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dustedmagazine · 4 years ago

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Dust Volume 6, Number 12

The Flat Five

It’s November, and the culture is telling us to be thankful again, at least from a distance. We’re a prickly, argumentative bunch here at Dusted, but I think we can all agree on gratitude for our health, each other and the music, good and bad, that comes flooding in from all sides. So while we may not agree on whether the best genre is free jazz or acid folk or vintage punk or the most virulent form of death metal, we do concur that the world would be very dull without any of it. And thus, seasonably overstuffed, but with music, we opine on a number of the best of them once again. Contributors this time include Bill Meyer, Andrew Forell, Tim Clarke, Ray Garraty, Jennifer Kelly, Mason Jones, Patrick Masterson, Jonathan Shaw and Justin Cober-Lake. Happy thanksgiving.

Cristián Alvear / Burkhard Stangl — Pequeños Fragmentos De Una Música Discreta (Insub)

Pequeños fragmentos de una música discreta by CRISTIÁN ALVEAR & BURKHARD STANGL

The acoustic guitar creates instant common ground. Put together two people with guitars in their hands together, and they can potentially communicate without knowing a word of each other’s language. They might trade blues licks, verses of “Redemption Song,” or differently dire remembrances of “Hotel California,” but they’re bound to find some sort of common language. This album documents another chapter in the eternal search. Cristián Alvear is a Chilean classical guitarist who has found a niche interpreting modern, and often experimental repertoire. Burkhard Stangl is an Austrian who has spent time playing jazz with Franz Koglmann, covering Prince with Christoph Kurzmann and realizing compositions that use the language of free improvisation with Polwechsel. This CD collects eight “Small Fragments Of Discreet Music” which they improvised in the course of figuring out what they could play together. Given their backgrounds, dissonance is part of the shared language, but thanks to the instrumentation, nothing gets too loud. Sometimes they explore shared material, such as the gentle drizzle of harmonics on “No5.” Other times, they find productive contrasts, such as the blurry slide vs. palindromic melody on “No6.” And just once, they flip on the radio and wax melancholic while the static sputters. Sometimes small, shared moments are all you need.

Bill Meyer

Badge Époque Ensemble — Self Help (Telephone Explosion Records)

Self Help by Badge Époque Ensemble

Toronto collective Badge Époque Ensemble display the tastefully virtuosic skill of a particular strain of soul-inflected jazz-fusion that politely nudged its way into the charts during the 1970s. Led by Max Turnbull (the erstwhile Slim Twig) on Fender Rhodes, clavinet and synthesizers with members of US Girls, Andy Shauf’s live band and a roster of guest vocalists, Badge Époque Ensemble faithfully resurrect the sophisticated sounds of Blue Nun fuelled fondue parties and stoned summer afternoons by the pool. Meg Remy and Dorothea Paas share vocals on “Sing A Silent Gospel” which is garlanded with Karen Ng’s alto saxophone and an airy solo from guitarist Chris Bezant; it’s a track that threatens to take off but never quite does. The strength of James Baley’s voice lifts the light as air psych-funk of “Unity (It’s Up To You)” and Jennifer Castle does the same for “Just Space For Light” during which Alia O’Brien makes the case for jazz flute — Mann rather than Dolphy — with an impressive solo. The most interesting track here is the 11 minute “Birds Fly Through Ancient Ruins” a broodingly introspective piece which allows Bezant, Ng and bassist Giosuè Rosati to shine. Self-Help is immaculately played and has some very good moments but can’t quite get loose enough to convince.

Andrew Forell

Better Person — Something to Lose (Arbutus)

Something to Lose by Better Person

Like any musical genre, synth-pop can go desperately awry in the wrong hands. The resurgence of all things 1980s has been such a prevalent musical trend in recent years that it takes a deft touch to create something that taps into the retro vibe without coming across as smug. Under his Better Person moniker, Berlin-based Polish artist Adam Byczyowski manages to summon the melancholy vibe of 1980s classics such as “Last Christmas” by Wham!, “Take My Breath Away” by Berlin, and “Drive” by The Cars, reimagined for the 21st century and set in a run-down karaoke bar. This succinct and elegant half-hour set pivots around atmospheric instrumental “Glendale Evening” and features three Polish-language tracks — “Na Zawsze” (“Forever”), “Dotknij Mnie” (“Touch Me”), and “Ostatni Raz” (“Last Time”) — that emphasize the feel of cruising solo through another country and tuning into a unfamiliar radio station. There’s roto-toms, glassy synth tones, suitably melodramatic song titles (including “Hearts on Fire,” “True Love,” and “Bring Me To Tears”), plus Byczyowski’s disaffected croon. It all creates something unexpectedly moving.

