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aquaticalay · 5 years ago

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Siren .Chapter One.

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes fancies you, a singer who performs at a local bar every Monday and Friday night. After a few months of attending your gigs, Bucky finally got the chance to talk to you. One problem: you are New York's sonic screaming vigilante. And the avengers have been trying to figure out who you are for months. (Post-Endgame)

Warning/s for this chapter : cursing??? Is this even a warning anymore???

Warning/s for the series: cursing, violence, eventual smut (which you can skip)

Word count: 1700+ (a little short, but this chapter is more of an introduction)

Disclaimer: I do not own the Marvel characters. The song I'm using in this chapter is 'Crowbar' by Frank Carter and the Rattlesnakes.

Note: I'M FINALLY BACK. I finally found the time to commit to another multichapter fanfic, which I posted the summary to nearly half a year ago. There were people who requested to be on the taglist already months ago, and I will tag them below. If you want to get off the taglist, just let me know! (No hard feelings, preferences change!) Anyway, I apologize for the long hiatus. The reason it took so long was that I wasn't happy with how the first plot outline turned out, so I had to re do it a couple of times and even tweak the original idea a bit until I was finally happy with the plot. That, and the last few months were hectic for me. I also apologize for reuploading this for the third time, but Tumblr did not show this in the tags.

Anyway, I will be posting a new chapter every two days. Let me know if you'd like to be on the taglist!

Something about punk was liberating. It was empowering. It gave freedom back to the people. Back to you. You could say whatever the fuck you wanted, wear whatever the fuck you wanted.

That's why you loved performing in New York's thriving underground scene.

You sang at bars weekly, usually just performing whenever you could get a gig, but a dive bar in Myrtle Avenue, Brooklyn, booked you twice a week. Mermaid's Tail was an all-ages inclusive bar you've been going to for as long as you can remember.

"We're on in 5 minutes," called Lando, pulling his bass strap over his head.

Lando has been your bestfriend throughout both your childhood and adulthood. He was also a member of your band, along with two other great friends you made along the way, Vince and Luna.

"Alright," you say, dramatically standing up from the speaker you were sitting on, a lopsided grin on your face, "let's get the party started!"

The stage wasn't big. Not at all. It just had a slightly elevated floor, and just enough space for Luna's drumkit and a few amps for the guitar and bass.

You head on stage, the crowd still hyped up from the ska band who played before you.

The crowd was as big as two hundred, and it was so diverse, as you liked it. People of all ages, all shades of melanin, and all backgrounds seem to enjoy the music. Some stay at the bar and enjoyed the booze.

You came on stage, a wireless microphone wrapped tightly around your fist like a baseball bat. As Vince started playing a slow and haunting guitar riff, you shouted into the microphone "How are we feeling, Mermaid's Tail?" You said, responded by a couple of enthusiastic 'woo's from the crowd.

"We are a couple of kids from Manhattan called the Submariners, here to play you a few songs. this one is called Crowbar!"

A few people who has been to one of your show recognized it and started to jump up and down. The song started quite slowly, a simple guitar riff, a low bassline, subtle drums and your voice almost a whisper.

"We all come from an explosion in the sky. One day there was nothing and the next there was life. And all the rivers and the mountains and the sun and the moon. And then all of a sudden there's a cloud of doom'

As soon as the chorus strikes, the drums became more complicated, and your voice louder to compliment the beat. The room simultaneously jumped, as if they know the rhythm by heart.

"It's a trap, and there's no comfort fitting in. A fake safety that no one believes in And if it goes against who you think you are It's the death of happiness Go and get the crowbar"

As the song progresses, the crowd became more elated. More energetic, more electric. As a result, you did, too.

"We all fell down from a tired dying star,Star dust on the breeze to fuckin' pick an avatar. From nothing into all and then the next thing to arrive is the terrifying fear of how you're supposed to live your life"

The beginning second chorus invited a welcomed chaos that the audience was enjoying, not caring about anything but the sounds that you make.

"People everywhere will try to bring you down. Those jealous motherfuckers they will try and take your crown"

The instrumentals quited down a bit, leaving room for your emotions, anger and rage, to seep out of your voice like honey.

"It's easier for them to put you in a box, Keep you safely locked away because they hate it when the boat's rocked. But fuck 'em all, they don't tell us who we are. So when they try and lock you up, go and get the fucking crowbar!"

You bent your vocal chords, intentionally making it crack, nearly screaming, like you were hiding in something you'd rather be showing to the world. Of course, this was not the full extent of your vocal chords, but any louder and everyone in the block would have their eardrums bleeding. Lucky for them, you knew your limits and controlled it well.

The last bit of the song, you sang freely, the crowd turning into a moshpit, eventually melting into a pot of adrenaline, sweat and excitement.

Finishing the song, you let out a sigh of relief and a chuckle, "You guys are a fiesty bunch, aren't you?"

As the crowd of 200 roared, you continued to the next song, and the next, and the next, until the gig was over.

One person caught you attention at the corner of your eye. The sharp-featured man sat at the bar with a drink, wearing a black jacket and gloves. His hair was black or brown, depending on the light, tied to a messy bun. His eyes, however, were somewhat still a mystery. He had aviator sunglasses on, though it wasn't that dark a shade. It dark enough so the color of his eyes were hidden, but light enough for you to see the movement of his pupils, where your very motion seemed to act like a magnet to his sight. Something that disturbed you was that he was always there when you were performing, downing unholy amounts of alchohol, but somehow he didn't flinch. His posture indicated that he was always sober. He was alert, never slouched, not even for one second. As much as you tried to ignore him, you couldn't shake off the paranoia.

As your show ended and the band head off the stage to the back room, Lando whispered in your ear discreetly, "Meeting in the back room. Now."

You nodded ever so slightly, and replied, "give me 10 minutes."

And with that, Lando, Vince, and Luna went one way, and you a seperate route.

You made your way through the crowd as a another band took the stage, a thumping rythm accompanying your movements.

You quickly spot the man on the bar. He looks like he was going to leave after finishing his drink, but you swift take a seat on the bar stool next to him. You signal to the bartender and ordered, "two beers!" You exclaimed, handing him a few bucks, "One for me, and one for the gentlemen. Keep the change."

You delicately glanced at the man, who only raised his eyebrow in fascination. Before neither of you could say anything, the bartender slid the bottles your way.

You grabbed it both, and handed one over to the man, who graciously accepted your offer.

You took a sip, then turned to face him, "And does the gentlemen have a name?"

He hestitated, but told you, "James."

"James," you said, a forced sweetness coming out of your voice. You did not bother to introduce yourself. You figured if that if he's seen you perform, he must know your name."You look familiar," you continued, "Have you been at the Mermaid's Tail before?"

"A couple of times," he admitted, taking a sip on his own.

You weren't stupid, nor ignorant. You knew it was more than a couple of times. More like a couple dozen times, but you knew better than to confront him directly. You had to coax his intentions out of him in order to get the truth.

"You like the music?" You asked, and he shrugged, easing into the conversation.You noticed the charm hidden behind his secretive demeanor. "I like the atmosphere."

You didn't know if you should believe what he said, but decided to go along with it. Nodding a little, you chugged the beer until it was half empty and pretended to lose balance on the stool, dropping the rest of the beer on the floor. You let yourself fall into James' arms, propping yourself up, pretending to regain balance. James gently helped you, while you trace every inch of his clothing, trying to find a wallet or a phone— anything that could give you a clue about his identity, but frustratingly, you can't seen to find any. He either forgot everything at home, or was smart enough not to put important things in places where he could get picked. You had a feeling it was most likely the latter than the former.

He helped you back to the bar stool, both his hands on your hips, steadying you. You were aware of the inconsistency on his left grip, as if it was somehow more certain than his right. Unfortunately, his gloves kept you from getting more information.

You forced a chuckle, "sorry," you said, "the adrenaline's still pumping. Y'know, after a gig."

"S'okay," he let out a smile as if your display of joy was contagious.

"Well," you said finally, "I think my friends are waiting for me. See you around, James?"

He nodded sincerely, "See you around."

Turning around, you could feel his eyes linger on you as you disappeared into the crowd.

"There she is!" Vince, rolling his eyes, when you entered the back room, "Finally!"

Vince was on a chair, Luna on the table, and Lando had his eyes glued to his laptop screen, which was on the same table Luna was sitting on.

"Done flirting with mr. sunglasses indoors?" Luna laughed, but you just took the joke lightly and shook your head. "His name is James. And there's something weird about him."

"Besides wearing sunglasses indoors?" Luna taunted the obvious with a cheeky smile, and Vince smacked her upside in the head playfully. "He is sketchy. He's been going to our gigs here for months."

"Maybe he likes music," Vince suggested, "Did you pick his pocket?" He asked, knowing that pickpocketting was your usual method of finding out who people are.

"I tried. Found nothing," you said, a hint of defeat in your voice.

"That is sketchy," Luna agreed.

"Will you shut up!" Lando complained, "I'm working here!"

"Geez," Luna said, getting up from a table, and grabbing a briefcase from a cupboard, "Someone's sensitive." She opened the briefcase, revealing a gun in it. It was a glock 19x, which she and Vince modified specifically for stealth and tactical shooting. "Did you bring the bullet rounds?" She asked Vince. He replied by tossing her two rounds, which she prepared for use. It was always this way. Luna and Vince were the weapon specialists, Lando the tech genius, and you? You did all the dirty work by yourself.

You didn't mind, though. In fact, it was addicting.

"Yes!" Lando suddenly exclaimed. He stood up and faced you, "Suit up, (Y/n)," he said, "I found another lead on our guy."

You smirked, knowing what to do.

After all, you and your misfit friends were musicians by night, a vigilante team by midnight.

Taglist:

@thejourneyneverendsx @ispepeagain @magykal-777 @sfxsucker @justanothergirlwithdemons @ciochesono @allonszassbutt @hennessy0274-blog @chubby-dumplin @talk-geek-to-me @moli1497

Please let me know if I missed anyone!

#Bucky Barnes #bucky #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes imagines #bucky x reader #bucky imagine #bucky imagines #bucky x you

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hms-chill · 5 years ago

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RWRB Chapter 15

Hi y’all! I’m going through Casey McQuiston’s Red, White & Royal Blue and defining/explaining references! Feel free to follow along, or block the tag #rwrbStudyGuide if you’re not interested!

Kensington gardens* (386): The park behind Kensington palace.

Hampton Court Palace (386): A London palace that is made up of both domestic Tutor and foreign Baroque styles.

Hyde Park (386): A large park in London.

Harrods (387): A fancy department store in London.

Long Water (388): A recreational lake in Kensington gardens.

Cullen skink (388): A thick Scottish soup made of smoked haddock, potatoes, and onions.

Maiden voyage (389): A ship’s maiden voyage is its first time out of port; as a term a maiden voyage is the start of something big.

Wellington boots (391): Any type of rubber boots.

Poison oak (392): A weed that grows in the woods and can cause a rash.

Swan song (393): A last effort or performance given before retirement

Punt so hard (393): Punt is a football term, but in this case, it means to play it safe rather than taking a risk for a potentially much larger payoff.

Rebecca Traister (396): An American writer known for her feminist, political work.

Roxane Gay (396): An American writer and professor whose work deals with race, feminism, and sexuality.

Captain America-esque (396): A superhero who, even before becoming a superhero, picked street fights with “bullies” and pretty much anyone he sees taking advantage of someone else.

Hello! US (398): A celebrity/royal news magazine.

Linoleum floor (399): Linoleum is an inexpensive, hardy flooring option common in community centers, schools, and other high-traffic areas that are generally unconcerned with looking nice.

Blue (400): the color associated with the Democratic (liberal) party.

Zilker Park (400): The most popular park in Austin, the hub for many recreational activities and the start of popular hiking and biking trails.

VRA in ‘65 (401): The Voting Rights Act of 1965, which prohibits racial discrimination in voting.

Palmer Event Center (401): A large event center in central Austin.

Girl-next-door (401): A term for a girl who is idolized as sweet; one you grew up near and maybe had a crush on.

Dallas to Austin (402): While it takes ~30 minutes to fly from Dallas to Austin, it takes ~2 hours and 30 minutes to drive.

Protestant God (403): The Republican party is often associated with steadfast Christianity, despite actively doing things that the Bible condemns.

Super Bowl (404): The biggest football game of the year.

Obama v. McCain (404): The 2008 presidential race between Barack Obama and John McCain, when Democrat Barack Obama became the first African American president of the US.

Letterman jacket (405): A letterman jacket is awarded to a high school athlete who has made varsity or been on a team for a certain amount of time.

APUSH (405): Advanced placement US history, a US history course taken for college credit while in high school.

Anderson Cooper (406): Openly gay journalist and TV anchor for CNN.

CNN (406): The Cable News Network, a liberal leaning news station.

1976 Jimmy Carter (406): Jimmy Carter was the American president from 1977-1981. He pardoned Vietnam War draft dodgers on his second day in office, and he is the only US president to have lived in subsidized housing before taking office. His lower class farming background meant that many saw him as a man of the people.

