#All the Way Happy by Kit Coltrane

[betterbooksandthings]

"There is no one reason why a particular romance novel hasn’t been widely discovered, but budget, bias, and luck play a role. Independent romance authors often have to market their books entirely out of pocket and online. Without placement in most bookstores, indie authors rely on self-funded and self-run social media campaigns. Even when romance authors secure a traditional publishing deal, marketing budgets are not guaranteed. Although more bookstores might stock their books, they are also largely in charge of marketing their romance books online.

Bias also comes into play. Marginalized authors are often under added pressure to give their books a broader (i.e., whiter, straighter, etc.) appeal. It is easy for a publisher to point to a book’s potentially limited appeal as a reason behind a limited marketing budget.

Then, if a romance book does have a marketing budget and hasn’t had any issues with bias at any point in the publishing process, a certain amount of luck still factors in. Hitting the right audience at the right time and taking off is no easy task.

That is to say, it can be difficult for romance books to find a platform, so there is every chance these are the best romance books you haven’t read. To narrow down my list, I sorted my Goodreads books to show books with the least number of ratings and selected every romance novel under 500 ratings. I then narrowed that list down to nine books."

[multi-fandom-imagine]

hello there! I literally just found your blog a hour ago and I'm in love!! I love the way you wright and just the energy of your blog overhaul :D but anyway what I can here to ask is just some questions about Husk and the readers Kits. I find them adorable! (I have a oc x cannon ship with Husk and they have kids so this is rlly cute to me) anyway- I'm rambling- so long story short I rlly wanna draw the kits so I was wondering if I could get a description of the kits, like clothes, if they have scruffy fur, fluffy fur and there ages? Just so I can doodle the lill baby's in my style :3

THATS THE SWEETEST THING EVER, ah that makes me so happy 😩. { also i love that your oc and Husk has kids. }

But that's comment makes me do happy

This is what I thought of for their looks.

Harry-

With him being the first born out of the triplets, I can see him looking at lot like Husk. With his fur being jet black with a cream colored splotches across his fur. { 100% has Husk's eyes }, has Husk's wing's. Little boy will wear anything, he doesn't care.

Coltrane-

His fur takes on the hue of your hair color, has no white in him at all. His eyes are two different colors, yours and Husk. Is more fluffier out of the three. He also has Husk's wings, I also imagine he wears little suits like his father did as an Overlord.

Marylin-

Pure white with your eyes, silky fur. She is the smallest being the runt. She is the only one that took on your{ the readers} angle wings.

[aurorawest]

Reading update, part 2

The Perplexing Theft of the Jewel in the Crown by Vaseem Khan - 4/5 stars

All the Way Happy by Kit Coltrane - DNF

Couldn't get past the fact that it was blatantly Drarry fanfiction that had had the serial numbers filed off. It was seriously distracting. I don't have an issue with fic authors doing that (I'M ONE OF THEM), but this read like a find and replace had been done on the names, and nothing else had been changed. If the prose hadn't been so overwrought I might have enjoyed it, but the combination of Drarry AU + purple prose was just too cringey for me.

Total Creative Control by Joanna Chambers and Sally Malcolm - 5/5 stars

Ahhhhh I loved this book. I've only read Chambers's historical fiction so I was curious what this would be like, and it was so good. So so good.

Also, sometimes my wife says stuff and I'm like 'that's not a real thing that English people say, that's probably some weird thing her family says.' But then I'll read it in a book by an English person and I am schooled. Anyway that happened several times in this book.

The Name Bearer by Natalia Hernandez - DNF

I don't mind a slow-paced book but there was just so much info dumping in the first chapter, when chapter 2 started with more info dumping, I gave up.

Crossroads by Riley Hart - DNF

This book started with a description of the main character's apartment. There wasn't anything special about it, nor was it described in a unique way. I DNFed halfway through page 2. I know I have another Riley Hart book sitting in my TBR, which I will be digging out bringing to my local bookstore's used book buyback.

Godkiller by Hannah Kaner - 4.5/5 stars

Did Not Expect to enjoy this one. I got this in an IllumiCrate and I just remember the little blurby thing you get where the author talks about the book saying something about how she loves angry women. I'm over it. Angry is not a personality! Stop writing women who are angry and thinking you've written a well-rounded character!

But actually this book was really good! Predictable, but a good read. Unusually, my favorite character was the child. It helped that she had an adorable hare/bird/deer god of white lies following her around.

Tommy Cabot Was Here by Cat Sebastian - 5/5 stars

I love Sebastian's regency romances but I might love this series more. This is a very, very quick read (right around 100 pages) but she's just so good at creating these wonderful, fully-realized characters that you love from the first sentence.