Tim Clarke

Big Eyes Family — The Disappointed Chair (Sonido Polifonico)

The Disappointed Chair by Big Eyes Family

Sheffield’s Big Eyes Family (formerly The Big Eyes Family Players) released the rather fine Oh! on Home Assembly Music in 2016. Its eerie blend of folk and psych-pop brought to mind early Broadcast, circa Work and Non Work, before Trish Keenan and James Cargill started to explore more experimental timbres and themes of the occult. Bar perhaps the haunted music box instrumental “Witch Pricker’s Dream,” Oh!’s songs cleaved along a similar grain: minor keys, chiming arpeggiated guitar, spooky organ, in-the-pocket rhythm section, plus Heather Ditch’s vocal weaving around the music like smoke. The Disappointed Chair is much the same, enlivened with a touch more light and shade, from succinct waltz “(Sing Me Your) Saddest Song,” to the elegant Mellotron and tom-toms of “For Grace.” “From the Corner of My Eye” is stripped right back, with an especially affecting guitar line, plus Ditch’s vocals doubled, with the same words spoken and sung, like a voice of conscience nagging at the edge of the frame. It’s a strong set of songs, only let down by the boxy snare sound on “Blue Light,” and on “The Conjurer,” Ditch’s lower register isn’t nearly as strident as her upper range.

Tim Clarke

Bounaly — Music For WhatsApp 10 (Sahel Sounds)

Music from Saharan WhatsApp 10 by Bounaly

The tenth installment in Sahel Sounds’ Music For WhatsApp series introduces another name worth remembering. In case your attention hasn’t been solely faced on the ephemeral charms of contemporary Northwest African music in 2020, here’s the scoop: Each month, Sahel sounds uploads a brief recording that a musician from that corner of the world recorded on their cell phone and delivered via the titular app, which is the current mode of music transmission in that neck of the woods. At the end of the month they take it down, and that’s that. This edition was posted on November 11, so set your watch accordingly. Bounaly is originally from Niafounké, which was the home of the late, great Ali Farka Touré. Since civil war and outside intervention have rendered the city unsafe for musicians of any speed, he now works in Mali’s capital city, Bamako, but his music is rooted in the bluesy guitar style that Touré championed. Accompanied solely by a calabash player and surrounded by street sounds, Bounaly’s singing closely shadows his picking, which is expressive without resorting to the amped-up shredding of contemporary guitarists like Mdou Moctar.

Bill Meyer

Cash Click Boog — Voice of the Struggle (CMC-CMC)

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Last year, Cash Click Boog made a few very noticeable appearances on other people albums (especially on Lonnie Bands’ “Shred 1.5” and Rockin Rolla’s First Quarter) but his own Extras was a minor effort. This Californian rapper was always a dilettante at music, but that was his main appeal and ineradicable feature: you always knew that he’s always caught up in some very dark street business, and he appears in a booth once every blue moon, almost by accident. He is that sort of a player who always on the bleachers, yet when they let him on the field he always does a triple double or a hat trick (depending on a kind of sport).

Voice of the Struggle was supposed to be his big break, the album in which he would expend his gift for rapping while remaining in strictly amateurish frame. Sadly, Boog has chosen another route, namely going pop. He discards his amateur garbs almost completely and auto-tunes every track. If earlier he was too dark even by street standards, now almost all the tracks could be safely played on a radio. The first eight songs are more or less pop-ish ballads about homies in prison, tough life and the ghetto. By the time we reach the last three tracks where Boog recovers his old persona, it’s already too late. The struggle remains but the voice is gone.

Ray Garraty

The Flat Five — Another World (Pravda)

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The Flat Five musters a great deal of Chicago musical fire power. Alt.country chanteuse Kelly Hogan, Andrew Bird collaborator Nora O’Connor and Casey McDonough sing in Andrews Sisters harmonies, while NRBQ mainstay Scott Ligon minds the store and Green Mill regular Alex Hall keeps the rhythm steady. The sound is retro —1930s radio retro — but the songs, written by Ligon’s older brother Chris, upend mid-century American pieties with sharp, insurgent wit. A variety of old-time-y styles are referenced — big band jazz, country, doo wop and pre-modern pop — in clean, winking style. Countrified, “The Great State of Texas” seems, at first, to be a fairly sentimental goodbye-to-all-that song, until it ends with the revelation that the narrator is on death row. “Girl of Virginia,” unspools a series of intricate, Cole Porter-ish rhymes, while waltzing carelessly across the floor. The writing is sharp, the playing uniformly excellent and the vocals extra special, layered in buzzing harmonies and counterpoints. No matter how complicated the vocal arrangements, no one is ever flat in Flat Five.

