ill-treatment at the hands of her unruly siblings.

"Must I?"

"Are you a good person?"

She nodded vigorously. She obeyed Miss Hinamori instructions and did what she was told (most of the time). There was also the time when she saved a rabbit from the cook's horrible dogs. The rabbit- she called him Chappy, now lives in a pretty cage and was served fresh carrots daily. Miss Hinamori had praised her and called her kind, so she must be.

"Then you should," he said.

The raven-haired noblewoman in-the-making made a face.

"That is absolutely mad, Father," she tugged on his sleeves and fixed him with her strongest gaze, "why would people do such things?"

"For duty, honour and sometimes, love, my dearest."

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The girl frowned- 'duty' and 'honour'. She held both words in contempt with a vengeance unbecoming for a Lady of noble status, for it was used with relish when seven year-olds were made to do what they were told.

It was her 'duty' as a future Lady of noble birth to be in bed early, to share her toys with her visiting cousins, to find dancing and other leisurely activities like playing the piano-forte as natural as breathing. And much to her dismay, she would find that as the years passed, the list too grew. Now, her 'duties' even included making 'scintillating' and 'polite' conversations with even the rudest of her associates. The words did not gain any favour at the hands of her father- who was a far more eloquent speaker than Miss Hinamori and infinitely more superior in his knowledge of the world.

Rukia was made to feel stupid and insignificant when they come out to play.

Renji says 'love' with a tone that sealed it as the most despicable thing under the sky and she supposed she would agree with her adopted brother for once- it must be a dangerous and strange thing indeed for some people to willingly share half of everything they owned with another person, especially with icky boys and their grubby hands.

Furthermore, she was reminded of the cloying sweet smell of perfume that her older cousin favoured upon the arrival of her betrothed. The older girl with her sudden airy, breathless tone of voice and her betrothed with the oddest smile on his face that frankly made him look foolish. Miss Hinamori had claimed that it was because it was a love match between the young couple and it did not happen often in people of her circle.

She wrinkled her nose and prayed that she never succumbed to it.

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"Father," she began solemnly, "I do not think I shall ever marry."

The normally stoic noble smiled at her. Children have such amusing ideas and thoughts. Keeping his face straight and trying very hard to remain stern, he told her.

"We shall see."'

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Inevitably, she learns.

Love is tradition- Kuchiki Manor in all its daunting glory and untouched forest, family- her brothers, insufferably rude as they may be, warmth- her father, in his infinite wisdom and sagacity, companionship- Miss Hinamori, her surrogate mother and confidante.

It is like wine- aging well with the passage of time and a fruit of labour known only to those who have endured and triumphed together and then content in the arms of each other, have stayed. It is tender- kisses on the cheeks, bear hugs and booming laughter, and it grows out of the fondness of one's heart and intimate wishes.

Marriage on the other hand is sudden and tempestuous. It is the unsuspecting storm that came with all the fury known to God, the end to unspoken promises and ill-kept vows.

It comes when a Royal Princess flees the machinations of her own Father. It comes at the bidding of a Mad King with even wilder ambitions- thinly-veiled threats and open affronts. It comes with her dowry-horses laden with riches, ballads and tapestries, rolls of expensive furs and leather skins, a procession of servants, craftsmen, artisan- bearing coat of arms, her motherland's pride, the history and culture of her people- an entourage befitting of a Royal Princess; and ends with her hand offered on a golden pedestal.

It is duty and honour, the sealing of two nations bound now in kinship- it is momentous, sweeping and public.

It is anything but her wedding.

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She knows her place. She is merely a pretender to a princess and marries the King in the former's stead.

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She stood tall as she said goodbye to all that she has ever known to be home. Her brothers said very little and too much all at once. Her sacrifice burnt them and that mark singed the family tapestry. Hath they hung their heads down for shame or sorrow?

Her father appeared- stoic and wordlessly pressed her mother's pearls into her hands.

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She ascends the steps to the throne room looming ahead- a sea of unknown faces and stunned silence. She is veiled and shrouded in white- made to stand next to a man she was to call husband for all eternity and become mother to his nation. She hears the words and murmurs of the clergyman, gives her consent when the holy man bids her to, bows when it is expected of her- but processes very little.

Her husband-she stares at the brown-eyed stranger with wild hair and watches with muted horror as he slides the golden band onto her finger.

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"Play the game as you were taught to," he told her. Scarcely daring to meet her eyes, he gripped her hands tight. Yes of course, the charade must hold- should the truth be made public, the consequences will be severe. He laid another necklace- heavier in weight and heritage; around her neck and clasped it shut.

It felt like a sentence- a Deadman's noose hanging around her neck. He kissed her cheeks.

"For duty and honour- Lady Rukia Kuchiki."

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"For as long as I live, I shall cherish you and it is my hope that our union shall beget a prosperous future for both kingdoms."

His words sound like a scripted play. She grips his hand perhaps a little tighter in response- a show; she must always let them see who they want to see- a bride, a happy, beautiful, willing bride who is elated at her marriage to a young King.

She smiles and he places the jewel-encrusted tiara upon her head- her crowning glory.

The heavy weight and the gravity of her decision sink into her. She will serve the Crown and her King- she will be a good wife, she will honour her vows, and she will be Queen.

"My kingdom is now your home and the fate of her people- her people shall honour you as their Queen."

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"Remember your lessons," he whispered as she turned to leave. The Court across the sea may have different heralds and customs, may style and culture themselves differently, and favour soaring towers instead of domes, but all Courts are snake pits. Know one and you know them all.

She looked into his eyes and nodded.

She marched out of the centuries-old manor- head held high, shoulders squared for upon it laid the fate and honour of her household. She spared no further glances at the Manor as she climbed into the carriage- within her Kingdom at least, Lady Rukia Kuchiki has ceased to exist the moment it was decided that she would marry a King in the eloped princess's stead.

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She keeps her gaze on her husband- high cheekbones, strong jawline, thin lips, deep set eyes of a curious shade between brown and gold. She sees a man in his prime, broad-shouldered and tall- shaped and molded as though he was one of those heathen Gods.

She is young but not naïve. Trepidation lines her thoughts.

What does he have in mind for her- Queen, envoy, impostor?

He bends down slightly to unveil her and kisses her on her lips chastely. When he draws away, he remains expressionless and she reads nothing from his eyes. The erupting cheers from the crowd distract her and she heaves a breath of relief.

How odd it is that a duke's daughter who has never even dreamt of seeing the blue sea, would someday find herself heralding a procession of her nation's finest to a Court so many leagues away, of taking part in a scandalous hoax for the better of two kingdoms.

First princess, now queen to a gilded nation of hyphenated names and odd houses, married to a man whose first name she doesn't even know.

Perhaps such is the strange way of life.

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It is as expected, a politically-fuelled marriage between him and his foreign bride.

His ministers of course, waxed poetries of her beauty and grace. She is to bring with her the riches from the Court beyond the sea, skills and knowledge from another kingdom, books written and inventions made from the best amongst their contemporaries, spices and trade.

Her blood is old, the noblemen of his Court reminded him- a scion of a noble and powerful kingdom, steep in tradition and a well-known history of bearing prodigious sons. She will bear him strong heirs- sons to carry forth his name and legacy.

What more should a young king, still childless and only sisters for siblings, desire? It is no secret of course, should he die now, issueless- the throne will go to a viscount from another kingdom- a son of his great-grandaunt's bloodline, a man who has never even set foot on this land.

Yet as he regards his young wife, he frowns; she is not what he expected.

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"Who are you?"

She stiffens but the smile on her face doesn't falter. If nothing else, he at least commends her on her acting and composure.

"What do you mean, my lord?"

He rolls his eyes, takes another sip of the wine as he keeps his hand on the small of her back, leaning in to whisper to her ears only.

"You're not the Princess."

He has seen the Princess Orihime once. Though from afar and hidden in the shadows, while he was passing through a neighbouring kingdom under the guise of a different name. A serendipitous affair that ends with a dance for the two of them, and a kiss on the back of her hand as is proper.

This woman in front of him, heralded by so many as beautiful, virtuous and kind, and a million other things associated with that of the paragon of queenliness, and for all intents and purposes, his wife and future mother of his unborn children; is not that woman.

The two are nothing alike.

Her smile quivers- it's the first crack in her defences.

"You are mistaken, my lord. I am the Princess Orihime."

They're surrounded by courtiers. Each one more devious and sycophantic than the other; Rukia is determined to clench her teeth and bear through the confrontation. To any and all onlookers, they must appear to be, at all times, unruffled and polished.

He says nothing more after that.

A lord so-and-so comes forward to present himself and Rukia contents herself by letting her mind wander while the portly man dawdles on about the festivity of the occasion, on what a grand wedding it was, repeats the word 'grandeur' and 'blessed' for at least three more times before the King sends him away and in parting, flourishes with a deep bow, murmuring how he wishes only the very best for the royal couple.

Neither of said couple deigns to utter a syllable more to each other as the festivities and merry-making continues.

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The King's Bedchamber is where they retire for the first night to they consummate their marriage and mark their beginning as a pair- from henceforth, princess and daughter no more, but a Queen she will be- till Death spares them the misery.

Moonlight pours forth from the open window into the darkly lit room. Rukia is clad only in the sheerest of silk and bare underneath it. She feels vulnerable under his gaze, more so when his hands grab her by the wrist and tugs her towards him.

Alone with no interruptions from her ladies-in-waiting and his stewards, he continues with the unrelenting rounds of questions, fingers digging deep into her flesh.

He asks her again.

"Who are you?"

She sighs, lowering her gaze respectfully, recites it all with an even tone.

"I am Princess Orihime. I—"

He laughs- mirthless and cruel, cutting her short when the hold on her arm becomes tight enough to bruise. She hisses in response.

"No more lies. Or would you prefer me calling you by another woman's name even when we are in bed?"

She clamps her mouth shut.

"It's not that hard. I only need a name."

Silence still.

"Well if you are so unwilling. Perhaps a member of the entourage would be more forthcomi—"

"My name is Rukia."

The glare she shoots him is fierce and not at all like the simpering front she puts up.

"Who are you, Rukia?"

She bites her lips.

"A nobody."

"And why would they send me a nobody instead of the Princess, Rukia?"

Her breath hitches when his arm brushes against her side, glide across the rise of her breasts and leans in close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath on hers. Fingers busy themselves with the hemline of her nightdress, cut far shorter than she is used to.

"I don't know."

"Where is the Princess, Rukia?"

She keeps quiet, clenches her fists tight enough that her nails dig into her palm. She mustn't say a word or give away the unfortunate circumstances that brought her to him, to this country and Court. The Mad King is watching even now, his spies lurking among her entourage and numerous attendants.

Her family- her father and brothers are all under his mercy.

She can't.

The price of failing is much too steep for her to bear.

"I-I don't know."

She looks at the young King dead in the eyes and lies anyway, uncaring if he sees past her lies or takes them at face value.

"Oh, is that so?"

There is a rip in her gown. The flimsy material gives way with a rough tug and Rukia steels herself, looking into her husband's eyes- amber, dark, knowing; as she steps out of the puddle of ruined silk and kisses him.

He tastes of wine- the richness of it lingering on his lips; and secrets- many of which she will never be privy to, but that's fine too. She has no use of his heart. The stiffness in the set of his shoulders gives way when she winds her arms around his neck and cards her fingers through his hair.

Sex, she has been told, serves as a good distraction- if nothing else.

He doesn't fight her.

There's a growl of approval as sinewy arms snake around her slim waist and pulls her flush along his body and under him on the bed as he does away with his clothes. Underneath them, he is broad-chested and beautiful- the lines of his body carved and sculpted like a work of art with perfection in mind. A scar here, a mark there; a trail of wispy golden hair that marks the length of his torso, leading to the –

"My eyes are here," he teases.

A collision of lips, teeth and tongues as his lips find hers again. There is heat there, a fire that she stokes when her hand brushes against his arousal- intentional or artless, she doesn't know; not when his molten gaze strips her down to her very core of neediness.

The suppleness of her flesh and her tender sex is his to do as he sees fit. His fingers tease at her nipples, parting the folds of her dripping sex and she gasps as they slide knuckle-deep into her.

"Ichigo," he tells her in between heavy grunts.

"W-What?"

She is more than a little breathless under him and the way her sex clenches and tightens- she hisses. How meaningless words have become.

"My name. You should know. That's the name you should be screaming out when I make you come."

She doesn't remember much after.

The rest of the night is a blur and blend of heady emotions, the stickiness of his spent on her inner thighs- soft moans barely recognizable as hers while he sinks into her- heavy with want, and makes a home in her warmth. Oh quivering muscles, the tight coil of nerves unravelling, the snap of his hips and the gleam in his eyes- golden and wild.

She soars and peaks with him in tandem until dawn is but moments away and he withdraws with a soft murmur.

"Sleep."

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In the morning when her ladies-in-waiting find her, she is covered in bruises and bites. The ruined silk- a weak excuse for a dress to begin with- is in tatters on the floor and the unmistakable stains on the sheets mark the sharing of sins and desires.

She is sore and aching over patches of black and blue. She doesn't want company.

But company stays.