Gerald Ford (406): Following Nixon’s Watergate scandal and resignation (to prevent impeachment), Gerald Ford was sworn in as president. He was president from 1974-1977 and is the only person to serve as both president and vice president without being voted in.

Yellow rose of Texas (407): “The Yellow Rose of Texas” is a song from 1850 singing the praises of a beautiful biracial woman. (listen here)

Wolf Biltzer (408): An American journalist who has been an anchor for CNN since 1990 and is their lead political reporter.

West Side Bastardos (408): Los Angeles Westside is (generally speaking) a younger, well-educated neighborhood (more stats here). “Bastardos” is Spanish for “bastards”.

Gloria Estefan (408): A Cuban-American singer/songwriter who has work in both Spanish and English. (listen here and here)

Whiskey-warm drawl (409): When you drink whiskey, it’s a warm sensation that starts in the back of your throat, then goes down to warm you up from the inside. Whiskey is also commonly associated with Texas/the Wild West.

Canvassed (410): Canvassing is when you go door-to-door encouraging people to vote for a certain candidate.

Hunger Games cannon (410): In The Hunger Games, a canon goes off and an announcement appears in the sky when an contestant has been killed.

Backyard shooting range (411): American gun law is... deeply broken, and Florida in particular is known for being a bit wild.

Mijo (411): A Spanish term of endearment that literally translates to “My son”.

Mafioso (413): A member of the mafia.

Brownstone (414): A type of townhouse common in New York City that can cost up to four million dollars.

Concession call (414): A call from a political candidate admitting that they’ve lost a race.

Oil paintings (415): Every American president has an official portrait of them, traditionally an oil painting.

Library of Congress (415): The research library that officially serves congress and is the de facto national library of the US.

Dried flowers from a homecoming corsage (416): When a girl is asked to her high school homecoming, the asker will typically buy her a corsage, a small bouquet worn around the wrist.

Cordless phone (416): Probably a home phone (did other people grow up with those? Pre-cell phones), which would be used by everyone in the house.

Rec center tutoring (416): Tutoring younger kids is a common volunteer project for high schoolers, and the fact that it’s at a community recreation center means that it is probably offered for free.

Barton Creek Greenbelt (416): A long, thin park that runs through southwest Austin.

Cold-brews (416): A type of iced coffee that has become especially popular in the past few years.

Lavaca (417): A street in central Austin that runs past the Texas State Capital Building.

“Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” (417): A song about how a couple is going to make it through anything together and nothing is going to stop them from achieving their goals. (listen here)

Everything’s bigger, after all (417): A reference to the saying that everything’s bigger in texas.

Old West Austin (417): A very well-off, historic district in Austin, TX.

Westover (417): A road in Old West Austin, presumably the one Alex’s family used to live on.

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*Fun fact, J.M. Barrie wrote Peter Pan here! Another fun fact, Barrie was asexual!

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And that’s a wrap! We did it! If there’s anything I missed or that you’d like more on, please let me know! And if you’d like to/are able, please consider buying me a ko-fi? I know not everyone can, and that’s fine, but these things take a lot of time/work and I’d really appreciate it!

—–-

Chapter 1 // Chapter 14

#rwrb study guide #rwrb analysis #rwrb #red white and royal blue #red white and royal blue analysis #henry fox mountchristen windsor x alex claremont diaz #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #bea fox mountchristen windsor #nora holleran #june claremont diaz #pez okonjo #firstprince #super six #the white house trio

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buckykingofmemes · 6 years ago

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Slay Bells Ring!

As in previous years, I’m pleased to invite all of you to join me in making the silliest holiday music possible! I’ve written Bucky-versions of several well-known seasonal songs, and it’s up to you guys to perform them! Master-level skill is not at all required--we’re just having fun, so no excuses about not being “that good a singer” because you all sound lovely.

Please post your renditions (as video or audio posts) to the blue hellsite, tag it with #Deck the Halls (and Villains) and #buckykingofmemes. The #Deck is my catchall holiday tag, so if you’re not feeling the spirit of the season, you’re welcome to block it. You may also want to send me an ask letting me know that you’ve posted, since tunglr is a little unreliable when it comes to searching tags.

On Christmas Eve, I’ll put together a post with a list of links to everyone’s beautiful songs, so we can all enjoy some lovely holiday tunes.

The full lyrics are under the readmore below, and also in Chapter 39: Slay Bells Ring! of Uphill Both Ways on Ao3.

The songs are:

Winter Soldier’s Gunnin’ You Down (To the tune of Santa Claus is Coming to Town)

I Just Want To Buy Plums (To the tune of Jingle Bells)

Old Stevie (To the tune of White Christmas)

Buchanan Barnes (To the tune of O Tannenbaum)

Bucky the Asset (To the tune of Frosty the Snowman)

Roger, Captain Rogers! (To the tune of the Dreidel Song)

Winter Soldier’s Gunnin’ You Down

(To the tune of Santa Claus is Coming to Town)

You better watch out, you better not cry

You’ll probably bleed out, I’m tellin’ you why

Winter Soldier’s gunnin’ you down

He’s got a hit list, he’s starting a fight

He’s clenching his fist, it’s shiny and bright

Winter Soldier’s gunnin’ you down!

He sees you when you’re sleeping

He knows when you’re awake

His aim is really fucking good and he’s gonna assassinate

You better watch out, you better not cry

You’ll probably bleed out, I’m tellin’ you why

Winter Soldier’s gunnin’ you down

He’s yanking out wheels and firing guns

If you were smart you’d probably run

Winter Soldier’s gunning you down!

I Just Want To Buy Plums

(To the tune of Jingle Bells)

Dashing through the streets

On a stolen motorbike

Jumping over cars

Fleeing for my life!

War Machine’s up high

There’s some angry cat guy

I’m adding to my list of crimes by

Running traffic lights!

Oh! A-P-B out on me! Please leave me alone!

Superheroes after me but i want to go home!

Oh! A-P-B out on me! Please leave me alone!

Please call Steve, he’ll vouch for me

I just wanted some plums!

Old Stevie

(To the tune of White Christmas)

I’m dreaming of the old Stevie

That little punk I used to know

He was much smaller–still a brawler

In Brooklyn oh so long ago.

I’m dreaming of the old Stevie

With every Nazi that I fight

Before we got frozen…before the explosions

The trenchfoot, marching and frostbite…

I’m dreaming of the old Stevie

Who had less muscles but more brains

Sure, he’s less sickly and he heals quickly

But he keeps on jumping out of planes

Buchanan Barnes

(To the tune of O Tannenbaum)

Buchanan Barnes, Buchanan Barnes,

How metal are your phalanges!

Your fist so shiny and so bright

(Not great for sneaking in the night)

Buchanan Barnes, Buchanan Barnes,

How metal are your phalanges!

Bucky the Asset

(To the tune of Frosty the Snowman)

Bucky the Asset

Was a sad and tortured soul

With a big trench knife

And a heart that froze and

A homicidal goal

Bucky the Asset

Is a ghost story they say

He was lost in snow

But the nazis know

He can thaw and be re-froze

There must’ve been some science

To that evil brainwipe chair

For when they placed it on his head

He went all “vacant stare”

Bucky the Asset

Was as dead as dead could be

Except on days

When he went to slay

Certain wealthy families!

Bucky the Asset

Knew he’d shaped the century

So when Steve said “Run!”

He just shot his gun

And said “Bucky? That’s not me.“

Over the city

With a big gun in his hand

Strutting here and there

All around midair

Where they made a final stand

He fought with Steve who yelled out “Please–

You’re Bucky–please just stop!”

And he paused for a long moment when

Steve let his shield drop!

Bucky the Asset

Had to hurry and escape

But he waved goodbye saying,

“Don’t you die

I’ll be back again some day”

Punchity, Punch, Punch

Look at Bucky go

Punchity, Punch, Punch

Who’s Bucky–he don’t know!

Roger, Captain Rogers!

(To the tune of the Dreidel Song)

I have a little radio

For talking in the field

And when I use it badly

Cap says “Keep ‘em sealed!”

Roger, Captain Rogers!

No puns about the bomb

Roger, Captain Rogers!

No chatter on the comms.

I have a little walkie

For secret late-night ops

But if say a swear word,

Stevie says to stop

Language, Language, Language!

No swearing on the line!

Language, Language, Language!

I guess that’s fuckin fine!

I have a little earpiece

For undercover work

But Stevie overhears me

Call some assclown a “jerk”

Roger, Captain Rogers!**

No jokes about his mom

Roger, Captain Rogers!

No chatter on the comms.

I have a little wire

I wear under my shirt

But then when I get injured

Steve hears the things I blurt

Language, Language, Language!

No swearing on the line!

Language, Language, Language!

I guess that’s fuckin fine!

I have a special playlist

For flights in the Quinjet

Stevie says to mute it ,

But whoopsie, I forget!

Roger, Captain Rogers!

No awesome winter songs!

Roger, Captain Rogers!

No chatter on the comms.

#Deck the Halls (and Villains)#slay bells ring!#bucky barnes #bucky king of memes #this is going to get reblogged a couple times today #just fyi

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dontshootmespence · 6 years ago

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Only Time Will Tell

For those of you that expressed an interest, here is the first chapter of the original fantasy novel I wrote/am now editing. I would love feedback, CONSTRUCTIVE ONLY. What do you like? Not like? Does it flow? How could it flow better? Are you intrigued? Better from third or first person? Do I have any facts wrong regarding life in Argentina? Etc, etc, etc. Tagging people who expressed an interest: @ultrarebelheart @stunudo @spencer-is-too-perfect @naturallytom @veroinnumera @mysticpansy @notsopersonalcharlie @casicxs @devils-girl-98 @spookyyymulder @blowing-mikey

The lights started to dim in El Ateneo.

Lucena’s vision, already obstructed by the hanging red theater curtains, which still remained after the bookstore’s restoration, became further obstructed as the lights were one-by-one shut off for the night. It was 10 o’clock.

As she did every night, she stood up from the classics section and looked toward the stage, which had been converted into a seating area for the store’s patrons, as well as those that just wanted an escape from the monotony of daily life in Buenos Aires. She didn’t need an escape; she’d just grown up in the bookstore. It held so many great memories; hide and seek with Severino when they were younger, ducking in between shelves and underneath tables as their mother picked out a book or two; either her fifth or sixth birthday party, she honestly couldn’t remember, where she and her friends acted out a play on the stage, believing themselves to be the actors and actresses of old, enchanting the nearby patrons; sitting in her father’s lap against the back wall at the age of three, listening to his comforting voice as she was lulled off to sleep before being carried home and placed in bed. El Ateneo held the memories of her childhood, the comfort in the midst of her uncertain teenage years, and the hopes of her future; Lucena imagined that this place would always be important to her in one way or another.

Ever since she started high school a couple years earlier, she had made a habit of finishing her homework at the store and then immersing herself in whatever book was currently holding her attention until the store closed at 10 PM; right now, it was a memoir called The Long Goodbye that caught her eye a year before and had finally come to the store. She normally didn’t read memoirs, but she liked the cover art – it was soothing, so she picked it up and was surprised by how easily she was engrossed by it.

Watching as the other patrons descended the stage to return home, she began to dance to the slow and sensual tango that floated through her mind, thinking that the theater’s performers, architects and patrons would be more than happy to know that their beloved theater had been turned into a beautiful bookstore. The stage had hosted some of the most famous tango singers, songwriters, musicians and composers in the world. Ignacio Corsini, Roberto Firpo, even Carlos Gardel – the most prominent figure in the world of tango - had graced that stage at one point or another.

It was their mutual love of Gardel’s music and the city of Mendoza that had brought her parents, Alma and Amelio, together in the late 1990s, so The King of Tango held a special place in Lucena’s heart. Without him, there was a distinct possibility that her parents would have never met and she wouldn’t be where she was now. She spun around, dancing with herself and not caring who saw, when she was stopped by one of the store’s employees.

“We’re closing,” he said, smiling at her carefree spirit. Lucena had the ability to inspire lightness in everyone she crossed paths with, no matter what the circumstances were.

She took the opportunity to pack up her messenger bag, black cotton with an intricate yet soft red rose embroidered on it, filling it up with her notebooks, pens, pencils, textbooks and everything else she had strewn across the floor for the past few hours. With the bag full to bursting slung over her shoulder, she headed toward the exit for her short walk home. After leaving the bookstore at 10, or just before, depending on how distracted she was, she would return home where her mother would be sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of hot tea to ask her precious, only daughter how her day had been and what she’d learned. Lucena had been lucky. Most of her friends and acquaintances had strained relationships with both of their parents, but she was different. She and her mother had been amazingly close ever since she could remember and their nightly talks had only brought them closer over the years. Anything she put her mind to, anything she wanted to pursue, anything she wanted to be – her parents had encouraged, allowing her to pick her own path and become her own person. It didn’t matter how much they wanted to keep her close or how worried they were about her future; they realized the need for her to live her own life and make her own mistakes.

