#AND the guy gave me a best of Bowie CD too like what

[ramshitposts]

Hey guys I'm back from the dead to announce I've been given old 12 in 13 era Dr who magazines for christmas and have fallen in love.

[ithinkyouhealedmyheart]

National Boyfriend's Day

Characters: Kendall Knight, Gustavo Rocque mentioned, Veronica Clark oc, James Diamond, Mrs. Knight mentioned,

Pairings: Kendall Knight/Female Original Character(s), Kendall Knight/Veronica Clark

Word Count: 1988

Grammarly is my beta reader

The boys were graciously given the day off for some unknown reason, which was not wholly unknown. Gustavo claimed his throat hurt from all the yelling he had done the day before. But it didn't matter; they didn't have to sing or dance in the recording studio for a whole day.

Ronnie had been doodling a lot the past few days. She had heard about the botanical garden and wanted to go there more than anything, but she was stuck working with Gustavo and the boys. It wasn't like she hated working with them. They were rowdy and louder but had their quiet moments. Since Kelly gave her earplugs on her first day, she hasn't been without them. It was common for her to wear earplugs even if she lounged at the pool with the guys.

Her doodles mainly consisted of various types of flowers. She hadn't been sightseeing since arriving in L.A. a few months ago. Gustavo's been keeping her busy with the prospect of a new album, so it's been taking away from her time. For the time being, she sat in the living room of 3G. Her dad and Mrs. Knight got coffee earlier, leaving her alone in the apartment.

Living in Hollywood was a dream come true. She also heard her music play on the radio because Big Time Rush was a big hit. It was excellent writing music that would sell stadiums and make it onto CDs that teenagers would buy and listen to. But, being behind the scenes was the best of all. She wasn't a fan of all those big crowds or the flash of camera lights. Instead, the boys got to deal with all of that.

A knock was at her door, but she was too in the zone to notice. Music playing softly on the radio, Pink Floyd and David Bowie tapes that her father left in there from his spring cleaning.

"This is your first date. It has to be amazing," James whispered to Kendall. He only tagged along because Lucy wasn't at the pool, and he was bored.

"How many times do you think I should tell you? This isn't our first date, and quit trying to control it." Kendall knocked on the door again.

"I'm sorry, you have a bad track record of asking girls out and keeping them entertained. Shall I remind you of- "

"Don't. Say her name." Kendall sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do we even know if Ronnie is inside? She could be with Camille,"

"Maybe she can't hear you? She always has those earplugs in." James shrugged. "Oh! Which means she can't hear us talking,"

"For the last time. You don't have to worry about the date I've planned."

"But you won't tell me about it," James pouted. "I want to make sure you take her to the right place and know-"

"You're not her brother. Or her dad." Kendall cut him off sharply. He pulled out his phone and texted her.

Shortly after, the door opened, revealing Ronnie with her faded blue hair dye. She'd meant to touch it up, but everything else had been distracting. She wasn't wearing her yellow sweatshirt. It had been swapped for a plain tank top.

"Sorry, did I keep you guys waiting? What happened?"

James waved and smiled brightly. He was a bit too giddy for her liking, and she wasn't sure if she would be happy about what Kendall had to say. It wasn't odd that they were standing outside her door, but something about it felt suspicious.

"So, uh, there's this new botanical garden that opened, and I was wondering- I was hoping that you wanted to come see it." Kendall was rarely all that nervous, but it was cute when he did trip over his words.

"Of course! But uh," Ronnie glanced down and smiled sheepishly. "Let me go change real quick."

"I think that's fine considering the heat wave-" Kendall elbowed James.

Ronnie left the door open and sauntered into her room, closing that door behind her. Kendall and James glanced at each other before stepping through the threshold. It wasn't that they'd never been in her apartment, but they hadn't been inside without her dad present. He was ex-military and scary. The last thing either of them wanted was for him to come home and assume Kendall and James were there for less-than-safe for work activities.

"Oh, hey, her notebook!" James's eyes sparkled as he made his way over to the beige couch. He didn't pick it up but leaned over to look at what she was doing.

"Does she have any new song ideas?" Kendall joined him, but he was too afraid to touch her notebook. It was one thing if Ronnie caught them looking at it, but an entirely different ordeal if they picked it up and started flipping through.

"I know it's scorching out, but I can't go anywhere without my hoodie. At least I have short-" Ronnie's bedroom door creaked when it opened, and the three stood still, staring at each other. Not only were Kendall and James caught red-handed, but they also froze like deer in headlights.

"What are you doing?" Ronnie narrowed her eyes.

"You left it open!" James whined, shuffling away and holding his hands up. "If you're going to hurt us, don't touch the face!"

"I'm not going to hit you. It's not like you would see the new song I'm working on anyway,"

"Are you sure you want to wear your hoodie?" Kendall asked. He was wearing cargo shorts and a T-shirt.

"I'll be fine." Ronnie shrugged. "Now, get out. I'm not leaving my apartment unlocked with three idiots all day. That's asking for something to get broken." She shooed the guys with her hands.

"Aw, but I wanted to see your dad's face when he gets back." James mocked.