The King's orders they crow and the smiling ladies titter, nervously ushering her into a warm bath with scented oils and rose petals. The nice-smelling blend they lather into her hair sooths her tired body, enough for her to regain thoughts and some use of her limbs.

The King is an ardent lover and thorough in his exploration of her. Even now, Rukia doesn't think she has the energy left within her to even crawl unless prompted.

"Is he everything you had imagined?"

Rukia flashes back to her childhood memories. Of her at her father's lap- on the transactional nature of marriages and bridal price and dowries, and the meaning of duty, honour and love; she laughs—

And doesn't stop until tears stream down her face.

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FF/ao3

Sneak peek for IR royalty AU dedicated to the lovely @animeokaachan​.

I couldn’t resist.

Review, like, comment, reblog or drop me an ask to send some love my way.

[nerianasims]

Billboard #1s 1979

Under the cut.

I discuss Michael Jackson’s life and actions a little bit underneath here. So be warned if that’s something that will upset you.

The Bee Gees -- "Too Much Heaven" -- January 6, 1979

Uugh. When The Bee Gees weren't releasing bad, bloodless, falsetto disco, they were releasing bad, bloodless, falsetto lite "rock." Also the lyrics are about how love is soooo hard to get, so they're special since they have love, and yuck. Nonsense and glop.

Rod Stewart -- "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy" -- February 10, 1979

I laughed out loud when I saw this next on the list. People can't have taken it seriously in 1979, right? It was seen like "I'm Too Sexy", yes? Even though Rod Stewart was a "serious" singer -- come on, this is a ridiculous song. It isn't about the narrator; it's about two people meeting on a dance floor and then going to have what's probably a one-night stand. But when Rod Stewart sings the chorus, it sounds like it's about him. It's a highly unsexy and very silly song.

Gloria Gaynor -- "I Will Survive" -- March 10, 1979

The joy I feel listening to this song. It's the best disco song. The bright piano flourish opens to Gaynor's amazing voice and phenomenal singing ability. She sells her anger at the guy who's "back to bother" her, along with the assertion that she's now totally confident and is gonna do great without him, will all her life to live and all her love to give. The lyrics are great, which is incredibly rare for any dance song. The music is great. And Gaynor is perfect. You can belt it in the car and it drives people to the dance floor. Just an amazing, incredible song.

The Bee Gees -- "Tragedy" -- March 24, 1979

The real tragedy is that The Bee Gees shat up disco. What could it have been if not for their influence? There were disco singers and groups who escaped it, but Barry Gibb and Friends' clogging of the charts kept out so many worthy acts. Lots of synth on this song, and synth can be really cool (I'm a diehard fan of The Alan Parsons Project), but the Bee Gees made it boring and turgid. Then that damned falsetto. I don't care about the lyrics, I just want to not hear the Bee Gees again ever.

The Doobie Brothers -- "What A Fool Believes" -- April 14, 1979

The guy the song is about thinks he's going to get an ex back because she was nice when he met her again. He's a fool, and "no wise man has the power to reason away." The music's good, too, a sort of mild rock. "Yacht rock" I suppose. The sentiment is kinda country music though. Good song, anyway.

Amii Stewart -- "Knock on Wood" -- April 21, 1979

What is that in the background? A synth sound, obviously, but it sounds like -- a washboard? I have no idea, but it's annoying. This is a cover of an older soul song by Eddie Floyd that's pretty good, but they wreck it here. The amount of gunk clogging it up is painful. Also Amii Stewart doesn't modulate at all, her voice is a constant blare. Headache-inducing.

Blondie -- "Heart of Glass" -- April 28, 1979

The 80s are coming. Blondie does interesting things with synth here, the beat's irresistible, Debbie Harry's voice is unique, and the lyrics are about an ended relationship that was "a pain in the ass." Not some huge broken-hearted thing, despite the "heart of glass" lyric. Just... done, that didn't work, moving on. Not that the lyrics particularly matter here. It's all about the interesting, different-sounding music.

Peaches & Herb -- "Reunited" -- May 5, 1979

If synth can sound more synthetic than usual, that's how this song begins. It's about a couple getting back together, but it doesn't sound like they were ever in a lot of pain or that they're really excited now. There's some neat guitar stuff. It could be worse. But mostly it's bland.

Donna Summer -- "Hot Stuff" -- June 2, 1979

It's a disco song, but with a lot more rock in it than disco usually has. Maybe that's why it's survived so much better than most disco. The narrator wants one of her lovers (of whom she obviously has many) to answer the phone so that she can get laid. It's the ballad of Romance Sims. It's fun.

Bee Gees -- "Love You Inside Out" -- June 9, 1979

Well, ew. This guy's whining that the woman he loves has too many lovers but he's the one who will "love you inside out," whatever the hell that means. It sounds like a serial killer. She needs to dump him, and also probably move and change her name. And, of course, there's Barry Gibb's horrible orchestration and falsetto.

Anita Ward -- "Ring My Bell" -- June 30, 1979

Disco, of course. He's been gone for a while and she's singing to him "you can ring my bell." So, they're gonna celebrate his homecoming with lots of sex. The lines "You can ring my bell, ring my bell/ (Ring my bell/ ding-dong-ding)" repeat a couple hundred times. The background synth sounds are painfully repetitive. Like something on The Prisoner used to brainwash people. And Anita Ward sings in a Betty Boop-ish sort of childish voice that I also find annoying. It's not Bee Gees bad, but it's bad.

Donna Summer -- "Bad Girls" -- July 14, 1979

"Bad girls" are not the same as "sad girls." Sorry, this song might be fine or even good, but that one line has always bugged me way too much. So does the police whistle.

Chic -- "Good Times" -- August 18, 1979

Disco about how "happy days are here again" for now. The lyrics are obviously pretty shallow, but at least there is a line about how it won't last forever. That's not my problem anyway. My problem is that the chorus bores me, musically. Like, it hurts. There are two notes I think? And the beat is the same throughout. I always sort of ignored this song before, but on actively trying to listen to it, I have started to hate it. It doesn't interact well with my brain chemistry.

The Knack -- "My Sharona" -- August 25, 1979

This became a hit again when Reality Bites came out. So I danced in a convenience store to it my freshman year of college. We were "of the younger kind" then, considering I was 17. That made me like the song better -- it was about me! Rock isn't supposed to be clean, and you're really not supposed to take it as advice. The riff is amazing, and I love this song.

Robert John -- "Sad Eyes" -- October 6, 1979

I've never heard this song before. The music box sounding intro lasts a while and lulls you into complacency before the horrible falsetto kicks in. Not only extremely 70s white man falsetto, but an entitled brat of a man breaking up with a woman and being put out that she's looking at him with "sad eyes." Incredibly bad in an incredibly 70s way. I can see why I've never heard this song before. It's absolutely terrible.

Michael Jackson -- "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough" -- October 13, 1979

Sigh. All right, now that he's an adult, gotta tackle Michael Jackson. He was a rampant and, as far as we know, unrepentant child molester. He destroyed people in the most personal way possible short of actual murder. (Phil Spector is still worse.) He was murdered through at least extreme malpractice by his doctor. He was forced into stardom as a child himself. And he was a huge, massive, incredibly gigantic star, even after he became a punchline. I was never a big fan, but like most children of the 80s, I loved some of his songs and spent a lot of time doing the moonwalk, or as close as I could get. I feel an immense amount of pity for him, along with utterly despising him, along with admiring his talent, along with being sickened by the fact that Hollywood and the music industry knew and no one did anything about what he was doing. All in all, I end up at this place: Child stardom must end.

Okay, now for the music. This song takes forever to actually start. Also I have actually never heard it before today. Probably because it's falsetto. Jackson's falsetto is obviously far superior to Barry Gibb's, but it's still falsetto the whole song. The riff is great once it starts, and everything about the music should be good -- but, falsetto. The whole time, as far as I can tell. I can't listen to all of it. Whose idea was it that falsetto should ever be anything other than an occasional few bars? Was it Frankie Valli? I'm gonna blame Frankie Valli.

Herb Alpert -- "Rise" -- October 20, 1979

It's a jazz-funk instrumental and it's pretty good. Piano, guitar, trumpet, some kind of glittering thing -- xylophone? Bells? The people laughing like it's a laid-back party are annoying, but not enough to wreck the song. If this doesn't play on every cruise ship ever, they're missing a trick.

M -- "Pop Music" -- November 3, 1979

I saw the title, and thought I didn't know the song. Then I heard the first bars of the song and went, "OH this one." It's New Wave. I love a lot of New Wave, but this one's on the purposefully shallow end, rather than the Eurythmics end. The lyrics are nonsense, but the beat is pretty irresistable. Which makes it a dance song, whatever its intent. One of the lines is, "Dance in the supermarket," so it probably was intended to be danced to. In any case, I find it pretty forgettable, but fine.

The Eagles -- "Heartache Tonight" -- November 10, 1979

I've heard this song before, but not often. I'm not sure if it's about sex before a breakup or about cheating. Don Henley does not have Elvis' voice, though he seems to be trying to reach that level. Real power is required for the chorus, and Henley lacks it. If this were sung by Freddie Mercury, we'd have something. Queen also would have brought more musical interest generally. But as-is, it doesn't work for me.

The Commodores' -- "Still" -- November 17, 1979

Lionel Richie was still the frontman/ writer for The Commodores here. Should I explore why I can't stand Lionel Richie's music? I'd have to listen to it more to fully understand. It always sounds totally insincere to me. The songs themselves are too slow. This one doesn't have a bassline. It's so polished and gloopy. And in this song, that pause between "I love you" and "still" is both highly predictable and entirely phony. I managed to listen to the entire song, and I rolled my eyes throughout, but especially at that last whispered "still." Oh he's just so sad puh-leaze. Crying his way to the bank.

Barbra Streisand and Donna Summer -- "No More Tears" -- November 24, 1979

I hate Barbra Streisand's singing and like Donna Summer's. I wish this were just Donna Summer. If it were, I'd probably like the song. It's slow for almost 2 minutes, then becomes disco. Streisand isn't able to do as much self-loving in a fast dance song, but it's still there. I tried to find a version with just Donna Summer and failed. So, I dunno, the fact that I can actually listen to the whole thing makes me think it's the most tolerable song with Barbra Streisand in existence. But it would have been so much better without her.

Styx -- "Babe" -- December 8, 1979

Styx was prog rock, but watered-down, simplified prog-rock. Lite prog rock, as weird as that is. But they still had that massive theatricality of prog rock, which I like, and they were great for places like Pine Knob. Outside of those massive arenas, they don't work for me. Dennis DeYoung, the writer and singer of this song, belts the whole way through. Yeah, he hits the notes, but he doesn't seem to realize you're supposed to sometimes modulate, even on a power ballad. Meh.

Rupert Holmes -- "Escape (The Pina Colada Song)" -- December 22, 1979

If you take this song seriously, you're likely to hate it. It ain't that deep. It's a goofy song about a goofy thing -- both he and his wife are bored and want to cheat, so they write personal ads, and lo, they answer each other's personals! Though how that happens when they're the blandest Reaganite yuppies ever, I'm not sure. Maybe it's because they're both full of themselves ("if you have half a brain.") I enjoy this song because it is catchy, silly, and totally non-serious. I do not like pina coladas, btw.

BEST OF 1979: "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor. WORST OF 1979: "Love You Inside Out" by the Bee Gees

[bobdylanrevisited]

Self Portrait

Released: 8 June 1970

Rating: 4/10

To quote Greil Marcus: ‘what is this shit?’ The album artwork doesn’t look like him, the record doesn’t sound like him. This is one of the most bizarre records ever released and a complete departure from the quality Dylan was known for. Critically decried for being far below the usual standard, Bob has since said the album was purposely bad, as he wanted to shake off the label of being the spokesperson for his generation and focused on covers instead. This may be Bob being a bit revisionist, but it is clear that the album was horrifically messed around with in postproduction, leading to many of its flaws. In 2013, The Bootleg Series Vol. 10: Another Self Portrait (hereby referred to as BS10) was released with many of the original recordings before overdubs were added. This proved that there was an incredible album intended, but sadly it was, for lack of a better word, completely fucked up.

1) All The Tired Horses - What kind of album is this? The opening track is just three female voices repeating ‘all the wild horses in the sun, how am I s’posed to get any riding done’ for over 3 minutes with orchestral musical accompaniment. It’s hardly Subterranean Homesick Blues or Like A Rolling Stone is it? Dylan isn’t even on the fucking song, what a waste of time.

2) Alberta #1 - This traditional cover isn’t too bad, Bob’s singing and harmonica are nice and the song has a relaxed feel to it. However, as will become a common theme on the album, the backing harmonies and overdubbed instruments are confusing and irritating. You’ll hear me say this a lot, but the BS10 original version is far superior.

3) I Forgot More Than You’ll Ever Know - This mind-numbingly boring cover of Cecil Null’s song is something I wish I could forget.

4) Days Of 49 - Originally by Frank & Alan Lomax, this is one of the better songs on the album. Dylan seemingly loses his crooning voice and sounds more like his early folk days. However, the BS10 recording without the overdubs is one of my favourite ever Dylan covers. The rawness of that version is incredible and proves that Dylan didn’t need all these weird after effects, he was perfect and powerful with just his guitar.