As You Walk on By by Julian Winters - 2/5 stars

So at this point I think I have to concede that Julian Winters is not the author for me. He's constantly lauded as this wonderful writer whose books will make you smile for days. This is the third one I've read and I nearly DNFed it. The only thing that kept me going, ironically, was that I really liked the love interest and was rooting for them to get together. Typically I find the romances in Julian Winters books to be very flat and un-swoony. This one was actually quite nice though.

But the main character. Jesus Christ. He's SO annoying. Him and his shitty BFF who he falls out with deserve each other, honestly. There's only so many times I can sympathize with you because you have a comfortable, middle-class life and you go to a fancy pants private school, but waaaaah sometimes your friends don't say exactly the right thing about you being queer. Also having your MC tell the teenage girl who gets slut-shamed, gossiped about, and sexually harassed everywhere she goes that actually she doesn't have it as bad because she's white was...an interesting touch.

And idk if the Youth actually act and talk the way the teenagers do in this book, but if they do, I'm very glad I don't know any teenagers.

Why did I rate this book 2 stars instead of 1? Oh! I really liked Luca. He deserved a better book. And I liked River a lot, too. And the fact that this was clearly a take on The Breakfast Club was fun, just...not executed as well as I would have liked.

Part 1

[theloniousbach]

LIVESTREAM: RAVI COLTRANE with Gadi Lehavi, Jason Maximo Clotter, and Ele Salif Howell, SMOKE JAZZ CLUB, 13 DECEMBER 2024, 9 pm set

The ever present elephant in the room, ultimately unfairly, at RAVI COLTRANE gigs is what to do about his father. He was not even two when John died, so he had to learn that music from recordings like everyone else. His mother Alice (whom I criminally don’t know well enough) is the more likely musical influence. Here’s how he handled it: he played Fred Lacey’s Theme for Ernie which is on John C’s Soultrane album without mentioning that fact. It’s a wonderful tune and he explored it in his own way. Then he said he was going to end the set with two tunes by John Coltrane and was amused that there was only one clap, probably because none of us know what to do. He did Expressions which segued into Giant Steps.

This Deadhead loves those liminal regions where it’s neither and both tunes. The hints of Giant Steps beginning to cohere out of the dissolve of Expressions was fabulous. By now musicians have mastered the complex Coltrane changes that befuddled Tommy Flanagan while sightreading it on the original, but equally they all could hint at it while settling into it out of that magical segue. Theme for Ernie had Ravi’s own lyricism and Expressions, like the Ornette Coleman opener Happy House, went out there but not as far as each original reflecting, I think, R Coltrane’s own approach to tunes and melody. Happy House was quite extended riding the back, as did the whole gig, of Ele Salif Howell’s multilayered drums. For all of Coltrane’s solo, bassist Jason Maximo Clotter played a repetitive figure and Gadi Lehavi merely comped steadily, while sax and drums pushed one another. More than once here and throughout the night, Coltrane would turn off mic to play directly with Howell and they took a couple of choruses of Giant Steps together without piano and bass.

Even later in Happy House, both Lehavi and Clotter stretched out freed from narrow roles. Each got lots of space throughout the night. Clotter shows up at Smalls Live regularly, but I haven’t homed in on him, but I will as he is solid and thoughtful. I know Lehavi well from his work with Ari Hoenig where he is strong enough to hang with that propulsive, multilayered leader-drummer while helping him realize the lyrical side of his compositions. With Coltrane, he sounded a little different, still with lyrical moments but not as expansive. Howell isn’t as twitchy as Hoenig but he too is a force behind the kit.

But, of course, it was Coltrane’s gig. His horn is his own. I’m sure his father is in there as he is in most players, but, Expressions and, well, the brooding second tune, he hews closer to the Theme for Ernie/Giant Steps 50s John Coltrane. But again he’s his own voice and somehow that dance with his father’s tunes to close the set cemented that independence. He played sopranino sax on Robin Trower’s The Glide which was very pretty with the sax dancing over a two chord modulation which was a highlight.

Coltrane was in town at the City Winery with Lehavi, Howell, and trombonist Robin Eubanks in early summer after we decamped. I sure would have gone, but I’m glad to have this quite special show.