"I bet he'll be happy to see you later." Ronnie rolled her eyes.

~~~

It was no surprise that Ronnie hated buses. She hated the crowds, the limited number of seats, and, most of all, the smell of L.A. passengers. A purse dog with dead eyes was staring straight at her, and she stared back, nearly crushing Kendall's hand. The bus was noisy because of the people on it and because it sounded like the moving vehicle would fall apart at any given chance.

Kendall was standing, holding onto the bar above his head. He moved to block the small purse dog from her sight and gently rang his thumb over her knuckles. He could tell from a mile away that she was getting overwhelmed. As much as she tried to hide it, she wasn't really good at it.

Ronnie didn't want it to seem like everything in this city was overwhelming, but when the only place she had been to was the Palm Woods, everything was overwhelming. But it wasn't for a lack of trying. She rested her head against the back of the uncomfortable plastic seat and closed her eyes. The bus ride would be shorter than it seemed. It was easy to get caught up in it all.

Originally, Kendall would have asked his mom to take them to the botanical gardens, but she was away, and he couldn't ask Gustavo or Kelly to drive them. A limo would attract suspicion, which would, in turn, alert a border of fangirls. It had been a hot minute since he last rode the bus; he was too used to having a driver, and now that he and his friends were famous. However, they would have taken the train if they had been in Northern California.

As soon as the bus finally stopped at their destination, Ronnie hopped out of her seat and whizzed past the bus driver. Her thanks were drowned out by her feet hitting the steps. Kendall followed after, thanking the bus driver more prominently. Even though the bus had yet to pull away, Ronnie couldn't contain her excitement. She jumped up and down, clapping her hands with a big smile. Kendall wasn't embarrassed to be seen with her. He was glad he could make her happy.

"We could never start a garden back in Vermont, which was a bummer because everything always looked so gray. Also, Scout would eat whatever flowers we planted, which was a hazard to his health. My dad doesn't have the best green thumb either-" Ronnie rambled while she led him by the hand, taking a big breath before launching into the second part of what she was saying.

"Easy, easy. Don't forget to breathe." Kendall chuckled. He would follow wherever she would go, even to the ends of the earth.

"Sorry, sorry. I swear, sometimes I need one of those cool devices that tells you when to drink water, but instead for when I need to breathe." Ronnie laughed and played with the drawstring of her hoodie with her free hand.

"If you got one of those, you would throw it against the wall."

"Well, yeah, but it would be useful for a little while."

Kendall showed the man at the door their tickets, and they each passed through a metal detector. Luckily, it didn't go off. When they were in the lobby, Ronnie froze. Her eyes went wide and sparkled. Her head swiveled, trying to take in every detail about the botanical gardens. Kendall was even taken aback by how pretty it was, too. 

There was greenery everywhere. It was the perfect place for Poison Ivy’s secret lair. There were halls divided up by seasons. Wordlessly, Ronnie took the blonde's hand and led him toward the Spring hall. When did she get so strong? He nearly tripped over himself, trying to follow after her. In a way, she was like a kid in a candy store. Wait, no, she was like Gustavo when she spent the night at 2J because Griffin took his mansion away. And her smile was infectious. He honestly didn’t mind getting pulled around. He hadn’t realized just how pretty nature was before now. When James suggested the botanical gardens, he shrugged it off but this place was ethereal. Although he would have preferred playing street hockey with his friends this wasn’t the worst way to spend his time. 

Did he mention how pretty Ronnie’s smile was? 

Kendall, pretty much, spent the day admiring Ronnie while she admired plants and talked about them. She wasn’t the most knowledgeable about them but she was passionate. Maybe this little adventure could even spark some inspiration? At least Kendall could only hope. He really just wanted to know what their next song was going to be about, because Gustavo wouldn’t tell them anything. But, he could ask her about it any other day. Ronnie didn’t stop holding his hand either, and he was on cloud nine. It was the cutests thing. She was the cutest thing. Now that he thought about it, he should take her on dates more often. She deserved it to be honest. 

Plants weren’t just pretty, but they played an important role in symbolism. Bouquets could be used to relay a hidden message, and different colors had different meanings across all genes. The only thing Kendall knew was that roses were used to symbolize love. It was why he always got roses for his mother on valentine's day, because he loved and cherished her more than anything. Ronnie prattled off about the symbolism of different roses and even different flowers. But, he was too busy paying attention to the sparkle in her eye to understand anything she was saying. At least he found out that she liked Lisianthus, whatever that was. 

And by the time they were ready to come home, Ronnie leaned her head on Kendall’s shoulders and her eyes fluttered shut. She had tired herself out. 

“Best, day, ever.” She mumbled sleepily. 

“Best date ever.” Kendall clarified with a small smile.

[wellthatwasaletdown]

I've read hilarious tags to a tweet (that was posted on tumblr): Don't think Harry Styles likes dressing like that. Looks miserable in pics. Probably is like hey man can I wear a suit or something. maybe a big t-shirt Pete Davidson gets to wear big stinky shirts. And his handler is like nah you're a fake gay guy gotta wear fake gay guy clothes

The tags (and some replies): -he exists so straight people can be allies without actually being allied to any queer people /hj -Hey yeah the issue is not that he isn't wearing ""man clothes"" the issue is that he looks like shit and it feels incredibly performative to everyone except you fans. -the issue is that his music is bad. if he was putting out bangers no one would gaf how he looks. You know who never got this kind of reaction for wearing a dress? kid cudi. cause man puts out bangers -its what happens when you only achieve level of solo fame by being part of a wattpad ship -I just saw you rb the diamond jumpsuit and he looks so uncomfortable it gave me sympathetic dysphoria. Like legitimately he looks like he's desperately closeted, but like for cishet people. He looks like want transphobes think we do to people. Like those shitty alt right political cartoons of like 'in 2030 everyone will be forced to be queer at gunpoint'. Lazer sniper sight glinting off his diamanté encrusted extra nipple -sure he's fighting gender norms but the gender norms are winning -he looks like a very boring conservative man's idea of a gay man. Like whatever he's made some good music and he seems like an alright person. But I cannot find it in me to be happy for him. He looks manufactured -Literally like you look at the photos of 70's glam rock stars and like. Not only are they rocking it but they seem to be beyond comfortable in it in that 'this is me' way. Styles looks as if he'd kill for a pair of khakis and a hoodie -Dude the logic around Harry has fully switched. First it's 'oh no management isn't allowing him to be gay' and now it's 'omg he's acting gay only because his pr team told him to -Why do Harry Style stans try to suck your eyes out of your skull if you criticize him? Celebrity culture makes me wanna self immolate lol I am saying that's just him trying to be more special than his designated bland pop singer for straight girls niche


Said in a server last night he looked like he just came in straight from a cke binge. Then said he looked like that hairy pink dancing creature with that silver look 😭 
He just always looks like sht man…you're rich. I know you can afford to challenge gender roles and dress well Wearing the ugliest rompers w his nips out just aint cutting it


LMAO he looks SO sad in the diamond jumpsuit people have been comparing it to their pre transition pics

-fake pretentious c*nt. *untalented -he really is just some guy being forced to be a gay icon mf showed up looking like a batman villain -Nah i was directioner and harry biased then and he always dresses like that. But yeah i agree his stylists and producers say for him to exaggerate and pretend he is the modern david bowie when in fact he is just a boyband soloist lmao hes in my top 5 on spotify for the past million years TWO THINGS CAN BE TRUE

-if 2021 target pride collection was personified.

-this is exactly how my 62 y/o mom talks abt him lmaoooo. Liike she HATES him she thinks he’s a total phony and finds him an insult to the lgbt community#best ally tbh gotta love her

-I've literally been saying this like he’s just doing this for the money but for how long 😭😭 -ite transtrender but for gay people

-ok. there was this huge ass paper thing full of his new cd in the middle of my favourite record shop. Making the already small store even more cramped. so fuck him#there you go i <3 being a hater

-he’s literally not gay. if he was i’d become homophobic

(Sorry if some of them are too rude, I have hard time discerning bc I don't speak to many people on the internet and don't know fully what's the proper etiquette)

.

[heauxplesslydevoted]

Raincheck (Ethan x MC)

Summary: Set after chapter 8, Ethan and Naomi get a re-do on their dinner date.

Tags: @colourmeshy @fanmantrashcan @writinghereandthere @ao719 @x-kyne-x @paulfwesley @ramseyandrys @a-i-n-a-a-s-h @perriewinklenerdie @aworldoffandoms @thatcatlady0716 @drakewalker04 @canknot @hatescapsicum @lapisreviewsstuff @akacalliope @senseofduties @badchoicesposts @ethandaddyramsey @the-soot-sprite @chasingrobbie @zodiacsign1 @choices-lurker @miyakokurono @trappedinfandoms @my-heart-beats-for-ya @adrian-motherfucking-raines @riverrune @edith-eggs1 @thatysn @bellcat2010 @theeccentricbibliophile 

Enjoy!

~v~

The first thing Naomi notices when she crosses the threshold to Ethan’s apartment is that it smells amazing. A delicious aroma wafts from the kitchen and she has to stop herself from drooling at the scent.

This is the second time this week that she’s been at his apartment, though this time Ethan promises that there will be no surprise interruptions. And this makes Naomi anxious, because the last time she was here, Ethan kissed her, multiple times, and promised that they’d talk. And with a little over a year of knowing the older attending under her belt, Naomi knows that Ethan Ramsey is a puzzle and he’s constantly pulling the rug out from under her feet. So her guard is up, despite wanting to be able to relax in his presence.

Ethan greets her at the door, out of his formal work clothes and now in a simple t-shirt and blue jeans.

“Naomi, hi.” His eyes sweep over her form, and he tries not to get fixated on the way her dark blue sweater hugs every curve on her body. “You look great.”

“Thank you.”

“It smells amazing in here.” Once she’s inside and her shoes are at the door, Naomi stands on her tiptoes, peering into the kitchen. She sees a huge skillet and a pot on the stove, but it gives her no answers. “Can I know what you’re cooking, or are you going for an element of surprise?”

“Chicken, sautéed in peppers, yellow rice and roasted asparagus. Do you have any objections about the menu?”

“It sounds delicious.” She stops at his kitchen island and takes a seat at one of the barstools. 

“Do you want something to drink? I have pretty much everything.”

“What’s the best wine in your collection?” Naomi asks. “I’d like a glass of that.”

Ethan turns around and goes to rummage in his pantry. “I have a very expensive bottle that a patient gifted Naveen a while back. Her rich “boyfriend” owns a vineyard in Napa, and after we solved her case, she had him send Naveen quite a few bottles. He gave me one.”

He rinses out two glasses and pours the expensive Chardonnay. 

“Air quotes around the word boyfriend leads me to assume he was her sugar daddy.”

“Her very married sugar daddy,” Ethan adds. “Splitting his time between Napa and New England.”

“Scandalous.”

“His vineyard makes excellent wine, though.”

Naomi takes a sip and instantly agrees with Ethan. The smooth liquid is delicious. “Mhmm, I can taste the vanilla.”

“You have excellent taste for a 27 year old.”

“It’s a cross I have to bear,” Naomi teases with a giggle. “Do you need any help with dinner?”

“No. You’re my guest, you just sit there and relax.”

She leans across the counter and watches as Ethan expertly chops up jalapeño peppers.

“I’m not used to being in a kitchen and not helping,” Naomi says with a sigh. “I used to practically study my mom and grandma growing up.”

“Oh, so you like to cook too?”

“I love it. I love food. Every Sunday after church, we’d go to my grandparents’ house for football and dinner.”

“What’s your favorite thing to cook?” Ethan asks. Naomi doesn’t talk much about her life before Edenbrook, and he’s curious.

“My grandma has a recipe for pot roast and garlic mashed potatoes that will make you cry.”

“Oh yeah? What’s the secret?”

“It’s for Valentine women only, mister. My mom didn’t get the recipe until she and my dad had been married for 10 years.”

“It’s that serious?”

Naomi nods. “Super serious. She’s really protective over her recipes, and she wants the rest of the family to be just as guarded. My uncle once suggested she write a cookbook, and she nearly tore him a new one.”

Ethan notes the sparkle in her eye as she talks about her family and he can’t help but to smile. “Okay, since you’re the expert, I’ll let you help me.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Yay! But first, I cannot cook in silence. We’re going to need some music.”

“In the living room, next to the window, I have a record player. Pick whatever you’d like.”

“A record player?” Naomi slides off the barstool and rushes to the living room. “You’re an old soul.”

“I like records. I think they’re cooler than CDs.”

Naomi browses through his selection of vinyls. He had a mixture of a lot of different artists and genres: Billie Holiday, Michael Jackson, Prince, David Bowie, Queen, James Brown, Nina Simone, The Beatles. There was even some classical music by Beethoven thrown into the collection.

She settles on Billie. “You have good taste, Doctor Ramsey.”

Soon she’s back in the kitchen, hands washed, sleeves rolled up, and hair pulled back. They settle into a comfortable routine. She minces garlic as Ethan gets the rice started.

Ethan enjoys her presence in his kitchen. There’s no tension in the air, the silence isn’t deafening, and Naomi moves around with ease and confidence, as if the space was made just for her. He chooses to ignore the way his pulse speeds up at the thought.

With two people helping, it doesn’t take long for dinner to be served. Ethan tops off their wine, fixes two plates, and moves them into his formal dining area.

“I had no idea this little dining area was tucked back here,” Naomi says, looking around. “Just how huge is this apartment? Does it have a second floor that I’m not aware of?”

Ethan rolls his eyes at her wide cracks. “No second floor. But it’s a 3 bedroom.”

“3? How did I not notice that?”

“Well the last time you were here we only stayed in the kitchen. And the time before that we–”

 He stops himself before he can finish the sentence. The time before the last, they barely stayed in the living room for a few minutes before Ethan was dragging her into his bedroom.

Naomi looks down, her face burning at the memory. Thinking about their previous...encounter wasn’t her intention in the slightest. She groans to herself. This is what she gets for trying to make dumb small talk.

She pivots, not allowing them any more time to ruminate over the hook up. “Well you’ll have to give me a tour.”

“Deal.”

Naomi grabs her fork and digs into her food, taking a bite of her chicken. A low heat coats her taste buds, followed by the buttery flavor of the meat. A soft sigh passes her lips. “Okay, I know you love being a doctor, and you’re great at it, but I think you’d be an amazing chef.”

“Of course I’d be an amazing chef, I’m good at everything,” Ethan quips with a smirk.

“Your ego is unmatched.”

“But seriously, the food is good?”

His voice takes on an uncharacteristically low and shy tone. Naomi looks up at him and they lock eyes. He’s...nervous, she quickly surmises.

“The food is great, Ethan. If it wasn’t, you’d know.”

He smiles at her, relief coursing through his veins. Sure he knows he’s a good cook, but something about her praise and validation makes him feel like a teenager again.

“Good.”

“I might have you cook for me more often,” Naomi adds, lifting her wine glass to her lips and takes a sip. “How many other people get to say the great Ethan Ramsey made them dinner?”

“It’s just you,” Ethan replies. “And of course, you’re welcome over any time.”

“Don’t tempt me with a good time. I just might take you up on that offer.”

“Please do.”

The rest of their dinner goes by, the two of them embroiled in light conversation. Once dinner is done, Ethan instructs her to head to his living room while he puts the dishes in the sink. A few minutes later, he comes back with two slices of cake, and two more glasses of wine, red this time to complement the chocolate of their dessert.

“Ooh, I get dessert too? My, my, You’re really spoiling me tonight.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Ethan grumbles.

“Too late.” Naomi eagerly accepts her slice of cake. “Did you bake this?”

“Would you be impressed if I said yes?”

“I’d be very impressed.”

“But no, I can't take credit for this. There’s a bakery a few blocks away, and they make the best chocolate cake.”

“That’s a hefty endorsement coming from you.”

“Trust me, you’ll love it.”

Ethan sits down next to Naomi, leaving little room between the two of them, but just enough. At this distance, he can smell whatever sweet perfume she’s wearing, mixed with her shampoo—coconut scented, that much he knows for certain—it it’s effects on him are dizzy and intoxicating.

“How did your talk with your dad go the other day?” Naomi asks. Being questioned about his dad wasn’t what he was expecting, and it snaps him out of his daze.

“Huh?”

“How did your talk with Alan go?” 

Ethan stops to seriously consider the question. His talk with his dad brought up a lot of feelings, good and bad, about a lot of different things. “I think he and I understand each other more. Love is still a pretty foreign concept to me, so I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand the depth of what he feels towards my mother, but I’m going to try to be more compassionate about them.”

“And I told him that him continuing to hold a flame for my mother fueled a lot of my anger,” Ethan continues. “It used to feel like he was willing to forgive her for hurting me. No matter what she did, all would be okay as long as she came back. Of course, he didn’t realize my perspective, and he apologized. We both realized that our views of my mom were going to be inherently different. And he agreed to stop trying to get me to talk to her.”

Naomi is glad to hear he made some peace with his dad. Alan seems like a sweet guy. “Do you think you’ll ever want to see her?”

A stony expression mars his features. “No. I’m not in a space to hear whatever bullshit excuse she spits out, nor do I want to hear any apologies. I’ve survived 25 years without her, I’ll survive 25 more.”

The energy in the room has taken a sharp turn. Naomi puts her plate down on the coffee table and takes Ethan’s hand in hers, her thumb running across his knuckles in a soothing manner. The simple gesture catches him off guard, and he looks at the younger woman.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you upset with my line of questioning.”

“I’m not upset with you,” Ethan assures her. She’s the last person he’d be upset with considering she’s been his rock throughout this entire ordeal. “And I shouldn’t be burdening you with this.”

“You’re not being a burden, Ethan.”

“Regardless, I didn’t invite you over here to be bogged down by my family drama.”

Naomi looks down at their still joined hands, and she swallows thickly. “Okay, did you invite me over here to talk about our kiss?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up at the question. “I’ve always admired your boldness, Rookie. You get straight to the point no matter what.”

“No point in beating around the bush,” Naomi says with a shrug. Reluctantly, she pulls her hand out of his and turns her body so they’re facing each other. “Look Ethan, you said that we needed boundaries, and outside of our kiss at Donahue’s a few months back, I’ve been trying my absolute hardest to be respectful. But now you’re sending me mixed signals. First when we went to stake out your mom a few weeks back, you held my hand the entire way back to Boston. And then you kissed me the other day, a few times. Now I’m at your apartment again. I need to know what we’re doing, because you’re blurring the lines.”

Ethan sighs. He feels like a selfish asshole, jerking her around like this. “Look, Naomi, I thought our relationship was going to be that of a mentor and mentee–and it is, but it’s become so much more than that. You are one of the most important people in my life. You are the one person I want to turn to when things feel crazy, whether it’s about work or my personal life.”

“And…?”

“I’m getting there, Rookie,” Ethan chuckles softly, and her stomach flips at her old nickname. “Look, all my life, I’ve only ever viewed things in black and white, and it was easy for me. But you came barreling into my life, and not only can I see shades of grey, but I see the entire color spectrum. You push me, you challenge me, you drive me absolutely insane.” Naomi laughs. “But it’s becoming increasingly harder to respect my self-imposed boundaries when it comes to you.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I think it’s time I stop trying to hold myself back when it comes to you.”

Naomi’s too afraid to move. To breathe, even. What if this is some sort of dream? She’s going to wake up soon, in her own bedroom, alone, disappointed and full of self loathing. “So, what? Do you want to give us a try?”

“Yes, I want to give us a try. That is, if you still want to give me a chance. I know I probably don’t deserve one.”

Hearing those words is akin to a dam breaking inside of her. The air leaves her lungs all at once and her vision goes blurry with unshed tears.

Crying wasn’t the reaction he thought he was going to get from her. Ethan reaches out, gently swiping the pad of his thumb underneath her eye. “Naomi, what–”

She cuts him off, grabbing his face with both hands, crashing their lips together. He barely has time to toss his plate onto the table before she’s clamoring into his lap, straddling him.

This kiss feels so much like the one they shared a few nights ago. It’s frenzied, desperate, and filled with longing, but there’s an undercurrent of something else, something they haven’t felt before. Relief. Lightness.

Ethan’s tongue presses against her lips, silently asking for permission to deepen things. Naomi responds, opening her mouth to grant him entrance.

She clings to him, grabbing all that her hands can. His shoulders, his neck, his soft t-shirt. She needs some sort of permanence to ground her to the moment and let her know that this isn’t a dream. It’s real.

Ethan’s hands move from her hips, aiming higher until they’re under her sweater. His fingers burn, and he’s not sure if his brain is playing tricks on him because he’s consumed quite a few glasses of wine, or if the feel of her skin has that effect on him. Whatever the case, he welcomes the white-hot sensation, greedily searching for more surface area. Finally he settles on her back, his hands running around her spine, making her shudder.

They only pull apart because the need to breathe is much stronger than their desire to stay joined. But it doesn’t last long, as Naomi quickly kisses him again.

“I’ve missed you,” she confesses when she pulls away. Ethan notes the vulnerability in her eyes as she comes to rest her forehead against his. “I’ve missed this.”

“I’ve missed you too. You have no idea how much.”

She bites her lip in contemplation and Ethan swears it might be his favorite sight. “Please tell me this is real. Tell me you won’t wake up tomorrow and change your mind.”

Reluctantly, his hands drop from the small of her back. He uses one to tilt her chin up, forcing eye contact between the two. “I’m not going anywhere, Naomi.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

They kiss again, a softness filling them this time around. Her fingers pull at the hem of his shirt, tugging it, urging him to remove the piece of fabric.