5) Early Mornin’ Rain - Whilst this Gordon Lightfoot cover isn’t exactly exciting, it’s a perfectly acceptable version with some nice piano and bass. It’s not offensive, but it’s nothing to write home about either.

6) In Search Of Little Sadie - Much like the previous track, it’s an okay interpretation of a traditional tune. To be fair, Dylan’s voice sounds great once again, but it’s still just a standard cover of an average song. As expected, the BS10 original version with just Bob is far better.

7) Let It Be Me - Back to a crooning, confusing, country cover. Incredibly boring.

8) Little Sadie - See track 6, it’s exactly the same.

9) Woogie Boogie - Two minutes of boring boogie woogie piano? No thanks.

10) Belle Isle - Easily an album highlight. It’s a beautiful traditional song, which Bob sings brilliantly, and even the added orchestral backing is surprisingly nice. Yet, to return to my catchphrase, the BS10 without the overdubs is far, far superior.

11) Living The Blues - Written by Bob, this sounds like it could have been a filler track on ‘Nashville Skyline’. It’s an okay song, again not great by any means, just an average folky/country song.

12) Like a Rolling Stone - Recorded live with The Band at The Isle of Wight Festival 1969, this is a brilliant example of Dylan’s country reimagining of some of his most famous hits. I really like this version, the whole set is available as part of BS10, and it is essential listening in the evolution of Bob’s live performances with his older material.

13) Copper Kettle - I really hate this Alan Beddoe cover, as the backing arrangement is terrible and honestly it just sounds shit. What makes me hate this one even more is the BS10 recording. It’s gorgeous, both simple and effective with a brilliant performance by Bob. How this overdubbed monstrosity was chosen for this album is beyond me, maybe it’s true Bob made this album to put people off, as this song was transformed from a beautiful tune into a clustered nightmare.

14) Gotta Travel On - I actually don’t mind this one, it’s a classic folk song by Paul Clayton but with the Woodstock twist. I could do without the backing singers, but again Bob sings like his 1965 self, and the song’s instrumentation is happily upbeat.

15) Blue Moon - Bob’s take on this oft covered ballad is nothing interesting or new, other than the inclusion of a rather grating violin.

16) The Boxer - This Simon & Garfunkel cover is very weird, with Dylan duetting with himself. Whilst it’s one of S&Gs best songs, this track is underwhelming and unfortunately doesn’t work at all.

17) The Mighty Quinn (Quinn The Eskimo) - One of the best songs mysteriously omitted from The Basement Tapes by Robbie Robertson, much more on that later on, this was originally recorded by Bob & The Band in 1967, however Manfred Mann had huge success with the song in 1968. This live recording, again from the Isle of Wight Festival 1969, is the first official release of Bob singing the song and it’s a fantastic track. The Band sound brilliant, Bob is on top form, and the energy of the performance is infectious.

18) Take Me As I Am (Or Let Me Go) - Bob’s on autopilot with this Boudleaux Bryant cover. Uninspired and uninteresting.

19) Take A Message To Mary - Another cover, the original is by Felice Bryant, this track is incredibly average but it is at least better than the previous one. It just sums up most of the album, it doesn’t feel like the Dylan who spent years pushing boundaries.

20) It Hurts Me Too - Once again, an average cover of a traditional song, there’s literally nothing else to say about it.

21) Minstrel Boy - Again, a live version of a brilliant song left off the Basement Tapes, with the official recording not released for many years. I’ll explore it more when we get to the Basement Tapes, but this Isle of Wight performance is fantastic.

22) She Belongs To Me - The final live Isle of Wight track, again a countrified version of an electric song, again a surreal listen. Yet somehow it feels like it could have been written during this country period.

23) Wigwam - Another instrumental track, though Dylan does vocalise some ‘la la la’s’ over the top, this one is far more enjoyable. Composed by Bob, it’s clearly a precursor to his work on the Pat Garrett & Bill The Kid soundtrack. The horns remind me of the band Beirut (who are fucking amazing) and for some reason the tune inspires wonder in a way I can’t quite put into words. The BS10 original recording without the horns, which were added in a later session, is also great, though this is a rare instance where the meddled with version is better.

24) Alberta #2 - The album finishes with another version of track 2. My thoughts on it remain unchanged.

Verdict: There’s clearly an amazing album hidden in here. If the recordings from BS10 were used, I’d be giving the album an 8 or 9. Most of the outtakes from these sessions are also much better than the final tracks chosen for release. Instead it’s a mess of largely average covers, bad production, and live songs all mixed together to create an incredibly weird and disappointing listen, with only the occasional flash of the Bob we know and love. If he wanted to destroy the illusion of being some musical deity then he had accomplished it, though I do not regard this album to be an irredeemable train wreck, as many other reviewers do. Luckily for us, Bob’s redemption was only 4 months away.

[kurojiri]

How about a ballad or two (if you wouldn’t mind)

Fandom: Harry Potter Pairing: Tom Riddle/ Luna Lovegood; Daphne Greengrass/ Pansy Parkinson Summary: When Luna Lovegood came to his life, Tom didn't want ever want to go back to the days when he didn't know her. A/N: @tunavibes Additional Tags: Muggle AU, No Magic, Modern AU, Rich society, arranged marriage, dysfunctional family, music, dance, secret romance, angst, happy ending, Musician Tom, Dancer Luna Word Count: 10,407 Or Read on Ao3 or ffnt 

“I love you, I love you alone. Truth cannot be destroyed: time has no effect upon it.”— Simone de Beauvoir, from The Woman Destroyed, transl. Patrick O'Brian (Pantheon, 1987)

They had met before.

Sometime ago, when Tom had been a novice piano player. During the days when he had thought he had it all together. Tightly bound, and without any other reason to believe it would change.

His fingers had bled and ached. But he had remembered it; the frosty ice that plunged into his bare skin, when the night had been young, and she had been his light of hope. Her body had been shorter, younger, and somehow far wiser before her years even back then. Tom had not yet known what she meant when she told him that they would see each other more often.

He could, at the time, feel how her arms and body moved to hold him securely as they made their way to the closest convenience store. She had grasped his hands with care, while he had watched her clean them when she had bought a first aid kit with too much experience. It hadn't taken long for her chatty mouth to keep him company, even if he never asked for it. She just had been the kind of stranger that loved foolishly and completely for animals and stringing her empathy to people that greeted her. They had been younger, but Tom had always wondered why her. Why did he allow a stranger that could have been assumed to be loony to mend his wounds.

He didn't thank her that night verbally.

Not that it looked like she minded. She just had been funny in how she calmed his soul. So quickly, so randomly that it made him feel as if he was losing his rationality.

He didn't ask for her name, and she didn't ask for his either; they just heard the ice freeze the snow into place. They had made an odd pair. With Tom's custom dinner jacket dirty from blood, while, Luna's had been wearing common clothing with the material that had been aged by constant use. His black trousers and coat had not given him much warmth, he hadn't bothered to grab a thicker coat or a muffler when he had left the reception. He couldn't really regret it since his own bones felt numb. That had been his own saving grace that someone like her had turned up.

She had bought two cups of hot tea, and while he didn't like the quality his body did appreciate her efforts. Besides her one-sided conversation Tom had figured that he would have to call his parents soon. But back then and now, he would try to feel his body regain some purpose and focus.

It had started when he looked at her. Tom had known that in that day, she had come from out of nowhere. A total surprise and rarity from his life. That had been the very conception of his life pivoting into a new corner.

Back then, he hadn't known about it, but she had changed him. Gave a new concept of seeing his life as something more. It had reminded him about his childhood had that been vacated, with a mother that had obsessed in loving her husband and son. The same woman that had always monitored who he interacted with, how he talked, stood and behaved. How he had an estranged father that did not, nor would ever love him or his mother. The coldness he learned from him, and Tom had hated how vicious he had become with his emotions.

He had always known he was a monster. Even if his mother praised him. Or when he felt like his facade had felt like it had been working.

But the girl he met that night, she had poked, and ultimately had accepted his entire being. All before they knew each other's real friendship, mind you. (Or so, Tom had first thought when he had walked away from that night.)

.

She had graced her presence the following weekend. Her hair had been combed, maintained and had been transformed into a braided crown. Her skin, still pale, had a light blush. But when her lips had opened, her words had still evoked a breath from within his soul; it had frozen him. Her silver eyes had a sharp gleam in them, unlike the previous night.

(He liked it.)

Her parents had been dressed well, but Tom had known that his own parents hadn't been that impressed. The Lovegoods had been known in their circles for a couple of generations, just like how the Gaunt and Riddles had been. But they, Xenophilius and Pandora Lovegood had stripped some of their traditions that his mother and father did not agree with. It had brought some of the more gossip chatter to brew into his view. That night he couldn't stop looking at how lovely she had been.

The transformation had not been that drastic to cause him to lose all his breath, but it had only reinforced that she had been a lovely vision, regardless of her outfits or decor she kept within her body. A natural beauty that felt timeless and visionary.

Someone that intrigued Tom for unconventional pretenses.

When she had told him that her name was Luna, Tom couldn't help but agree to her naming. She had been pale, and lovely like the moon. She was dotty, but it had not bothered him like how other girls acted before. It had been a new different. A plane of existence that he could see to wrap his dull days. It could have been better if he had danced with her.

But when his mother gave him her infamous long glare he didn't push it. She never liked when he acted before her. Nor when they had been in the middle of an open room with too many eyes watching them. She clung to his father and kept Tom in a tighter invisible lease. He couldn't wait until his holiday was over.

School had been his only escape from her.

With the dancing portion still at play, Tom had made due with his time as few peers had walked over to his station. Small mercies were given when he had people around him. It had made it easier to pretend his role. And, for his mother to pay less attention to him when his father had to keep her company. That had helped him to breath temporally.

(Her dancing figure had flooded his dreams soon after their second encounter.)

.

He knew it had been trouble when he felt his mother's glare and his father's low voice to cease his daydreaming. It hadn't been like he meant to zone out.

It had been out of character of him to seem distracted, but somehow Tom had found his mind to be fuzzy. A blurry mess when he had watched the same group of people sit, eat and pretend to be superior to others. It had been a game Tom did not want to continue.

Maybe in another life he would have been ambitious to be the best heir of his family. To live accordingly by becoming a perfect Lord that his mother wanted and one his father expected; but in this one, Tom wanted to be fulfilled differently. His heart yearned for other pleasures.

To have meaning when he woke up. Or to feel vaguely satisfied in his future career. Instead, what he had been received were his parents' cold touches and a colder building that he been forced to call home. Tom wanted more. And if he wanted to be happy meant for him to be greedy, then so be it.

They had unofficially met for a thrice time in his school. The morning snow had almost blinded him when he stepped out of his ride. She had been in the midst of the early crowd, dressed in the same uniform he'd always seen for past couple years since he had been admitted. Her hair had been let down, and her shoes had been worn down. In the mix of rich girls that flaunted their jewelry and intricate hairstyles, Luna had still won over his time.

However, that did not mean that he spoke to her right away. He had noticed that she had carried a second bag, where a pair of flats had stuck out. The same ones that he had seen his fiance use when she had her dancing lessons.

Tom did not pursue her when he heard a call for his name to be repeated by shrill of girls coming closer to his person. Within them and sea of students, Tom could have sworn that she had learned of his presence too.

.

School had begun in the same manner he expected: dull, slow and tedious. The only few hours he had to himself, had been music. The piano had never actively started as a part of himself or as form of escapism; not purposely. It had always been just another task for him to master. Another form for him to be perfect in.

But it had come along. Once he noticed how his parents left him, Tom worshiped the keys. The melodies he could sing with his fingers had made it worth in his eyes. He grew up to be a performer. A strong voice came with it in his dreams when he learned a new key or a new combination. His youth had grounded him when he soon had been toured into competitions.

They may have started as a means for his competitive blood to chime in his awards, but strangely, it had given Tom an outlet.

Years later when they had pulled and strangled him Tom could still not hate music. He couldn't fully embrace his hatred either when his mother began to want more from him. The recitals, competitions and tutors had boiled to him losing feelings on his arms and fingers. (He could remember how they throbbed and ached until he couldn't stop feeling numb.) If it hadn't been his mother, then Tom's life went against his father's rules.

His father's own family had demanded for a stricter life too when they wanted him to stop dabbling in the piano. While Tom never liked both sides of his family, he had known the Riddle's more since his mother's brother and father were worse company. They always came to watch him. His looks had always made it feel as if it had been a cure to be the next generation of the Riddle and Gaunt Family. With one side happy he looked like a spitting image of his father, and to another that the Gaunt line did not appear so heavily in his eyes.

His aristocratic features had very little praise when each time both families scrutinized him when he kept playing. A Lord never had time to play an instrument. Only a dreamer with no future could waste his hours.

In a cruel twist of fate, Tom had been allowed to maintain his hours on the piano when he had been in the middle of meeting the Greengrass family.

It had been during a late winter when he had working on a new piece that his mother wanted him to play for small gathering she had planning for weeks. It had been a hush operation as the walls of his room twitched with anticipation. His skills among the rest of their family's circles had made his mother win the battle for him to continuing to improve his skills. And since then, his father still did not appreciate his efforts on proving to be a good son, even when he won more and more awards and recognition. That, had made Tom see that the piano was all his own, a piece where he never wanted to change, even if his heart had throbbed in loneliness.