Unlike her relationship with her mother, Lucena’s connection with her father hadn’t had the chance to grow in the same way; her fondest memories of him had been sitting in the bookstore as a little girl. Living in Barrio Norte, one of the richest areas in Buenos Aires, cost a lot – and it wasn’t just about the money. Her father worked day in and day out, six days a week from seven in the morning to seven at night. Being out the door at 5:30 AM and asleep by 9 or 10 meant that Amelio had very little time to spend with his daughter and son, Severino – Sev for short. She couldn’t deny that she appreciated all he did for the family, but Lucena did wish he were home more often. Plus, Severino really needed him - now more than ever. At 13 years old, Sev, or sometimes Rino, as she called him, was at a crucial point in his life and while their mother tried to be both mother and father to him, there were certain things that Sev needed his father for. Just this year, he had become more withdrawn and without their father around to help him through the world of growing up, Lucena was afraid Sev could fall into the wrong crowd. Maybe he was just withdrawing in general and even their father couldn’t help, but none of them would ever know if her father was never around.

As she walked toward the exit, already having switched the heavy bag to the opposite shoulder, she took in the beauty and tranquility of El Ateneo. No matter how many times she stepped through the doors, no matter how long she spent nestled in the crooks and crannies of the never-ending bookcases, she couldn’t get over the splendor of it all. A few other patrons were still in the store, so she allowed herself to linger, staring in awe at the domed ceiling, which depicted a metaphor for peace after WWI. An Italian artist named Nazareno Orlandi had painted it and as an aspiring artist, Lucena was continuously in awe at the painstaking detail and vibrant colors. Following the dome downward, she was met with the cream-colored walls, which were now bathed in gold under the slowly dimming lights. Detailed gold trimmings decorated the columns and former theater boxes – which now sported bookcase upon bookcase rather than plush, red seats. Despite the restoration having been completed around the turn of the century, the bookstore still maintained all the charm of its days as a theater and boasted an architectural style that perfectly blended European grandeur with Argentinian modernity.

Reluctantly, she opened the door and left the comfort of the bookstore to head home, reveling in the feel of the cool, summer night. A slight, damp breeze floated toward her back, coaxing her forward, past the rows and rows of modern high rises, old European architecture, shopping malls, medical offices and local parks; the green grass of suburbia stuck out like a sight for sore eyes in the midst of city life, serene ponds with floating ducks a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of people going about their days. It cost a lot to live there, but Barrio Norte really had it all, at least to her - the feeling of a big city mixed with the quaintness of suburbia. It just depended on where you went. This city had always felt like home and although it had its ups and downs, as did most places she was sure, she couldn’t have imagined a better place to live.

She sighed as she felt a drop of rain hit her eye. Buenos Aires never had a dry season, so her thick, curly, dark locks never got a break from the overwhelming humidity that always accompanied the rain; she’d hate it if she wasn’t used to it by now. Reaching for the side of her book bag, she grabbed her Edgar Allen Poe-inspired umbrella and opened it, just in time to block herself from the gentle, but steady flow of rain. As she walked, she made a mental note to jokingly complain to her mother about the repetitious weather of Argentinian summers. She’d been reading ever since she was a child, so when she was out with her family and saw the umbrella laden with quotes such as “We loved with a love that was more than love” and “With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion,” Lucena found herself obsessed with it and that Christmas it had been her favorite gift.

Another drop of rain made its way into her eyes, which was when she looked up to see a small tear in her favorite accessory. It was nearly five years old, but she was still devastated it was at its end; the umbrella was one of the most amazing gifts she’d ever gotten from her parents and it reminded her of a time when life was a little simpler and the family more connected than it had been these past few years.

She was only a block or so away from home when the rain started to pick up, along with the wind. Strong gusts pushed and pulled the umbrella every which way and when she went to push the mass of black curls out of her face, she lost her grip, gasping as the umbrella was wrenched out of her hands and dragged down the block. Not wanting to let it go, she tried her best to run after it, but the wind had become too erratic and the umbrella was now in the air, entangling itself in wires, tree branches and high-rise balconies. With a heavy heart, she turned away, heading back in the direction of home, doing her best to shield herself from the rain with her sweatshirt.

Maybe one day she would be able to find the same one and buy it herself, but even as the thought occurred to her, she knew it wouldn’t feel the same; it held too many great memories. Her only hope was that something else would make memories she could hold on to. Was it stupid that she wanted to cry? She thought so. It was just an umbrella after all, but once she talked to her mother, she’d probably tell her just what she needed to hear – that anything can carry a memory, and just because that thing is gone, doesn’t mean the memory is; it still lingers.

She turned the corner to Montevideo, only a few hundred feet from her high rise. Now covered in rain, Lucena gave up trying to shield herself, allowing the soaked hood on the saturated sweatshirt to flop off her head. The walk home and loss of her umbrella had soured her mood. It could’ve been the rain, but she swore there were tears walling up against her brown eyes, fertile as the earth being watered under her feet. All she wanted was to return the bookstore and pretend like nothing else existed, but she pushed forward, her apartment building within sight. How could an umbrella put her in so foul a mood?

Her mother’s car wasn’t visible. Had she gone out to grab something at this hour of the night? Lucena couldn’t imagine what could’ve driven her mother to leave home so late at night, except maybe tea. Their nightly ritual had become such a source of joy for the both of them that if they had run out, and she thought she remembered being down to the last few tea bags, her mother might have gone out to pick some up.

With her key already in hand, she headed up the four floors to her apartment, thankful to finally be out of the rain and away from the wind. Maybe it was the bad mood she was in, maybe it was the rain-soaked clothing or maybe it was the fact that she hated walking up stairs, but all of her limbs felt heavy. She turned the key in the lock to see Sev at home and awake, rather than her mother waiting for her in the kitchen, luminous, sleepy smile and all.

“Father’s not in bed either,” he said, looking as confused as she.

“So mama’s not home?” she asked, fearing what both parents being out of the apartment could possibly mean. One of them was always home this late at night.

Sev shook his head. “I’m scared,” he whispered, his full lips quivering underneath the peach fuzz that was his new and quickly incoming mustache. “They’re never both out at this time of night.”

She didn’t want to panic, but Sev was right. Sometimes one was out, but it had been ages since the last time she and Sev had been home alone so late at night. Not willing to accept Sev’s observation and fearing the worst, she walked around the apartment, opening doors and scanning each room, making sure that neither of them was home. Even if just one of them was home, it would be enough to make her feel better, to make the tightness in her chest go away. It was suffocating, but she had to calm herself again before meeting her brother out in the kitchen. She was the older sibling after all, and in the absence of their parents, she felt the need to be his protector - make him feel better – live up to the name Valiente; it was easier said than done.

When she finished scanning the apartment, she returned to the kitchen, willing her mother to appear at the kitchen table. But Sev was still the only one there, cracking his knuckles and pacing back and forth in front of the front door. Sev had always been the more skittish of the two of them, but right now, he was bounding back and forth almost like one of those old video games.

“They’re really not here,” Lucena said warily. “Where could they be?”

As soon as the words were spoken, the key turned in the lock and the weight on her heart lifted. They were home. All was fine. But as the door opened, she and Sev immediately knew something was wrong and her heart sank once more. Their father, Amelio, walked into the apartment soaking wet, still in the clothes he wore to work, wearing a blank expression on his face.

“What’s wrong?” Sev whispered, patting their father on the shoulder as he sat down at the kitchen table.

“What happened? Where is mama?” Lucena choked, the tightening in her throat threatening to cut off her ability to breathe. Without exactly knowing the answer, the tears began to well up in her eyes; nearly bursting forth when second after second, her father couldn’t find the right words to say.

“Earlier this evening, your mother said she was running out to the store,” he started, the flatness in his voice unlike anything Lucena had ever heard before. Despite Amelio’s serious and hard-working nature, he had always been animated and loving, so hearing his voice with next-to-no affect was unsettling. Without looking up from his clenched hands, he continued, “On her way back she…she got into an accident.” He looked up, glancing between his children over and over again, before tears of his own fell silently down his face. “She…” he said, his voice cracking as his head fell into his slightly calloused hands, “she was rushed to the hospital, but was gone before they got her there.”

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

What? Her mother was gone? She was only 16 years old. Her mother was only 40 – she couldn’t be gone yet. It wasn’t possible! Was it? It wasn’t fair! Lucena doubled over, clasping her stomach in searing pain, and letting the heated tears in her eyes fall to the ground. A loud screeching filled her ears. All she wanted was for it to stop. But the she realized it was the sound of her own strangled cries.

Sev dropped to his knees on the kitchen floor, open-mouthed and skeptical of his father’s words. How had this happened? She needed answers, but she was unable to form words, let alone a coherent thought.

“How?” Sev asked. He wanted to say more; there was so much going on in his head, but the one word was all he could manage. When Lucena heard his question, she snapped to attention, needing to hear an answer. Needing to make sense of the here and now. Had she not known where her father was sitting and where her brother was sitting, she wouldn’t have been able to identify them; her tears flowing like a steady stream and blurring her vision.

“When she was on her way back from the store, another car was coming at her head on,” Amelio mumbled. He couldn’t even muster the strength to lift his head from his hands. “She tried to swerve to avoid them, but when she did, she drove straight into a tree. The impact was so bad that the car flipped over twice and ended up in a ditch. The doctors believe she was gone as soon as she hit the tree.” He said more steadily, as if the fact that she went quickly made up for the fact that she was taken away at only 40 years old.

“What happened to the other car?” Lucena spat angrily. How the hell could any of this be happening?

Amelio shook his head. “They don’t know. The other car and your mother didn’t hit each other, so there will be no evidence on either vehicle.”

“And they didn’t stop?!” she screamed. Her throat felt raw as the bile rose up.

“The authorities believe the person was drunk and that’s why they were on the wrong side of the road and didn’t stop.” Her father hung his head between his knees. “My Alma,” he cried. “Mi Reina…We didn’t have enough time.”

Lucena looked up, tears dried and now replaced with fuming anger. Her brother just stared at the wall, numb, unable to say anything. After a few painstakingly long minutes, during which time she felt like time had stopped and the world had ceased to exist, her father opened up his palms and gazed at its contents with a mixture of happiness and sorrow, grief and guilt.

Her limbs had felt heavy earlier on in the night – how long ago was it? Five minutes? An hour? She had no concept of time. Once she managed to convince herself to get up off the floor, her arms and legs felt even more weighed down than before – like she was tied to the floor by concrete blocks. Everything in her body told her to try and comfort her brother, but he couldn’t move; he sat there, mouth dry and eyes still filling with tears, unable to handle anyone’s emotions but his own.

Amelio began crying freely once more as he watched his children in varying degrees of shock and pain. They were far too young for this. “Lucena,” he said, opening his palm and showing her its contents, “Your mother always wanted you to have this.”

In his hand was her mother’s necklace - an ouroboros. Her mother had never gone a day without it. It was still hers. How could Lucena take it? Her mother wasn’t gone…she wasn’t…she was going to come home…right? This was all a bad dream? As Lucena reached out to take a closer look, feeling the heaviness of the pendant in the palm of her hand, she started to cry again, coating the pendant in the bitterness and sadness of a life gone too soon.

#only time will tell #original writing #literally opening up my entire fucking heart at this point #my supernatural au will bring up more of my personal feelings #but this is my personal writing #nothing to do with fandom #if you are going to say something mean please kindly fuck off #thank you :D

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lauralikesbaking · 6 years ago

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Feedback on my short story?

Hello! So as a writing exercise I wrote a short story based on one of my secondary characters to understand the character more and now I have a completely different character than the one I started off with. And now I’m hoping to get some feedback on the character and my writing style.

The short story just mainly follows the inner dialogue of the character, Jack Drummond. He’s the lead singer of a band and he’s supposed to be writing music but he’s having a bad bout of writer’s block and anxiety. His label creates a contest - Jack is going to pick a fan with an original song the fan wrote and produce it in his studio. It goes into his back story of how he became a musician and a certain gay love interest, and why he chooses the winning song.

The book I’m writing is going to follow the contest winner’s point of view - this is like a prequel to that. The book is going to focus on how music production works and what it’s like to work up close and personal with your favorite band.

Anyway please and thank you in advance!!

Shit. Shit. Shit. Absolute shit.

Jack Drummond was lying on his back on his old leather sofa, cradling his laptop between his stomach and his thighs. Scattered around him, stuck in between the cushions and on the floor, were various open bags of beef jerky and peanut m&ms. A couple of empty cans of Monster energy drink were on the coffee table beside him.

Jack had lost count of how many nights he had spent in the studio. He was trying to force himself to write something, anything. It had been over two months and he hadn’t been able to write a single lyric, melody, or even a decent beat to work off of. He was sifting through his library of saved voice memos on his computer, hoping something would spark inspiration. He had over 500 tracks of recorded material, and he had so far been unsuccessful..

So much fucking shit.

His voice memos contained different melodies, drum beats, harmonies and various compositions that had come to him on the fly. Scores and instrumentals he drafted while he grocery shopped. There were harmonies inspired by a flock of sparrows nesting in the trees who called out to each other. Composed guitar riffs and percussion to match the beat of his nervous energy while sitting in interviews. He’d be on the toilet in the middle of the night and find that his hands would be tapping out a rhythm. It never seemed to matter where he was, or what he was doing, or what time it was - there was always music in his mind.