Jennifer Kelly

Sam Gendel — DRM (Nonesuch)

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Normally, Sam Gendel plays saxophone in a classic jazz style. You might have caught him blowing dreamy, airy accompaniments on Sam Amidon’s last record, for instance, or putting his own spin on jazz standards in the solo Satin Doll. But for this album, Gendel experimented with ancient high tech — an Electro Harmonix DRM32 drum machine, some synthesizers, a 60-year-old nylon-string guitar —t o create hallucinatory fragments of beat-box-y, jazz-y sound, pitched somewhere between arty hip hop and KOMPAKT-style experimental electronics. “Dollars,” for instance, laces melancholy, Latin-flavored guitar and crooning with vintage video-game blips and bleeps, like a bossa nova heard dimly in a gaming arcade. “SOTD” dances uneasily in a syncopated way, staccato guitar runs paced by hand-claps, stuttered a-verbal mouth sounds and bright melodic bursts of synthesizer. “Times Like This” poses the difficult question of exactly what time we’re in—it has the moody smoulder of old soul, the antic ping and pop of lush early 00s electronics, the disembodied alien suavity of pitch-shifted R&B right now. The ringer in the collection is a cover of L’il Nas’ “Old Town Road,” interpreted in soft Teutonic electro tones, like Cluster at the rodeo. It’s odd and lovely and hard to get a bead on, which is pretty much the verdict for DRM as a whole.

Jennifer Kelly

Kraig Grady — Monument of Diamonds (Another Timbre)

MONUMENT OF DIAMONDS by Kraig Grady

The painting adorning the sleeve of Monument of Diamonds is entitled Doppler Effect in Blue, and rarely has the cover art’s name so accurately described the sound of the music paired with it. The album-length composition, which is scored for brass, saxophones and organs, consists almost entirely of long tones that Doppler in slow motion, with one starting up just before another peters out. The composer, Kraig Grady, is an Australian-based American who used to release albums that purported to be the folk music of a mythical land called Anaphoria. Nowadays he has no need for such subterfuge, since this lovely album holds up quite well on its own merits. Inspired by Harry Partch and non-Western classical music systems, Grady uses invented instruments and strategically selected pitch intervals to create microtonal music that sounds subtly alien, but never harsh on the ears. As the sounds glide by, they instigate a state of relaxed alertness that’ll do your blood pressure some good without exposing you to unnecessary sweetener.

Bill Meyer

MJ Guider — Sour Cherry Bell (Kranky)

Sour Cherry Bell by MJ Guider

MJ Guider’s second full length is diaphanous and monolithic, its monster beats sheathed in transparent washes of hiss and roar. “The Steelyard” shakes the floor with its pummelling industrial rhythms, yet shrouds Guider’s spoken word chants with surprising delicacy. “Body Optics” growls and simmers in woozy synth-driven discontent, while the singer lofts dreamy melodic phrases over the roar. There’s heft in the low-end of these roiling songs, in the churn of bass-like synthetics, the stomp of computer driven percussion, yet a disembodied lightness in the vocals, which float in pristine purity over the roar. Late in the disc, Guider ventures a surprisingly unconfrontational bit of dream pop in “Perfect Interference,” sounding poised and controlled and rather lovely at the center of chiming, enveloping synthetic riffs. Yet the murk and roar makes her work even more captivating, a glimpse of the spiritual in the midst of very physical wreck and tumult.

Jennifer Kelly

Hisato Higuchi — キ、Que、消えん？ - Ki, Que, Kien? (Ghost Disc)

キ、Que、消えん？ - Ki, Que, Kien? by Hisato Higuchi

Since 2003, Tokyo-based guitarist Hisato Higuchi has quietly released a series of equally-quiet albums, many on his own Ghost Disc label, which is appropriately named. Higuchi's work on this and the previous two albums of his "Disappearing Trilogy" is a sort of shimmering, melancholy guitar-and-vocal atmosphere — downer psych-folk in a drifting haze. His lyrics are more imagery than story, touching on overflowing light, winter cities, the quiet world, and the transience of memories. As the guitar floats slowly into the distance, Higuchi's voice, imbued with reverb, is calmly narcotic, like someone quietly sympathizing with a friend's troubles. These songs, while melancholy, convey a peacefulness that's a welcome counterbalance to the chaotic year in which we've been living. Like a cool wind on a warm summer evening, you can close your eyes and let Higuchi's music improve your mood.