“Naomi, stop,” Ethan orders gently. 

She breaks the kiss, confused. “What?”

“We need to stop,” Ethan pants heavily. His heart is beating erratically against his rib cage, and if she keeps kissing him like this, and touching him like this, he’s going to lose all of his will.

“What’s wrong?”

“If we don’t stop now, I won’t be able to stop myself from escalating this and taking you into my bedroom.”

Naomi shivers against him. “Is that a promise?”

“You have no idea. But I want us to take this slow. I want to do this right.”

“Oh yeah?” He can tell by the twinkle in her eye that she’s going to tease me. “Are you going to court me, old man?”

Ethan wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She groans at the contact. “Call me old one more time, Rookie.”

Naomi is never one to back down from a challenge, but she doesn’t want to take things further knowing he wants to move slowly. “I think it’s sweet.”

“I just really don’t want to mess things up with you.”

“I don’t want to either.”

Naomi moves off of his lap, creating some distance. She smooths out her sweater, which is currently twisted around her midsection. 

She checks the time on her watch. “It’s getting late, I think I should go.”

“You don’t have to leave.”

“I know, but I think it’d be better for both of us if we ended things here. I don’t want to test your restraint any more.”

“Thank you. Do you need me to take you home?”

“I’ll call an Uber.”

“I’ll walk you out.”

Naomi quickly calls for a car using the app. They find their shoes, enjoying the comfort of each other’s presence. They hold hands the entire way down, sharing shy smiles and glances.

The air between the two of them feels so different now. Like a weight has been lifted off of both their shoulders, they revel in the newfound lightness and change in their relationship.

They stand in front of his apartment complex as they wait for her ride to arrive, their hands still joined together. It’s late at night, but the city is still lit up, and all of the lights reflect off of Naomi as she stares at her surroundings. Ethan clears his throat, gaining her attention.

“So I was thinking, how about we go out this weekend,” he suggests. “There’s a new exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts.”

“We agreed to date a few short minutes ago, and you already have a date planned.”

Ethan shrugs. “Well, I’ve had this evening planned out for the past 48 hours.”

Naomi smirks at him. “And you were just so sure I would say yes to you?”

“Call it a hunch.”

A car matching the description of Naomi’s rideshare pulls up along the curb. “This is my ride.”

Before she can open the car door, Ethan yanks her hand and spins her around. He kisses her again, his warm hand cupping her jaw. He pulls away quickly, leaving her breathless. “One more for the road. Call me when you get home, okay.”

“Of course.” Naomi smiles. “See you tomorrow, Ethan.”

“Goodnight, Naomi.”

She enters the car and Ethan watches as it drives off. He stands on the sidewalk for a long time after she’s gone, as if he’s still in a daze. The entire night feels surreal, and he almost can’t believe things worked out the way they did.

He knows one thing for sure: he’ll be forever grateful for his ability to cook.

[historytaker]

He knew he was dying. He gave us a farewell as only he could – manic, sardonic, tip-toeing on the periphery of the numinous.  Yet, David Bowie bowed out with Lazarus. It was, as only these 4 short years later, a powerfully humbling take on a life taking account of itself.

           I resented that he died. “The gall,” I’d half mutter with exhaustion to myself. “To go off and die when the world needed his thoughts the most.” The starman took off, nonetheless and the world did continue—a little less. But for my money, anybody who had a bit of Bush-era angst and a penchant for subversive scream matches with music knew they still had Chris Cornell to turn to. And that was very much me.

           In fact, the love affair I cultivated with the Audioslave front-man began in earnest when I was a moody teenager on the back of beyond Missouri. What did I even begin to know of the deep, deep text Cornell was singing about? Not much. But everything struck a chord. I loved his voice. He carried the whine of a trained vocalist recovering from too many cigarettes and nights prolonging themselves from the pull of hard liquor. He managed to be at the top of his craft despite the negligent behavior. I loved the wind tossed black locks of hair and how they fell so defiantly to either side of his temples. Men in those days still very much catered to a tighter look. Not Chris. He defied and made it look sexy. I enjoyed seeing his pouty lips crested by the careless growth of chin strap beard. His eyes bore through any picture of him I ever saw. I suppose buried beneath the incredible vocals, fallen-angel looks and guitar riffs were years of layered pain. But artist carry pain for a living. He simply did something with it.  The very first moment I heard Chris Cornell, he was singing that mystical song constructed with the discarded boards of symbolism, “Like A Stone.”

           As so often is the case with love at first octave—I had to hear more. Fortunately for me, at 14, I had boon companions that were persuaded in the aesthetic of Audioslave like me. My best friend certainly appreciated the first Audioslave album. In fact, our high school years could be characterized by a joint disdain in George W. Bush being president, rural life cultural indifference, and Cornell’s work to anthem us between milestones. Among our group, I was the first to get a job. And who was there to give the newest take on managing school life, puberty, and work? Chris of course. “Be Yourself,”  or “Yesterday to Tomorrow,” “Doesn’t Remind Me,” were all standout songs in the band’s newest album  Out of Exile. Many of the songs on that album could just as easily have described our murky take on this time. And no good high school experience could be complete without long drives at night—preferably a Friday—jamming to the plethora of songs in the cd holder. True to form, there was Chris Cornell telling us what he knew about grief.  Naturally we would slide back and forth between the newest album and the older original. In fact, by the close of sophomore year, I recall distinctly the stuffy humid Missouri early summer working as a veil. Outside, filled with the determination of conquering our minor life major goals, “I Am the Highway” playing low in the background while our group discussed the lovelorn musings of feminine mysteries. None of which mattered to me, I was with the guys I liked. But it mattered to them, so I suppose it mattered to me on second thought.

           2005 produced a lot to be upset and genuinely angry about though. The war on terror was only reported as an aimless mission between ill-defined moving targets. As far as my young self was concerned, Bush – who should not have won—did win and proceeded with the war effort. More Americans were dying and being sent to overwhelm the region. I was inching closer to 18 and not at all ready to be a part of that mess. I saw what cultural conservatism did when it married itself to neo-conservatism—nothing worth being an advocate for. As a closeted gay youth, it was nationwide rejection and state constitutional amendments confirming the position.  Worse still, hurricane Katrina decimated New Orleans. For the first time in my life, I saw what racism and failure looked like in one catastrophic moment.  Once again – as so many times before in high school, Chris Cornell was there to put that anger, anxiety, disappointment, righteous indignation to words. “Wide Awake,” called out the failings of the Bush administration. He called out in no uncertain terms just what was going on, and nobody was blind to the motivations of our president.  The album featuring this song, Revelations, was that last time the band would produce anything together. The timing was almost fortuitous because within because our time in high school was nearly finished. But first….

           Chris Cornell returned to a solo career for a while. His celebrity has risen dramatically in the years since being part of Audioslave. In many ways, he was taken more seriously as an artist since his early days in the grunge scene with Soundgarden in the early 90’s. For me, 2007 might as well ought to have been the apogee of his prominence in my heart and life. I was staring at a senior year that was about to begin in the quick few months that separated it from May. Cornell released Carry On that month. His songs were less invective and were touching on something more ephemeral – fleeting love. In love with my best friend, closeted, yet joined by a shared enthusiasm for life and this incredible artist; it had a poetic way of playing itself out.  

           Throughout that senior year, with Chris Cornell’s newest album and everyone of his Audioslave cd’s, we enjoyed his music in abundance. From lung-filled burst of matching pitches, attempting to mirror Cornell, to inventive recreations of his songs in our mundane daily observations, my friend and I enjoyed his music obsessively. With that year came the definitive conclusion—a farewell—to the structured preparedness of oblivious youthful musings; and in that sense, enjoying music superficially. Over that summer, my friend burned a cd that was of Chris Cornell’s first attempt at a solo career—Euphoria Morning. The power, pain, and pros he employed in that cd was much of the same that I would later associate Chris Cornell with. This genre of fusions between genres pulling from rock and blues was astounding. He laments that at 24 that he knows he has everything to live for but this love was not meant to be. It just as well may have been a song aimed at me in my comeuppance. My freshman year in college was an important one. I came out. Additionally, by the end of it, I had finally fallen in love in a way I could accept. But I also drifted from my high school friends. Cornell’s music just could not hit the same—not then, without my best friend to explore its meaning with.

           As it were, I grew beyond his music or my fervor for it anyhow. I never tuned him out. In fact, I did enjoy anything he lent his talents to. But the music just could not hit the same with the estrangement from friends, and the budding introduction to successful attempts at failed love.  In many ways then, my observation and enjoyment of Chris Cornell’s work was largely passive—never fully immersing myself so completely as I did as a zealous teenager. Nevertheless, I recall distinctly the feeling in my gut—being bereft of words and filled with despair in hearing of Chris Cornell’s death. In many ways, all those high school days and summer nights, all those drunken nights in college sleeping with headphones on and drifting in and out of sleep with Chris playing in my ear, comparing my heart’s desires with his wise songs all collided in this ebullition before bursting in what amounted to a inhaled sob.

           I was stunned. Stunned because his death was more than a celebrity death, but also a reconciliation with life having moved on for me so much. After that introspection I then looked into what happened, and the general consensus is that Chris Cornell had been depressed for a long time. He ended his own life. And immediately all of those songs, defying himself, or his lover, were also proclamations against this pain that he carried so completely for so long. He clearly felt things deeply in a way that so many of us could never understand. Surely his joys were a high that could not be comprehended, but I imagine if Hell exists, he dwelt there many times; always climbing out from it, and often with a new message to give us.

           I could not listen to his music for months after he died. It hurt too much. I could not enjoy his gifts to the world or particular contribution to my life while knowing he was gone. Slowly, incredibly slowly, his music crept back in to my occasional listening. This would generally be my new relationship to his music; Always reminded with each passing song as it randomly played on my phone that Chris Cornell was gone.  Then, suddenly, like a grasp at the heart from somewhere beyond—I stumbled on his song “Misery Chain.” Then, years after the passing of the poor man, then I felt the gravitational pull of his heart. The pain, the truth, the baring of his soul is plainly displayed in his song. Nothing unique to him, but the missing piece was the tragedy in knowing how it all ends. Each whine, each extra effort in carrying the note—pushing himself ever forward despite the futility of the exercise, is underscored in knowing in a few short years he would commit suicide. He snubs that misery he knows so well, but we know it was never far away.

           I could not say goodbye. I was not ready. He teaches still, even now from beyond. What he gifted the world in music and honesty, I can only assess through my own life. I lament that his brilliance is bookended by infinity. But I am glad that someone who knew how to share their heart ever existed at all. Indeed he felt, and I felt with him.  I know that now.

[crashdevlin]

Keeper of the Stars-3: Heart

Author’s Note:  A multi-part sequel to Some of This Isn’t Bad

Summary: Y/n was a fan of the Supernatural book series who wrote fanfics and attended the conventions. After meeting the boys through Becky, she stopped being a fan and became a hunter. When she shows up at a hunter wake, she doesn’t expect the Winchesters to remember her, and doesn’t expect the argument that breaks out between her and Dean.

Pairing(s): Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2944

Story Warnings: 18+ HERE BE SEX, DO NOT READ IF YOU’RE A YOUNG’UN!, fingering, oral (male and fem rec), protected sex

Chapter Warnings: the slightest amount of angst

By the time you pulled into the 'Stay Inn Motel', your CD changer had made its way around to your Zeppelin 'Best Of' disc, which Dean had flipped to hear. You parked next to the Impala and Sam greeted you as Dean popped your trunk. "Hey, Sammy. You remember y/n?"

"Yeah, of course. It's good to have another set of eyes on this."

"Oh, I'm just here to shoot stuff." You pulled your duffel from the trunk and headed for the office, where you secured room with a single full bed. You dropped your bag in your room and headed for the room Sam exited before. Dean answered, midway through buttoning his white shirt.

"Another body dropped last night. Sam hasn't hit the morgue yet. Wanna come with?"

You nodded. "Yeah. Gimme fifteen," you said, retreating for your room. Twenty minutes later, you were leaving your room, while pulling your hair up into a ponytail.

"Damn, those extra five minutes are magic, huh?"

You rolled your eyes at Dean and straightened your suit jacket. "It's Agent y/n Collins, by the way. So you don't fumble on what to call me." You pulled open the back door of the Impala and slid in. "What are you guys going with? Plant and Jagger? Bowie and Pert? Criss and Simmons?"

"Nobody wants to be Peter Criss," Dean answered.

"Young and Gibbons," Sam said, sliding into the car.

"Which is which? I don't want to get confused."

"You really do hunt solo most of the time. I'm Gibbons." Dean started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

"It's a lot easier to just have to keep track of my own fake shit."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Well, it seems I miscalculated the time of death on Mr. Dylan. Sheriff Strucker found out the power went out in Dylan's house the night he died. It was back on by the time we got there, but there were several hours of him bakin' in his foyer before the Central Air came back on. He was attacked at night, I think." The M.E. nodded at them as the three of you walked in.

"That changes things," you whispered. They'd assumed skinwalker because the kill was a day kill. Now, it might've been a werewolf.

"Agents. Fancy seein' you in Burkhardt," a cheerful voice with a Minnesotan accent said. A blond woman entered the morgue, a large travel mug of coffee in her hand.

You smiled. "Sheriff Hanscum. If I'm not mistaken, Stillwater's about 50 miles Northwest."

"Y/n! Sweetie-pie, what are you doin' with Sam and Dean-o?"

"Giving new partners a shot," you answered, wrapping an arm around the woman.

"You know Donna, too?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, yah. We met at a party at Jodio's place about six months ago," Donna answered.

"It was less a party and more the three of us having beers and plinking cans in Jody's backyard."

"It was a lot of fun. Y/n provided drinks, Jody brought the guns and ammo and I made cheesecake."

"Oh, my God, that cheesecake was so good," you gushed.

"I'll let you in on a secret: it's from a box," she whispered, loudly.

"No."

"Yep. Didn't have time to make it from scratch, but I didn't wanna show up without something sweet to munch on, so I hit the supermarket and grabbed a box a' no-bake."

"It's like Martha Stewart and Rachel Ray with guns," Sam whispered.

"Long as I'm not Rachel. Can't stand her," you said, pulling away from the sheriff.

"I like Rachel Ray. She's spunky." Dean smirked. "Seriously, Donna, this isn't your jurisdiction."

"Oh, no, but yer second body, Dave Smythers, I knew him. We went to high school together."

"Well, we were about to check his body out. Why don't you and y/n go check out the scene?" Sam suggested.

"That's a great idea, Sam. Call when you get done here. Let's go, Don. You got your squad car out front?" You headed for the parking lot and Dean was not subtle about checking your ass out as you left.

"Oh, yah. Right out here." You slid into the partner's side of the car and she smiled over at you. "So, did'ya meet them on a hunt or did Jody introduce ya?"

"I, uh, actually met them before I met Jody."

"Oh, did'ya?"

"Yeah. It's a long story."

"Yeah?" She pulled out onto the main road. "So, which one was it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Which one of those boys burned ya?" You looked over at her in surprise. "Betcha it was Dean, huh? I saw how he was lookin' at'cha."

"Donna. Come on." You sighed, running your hand across your forehead.

"Oh, you come on. I may not be some big bad hunter, but I got eyes and a head on my shoulders... you've done the horizontal Mambo with one of those guys and I'm pretty sure it's the bowlegged one." You bit your lip and looked away from her. "It was, wasn't it?! So, what was that like?"

"Are you seriously asking me what sex with Dean is like?"

"Yah! I've been wonderin' since he walked into my station. Man looks like that, but still managed to put down three powdered sugar doughnuts... If I weren't so sure I wasn't his type, and if I weren't so hung up on Doug, I would've tried him myself. So?"

"I was certain that I wasn't his type, too, but Dean doesn't seem to have a type. Not for one night stands, anyway." You turned back to her a bit. "I wasn't his type back then, not really. I'd never fired a gun or anything. Never done anything risky or dangerous. I was... not the type of woman who went to bed with strangers, definitely not the type to dig up a body and light it on fire. When I met the Winchesters, I was the kind of woman who wrote about other people getting to do crazy, dangerous stuff, but wouldn't even ride a bike without a helmet on."

"Helmet laws exist for a reason, ya know?"

"Yeah, but helmet laws aren't something hunters concern themselves with, Donna. Like concealed carry laws and federal impersonation regs. My point is that I was a pretty timid woman until I met them."

"An' how'd they change that?"

"Uh, Dean told me the truth about everything, all the horror movie stuff that's real and... then he took me to bed. He, uh, gave me his phone number before he left and told me to call and I only waited a couple days before I called." You clicked your tongue against your teeth. "I got his voicemail. So, I waited a couple days and tried again. I tried for months, putting more and more time between calls, less emotion in each message. During that time, I started teaching myself self-defense stuff. I bought a gun, took some martial arts classes at the rec center and started reading up on any lore I could. I started noticing weird shit in the newspapers and reporting it to him so he could go check it out. I still got nothing. Eventually, I realized that I was absolutely not going to get a call back, so I got in my car and headed out to Oklahoma to check out a case on my own. When I got there, the boys were already there. So, I stopped calling."

You chuckled. "And I started doing it, myself. If Dean had answered the phone once, I probably wouldn't be a hunter."

"Wow. So, he was good enough that you kept callin'?"

You laughed. "Really, Donna? I bare my soul to you about my damn past and you want to know about the sex?"

"Of course, I do! Come on, give mama the deets!"

You rolled your eyes, playfully. "Best I ever had, but if you repeat that to him, I'll deny it."

You pulled into the driveway of the second victim's house and headed in. The living room was destroyed, claw marks embedded deep into the wood floors and paneling. "So, what are you an' the boys thinkin' on this?" Donna asked, running a pen through the gash on the TV console.

"They were thinking skinwalker, which is like a... an off-shoot of werewolf, but not... skinwalkers are always born skinwalkers. It's not contagious. But this?" You indicated the largest claw mark. "This is a wolf. This feral lack of control... skinwalkers don't get that."

"Really? You done a lot of werewolf hunts?" Donna asked.

"No, but I've read 'Heart' a dozen times." You stepped over a puddle of blood to check the bedroom.

"What's that?" Donna followed.

"It's..." You stopped in the doorway and looked at her. "It's just a novel I used to like. Werewolf romance... sadness."

"Oh, like 'Twilight'?"

You grimaced at the comparison. "No. The werewolf was a woman in this."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. See, her neighbor was obsessed with her and he was a wolf. When his moon came up, his animal brain ran with the obsession, tracked her and got his teeth in her so that they'd be the same. She didn't even know it was her when the men around her started getting mutilated. The hunters who came for the wolf... one of them fell for the chick before realizing what she was."

"How'd that end?"

You turned back toward the bedroom, which showed signs of a struggle, but no blood. "It ended in tears. How else?"

"Well, how sad was it?"

"Madison ended up with a silver bullet in her heart and the protagonist ended up with a metaphorical hole in his."

"He killed her? It wasn't her fault!"

"She asked him to. Didn't want to kill people every month." You turned back to her, shrugging at her upset expression. "Told you it was sad."

"So..." Donna picked up a picture from Dave's side table. "You bein' here, with Dean, what's that about?"

"It's... working towards forgiveness. He had his reasons for ghosting me, and it made me become... well, it changed my life, that's for sure."

"So, you think you're gonna..." She left the end of the sentence up in the air, but you knew what she meant.

"Probably. We're kinda perfect for each other," you admitted, picking up a brush from the en suite bathroom counter. "But I'm not gonna make it easy for him."

"Well, I'm jealous, but yer right ah course. You two look cute together."

"You don't know that. You've only seen us together at the morgue and we weren't much about the PDA there."

"Yah, but I saw how he looked at'cha. He's got it bad, ya know."

"Yeah, he ain't the only one," you responded. "But I can't just... I'm not gonna be weak just 'cause it's easiest."

"But... he's so..."

"He's amazing, I'm not arguing that, but he left me hanging. I can't- It's complicated, Donna," you finished as your phone went off in your pocket. You pulled it out and answered it. "Yeah, Dean?"

"Find anything at the house?"

"Claw marks. Pretty sure it's a werewolf."

"Yeah, we're thinkin' the same. Anything point in a direction to start looking for our wolf?"

"No. Just a lot of blood and gashes in the wood. Wanna head back to the motel? Donna and I could hit the hospital and see if anybody's come in with a bite wound in the last month or so."

"Nah, Sammy's got a rapport with the lady doc down at the ED, so he's droppin' me off at the motel so I can make more silver bullets. You and Donna done at the scene? You coming back?"

You sighed. "Yeah. Donna's gonna drop me off."

"Good. See you in a few."

You turned to Donna as you shoved your phone back into your pocket. "Silver bullet duty. Gonna stick around to help?"

Donna sighed, shaking her head at you. "Nah. I think you an' Dean need some alone time."

"Thanks, Don. That's exactly what I wanted you to say," you responded, sarcastically.

"Oh, you know me, sweetie. Always here to help."