[newskyillusion]

Harry? Draco?? IS THAT YOU????1

https://www.amazon.com/All-Way-Happy-Kit-Coltrane-ebook/dp/B09QJ2BYRB/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3N19A6HAY34RU&keywords=All+the+Way+Happy&qid=1666437266&qu=eyJxc2MiOiIxLjAwIiwicXNhIjoiMC45OSIsInFzcCI6IjAuMDAifQ%3D%3D&sprefix=all+the+way+happy+%2Caps%2C180&sr=8-1

[what-big-teeth]

Reveal (Cambion Boyfriend, pt. 3)

Gender Neutral Reader x Male Monster [Part 1] [Part 2]

Slight lime ; NSFW-ish

The drive to Cam’s apartment complex is silent, save for the smooth jazz pouring from the radio. You know that not even the masterful tones of John Coltran will be enough to soothe him. The way he grips the steering wheel tersely with paling knuckles is proof. But you choose to remain quiet, watching the familiar scenery glide by until you reach one of the complex’s gates. 

You can’t even fathom what to say in this situation. Not after everything that happened.

With the press of a button on Cam’s fob, the iron is pulled away, allowing the car to drive through. He pulls up right in front of his apartment, located on the first floor. With the awkwardness from the car’s interior still lingering between you two, you’d rather not have to rely on Cam to help you inside. So you call upon your stubbornness and manage to haul yourself up using the handle above the passenger side window. Your legs are still horribly weak from whatever your captors injected into your system. But you don’t want to trouble Cam any further—

A gentle hand braces against your lower back. 

“Need some help?” 

You honestly wish you didn't, but the sweat beading your forehead is obvious proof you do. You nod and lean on his side as you two slowly walk indoors. Everything is as you remember it, even with the few empty water bottles piled on the coffee table and the textbooks littering the carpet. But knowing what you do now…

Cam leads you to the couch. You gladly plop down onto the cushions, wincing from the painful twinge in your back. He swiftly sits by your side, hands hovering at the ready.

“What’s wrong?” 

As the dull throbbing dies down, you huff out a laugh.

“Just thinking how support beams aren’t the greatest form of spinal support.”

Instead of lightening the mood as you hoped, your words only deepen his frown. When you try and meet his gaze, he presses to his feet.

“We should take care of those scratches,” he says, walking away.

And just like before, the same awkward air settles around your shoulders, a growing obvious weight. 

When Cam returns with the first aid kit, you close your eyes and swallow any attempts at small talk. Hesitance wins out. The only sound that emerges from your mouth are hisses as Cam dabs at your sensitive facial wounds with an alcohol wipe. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks. 

Your conflicting thoughts give way to a churning mixture of emotion. Anger, at being kidnapped. At being lied to for so long by your closest friends. By the Moores. Fear from not knowing whether you’ll see Jacqui again; from wondering if any other Hunters know about you. But there’s happiness as well, mainly at being saved. Your mind is too addled, too tired, to formulate any words regardless of how much you want it to. 

You aren’t surprised when you end weeping in reply. 

The careful touch of a q-tip stills for a few moments before resuming. Once finished, you expect Cam to get up and leave. But he stays seated, the heat of his body radiating towards you. From the corner of your eye, you see a rich, golden brown hand reach towards your face. It stops short then falls away. 

You don’t try to stop Cam when he gathers the used supplies and the kit, standing to his feet. Not even as he heads further down the short hallway. He returns a few moments later, carrying a few items. A pillow, a blanket, an oversized shirt, and a large pair of sweatpants. He sets the pile beside you, just a bit too far away to actually feel his presence.

“You’re more than welcome to use the bathroom tonight if you want,” Cam murmurs. He gathers the used materials, the first aid kit, and stands. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

When he walks down the hallway this time, he ducks into his room. The door closes with a soft click.

You’re left sitting on the couch, staring at the provisions he left behind. The idea of taking a long bath or shower greatly appeals to you. But with no energy to start the process, it’s a lost cause. So you settle on peeling off your sweat-tinged clothes and trading them for the clean pair. But you can’t bring yourself to lie down and sleep. 

Part of you doesn’t want this gaping discomfort between the two of you anymore. The other mockingly asks how you even plan to fix...this. The doubt grows louder, telling you that now isn’t the time. That if you sleep, things can go back to normal if only for a while. But a small part of you whispers in reply: when will things be normal, if ever?

The two streams of thought war with each other, back and forth. Until one finally wins out.

It leads you to Cam’s bedroom door and gives you enough courage to raise a loose first. Your knuckles rap against the thick wood three times. No answer. You steel yourself before your bravery wanes and enter his room. 

Cam lies in bed, his back facing the open doorway. For a moment, you almost believe he’s asleep. But the subtle way his shoulder blades tense tell you otherwise. And of course it would. You’ve known Cam for years. Even after learning this new development about him, you still do.

It’s why you’re able to to sit beside him, somewhat closer than you were back on the couch. Why you reach out and gently place a hand on his raised shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. 