Mason Jones

Internazionale — Wide Sea Prancer (At the Blue Parade) (Janushoved)

Wide Sea Prancer (At The Blue Parade) by Internazionale

It’s been nearly half a decade since Copenhagen’s Janushoved first appeared in these annals, and in that time, a little more information — and a lot more material — has cropped up to lend some context to the mystery. The focus, however, steadfastly remains with the music — perhaps my favorite of which among the regular projects featured is label head Mikkel Valentin’s own swirling solo synth vehicle Internazionale. In addition to a reissue of 2017’s The Pale and the Colourful (originally out on Posh Isolation), November saw the release of all-new songs with Wide Sea Prancer (At the Blue Parade), 14 tracks of gently abrasive headphone ambient that carry out this type of sound very well. Occasionally there is a piano (“Callista”) or what sounds like vocals (“El Topo”), but as it’s been from the start, this is primarily about tones and moods. Notes for the release say it’s a “continuation and completion of the narrative set by the release Sillage of the Blue Summer,” but it’s less the narrative you should be worried about missing out on than the warmth of your insides after an uninterrupted listen.

Patrick Masterson

Iress — Flaw (Iress)

Flaw by Iress

Sweeping, epic post-metal from this LA four piece makes a place for melodic beauty amid the heaviness. Like Pelican and Red Sparrows, Iress blares a wall of overwhelming guitar sound. Together Michelle Malley and Alex Moreno roust up waves and walls of pummeling tone as in opener “Shame.” But Iress is also pretty good at pulling back and revealing the acoustic basis for these songs. “Hand Tremor” is downright tranquil, with wreathes of languid guitar strumming and Malley’s strong, gutsy soprano navigating the full dynamic range from whisper to scream. “Wolves” lumbers like a violent beast, even in its muscular surge, there’s a slow, anthemic chorus. Likewise, “Underneath” pounds and hammers (that’s Glenn Chu on drums), but leaves space for introspection and doubt. It’s rare that the vocals on music this heavy are so good or so female, but if you’ve liked Chelsea Wolfe’s recent forays into ritual metal, you should check out Iress as well.

Jennifer Kelly

Junta Cadre — Vietnam Forever (No Rent Records)

"Vietnam Forever" (NRR141) by Junta Cadre

Junta Cadre is one of several noise and power electronics projects created by Jackson Abdul-Salaam, musician and curator of the long-running Svn Okklt blog. As the project’s name implies, Junta Cadre has an agenda: the production of sound that seeks to thematize the ambiguities of 20th-century radical, revolutionary politics. The project’s initial releases investigated the Maoist revolution in China, and the subsequent Cultural Revolution of the late 1960s and 1970s. Vietnam Forever shifts topics, to the American War in Vietnam, and tactics, including contributions from other prominent harsh noise acts and artists: the Rita, Samuel Torres of Terror Cell Unit, Leo Brucho of Controlled Opposition and others. Given those names, Vietnam Forever is as challenging and rigorous as you might expect. Waves of dissonant, electronic hum and fuzz accumulate and oscillate, crunching and chopping into textured aural assaults; wince-inducing warbles and needling feedback occasionally assert themselves. Abdul-Salaam’s harsh shout cuts in and out of the mix. The tape (also available as a name-yo’-price DL on Bandcamp) presents as two side-long slabs of sound, both over seventeen minutes long, both completely exhausting. At one point, on Side A, Abdul-Salaam repeatedly shouts, “Beautiful Vietnam forever!” It’s hard to say what he means. An affirmation that Vietnam survived the war? That its people and culture endure? Or that the U.S. can’t seem to shake the war’s haunting presence? Or even a more worryingly nihilistic delight in the war’s carnage, so frequently aestheticized in films like Apocalypse Now (1979), Full Metal Jacket (1987) and Da Five Bloods (2020)? The noise provides no closure. Maybe necessarily so.