~~~~

You sat at the table in Sam and Dean's motel room, melting silver jewelry down with a blowtorch. Dean kept looking over at you between gluing the tips in place. "What, Winchester? What's with the look?"

"What look?"

"The look! Like you think I'm gonna spill molten silver on myself, or something."

"That's not the look." He chuckled. "Sweetheart, the look I'm giving you is... I have known a lot of hunters and a handful of badass women, but not a single one of them could pull off the welding gloves and mask the way you are."

"Oh, so this is more of that predatory sexuality shit."

"If I'm the predator, does that mean you're my prey?"

"Maybe four years ago. But not today."

"You're gonna make this hard on me, aren't you?"

"Why should I make it easy? I was... this is not what I signed up for when I decided to become a hunter. God and destiny and..."

"Soulmates?" he asked, standing as you turned the blowtorch off.

"Don't even say that, man! 'Soulmates'? You know how ridiculous-" You flipped the mask up so you could glare at him.

"Chuck made you into my perfect woman! He picked you and wrote your story to put us in this exact position, and you're getting hung up on my terminology? You got a problem with destiny, I get that. It's bullshit to think this was written years ago and, hey, God has left the planet, so if you wanna go your own way... the door is right there." He pointed at the door and shook his head. "But I don't think you want that. I sure as hell don't. I've been searching for a woman like you since before I knew I was looking for anything."

"You barely know me!" You set the crucible carefully on a heat-resistant pad and pulled the gloves off. "I know all about you and all you know about me is that I used to write some good smut!"

"I know you're beautiful and smart and badass. I know you're caring and take risks and you picked up hunting in no time and have risen up to epic status in just a few years. I know you're amazing in bed and I've actually dreamed of the way you screamed for me." You looked away, embarrassed of the way your cheeks heated up at the reminder. "You deserve better than me, but that doesn't change how much I want you, how right it feels to want you."

"Don't say that," you whispered.

"What?"

"That I deserve better than you." You pulled the mask off and tossed it on the empty chair on the opposite side of the table. "I don't. How could I possibly deserve better than Dean Winchester, the man who saves the world?"

"You mean, Dean Winchester the man who popped the first lock on Lucifer's Cage? Who's started as many apocalypses as he's helped end? Who has had to watch everyone around him die, some people more than once?"

"Are you stupid? That just means you deserve me, not that I deserve better than you!"

"Then why are you making this so difficult, y/n?!"

"Because it's too easy for me to fall in love with you!" His eyebrows came together as you ran your hand through your hair, anxiously. "And if I fall for you, Dean, and you... you push me away like you are so good at doing, then I... I'll be... ruined."

He pulled your hands into his. "I'm not gonna push you away, sweetheart."

"You can't say that. You can't!" you urged. "You think you get people killed. You think you're gonna get me killed and, eventually, that's gonna make you push me away. Just like before, except this time it's not gonna be you not answering your phone, it's gonna be you sending me away. It's gonna be you putting me out into the world, knowing what it's like to love you and not being able to have it and that's not fair, Dean, it's not fair to-"

"Y/n, shut up!" His eyes were amused as he pulled you closer to him. "I will not push you away. I won't push you away because you won't let me. That's how Chuck wrote you." He slid his hands up your arms to rest on your shoulders. "Stubborn, smart, risk-taker who recognizes my worth. You won't let me get all dark and sad and push you away for your own good, 'cause God didn't write you that way. Right?"

You looked down. "I'm scared, Dean. I've worked hard, I've worked for years to be... and to let myself be vulnerable is-"

"Terrifying. I know." He smiled, softly. "But I know of a real good way to distract ourselves from the fear."

"No." You pulled away.

"Seriously?! I get you to open up and you still say 'no'?"

"I don't screw around when there's a hunt going. It's the 'Friday the Thirteenth' rule."

"Are you kidding?"

"No. It's bad juju. You know it is! Your first werewolf with Sam, he fucked Madison. Boom! Wolf. Oh, and your little Amazon story?"

"Okay, but... we both know that neither of us are the wolf."

"Bad juju, Dean."

He growled and pulled out his phone, putting it to his ear as he stepped away from you. "Tell me you've got something useful. Because I'm ready for this hunt to be over, dude, don't ask questions."

You laughed as you sat down at the table and started to move on with the silver bullets.

KITCHEN SINK TAGS @heyitscam99 @wonderlandfandomkingdom @unlikelysamwinchesteronahunt @mrs-meghan-winchester @henrymorganme @lonely-skys @allykat2108 @mogaruke @flamencodiva @team-free-will-you-idjits-67 @pisces-cutie @paintballkid711 @natura1phenomenon @rainbowkisses31 @atc74 @alagalaska

HUNTER TAGS @letsby @mrswhozeewhatsis @adoptdontshoppets @spnskinnyballs @deansenwackles @gayspacenerd @thewhiterabbit42 @dolphincliffs

GAGA FOR GREEN EYES TAGS @akshi8278

[readablenoise]

Flowers, Fabric and The Brutal Nature of the Florida Scene- An Interview with Donzii

The Miami band discuss their inspirations, a frank, honest and necessary discussion of the South Florida music scene, and saving a Cure CD.

Miami- The building is actually humming.

Tucked in a discreet part of Downtown Miami, amidst the shadows of reflective buildings that mirror and intimidate the sky itself, the 777 International Mall is unlike anything the city, and perhaps the state, has ever built. What was once a strip mall has now become a hive for artists. Clear and spray painted black windows of the individual “booths” give a brief and captivating look into each individual process. On the bottom level, there is a bookstore, a DJ spinning records at the very edge where the ghost of what a small convenience desk might have been and a band, banging on an 808 pad and various drumheads, wrapped in green screen fabric as a cameraman films it an projects what can only be described as the type of strange, hypnotic and bizzare films you might see on adult swim at 4 in the morning on a Sunday night.

And it’s truly incredible. Reimagined and refurnished into the unexpected, it provides a home for artists, bands and people who want to immerse themselves into it.

(Photo: Jenelle DeGuzman)

It’s here that we find Jenna Balfe and Dennis Fuller of Miami post-punk group Donzii currently inhabiting, expressing themselves in the best ways possible.

With an onstage prescence and performance within the group that commands the attention of all those in radius, they also possess an energy that feels as if it were taken directly, with permission from the late 70′s. From Balfe’s Poly Styrene-esque vocals to the general feeling of community the band generate, it is something hypnotic. The world feels in muted colors or just pure black and white as you can almost smell the sweat, leather and pure electrical buzz that came from the heels of performances from those bands such as David Bowie, The Runaways, Joy Division and more.

And perhaps, most intriguing of all, is that the band do not have a clear cut sound. It is something powerful, something fierce, potent and exciting but it doesn’t necessarily exist in the realms of what has already been. It is an edge shaped by experience, hope and most of all, the promise of something better. That dreams can be achieved, from the smallest of towns, to the biggest of cities. All you need is a little faith, a little angst, and a pinch of punk.

I just want to say, the energy you guys have live, is incredible.

Jenna Balfe- Thank You! We’re having fun with it and I think that’s the main thing for us.

You’re one of the only bands that are bringing post-punk back in a good way, and it’s serendipitous because today is actually the 39th anniversary of Ian Curtis, from Joy Division’s passing.

Jenna- That’s crazy.

Are there any local acts, or even international that you guys look up to in the genre?

Jenna- There’s so many bands. I like Section 25 a lot. I really like Lizzie Mercier, and she’s more on the no-wave type of vibe but there’s elements of post-punk. What else do we like, Denny?

Dennis Fuller- Locally, there’s a few interesting emerging artists. I think Ghostflower is very interesting with their kraut-rock kind of style. There’s a band from New York-we used to live in New York; Donzii actually started in Brooklyn. I was playing drums in a band called On Oui, which has since dissolved, but after that project, myself, the singer and the bass player, and Jenna, we were throwing around ideas for about a year and a half. None of those things really materialized into a band because we moved back to Miami but the seeds were planted for Donzii to kind of go on this path, this style of music. The band that I was getting to (laughs) was The Wants, and they’re from there. They’re very similar to us because we started diverging from what we were doing, that style and being influenced by that New York city style life: very stressful, and hectic and cool…

Jenna- Too cool!

Dennis- Yeah, too cool. That’s another reason we moved back here, because they’re there still being cool and we’re….

Jenna- Not. Not cool. (laughs)

 Cool is a construct though, you’re only as cool as you think you are, and you guys are doing a great job of keeping that level of confident cool.

Dennis- Thank You. And, I have depression and I don’t think I’m that cool. You know what I mean? I’m just there, constantly kind of like ‘what the fuck? I’m not doing the right thing…” There’s a lot of stuff that we think of as influences, apart from music. And a lot of that has to do with the state of political climate, our own mental states.

Jenna- It’s kind of an environmental thing.

 And being from New York, how has that influenced the way you play? Though Miami is still a large city, you turn the corner in New York and there’s always a venue. Down here, it’s becoming scarcer and scarcer for bands, and fans, to find a place to play. Has that inspired you to try harder, to get that music out more?

Jenna- I feel like because there’s so few places, it’s like it can get old fast. I feel like both for audiences and bands, because you play the same places over and over again. So for us, it’s motivated us to get our music out of Miami more. Because we’ve done the circuits, it’s a cool community and we’re grateful people want us to play, but (the Miami scene) has just become so saturated. So we’re focusing on getting some tours out Miami, up Florida. We want to do an L.A. EP release, our EP is months away. It’s recorded, we’re working on the album art and it just needs to be pressed. So we’re super close to that and we wanna hit the road!

 And do you have a name for the record?

Dennis- (jokingly) EP 2.

(Photo: Jenelle DeGuzman)

When I saw first saw you guys perform at iii Points, which is the definition of Miami, in a way. You have indulgence, you have emerging bands; you have the arts in one corner, something for the music lover in another, so there’s something for everyone. How did it feel to perform there, alongside all these major and more localized acts?

Dennis- I was definitely an honor to be asked to play there. We felt very fortunate and taken care of.

Jenna- I felt stoked to be playing before John Maus. Like, for me, when they first told us the line-up, I was like, “Oh, I guess it’s just the only time left.”  But eventually, I owned up to how awesome this was and realized that these time slots are strategic! Festivals are competitive, strategic environments. So eventually, I owned up to the fact that no, this isn’t a fucking accident, this is an honor! They’re saying that ‘You guys are a good fit here, you’re a relatable act’. And for me that was like…because I fucking love John Maus, I look up to him, like, awkwardly.

Dennis- I feel like the festival listens to the feedback, like what the audience says, and follows that advice. It felt like it flowed really nicely. It was a warm experience…like feng shui. *laughs* My other favorite part of it, besides the music was our friend had a stand called the Little Spati. It was a little shop that our friend Tara Long set up and it was such a nice little place so… go Tara *laughs*

 What would be one thing you wish you could take from New York to Miami, in an artistic sense? Because artists and people compare major cities, they can never really describe what the other lacks, or what could improve the scene they are in. Because the South Florida scene does need a lot of improvement.

Jenna- For me, I think it would be the…level of commitment. I feel like here, the commitment is very wavering, you know? There, it’s competitive to get someone’s commitment, whether it’s a friendship, an artistic relationship, but once it happens, you know it’s going to be there, it’s solid. Whereas here, it feels very “I’m not sure”. I feel like, where’s my real team in this?

Dennis- The level of commitment, not in the sense of commitment of art, in a way. There are committed people in South Florida, there are certainly people that really do support the scene and keep the scene alive. But I think in general, the commitment to…(pauses) dedication to the craft. But other than that, everyone down here is really sweet, and means well.

 And that’s what makes me curious, because you have that outside perspective. Being in this scene, involved in it, the artists I’ve spoken with know the issues: that it’s both open and closed off, everyone wants to be part of something they want to lock into and they can’t. It’s frustrating, you can feel that and it’s hard.

Jenna- It feels like…it’s weird, I think about- and it might seem like I’m going on a tangent but I’m not- I feel like, before Instagram was something I really gave a shit about, I felt like I was a likable sort of person!  I like people, they like me. And when I became more into this band, into my art projects, I had to be more on Instagram, because I had to promote myself, I have to promote my band. And then, I started noticing things. Like, certain people unfollowing me, or just these things that felt like shade and I’m like “People don’t like me? People don’t like me.” and you start to wonder what is real, especially within that. And I feel like, as an artist in the scene this kind of contention, and it’s always there. We’re all competing in a way, but it just feels like people are really quick to be like “Ah, fuck them.” And I feel it, and I don’t like it.

 And it goes back to something I touched on with another band, where it’s that feeling of almost being from a small town; it’s competitive, and it’s fierce and it’s frustrating because all of you screaming at something but no one wants to care about everyone else screaming. There is a feeling of distrust amongst local artists sometimes and it’s difficult. In New York for example, I feel the difference is yes, everyone’s competitive but everyone’s there to listen. You have management, record labels, promoters, all eager to do their jobs

Dennis- New York itself is almost considered like some kind of pedigree. Since the time of the 70’s and CBGB’s, bands from New York is a thing. It’s almost like a university for independent bands. If you’re an independent band and you’re from New York, people are going to listen to you because you’re from New York. Whereas if you’re from pretty much anywhere else…the feeling from most people is “who cares?”.

And I don’t know if that should be true. I do think if a group is from New York, then there’s definitely something to be said for that because to live there is a struggle, and so to pursue any sort of artistry is going to be difficult and it means that you’re obviously very passionate about this, about what you’re doing. And I think that’s a valid statement for everywhere else too. And for Miami, I wish in some way there would be this sort of expectation…Seattle is another place I can think of, that has a very niche sound and that you would expect good things to come from. And, I don’t think people are necessarily on the edge of their seats waiting for the next Miami band to take the world by storm. We don’t have that here, that level of expectation.

And so that’s been kind of difficult. We’ve been playing our asses off here in Miami a lot. And…for someone that gets paranoid very easily, like myself, it just becomes crazy, to keep playing the same places. Even though that’s what The Ramones did and that’s what the Talking Heads did, they played at CBGB’s every week, and they played every night. And the thing is, it’s not the 80’s anymore, not everywhere is like CBGB’s. And for anyone who wants to say “you get better by performing”, I don’t disagree with that. But at the same time, it affects me mentally, and what I think about myself, and what I think about my art. When I play, six shows a month in my hometown, three of them at the same venue, and there’s seven people at the last one, it gets…I’m $50,000 in debt for a music education, and so it really makes me crazy. Paranoid, depressed, whatever you want to call it, it messes with my head. And the times I am happiest, I am playing music, and I’m playing it everyday. I’m presumably, hopefully playing shows every day. Just not at the same venue, and the same city (laughs).

(Photo: James Jackman)

And that’s what I want these conversations to be. To be open, to be frank about what it is for a local artist to perform in this state. And it is brutal and it’s difficult because every time a great venue comes up, like Grand Central for example, it’s replaced by real estate.

Dennis- I’d like to also segue into something else, if I may. Coming from someone that studied music…in the band, there’s two of us that studied music out of five. The way that we started the band was the things that we were taught as strict, we did not want to play upon those things. We wanted to do something different so that the result came out differently. I studied performance percussion, so this was a group where I did not want to do percussion because I wanted to create something that felt authenthic; that was not safe- that was out of my comfort zone creating music, which is behind a drumset. And that goes for everyone in the band, the other member that studied music is a performance bass player; he plays keyboard in the band. And Jenna is really a dancer, and a dance therapist, she has a Master’s Degree in dance therapy, and she’s singing. She’s singing poetry.

Jenna- I have a degree in creative writing too, but I started singing- I was involved in a few projects in my early 20’s but they didn’t really go anywhere. So I started doing other stuff, and then we started dating. …And I actually auditioned for this other band he was in, and I fucking bombed it.

Dennis- She tanked it.

Jenna- I tanked it.

Dennis- I was pretty bad.

Jenna- Like, no one could really look at me after.

Dennis- It’s that thing though being from Miami, where you don’t want to tell your friends that “you’re not very good” so it was very “We’ll see if that works!”

Jenna- I knew it was horrible.

Dennis- It was cool though, it was like “C’mon, let’s go get a drink.” (laughs)

Dennis- But then fast-forward four months, he was in this project and they said “Come on over, just fuck around a bit” it was more calm, and then I found something. Since then, my voice has just been growing. I’ve always wanted to be a singer, so it’s been life-changing. I’ve been discovering new things and I love it.

 And dance and music go hand in hand with each other. As a performance artist, it flows wonderfully. And with your voice Jenna, it’s very Poly Styrene, punk and visceral but not overtly loud.