.

Daphne Greengrass had always been a lovely image: hair always perfectly styled, flawless skin with no blemishes in sight, and a slim body that most guys would appreciate from his grade and school. She had a family history that his parents respected, as much as his mother could allow for him to marry. Her grades were close to his own. Tom had no real issues before when he had been told that she had been arranged to be his fiance. A few years too soon they would be wed.

Before he had met Luna Lovegood, Tom had thought he could promise himself to a loveless marriage without too much thought, concern, or belief that love existed.

He had lived with that kind of impression with how his father and mother worked alongside each other. (His mother may have been obsessed, but it had been his father that really showed how arranged marriages were all political. Cold.) His lineage had always been a talk, with Greengrass being one of the few ladies that had acquired some status for him to march in the same halls with her hand.

All before that night, he had thought he had figured how his life would entail.

But, like all chances were fabled to be, Tom had seen her. She had burned his blood, had made him corrupted by her pureness. It hadn't been fair. Lovegood had been something only stories could makeup. With her kindness and oddly charming riddles. She intrigued him. Had made him torn of how woven his life had already been with from his mother's shackles.

She made him want more than he could ever thought were possible for himself.

That reason alone, had been why he couldn't afford himself lose any more inches of himself. Never for a girl he had met on that bizarre night when all his sense had been bitter and torpid from use. He had a life already planned, with people expecting him to accomplish.

But life could never be that easy. Not when Lovegood had been involved. Her actions had made Tom cling to their encounters. The hallways were always crowded with numerous witness, but Tom had grown to welcome the few minutes of hearing her laugh. To see her healthy and enjoying her time with the friends she made.

(Although, Tom had wanted to be the reason why she smiled. To be the person she hugged. It never felt like it had been enough for them to be in the same school and not interact.)

It did not take long for him to figure and then accomplish a few stolen moments with. In those rare bouts of silence in the open corridors, Tom had found her figure sitting down on a bench. The trees and bushes of roses gave her cover and privacy.

As he walked over, Tom was hit momentary when his mind went completely blank mind unexpectedly. Right before he could recover, she sensed him. Her eyes sparkled with recognition when he stopped a couple of feet away from her.

"Hello." She had a thick jumper and muffler on. "It's good to you again." She didn't put away her writing material from her lap, but she had made the motion for him to sit down.

His body may have been cold from the weather, but he hadn't care then. The only thing he could clearly remember of that day had been the simpler things. The way she smiled at him, how he grew comfortable with her odd stories she loved to write or sketches of magical creatures her father and mother used to describe about. It had been a nice mid-afternoon all things considered when the campus had been quiet. The best thing however, had been she laughed at his horrible jokes.

He never did know why he had said them, only that he loved the sound of her giggling.

In the end, they didn't mention his hands that day they first met. And it didn't bother him one bit. Tom had just been relieved that she had been kind enough to understand to not touch that yet.

.

Greengrass had not ever really cared in the beginning, middle, or end.

Years ago, they had already established how reluctant both parties had been when they had been told of their future union. They each grown fond of each other as one could be for acquaintances. Their differences had been vast enough for them to realize early on that they knew they would never be a perfect match.

She was louder; Greengrass had often preferred riding on her horse and spending many hours either being physical or dressing like a proper Lady. Even if she danced because of her mother's background, she did not love it the way Lovegood did. There was unspoken coldness in her, the kind that made Tom see Greengrass struggle to put her emotions in way that could be described as delicate. She knew wrath, pride, and boredom, but she could never truly dance with a whimsical or soft manner like Lovegood. That had been why it all made sense.

Why Tom couldn't find himself to ever fall in love with Daphne Greengrass. There was no passion. He could never give himself to her, as she couldn't to him.

That had been why when he met Lovegood he saw how much he hadn't been alive. Music could only reanimate his body when he played. But it had been exchanged with new vigorous when Lovegood had walked up to him.

They both had reactions to make each other smile, and feel at peace when the silence pauses came forward. Nothing ever felt forced, and it had made Tom sense that his own happiness would trap him. He couldn't afford it, losing Lovegood, losing his name and his future. It all had been wrapped perfectly when his mother noticed his happiness radiating closely to his skin. His parents both had been suspicious when they learned that Tom had started to spend more time by his piano or in school than before.

"Tom, I see you are more passionate during your piano lessons lately." His mother's eyes were hard, charier when she noticed how his jaw tightened by her interrogation during dinner. "Should I worry?"

He did his best to maintain a placid tone when spoke. "No, mother." He touched the silverware close to him. "I merely am enjoying the current piece that I am playing."

She didn't fully believe him, but left the matter to drop when his father entered the room.

The dinner left him without a full appetite.

Greengrass had never objected when Tom escorted her to her dance classes before, and not much more when Lovegood became apart his life. They had that sort of system of them pretending to be a school's perfect couple. Their schedules had done enough for them to know each other's activities to be stifling.

But now, it had also made it easier for Tom to see Lovegood. There had few occasions of him seeing her abilities out in the open, and as he kept coming frequently, he didn't mind when Greengrass paid no attention. It hadn't been like he was there for her anyways.

She didn't disappoint; couldn't ever, when she looked at him. Tom had now learned what it meant to live a life with her. She would never cease to amaze him at how selfless she could be. To be pure of heart.

Luna never allowed their meetings to speak more, to invest in anything further. She had met his fiance, as they were in the same class and rank when they danced. That had been why Tom could stand the hours he spent when he could watch them practice. They both knew it had been a terrible reason for him to suddenly pick up more enthusiasm, but it hadn't been like his fiance cared. She, herself had been absent as she stayed closer to her own pack of acquaintances.

Tom didn't do anything else but watch Luna stretch her body, sing a song with her limbs and, Tom had been fine with the imagery she could create within a moment's notice.

Those hours had been his own personal grip of a reality he knew could not stay in.

As spring loomed Tom and Luna had grown closer. So much he couldn't go back to calling her anything else than her first name. It had been a journey for them to meet up without making others aware what they both wanted. From brief glances in hallways, to sitting at the same bench when the campus died down. It had inherently made Tom seek more hours, opportunities to be in the same room as her. (He still couldn't believe at the levels he did to have a justification for his affections and friendship he had with Luna.)

The crossfire he eventually found himself in had been acted on the simple coincidence of being in the same room as his music professor and the director for the dance section. They had wanted to bring in more cheer as the new season would come into view. A recital had been dubbed soon after they gained enough attraction from others.

Tom did not actively sign in; but, he had not said no when Luna asked him to perform with her. When he had been asked about it, he made sure that the people who asked had been aware of how he had ended up in the situation. How he couldn't refuse his professor when he agreed for their paired union for the recital. It hadn't been like he would perform with Greengrass, she already made plans to work with another girl, Pansy Parkinson. It all worked out in the end.

With Tom, he had more excuses to use the school's practice rooms, while Luna could actively, and freely talk to him about her ideas or music. It had been spur of joy when he could walk to school and have Luna be at his side. Greengrass hadn't said anything negative either as she accepted it and even provided him more time with Luna as they both covered for each other.

Tom at the time, hadn't bothered to question it when they worked together for those reasons. All he could be gratefully was how it worked out for the time being.

.

Through trial and error Tom eventually understood what Luna tried to say in her movements. She twirled with ease and hummed when she couldn't stop feeling happy. She had the knack of always being positive, it warmed his own heart when she told many stories of where her family visited during their holidays. It had been obvious that her life had been more loving and free.

But what really drove him was how she never pitied him when he gave her small insights of how much he wanted out. She had been born from wealth too and had some responsibilities, but unlike her, Tom could never strip away his name unless he took Luna's hand. Something had always guarded him, protested for him to stay away from making a huge mistake; but even when the danger hovered when he saw Luna he couldn't back away. He always took another step closer. He wanted to taste his freedom.

He never wanted his parent's life. Tom could admit that when Luna sat next to him as he played a tune. With every breath he took he knew how much he wanted to leave. He had been sure that she knew what he thought when he finished a song, with the keys ghosting a decrescendo in the air as his fingers lowered to his sides.

Fundamentally, they both knew where Tom couldn't venture, and where, more importantly, Luna wouldn't ever touch.

But they had both couldn't estimate how much stronger their youth and love was stronger, and more palpable when she danced, and he played the piano alone. Something made her lower her guard, and his heart. It was intoxicating. A slip from both their judgments when her skin was flush from her dancing and his mind whirling with finding the perfect song that could replicate how much he loved her when he thought about her. It had become intense.

With her so close, Tom couldn't stop himself from falling deeper.

It had been a mistake when she sat next to him, her hair had been pulled up into a messy bun making easier for him to see her flushed face. Her silver eyes gleamed when she lowered her head back.

"That was lovely."

The pile of music sheets had dwindled slowly, but it still hadn't felt like he found the right song yet. Not when he still wanted to discover and ultimately to find the right words and keys that could make her see how much brighter his life was since he'd met her. She, Luna's dancing was unworldly too as she painted the songs he played with more meanings.

He didn't know when time stopped, only that when she opened another folder the light beamed with more focus. His heart soared. It had occurred to him that Tom moved was when one hand touched the closest arm to him, she didn't pull away but nearly, did Tom felt like a dying man when her eyes searched for him to answer.

He didn't want to lose her, couldn't bare of the idea of ruining it and having her leave his side.

Tom knew that his eyes burned with longing. He could have kissed her, could have confessed more of his dreams, but he didn't. His heart swelled when he let—Tom died instantly and then came back to life when Luna kissed his cheek.

It had been a small opening, but Tom Riddle knew that they both made their graves when he kissed her back.

.

The recital practices had been the kick starter. It had unlocked something for Tom to rebel from within his confinements. It gave him the strength when he had still kept up appearances when he escorted Greengrass.

Neither spoke about their private hours, but Tom and Greengrass at least both shown that they could work together when they were watched by their own set of parents. In those days when they shared dinner or had to be chaperoned as they walked back and forth each other's gardens Tom noticed Luna's influence when he listened more actively to Greengrass' chatter. It had been different from Luna's happier and gentle tones, but Tom could at least acknowledge that Greengrass did not spend their own time of her talking about her clothes or makeup. They debated, but it had not been without any real heat. It had been friendlier; and it had caught him off guard how he had wasted some of his years of not better acquainting with her and the dry humor she used.

As they reared into one of the many water fountains Greengrass quietly lowered her head as she repositioned her umbrella. "While I do not care much of what you do in your own time, may I offer a few words of advice?"

Tom didn't slow down, but he had readjusted his arm that had been wrapped by hers. He didn't reply but she must have read on his face that he would allow her to say her peace. With the waters still their background she whispered to him.

"Our practice rooms are not soundproof or windowless. In case you forget yourself of who you are, I suggest that if you want to partake in that kind of behavior, you should pick a more private area."

Greengrass didn't sound partaken offended or repulsed that he found someone else for his affections, but it still made him wary of her assigned at times. As if, she knew from experience of keeping a lie to herself. (He wouldn't be surprised if she had a lover in the past to hide.) It still hadn't meant that he would ever expose her; Tom had known that their lives and happiness were limited. And if she were willing to help him, then he supposed he would help her if she ever asked for his assistance.

"I'll keep that in mind, Greengrass."

Her hands flexed and tighten on his arm, "Daphne." Her eyes locked to his. "At least call me Daphne. We have been betrothed for a while to at least be familiar with each other."

He resisted to roll his eyes as he heard her tone chip at being friendly, almost teasing. He didn't see another reason to not cooperate or humor her. "Daphne."

Her lips curled into a smirk when he finally said her name, as they walked another lap around the fountain. Mid-way to the rows of lilies it had seemed like they both unlocked another level for them to be friendly with each other. It felt had nice to have a friend in his secrets.

(Even if had been his fiance.)

.

It had always been gentle, the glide of her arms around his neck, the flutter of her eyelashes when she pressed her face at the crook of his neck. Sometimes, Tom liked how time slowed down when it had been just the two of them. Nothing else felt like it mattered, as if Tom had a moment to collect himself and feel free to reacquaint with thoughts he never got to finish before.

Luna had always helped with that, with him winding down and seeing what he left behind. Stolen chaste kisses had never been what he thought he would ever do, nor how much spirit he gained since she came to his life. It had strangled him when he had to leave the school and be away from the piano room they used. Even the bench that they used had become a spot he liked to visit. It had been one of those places where the world held more warmth than he was used.

It had become a second escape for him.

Those seconds and days had accumulated to an existence that harbored something far grander. Practically tangible. It had made Tom both weak and strong.

He hadn't at the time, thought Tom could ever he could ever experience what he had with Luna and be allowed to keep it. He had known that if he ever, that it would be temporary; but he hadn't planned to have been that alluring—promising to be in love. It had made him almost careless with his bundling emotions.

.

Luna's shape had engulfed him in his dreams.

Tom could stamp most of his dreams as that, images of warmth swarming into his blood and her own heart squeezing his own when she had tightly wrapped her arms around his torso. Both in reality and in his dreams, Luna had the exact talent of making him want to seek a new way to have more hours stolen by her presence. It seemed like nothing could be denied when she came to his quarters.

He needed her. More than the oxygen he breathed, more than all the power and influence his family were willing to give him one day. She had been his sanctuary.