Jonathan Shaw

Bastien Keb — The Killing of Eugene Peeps (Gearbox)

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The Killing of Eugene Peeps is a soundtrack to a movie that never was, a noir-ish flick which winds restlessly through urban landscapes and musical styles, from the orchestra tremors of its opening through the folky group-sing of “Lucky the Oldest Grave.” “Rabbit Hole” wafts by like an Elephant Six outtake, its woozy chorus lit by glockenspiel notes, while “God Bless Your Gutters” conjures jazzy desolation in piano and mordant spoken word. “All the Love in Your Heart” shimmers like a movie flashback, a mirage of blowsy back-up singing, guitar and muttered memories. “Street Clams” bristles with funk and swagger, an Ethio-jazz sortee through rain slicked streets. What’s it about? Musically or narratively? No idea. But it’s worth visiting these evocative soundscapes just for the atmosphere. It’s a film I’d like to see.

Jennifer Kelly

Jesse Kivel — Infinite Jess (New Feelings)

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Nostalgia haunts the new solo album from Kisses guitarist/singer Jesse Kivel. Infinite Jess is full of that knowing melancholy of The Blue Nile, Prefab Sprout and The Pale Fountains that was so magnetic to a certain brand of sensitive young thing seeking to articulate their inchoate visions of a future steeped in romance and adventure. Think wistful mid-tempo songs wrapped in cocoons of strummed guitars, shuffling percussion and wurlitzer piano fashioned into a catalogue of adolescent radio memories. These tunes are topped by the understated sincerity of Kivel’s voice and lyrics which effectively evoke the place, time and emotion of his vignettes. The production suffers occasionally from a distracting reliance on too perfectly rendered tropes — overly polite drum programming, thumbed bass, blandly smooth electric piano — but the overall effect is oddly beguiling. Infinite Jess closes with a charmingly wobbly instrumental cover of Don McLean’s “Vincent” played on the wurlitzer that captures the poignancy of the melody and serves as a fitting epilog to the record.

Andrew Forell

Kyrios — Saturnal Chambers (Caligari Records)

Saturnal Chambers by KYRIOS

The corpsepaint-and-spiked-codpiece crowd are still making tons of records, but fewer and fewer of them are interesting or compelling. The retrograde theatrics and cheap pessimism can be irritating enough (I’d rather be reading Schopenhauer, thanks); it’s even more problematic when the songs can muster only the vividness and savor of stiff leftovers from the deep-freezer’s darkest and dankest corners. Still, every now and then a kvlty band that follows the frigid dictates of black metal’s orthodoxy creates a set of songs worth listening to. This new EP from Kyrios is super short, comprising three tracks in just under 10 minutes that pull off that neat trick: when it’s over, you want to hear more. Sure, the dudes in the band call themselves silly things like Satan’s Sword and Vornag, but the tunes are really good. Check out the churning strangeness of “The Utterance of Foul Truths.” Kyrios claims Immortal, Enslaved and Dissection as primary influences, and the band recognizes the stylistic debt they owe to Deathspell Omega (let’s hope Kyrios digs the twisted guitars and weird-ass time signatures, but passes on the National Socialism declaimed by that French band’s vocalist). Stuff gets even more engaging when bleeping and blooping keyboards vibrate at the edges of the mix, giving the songs a spaced-out vibe. “Saturnal Chambers”? Maybe Kyrios has met the astral spirit of Sun Ra somewhere along their galactic journeys into the heavenly void. He liked bleeping, blooping noises and gaudy costumes, too.

Jonathan Shaw

Matt Lajoie — Light Emerging (Trouble In Mind)

Light Emerging by Matt Lajoie

The second volume of Trouble In Mind Records’ Explorers series is, like its predecessor a cassette that comes concealed within a brown slipcase. Like many other discretely wrapped products, the fun is on the inside. This time, it’s a tape by guitarist who understands that toes aren’t just for tapping. At any rate, I think he’s managing his pedals with his feet. Most likely Lajoie has spent some quality time listening to mid-1990s Roy Montgomery. But since a quarter century has passed, he doesn’t just stack up the echoes. Sped-up tones streak across the surface of this music like swallows zooming close to that sheet you hung on the side of your barn the last time you had everyone over for a socially distanced gathering to watch Aguirre, The Wrath of God. Wait, did that really happen? Maybe not, but if someone were to make a fake documentary about the hanging of the projective surface, this music is suitably epic to provide the soundtrack.