For the last two months however, his mind had been quiet. His normally restless hands remained steady at his sides. His knees didn’t bounce when he sat. He wasn’t walking to the pace of the half formed song. There wasn’t a soothing lullaby in the back of his mind either to lull him to sleep. He was no longer overwhelmed by the music notes no one else could hear. His brain remained stoically and numbingly silent.

Jack reached the last voice memo. A jarring, pop beat played out from his speakers and just as soon as it started playing, he hit the spacebar, cutting off the music. He groaned, rubbing his hands over his eyes that were sore from staring at his computer screen from too long. He had listened to all 500 recordings he had made over the last three years and every single one of them were absolute crap.

He was supposed to be working on demos for a new album. Now that the Archives cycle was over, he was due to hand in 10 to 12 new songs in a year and a half from now. Usually, around this time after the last cycle had ended, he would have handed in five, different sounding demos. His label would then approve the ones they liked and would tell him to write more like them. By now, he should have already had ideas lined up that he had thought of while he was way on tour during the long bus commutes from city to city. He had some half assed ideas, but when he recorded them listened to them, he’d just as soon as scrap it.

His band mates suggested that he’d take some time to do some solo research and travel to a couple of cities famous for music. He decided on the U.K., hoping the country’s old rock sounds and history of producing world famous bands like the Beatles and Queen would give him inspiration. He toured all the old famous recording studios; Abbey Studios, Olympic Studios, and Trident Studios. He visited the venues and cafe’s where The Who had first played at. He browsed through vintage record shops and scored a couple of rad guitars that he couldn’t wait to play around on. He even went as far to travel to Scotland, but the only thing he gained from that trip was a severe hangover after being challenged by a local to a drink off in the pub. It turned out the pub had a fun time tricking Americans into drink offs, get them completely wasted, and then take their photo and add it to their “Make Americans Drunk Again” Wall of Fame. Jack returned home to the states with two new guitars, a severe headache, and still no new ideas.

He dreaded the meeting between him and the label when he returned. He knew that once he explained to the label he still hadn’t thought of anything new, they would threaten to let him go. There was no point for a label to continue to support a musician who couldn’t produce music.

Instead, the label had suggested the fan contest. For one week, Jack would work with a fan one on one with the fan’s original song and produce it in his studio. Jack wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of having a fan shipped out here. It wasn’t that he despised or was afraid of his fans, even if he’d get the uncomfortably personal question at almost every meet and greet, or the time he was gifted a handmade doll of himself made with the fan’s own hair. He loved his fans, and he was grateful for their unyielding love and support of the band. It was himself he didn’t trust. He was afraid that he would disappoint the fan, that the fan would show up, eager to produce their song and Jack still wouldn’t have any fresh new ideas. The winning song is supposed to be released digitally at the end of the week of the fan’s stay, and if those digital sales and streams tanked, it would be Jack’s fault.

. The contest was a good idea. Sometimes working outside of your own work to someone else’s sound sparked creativity. But he also knew the contest was the label’s last ditch effort to get him writing again. If he didn’t, then Jack would know for certain; he would be done. He’d be Jack Drummond, former lead singer of the band 5 Years From Now, officially washed up at 27 years old.

Jack ran a hand over his tired face, feeling the scratchy stubble that had started to grow across his chin and jawline. It had been over a month since he bothered to shaved. He didn’t have any gigs, music videos, photoshoots or interviews he had to prepare for. He wasn’t supposed to be assigned to one for a while anyway. He was supposed to be using the time away to write music.

With an exasperated sigh, he closed out of his iTunes library and opened up Twitter. He ignored the hundreds of notifications he would get daily from fans tagging him in posts. In the search bar, he typed in #5YFNMYSONG. The page reloaded and displayed all of the fan entries, from most popular to most recently uploaded. The contest had closed a few days ago, but fans were still submitting entries.

Jack was responsible for picking a winner. Each of his band members and his team at the label were helping him sort through the entries, but in the end Jack would have the final say. The problem was there were literally thousands of entries. Word had spread about the contest, and aspiring musicians from all across the country were entering. The entries had a wide range of aged contestants, the youngest he had seen being about ten years old to contestants in their 20s.

They couldn’t help but remind him of his time in Hollywood when he was on Great American Voice, the country’s singing competition. There were thousands of people who had tried out over the course of the few days he was there. They had driven from all over the tri-state area. There were people of all ages, which had surprised Jack since the show had only ever cast competitors ranging between mid teens to mid twenties. There were little kids dragged in by their parents who hoped to make money off by sticking them in front of cameras. There were adults who hoped to at long last chase their dream of pursuing music. And everyone he talked to had a deeply personal, traumatic, backstory; one girl had been abused by her father up until she was 13 years old; an 18 year old boy suffered from severe bouts of depression. There was another girl who had at last minute decided to enter because she wanted to make her recently departed mother proud. These were the type of contestants who got film time with the celebrity judges, and that was when Jack realized what they were doing. They were using their trauma, deaths, mental disorders, any type of leverage they could to get themselves filming time with the celebrity judges.

Several fans who uploaded videos to his contest were doing the same. They would spend a few minutes before performing their song to explain their own backstories of depression, anxiety, death of a loved one, abuse, and other various traumatic experiences, and how music has helped them become stronger. He wanted to believe their stories. But he wasn’t interested in selecting a fan just because it was their parent’s dying wish. If they were talented on top of their tragic backstory, then great. But Jack needed someone who was both talented and sparked his own creativity.

Truthfully, Jack hated singing competitions, and he despised the fact that this fan contest was essentially just another form of one. At least this way, he could just choose one person and be done with it. He knew first hand the true toxicity of reality competitions. It had been over ten years since he was on Great American Voice, but the memories still burned in his mind.

It was difficult from the start. In the beginning he was sectioned off into group harmonies with contestants who thought they were better than everyone else and tried to take charge. Those first few weeks of group harmonies and group performances were tests to see how well you collaborated with the other contestants. The test was designed to make you feel uncomfortable. Really, they were just picking out anyone who succumbed to the stress early on and send them home.

As Jack advanced through the weeks, he found each week was always harder than the last. There was constant pressure to sound great, look great, and be great. You had to convince the judges and the fans each week to vote you back for the next round. It didn’t matter if he nailed Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” last week. If you got a bad review from one of the judges, it could cost you your spot on the show. Soon sounding and looking great weren’t enough. There was always something new added each week. Photoshoots, interviews, and costume fittings. Charities, children hospital visits, school visits, parade appearances and sponsorship commercials. And you were still expected to do four to five hours of vocal rehearsals. The schedule was endless.

By the time Jack was finished with the show he had lost about 15 pounds and was struggling with episodes of insomnia and depression. Jack thought he’d be relieved when he was kicked off the show. He could finally sleep in. He could finally eat whatever he wanted and not what his vocal coaches and stylists told him to avoid. He could finally relax from being under the spotlight, from being picked apart week from week by his stylists, the publicists, the judges and from the public. He didn’t have to be followed by camera crew from the moment he woke up to when he lay his head down to rest in the evening.

But he wasn’t relieved. He’d lay awake at night, angry that he had come so far in the competition, and with a single vote, he was kicked off. He had developed his own sound on the show. He loved working on new covers each week with his production team, and each Friday night he couldn’t wait to get on stage and show everyone what he had been working on. But the show had left him high and dry. He beat himself up, blaming himself for not being good enough to make it to the next round. He self critiqued constantly, watching and rewatching his performances, trying to figure out where he went wrong, and what he could have done better. The sickening truth was, he wasn’t done being in the spotlight. He wanted it more.

When he made the decision to stay in L.A. after the Great American Voice LIVE! Tour concluded, he jumped right back into the music scene, scoring a small one album record deal with Kathoulos Records. But that had been a mistake. Right before the album was supposed to released, the label was taken over by new management and dropped Jack and his band. The label refused to sell them back the rights to their album and the album was never released.

The days following the label drop crept from Jack’s memory like a slow, sinking infestation. The black, bleak days when he continued to make desperate attempts to get resigned by a label. The swell of bitter disappointment of doors slamming in his face over and over again; the paranoia of over hearing security guards murmuring into their ear pieces. The nights he spent stumbling through bars and dark alleys in a dizzy, drunken hazes…

He closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose. He counted to four and exhaled slowly through his mouth. The flashbacks were coming at him more often now that his mind wasn’t distracted with constantly writing music. It was why he was so desperate to get back to writing music. When his mind was silent, everything else he suppressed began to resurface. Each night he lost more sleep, and each night it would whisper in his ears, reminding him of who he used to be. Who he still could be. They would become louder and more insistent as the days and nights blended together. He heard it now as he struggled to slow down his heartbeat, quickly rising into panic. He needed to get back to writing music, and soon.

Not all of his memories from those years were bad. He still talked with his vocal coaches from time to time. His real saving grace during those first few months was his hotel roommate, Danny, a boy his age from Mississippi. They had become fast friends when they discovered they had a bunch of shared interests - music, movies, online gaming. Jack had never become so close with someone so quickly. Maybe it was just the pressure of the competition, and it was his own selfish desires to meet someone who wasn’t trying to sabotage his performances. When Danny and Jack had both made it to the top ten, they had celebrated by sneaking cheap champagne into the hotel room. They had gotten deliriously drunk and were jumping on their beds belting Queen. Danny had hopped from his bed to Jack’s, tackling Jack on to his back. As they lay there, laughing and out of breath, he had noticed the precise shade of green Danny’s eyes were. Clover green with specks of silver, like morning dew sparkling in the sun. The way his heart had pounded in his ears.

Jack forced his attention back to his computer, yanking himself out of the memory. He refused to let himself go back there.

He scrolled through the entries. Twitter automatically displayed the most popular entries first, and then the most recently added. Right now, the fan favorite was a girl from Tennessee named Missy Maeve, the red headed version of Ariana Grande, except instead of singing about goddesses and ninety nine problems, Missy Maeve sung in a strong country voice about being true to yourself in a world of fake media. She stared confidently into the camera, pouring all of her energy into the performance.She had spared no expense in creating her video, using professional cameras and lighting, and had an entire back up band performing behind her as she danced around on stage with her long red ponytail swinging hypnotically behind her.

Right away, Jack knew she wasn’t the one. He had seen these types of artists before. They may have sounded and looked good, but at the end of the day, they weren’t connecting with the music. They’d be more focused on how they looked and sounded to other people. A real musician didn’t care about performing; he played music for the sake of music. He didn’t give a fuck who listened. He also would rather be caught dead than write a fluff piece about being true to yourself.

There were several decent entries, but none of them had what Jack was looking for. Jack wasn’t even sure if it existed in other musicians. He was searching for the moment when the musician was no longer a musician. It was those moments he felt himself, when he became so in tune with the music itself that reality fell around him. He’d forget he was on stage, performing in front of hundreds or thousands of fans. The music would fill him so completely, it was like he was the music. Every time he performed like that, it would leave him shaking and exhausted. It was the best kind of high.

He sifted through the videos. He felt guilty knowing he couldn’t possibly watch all of them. There were just so many. His label assured him not to worry about watching them all. The label was responsible for looking at the numbers - meaning who ever had the most likes and views. The band was free to look through them at their convenience, just as long as he had an ideal entry picked out by tomorrow.

There were a lot of good videos - too many good ones, in fact. A lot of the fans showed off their riffing skills, as if that was the one vocal skill that proved how well of a singer they were. Jack secretly despised artists who used too much riffing in their songs. It always sounded like the artist was trying to say “look at me! Look out amazing I am at singing! No one else will be able to copy these incredibly complex arrangement of riffs because I’m so amazing!” There were artists who tried to over compensate with autotune, which he detested more than any other sound engineering tool. It always felt like cheating. If you can’t hit the note, why bother pretend you can?

Jack continued to click through the entries. There were just as many bad ones as there were good ones. There were fans who recorded with voices too flat, or too sharp. They were monotonous, or pitchy. Some hadn’t even tried to submit an original song and sang a cover of one of his song. It was almost always his song, “Perfect Chasers” that he had written about the toxicity of perfection and his own personal addictions. Even though it had been years since he released it, it continued to be a fan favorite.

He kept sifting through hoping a song would jump out at him or he’d find an artist with unique vocals. He kept checking the time. 12 hours before he had to pick someone. Then it was 9. Then it was 6. Jack shifted his weight, so he was lying on his side curled up and had his computer sitting on the coffee table and continued to scroll with his wireless mouse. The couch perfectly cradled his thin form. His eyes burned from the white light of the endless scrolling through Twitter…

“DUDE!”

Jack jumped awake. The bright lights of the studio blinded him. He blinked away the the thick eye crust coating his eyelashes. He made out a silhouette standing in front of him.

“Huh?” Jack mumbled.

“We’ve been trying to get a hold of you,” said the silhouette that Jack recognized as Cody, his guitarist. “The meeting with the label is in a half hour.”

“Shit.” Jack sat up. The room spun around him for a moment and stars popped into his vision. His neck and back was sore after another night of sleeping on the couch. He grabbed his phone to check the time. It was dead.

“Did you pick someone?” Cody asked.

“Um…” Jack couldn’t remember. He saw him computer still sitting on the table. He reached over and tapped the keyboard. The screen lit up and showed all of the Twitter entries he had been looking through. He had gotten deep into scrolling through the entries last night. He was almost at the end of the list.