And that had meant that Tom never wanted to let go of her.

It had been it had been easy to start the same cycle. Leaving his home, going to any piano and play a song or two until she would appear. She would either sit next to him or dance to mirror her emotions. Each song held a memory, an echo of something they each wanted to convey. And it made sense, for him and to her for them to tell each other their secrets, their whims and desires for their lives.

Tom had always been known for being cold and having walls, but when he had met Luna, she had been the real test. With her honesty and empathy she had been genuine with her words. With her actions, and love. She freely admitted it when Tom had been taught to guard his own heart from himself as much as the world.

Somehow Luna would never cease to stop smiling. It had been a silly song, one Tom had heard before his studies took priority when he finished primary school. The keys had come back into a hum, and her face had been too pretty and the lighting had made him move to capture her silly story she just finished telling him. The song did wonders. It filled his soul, and it had made Luna laugh and laugh in those holes he never stopped digging from.

She had made the difference.

In the same way that Tom had seen how his own life had started to tip out of balance. If it had been another year, Tom would have not welcomed how she kissed his cheek. How he bent down mid song to close his eyes and let his forehead touch hers as he kept the song flowing, filling the air with his love for her; for keeping the image of what she represented in his heart when she was so close—Tom didn't know if he could live another day without her. He would have been appalled before, for being so open to another person. But it had felt right.

To have Luna so close to his own body and have her own arms cup his face as she gave him butterfly kisses.

That sort of delicate touches had been lost before, but now, with her Tom had found his paradise. His own heaven on earth. Tom had always had a streak of being selfish, and with the introduction and addiction he had with Luna, he would do anything to keep her by his side.

Anything.

.

They had been laughing. A display that Tom would have never been able to afford before. Not with his mates or with his family.

Tom remembered that with clarity that never dulled with time. In those occasions Tom figured that had been a reason why he had felt so horrid, having clarity in some venues on his life and others he drifted without much fuss. It hadn't been healthy when it all crashed and burned; but he supposed, it had all made sense for it all. The clash of his happiness and his reality of losing everything he had never been supposed to have. It had hurt. Yet, it had also spoken for the miles he had been given before it all went to waste.

The grey and dreary skies had not bothered him that day. In a stroke of luck, Tom had watched most of his life slightly turning lighter, and in some ways, more naive when it came to his heart. He had been working on the piano when Daphne called for a small meeting. A causal day off, if his parents questioned it. They had been after all, teens filled with youth and always wanting to explore beyond their walls. His father had been the one that caught him leaving. They didn't share many words.

Tom ended up an hour away from his home and inside a larger community that bare resembled a small city between hills of suburbias. It had ached a part of his soul he never thought could call out. Walking, driving and escaping a part his life. Most of his life had never favored for him to have a Saturday afternoon where he did nothing productive. A lazy day. It felt so liberating.

Daphne had showed him to a small diner where Luna had been sitting in a lone booth. Tom stopped short, "What?"

Daphne's own eyes were shaded with a playful tint. "Don't worry, nobody we know linger here." She still had an arm linked with his as reflex. "Besides, I thought ahead of it."

When he looked back at where Luna was, he saw Parkinson sitting down next her. Her eyes didn't meet his, but Tom knew what she was saying to Daphne. In a silent, but meaningful way, he understood what she wanted. What, she had given him too as they sat down in the same booth as Pansy and Luna.

He had wanted to say more, but when Luna's eyes shined at him—Tom only wanted to remember the way his own soul sang when she called his name that day.

When they were all laughing.

.

They, meaning Tom and Daphne, had thought it would have been safer to continue the charade. Of them all being good friends, and that nothing else took place. They all laughed, joked and spoke to each other in the same beats. Luna may have of not liked lying to most of her peers and friends, but she had also longed for the days when they could just be themselves. Her own friends, in particular had been a hefty weight on his limbs. They watched him when he was alone, when he was Daphne and when Luna was talking to Pansy.

That had been a transition he couldn't really believe that took place. Pansy was glamorous, talkative and known to be a queen of information. She led the masses when she wanted. Had known a couple of blokes that made her like a modern version of a black widow. When Luna sat and danced next to her it felt like a small lamb was prancing around a lioness, where the line of death and life swept him. They made a quite a pair. One fragile-looking girl with a fairy goodness and another where danger lurked in passion that youth only could delve in.

It had made sense why Pansy had found a place in Daphne. They each complimented each other. Just like how Luna showed him how to live. Their own adventures had been hidden longer than Tom could have imagined, and in the sum of his own musings he wondered if he could have the same highs as them. If he could provide some strength in himself to finally break away.

There had been enough nights when he wanted to fight for his right to happiness. Money and influence didn't make him happy, had never granted him to smile or laugh the way he did when he was with Luna. Daphne had a lovely vision for many, but Tom knew what she really wanted. And he was not Parkinson; just like Daphne would never be Luna to him. They could be friends. Allies, if they were able to firmly establish that with their families. Marriage wasn't the only way to unite people.

It just became a sore topic when he went to school, or when he had been forced to watch how his parents kept on looking at his progress. He didn't want it. Couldn't care that he was becoming less than the person he was a year ago.

They didn't look overly pleased when the recital came. But his mother did persuade his father to not overly judge his performance like in the past. It had been strangely, a mute day; he had walked to his classes, and had talked to Daphne like normal. It shouldn't have been any different. And yet, it had been. A slow burning heat had touched him.

He could still eat calmly, could still answer each question his teachers asked him.

However, there had been a disconnection with him and the world. Had only been the one to restore some echos of what he had been cut off from when she called out to him. The static rose and then had been lifted when he touched a piano key. He knew what Luna had been thinking when they rehearsed for the final time. He didn't open his mouth, and she didn't either; because they knew that it wouldn't have last forever.

It had been (always) temporary.

Having the rush of people roaming, running and presenting themselves had been a means of seeing time pass. He had learned about the life behind the curtains. With it chaotic spirals and time ticking.

His dinner jacket had been dutifully pressed and perfect. He had fiddled with his fingers before he heard his mother.

She spoke with a clear brightness that always felt like fluorescent lights from a hospital, her eyes were always direct and wild. With few people watching them Tom wondered why she didn't stay in her seat with his father. She tutted for a second as she straightened his jacket, her icy form hadn't bore him any real smiles. Not with a tender love a mother would provide to her son either. She had always been a bit obsessive for him to act like his father, and when he showed some divergence it could go either way.

And as faithful as she had always been for wanting a good son, she put pressure in any form in his life. The recital winners would be granted a nice prize and more importantly, a sway in best higher level schooling. He wouldn't go to any higher arts school, but the title of being a winner nonetheless had been something she wanted him to achieve.

"Make us proud, Tom." Her eyes gleamed again, and Tom did his best to not flinch.

"Yes, mother." His voice had automatically answered her as she turned away from him. "Always."

.

Right before the storm, Tom had stolen his minutes with Luna. The girl that looked like a right princess with her slim body, her hair had been braided again by Pansy and Daphne's help. With light makeup and shoes on, she was ready to take the world. He wanted to kiss her, wanted to let her know she was lovelier than any pictures could ever capture. Her own natural blush when he escorted her had been enough to satisfy him then.

When they walked to their appropriate spots they shared one final look before they bared their souls together. He didn't consistently recall how the audience sounded like, or how his parents felt when they watched him and Luna perform together. But he did memorize how she glowed in the stage lights, how she enchanted him. The song they ended up with had a bit softness that made sense when he saw her in the early spring mornings, a tempo that carried how his heart bled for her voice. It could have been described as romantic, playful and whimsical; but Tom had loved how free she danced.

How she opened his eyes when she twirled and swam in the notes he pressed. They had told as many plot points in their story as they could in the limited minutes that they had, and Tom had felt breathless when they ended it. And, when the silence the stage and rows of people processing it had engulfed for a short breath, he smiled openly, when they cheered for her.

It had been a brief life, but Tom had loved playing the piano when its star featured her. He knew he would pay the price, but the flushed and happy face of Luna Lovegood had been worth it. Even if he knew it meant he had to brace the wrath of his mother, who, at the front row had seen his eyes never leave Luna.

Only a daft person couldn't see what Tom felt and wanted.

Backstage, Daphne and Pansy congratulated them. Their outfits had been expressful, and in contrast to Luna's delicate color and shape. It had suited them too. When the program ended and winners announced Tom had steeled himself as Luna's parents came first to pick her up. They had been kinder when he shook hands with Luna's father and mother. Both Lovegood's had sharp eyes as they hugged their daughter. He had known that they wanted to say something to him, but decided that it hadn't been the right place to. And as Luna left Tom halted his next thoughts when he caught his own parents coming along.

His mother did not openly say much when she caught Luna's figure; but he had sensed that they would talk in depth in their home. Her hands had been tight when they walked away from the school. His father still didn't say a word, unlike how his mother kept pursing her lips in order to not start a fit. It had been a colder ride back, with tense shoulders, deeper scolds and barely concealed fury. When his father opened the door Tom could hear the precise moment when his mother went straight for Tom's neck.

She didn't strangle him, but she had been furious. Her anger was always a hellfire; it left burning marks in Tom's memories. "Who said you could talk to her? Let alone spend any time with that kind of girl?"

Tom move an inch, not when she still had turned her body to have his father have a go at his opinion. He was not shocked when his father went straight to a disgusted murmur before leaving for a strong drink. He had always been against him playing music, and when it showed he had the capacity of loving anyone not his fiance, his father did not even coax his mother into not stopping her screaming for the rest of night.

.

She did not accept his apologies. Not that he expected her to even loosen any of her anger when he still kept his grades up or when he went to their joint lunches and dinners with the Greengrass family. In the wake of the recital, his mother did everything she could to reinforce his limitation towards Luna. She couldn't do much when it came the dancing lessons, but it had still festered for Tom to want to rebel. He couldn't go back to before when he didn't know who Luna was. To the days when he felt like a defeatist in the wake of his younger years.

Daphne's own romance with Pansy had been momentarily shaken too when Tom couldn't be there to help them. Rumors were awful and as iron clan when people wanted them to. It had made them all suffer the few times they could even talk to each other. Daphne couldn't rightfully ignore her duty any more than Tom could find the right hours to sit with Luna. The bench they used to have had been taken by another pair of stringed lovers. And without a legitimate excuse Tom and Luna had their own circles to maintain.

That didn't mean that it had fully stopped him from seeing Luna.

.

And, it had been because of that, that Tom didn't know what to say when his mother found him lounging with them. Her hair still, styled in a tight bun, and her lips in a glossy red. She didn't scream, quietly, she glided towards Tom and Luna.

Nobody said anything. Didn't look away from her the way one hand outstretched to Tom and Luna's linked hands. Luna's parents in the background soundlessly went to the rescue and plucked her out of his mother's radius. Tom, had too went to block her from Luna. He would shield her and her parents until they could safely be away from his mother.

In a tense, but firm quiet voice she looked at Tom. "In the car. Now."

Tom didn't want to leave without reassuring Luna that everything it would be okay. But when he saw Luna's sad figure leaving, he couldn't help but wonder if they would let him see her again. They had never shown that they disliked him, but when the few times he had met them he couldn't help but see how they compared him to his parents. Her father especially when he had caught him escorting her back to her home. Tom had grown to please many adults in his life, but when it came to Luna's Tom had genuinely wanted them to like him.

To approve of him of ever being in Luna's life.

It had once been a silly dream of moving away from his parent's lives and move into Luna's lifestyle. He had wanted to wake up with her being the first thing he saw. To have a set of parents that didn't care if he took business or music as a major.

He had wanted a simpler life with her.

But when they left without a second word, and Tom only seeing of the braver random strangers staring at him, he collected himself and walked away from the place. He didn't swear, didn't cry when he had been disciplined. In all, Tom had chucked some books when he had been locked in his room. He hadn't been allowed to touch the piano for the rest of the remaining year, unless for academic purposes. He later found out that after the spring holidays the Lovegoods moved away.

To where, he hadn't been given expressive permission to know.

His mother eventually regained the normal pale color back to her cheeks. She still had been strict with him, and the Greengrass had been cold to his presence. Daphne and her little sister were kinder, when they talked to him. School or not, he still checked in for Pansy to have her time with Daphne. In a way, the distance he had been given from Luna gave a better perspective of his life. She had been the push he needed, the ache that developed for him to gain thicker skin. His own emotions may have been still stuck in being rusty, but Tom had known that he would not stay still forever.

Not when he had seen what was beyond the walls he had been born into. As the year settled the Greengrass family had wondered about Tom and Daphne's dynamic. With Luna gone, and Tom barely holding on some days, Daphne had grown bolder. It had made sense, when Pansy and Daphne made plans, they always sparked with gambles when their rationalities shrank. Both families had been roaming an open garden museum.

Tom had Daphne's arm. They haven't chatted much of Luna since her departure, and that had been kind of her. The months since then had been rough. But he still had been able to hear her light steps in the corridors in school, hear her laughing when he sat down and closed his eyes.

But it had been in the deepest hours when he slept that he had Luna's ghosting kisses that made him feel lonelier.