“I’m not scared of you, if that’s what you think.” You lick your dry lips and swallow down your building nerves. “You’re still the same dork that loves mythology. The same kid who was horribly protective of his copy of the Matter of Britain. No wonder you were such a huge fan of Merlin while growing up.”

Cam shifts, rolling over to meet your gaze head on. 

“This coming from the same person who asked me to read from that book when we were kids. I’d say that makes you as much of a dork as—oof!”

You smack him with a pillow a few times. 

“That’s total heresy and you know it, Cameron Sims.”

His laughter is contagious as you keep up the attack. But one of your swings misses, and Cam strikes, grabbing at your wrist. With a startled “hey!”, you attempt to wriggle free but Cam’s grip is iron-clad. All your struggling does is draw you closer until you’re straddling him. 

He sits up, still holding your wrist captive with a grin.

“You give?”

“For now,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “But just you wait.”

Cam chuckles deep and low. It’s a sound you didn’t realize you had taken for granted. One you want to keep hearing because this is your childhood friend. And someone you feel more than friendship for. 

You reach out and cup his face, silencing his soft laughter. He stares at you with wide, dark brown eyes made visible by the bright moonlight outside. You smile.

“Can I see the real you? Please?”

Your heart pounds heavily in your chest, the sound flooding your veins and echoing in your head. You think Cam can hear the sound, too. He keeps his eyes trained on you as his appearance shifts again. This time, his black, bat-like wings are tucked against his back. But his scales are just as apparent as they were back at the warehouse. 

Red-slitted eyes surrounded by black sclera regard the way your gaze widens. And you reach up with your other hand, letting your fingertips graze the odd yet faint blood red marks underneath his right eye.

“Are these letters?” you ask.

Cam leans into your touch with a soft breath. 

“Yeah. They spell my demonic name: Caimellus.”

You say his name, repeating the three syllables a few times. You rather like how it sounds on your tongue. 

“They’re faded,” he says, “because my mother was human while my father was an incubus. She was an ex-Hunter, to be more precise.”

Your mind recalls the robbery that took the lives of Cam’s parents. His mother, kind and gentle, and his caring yet stern father were never seen again after that night. The authorities cited the intruders as the cause of their deaths, which makes horrific sense. As does his sudden adoption by his godfather.

“It was the Conclave, wasn’t it?” you murmur. “Is that why you were taken in by Dr. Lane?”

Cam nods.

“He was my father’s trusted ally and another incubus. Once he heard about what happened, he immediately claimed me as my father wished in case he died. Dr. Lane is the reason I’ve been able to lay low and hide my demonic nature for so long.”

The moment of silence between you two is bittersweet in many ways. But you refuse to let it deter you from learning more about Cam.

Feeling emboldened by what’s been shared with you, you keep asking questions. Yes, he can feed off of human energy through sexual contact, but chooses not to. Thanks to Dr. Lane’s careful tutelage, Cam learned how to feed through platonic touch instead. The pinch you give to his side for realizing how he was able to lull to sleep as kids is only acknowledged with a chuckle.

You keep going, letting your fingertips trail and touch parts of his body. He confirms his scales are for defense while his claws are weapons in their own right. So are his fangs and tail, if he so chooses. The horns are more of an intimidation factor than anything else—

A dampened moan interrupts his explanation. Your fingertips have barely grazed the area where his horns and his scalp meet. 

“S-sorry,” he says, sounding a little breathless. “Sensitive area.”

You don’t apologize. Because you aren’t sorry. And while holding his unsure if embarrassed gaze, you can’t help but want more. 

“Can I...I want to thank you for saving me,” you whisper. “But only if you want me to.”

As if reading your mind, his slitted gaze flits down towards your lips before finding your eyes again. 

“Please,” he breathes. 

You lean down and press your lips against his. The kiss is chaste, as much as you wish it wasn’t, because it’s taken all of your nerves just to do this much. You can be satisfied with just this, even if he doesn’t return your feelings. You begin to pull away, only for a warm, steady touch against the nape of your neck to stop you. 

Cam slots his mouth against yours, groaning at the contact. His claws gently scrape against your scalp, making you shudder and gasp. He uses the moment to press his tongue against yours, which you’re more than receptive to. There’s a sharp nip to your lip that you return with a huff of laughter. You “accidentally” let your fingers curl around the base of his horns and slowly rub the black keratin. He growls, a low yet deep sound, as he pulls you close so there’s no space between your bodies. You feel something wind around your waist and give it a brief squeeze.

Eventually, your lungs begin to burn. Just enough to cause some discomfort. You pull away from Cam with one last moan. Heat sears your cheeks from seeing the thin trail still connecting your mouths. It’s broken when Cam smirks up at you.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for years.”