Dennis- We love X-Ray Spex, by the way. They were one of our original influences when we started the band, it was them and Lizzie Mercier.

Jenna- I think Siouxisie and the Banshees is in there for me, too.

 Jenna, coming from that performance artist and dance background, do you feel that music needs more of that visual art aspect on stage, and not just, like 4 or 5 people being on stage?

Jenna- I do. And that’s kind of been a big contribution from me for this band, I’m always getting everybody to do things out of their comfort zone. I’m like, “wear a costume” and it varies from playing a recorder or we’re gonna dance around and then lift me up and it’s all these weird…

Danny- It takes some convincing of some of the other guys.

Jenna- But then they do it, and they end up having fun! Now, they’re starting to get that it’s a part of having fun, and they’re having fun with it, letting go more. And everyone in our band is very good humoured.

 And there is a lack of visual contribution in music, it isn’t as expected and that’s partly what drew me to you guys in addition to the performance itself, was the things going on in the background, it was immense and wonderful all at once.

Jenna- Oh, we love to ham it up. I’m just a natural born ham. *laughs*

Dennis- If we’re not counting rent, that’s what a lot of our resources go into. Dog leashes, collars…

Jenna- Flowers, fabric…

Dennis- We definitely spend a lot of our resources into making our entrance and the whole performance, something different.

Jenna- I love it.

Dennis- And that’s Jenna bringing that side of things. I sort of start the fire with the music, I come in here and start making music with a drum machine or a bass line. The building blocks of the music are my responsibility, and then we come in here, we collaborate. Jenna’s definitely in charge of that performance side, that recognition, because she is a performance artist.

Jenna- We did co-write a bassline. *smiling*

Dennis- *jokingly* ….Okay, alright.

Jenna- I’m never letting go of that, by the way.  I think it’s special for me because I’m not playing instruments.

Dennis- ….Can I circle back to something regarding venues?

 Of course.

Dennis- One of the issues I’ve found from talking with musicians, young and old, in different cities is that a lot of the times venues in Miami in particular, and probably all over the country- are not really taking care of the artists.

They don’t see the necessity of a live musician. Because right now, we really do live in a world where music is everywhere, at all times; it’s readily available and it’s pretty much expected to be free. Especially if you’re not watching musicians play, if you just wanna listen to it, the expectation is “Why should I have to pay for it? And I don’t disagree with that, I love music and I’m glad I don’t have to put a dollar into the radio everytime I turn it on.

 But at the same time, it would be helpful for a band.

Dennis- Yeah! And I’m talking with other musicians, especially older ones from Miami, and they ask “You guys seem to be doing pretty good, what are you guys getting paid?” And I say, well, maybe $150-$200 for a show. And they kind of look at me like, well “I was in an 8 piece band in the 90’s and we were each getting $200” And it’s funny to me because, there’s got to be more money in the world. The price of things has certainly gone up and yet bands are getting paid like, a fifth of what they were years ago. And  I get it, DJ’ing has become a lot easier with digital technology. You can hire a DJ that doesn’t have to bring 50lbs of records anymore, you can just show up with two USB drives and that’s okay. And they can play that one guy $300 to entertain your clientele. If you want to have a band that plays for an hour, the thinking is now, why not a DJ that can play for six hours?  And I love DJ’s, this isn’t some anti-DJ campaign or diss. We just have to decide how we value music as a society, what we’re willing to pay for art. Art as a lifestyle, is that something we’re willing to contribute towards

And again, this isn’t a diss to the audience either, like a person who just has five bucks in their pocket. I have friends like that, like “The show’s $5 but I don’t even have cash right now” so I know those people too. I’m just speaking in general that venues should really step it up, and respect artists and pay them a livable wage. Especially when (a band) puts years of work and dedication, they invest in a year’s worth of equipment and even that goes back to the idea of people in bands really fine tuning themselves, which I think is something missing from Miami.

If we all critiqued each other in a way that was constructive, and weren’t taking things personally, we could have all these fined tuned bands and acts going on and then there’s no way that venues would be paying us what they are now. They would have to see that we live in a great city, with great talent. And we do.

 Do you feel that it’s easier, or better to play with a small town mentality, or a big city mentality? In the sense of approach?

Jenna- I’m trying to go more bombastic.  I’m trying not to sweat the little stuff as much and, big picture. That’s where I’m trying to be right now. And being from a small town, there’s people that I love but I don’t love their music because it’s not my type of thing. And I love them and I want to support them and my scene but you don’t want to dishonest and I realized recently, I’m not going to think about that anymore, because it was bringing me the fuck down. I just want to focus on being large, dressing crazy, having fun, giving people good energy; being my best self. Because I’m not in this to be a motherfucking “rock star” and all the negative excesses, that’s not me. I’m into nature and nice and kids and…I’m wild! And I just want to think big, like that. I want to get out of here, I want to play bigger shows.

 To reciprocate that energy and to give someone that fire and realization that “I can do this too.”

Jenna- Exactly! “I can do it, I can perform.”

Dennis- It’s very interesting when you play a venue that’s much bigger, than you’re used to? It’s actually easier to perform, and to get-

 Because you have the emotional response?

Dennis- Not only that, you definitely get that emotional response but everything is much more facilitated. If you need something, it’s there for you. Versus, a lot of the times you’re stuggling with sound issues or vibe issues, not enough people or the wrong kind of audience… And then you play these places that you’ve never played before and someone’s there to coordinate, knows what to do and it’s very quick, very easy and it sounds good. You get to focus a lot more. Some of the most stressful shows have been, some of the most smallest. Not even in Donzii, just in every band I’ve played in. There just can be so many external factors going on that don’t let me concentrate on my performance.

 It also attributes to an artist struggle that I think everyone feels, I feel it as a writer. I’ll write six drafts and trash all of them even though someone else is saying that it’s good. As a creator, you only ever hear the fault in the art you did, versus other people just hear the recording or see what you made.

Jenna- It’s true. I’ve been suffering so much creating this new EP. We had a little record party of the test pressing, we didn’t make it a big deal, we’re just like hey, come by if you want to hear it. And I was just suffering the whole time. Everyone’s saying “Wow, I like this!” and I’m just like “I sound too much like a robot.” It’s crazy, it’s so intense.

 With this record, was there any genre or direction you went into that you hadn’t covered before?

Dennis- I’d say the song we’re most excited about, is more of a darkwave track. The tracks we have released are a little bit more new wave/post punk style. They’re kind of edgy, that have that drum machine sound.

Jenna- One of the new tracks is kinda funky, and nothing like we’ve released before.

 Like a tropical, Miami kind of funky?

Dennis- We’re definitely…not tropical. Ever. *laughs* We try to be?

Jenna- I don’t know how to describe it, cause it is funky!

Dennis- Tropi-goth.

 That’s it, you’ve created a new genre!

Dennis- It sounds like if-if you wanna order everything black and brown at Pollo Tropical, get me the “Tropigoth”.

 Just black beans, that’s all it is.

Dennis- Black beans, Coca-Cola-

Jenna- Oh gross, dude!

Dennis- That’s it! Just extra large Coke, extra large rice, extra large beans, that’s the Tropigoth. That’s what you order on a Sunday night, just before the new shipment comes in, it’s all they have left.

 Is there any venue that you’d like to perform at, both in or out of Florida?

Dennis- Respectable Street. Definitely.

 And is there a band you’d like to tour with, or like to collaborate with? If you had the opportunity, if someone gave you a kind of magic pass and said “Okay, you can use this to open for any band on their national touring cycle, who would it be?”

Dennis- You go first.

Jenna- Me?! …..I’d like to open for Geneva Jacuzzi. …John Maus would be cool. Maybe someone like Black Marble…

Dennis- Magazine is another one, that would be great.

Jenna- The Poptone band! That would be awesome!

Dennis-Yeah, definitely. I’d want to make it an interesting pairing, someone that doesn’t sound like us. It would have to be a sort of crossover.

 The Cure did something similar when they came to Florida years back, they had 65daysofstatic open for them and that’s not a band that would immediately come to mind when you think The Cure but it was incredible.

Jenna- The Cure!

 That would work! Robert Smith is a big supporter of new acts.

Jenna- How crazy would that be? That’s like the type of thing I wouldn’t even say because it’s so insane. That would be-

Dennis- That would be a dream.

Jenna- Yeah, that would be like, ultimate dream.

Dennis- ...The last car we had, as it died, we had to sell it for $200 and the last thing I had to get out of it was a Cure CD.

 What album was it?

Dennis- The album was Wish.

 Okay, that’s definitely a sign.

Dennis- I…would quit every job I ever had.

Jenna- Okay! New goal! Opening for The Cure!!

 And to finish it off, I always like to do something with every band. If you could choose one lyric to sum up yourself, what would it be?

Dennis- “Nothing takes the place of you, because time is material”… I think is how it goes?

Jenna- “Nothing takes the place of you, because time is material and I’ve gone through you and back to me.”

Here’s to wishing, wherever you are.

-Jenelle DeGuzman

[iseutz]

Chapter One

The girls all thought that Julian Devorak was a loonie, but also that he was really handsome. That was the exact word; not hot, dreamy or sexy: handsome. He appeared to have the strongest bad boy charm, with his leather boots and auburn hair, and –apparently- a smile so sweet you would have sold your mama to buy him smokes. Despite his glamour, tho, I never met a girl who actually had any first-hand experience of the boy: he was too much, they said, with his coat that looked like a cloak and that pirate eyepatch. The kid tried too hard. And he was a junkie, everybody knew that.

I knew for a fact that he wasn’t, because my best friend was his sister Portia and thanks to her I had a much less romanticized image of him: it’s hard to find intriguing someone when you hear him constantly being referred to as “Dummy” and “Banana boy”. Quite surprisingly, though, I had never seen him. I wasn’t a “going out” girl (we lived too far from the city center) and he was bigger than us, went to med school and wasn’t simply around the time that I was. When I met him, anyway, he managed to make the whole thing unforgettable.

I was fifteen, almost sixteen and in full high school flow: I started my first year as a quiet wallflower, just like I spent the whole secondary school, to avoid bullies. I gave off extraordinary punching ball vibes and the last three years had been nothing short of atrocious, so I was prepared to keep the lowest profile possible at Vesuvia High. But then, something happened; or rather it didn’t: kids acted normally with me. Even the bunch that came from my old school, once in the bigger pond became neutral to me. Everybody was too nervous for the new environment, too eager to get into its game, to care about me. And I cautiously raised my head and started too look around. I allowed myself a personality and, even though I never became popular I escaped the “nerd” label for this time (and I’m talking about the late ‘90s, when nerd wasn’t really in). That’s when I met Portia, in literature class; she was, bluntly speaking, the sole properly alphabetized person in the class, and she enjoyed books, too: we bonded over a copy of Of Love and Other Demons and by the end of the hour we were pretty sure to be soulmates. I spent a lot of afternoon at her place, with the excuse to study, watching videos on Mtv. They still had music videos… good days. In all this, I never ran into Julian; there had been signs of his presence, of course- a door closing when I arrived, music playing from his room, a lot of bands t-shirts drying on the rack in the bathroom, but all in all in all he looked like a guy who liked to guard his personal space, and he kept religiously away from our girl time.

When I finally met him, I was into band t-shirts myself: I was well halfway my second year, and the times were ripe for me to dive headfirst into my rebellious phase: I wore a lot of black kajal, black clothes and leather cuffs, and I tried with every mean to look different and mysterious. It wasn’t a bold choice: grunge was still all the rage and a lot of girls wore torn pants and Dr Martens. I tried to look more on the gothic/punk side, but back then spiked collars and velvet dresses were harder to find than you think, and I didn’t have a lot of money. In the pictures from those years I look decently ridiculous, but I was sixteen and those clothes were my armor.

The t-shirt I was wearing that night sported a full-body Marilyn Manson wearing a guepière and a collection of bleeding cuts. My mother hated it with a passion, and I hadn’t permission to wear it at school, but this evening it boldly adorned my otherwise scrawny chest while me and Portia lounged on the velvet sofa of her living room, listlessly zapping from channel to channel. It had been pouring for hours and I was cringing at the thought of the half-an-hour-by-bike that awaited me on my way home; I had been pushing the thought away hour after hour, delving in a long and detailed discussion concerning the Guns ‘n Roses members and their most probable bedding habits: Portia had a thing for Duff McKagan and the unwritten rule of our friendship was to always enable the other part’s fantasies, especially those about rockstars or fiction characters; we could happily spend hours sorting all the characters from The Lost Boys from best to worst musicians. Today we’d call it headcanoning.

7 PM and I had no more excuses. I sat up, every inch of my body dripping reluctance “Well, I have to go”.

-But it’s raining cats and dogs- Portia looked up from her mandala coloring book. Man, were we into that shit. -I  know, but I have to be home for dinner. I wouldn’t say no to a little flu… maybe I can skip math test tomorrow. -Are you sure?- Portia followed me into the doorway. I smelled the dinner that Mazelinka had already started cooking. Mazelinka was a family friend; Portia called her “aunt”, but she wasn’t a relative, just a friend from Granma Devorak, and when the kids had moved to the city they had come to live with her. Portia and Julian came from Nevivon, and it was common that young people were sent from their families to Vesuvia to attend high school or college. Hopes on education as a gateway for a better future appeared well founded, back then.

Judging from the smell, it was some sort of goulash; I’ve never seen Mazelinka cook anything that wasn’t floating in a pond of soup, but all of her creations were delicious.

-Selendri! Are you staying for dinner?- She shouted at me from the kitchen.

-No, thank you Mazelinka, but I have have to be home for dinner and I have to leave now with the bike.

-Nonsense! It’s raining. Ilya will drive you. ILYAAAAAAAA!- she shouted without awaiting for my answer.

-But… my bike…- I weekly objected while Mazelinka shouted instructions over my voice. An unintelligible grumble came from the other end of the doorway.

-I will bring it to you tomorrow at school- smiled Portia. She walked to school, so it wasn’t a big deal to her. Oh well, my father would have driven me for one day. I moved towards the coat hanger to get my jacket, testing the wall with my hand to find the light switch. When I turned it on, Julian was standing by the coat hanger, froze in a hunched position while he was putting on his cloak, blinking like an owl in the sudden brightness.

He was as tall as the hanger, probably taller, with a wild tuft of hair falling on his right eye. He was wearing his black eyepatch and a pair of bright red tartan pants and home slippers still on. Sid Vicious in soft pants. I smiled awkwardly covering the distance between us. While I played with enthusiasm the role of the entertainer amongst my handful of friends I was still extremely uneased meeting someone for the first time, and spending the long trip home with my best friend’s ill-reputed brother was going to be demanding on me. However, I was also curious of such a subject, and I did want to make a good impression.

He gave me half a smile in response, hopping on a foot as he was putting on one boot. We spent some time in silence as he tied a couple of yards of shoelace up to his calves, then we moved to the kitchen to wave our last goodbyes.

-You never met Ilya before, did you?- asked Mazelinka, pointing at him with a wooden spoon. –Don’t let him scare you just because he’s in a pirate phase.

-See you later, Mazelinka- Julian talked over, and he turned to open the main door. I hurried after him as he went down the outer stairs. Mazelinka’s house was a two-story old house; the proper apartment was at the first floor, while the ground floor was a single room full of tables, old chairs and sofas and an even older kitchen counter covered in mason jars. Mazelinka spent all of her time there, making jam and possibly liquor and going upstairs only to cook and sleep. The house had a private garden-slash-parking lot, I really don’t know how to describe it: there were flower bushes and fruit trees, but it was mainly gravel and the only car of the family – Julian’s car – slept there. It was an old Volvo, the kind with pop-up headlamps, predictably black. We got inside as quickly as possible.

-When she says pirate phase- Julian said abruptly. –She means that I don’t want to wear my prosthetic eye.

I said nothing; it was a debut too personal and couldn’t find a word to say. Julian continued, unfazed by my silence.