Daphne's sister came around to them. Her hair and eyes mirrored her sister, but Astoria had always been a bit more delicate. Her eyes were warmer, her cheeks almost permanently flushed when she caught anyone's eyes. She had been a sweet girl, and when she heard of Luna and her erupt move she had been gentle too when Tom came over during his visits. It had been sweet for some time, but as they rolled closer to summer sometimes Tom wanted her to shut up with her sympathy. He couldn't heal when all the pity looks that were given to him.

He didn't remember most of that day. Just fades words of Astoria and Daphne giving him a crash course of what some flowers meant as they encountered them.

It had been a semi warm day when he had wanted to stretch his legs. Tom's few mates had come along when his feelings registered for him to stop moping outwardly. It had been uncharacteristic of him slipping his emotions, but he figured it had been due to his inexperience of falling in love. He didn't think he could ever stop loving Luna, but it had become easier in accepting that she was out of his grasps. For now, at least.

In that time period of his life, Tom Riddle had thought that one day he would have been able to trace Luna out, and ask what she did after. If she missed him the way he did to her, if she moved on faster and forgot about him. If their first meeting had crossed her mind as much as it did to him the older he got. He had never been much of a sentimental person, but there had been inches of his life when he did pay attention. When he wanted to recall each time she had touched his soul.

He reached his own conclusions when Daphne ran away from home on an early July day.

She didn't carry much on her person. With sunglasses hiding most of her face, the rest of her commoner clothes didn't shock him. Daphne had later told him how she always secretly preferred street wear than the dresses she wore during their parties. A couple of bags that weren't all that heavy were by her feet. From what he could see she seemed small; and when he grabbed the keys to his father's less used car he took her to the closest train that would take her away. Pansy had met them shortly.

Seventeen-almost-Eighteen and still children to many, Pansy and Daphne chose to leave what they had been offered when they had been born. He kissed Daphne in the forehead for luck and gave a small hug to Pansy. And as the train left, Tom stayed sitting down as he looked at the different places he could go too.

When he got back to his room he briefly jotted down a couple of places he wanted to see.

He didn't confess in helping his ex-fiance and her lover escaping until when he himself got disowned by his father when he refused another arranged marriage with another well-off family. Tom may have been placed into a tight corner when he had few pounds to his person, but he had felt freer, curious again since that night when he met Luna.

And that—that had more than enough for Tom when he restarted his life again.

.

The bareness of pale flesh of his arms had woken up. A dream from long ago that had reclaimed him had made Tom sigh. The coldness that only winter could bring made it possible for him to get up as routine. In his younger days, Tom had foolishly thought that his first taste of freedom would rekindle him with a life fitting for his troubles. But it hadn't.

It only brought him to his knees.

Without his family, going to uni had been a bit like strangling himself underwater while running a marathon. That didn't mean it had been all unpleasant. He had made acquaintances, friends and few short-lived links that could have been called lovers for some people. He made healthy connections, destroyed and sabotaged others. It all had been part of the cycles he went through. His practice at the piano had paid off. His name, in the barest parts did few turns.

Nonetheless, it had been his own work and practice that made him successful. Since he left his teens, his adult life paid off with the countless people he'd met after. They gave inspirations, had given him lessons and few had influenced him.

(But never like Luna had.)

When they tried to get closer to him it had become a problem; and one he couldn't easily solve. It had always felt like they went against a current that had been made of a maelstrom. Sometimes he had been forgiving when he didn't want to be alone. But loneliness was maddening, it had trapped him, engulfed him and Tom swam in their storms. He had lived before in the darkness. With its stifling air, or cold clutched when he tried to find a way out.

In rare moments, he had one or two lovers that were what he needed. But they couldn't work it out the longer they shared their dreams.

One of them didn't want children, and Tom at the time hadn't either; not until he one day looked and saw a happy family enjoying one of his concerts. One of the youngest children of three, barely ten, had been awed by his performance. He had curly black hair and brown eyes that shined, he had wanted to be a great musician like Tom. He had been such an innocent kid, and when his parents smiled and shook hands with him, Tom pictured a faceless child that danced gracefully as Luna, or played the piano with passion he had now. Tom couldn't go back to the days when he didn't want another family; and so, he parted with that person.

The other partner he had loved to explore and meet new people. It had been only six months or nine with that person. The time had flown with that one. The second longest partner that Tom ever had.

He went with his life. Eighteen to Twenty to Twenty-One. All short-lived epilogues of what Tom thought he wanted.

Then, like how life is meant to change, he was Twenty-five. With a career that had given him lee-way of seeing the world as he fancied. The flats that he had over the years had evolved throughout his life too, with photos he'd taken where he traveled and who he met. Of books, he bought when the hours weren't spent on the piano. And of course, the first piano he bought when he had been able to afford a good one. That one, had always been a fixture for him as he coasted the world and his years.

Right after a short shower and breakfast he looked back at the calendar on his wall. In a tight scribble, a date and place had been marked for that mid-morning for his upcoming job. He ended up inside a grand theater, where the golden details almost blinded him from the cravings the ceilings had. The music composition had been drafted and composed to fit an epic. Tom's own talent had drawn their views and a job had been secured.

As he stepped onto the stage, he admired the view of thousands of rows of chairs. Even in at the wake of dancers coming along, he couldn't help but feel at peace for those short minutes. Leaving the theater with his own notes and music sheets he saw a list of the cast and most importantly, the grand star he would play for, Tom smiled softly.

.

Her face and name were his lullabies during the times he couldn't breathe despite her time with him had been a short couple of months. When the hours didn't seem to move any faster other than to antagonize him. Past lovers couldn't hold a candle when he remembered her sweet face, or her softer kisses that had always brought him to life. Young and first loves were always that strong, precious, and difficult to forget. She had been the first that had held him, his soul and heart.

When Tom had been chased out, he thought he could one day follow the trails and see his own ghosts leave him. However, when he was haunted, they lingered. Firmly. Without any remorse or mercy.

Luna Lovegood had been his ghost.

And since that day, Tom still couldn't stop his fingers to dedicate songs for her, them. For his heart to yearn when they were both young, naive and together. In sober moments when Tom could see away from her, he had wished that he had said something earlier. He hadn't spoken to his parents when they disowned him, nor when his name became bigger as he sold out concerts. Not that they reached out to him, he was sure that his mother had been persuaded into not contacting him by his father.

The cold blistering night nipped his naked neck. It made it uncomfortable as the coat he had grabbed had been thin, made it nearly impossible for him to walk back to his flat without fearing he would turn into a solid pile of limbs. The night sky had been clear, with no clouds in sight.

It made him think back to that night. When Tom had been numb. Where his life had once been dictated, and he hadn't cared. At Twenty-five, he knew more or less what he wanted than compared to when he had been a young boy. Had decent mates to drink with and a career that had given a place to air his whims. It was more than he could have hoped when he first started to hope to dream.

He had been about to cross the street when he saw a lone figure sitting, or sleeping, on a fountain. There had been few snowflakes falling, and with fewer people mingling where a body of water was. The fountain hadn't been on, but there had still been a body of still water slowly turning frozen. Tom normally would have not reached out to a stranger, but in a case of dreamless sleeps he did. The bundle at least had the courtesy of wearing a thick jumper and coat. The muffler had been a faded green and so were her boots.

As he got closer, he could see a peek of white blonde hair, and pale, pale skin. She looked up at him. It felt like time stopped for that moment.

He didn't outright gasp, but he almost did in the end when he reached for where her fingers were left to turn red from the weather exposure. Tom knelt down slowly as she sighed when he placed them inside his own warmer gloved hands.

His breath ghosted between the distance of them. "Luna."

Her silver eyes shined brighter than the moon. "Hello, Tom."

They didn't kiss right away. But Tom hadn't cared when she had been close to him again. Where he could physically touch her again and not have her image didn't disintegrate from his fingers like how his dreams did.

He still couldn't reel back how speechless he was with her there. And from the years away from her, Tom had been glad that she could still read him. Her affinity of being a pleasant and thoughtful had calmed him. It had always made him curious and even as adult, she still seemed otherworldly. Mystifying as the fairies of bedtime stories.

With her hands still held by him, her eyes drew back to his own. "How are you?"

He thought back to when the first months of when she left. When he came to the city for work and the friends he'd made since then. How the music he worked and written had built him up again. Then, back to the night they met.

"Better."

And he was, because she was there again, alongside with a second chance for the two of them to start again in this new stage in their lives.

[how2to18]

A LABOR STRIKE and a heart-wrenching tragedy in 1913, Woody Guthrie at a hootenanny in a New York basement in 1945, and Bob Dylan in a recording studio in 1962 — these three seemingly unrelated events provide the framework for Daniel Wolff’s study of industrial violence in the United States, the folk music revival, and the evolution of rock ’n’ roll. Wolff’s narrative is an angry polemic and social commentary. The “mysteries” he explores reveal how economic depression, foreign wars, and racial discrimination shaped the music of two restless and fiery artists. Along the way, he delves into the world of copper mining, revising the official version of the 1913 tragedy in order to set the record straight.

Labor disputes and industrial disasters are not particularly unusual events in American history, but the macabre deaths of 74 people (60 of whom were children between the ages of two and 16) on Christmas Eve in a tall, jammed stairwell of the Italian Hall in strike-ridden Red Jacket, Michigan, in 1913 (renamed Calumet in 1929) was no ordinary catastrophe. Several thousand underground copper miners, mostly Finnish and Italian immigrants, had been on strike for more than six months, but they were running out of strike funds and faced a powerful business-led Citizens’ Alliance. As Christmas drew near, the mining union’s Women’s Auxiliary organized a big Christmas party to make sure that every child of a striking miner would receive a holiday gift. Hundreds of children and parents climbed up the high steps to the second floor ballroom of the Italian Hall and gathered around a large Christmas tree. A young girl played a piano and the crowd quieted down to listen. Although there remains a dispute as to what happened next, it is clear that some person or persons yelled, “Fire!” and that this provoked a mad stampede for the stairwell. Many children tripped and fell headlong down the steep stairs, landing with broken bones in front of the doors. For some reason, the doors would not open. The strikers claimed the anti-union thugs hired by the Alliance held the doors shut; the Alliance later claimed the doors opened to the inside. As more and more tried to escape, the stairway became jammed with panic-stricken children who piled on top of each other, breaking their painfully entangled arms and legs. Soon they began to suffocate. When the doors were finally opened, 74 bodies were carried back up the stairs and laid in rows by the Christmas tree.

The Keweenaw Peninsula is a 70-mile finger of land that juts into Lake Superior at the northernmost point of the state of Michigan. I stepped on the gas pedal and pushed my Chevrolet up to 55, heading south from Copper Harbor, the small town at the top of the peninsula. Michigan’s Upper Peninsula is physically separated from the rest of Michigan by the Straits of Mackinac and when you look at a map of the United States you might say, with perfect logic, that the Upper Peninsula really should be part of Wisconsin. Most of the UP is scenic northern forest, but wild, rugged, and largely undeveloped. I’m sure more wolverines live in the UP than humans, but they don’t get counted in the census. US Highway 41 is a six-lane freeway in Milwaukee, but up on the Keweenaw Peninsula it is a narrow two-lane road with tall pine trees standing like soldiers along the edge of the asphalt. Rounding a sharp turn, I suddenly saw five or six whitetail deer directly in front of me. I swerved and missed most of them, but one deer jumped in the same direction as my car, smashed into the hood, broke the windshield, flew over the top, and dashed into the forest. The car was not drivable. After a half hour or so, a Highway Patrolman pulled up to offer assistance. “It happens all the time,” he said. “There are a lot of deer and it can be hard to see them.” He called a tow truck and soon my damaged car was on its way to Snow’s Auto Repair in Calumet, Michigan.

Wolff contextualizes the story of 1913 in a comprehensive history of copper mining in the Upper Peninsula. Native Americans mined copper and used it to make hooks, knives, and jewelry. French explorers and Jesuit missionaries discovered new uses for copper, prospectors searched for more, and industrialists from the East invested large sums to go underground, recruiting thousands of immigrants from Wales, Russia, Italy, and Finland to drill and extract the ore. By reopening the historical record, Wolff resolves lingering mysteries about the tragedy:

Was there a fire? No.

Did someone actually yell “Fire!”? No one ever confessed to it.

Did the strikebreakers deliberately hold the door shut to prevent the children from leaving? No one claimed to have seen anyone hold the doors shut, although the strikers and their families were inside the building.

Did the doors at the bottom of the steps open to the inside, as is so often repeated in official descriptions of the tragedy? No.

It is these rumors and uncertainties that have passed for history, burying the truth under layers of obfuscation that anger Wolff and have led him toward Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan. Woody Guthrie wrote (and rearranged) about 1,500 songs, but “1913 Massacre,” with its dark tone, solemnity, and dirge-like tempo, was a uniquely powerful piece of his repertoire. The dry humor and ironic double meanings often found in his compositions are jettisoned as Guthrie reports on the shockingly brutal facts in a matter-of-fact way. It suggests that the full extent of the horror sapped him of emotion. As Wolff correctly notes, we hear nothing about socialism or revolution or even unionism. Instead, Guthrie takes the listener along with him as an observer, a witness to what will unfold. “Take a trip with me back in 1913,” writes Guthrie.

Calumet, Michigan, in the copper country. I will take you to a place called Italian Hall, where the miners are having their Christmas ball. I will take you in a door and up the high stairs, singing and dancing is heard everywhere, I’ll let you shake hands with the people you see, and watch the kids dance around the big Christmas tree.