You’ve barely registered his words before his lips find yours again. It takes all your focus to not give in to the softness and warmth of his mouth. 

“S-since when?” you manage before he silences you.

“Senior year.” A scrape of fang. “High school.” The slightest squeeze from his tail and his claw-tipped hands. “Night before prom.”

You force yourself to pull away and bite your bottom lip to ground yourself. When Cam attempts to follow, you press your fingertips against his mouth. But he kisses them, undeterred. You use the moment to catch your breath.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Your fingers are left a little cold by his retreat. 

“Growing up, you only knew me as Cameron: a black, nerdy kid with coke-bottle glasses that was way into mythology and reading. As much as I wanted to tell you while growing up, I didn’t know if you would be okay with knowing me as Caimellus.”

So that’s the reason. This whole time, and even before, he’s been just as unsure as you. But not anymore. You hope he understands when you cup his face in your hands, and skim the pads of your thumbs against his cheeks. That when you press a kiss against the faint demonic lettering staining his skin, he knows. Witnessing the glassy shine to his eyes, you know he does. But hearing the words can’t hurt, either.

“I love you and I want to know both parts of you. Cam and Caimellus. Everything you have to offer, I want, for as long as you want me.”

Your body tips over, landing against the bed leaving you to stare up at Cam. He brushes the back of his knuckles against your cheek and smiles. 

“Will forever work?”

You grin. 

“Of course it will—”

You gasp as his clawed hands dip under your borrowed shirt, trailing up to your chest. All while his tail winds up your clothed leg and gently squeezes. 

“Because I really like hearing you say my name,” he breathes against your neck. 

Your fingers dig into his shirt and pull at the worn fabric. 

“If you want to hear it again, you’ve got a couple of years to make up for. Think you can do it?”

One of his hands slips past the elastic of your sweatpants and you can’t help but lift your hips. 

“In spades,” he promises.

“Sounds good to me.”

[myrecordcollections]

John Martyn

Inside Out

@ Mid 80s Germany Re-issue

*****

Of all the musicians who attempted to marry modern jazz/rock ideas with traditional British folk in the late '60s/early '70s, John Martyn was the most challenging and aggressive. He had others giving him a run for his money, sure -- Richard Thompson attacked the guitar with Sufi focus and clarity; Bert Jansch often employed a sharp, metallic edge in his work; and John Renbourn was capable of guitar maelstroms -- but when it came down to it, no one was as out-there as Martyn, as experimental in their approach, or as violent in their vocal delivery. Martyn could coo with the best of them, but he seemed more at home howling, growling, and slurring his lyrics over wildly distorted -- and Echoplex-laden -- guitar work. And while his early work with wife Beverly often rocked gently like American contemporaries The Byrds or national kin Fairport Convention, his solo albums, starting with 1968’s London Conversation, found him blending American blues, jazz, and world music to startling effect. 1970’s Stormbringer! introduced the Echoplex to his sound, and by 1973’s Solid Air and Inside Out, it had defined it; both albums bare little resemblance to what was going on in contemporary music, let alone folk at that time. But while Solid Air maintained significant footing in folk standards, Inside Out did not. This is Martyn cut loose: long stretches of distorted jazz punctuated by funky drum kit work, Danny Thompson’s slippery, singing double-bass, washes of saxophone, and Steve Winwood’s deft synthesizer coloring.

“It felt natural,” Martyn can be heard saying amidst studio clatter as the album starts, and it’s easy to see why the statement was included on the final recording. For all of Inside Out’s excursions and risks, the record does indeed feel “natural” -- a noted influence of the Coltranes (John and Alice) and their saxophonist Pharoah Sanders. Martyn confessed: “The only reason I bought the Echoplex was to try and imitate Sanders’ sustain on my guitar... I pursued the fuzz box and its various accompanying things just to try and get the sustain that you can get from a sax.”

Subsequently, Inside Out embraces multicultural dialog, with American, British, and African ideas all given equal footing. One of two songs not written by Martyn, “Eibhli Ghail chiuin ni Chearbhall” is the album’s most telling moment. A traditional folk melody is rendered nearly unrecognizable by the long passages of feedback and echo, bringing to mind the work of Brian Eno’s Here Come the Warm Jets. Considering the similarities, it’s not difficult to imagine Eno owning a copy of Inside Out. The second cover, "The Glory of Love," is one of the album’s sweetest moments, a poppy cut of bouncy bass and plucked blues guitar, with Martyn’s worn-in voice sounding genuine and tender.