-It’s not even correct: I am wearing my prosthetic, even now. I don’t like how it feels without it. But it doesn’t move… well, it does, but it’s never really in sync with the other eye, and it looks weird. I prefer to wear the eyepatch, and if that makes me a pirate, then so be it – he turned to look at me. – I’m telling you because I know what people say and… well, now you know it’s not an act. Spread the word, ok?

-Ok… uhm, wanna know my address?

-It might be useful, thanks.

I explained him how to reach my condo while he fumbled with the CD player and turned on some music. I didn’t know the song, but the singer’s voice sounded familiar, so I ventured a guess:

-Nine Inch Nails?

-Oooh- he grinned. –Glad to know that you’re into some actual music.

-Got a problem with Mr. Manson? – I was ready to fight whoever dissed my beloved reverend. I had a serious crush on the man; I’ve always had a soft spot for lanky guys with big noses.

-Mmmmh. The music itself is not that bad, but he’s… too loud. Too much make up, too much provocative shit. I just don’t buy it.

-Many good artists have flashy looks. Think about Kiss.

-Hah!- a raucous bark of a laughter. – You like Kiss? How old are you?!?

-I’m old enough to appreciate good music, thank you very much. And what about Bowie?

-Are you seriously comparing Marilyn Manson to David Bowie?

He had a point. –No, I guess I’m not.

-You’re forgiven. Want a cigarette?- he fished a packet from the pocket of his coat, squirming in the car seat to get it. He was really, really tall. His legs looked never ending.

-They would smell it at home- I replied unhappily.

-Don’t worry, I have gums. Mazelinka never found out I smoke. Or perhaps she doesn’t care. Here – he moved the packet in my direction and I helped myself. He also tried to light it up for me, but I was sitting on his blind side, so I had to steady his hand in mine to complete the task without accidents. He didn’t seem to notice; his attention was elsewhere.

-Do you hear it too?- He asked.

-Hear what?

-A rattling noise… it comes from your side of the car.

Sure enough, something was rattling and tumbling and it came from under my seat.

-There must be something underneath…- I reached my arm and felt around with my hand. – It’s a beer can. A full one- I announced pulling it out.

-Marvellous! This is a gift from above and we must honor it- his hand extended in my direction and I put the can into his grasp before he grabbed something else by mistake. He opened it with a hand, keeping it beneath his thighs, and took a long gulp.

-Wow- I giggled nervously. –Smoking, drinking and driving in the rain. You like to live dangerously.

He looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

-You’re right – he said, and for a while he just drove in silence. I busied myself feeling stupid and childish until he steered the wheel unexpectedly, entering a small parking lot.

-What are you doing?

-I refrain from putting our lives in danger – before I could find something to say, he had parked, reclined his seat and eased himself with an arm under his head and the beer in his hand. The glint of his cigarette danced in the halflight as he happily sighed:

-That’s life. God, I love simple things.

Well, here it is: first chapter of my 90′s nostalgic Modern AU. Nothing really happens in this chapter, but that’s an introcution, for you. You still get to meet Ilya, tho. I couldn’t find a title, so suggestions - as well as feedback- are welcomed!

[dustedmagazine]

Five Records That Matter

A few weeks ago, when we decided to try to find a few new writers, we asked applicants to list five records that mattered to them.  That was all the instruction we gave, purposely open ended.  Not the best records.  Not the most important records.  Just the ones that mattered to the person making the list.  It was mostly to find out whether people liked drone or hardcore, DIY garage or free-jazz, you know, to get a handle on new writers, where they were coming from and what they listened to.  There was no right or wrong answer (well, okay, maybe there were some wrong answers but nobody sent us any).  

We realized, though, that it’s sort of impossible — and also kind of fun — to pick just five records that matter.  We know this now, because most of us went through the exercise ourselves. We defined “matter” in different ways, some of us opting for personal relevance, others emphasizing objective quality, some looking back over their whole listening lives and others confining the search to specific time periods.  And then, because it was so much fun, we decided to share the results with you. Contributors include Jason Bivins, Joseph Burnett, Justin Cober-Lake, Ben Donnelly, Mason Jones, Jennifer Kelly, Brett Marion, Ian Mathers, Eric McDowell, Bill Meyer, Lucas Schleicher and Derek Taylor.  And by the way, you may notice a couple of unfamiliar names in there, because it turned out that asking for five records that matter is a pretty good way of finding new Dusted writers.  

Jason Bivins

Bad Brains — Rock for Light

It’s genuinely difficult for me to pick just one album from the vast worlds of “hardcore” and/or “metal” (not that I need just one, but the albums below are kinda too crucial, so that’s my logic today). And I could easily see myself going for, say, Sister or Locust Abortion Technician or something (maybe even something really goth-y from my very early adolescence). But I’m from D.C. and this is probably, soup to nuts, the album that still captures my attention in this idiom. The Brains were obviously fierce and fast, and H.R. was just bonkers live, but to me it was their astonishing instrumental technique and facility that made these tunes so righteous (although it’s got to be the LP mix, not that CD mix with too much reverb and Dr. Know’s solos buried away).  

King Crimson — Red

In many ways the perfect balance of smart, proggy music with serious heaviness. Stripped down power trio Crimson, minimalist by their standards, with my first hearing of several key English improvisers to boot. Not a massive fan of Wetton’s vocals usually (RIP) but they really work here. Twisty, turny rhythms. Banging riffs. And mind-scrambling repetition, especially on the concluding, very emotional “Starless” (which is responsible for one of the peak aesthetic experiences of my life, as I heard it for the first time when I was reading the final pages of Moby-Dick for the first time — intense!).

 Miles Davis — Live Evil

When I first started getting into jazz music, very little about the Miles of Kind of Blue (still colossally overrated) or Birth of the Cool moved me that much. But this freaked-out, expansive epic — which I heard passed around on third-generation tapes, long before the Columbia U.S. reissues — seemed like a document from some secret electric cult captured at the moment of full ecstatic transport. What gets me going still is the kinetic propulsion of DeJohnette here, that loose kick drum style perfectly goosing things along. Deep funk, odd percussion, moments of witchy noise, and John McLaughlin in supreme interstellar overdrive. Holy fucking grail.

 John Coltrane — Live at the Village Vanguard

In my freshman year of college I acquired a cassette containing the original release plus the two live tracks from “Impressions,” though of course I also love the 4-disc edition that Impulse put out in the 1990s. As much as I loved almost all the records Coltrane recorded during this period, there was something the extended, dark intensity of these performances — and Dolphy was so key to this, naturally — that seemed otherworldly and deeply organic at the same time. Yes, there was the absolutely riveting playing, but the incessant throb of “India,” the gallop of “Chasin’ the Trane,” the incredible emotionality of “Spiritual” — this was one of those records that converted me not just to a Coltrane fanatic but a full-on jazz nerd.

 AMM — Laminal

The deep dive into slabs of marvelous pure sound. Before I got this essential 3-disc portrait of AMM live during different periods, I had The Nameless Uncarved Block and maybe one other disc, which I dug. I was, in particular, transfixed by the range of textural contrasts that were central to AMM in its many iterations. But the 1982 concert at the Great Hall at Goldsmith’s College was where — right as Keith Rowe dialed up “Bang a Gong Get It On” atop his buzz saw guitar — the aesthetic wizardry clicked in for me.

Joseph Burnett

Neil Young — On the Beach

Tonight's the Night (and Lou Reed's Berlin) introduced me to the idea of a mainstream artist "heading for the ditch" but I didn't properly "get it" until I heard On the Beach with its songs of death, murder and depression. I still can't decide which Young album is my favorite, but my love affair with the dark side of popular music started here.

Fairport Convention — Liege and Lief

I never had much interest in the culture of my home country until I tuned in to this. There are many UK folk albums that come close in their own way, but nothing quite reaches Liege and Lief.

Albert Ayler — Spiritual Unity

Miles introduced me to jazz, 'Trane made me love it, Ayler made me realize how far ahead of its time it can be.

Throbbing Gristle — The Second Annual Report

My introduction to noise, really, and the concept of non-musical elements being used in music.

Tony Conrad and Faust — Outside the Dream Syndicate

Through which I fell in love with both minimalism and (along with the first Neu! and Cluster albums) krautrock. Conrad's passing last year left me more bereft than even Bowie's.

Frustratingly, there's no room for electronic music (of a different sort to TG) or free improv here. Man, this was tough.

Justin Cober-Lake

The Who — Quadrophenia

Without a doubt the singularly most important record in my life. I still consider it the best record by my favorite band, and it's the one that holds that save/change/influence your life slot for me.

Miles Davis — Kind of Blue

I picked this up in college when I decided I should try out some jazz and this seems to be at the top of every list and, huh, jazz was interesting. I'm sure something else could have flipped the switch for me, but something else didn't. More specifically, it launched my love of Coltrane. "So What" is the quintessence of cool.

Bon Jovi — Slippery When Wet

My first favorite album. It went well with the fast skate at the Roll-Arena and it helped form my idea that rock goes best in stadiums, ideally with a lead singer flying out over the crowd. It would take at least until grunge hit for me to re-think that idea, and I'm not sure I have.

 Bob Dylan — Blood on the Tracks

This one was good at first, convincing me that my dad was right on this Dylan guy. At the very least, I liked the story of "Lily, Rosemary, and the Jack of Hearts." After a few years, it became significant in its catharsis and its artistry.

 Wilco — Yankee Hotel Foxtrot

My other four choices are mainly about me alone with my cassettes. This one's about the entanglement of music and relationships. YHF blew me away on first listen to my friend's copy, but the whole experience is closely connected to meeting, dating, and marrying my wife. The record fit (and developed) my tastes; the sound still resonates.

Ben Donnelly

Various Artists — Music of the Ozarks  A National Geographic mail order compilation of field recordings that appeared in our house when I was in elementary school. My mom lived in Arkansas when *she* was in elementary school, and it brought back a lot of memories for her. While there's great fiddle and guitar melodies that gallop up and down traditional scales, there's also mouth-bow and dulcimer drones that hypnotize. The storytelling can be haunting but the wordplay is fey— "the prettiest girl I ever did see was down in the Arkansas"

The Cars —  S/T Their still-newish debut album showed up in 8-track form when my cousin moved in with us. He had a single-speaker 8-track player that looked like a TNT detonator, and the flow of this record blew me up. I knew the singles from the radio, but hearing the non-stop deadpan hooks set me up with an aversion to singers who try too hard. The resonances of distorto guitar over synth arpeggios are a source of permanent affection for me, whether they show up in the Fall, an Arthur Baker remix, or some random Dirtnap punk band. I immediately latched on to the least-known cut, "I'm in Touch with Your World", which is retrospect is pretty jagged stuff for a power pop album. They hardened American ears for the late-breaking influence of the Velvets.  Moody Blues —  In Search of the Lost Chord Anyone can enjoy the well-crafted songs of Magical Mystery Tour, Sell Out or Their Satanic Majesties Request, but how about when the acid hits third rate beat bands? There's wonderfully wussy twee in places (I've seen polar bears and seals, I've seen giant Antarctic eels, I've still not found what I'm looking for) but "Legend of Mind" balances harmonies with some really heavy riffing. "Ride My See-Saw" seems like the lynchpin freakbeat for Thee Oh Sees and their kind. This record has some forgettable and laughable material, but the Moody's dedication to total soft-headedness set me on the path to deep psych. Donna Summer — Walk Away I think mom bought this for exercising as much as dancing, and boy is it a workout. Not her greatest hits, but so many of the Summer/Moroder peaks are here. They set up our modern day pop cocktail of American r'n'b with European dance production. "I Feel Love" remains the music of the future, just as Eno predicted, but the collection closes with "Our Love", one of the greatest feats of drum machine programming ever. After I went all underground rock, I still found it immensely satisfying when the Celibate Rifles closed their set with a take on "Hot Stuff" that wasn't too jokey. Turn of the century, when disco became hip again, all my love for the stuff came gushing out. Dumb of me to hold back.  Jethro Tull — Stand Up This only album here I shelled out my lawn-mowing cash to procure, the rest just drifted into the house. I recently gave Stand Up the first thorough spin in years, and its fine set of songs, as close as they got to the more socially acceptable Fairport/Pentangle school of folk rock. The balalaika-lead "Fat Man" may have been my introduction to Balkan textures. "Back to the Family" is dourly amusing. "Reasons for Waiting" quite cleverly fuses flute and organ for the kind of rave up you'd expect from guitar and bass, and turns it into maypole dance. You could imagine this iteration of the band going full Wicker Man, like Comus, had their lineup not quickly solidified around Aqualung riffs and multi-part suites.

Mason Jones

The five records prompt made me think about albums that were part of my formative listening years, which is certainly very different from the albums that are currently important. Going with the early formative albums I'm coming up with:

 Coil—Horse Rotorvator

Back in the 1980s I had started discovering early industrial music and was buying albums and magazines at Schoolkids in Ann Arbor. I had heard of Coil but hadn't found anything yet, when I discovered a used promo cassette of this album in Wazoo, and it completely upended my world. It remains a strong favorite to this day.

 Bauhaus — In the Flat Field

When I was early in my guitar-playing, the sonic variation from Daniel Ash was really important, and despite the passage of time I can still listen to Bauhaus.

 Jimi Hendrix Experience—Axis: Bold as Love

Again from a guitar player standpoint, this album has everything.

 Foetus — Nail

Alongside the Coil album, this one remains essential to me for its cohesion and focus, and dark humor mixed with brilliant sounds.

 Fushitsusha — PSFD 15/16

Doesn't really have a name, but the second volume of Fushitsusha's live 2CD offerings was a big push toward forming SubArachnoid Space back in the day, and Haino's guitar work is unimpeachable. It also later led to my organizing SF shows for the band and releasing a Fushitsusha album on Charnel Music.

 It's very hard not to include Skullflower, Big Black, Crash Worship, Pink Floyd, and ELO (!) albums in this list... 

Jennifer Kelly

The Stones -- Sticky Fingers (or Exile or, if I'm honest, Hot Rocks, of which I have worn out at least three cassette copies)

As a relatively straight-laced young lady in pre-internet Indiana, my choices were limited and few of the things that I liked as a teenager are relevant anymore.  But Stones (up to maybe Tattoo You) have held up, still dark, still sexual, still exuding a kind of threat and coolness that was out of reach for me then and now, but still holds some appeal.  I’m going with Sticky Fingers because it has both “Bitch” and “Moonlight Mile,” two of the respectively nastiest and the most beautiful songs in the Stones catalogue.  

 The Who -- The Who Sell Out

I don’t want to get into a fight with Justin, but to me this is peak Who, trippy and transcendent (I could listen to “I Can See for Miles” all day), goofily tongue-in-cheek (“Heinz Baked Beans”) and still so very far away from slipping into the rock band cliché of later years.  

 The Clash -- London Calling

As I mentioned above, I grew up with radio in Indiana, the good stuff, such as it was, was mostly R&B, and so I got to college in 1981 and was OUTRAGED to find out that punk rock had happened without me. I’ve probably listened to London Calling more than any other record in my life.  I actually had to take this off my iTunes a few years ago because I just could not listen to it again, but no question that it was formative.

 Jay Reatard -- Blood Visions

We saw him in Northampton a couple of months before he passed, and god-damn, talk about the real deal. Punk rock is never dead, but it sure is always dying.  

  Sleater-Kinney -- Dig Me Out

After my son Sean was born, I spent about a year listening to nothing but opera, specifically Tannhauser, specifically the overture to the first act...and it was this record more than anything -- well, okay, Elliott Smith and Pavement and Neutral Milk Hotel played a role too -- that brought me back.  But Sleater-Kinney was special because they rocked so hard and in such a very female kind of way, with their trembly vibrato voices and looping collaborative guitars and bang-out-loud anger and heedless engulfing joy.  “Words and Guitar,” it’s all you really need.  

Brett Marion

The Jesus & Mary Chain — Psychocandy (Blanco y Negro, 1985)

Advancing rock music’s mission of moral decay at light speed through the simultaneous paying homage to and annihilation of doo-wop melodies and early pop-rock and blues forms through ridiculous amounts of industrial buzz and clatter.