“Yeah,” he lied.

“Cool. Get ready, the guys and I are out back.” Cody left.

When he was gone, Jack groaned and leaned into his hands. Taking a moment to gather himself, he breathed in deeply. He figured he got maybe three or four hours of sleep. His head ached, rebelling against him for the lack of sleep. After a few slow deep breaths he got up and washed his face and brushed his teeth in the studio bathroom, ignoring the dark shadows under his eyes that matched the shadow of his beard.

When he finished he sat back down at his computer. He still had to choose someone. At this point he didn’t care if they were bad. He couldn’t show up empty handed. He randomly chose a name, scrawled it on a piece of paper and tucked it into his jeans.

Jack climbed into the backseat of the bassist player, Mark’s truck. He slid in next to Brendon, the band’s drummer..

“Good morning, sunshine,” Mark called back to him from the driver’s seat. “You enjoy sleeping in?”

“Mhm, right.” Jack mumbled, if you counted barely sleeping at all as sleeping in.

Brendon looked at him. “You kinda look like hell man,” Brendon said, concerned. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. Brendon handed him a pair of sunglasses.

Out of everyone in the band, Jack had known Brendon the longest. They had gone to grade school together and form a band after Jack finished on Great American Voice. Jack was close with all of the guys, but Brendon was always the one who somehow understood Jack and noticed all of Jack’s warning signs. Like right now.

Jack gratefully accepted the sunglasses.

Thank God for coffee, thought Jack as he filled a styrofoam cup.

At the label meeting, everyone was going around the room, pitching their chosen contest candidates. Someone mentioned Missy Maeve and Jack immediately shot it down, claiming if he had to write a bubble gum pop country song, he’d cut off his ears.

Each of the guys in the band got a turn to present someone. Jack waited to go last, since he technically didn’t pick out anyone in specific. He trusted his band, and hoped they would find someone decent enough to produce for that wouldn’t want to make him chuck himself over a cliff. Each band member played the video and explained why they chose it. Their reasons were good and valid, but despite the talent presented, none of them inspired Jack. He had been betting on one of the guys would find someone for him.

“Alright then Jack,” the label manager asked, swiveling his chair towards Jack. “Who did you pick?”

Jack swallowed the lump his throat. “Yeah, I’ve got someone. Her name is…” He pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket and read the hastily scrawled note. “...Robin Jones.” He walked up to the front of the room to the computer that was projected onto the pull out screen. He searched for her name in Youtube. Her video came up as the 7th result on the page.

Christ, she only has 6 views. Jack kicked himself. Why didn’t he bother to check the view count? He hit play. Please don’t suck, please don’t suck.

The video began with a blurry close up of blonde hair. The camera refocused as Robin leaned back from the camera. She was sitting at a baby grand piano. Around her were music stands, stage risers, and a variety of other instruments were stacked up against the wall. She looked like she was recording from a high school band room.

The girl cleared her throat and stated to the camera, “Hi. My name is Robin Jones. I am 18 years old. I am from Boston, Massachusetts and this my original song, Candle Light.” She turned to the piano, a curtain of blonde hair falling in front of her face. She paused for a moment to take a deep breath. Then she began to play.

She was nervous. Her movements were slow, calculated and careful. The notes began higher on the scale, and then steadily dropped into lower notes as she began to quietly sing the first verse.

“When did it begin?

Couldn’t you tell me where the start of it ends?

Cause I got caught in the light.

Yeah, it was too damn bright.

It left me blinded, just for you.”

She sang in a soft, lower register, which surprised Jack. He thought by the tone of her voice, she would have sung higher. But she was good. Thank God.

Her voice shook slightly through the first chorus. It wasn’t until she broke into the second verse, he noticed a shift in her performance. Her voice grew stronger, and she tucked the hair that had curtained off her face behind her ear. Jack found himself nodding along with the gentle rhythm of the song.

I had to take the long

way home, did you know I barely survived

I couldn’t see how and I,

Couldn’t see why after all this time

the goodbye still hurts you more.

Jack almost paused the video on that last line. It stood out to him. It was a good, subjective line that he liked to use in his own music. It was one of those lines he knew came from her specific experience, but it could relate to anyone. It could relate to him. It did relate to him. The goodbye still hurts you more. Jack knew exactly just how it related to him.

Memories of Danny popped back into mind. He saw Danny standing to the side of the stage with everyone else advancing, crying when Jack was voted off. He saw Danny fight with him at the end of the Great American Tour when he didn’t want to move back out to L.A. with Jack. The look on Danny’s face when Jack spit harsh words out of anger and regret. He saw himself a month later, staring at his phone, wishing Danny would just fucking text him back. Danny and his stupid, morning dew green eyes.

The harder lessons are learned

When you see the scars are from the burn

Wish I wasn’t so afraid to believe

That there could still be so much more.

There was Danny was again in the last line. Robin was good with her lyrics.

She launched into the chorus with a change of confidence. She sang with a soulful vibrato. Her eyes were closed as felt her way through the song, her fingers finding the right keys on their own. Her performance looked effortless, but Jack could tell she was pouring everything inside of her into the music.

Her fingers danced across the keyboard, racing towards the bridge. Robin’s entire body rocked along with the rhythm. Suddenly the song tapered off to the quiet notes from the beginning of the song.

I could for now, just stay where I am

Though I still don’t know how this all ends.

Until then I’ll hold on to a little light

So one day you might find me again.

When she finished, she rested her hands on the keys, drawing in a few deep breaths. Her hands dropped so suddenly from the keys, like someone had caught her playing when she wasn’t supposed to. Robin turned back towards the camera and leaned in to end the video.

There was silence in the room. Jack was holding his breath, waiting for someone to respond.

“Well,” the assistant manager started. “She has a nice voice, but -”

“This one,” Jack interrupted. “I want this one.”

His manager looked at him, arching an eyebrow. “You want this one? A romance song?”

Jack was equally surprised. What was he doing? He doesn’t write romance. He doesn’t even like songs about romance. And the memories that she pulled from the back of his mind should have given him enough of a reason not to pick this one. And yet, it had slipped out. He wanted this song.

Jack looked to his bandmates for their confirmation. He wasn’t about to make a decision without them, especially when it involved all four of them. They looked between the three of them, silently discussing the song. After a few moments, and some shrugging, Brendon nodded to Jack.

“Yeah,” Jack said. He cleared his throat. “She’s got a great voice, and the song sounds a little different from most romance songs I’ve heard. I think maybe the lyrics could use a little help, and I think if we put in some percussion with some better acoustics - “ Jack caught himself. He almost didn’t notice the click in his brain. It was like suddenly he turned on a light. Or lit a candle after the power had gone out. His was brainstorming. He was writing.

At that moment he knew for a fact - this was the winning song.

He looked around the room, waiting for everyone’s opinion. They exchanged glances, debating.

Finally, the manager stood up. “Alright, I guess that’s it then. We’ll go with…” He squinted his eyes, looking up at the project screen. “...Robin Jones. Tomorrow we’ll go live with the announcement.”

The meeting concluded. Everyone started packing up. Jack let out a breath of air he didn’t realize he was holding.

The guys approached him.

“So...romance now, huh? Didn’t know you had such a soft spot all of the sudden,” Cody remarked, smiling.

Jack shook his head, just as surprised as they were. “I guess maybe I need to start looking into the romance writing genre.”

“Hah, yeah man.” Brendon clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Good to have you back man.”

Jack gave him a smile of thanks.

When he got home, he pulled up Robin’s song again and rewatched it, beginning the process of drafting different types of instruments and background sounds he could add to the song. The ideas came easy, and he could feel something in him relax. He was relieved. He was writing again.

The song had resurfaced those memories of Danny that he fought for so long to forget. Some part of him still thought he was insane to want to work on this song. But another part of him, the part that he had shared with Danny all those years, demanded him to work on this song, and it refused to be ignored. He felt a nervous tingle in the pit of his stomach.

He didn’t want to acknowledge it, but the song had given that part of him a new, stronger voice. And it was screaming at him.

Jack continued to write.

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ohmywhump · 4 years ago

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I got tagged by @whumpfigure, @pretty-thoughts-and-a-pen, @spookyboywhump and @ihaventwritteninsolong, so here we go!

Three random facts about myself... You have no idea how long it took me to answer this 😅

1. I'm practicing karate and managed to pass my yellow belt exam during the pandemic - outside, with very much distance during partner training. It's something I'm really proud of because I tend to lose interest in things after a while, but this is something I'll continue because it's just so much fun!

2. I love making lego minifigures of the characters I use for my stories. It's a great way to fight writer's block because by building them, I think about the characters and how they would react in a certain scenario - what's their facial expression, what do they wear, stuff like that - without the pressure of actually writing something down.

Here's a picture of Alex and Morden from my current Alex Verus fanfic ;)

3. I love concerts and I really miss that right now. The whole atmosphere, listening to your favourite singer or band and singing along with them while they perform your favourite song is just amazing. I'll never forget seeing Johnny Marr in 2018, standing in the front row - he even held my hand during the last song!!! 🥰🥰🥰

Okay, I have no idea who hasn't been tagged already, so I'll go for @faewhump and @albino-whumpee - don't feel pressured, though :)

If you get this, answer with 3 random facts about yourself and send it to the last 7 blogs in your notifications, anonymously or not! Let's get to know the person behind the blog!

1. I have a blind and deaf black cat named Vesperina. Vespertilo is the Latin word for 🦇.

2. I LOVE plants. I really love dendrology (the study and classification of 🌲🌲) and I live with about 50 houseplants.

3. AND I love mountain biking and camping.

Tagging: @whumpluff , @whatwhumpcomments , @hold-on-a-little-longer-whump , @whumpappreciation , @servetheapologies , @raigash , @zoethehead . . . As well as @eatyourdamnpears. Thanks for making me smile you guys!!

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magnoliasinbloom · 8 years ago

Text

Someone to Stay - AU

Previous chapters

Chapter 5

There was a short line of people standing outside Duke’s, waiting for their turn to go in. Claire, arms crossed, went up to the security guard holding a clipboard.

“Are you on the list?” he barked.

“Um, Claire Beauchamp?”

“Oh.” His gruff demeanor changed instantly. “Says ‘ere you’re VIP.” He pulled a lanyard with blue tags dangling that read DUKE’S. “Go on in. Ask for Duncan at the bar.”

“Thanks.” Claire slipped the pass over her head and walked into the pulsing, smoky darkness.

Everyone inside looked like they’d stepped out of Rolling Stone or something, Claire thought. She was glad for once she’d listened to Geillis’s advice and dressed up a little for the occasion; she was wearing makeup on her normally pale face and wild curls, a short blue dress with heels – and the black biker jacket Mary her co-worker had lent her to match a certain red-haired singer.

She walked up to the bar. The only bartender on duty could only be Duncan. As she approached, he noticed the VIP pass and immediately gave her a glass of champagne, directing her backstage. “To the green room, love!” he shouted over the din.

Claire was still unsure about this. And this, exactly, was whatever she wanted it to be. Wasn’t that what he had said? For now, he was a friend. And friends could see other friends and support each other at events like this. As much as she – and Rupert – would have liked Geillis to be there, a seven hour drive from Edinburgh and a hectic work schedule was not feasible.

Down a darkened hallway hidden behind a black curtain by the bar, Claire reached a door marked for performers. Boisterous laughter could be heard on the other side, and Claire wondered which was Jamie’s. For courage, she downed the champagne all at once, bubbles fizzing in her mouth. Thinking perhaps they wouldn’t hear her knocking, she decided to turn the knob and walk in.

A group of faces turned to stare, but she only had eyes for one. Towering over most, Jamie’s gaze found hers and a blinding smile widened on his face. Pushing through the crowd sitting on chairs and sofas, he met her at the door.

“You’re here!” Jamie leaned in and pecked her on the cheek. Claire was enveloped in the warmth of his scent – spice, citrus, and honey all at once. Resisting the urge to wrap her arms around him, she merely smiled and squeezed his shoulder.

“How are you, Jamie? Nervous?”

“A wee bit.” He grinned. “The day I dinna get the cramp in my wame, I’ll ken ‘tis time to retire.”

“Makes sense,” Claire laughed.

“Here, let me introduce ye.” Jamie took her hand (with only a minor jolt) and pushed past the throng. Composed of band members and a few random girls, the rest were close friends of Hugh Munro’s, who enjoyed the perks of knowing the owner.

Claire was greeted cheerfully by Willie, Ian, and Rupert, who pulled her into a bone-crushing hug. She solemnly promised him to bring Geillis next time, regardless of work schedules. All the while introductions were made, Jamie did not let go of her hand. And neither did she.

Lastly, they approached a taciturn man who stood off by himself behind the chairs. He nursed a beer, and only raised an eyebrow as Jamie advanced closer, Claire in tow.

“Claire, this is Murtagh, my uncle and our manager. Murtagh, this is Claire, whom I told ye all about.” A faint pink tinged his ears and the back of his neck. Again, he rifled his hand through the red tresses, embarrassed.

She stuck out her hand and was surprised by the firm grip, which held hers for a second longer than normal before he took a swig of beer.