Martyn’s originals are equally telling of his headspace at the time. Opener “Fine Lines” extols the virtues of friendship, noting the kinship Martyn felt with his collaborators, particularly Thompson, who was one of the few musicians able to keep up with his notorious drug and alcohol consumption. “Make No Mistake” makes explicit reference to said hard-living: "If I can’t be a happy man/ I won’t be one at all/ To be dead drunk on the floor/ To get up and ask for more/ If I can’t get everything I want/ I’ll just get what I can." Maryn’s reputation is legendary; the man was a brawler, prone to exploding, drink-fueled rage, and the music makes no attempt hide this. His voice is most easily recognizable as a punk rock attribute, but his guitar playing is just as defiant. On the largely instrumental “Outside In,” his playing veers from restrained to free-jazz explosive, and “Look In,” buoyed by a tribal, shifting groove, features a bevy of effects pedals, including his signature Echoplex augmented with wah-wah and fuzzed, bluesy leads.

And while Martyn’s work is often defined by its baiting stance, Inside Out is a testament to the struggle between his sneering idiosyncrasies and his desire to create truly transcendent music. “Beverly,” named for his wife, is a gorgeous instrumental, showcasing passion and grace while still incorporating the album's psychedelic touchstones. “Ways to Cry” is similarly unguarded; recalling the pastoral calm of Maryn’s friend Nick Drake, it blends the full band arrangements of Bryter Layter with the soft-focus acoustics of Pink Moon. "If I ever took another one/ I was crying for you," Martyn sings with guilty honesty. “So Much In Love With You” further states the album’s overarching message: “The concept of love is what Inside Out is all about,” Martyn said, and he sings "‘Cause I’m so much in love with you baby/ I just can’t seem to see it clear." The tension between being who you believe you should be and being who you are is ultimately what makes for such a compelling listen. Where previous album’s precariously balanced traditional forms with more experimental ones, the thrust of Inside Out is a personal balancing; the songs are fully out-there, but the spiritual tug of war is still very much occurring.

Martyn’s future work would find him performing with Eric Clapton, Phil Collins, David Gilmour, and Lee “Scratch” Perry while exploring and integrating elements of electronica, reggae, and pop into his music. It’s debatable how listenable later albums like Glorious Fool are, but with an early canon containing so many undeniable gems, Martyn’s legacy is secured as one of the most electrifying, bizarrely singular artists of any genre. He passed away earlier this year, and Inside Out is certainly one of the best ways to remember and honor him. It is a contrarian, deeply personal album, featuring many of his most jaw-dropping songs.

Jason 

[un-nmd]

Recent listening—

John Zorn, Naked City (1989) Reserve judgement till after you’ve heard the likes of “A Shot In The Dark” or “You Will Be Shot” (detect a theme?) for in these Lynchian juxtapositions of the mundane and the visceral, Zorn and co-conspirators laugh in all the faces of the jazz purists, art music graduates, avant-garde cultists—compartmentalisers or cataloguers or labellers, basically. The madness was always there. Zorn was only woke enough to listen to the wind and precipitate what she betrayed of her lover’s broken heart, or hearts: New York, L.A., Chicago, either/or, doesn’t matter, once past a critical mass all tend to the same limit, the wind’s seen ‘em all and they’re all the same. Naked City’s a portrait of order gone to anarchy. Whatever identity the “Latin Quarter” once had is here presented as a frenetic collage of whims; predatory, music liable to combust at any given moment. Likewise “Siagon Pickup” for an oriental equivalent. But sometimes the omens are bad enough that you can anticipate the storm, and even enjoy it, revel in it when it comes. Like on “Reanimator” where Zorn’s freakout heralds some insane climax that’s euphoric for the awakened. And please don’t miss that it’s all awfully hilarious to them as they feel and know that these stoic truths are lost on those yet to accept that all’s gone to shit, yes, even in your ivory towers, your vaults and penthouses and corporation headquarters; there its only letting itself take a bit longer to be known, but chaos’ll come, so you might as well wise up and enjoy it.