 Brian Eno - Thursday Afternoon (EG, 1985)

Off-putting, in equal measure, by its rather domestic title and daunting hour-long playing length, a peek inside is a sensory tank full of narcotic luxury—its every-so-often recurring Doppler-like bass swells effectively bending all notions of time and space. Ambient plus plus.

 Felt — Poem of the River (Creation, 1987)

Growing up in the 1980’s suburban American Midwest, you considered yourself lucky if you walked into a shop and found one row of imports relegated to the end of the Pop/Rock section, overpriced and gathering dust. After weeks, perhaps months, I finally found the nerve—and cash—to blindly purchase this gorgeous-looking mini LP (the perfect format, btw). Produced by Mayo Thompson, Poem of the River is a dazzling mix of Lawrence’s self-referential poetic satire, Neil Scott and Tony Willé’s exquisite Verlaine/Lloyd-esque guitar interplay and Martin Duffy’s oddly prominent ballpark organ contributions.

 Spacemen 3 — The Perfect Prescription (Glass, 1987)

Light-years beyond the monotonic two-riff (one-riff?) Stooges’-smothered debut, The Perfect Prescription mainlines the blues, gospel and drug-rock forms with a soul-searching, seldom formulated lyrical honesty, “Oh, listen sweet lord forgive me my sin/ ‘cause I can’t stand this life without all of these things/ Know I’ve done wrong ‘cause I’ve heaven on Earth/ Know I done wrong but I coulda done me worse.” Cue goose bumps.

 Royal Trux — Accelerator (Drag City, 1998)

From the opening blat of “I’m Ready” to the closing guitar solo sunset fade of “Stevie,” Accelerator is a hedonistic rock’n’roll juggernaut that works whatever your drug of choice.

Ian Mathers

Massive Attack — Mezzanine

I might slightly prefer Blue Lines, but in what might be a running theme here, growing up in a small town with no record store in pre-Napster/pre-YouTube days, I was often lucky to get my hands on even one album from a band the internet could now let me read about if not actually hear. I thought I knew electronic music at the time, but really I knew Aphex/Squarepusher style pranksterism and the cheesy end of trance and not much in between (or further afield). I don't think I'd heard anything at the time as beautifully produced or relentlessly, darkly, menacing; from the first time the scything, processed drum loop gnashes against the subterranean bass pulses on "Angel" I was absolutely entranced, and that's before they threw a goddamn guitar solo in there. I know other bands who've made as many records I adore as Massive Attack have, but not many where all of those albums could be the work of entirely distinct outfits. Still, this is the one that got its hooks into me first, and arguably the first (spiritually) Goth album I ever loved.

 Prolapse — The Italian Flag

In said small town, one of the few ways to actually hear the kind of thing I was getting into (thanks to my dad's record collection and an obsession with Radiohead's OK Computer that means I would have picked it here except I haven't had anything interesting to say about that album other than it got me reading UK music magazines online in years) was watching the Wedge late at night on MuchMusic. MTV existed and we knew about it, but nobody I knew had access to it in Canada. One night they definitely (and wonderfully) played the video for "Killing the Bland", a song that I was instantly obsessed with. As a teenager devoted to finding the fastest, loudest, most aggressive guitar music I could but who somehow never got into hardcore punk or speed metal the fleet, clattering assault of Prolapse was catnip, I loved "Scottish" Mick Derrick and Linda Steelyard's dueling accents, and the video was hilarious. I wouldn't be another seven or eight years or so before I'd know or hear anything more of Prolapse, a band it's still risky to google, thanks to Will Swygart's fine assessment at Stylus where I was writing at the time. I've since tracked down physical copies of everything the band's put out that I can, and I'm still bitter that I couldn't see them open for Mogwai a while back, probably my only chance to hear one of my favourite bands live. At least I still have The Italian Flag, a record where basically nothing else sounds like "Killing the Bland" (also there) but everything does sound like the way indie rock maybe should have gone in 1997: dense, abrasive, scabrous, almost magnetically pessimistic, and very funny.

 Low — Secret Name

If you ever doubt the power of people writing about music, let me tell you about Low (the source, incidentally, for the largest tattoo I have). A band I don't think I'd heard about when I ran into this when I was in first year university and reading through all of glenn mcdonald's (yes, he prefers lower case) ten-year writing project The War Against Silence. These days glenn is more well known for doing a lot of the number crunching for the big Village Voice music critic annual poll, but so much of his writing is so important to me in so many ways. And his description of this band that he was so enthralled by hit me so hard that the next time I had some disposable income I walked into my local record store and bought the Low album they had in stock, sound unheard. That record was, err, Things We Lost in the Fire. An amazing album, but Secret Name is here instead because when you've listened to all of a band's work as much as I have with Low's, that first impression sometimes gets outweighed. If pushed I might even pick another LP as my 'favorite', but there's something beautiful and pure and terrifying in the depths of Secret Name, something I can't escape, something that comes closest to giving me what I read in glenn's writing. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad they've continued to grow and change, and not just because I love Ones and Sixes so much; neither the world nor this band need Secret Name II or the time and effort that could be wasted trying to make it. But more than anything else, this record is probably the reason I have the Chairkickers' Union seal inked on my back.

 Spacemen 3 — Performance: Live at the Melkweg 6/2/88

I got really into Spiritualized then when one of the few albums I could find to listen to was their two disc live Royal Albert Hall October 10 1997 I decided that was by far the best thing they'd ever done, then on a school trip knowing they were some kind of proto-Spiritualized I bought a Spacemen 3 album. I still love Spiritualized, but in some ways Spacemen 3 were more relevant to me as a young adult and when I bought this dodgy-looking live album essentially on a whim, it nearly ruined me for anything else Jason Pierce has touched. Specifically the dodgiest version of the album, with the naff cover art and the typos in the track listing and three extra tracks including a monumental, maddening, ear-splitting version of "Suicide" that ended with a loop of crowd noise, as if to let the listener recover. This is, as far as I'm concerned, the only version of the album, and one of the best rock records of all time. When my wife and I were first dating and she still lived down in Florida and I saw that version in the store again I bought that copy and brought it to her. As much as The Perfect Prescription is an amazing album, after I heard Performance I almost couldn't stand to listen to it for a number of years. Pretty much everyone else I know who has listened to Performance thinks it's, you know, okay.

 Mogwai — Come On Die Young

The thing about having to buy records without hearing even a single song on them first is that sometimes you're disappointed. But the thing about not having many other records to listen to is that you sometimes wind up giving those disappointing records another chance, or a third, fourth, fifth... all I'd heard about Mogwai was how crack-the-sky huge they were, and here I was with an almost obtuse feeling album, one that started with a ballad and made you wait for the big explosion until track nine. Part of my understanding and appreciation for Come On Die Young now is simply a matter of historical context I couldn't have had then, namely that this (and the EP+6 compilation released the next year) represented some kind of small apotheosis for Mogwai as a nocturnal, abstract, guitar-based band. From 2001's Rock Action on, they'd more fully integrate Barry Burns and turn into a slightly different if still incredible band. But there's a weight and a solemnity to Come on Die Young that's very different from everything they'd do after. Also "Ex-Cowboy" is the great overlooked epic in their discography. 

Eric McDowell

Slap Happy — Casablanca Moon (1974)

Just when you think you've heard it all... A reminder of how much great music from the classic rock era is out there waiting to be loved. Dagmar Krause's singing is startlingly good, as are the lyrics ("Out on the street, sobbing with lust / I hoped for a banquet, she denied me a crust"!). Also look for the earlier version recorded with Faust, Acnalbasac Noom. 

 Arthur Blythe — Illusions (1980)

Incredible group including James Blood Ulmer on guitar, Abdul Wadud on cello, and Bob Stewart on tuba (among others). I want to buy this album all over again whenever I see it and have tried (in vain) to get strangers at record stores to take it home. Luckily this was recently reissued in a set with some other Blythe albums, including the killer Lenox Avenue Breakdown. 

 Pauline Oliveros — Accordion & Voice (1982)

My introduction to her work and still my favorite. 

 Oren Ambarchi — Hubris (2016)

After a peek into Ambarchi's discography, I couldn't get enough of him— especially his albums on Editions Mego. This one came out on my birthday. 

 Anna Meredith — Varmints (2016)

For some reason I've come back to this more than anything else these first months of 2017... Whatever works!

Bill Meyer

Brian Eno — Another Green World 

I checked this out of a library when I was still a high school prog dabbler and classic rock radio/NPR listener in Michigan in the late 1970s. While I had heard a little Eno before, I had had never heard anything like this and it opened me up to the intersection of sonic novelty, pith, creative playing, wit, and song-craft divorced from literal meaning. 

Velvet Underground — Live 1969

Economy, open-endedness, the most brilliantly rudimentary drumming in rock and roll, and some marvelous songs performed with a casual confidence that Lou Reed would rarely evidence in his subsequent solo career.

Art Ensemble of Chicago — Nice Guys

Not necessarily their best, but my first AEC record, and also one of my first brushes with free jazz, Afrocentric theater, and even modal jazz. 

Alastair Galbraith — Morse

The feeling you have before remorse. Naked emotion, songs boiled to barest essentials, marvelous sounds all forged in drafty rooms in one of the world's southernmost cities.

John Fahey— Return of the Repressed

Again, not my first encounter with Fahey. But the sheer preponderance of blues-derived picking, dissonance that resonates with corners of the soul untouched by the sun, rhythms driven by a thumb that just would not stop, and great, great tunes set off an obsession with the man and with the myriad manifestations of American Primitive Guitar that remain strong over two decades on.

Lucas Schleicher

I'll play with the format a bit. Here are five albums that matter to me that were either released in the last five years or that I heard for the first time in the last five years. I'm counting as far back as 2011 since 2017 is still new, so fuck it.

 Michael Pisaro / Taku Sugimoto — 2 Seconds / B Minor / Wave (Erstwhile, 2010) This came out almost 7 years ago now, but I didn't hear it until 2011. After reading Bill's reviews of Close Constellations and Asleep, Street, Pipes, Tones, I started listening to a lot of Pisaro's music and reading a lot of his essays and I fell in love quickly. This was the first thing I got my hands on and I still think it's one of the more amazing records he's put together. The first two pieces, "2 Seconds" and "B Minor," are especially beautiful and far easier to approach than you might think. The premise guiding the performances are similarly straightforward, but they produce some amazingly synchronous improvisations. If Pisaro or Wandelweiser interest you at all, I think this is as good a place to begin as any.

 The 25-Year Retrospective Concert of The Music of John Cage (Wergo, 1994, originally released in 1958 or 1959) I knew a tiny bit about John Cage before 2011, but most of it was so superficial as to be useless. After hearing the rendition of "Sonatas and Interludes" on here (by Maro Ajemian), I realized just how little of Cage I actually knew (never mind how little I understood). His music wasn't just controversial (the silent piece!) or "ahead of its time" (Variations II), it could be beautiful and approachable and elegant. After listening to this collection for months on end, I went and bought Silence, and reading that was basically life-changing. Cage opened my head and ears to all kinds of art and music that I'd never given much attention before, so this is a significant, best-ever record for me that came well after my teens/early 20s.

 Eliane Radigue — Trilogie De La Mort (Experimental Intermedia Foundation, 1998, composed b/w '85 and '93) Radigue is responsible for some of the most unusual and psychedelic listening I've ever been a part of, and that's without drugs. Some friends at work knew I liked drone-y ambient music and were shocked that I didn't know hers. The Trilogie was on my stereo at home for months in 2012. I listened closely, I let it play quietly in the background, I fell asleep to it, I dreamed lucid dreams to it, and I'm almost certain I hallucinated to it in the middle of the night one week when my wife was back home in NY and I had the chance to play it overnight on repeat. I had a full conversation with her in my kitchen and awoke the next day to find that I had left food out on the table that wasn't there when I went to bed. I chalked it up to sleepwalking, but it took me a little while to figure out Laura wasn't back from NY early. Besides being a lot of fun to listen to, Radigue's approach to sound and the way she handles time blows my mind. I think of her a lot and am always impressed by how she can make very little sound like so much. 

 United Bible Studies ‎— The Ale's What Cures Ye: Traditional Songs From The British Isles. Vol. 1 (MIE Music, 2015) this is just a brilliant record with wonderful songs interpreted in exciting ways by an excellent band. I have a weakness for British folk music and hearing this band in this mode was very exciting in 2015. I still listen to it almost every month and find new things to like about it. After hearing this for the first time, I went back down a deep rabbit hole that I had once managed to climb out of: Shirley Collins, Albion Country Band, Fairport Convention, Fotheringay, etc. etc. I guess getting away from this stuff is impossible. It's always lurking there in the back of my brain and I always turn it up when it comes on. 

 Hala Strana — Fielding (Jewelled Antler, 2003, reissued 2005, now available on Worstward Bandcamp) I knew Steven R. Smith from as far back as Tableland, but somehow I missed this Hala Strana 2CD from 2003, and in fact knew almost nothing about his Hala Strana records until a couple of years ago. I absolutely love Smith's work; he's a brilliant multi-instrumentalist, he writes excellent songs, and he works so well in various genres that it'd be easy to miss that the Ulaan releases are by the same guy responsible for the Hala Strana releases. Fielding is full of the music of Eastern Europe, either in the form of covers of traditional songs or as original pieces written with Hungary, Romania, Ukraine, and others in mind. Smith plays virtually everything you hear: guitar, hurdy-gurdy, bouzouki, etc. I think he might have a band on some songs, but I don't have the liner notes with me to confirm. Anyway, this album reminded me that, despite my constant listening to avant-garde whatever, I still love songs and popular song forms (just like the UBS album did). Now I buy everything by Smith that I can get my hands on. He hasn't disappointed me yet. 

Adam Strohm

Sonic Youth — Dirty (1992)

This isn't my favorite Sonic Youth record, and I haven't listened to it much for at least 15 years, but this is where it all started for me. As a kid in rural PA who was dipping my two into alternative music through the usual avenues (Nirvana, REM, etc.), I'm not even sure I totally understood why people considered Sonic Youth so important, but something clicked with me, and like so many other people my age, this band was the gateway to so much more. I can probably trace 70% of what I currently listen to back to Sonic Youth in some way, so there's no way I can leave them off of this list, even though their records rarely hit the turntable (except for Rather Ripped, for some reason that one resonates more with me now that it did when it came out). I feel as though this is the most boring entry that will be on any of these lists, but I have no idea what I'd be into these days if I hadn't gotten hooked on Dirty back in 1994 or 95.

Queen — The Game (1980)

I probably listened to more Run DMC or Michael Jackson than anything else as a kid, but Queen was my first favorite band. My dad tells stories about me singing "Don't Try Suicide" in a shopping cart at the grocery store and the weird looks people gave him, and at some point, I found a cassette with a fragment of me singing "Another One Bites The Dust" as I lug the recorder around the house. My Queen fandom simmered for many years, but when I finally decided in college than rock music that predated punk could be good, Queen again loomed large. Their records still surprise me with regularity, and I still love introducing someone who only knows "Bohemian Rhapsody" to "Ogre Battle" or "Brighton Rock," which, to me, may be the best thing the band ever recorded.

Glass — Koyaanisqatsi (1983)

The synthesizer in "Baba O'Riley" was probably the thing that hooked me on minimalism, but it took me a regretably long time to connect the dots from my favorite moment in the Who discography to Terry Riley. By then, I'd already gotten a tape from a friend with Koyaanisqatsi on it. He'd thrown it on the tape thinking I might dig it, and it took some time, but I found myself increasingly and unexpectedly drawn to something I'd thought was cheesy and boring on first listen. Getting comfortable with this music sent me down a path than included, of course, Terry Riley and Steve Reich, but also helped me finally wrangle with drones, and made me really, really glad I'd kept a Phill Niblock promo that I'd been sent years before. The cd that my friend sourced the cassette from skipped at one point, which he didn't know when he sent me the tape. Some days, I miss that version of Koyaanisqatsi.