Guthrie crafted the song based on a memoir written by “Mother” Mary Bloor, an early Socialist and labor organizer well known in political circles for her courage in the face of repression and violence. Bloor’s daughter, Herta Geer, was the wife of Will Geer, the actor and political activist who had befriended Guthrie in Los Angeles in 1939 and introduced him to the local writers, actors, and musicians involved in the growing labor movement and the fight against fascism. Guthrie wrote the song in 1945, about five years after Bloor’s 300-page memoir, We Are Many, appeared. Although her section on Calumet is only a few pages long, it was crammed with detail, much of which Guthrie incorporated into his song.

Wolff uses “1913 Massacre” as an entry point into Guthrie’s life. Despite Guthrie’s self-created persona as the “Political Okie,” with his deliberate misspellings, improper grammar, and “aw shucks” demeanor, Guthrie was not an uncomplicated personality. As he writes his narrative of “1913 Massacre,” Wolff draws out some of those complexities. On the one hand, Guthrie’s situation in 1945 was more stable than ever. He had completed his military service and several tours in the Merchant Marine, and had survived a torpedoing. Working with Moe Asch he was recording scores of songs and beginning a new project called “American Documentary,” which he described as “a kind of musical newspaper,” using songs to illuminate and comment upon current events. His semi-autobiographical novel, Bound for Glory, had received 150 mostly positive reviews and encouraged Guthrie to begin a second novel, Seeds of Man. A song he had written in Los Angeles in 1939, “Oklahoma Hills,” recorded by his cousin Jack Guthrie, reached number one on the folk jukebox list in 1945. That same year, along with Pete Seeger and others, he founded People’s Songs. The United States and the Soviet Union remained united against the Axis powers, unions had made unprecedented progress during the war years, and organized labor emerged for the first time as an important political force at the national level.

But below the surface, Guthrie was troubled. His project with Moe Asch resulted in about 150 recordings, including collaborations with Seeger, Cisco Houston, Bess Lomax Hawes, and Sonny Terry, but the end product, an album entitled Struggle, was not widely distributed. A further recording effort, focused on Sacco and Vanzetti, also proved a disappointment. Wolff describes how Guthrie’s energy and focus began to wane as he succumbed to the debilitating disease that would devour him over the remaining 25 years of his life: “Just dizzy, woozy, blubberdy. And scubberdy and rustlety, tastely […] the soberest drunk I ever got on.” Guthrie’s disease was not accurately diagnosed as Huntington’s chorea until 1952, but he knew that the same inexorable force that had destroyed his mother now held him in its deadly grip. Even as he gathered with Seeger and others to form People’s Songs on New Year’s Eve, 1945, Guthrie must have been beset by deep anxiety. Wolff describes the scene:

They were trying to reinvent the movement, to survive the emerging Cold War, to preserve their hopes and ideals. The meeting soon turned into a hootenanny where everyone sang. When it was Guthrie’s turn, he could have launched into the punchy “Union Maid” or “Roll on, Columbia,” songs of confidence and optimism. Instead he sang a cautionary tune, that slow ballad about the miner’s Christmas that he was now calling 1913 Massacre.

Wolff notes that Guthrie’s productive years coincided almost exactly with the period of the Popular Front against fascism, from 1935 to 1945. That period had ended.

Through the windshield of the tow truck I saw a sign that read “Calumet, Michigan” and immediately recalled the song — a song that’s hard to forget. I had first encountered it on Arlo Guthrie’s album, Hobo’s Lullaby. I remember listening to the song and writing down the lyrics on a sheet of paper, lifting and dropping the needle of the record player a dozen times before I was able to capture all the words accurately. Then I sang the song to myself. And sang it again. And again. 

Snow’s Auto Repair was located in the heart of what remained of Calumet after the copper veins were exhausted and the miners left for work out west. The year was 1988, but at Snow’s it seemed more like 1958. The sagging building, the forlorn signage, the old auto repair equipment, and the two elderly mechanics in dreary, oil-stained uniforms all recalled an earlier time. While I waited for the insurance adjuster to arrive and estimate the cost of repairs, I struck up a conversation with one of the mechanics.

“Say, can you tell me where the old Italian Hall is located?” I asked.

“The Italian Hall?” he responded. 

“Yes, I’m sure it’s here. This is Calumet, right?” 

“That’s right. This is Calumet.”

“Well, I’m just wondering where the Italian Hall is located. I’d like to see it.”

The mechanic raised his arm and pointed his work-worn index finger toward the window, in the direction of a large empty lot across the street. “That’s where it was. They tore it down last year. I guess you’re too late.”

Woody Guthrie appealed to KFVD radio listeners in Southern California and found a new audience among political activists, union organizers, and progressive writers who had never seen a bona fide Okie with left-wing politics. He cultivated his persona in songs, newspaper articles, and Bound for Glory. Even as he branched out into new areas, such as children’s song, Jewish songs, and novels and cartoons, the Okie persona never left him.

Wolff contrasts this with Bobby Zimmerman’s constant reinventions of himself. First the artist who would be Dylan abandoned his early interests in rock and blues for the emerging folk scene and changed his last name. Then, after discovering some Guthrie records from one of his folkie friends in the Dinkytown section of Minneapolis, he immersed himself in the Guthrie persona. He learned all of Guthrie’s songs and limited his performances at coffee houses and parties to the man’s repertoire. He mimicked Guthrie’s guitar style, speech patterns, and clothing. He carefully read Bound for Glory and began to create tall tales about his background, claiming that he was from Albuquerque or Gallup or Illinois — anywhere but Hibbing, Minnesota. “Dylan made himself authentic,” writes Wolff.

He changed who he was to get closer to the truth. Or try to. The sound that eventually came over pop radio — his timed drawl, the rural edge, the off-center sense of humor — was a lot Guthrie. That’s how Dylan became an original — through imitation. It’s as if he ran from his middle-class, mid-20th-century Hibbing and went back to Guthrie’s ’30s. Or as he put it, “I was making my own depression.”

Veteran folkies from the Dinkytown scene who were familiar with Guthrie chided Dylan for going too far with his impersonation. So Dylan went east to find Guthrie, claiming that he hopped freight trains and hitchhiked like Woody, when he actually got a ride from a friend. Dylan’s visits with a dying man in Greystone Hospital have been treated elsewhere, but Wolff captures an important element of this encounter. While Dylan was performing Guthrie’s songs for his idol, who was no longer able to speak, he confronted the reality that Guthrie was effectively gone, that his world of the Depression and his war against fascism had disappeared, that his fervent political dreams had vanished in the wind. Later Dylan would write:

Woody Guthrie was my last idol he was the last idol because he was the first idol I’d ever met that taught me face t’ face that men are men shatterin’ even himself as an idol …

Dylan’s confrontation with Guthrie’s demise was the starting point for Dylan’s composition of “Song to Woody,” written only a few days after their first meeting.

The song draws heavily upon Guthrie, using, almost note by note, the haunting, dirge-like melody of “1913 Massacre,” and opening with the line, “Hey, hey, Woody Guthrie, I wrote you a song,” which is derived from a similar opening Guthrie had used in a poem for Elizabeth Gurley Flynn. The song is a tribute but also a farewell. The lyrics set up comparisons between the Depression-era ’30s and the ’60s, between Guthrie’s old life and Dylan’s new life. “Listen to the song Dylan felt he needed to sing,” writes Wolff, “and you hear a kid who’s come a thousand miles only to discover that what he came for no longer exists.” The song is important for another reason: it marks the commencement of Bob Dylan, the singer-songwriter. Dylan’s first self-titled album included only two original songs — “Talkin’ New York,” a hillbilly’s satirical romp through the big city, and “Song to Woody.” Subsequent Dylan albums contained exclusively Dylan compositions.

Wolff may be right in locating the end of young Dylan’s idolization of Guthrie in “Song to Woody,” but the older folky continued to influence the younger artist. The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan and The Times They Are a-Changin’ featured songs with powerful but artful political themes. While hardline politicos in the folk scene complained that Dylan’s songs about old girlfriends meant that he was turning his back on the struggle, those who listened closely to “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll,” “Only a Pawn in Their Game,” and “The Times They are a-Changin’,” heard Dylan developing on the Guthrie tradition. Still, Dylan was carefully moving away from strictly political themes. Wolff quotes excerpts from a “letter back to Dinkytown,” which Dylan wrote for the 1963 Newport Folk Festival program, in which the artists refuses to answer the standard union organizing question posed in the powerful song written by Florence Patton Reece, “Which Side Are You On?”:

Hey man — I’m sorry — … the songs we used t sing an play the songs written fifty years ago the dirt farm songs — the dust bowl songs the depression songs … Woody’s songs … when there was a strike there’s only two kind of views … thru the union’s yes or thru the boss’s eyes … them two simple sides that was so easy t tell apart [have become] A COMPLICATED CIRCLE. The folk songs showed me the way an I got nothing but homage an holy thinkin’ for the ol songs and stories singin an writin what’s on my own mind … not by no kind of side not by no kind a category.

Dylan was preparing to reinvent himself again and he was not taking sides.

I turned to the mechanic at Snow’s and asked, “Where are the bricks?”

“What bricks?

“Well, the Italian Hall was made of bricks and they demolished it. So, what did they do with the bricks?”

“They hauled them away.”

“Yeah, but where did they go?”

“You want to know where the brinks are now?”

“Yes, where did they dump the bricks? Do you know?” 

“Well, I don’t know why you want to know, but yeah, I know where they dumped them, sure.” He pointed out the window again. “Okay, go north for two stop lights. Then turn left and go until you get to the railroad tracks. Cross the tracks and take the first turn to the left. Keep going about a quarter mile until you see an island of poplar trees on the left. Then take the dirt road on the right for, I don’t know, a hundred yards or so. You’ll see a pile of bricks. If that’s what you’re looking for, that’s where you will find them.”

About a year later I was asked to perform in a Labor Concert in Kenosha, Wisconsin, along with Woody’s son, Arlo. I told Arlo I had learned the song “1913 Massacre” from his recording and that I wanted to give him a brick from the Italian Hall — a reminder of how our past can reemerge from under the weight of obfuscation.

Like the miners of Red Jacket, Michigan, who extracted copper from deep below the surface of the earth, Wolff helps us recover the truth about a tragic episode in our history.

¤

Darryl Holter is a historian, entrepreneur, musician, and owner of an independent bookstore. He has taught history at the University of Wisconsin and UCLA and is an adjunct professor at USC.

The post “I’ll Take You to a Place Called Italian Hall”: On Daniel Wolff’s “Grown-Up Anger” and the Calumet Massacre of 1913 appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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A LABOR STRIKE and a heart-wrenching tragedy in 1913, Woody Guthrie at a hootenanny in a New York basement in 1945, and Bob Dylan in a recording studio in 1962 — these three seemingly unrelated events provide the framework for Daniel Wolff’s study of industrial violence in the United States, the folk music revival, and the evolution of rock ’n’ roll. Wolff’s narrative is an angry polemic and social commentary. The “mysteries” he explores reveal how economic depression, foreign wars, and racial discrimination shaped the music of two restless and fiery artists. Along the way, he delves into the world of copper mining, revising the official version of the 1913 tragedy in order to set the record straight.

Labor disputes and industrial disasters are not particularly unusual events in American history, but the macabre deaths of 74 people (60 of whom were children between the ages of two and 16) on Christmas Eve in a tall, jammed stairwell of the Italian Hall in strike-ridden Red Jacket, Michigan, in 1913 (renamed Calumet in 1929) was no ordinary catastrophe. Several thousand underground copper miners, mostly Finnish and Italian immigrants, had been on strike for more than six months, but they were running out of strike funds and faced a powerful business-led Citizens’ Alliance. As Christmas drew near, the mining union’s Women’s Auxiliary organized a big Christmas party to make sure that every child of a striking miner would receive a holiday gift. Hundreds of children and parents climbed up the high steps to the second floor ballroom of the Italian Hall and gathered around a large Christmas tree. A young girl played a piano and the crowd quieted down to listen. Although there remains a dispute as to what happened next, it is clear that some person or persons yelled, “Fire!” and that this provoked a mad stampede for the stairwell. Many children tripped and fell headlong down the steep stairs, landing with broken bones in front of the doors. For some reason, the doors would not open. The strikers claimed the anti-union thugs hired by the Alliance held the doors shut; the Alliance later claimed the doors opened to the inside. As more and more tried to escape, the stairway became jammed with panic-stricken children who piled on top of each other, breaking their painfully entangled arms and legs. Soon they began to suffocate. When the doors were finally opened, 74 bodies were carried back up the stairs and laid in rows by the Christmas tree.