“Mmphm. Ye’ll be the Sassenach lassie then. Yon lad hasnae shut up about ye since Edinburgh.” A thick Scots accent permeated his words, mumbled barely audibly. Claire strained to catch the tone of them, but they lacked any sort of discernible emotion.

“Sassenach?” Claire peeked at Jamie, who turned even redder.

“It only means English, to a Scot. Uncle?” Jamie nudged Murtagh, who shook his head.

“Aye, no offense, lass. ‘Tis only he’s never dated an Englishwoman before. French fer sure, mebbe a Lowlander here and there.” He winked at Jamie, who covered his face in despair.

“Really? Well now, that’s interesting. Tell me more.” Claire winked back at Murtagh, who seemed on the verge of smiling.

“Nay. That’s enough. Thank ye, Uncle.” Jamie steered Claire away with a broad hand on her shoulder. She turned back to Murtagh one last time.

“A pleasure, Murtagh!” The man raised his beer briefly in acknowledgement. She could clearly see that he was protective of his nephew, and liked him for it.

At the back of the room stood a long table, crammed with platters of finger food. Squeezed in were bottles and bottles of whiskey. Claire could glimpse Laphroaig, Glenfiddich, Macallan, Glenlivet, and the odd bottle of Chivas and Johnnie Walker. Jamie insisted on exchanging her empty champagne glass with the whiskey , which she took neat.

“Sláinte!” Jamie clinked her glass, and poured the liquor straight down his throat. Claire followed suit, grimacing a bit at the peaty taste and shivering as the heat of the whiskey lit her insides.

They stood side by side, watching the men interact with a group of girls. They didn’t look older than 25, some of them, Claire noted wryly. A few cast furtive glances at the corner where Jamie and Claire were standing, smiling when they looked at him, frowning openly at her. Claire tried not to care; she reminded herself that Jamie was after all famous, and it was only natural that they wanted to capture his attention. Finally, a girl gathered her courage enough to walk over and introduce herself to Jamie.

“Hiiiii,” the girl tittered, flipping her long blonde hair and briefly touching Jamie’s arm. “I’m Malva. How are you?” She smirked, and slid sideways casually to block Claire completely from sight.

“Hello, Malva. Nice to meet ye. Who are ye with tonight?” Jamie offered a polite smile, used to fan encounters.

“Oh, I’m here with friends. Can’t wait for your set tonight. Which is your favorite song?” Malva sidled closer, and Claire was forced to take a step back, nearly knocking over some whiskey bottles.

“Och, weel, I like them all, I guess. Bad if I didn’t, eh?” Jamie reached out a hand behind Malva, and pulled Claire gently into his side. “This is a friend of mine, Claire Beauchamp.”

“Hello.” Claire felt the words stick in her throat. The back of her neck felt alternately cold and hot and prickly.

“Hey.” Malva’s stare was anything but friendly. If looks could kill, Claire thought briefly. She felt the momentary urge to nuzzle into Jamie’s neck, maybe plant a kiss or two there, marking him as hers.

Oh wait. Am I… jealous of her?

Claire dismissed the idea and tried to smile at the girl. She was only a fan, after all. Malva did not return her gesture and just flipped her hair again, hoping for Jamie’s attention.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around. Good luck with the show.” Malva let the tip of her tongue trail over her lips suggestively. Claire fought the impulse to scratch her eyes out and let her instincts take over, wrapping her arm around Jamie. Surprised, he glanced down at her, and smiled briefly at Claire.

“Thank ye. Hope ye enjoy it.”

Malva sauntered off, moving her hips in a really obvious way that made her look mostly ridiculous. Angus seemed willing to deal with her, and Claire breathed easier for the first time in minutes.

Well. Was it always like this? she wondered.

“It isnae always like this, ye ken,” Jamie said.

Claire, startled, cursed her glass face again. “Like this what?”

“The fans. Some are pushier, or even grabbier, than others. Mainly they are respectful, they only want an autograph or picture. A bit of a chat. A hug sometimes. But that’s it.”

“Jamie, you don’t have to explain to me. I’m not—”

“Och, yer face looked like bloody murder fer a second there. I promise, I’d never dally with a fan like that. ‘Twouldna be right.”

“What about me?” Claire asked with a smile.

“Ah, weel, ye said so yerself. Ye didna ken who we were to start with.”

______________________________________________________________________

The concert was phenomenal. Close to two hundred people crowded near the stage, clapping, and singing along. The surprise performance had gone over spectacularly, the patrons raising the roof when The Clan was announced.

Murtagh had led her to stage left, where Claire had stood mesmerized by the show, and by Jamie in particular. He was great at what he did, playing off the audience and gauging their mood and seeming to know just when to kick it up a notch. The band had them all riled up since the beginning, playing upbeat songs that had everyone, Claire included, dancing in their spots.

Finally, as the hour grew late, the songs grew mellower. Claire swayed on her feet, head keeping time with the rhythm. Every once in a while, Jamie would turn to look at her and smile. Finally, close to one in the morning, Jamie pulled up a stool and took up his acoustic guitar. The crowd quieted down a bit to listen.

“Now fer a new song, written verra recently. This one goes out to the girl with whiskey eyes.”

Despite the screaming of a few girls who no doubt thought the song was for them, Claire felt her heart quicken and her palms tingle. He had once told her she was “bonny, with eyes like whiskey.” Was this song meant for her?

Jamie strummed his guitar, caressing the mike in a way that was only his.

I know you’re hurting

You know better than anyone

It’s hard to let your heart trust

But this is real

I’m here for you

Good times and bad

This isn’t an ending

Only the beginning of something

I promise I will wait

As long as it takes

Because your heart is worth it

Feelings unknown

But let these words and actions show

To help you see, give me a chance

And so—

I promise I will wait

As long as it takes

Because your heart is worth it

Claire’s cheeks flushed; she held her hands up to her face, trying to contain the heat. She looked around, but she was alone in the dark, staring out at the blue-lit stage where Jamie was calling out to her. Time ceased to matter; what she thought she ought to do or feel was irrelevant. It seemed like everyone would read it on her damned glass face.

As Claire realized herself in that moment, in the space of a ¾ tempo, her heart had decided of its own volition to tumble over the abyss and into those feelings unknown.

#outlander #outlander au #jamie and claire #someone to stay #not a songwriter obvs but i tried #outlander fanfic #i always wanted to use the word volition in writing #nvm me tired

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carolina-bleus · 8 years ago

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And that's who sees that content: us, not tptb. Which just makes the whole thing seem performative as fuck. And then the indignation over every perceived slight: a cut scene, the image chosen for a social media post, etc. This very real perception that tptb is deliberately trying to take jabs at a shipper group. And in our case it is especially odd because we've gotten so much more (in one season) than any other ship. I guess I understood the hightened emotions/tensions pre-canon but now? (2/2)

Anon, I finally got to read an abridged version of thefirst part of your question but I can’t post it because I don’t want this post toend up in the tag and contribute to the very thing we don’t like. But I’ll do an edited version of part one so that it stays out of the tag:

Basically, I just feel like I’m pulling away from the…fandom because I can’t deal with certain behaviors anymore. One thing is whenpeople constantly call attention to the awful…things antis haveto say…Andseeing that kind of thing does not make us feel good.

I agree with what you are saying. Not every bad ornegative thing that’s said about our ship needs to be addressed. It doesn’talways need to be rooted out and brought back for fandom wide consumption. Ithink giving some comments attention breathes life into a situation thatotherwise would have died a quick and relatively attention free death. That isn’tto say that everything should be ignored. Some folks should be taken to task whenparticularly vile things are said. But now it feels like any slight is given the red alert treatment. That has becomeexhausting and, as you said, it doesn’t make you feel good as a shipper toconstantly see (what feels like) every single bad thing that is said aboutsomething we love. And even when we get good content there will be complaints aboutwhat more could have been done or should have been done.

Negativity has always been a touchy subject in the fandom and people getupset about perceived “policing.” As I’ve always said and believe, it is a poster’s prerogative to say what they want on their blog but sometimes it just feels, as you put it, ”performative as fuck” and done for no other reason than to get the attention certain types of posts typically garner. And, really, I don’t think it’s policing to say youare sick of seeing negativity in the tag (negativity that makes a number ofpeople avoid the tag) and just generally sick of seeing negativity being highlighted and givenmore focus than positive things happening with the ship.

Trust me, Anon,you are not the only one I’ve seen who has wanted to pull back from the fandomsome just to take a break from the negativity. There are some people whohave been here and supporting the ship since the early days who want to and have done the same thing. And that’s reallysad. We finally get canon but you feel like you can’t enjoy it to the fullestbecause of some nonsense that will likely pop up on your dash or in the tag. Things just aren’t the same as they used to be in the fandom. Idon’t know what sparked the change but it doesn’t feel the same as it didpre-canon. Of course, I don’t miss our couple not being canon, but I do miss howwe were as shippers during that time. It wasn’t all sunshine and lemonade andthere was definitely negativity at times, but we were, surprisingly, more positive as a whole beforecanon. Like you, I’m surprised at the amount of negativity I have seen sincecanon. It literally doesn’t make any sense to me.

So I understand your desire to pull away some but maybe try somethings other have: unfollow those you find always seem to either entertain thenegativity or be the source of it. Start adding blogs to your dash that aren’t especially ship heavy. I love positive quotes and tea so I’ve followed blogsabout both. Find a main (small) circle of fellow shippers and interact withthem about ship topics…hell, talk to me if you like, lol. Also, do somescrolling before following a fellow shipper (or any blog really). Scroll through to see if they aremore on the negative side…or if they have an obsession with a singer you can’t stand (trust me on this)…before following them. Employ THAT BLOCK TM (@severelybabykryptonite lol) or the blacklist feature whennecessary. Basically, protect your dash and your serenity at all costs and don’tlet folks (be they antis or fellow shippers) take away your enjoyment of something you love.

Thanks for your comment, Anon, and I really am here to talk if you’d like.

#answered

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surrendertodaniel · 7 years ago

Text

Surrender To Daniel’s Top 250 Tracks Of 2017ish (250-201)

Opening Blab

250. Kelly Clarkson - Love So Soft (Cash Cash Remix)

“Love So Soft” was always meant for a “the nice restaurant lounge at the good mall” EDM remix that could tear a dancefloor to shreds. Please don’t do that, though. That sounds expensive. 249. Trinidad Cardona - Jennifer

A sticky sweet singer-songwriter plea for forgiveness that might not win back Jennifer, but has done pretty well for itself. (As it should.)

248. Arcade Fire - Electric Blue

OH! I get the U2 jokes now! I kid. I kid. I really wanted to like the new Arcade Fire album for what it’s worth. I wish them no harm. Everything Now felt explicitly like the album in the 2-page magazine discography review that gets cut down to 10 words due to space limitations and WHO COULD ARGUE? I think “Electric Blue” is fantastic, though. It’s a smidge “Sprawl III (Electric Beyond Blue” and that’s cool by me.

247. Valerie June - Shakedown

“Shakedown” is the sort of tune that inspires me to dance around like I’m goddamn Scrooge McDuck doing a bunch of weird pointing and twirling and shit. (That doesn’t sound like an endorsement but it is. An enthusiastic one! “Shakedown” is probably a folk festival floorfiller parkgrassfiller of some sort, I imagine.)

246. Rozwell Fitzroy - Block Game

The ReBoot Reboot soundtrack is coming along nicely. (Let me imagine this.)

245. Fickle Friends - Hard To Be Myself

Sparkling youth activity centre pop that comes in its own shade of neon!

244. Katy Perry featuring Migos - Bon Appetit

Katy Perry’s Witness came across as a bit of a lame duck record after “Chained to the Rhythm” missed the mark, didn’t it? It didn’t really help that the videos seemed second tier (or like a “favor” from JibJab in the case of “Swish Swish”) and that clunky SNL showing. Even if Witness isn’t my cup of tea (I’m rooting for the next Katy cycle)“Bon Appetit” is a first-rate muff-diving anthem with Migos making a welcome showing.

243. Chip - Snap Snap

Wait! Wait! Wait! Is that? Could it be?

Holy moly! How did I not put it together that Chip is the artist formerly known as Chipmunk? Anyway, Chip would prefer if his partner cool it on all the Instagram posting. The music video presents a convincing argument about this lovely woman’s endless selfiecrafting. I’m onboard for some sort of rebuttal track if that’s in the cards.

242. Borussia - Kinda Love

An infectious dance colossus whose power only grows by the number of bright cocktails taken in during your evening. Or morning. Look, I’m not here to judge. (Outside of this silly music judging exercise.)

241. Lady Gaga - The Cure

It’s been AGES since we had a Lady Gaga Thanksgiving special. I wonder if we’ll get one in like 2018. I hope she hasn’t had a falling out with any of the Muppets.

240. Sonamoo - I (Knew It)

I go a little too hard stomping to this K-Pop kiss-off. Like T-1000 (or whatever) stepping through that skull quarry in Terminator 2 only I’m far more prone to slipping on most surfaces.