Frith — Gravity (1980)

College-aged me was a little insufferable when it came to talking music, I think. If there weren't guitars, things usually needed to be harsh, weird, or chaotic for me to care. I professed disinterest in any Coltrane prior to Interstellar Space, and had a hard time knowing how to handle anything that felt too traditional, straightforward, or linear. I saw Fred Frith perform in Vienna in 1999 and loved his style of improvisation; diving into his discography not long later, I came home with Gravity, something decidedly different. It was a bit of a lark for me at the time, something I'd put on to inspire a particular mood, or to confuse my friends, but in quick time, I was in love. This record, along with some others, opened the door for me to let my guard down a bit and let in the stuff I'd found too "normal" before; though Gravity is anything but a normal record, it was a pivotal album for me when it came to branching out as a listener, and it's still a favorite.

Devo — Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo! (1978)

This fifth spot is a tough one. So many things could (and maybe should) go here, like Nirvana (duh), a Pavement record, some Coltrane or Ayler, Oren Ambarchi, or maybe Bob Dylan. But Devo gets the nod, partially because their debut has been a favorite and one of the albums I can listen to no matter the situation, and also because there's something about this band and their sensibilities that had a huge effect on me as a young spud. The idea of this sort of strangeness and absurdity as a vehicle of delivery for social commentary, political critique, and subversive sexuality rewired some parts of my brain, and, for a while, made me very serious about making very goofy music. I haven't played in a rock band for years (you're welcome, world), but this record was a huge influence when I did, and shifted the way I thought about the way humor, shock value, and weirdness could work in music.

Derek Taylor

Jimi Hendrix — Electric Ladyland

Religious, lights-out, prostrate-on-the-bed-with-ear-goggles-affixed immersive listening throughout my teen years and a central pillar of my fealty to music appreciation this day. “Little Miss Strange” is the floating turd in an otherwise pristine Porcelain God of a double-album.

 John Coltrane — First Meditations

Classic Quartet dry run for the more widely heralded session with esteemed guests added & bridge to the instrument-transcending utterances that would become Trane’s untimely end-game. “Compassion” still irrigates the eyes to overflowing under the right circumstances.

 John Fahey — America

Prerequisite companion to nearly every post-teen road-trip I’ve ever taken. “Dalhart, Texas 1967” in particular is as indelible an evocation of time and place through sound as I’ve ever heard.

 Minutemen — Double Nickels on the Dime

Didn’t discover these guys from Pedro until college, but their weird nexus of post-punk, funk, jazz, politics & SoCal see-if-shit-sticks DIY credo instantly won me over. Add to that an unapologetic affection for classic rock staples like CCR and Van Halen and any associative contradictions got ironed out by their unabashed allegiance to humanism.

 ZZ Top’s First Album

Three dudes from Tejas who put so much into their debut that coming up with an actual title seemed incidental. Although I never kept count it was probably my most-played cassette in high school and Billy Gibbons’ tenure as Hendrix roadie & professed favorite guitarist brings the list full circle. 

[mitch42]

A cheer for those boys that play that rock and roll

It was the mid-to-late 80′s and I was growing up a part of the MTV generation. I had stayed up late to catch an early showing of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”. I was entertained by ZZ Top’s “TV Dinners” and “Legs”. Rockwell’s “Somebody’s Watching Me” kind of freaked me out. And then there was a guy in sunglasses and a Mad Hatter hat cutting into a girl that was actually a cake.

Stop walking down my street Who did you expect to meet? Whatever you’re looking for Hey, don’t come around here no more

My earliest Tom Petty memory is the “Don’t Come Around Here No More” video, but if I reach back farther I may have seen “You Got Lucky” before that - I must have - and rocked to that tune while enjoying the desolate, dystopian future scene.

As I formed a musical identity - picking, because that’s what you did, my favorite band - I landed on Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. I liked his distinct voice. I could drum along with the rocking but uncomplicated drums. I could pick out Mike Campbell’s guitar against Tom’s rhythm guitar, and I enjoyed the great melodies and harmonies. I liked being a fan of “rock��� - not hard rock, or pop, or metal, or any other qualifier - just “rock”. That’s what the Heartbreakers were to me.

And I showed you stars you never could see Babe, it couldn’t have been that easy to forget about me

I think I started with Southern Accents, and then Damn the Torpedoes (I was embarrassed about the “Damn”). And then came the Wilburys. Petty and Harrison? And Dylan - who I thought was awful until I learned better and learned to love his Wilbury contributions - and these other guys Lynne and Orbison (forgive me, I was just learning). 

Maybe somewhere down the road a ways You’ll think of me, wonder where I am these days Maybe somewhere down the road when somebody plays Purple haze

When I started high school in the 90s, Tom Petty released his solo album, and the mellow, sometimes somber tones of Full Moon Fever called to the moodiness of my adolescence. He was a 40-year-old, but I felt he was singing to us, about us.

Sometimes you’re so impulsive, you shaved off all your hair You look like Boris Karloff and you don’t even care

You’re dancin’ at the Zombie Zoo

My best friend became a fan as well, and we played Full Moon Fever over and over again as I began to delve in to the past albums and discover more there, especially Southern Accents. We banged out “Don’t Come Around Here No More”‘s round-robin beats and marveled at Benmont Tench’s crazy solo in “It Ain’t Nothin’ to Me”. I’ve seen Tom Petty five times, and at least three of them with that friend.

Tom Petty was a rocker to us, but the band was quirky, too, harkening back to the crazy introduction that was the video for “Don’t Come Around Here No More”. “Yer So Bad” was fun. Simple, driving rhythm and simple, modern lyrics. And just off-center enough that not everyone enjoyed it. Being a Tom Petty fan was a way to define ourselves.

Well the man out to end us had a hurricane business He’d raise them from babies all by himself But his teen-age accountant had become surrounded He drank up the party and everyone left

Somehow, I convinced my mother to buy me and two friends tickets to a Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers concert in ‘91 and she let me drive us there an hour away. (Thanks, Mom!) My first big concert was memorable as the band played with a giant inflatable tree as the back drop, Tom pulled out the Mad Hatter hat from a glowing chest, and Stan Lynch started the first measures of “Don’t Come Around Here No More”. The song ended with a jam as, for some rather unexplicable reason, men with presidential masks (Nixon and Reagan, at least, probably Ford and Bush I, as well) first chased Tom and then, as the strobes began, Tom vanquished them with a giant, sparkling peace sign.

It was a memorable and fulfilling night.

I thought of you starry-eyed, I wonder where we stand? Did I just fall from your arms Down into your hands?

Then, I got to share my love of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers with my girlfriend, who became my wife, and some of my best memories are seeing the band with her or riding in the car with the new Wildflowers CD in the player, or playing that same album for my sons when they were babies. When we went to separate colleges after high school, we made a mix tape and I had a few Tom Petty songs on there. She’s accompanied me on all but one of my experiences seeing the band in concert.

Baby you’re the only one that’s ever known how To make me want to live like I want to live now

Tom’s got a great catalog of music that I will cherish forever. Whatever my mood, I can find Petty tunes to fit it or help change it. Nostalgic? “Southern Accents” and “Straight Into Darkness” or “Angel Dream”. Need motivation? “Rebels”, “Six Days on the Road”, or “Runnin’ Down a Dream”. Sing-a-long time? “The Waiting”, “Free Fallin’” or “End of the Line”. Looking for some sunshine? “Honey Bee”, “Kings Highway”, or “Wilbury Twist”.

Sing a little song of loneliness Sing one to make me smile

As a writer, I loved the stories Tom would tell. Love lost or love gained. Memories of the past or hopeful promises of the future. While even I will call many of them simple, bluesy songs at their heart, there are many perfectly crafted nuggets of poetry.

Yeah, she could hear the cars roll by, Out on 441 like waves crashin’ on the beach

I understand now, Prince and David Bowie fans. I felt those losses generally as a fan of rock and pop, but it didn’t feel like this. Regrets that I didn’t see him one more time in concert, or five more times, or take my sons to see him perform. Knowing I will never meet the man whose lyrics and music are woven into the tapestry of my life and the lives of those I love. I never really believed I would, but it was always a possibility - a fleeting thought.

What is there left to say? Let’s thank the man who gave us so much.

How bout a cheer for all those bad girls? And all those boys that play that rock and roll? They love it like you love Jesus, It does the same thing to their souls.

Thank you, Tom.

[historytaker]

Tears for Chris

He knew he was dying. He gave us a farewell as only he could – manic, sardonic, tip-toeing on the periphery of the numinous.  Yet, David Bowie bowed out with Lazarus. It was, as only these 4 short years later, a powerfully humbling take on a life taking account of itself.

           I resented that he died. “The gall,” I’d half mutter with exhaustion to myself. “To go off and die when the world needed his thoughts the most.” The starman took off, nonetheless and the world did continue—a little less. But for my money, anybody who had a bit of Bush-era angst and a penchant for subversive scream matches with music knew they still had Chris Cornell to turn to. And that was very much me.

           In fact, the love affair I cultivated with the Audioslave front-man began in earnest when I was a moody teenager on the back of beyond Missouri. What did I even begin to know of the deep, deep text Cornell was singing about? Not much. But everything struck a chord. I loved his voice. He carried the whine of a trained vocalist recovering from too many cigarettes and nights prolonging themselves from the pull of hard liquor. He managed to be at the top of his craft despite the negligent behavior. I loved the wind tossed black locks of hair and how they fell so defiantly to either side of his temples. Men in those days still very much catered to a tighter look. Not Chris. He defied and made it look sexy. I enjoyed seeing his pouty lips crested by the careless growth of chin strap beard. His eyes bore through any picture of him I ever saw. I suppose buried beneath the incredible vocals, fallen-angel looks and guitar riffs were years of layered pain. But artist carry pain for a living. He simply did something with it.  The very first moment I heard Chris Cornell, he was singing that mystical song constructed with the discarded boards of symbolism, “Like A Stone.”

           As so often is the case with love at first octave—I had to hear more. Fortunately for me, at 14, I had boon companions that were persuaded in the aesthetic of Audioslave like me. My best friend certainly appreciated the first Audioslave album. In fact, our high school years could be characterized by a joint disdain in George W. Bush being president, rural life cultural indifference, and Cornell’s work to anthem us between milestones. Among our group, I was the first to get a job. And who was there to give the newest take on managing school life, puberty, and work? Chris of course. “Be Yourself,”  or “Yesterday to Tomorrow,” “Doesn’t Remind Me,” were all standout songs in the band’s newest album  Out of Exile. Many of the songs on that album could just as easily have described our murky take on this time. And no good high school experience could be complete without long drives at night—preferably a Friday—jamming to the plethora of songs in the cd holder. True to form, there was Chris Cornell telling us what he knew about grief.  Naturally we would slide back and forth between the newest album and the older original. In fact, by the close of sophomore year, I recall distinctly the stuffy humid Missouri early summer working as a veil. Outside, filled with the determination of conquering our minor life major goals, “I Am the Highway” playing low in the background while our group discussed the lovelorn musings of feminine mysteries. None of which mattered to me, I was with the guys I liked. But it mattered to them, so I suppose it mattered to me on second thought.

           2005 produced a lot to be upset and genuinely angry about though. The war on terror was only reported as an aimless mission between ill-defined moving targets. As far as my young self was concerned, Bush – who should not have won—did win and proceeded with the war effort. More Americans were dying and being sent to overwhelm the region. I was inching closer to 18 and not at all ready to be a part of that mess. I saw what cultural conservatism did when it married itself to neo-conservatism—nothing worth being an advocate for. As a closeted gay youth, it was nationwide rejection and state constitutional amendments confirming the position.  Worse still, hurricane Katrina decimated New Orleans. For the first time in my life, I saw what racism and failure looked like in one catastrophic moment.  Once again – as so many times before in high school, Chris Cornell was there to put that anger, anxiety, disappointment, righteous indignation to words. “Wide Awake,” called out the failings of the Bush administration. He called out in no uncertain terms just what was going on, and nobody was blind to the motivations of our president.  The album featuring this song, Revelations, was that last time the band would produce anything together. The timing was almost fortuitous because within because our time in high school was nearly finished. But first….

           Chris Cornell returned to a solo career for a while. His celebrity has risen dramatically in the years since being part of Audioslave. In many ways, he was taken more seriously as an artist since his early days in the grunge scene with Soundgarden in the early 90’s. For me, 2007 might as well ought to have been the apogee of his prominence in my heart and life. I was staring at a senior year that was about to begin in the quick few months that separated it from May. Cornell released Carry On that month. His songs were less invective and were touching on something more ephemeral – fleeting love. In love with my best friend, closeted, yet joined by a shared enthusiasm for life and this incredible artist; it had a poetic way of playing itself out.  

           Throughout that senior year, with Chris Cornell’s newest album and everyone of his Audioslave cd’s, we enjoyed his music in abundance. From lung-filled burst of matching pitches, attempting to mirror Cornell, to inventive recreations of his songs in our mundane daily observations, my friend and I enjoyed his music obsessively. With that year came the definitive conclusion—a farewell—to the structured preparedness of oblivious youthful musings; and in that sense, enjoying music superficially. Over that summer, my friend burned a cd that was of Chris Cornell’s first attempt at a solo career—Euphoria Morning. The power, pain, and pros he employed in that cd was much of the same that I would later associate Chris Cornell with. This genre of fusions between genres pulling from rock and blues was astounding. He laments that at 24 that he knows he has everything to live for but this love was not meant to be. It just as well may have been a song aimed at me in my comeuppance. My freshman year in college was an important one. I came out. Additionally, by the end of it, I had finally fallen in love in a way I could accept. But I also drifted from my high school friends. Cornell’s music just could not hit the same—not then, without my best friend to explore its meaning with.

           As it were, I grew beyond his music or my fervor for it anyhow. I never tuned him out. In fact, I did enjoy anything he lent his talents to. But the music just could not hit the same with the estrangement from friends, and the budding introduction to successful attempts at failed love.  In many ways then, my observation and enjoyment of Chris Cornell’s work was largely passive—never fully immersing myself so completely as I did as a zealous teenager. Nevertheless, I recall distinctly the feeling in my gut—being bereft of words and filled with despair in hearing of Chris Cornell’s death. In many ways, all those high school days and summer nights, all those drunken nights in college sleeping with headphones on and drifting in and out of sleep with Chris playing in my ear, comparing my heart’s desires with his wise songs all collided in this ebullition before bursting in what amounted to a inhaled sob.

           I was stunned. Stunned because his death was more than a celebrity death, but also a reconciliation with life having moved on for me so much. After that introspection I then looked into what happened, and the general consensus is that Chris Cornell had been depressed for a long time. He ended his own life. And immediately all of those songs, defying himself, or his lover, were also proclamations against this pain that he carried so completely for so long. He clearly felt things deeply in a way that so many of us could never understand. Surely his joys were a high that could not be comprehended, but I imagine if Hell exists, he dwelt there many times; always climbing out from it, and often with a new message to give us.

           I could not listen to his music for months after he died. It hurt too much. I could not enjoy his gifts to the world or particular contribution to my life while knowing he was gone. Slowly, incredibly slowly, his music crept back in to my occasional listening. This would generally be my new relationship to his music; Always reminded with each passing song as it randomly played on my phone that Chris Cornell was gone.  Then, suddenly, like a grasp at the heart from somewhere beyond—I stumbled on his song “Misery Chain.” Then, years after the passing of the poor man, then I felt the gravitational pull of his heart. The pain, the truth, the baring of his soul is plainly displayed in his song. Nothing unique to him, but the missing piece was the tragedy in knowing how it all ends. Each whine, each extra effort in carrying the note—pushing himself ever forward despite the futility of the exercise, is underscored in knowing in a few short years he would commit suicide. He snubs that misery he knows so well, but we know it was never far away.

           I could not say goodbye. I was not ready. He teaches still, even now from beyond. What he gifted the world in music and honesty, I can only assess through my own life. I lament that his brilliance is bookended by infinity. But I am glad that someone who knew how to share their heart ever existed at all. Indeed he felt, and I felt with him.  I know that now.