The Keweenaw Peninsula is a 70-mile finger of land that juts into Lake Superior at the northernmost point of the state of Michigan. I stepped on the gas pedal and pushed my Chevrolet up to 55, heading south from Copper Harbor, the small town at the top of the peninsula. Michigan’s Upper Peninsula is physically separated from the rest of Michigan by the Straits of Mackinac and when you look at a map of the United States you might say, with perfect logic, that the Upper Peninsula really should be part of Wisconsin. Most of the UP is scenic northern forest, but wild, rugged, and largely undeveloped. I’m sure more wolverines live in the UP than humans, but they don’t get counted in the census. US Highway 41 is a six-lane freeway in Milwaukee, but up on the Keweenaw Peninsula it is a narrow two-lane road with tall pine trees standing like soldiers along the edge of the asphalt. Rounding a sharp turn, I suddenly saw five or six whitetail deer directly in front of me. I swerved and missed most of them, but one deer jumped in the same direction as my car, smashed into the hood, broke the windshield, flew over the top, and dashed into the forest. The car was not drivable. After a half hour or so, a Highway Patrolman pulled up to offer assistance. “It happens all the time,” he said. “There are a lot of deer and it can be hard to see them.” He called a tow truck and soon my damaged car was on its way to Snow’s Auto Repair in Calumet, Michigan.

Wolff contextualizes the story of 1913 in a comprehensive history of copper mining in the Upper Peninsula. Native Americans mined copper and used it to make hooks, knives, and jewelry. French explorers and Jesuit missionaries discovered new uses for copper, prospectors searched for more, and industrialists from the East invested large sums to go underground, recruiting thousands of immigrants from Wales, Russia, Italy, and Finland to drill and extract the ore. By reopening the historical record, Wolff resolves lingering mysteries about the tragedy:

Was there a fire? No.

Did someone actually yell “Fire!”? No one ever confessed to it.

Did the strikebreakers deliberately hold the door shut to prevent the children from leaving? No one claimed to have seen anyone hold the doors shut, although the strikers and their families were inside the building.

Did the doors at the bottom of the steps open to the inside, as is so often repeated in official descriptions of the tragedy? No.

It is these rumors and uncertainties that have passed for history, burying the truth under layers of obfuscation that anger Wolff and have led him toward Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan. Woody Guthrie wrote (and rearranged) about 1,500 songs, but “1913 Massacre,” with its dark tone, solemnity, and dirge-like tempo, was a uniquely powerful piece of his repertoire. The dry humor and ironic double meanings often found in his compositions are jettisoned as Guthrie reports on the shockingly brutal facts in a matter-of-fact way. It suggests that the full extent of the horror sapped him of emotion. As Wolff correctly notes, we hear nothing about socialism or revolution or even unionism. Instead, Guthrie takes the listener along with him as an observer, a witness to what will unfold. “Take a trip with me back in 1913,” writes Guthrie.

Calumet, Michigan, in the copper country. I will take you to a place called Italian Hall, where the miners are having their Christmas ball. I will take you in a door and up the high stairs, singing and dancing is heard everywhere, I’ll let you shake hands with the people you see, and watch the kids dance around the big Christmas tree.

Guthrie crafted the song based on a memoir written by “Mother” Mary Bloor, an early Socialist and labor organizer well known in political circles for her courage in the face of repression and violence. Bloor’s daughter, Herta Geer, was the wife of Will Geer, the actor and political activist who had befriended Guthrie in Los Angeles in 1939 and introduced him to the local writers, actors, and musicians involved in the growing labor movement and the fight against fascism. Guthrie wrote the song in 1945, about five years after Bloor’s 300-page memoir, We Are Many, appeared. Although her section on Calumet is only a few pages long, it was crammed with detail, much of which Guthrie incorporated into his song.

Wolff uses “1913 Massacre” as an entry point into Guthrie’s life. Despite Guthrie’s self-created persona as the “Political Okie,” with his deliberate misspellings, improper grammar, and “aw shucks” demeanor, Guthrie was not an uncomplicated personality. As he writes his narrative of “1913 Massacre,” Wolff draws out some of those complexities. On the one hand, Guthrie’s situation in 1945 was more stable than ever. He had completed his military service and several tours in the Merchant Marine, and had survived a torpedoing. Working with Moe Asch he was recording scores of songs and beginning a new project called “American Documentary,” which he described as “a kind of musical newspaper,” using songs to illuminate and comment upon current events. His semi-autobiographical novel, Bound for Glory, had received 150 mostly positive reviews and encouraged Guthrie to begin a second novel, Seeds of Man. A song he had written in Los Angeles in 1939, “Oklahoma Hills,” recorded by his cousin Jack Guthrie, reached number one on the folk jukebox list in 1945. That same year, along with Pete Seeger and others, he founded People’s Songs. The United States and the Soviet Union remained united against the Axis powers, unions had made unprecedented progress during the war years, and organized labor emerged for the first time as an important political force at the national level.

But below the surface, Guthrie was troubled. His project with Moe Asch resulted in about 150 recordings, including collaborations with Seeger, Cisco Houston, Bess Lomax Hawes, and Sonny Terry, but the end product, an album entitled Struggle, was not widely distributed. A further recording effort, focused on Sacco and Vanzetti, also proved a disappointment. Wolff describes how Guthrie’s energy and focus began to wane as he succumbed to the debilitating disease that would devour him over the remaining 25 years of his life: “Just dizzy, woozy, blubberdy. And scubberdy and rustlety, tastely […] the soberest drunk I ever got on.” Guthrie’s disease was not accurately diagnosed as Huntington’s chorea until 1952, but he knew that the same inexorable force that had destroyed his mother now held him in its deadly grip. Even as he gathered with Seeger and others to form People’s Songs on New Year’s Eve, 1945, Guthrie must have been beset by deep anxiety. Wolff describes the scene:

They were trying to reinvent the movement, to survive the emerging Cold War, to preserve their hopes and ideals. The meeting soon turned into a hootenanny where everyone sang. When it was Guthrie’s turn, he could have launched into the punchy “Union Maid” or “Roll on, Columbia,” songs of confidence and optimism. Instead he sang a cautionary tune, that slow ballad about the miner’s Christmas that he was now calling 1913 Massacre.

Wolff notes that Guthrie’s productive years coincided almost exactly with the period of the Popular Front against fascism, from 1935 to 1945. That period had ended.

Through the windshield of the tow truck I saw a sign that read “Calumet, Michigan” and immediately recalled the song — a song that’s hard to forget. I had first encountered it on Arlo Guthrie’s album, Hobo’s Lullaby. I remember listening to the song and writing down the lyrics on a sheet of paper, lifting and dropping the needle of the record player a dozen times before I was able to capture all the words accurately. Then I sang the song to myself. And sang it again. And again. 

Snow’s Auto Repair was located in the heart of what remained of Calumet after the copper veins were exhausted and the miners left for work out west. The year was 1988, but at Snow’s it seemed more like 1958. The sagging building, the forlorn signage, the old auto repair equipment, and the two elderly mechanics in dreary, oil-stained uniforms all recalled an earlier time. While I waited for the insurance adjuster to arrive and estimate the cost of repairs, I struck up a conversation with one of the mechanics.

“Say, can you tell me where the old Italian Hall is located?” I asked.

“The Italian Hall?” he responded. 

“Yes, I’m sure it’s here. This is Calumet, right?” 

“That’s right. This is Calumet.”

“Well, I’m just wondering where the Italian Hall is located. I’d like to see it.”

The mechanic raised his arm and pointed his work-worn index finger toward the window, in the direction of a large empty lot across the street. “That’s where it was. They tore it down last year. I guess you’re too late.”

Woody Guthrie appealed to KFVD radio listeners in Southern California and found a new audience among political activists, union organizers, and progressive writers who had never seen a bona fide Okie with left-wing politics. He cultivated his persona in songs, newspaper articles, and Bound for Glory. Even as he branched out into new areas, such as children’s song, Jewish songs, and novels and cartoons, the Okie persona never left him.

Wolff contrasts this with Bobby Zimmerman’s constant reinventions of himself. First the artist who would be Dylan abandoned his early interests in rock and blues for the emerging folk scene and changed his last name. Then, after discovering some Guthrie records from one of his folkie friends in the Dinkytown section of Minneapolis, he immersed himself in the Guthrie persona. He learned all of Guthrie’s songs and limited his performances at coffee houses and parties to the man’s repertoire. He mimicked Guthrie’s guitar style, speech patterns, and clothing. He carefully read Bound for Glory and began to create tall tales about his background, claiming that he was from Albuquerque or Gallup or Illinois — anywhere but Hibbing, Minnesota. “Dylan made himself authentic,” writes Wolff.

He changed who he was to get closer to the truth. Or try to. The sound that eventually came over pop radio — his timed drawl, the rural edge, the off-center sense of humor — was a lot Guthrie. That’s how Dylan became an original — through imitation. It’s as if he ran from his middle-class, mid-20th-century Hibbing and went back to Guthrie’s ’30s. Or as he put it, “I was making my own depression.”

Veteran folkies from the Dinkytown scene who were familiar with Guthrie chided Dylan for going too far with his impersonation. So Dylan went east to find Guthrie, claiming that he hopped freight trains and hitchhiked like Woody, when he actually got a ride from a friend. Dylan’s visits with a dying man in Greystone Hospital have been treated elsewhere, but Wolff captures an important element of this encounter. While Dylan was performing Guthrie’s songs for his idol, who was no longer able to speak, he confronted the reality that Guthrie was effectively gone, that his world of the Depression and his war against fascism had disappeared, that his fervent political dreams had vanished in the wind. Later Dylan would write:

Woody Guthrie was my last idol he was the last idol because he was the first idol I’d ever met that taught me face t’ face that men are men shatterin’ even himself as an idol …

Dylan’s confrontation with Guthrie’s demise was the starting point for Dylan’s composition of “Song to Woody,” written only a few days after their first meeting.

The song draws heavily upon Guthrie, using, almost note by note, the haunting, dirge-like melody of “1913 Massacre,” and opening with the line, “Hey, hey, Woody Guthrie, I wrote you a song,” which is derived from a similar opening Guthrie had used in a poem for Elizabeth Gurley Flynn. The song is a tribute but also a farewell. The lyrics set up comparisons between the Depression-era ’30s and the ’60s, between Guthrie’s old life and Dylan’s new life. “Listen to the song Dylan felt he needed to sing,” writes Wolff, “and you hear a kid who’s come a thousand miles only to discover that what he came for no longer exists.” The song is important for another reason: it marks the commencement of Bob Dylan, the singer-songwriter. Dylan’s first self-titled album included only two original songs — “Talkin’ New York,” a hillbilly’s satirical romp through the big city, and “Song to Woody.” Subsequent Dylan albums contained exclusively Dylan compositions.

Wolff may be right in locating the end of young Dylan’s idolization of Guthrie in “Song to Woody,” but the older folky continued to influence the younger artist. The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan and The Times They Are a-Changin’ featured songs with powerful but artful political themes. While hardline politicos in the folk scene complained that Dylan’s songs about old girlfriends meant that he was turning his back on the struggle, those who listened closely to “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll,” “Only a Pawn in Their Game,” and “The Times They are a-Changin’,” heard Dylan developing on the Guthrie tradition. Still, Dylan was carefully moving away from strictly political themes. Wolff quotes excerpts from a “letter back to Dinkytown,” which Dylan wrote for the 1963 Newport Folk Festival program, in which the artists refuses to answer the standard union organizing question posed in the powerful song written by Florence Patton Reece, “Which Side Are You On?”:

Hey man — I’m sorry — … the songs we used t sing an play the songs written fifty years ago the dirt farm songs — the dust bowl songs the depression songs … Woody’s songs … when there was a strike there’s only two kind of views … thru the union’s yes or thru the boss’s eyes … them two simple sides that was so easy t tell apart [have become] A COMPLICATED CIRCLE. The folk songs showed me the way an I got nothing but homage an holy thinkin’ for the ol songs and stories singin an writin what’s on my own mind … not by no kind of side not by no kind a category.

Dylan was preparing to reinvent himself again and he was not taking sides.

I turned to the mechanic at Snow’s and asked, “Where are the bricks?”

“What bricks?

“Well, the Italian Hall was made of bricks and they demolished it. So, what did they do with the bricks?”

“They hauled them away.”

“Yeah, but where did they go?”

“You want to know where the brinks are now?”

“Yes, where did they dump the bricks? Do you know?” 

“Well, I don’t know why you want to know, but yeah, I know where they dumped them, sure.” He pointed out the window again. “Okay, go north for two stop lights. Then turn left and go until you get to the railroad tracks. Cross the tracks and take the first turn to the left. Keep going about a quarter mile until you see an island of poplar trees on the left. Then take the dirt road on the right for, I don’t know, a hundred yards or so. You’ll see a pile of bricks. If that’s what you’re looking for, that’s where you will find them.”

About a year later I was asked to perform in a Labor Concert in Kenosha, Wisconsin, along with Woody’s son, Arlo. I told Arlo I had learned the song “1913 Massacre” from his recording and that I wanted to give him a brick from the Italian Hall — a reminder of how our past can reemerge from under the weight of obfuscation.

Like the miners of Red Jacket, Michigan, who extracted copper from deep below the surface of the earth, Wolff helps us recover the truth about a tragic episode in our history.

¤

Darryl Holter is a historian, entrepreneur, musician, and owner of an independent bookstore. He has taught history at the University of Wisconsin and UCLA and is an adjunct professor at USC.

The post “I’ll Take You to a Place Called Italian Hall”: On Daniel Wolff’s “Grown-Up Anger” and the Calumet Massacre of 1913 appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

from Los Angeles Review of Books http://ift.tt/2yvkoPA