Death Grips, The Money Store (2012) Rather a lot to take in upon first hearing. Immediately plainly a refinement of the aesthetic put forth on Exmilitary but now with an entire studio to run around in these kids have wrought havoc on Mr. and Mrs. White’s 8-track ideal—couldn’t come up with a more fitting antithesis to De Stijl (and Mondrian’s, too) if you let the industry wallow another decade. So why’s this defunct Detroit duo in the mind?—cos where are the guitars, man? Every beat’s packed to near bursting with all manner of production craftsmanships (or gimmickries if you see it that way), MC Ride’s tripping bars overlaid—too much matter, really, to be dealt with on the first wave. But you appreciate the covenant this sonic assault bespeaks—this hip-hop New Complexity has room only to deepen from here. So steep in it, and by about round 3 or 4 (depending on how acute your lobes are) you’ll have undergone some sort of desensitisation to this violence in noise—and now you’re in a place to prophesy. Despite Ride’s barely discernible delivery (except on the eponymous hooks to nearly all 13) the ‘point’ of it all somehow gets itself across—it is, unlike the music itself, not very complex, and mainly involves embarrassing amounts of non-specifically directed anger. Dare I say it, there’s no filler on this, it’s a wild enjoyable ride and a happy side-effect to the maximalist production is there’ll always be something to tickle the ear. And when the hooks do come its a righteous clarifying of the chaos that would eventually get old if it stood alone. Plus, theorists can invoke an unholy marriage by ascribing some mutant Bartókian arch form: “Get Got” and “Hacker” as symmetrical sandwiching allegros, “Double Helix” as Nachtmusik? 

Ornette Coleman, The Shape of Jazz to Come (1959) If you’re hearing these albums in the same order I did you’ll get the same shock upon flicking on what you expect to be Coleman’s near-incomprehensible emancipated bebop and instead hearing a tune that’s actually perfectly singable, and moreover, one that you actually know—how’s that? Must be covering some standard which has somehow osmosed itself into your consciousness but—look it up, in fact its a Coleman original! And so where have you heard it before? Ah: Zorn. It seems then that those slurring drunkard articulations on the head to “Lonely Woman” embodied one of the few Coleman melodies (if not the only) that stuck itself to the underbelly of the hard bop canon—shape of jazz to come, indeed. But it wasn’t so much the heads that would (or were, at least, intended to) mould future generations—rather what lay in between: the emancipation of melody, yes, forget keys, forget harmonic structure, and while you’re at it throw your modal jazz out the window. I’ve always felt ‘harmolodics’ to be a poor term because really it ought to be just melody, that element of music which Coleman raised to the highest pedestal; melody alone, melody a priori. But as a pseudo-theoretic buzzword it does just fine.

John Coltrane, Offering: Live at Temple University (1966) First thing you notice is Coltrane’s uncomfortably, blatantly in the fore. There’s a need to turn it up so you can make out the other activity and by the time you’ve done so Trane’s tenor’ll be blaring out so loud it’s like he’s right by you. But the mixing seems to get more favourable as the numbers progress—or maybe you just adjust. Yes, revisiting, he’s up in your grill but not to intimidate. He’s there to send a very personal message. This was, after all, his penultimate live recording before he quit the grid in July of ‘67. He was getting close to something, and to tell it, he’s gotta get close to you. In the old quartet he might’ve had trouble getting so spiritual. You get the feeling that the mystic tendencies were more at home in this more familial second ensemble. There’s a communion of sorts. And technically they’re equally fine: Alice takes up right where McCoy Tyner left off and actually on her solos she’s more in line with her husband’s ‘sheets’ than her predecessor, part of the reason why the closer on this has replaced what used to be my favourite “My Favorite Things”: Belgium ‘65, check it here. And this is no mean feat as Tyner’s comping/the extended solo on that one’s where quartal harmony came of age, or at least in my experience. The opening to the Offering take’s also a real rarity: double bass goes at taut catgut like anything but cool. We’ve heard with what’s now alarming regularity the rhythm section’s other two rip loose free-form and its high time the other essential’s had a stake in the fun. But now let’s discuss what assures Live at Temple a place in legend. Drop in somewhere about halfway through “Leo”. Trane’s just finished up screaming outta his tenor. Rashied Ali’s going at it now, wild thing on the kit like a hurricane, whirling, whirling, an Almighty gnashing of teeth on calf hide for six or so minutes when all a sudden Trane comes—or is it Pharaoh?—some fella a-moanin’ like a lunatic at the rapture; Obeah Man, elder. Some sole black voice monophonic, like plainchant only infinitely more ancient. What, or whom, are they invoking? Seems they’re their own demons—that, or they’re oracles, come to preach the word in sonic semiotic, purveyors of the sound and the fury.