239. Taylor Swift - ...Ready For It

2017 Taylor was not elite Taylor. (”Look What You Made Me Do” was a music video masquerading as a proper song, for goodness sakes.) Non-elite Taylor is still capable of incredible feats. “...Ready For It” reaches the sublime as its meticulously built ULTRA STADIUM POP grandiosity consumes us all. Just blinding pop light. It took me a while to get on the “...Ready For It” trolley, but I’m happy to be here.

238. Joyride - Aunty Tracey’s Cookies

If you’re going to get creative with your cookies, do so with the hopes of having a blissed out anthem sung in your treat’s honor.

237. Carly Pearce - Every Little Thing

One of those classic country songs where if you see the listener’s face go a certain way you let them sing their heart out.

236. Eves Karydas - There For You An elegant and enormous part the seas anthem, plus Eves does some excellent slowly sliding down the stairs work in the promo.

235. Vic Mensa featuring Pusha T - OMG

A chain swinging, bubbling cauldron of a cut with Pharrell production teleported in from the ‘00s. By the way, if anyone needs a dopey white guy to say something like “oh my goodness” as the hook, gimme a call. Look for 21 Savage x Dan MacRae’s “Geez Louise” on iTunes in 2018.

234. Tigertown - Warriors (St. Lucia Remix)

A Capri-Sun kissed groovy remix of Tigertown with charm to spare.

233. Lady Leshurr - Juice

Lady Leshurr is the sort of entertainer where she’s do damn likeable that I’ve spent the past 3 hours imagining TV projects the English MC can do on the side.

232. Frank Ocean - Chanel

You know the Frank Ocean drill by now. Press play, immediately feel it in your chest.

231. DYGL - Let It Out

Albert Hammond Jr. endorsed Tokyo rock outfit DYGL have crafted a tightly wrapped indie gem with Britpop and Blogosphere First Wave tendencies.

230. Old Dominion - No Such Thing As A Broken Heart

The video for this is so quarter-assed (glass houses much, Dan?) that I have been increasingly MYSTIFIED with every rewatch. Like, the concept is that Old Dominion are in a video game world that’s stuffed with wacky high score gags and kwazy on-screen graphics. The execution doesn’t pan out, so instead it’s like you’re watching someone try to recreate a Christian edit version of Scott Pilgrim from memory and STARTED COOKING WITH GAS! The song’s fantastic, though. Arena country brimming with warmth and even a touch of Ed Robertson’s Barenaked Ladies output.

229. Super Junior - Black Suit

Unlike “No Such Thing As A Broken Heart,” the video for Super Junior’s “Black Suit” fudging ruuuuules, buds. The promo is the best piece of art involving an elaborate suit heist you’ll come across all 2017 and the entire operation looks awesome to boot. K-Pop’s Last Men Standing® teeter on the brink of jazztronica at times and it’s a treat DANG IT!

228. Barenaked Ladies & The Persuasions - The Old Apartment

Is this cheating? It is, isn’t? Whatever. BNL (a term used exclusively by cool insiders) and The Persuasions were a fantastic match in 2017 and combo performances like this update of “The Old Apartment” feel so damn alive I wish both parties would consider hanging out a lot more.

227. Ayo & Teo - Lit Right Now

As infectious as a yawn but lit (FUCK!) like a firecracker, Ayo & Teo are making Frosh bangers you want to throw paint to. Or maybe I just want to chuck paint. I dunno.

226. LCD Soundsystem - Tonite

Did LCD Soundsystem really need to come back? Probably not, but they’re welcome to stay. (Look at me! I’m doing rulings now, apparently. Ha ha, life.)

225. Pip Blom - Babies Are A Lie

Nothing will top “Babies Are A Lie” in the 2017 song title sweepstakes. Also the hook is an absolute dream.

224. Shay Lia - What’s Your Problem

Pulsating R&B brilliance that sometimes leads me to do ill-advised arm choreo on my balcony. (I’m allergic to rhythm so it’s a tragedy and I apologize to anyone that’s gone down George Street this year.)

223. Lauren Alaina - Doin’ Fine

Play this at just the right volume and you will be powerless to resist the urge to belt out this country anthem while wrapped in curtains, a comforter or both.

222. Jachary - Yellow Vision

An absorbing electronic pop blend (think a spiritual second cousin to Discovery) with a chorus that swings into action like a battering ram.

221. Cende - Bed

A melting ice cream cake of mid-misery assessment wailing power-pop. Or glower-pop if you will. You will not? I completely understand and apologize immediately.

220. Waju featuring Phantom Thrett - If U Wanna

Blissed out hip-hop soul that marinates nicely in the brain. The video’s pretty darn good too.

219. AOBeats & Annabel Jones - Strangers

“You run your heart like a club: One in, one out.” It’s important to note this is a fantastic dance number for anyone that enjoys doing mid-level theatrical glances in lieu of actual dancing. (Read: Me.)

218. CupcakKe - Barcodes

Burn your motivational posters, this horn-aided banger from CupcakKe will slap you in the face with ESSENTIAL life advice about knowing what you’re worth and not budging. Also CupcakKe has some awesome lines on “Barcodes” that made me legitimately guffaw. It’s not easy to pull the guffaw out of the Dan laugh library.

217. Aly & AJ - Take Me

I think I’ve been on about this before, but there was a brief time I confused Aly & AJ with Prussian Blue. Not important. What is important is “Take Me” which is a synth-soaked sledgehammer to the sky that sounds absolutely massive. It’s a big tune is what it is.

216. Tyler, The Creator featuring A$AP Rocky - Who Dat Boy

Ya blew it, Schoolboy Q.

215. Joe Goddard - Music Is The Answer

Hot Chip boy Joe Goddard turns in an engrossing frosted electronic effort that feels like backstroking through gel in the nicest possible way.

214. Gabrielle - Nye Joggesko

“Nye Joggesko” glides, strolls and spikes like hybrid pop should.

213. Amber Coffman - No Coffee

Pastel (but not Pastels) tinted guitar pop that gets the “breezy” tag even though I wouldn’t quite put it in the “breezy” camp.

212. Diamond Platnumz, Harmonize, Rich Mavoko & Rayvanny – Zilipendwa

Last I checked, “Zilipendwa” was embroiled in a saxophone copyright scandal. No matter where you stand on the issue, it’s 14 seconds of sublime saxophone worth fighting over.

211. Ugly God - Fuck Ugly God

“You act like a freak, but you ain't never sucked no toes.” Ugly God treats self-immolation like a superpower. Even though the dude is doing a vivisection of his own shame, "Fuck Ugly God” hits like you’re the one being powerbombed through a table.

210. Royal Canoe featuring Begonia - Fussin’

If this Western Canadian folk festival tent is rockin’, it’s cuz of what Royal Canoe and Begonia are clocking. (Or there’s a live ferret rescue on the grounds. Either way, respect people’s space.)

209. Ah Mer Ah Su - Meg Ryan

“I’m a white woman, I can do whatever I want,” declares Ah Mer Ah Su on the marvellously woozy pop carousel “Meg Ryan” and yes, she does mention City of Angels on the track.

208. Wesley Gonzalez - Piece of Mind

Nervy indie pop that lands somewhere between They Might Be Giants and XTC. But NOT Adam Ant. (WHO IS THAT JOKE FOR? IMPROV KIDS BEATEN WITH THEIR OWN MEAD BINDERS? WHO?)

207. Smino - Anita

The T-Pain remix is gorgeous too. Be sure to tell T-Pain if you happen to hang out with him in the future.

206. Hannah Jane Lewis - Raincheck

THIS TRACK IS BUOYANT AS FUCK, GANG! There’s also a great bit in the video where a cursor has to choose between “Accept (heart sign)” and “Raincheck” which is something I like in a music video. Play your ace, Hannah Jane Lewis.

205. Mollie King - Hair Down

This is tacky-as-you-like pop the way only the Brits can do it (you can practically see visions of loud Panto ads if you close your eyes) and should poured down your gullet like it’s Tetra Pak booze. In retrospect I should have watched E!’s Chasing The Saturdays when I had the chance.

204. Ten Fé - Twist Your Arm

A Guardian review pegged Ten Fé as something like Madchester meets Springsteen, but “Twist Your Arm” is more a glimmering ‘80s AOR creature than anything else. Probably goes down a storm with Q’s readership. (Not a dig.) I can totally picture a lot of spouses doing intense bicycle repairs with this CRANKED in the garage.

203. Charlie Worsham - Cut Your Groove

Full points to Charlie Worsham for having an first tier country name. Say it out loud right now for fun. It’s great, right? Charlie lays out a sweethearted country self-affirmation anthem that feels like warm embrace on “Cut Your Groove” and I’ve done some power twirling to this.

202. iLoveMakonnen featuring Rae Sremmurd - Love

This combo effort would be quintuple platinum if satellite radio were still “a thing.” I am 10000% convinced this would have been gargantuan in that era. Fight me and my ghost on this and I’ll fudge you up, bud. I also believe this would be fantastic on Riverdale.

Vaguely Related: I’m behind on Riverdale and need to catch up on season 2 so my dad and I can talk about it at length this Christmas.

201. Allison Crutchfield - I Don't Ever Wanna Leave California

“Darling, you're too mid-Atlantic,” begins (ex?) Swearin’ talent Allison Crutchfield on this solo cut and that’s an incredible way to start a song.

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aquaticalay · 5 years ago

Text

Siren .Chapter Five.

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warning/s for this chapter : cursing, a teeny tiny bit of violence

Warning/s for the series: cursing, violence, eventual smut (which you can skip)

Word count: 1300+

Disclaimer: I do not own the Marvel characters. Note: I'm late again, I know. I reuploaded this a couple of times, but it still wouldn't show up in the tags. Just a heads up, if this doesn't show up in the tags again, I am deleting it again and trying agai tomorrow :'))))))

I will post a new chapter every two days. Let me know if you'd like to be on the taglist!

The next morning

"Buck, you need to calm down," Sam said, trying to help and cool the insatiable frustration of his friend.

Bucky was pacing around the avenger's lounge, his metal fingers crushing a stainless steel water bottle, a physical manifestation of his anger. Sam, seated in the couch, felt like Bucky’s frustration was seeping off to him. It was almost contagious. The only person in the room who didn’t know what was going on was Scott, who just came back from a mission. He was munching on a tooth-ache sweet cereal in the island kitchen, and he was quietly eavesdropping on the Falcon and The Winter Soldier.

“No, Sam,” he breathed, “Whoever the Siren is, they couldn’t have gotten too far. Even if they did, they must’ve used something to get away, but I don’t see any signs of transport. No cars, no bikes.”

“Maybe they used the subway?” Scott chimed in, taking in a spoonful of colorful breakfast marshmallows.

Bucky laughed cynically, annoyed at Scott’s remark. “No, Scott,” he breathed out, “If I were an outlaw, the last thing I’d do was take public transport!” He exclaimed, and Scott was slightly taken aback.

"Well," Scott raised his eyebrows a little, chuckling, "Someone's grumpy."

Bucky finally sat down, "Sorry," he dragged the word halfheartedly, "I just— I need to do better if I want to find out who she is."

"She?" Sam glanced at Bucky curiously, "How did you know she's a she?"

Bucky looked like he just zoned out. Why did he say that?

"I… don't," he said, trying to figure out why he did what he did.

"You just assumed?" Sam asked, pressing the matter even further.

"No," Bucky shook his head, "I- I guess I have someone else on my mind."

"Who?" Sam raised his eyebrows. Bucky shook his head, "I bumped into someone on the mission. It's not important."

"Everything is important," Sam retorted, "because everything is a clue." Bucky only shrugged, "I ran into (Y/n)," he admitted, "The singer—"

"From the bar," Sam finished, rolling his eyes, "Yeah, I know. You told me a couple hundred times."

"What was she doing anyway?" Scott asked.

"She was going back home from a record store," Bucky answered.

Sam squinted his eyes, "I wasn't aware there were any record shops in that part of Brooklyn."

"Me neither," Bucky agreed, "Maybe they just opened." Bucky turned to Sam, "Anyway, did you find out anything about the gun?"

"The 19x?" Sam asked, "No, not yet. Friday's going to notify us when she finds anything. In the meantime, you should probably rest. In case we find any tracks on the Siren again."

Bucky nodded, knowing that when news of the Siren arrives, he has to be ready.

He escaped to his room to get some shut eye, but he can't help thinking of a certain someone he ran into last night. Their paths keep crossing. It can't be a coincidence, right? Bucky wasn't one to believe in fate, but maybe, just maybe…

Didn't (Y/n) say her band is going to perform tonight?

He grabbed his phone and googled her band name.

The Submariners.

The Mermaid's Tail website was the first search result, as they were a weekly act.

A few other bars were on the results. He scanned the page for a date or a day, anything to find out where they were performing today.

One website was out of place. Why did Viseur.com show up in the search results?

Bucky knew Viseur. The Avengers just closed a deal with the company.

Yes, Viseur was a research company, but their recent weapon engineering breakthrough was so innovative, the Avengers had bought a couple hundred weapons, set to be delivered somewhere in the next three months.

Why was Viseur in the search results? It seemed too random, even for google.

He clicked on Viseur, but it only redirected him to their homepage. It didn't answer any questions.