Food For Animals, Belly (2008) These D.C. fellas put out a remarkably consistent aesthetic and with more personality than you might expect from hip-hop in the industrial vein. That is, what you might expect is: An incoherent, arbitrary mish-mash of overvolted sawtooths, saturated found noise, and other cheap effects; at heart no more than a glorified dubstep. That’s where Christgau was coming from with Death Grips as “Skrillex-as-Unabomber or Skrillex-sans-fun”. But this, like Hill’s trio, is undeserving of such scoffing critique. Any incoherence (and sure, there’s plenty) is but part of a higher level narrative that itself is coherent. Hear it like timbre composition—argument between textures drives the musical conflict. Timbre variation dictates form. And sure, the jargon’s a little dry so let’s talk application: lyrically “Belly Kids” retells the ubiquitous suburbian nostalgia that we also found on the Arcade Fire’s Grammy laureate. As words cast mind’s eye far back, music evokes some sort of youth decay in reverse; the same motion but in sonic terms. The opening’s the hardest the beats ever get on this. Only one direction to go from there. So we ease up and ease up, harshness tempering at each fresh verse, vector very clear, then arrival at the final lines, delivered nude, final lines and the final element: the word. And you know them because they’re self-same to those that were spoken in the apocalyptic beginning. Brahms would be proud. A similar clarification but more on the scale of the Tristan resolution occurs between “Maryland Slang” and “Tween Fantasy” in which the former’s verse is resurrected (Mahler would be proud) before the latter’s velvet shimmering manifold, a thousand tiny chimes in a gentle breeze. And there are many more gems to be found in this urban gizzard (hints: “Shhhy” sample, preprise/main event) but I’ve written enough already.

[ellenlucasonlinedatingblog]

Scarleteen Mix #4: Getting Gone and Moving On

You know it's time to go, and you know it's also time to start letting go.  You probably have a whirlwind of different feelings about it. You may be leaving the worst relationship you've ever had, you may find yourself having to let go of what felt like the very best one. Maybe it's a friend, maybe it's a love, maybe it's a FWB, your town, your family, or even just a way of thinking or believing. No matter what it was, what you know it's got to be now is over and what you've got to start to get is over it.

You might feel relieved, tired of struggling to make something work or happen or keep on, glad to just be done. You might also feel angry or sad or sick or guilty or defeated or numb or betrayed or any number of things about what got you here. You might feel braver than you ever have in your whole life, or more terrified than ever before. You might feel surer than sure and determined af; you may feel unsteady, uncertain and reluctant. You might feel just as sad it's over as you feel glad it's over.

You might also be going through all of these feelings and more in endless cycles lasting no more than about 30 dizzy, confusing seconds a piece. Just maybe some of us around here know a few things about this kind of experience. We've been there before or we're there, too, now.

We've got some content on the site that might be of use to you right about now:

For figuring out if you should stay in something or not in the first place: Should I Stay or Should I Go?

If you're leaving something abusive: The Scarleteen Safety Plan

For some big breakup help: Getting Through a Breakup Without Actually Breaking

Some self-care basics: Self-Care a La Carte

If it's a first love you're leaving and trying to get over: First, But Not Last: On Finding, Navigating and Losing First Loves

If you want to try and resolve the conflict before you go (don't forget: there are other reasons to leave besides unresolved conflict or acrimony!): How to Clash With Love: Some Conflict Resolution Basics

If you're thinking about therapy as one way to get help leaving or moving on: Process This: Getting the Most Out of Therapy

You can also always find someone kind that will listen to or talk with you in our direct services. It's sometimes hard to leave, or hard to get all the way through it and to the other side: it can help to get some more support.

And, of course, you can dance and sing it out with us on Apple Music or Spotify:

Bye Bye Blackbird - Miles Davis and John Coltrane

Don't Come Around Here No More - Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers

Kiss You Off - Scissor Sisters

Ex's & Oh's - Elle King

Dancing With Myself - Billy Idol

Gives You Hell - The All-American Rejects

I Love It (feat. Charli XCX) - Icona Pop

You Can't Fire Me, I Quit -  Tacocat

Get Out of This House - Shawn Colvin

Go Your Own Way  - Fleetwood Mac

Walking Away - HAIM

Ashes to Ashes - David Bowie

Dancing On My Own - Robyn

Take a Bow - Rihanna

You Can't Always Get What You Want -  The Rolling Stones

Life to Save - Hurray for the Riff Raff

Nothing Lasts - Matthew Sweet

Over You (feat. A Great Big World) - Ingrid Michaelson

To Live a Life  - First Aid Kit

Goodbye Goodnight - Andra Day

I Will Dance (When I Walk Away) - Katzenjammer

Let It Go (feat. Ethan Tucker) - Michael Franti & Spearhead

I Will Survive  - Cake

Holy - Jamila Woods

Go your own way. It's okay. Take the time you want or need to feel all the things you feel, in all the ways you feel them. But set your eyes or your feet or your wheels on the road to start moving on, too. Happy trails.

Scarleteen Mix

mixtapes

breakup

breaking up

moving on

letting go

get over it

changes

feelings

grief

anger

sadness

relief

growth

relationships

sing-a-long learn-a-long

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