Bucky shook his thoughts.

The answer to this could wait. Now he had to try and find the gig.

"Nothing tonight?" You asked Lando.

You notice his haircut. He gave himself a buzzcut, his black hair almost blended with his dark skin. It looked a little too neat for his personality, but you're sure it'll grow back quickly. He gave you a confused look, "what do you mean? We've got a show in ten minutes."

You rolled your eyes, "The other thing."

Knowing what you mean, Lando shook his head. He chuckled under his breath, amused at how enthusiastic you always become when you put on the suit. It's almost as if you were born to become the figure behind the mask. "Give me a few days to decipher the data, then we'll decide what's next," he told you.

You nodded. Seeing Vince and Luna approach, you waved a little. There was something off about their demeanor, lime they were both surprised and concerned. As they were getting ready to go on stage, Luna bent down and placed her mouth next to your ear. "Loverboy's here."

You were confused at first, but you recognized the look on Luna's face. It was the same frozen, scrunched-up look she had when she found out that the mysterious man named James was The Winter Soldier.

Bucky's here.

"Fucking Christ," you curse. Lando raised his eyebrows, "what's up?" He asked.

"I'll explain it to you later," you dismissed, "We're on in 3 minutes."

You hadn't been able to perform the way you usually do. Slightly less energetic, slightly less carefree. There was a voice at the back of your mind that kept reminding you that the man with the leather jacket in the back of the room, the man with the most charming smile in all of New York, was an Avenger hell-bent on hunting down your alter ego. And he was here because of you. Because of your playful games that you didn't think he'd take seriously.

After going off stage, instead of talking with your friends, you excused yourself to talk to Bucky. You had to do something about it, but you didn't know what. You had to think of something along the way.

"Hey," You heard him say as you approached him.

You managed a smile and sat at the stool next to him, "You came."

"I didn't have anything else to do," he shrugged. He tried to play his presence off as casual, but you know there was something else. His hair was tied to a bun, making him only slightly less recognizable. If anyone did recognize him, they didn't care. A few strands of hair were lazily left out, framing his sharp features perfectly. He was still wearing his gloves, covering his metal arm.

"Really? No schedule for kicking bad guys ass?" You teased, once again easing into his conversation as if he baited you into it. You had to find a way to tell him softly not to go to your shows anymore without making anything suspicious, but you're not sure how. And not that you're face to face with him, you're not quite sure you have the heart to. You're not sure if you want to.

Bucky chuckled, "No, unfortunately," he leaned his arm on the counter, "Have you had dinner, by the way?" He asked, catching you off guard.

"No, why?" You decided to say, mildly surprised.

"I know a nice restaurant a few blocks away," he offered, "We could get something to eat together."

What?

Your intention was to make things right somehow, but now he's asking you out?

"I…" you trailed off, trying to calculate the risks. One time can't hurt right?

You shrugged, a convincing smile painted on your face, "Why not?"

As you exit the bar with Bucky, you found yourself indulging in another conversation with the supersoldier. This was so fun. It was fun in the way becoming the siren was fun. It was risky and dangerous, that's what always appealed to you. Having an alter ego was wrong in all the right ways. Bucky felt so wrong in all the right ways. You could never turn down situations like these. It was a challenge you can't say no to.

You felt your phone vibrate. Looking to see who it was, you read the contact name.

It was Lando. You decided to hang up. Soon after, your phone vibrated again. You checked one more time. It was a text from Lando.

'What the hell are you doing?' It read. He had always been the caretaker of the group, the person who kept you in check when you go too far. You knew he was either angry or worried, if not both. You weren’t quite sure if you should care.

"Something wrong?" Bucky asked worriedly after noticing your eyes glued to the phone.

"No," you lied, turning off your phone completely.

You've broken so many of your own rules for Bucky in the short span of two days, but just one dinner can't hurt, right?

@thejourneyneverendsx @ispepeagain @magykal-777 @sfxsucker @moli1497 @justanothergirlwithdemons @ciochesono @allonszassbutt @hennessy0274-blog @chubby-dumplin @talk-geek-to-me @sebastian-i-stan @iwishthatiwasbuckysgirl @thelureabove @womanontheedgeofnothing @snugglemedaddy @perrythefrickinplatypus @missursulacalmet @angryknightstatesmantrash @tintinnabulary

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky #bucky imagines #bucky imagine #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan imagines #sebastian stan fanfiction

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umusicians · 8 years ago

Text

UM Interview: Mother Mother

Canadian Indie Rock band Mother Mother have made their imprint in the Canadian music industry. With over a decade in the music industry, the band have carved their own unique niche in the industry, leaving with them a sense of indivdiduality and awe. Last month, the band recently released their latest record ‘No Culture’. Of ‘No Culture’ Singer Ryan Guldemond commented "No Culture is about something that a lot of us wrestle with in isolation - identity". Amandah Opoku sat down with Ryan to go into more depth about ‘No Culture’, upcoming tour dates and more! Check out the interview below!

Amandah Opoku: Hello Mother Mother, thank you for sitting down with us! Before we kick off this interview, what is your favourite song on radio? Ryan Guldemond: Currently I’ve been really enjoying “Hands To Myself” by Selena Gomez. I love the super dry, loud whisper vocal performance, and the production itself is very crisp and spacious. I can turn it up loud without things becoming brash. I do appreciate when radio tracks achieve size in sparsity. Oh yeah, and the guitar part is killer - very sweet and melancholic, which is my favourite emotional convergence in music. AO: Of the songs that have been released within the last year, what are your favourite lyrics you’ve heard that you wish you had written? RG: There’s this line in a Zola’s song called Swooner that’s pretty clever: “That incandescent girl of Incan descent”. Maybe too clever, but it made me smile, and ponder. I like punchlines that are at once both humorous and thought provoking, driven by word play.

AO: You recently released your album ‘No Culture’ what was the inspiration behind the albums creation? RG: I was inspired by a personal transition I was making at the time from debauchery to clean living. In doing so I uncovered how deeply I identified with the former accompanying persona, so themes of identity and authenticity are strong in No Culture, often centering around loss, grief and nostalgia. The title itself was born from this experience: the shedding of culture, or societal affectation as a means to become a truer version of yourself. AO: How did the studio and writing process for ‘No Culture’ differ from your last album ‘Very Good Bad Thing’? RG: There was more emphasis on the songwriting. I spent a lot of time with our producers down in LA writing, and fine tuning the architecture of each song before we even began recording. It was important that every motif, beat, lyric, texture was “perfect” in that they supported the core identity of each song, and the album as a whole. Nothing was for the sake of itself. Once the songs were ready, the recording was quick and clear. That was a new methodology for us, coming into the studio with an almost paint by numbers approach. Everything was laid out, we just had to connect the dots. AO: Writing and working on this record, did you ever encounter a period or moment of uncertainty? How did you overcome this? RG: The writing process was riddled with uncertainty. The confidence I lost by changing my lifestyle spilled into the creative process, and I began to judge my output severely, effectively creating a condition of good old fashion writer’s block. But I just worked through it. Kept churning out ideas until the kernels of gold started to appear. Bad ideas, or mediocrity is crucial in the mining of the good stuff. They clear a path for unfiltered, raw creativity to travel through. That was a big lesson in all of this: discovering, or reaffirming that the cure for stagnancy is simply the act of doing. It could be anything. Beat your head against a wall until it takes on a pleasing rhythm. Then start singing over top of it. Before you know it, you’ll have an album’s worth of material. If it’s a shitty album, don’t record it. Just keep beating your head against that wall and gradually things will improve. AO: Of ‘No Culture’ what are you most proud of? RG: I think of how honest it is, and how uncomfortable it was and still is to be that honest, and how that signifies change and evolution. I can easily look back at old writing and think, I miss that devilish irony and sardonic bent. But to do that again would be disingenuous, and easier. So I guest I’m proud that I took the harder path in creating a new body of work, speaking from a new voice, even though I wasn't entirely used to its timbre. AO: Of the sounds on your latest album ‘No Culture’ were there any particular musicians or artists that influenced the sounds/direction of the album? RG: I don’t know about specific musicians, but we were definitely inspired by certain production aesthetics, like the simple and visceral quality of hip hop beats and the lush and dreamy synth-scapes of the 80s. AO: What was the biggest challenge you encountered working on ‘No Culture’? RG: Digging up the themes and finding its sentimental identity. I really didn’t want to write 10 songs about various things that were unrelated to each other. It was crucial that this body of work meant something, had a purpose, and acted as a whole. Considering the shaky place from where I started, this was a challenging and daunting prospect. But somehow it found its shape and its voice. And there really wasn’t an A-ha! moment or grand epiphany. It happened over time, of its own volition. AO: In essence, what does ‘No Culture’ represent to you? Is it a statement? Almost, an act of rebellion? RG: To me No Culture represents peace in aloneness. Finding the acceptance of yourself without imposed identity. So yes, it’s a statement. We are suggesting that this a good practice, and by doing so we are criticizing the way so many of us cling to our identification tags, be them cultural, societal, professional, religious etc, in order to feel validated, superior, and as though we belong. Culture of course can be a beautiful thing, adding texture to the human condition, but when it becomes the source of divisiveness, war and oppression, then we lose the very thing which it aims to celebrate, and the one thing we all have in common, humanity. AO: Why should somebody stream or pick up ‘No Culture’ off the CD shelf? RG: That’s an interesting question. It begs a solicitous response, which is hard for me. Someone from the label would give a much better answer, but I should try my best here. I’m not sure I think anyone “should” do anything with our record, but I suppose if someone was looking for a type of music with an emphasis on melody, vocal harmony, lyrical depth and big production, than No Culture would be a good contender. I feel like this album is visceral first, then cerebral. You can listen to it and react physically and emotionally without dissection. But should one crave a more intellectual experience, that is also available within the lyricism and thematics. Someone recently described the album as a trojan horse to a deeper experience. I liked that. AO: In this digital age of streaming where music fans can now consume immediately thanks to apps such as Spotify, Pandora and Tidal to name a few. What are your thoughts on streaming? Do you think they’ve been a positive or negative effect to the music industry? RG: I guess both, but to be honest I start to snooze when this topic comes up at the dinner table. For whatever reason I can’t seem to care about how the music industry evolves or devolves. But I guess streaming is something that’s still somewhat anarchic, cuz people aren’t getting paid and whatnot, but I assume that will work itself out. They’ll figure out how to monetize this digital shitstorm of free entertainment and I can see that being a very good thing. Not necessarily for the industry, in a capitalistic sense, but for humanity, and the balance of things. I don’t think anyone should be walking around with squillions of dollars. Not for doing anything, but especially not for making music. I think celebrity and rich-people culture is kind of unhealthy for the human collective consciousness, so anything to topple those pedestals I believe to be a good thing in the grand scheme of it all. AO: You’ve been a band for well over a decade, what’s one thing you learned as a band that you wish you had known when you first began? RG: I wish we were better at branding in the start. Understanding what the Mother Mother experience was, and reinforcing that in every aspect of the band, be it music, art, wardrobe, sentiment, philosophy. I think we could still get better at that, but in thinking about it now, it’s not really something someone tells you and bam, you’re good at it. It takes time for identity and cohesion within a group to form. I’d also tell myself to write more. Just fucking write, write, write little buddy. Don’t divide life from art. Meld the two, and write songs about it. But this the same thing I’m telling myself today, and will be telling myself in 50 years. AO: Going back to your bands roots, when it comes to finding a name for a creative or collection it’s often a process. Mother Mother may have not been the name you arrived to initially and maybe it’s meaning to you has changed over the years. Today in 2017, what does the band name mean to you? RG: Well we were originally just Mother, and I called us that because this guy at college wouldn’t shut up about how great of a band name that would hypothetically be. His fervour became mine I guess. So it didn’t really mean anything in the beginning. Then we had to change our name because there were other bands called Mother. So we un-inventively called ourselves Mother Mother. So that didn't really mean anything either. What does it mean today? I really couldn’t tell ya. I guess it’s just the name of our band. AO: Besides music, what are your hobbies? RG: I like cooking and taking photos, Jasmin loves yoga, Molly likes crafting, Ali is a big soccer buff and Mike, the new guy… hmm. Tattoos? Could that be a hobby? He’s got a body suit, so he’s running out of room. Gonna have to find a new hobby. AO: In support of ‘No Culture’ you are currently on your Canadian tour followed by some recently announced dates with KONGOS, what can fans expect from you on the tour? RG: Tons of energy, a very tight set which draws upon our entire catalogue, a couple of very masculine covers sung by the girls, inane and existential stage banter, a drum solo. We definitely take pride in making a proper show of it. I feel like there’s an art to crafting the perfect set, with a contour not unlike that of a story book. You can expect to be taken for a ride when you see us live. AO: Thank you for sitting down with us Mother Mother! Before we end this interview, is there anything you’d like to say to your fans, your supporters? RG: Thanks for employing us!

Connect with Mother Mother on the following websites: https://twitter.com/mothermother https://facebook.com/MotherMotherBook https://instagram.com/mothermothermusic https://youtube.com/mothermothermusic

#Interviews #Amandah Opoku #Mother Mother #Ryan Guldemond #No Culture

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