Bill Meyer

Lisa/Liza — Shelter of a Song (Orindal)

Shelter of a Song by Lisa/Liza

Lisa/Liza makes a quietly harrowing sort of guitar folk, singing in a high, ghostly clear soprano against delicate traceries of picking. The artist, real name Liza Victoria, inhabits songs that are unadorned but still chilling. She sings with childlike sincerity in an ominous landscape of dark alleys and chilly autumnal vistas. She wrote this album while chronically ill, according to the notes, and you can hear the struggle against the body in the way her voice sometimes wavers, her breath comes in sudden intakes. But, as sometimes happens after long sickness, she sometimes strikes clear of the physical, achieving an unearthly purity as in “From this Shelter.” A touch of plain spoken magic lurks in this one, in the whispery vocals, the translucent curtains of guitar notes, though not much warmth. “Red Leaves” is earthier and more fluid, guitar flickers striking out from a resonant center, and the artist murmuring dreamily about the beauty of the world and its transience.

Jennifer Kelly

Keith Morris & The Crooked Numbers — American Reckoning (Mista Boo)

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It's easy to imagine Keith Morris as perpetually frustrated. His last album, after all, took on psychopaths and sycophants, and the title of his new release American Reckoning doesn't suggest happy thoughts. There's plenty of bile on these five tracks, of course, but Morris approaches the album like a scholar. The opening verse describes the US as “Machiavellian: the mean just never ends” before referencing Othello and Yo-Yo Ma (the latter for a “yo mama” joke). If Morris and the Crooked Numbers just raged, they might be justified, but they'd be less interesting. Instead, they use a wide swath of American musical styles to thoughtfully consider racial (and racist) issues in our contemporary society. “Half Crow Jim” turns a Southern piano tune into a surprising tale about the fallout from slavery. It's a sharp moment, and it highlights that the only disappointing part of this release lies in its brevity. Morris has said he has more music on the way, and if he continues to mix styles, wordplay, and cultural analysis, it'll be worth a study.

Justin Cober-Lake

Tatsuya Nakatani and Rob McGill — Valley Movements (Weird Cry)

Valley Movements by Tatsuya Nakatani / Rob Magill

In most percussion ensembles, the gong-ist is a utility player, charged with banging out a note once or twice per composition for drama and ideally not screwing it up. Tatsuya Nakatani works on a wholly different level, transcending the possibilities of this ancient, archetypical instrument with vision and an unholy technique. More specifically, his set-up includes at least two standing gongs, each about as tall as he is himself. He plays them with mallets, standing between, in blur speed rolls that range all over the surface of the instrument. The sound he evokes is distinctly unpercussive, more resembling string instrument glissandos than any form of drums, a full-on high-register wail of sound that he sculpts and roils and coaxes into compositions of incredible force and complexity. He also plays a bunch of other percussion instruments, little drums and cymbals which he layers on top of each other so that when he strikes one, the others resonate. It is quite an experience to see him at it, and if you ever get a chance, you should go. Here, he works with the saxophonist Rob McGill unfurling a single 40-minute improvisation at a studio in the appealingly named Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. McGill is an agile player, laying alternately lyrical and agitated counterpoints onto Nakatani’s rhythms, carrying the tune and threading a logical through line through this extended set. He finds frequencies that complement Nakatani’s antic, nearly demonic drum sounds and knows when to let loose and when to let his partner through the mix. The result is a very high energy, engaging adventure in sound that evokes a rare response: you wish you could hear the drums better.

Jennifer Kelly

Overmono — The Cover Mix (Mixmag)

Mixmag · The Cover Mix: Overmono

It’s a really weird time to be advocating for club music of any kind, but Overmono’s Everything U Need EP out recently on XL again showcases what the fraternal duo known better as Tessela and Truss do best: melding thoughtful percussion patterns with these airy, gliding synth melodies that work at home just as well as in the club (theoretically, anyway). It’s not just original material they do well, though; whether it was the Dekmantel podcast a few years back or their live cassette from Japan or this mix for Mixmag, Ed and Tom Russell also have a knack for pacing in their sets. This one features stuff from the new EP as well as three unreleased tracks (not counting the Rosalía remix, which remains one of the year’s most addicting) and names both old and new — listen for DJ Crystl’s 1993 jungle jam “Deep Space” sidled up next to Smerz’s new skyscraper “I Don’t Talk About That Much.” If that sounds like everything you need, lock in and let Overmono do the hard work. Truly, they do not miss.

Patrick Masterson

Pole — Fading (Mute)

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As Pole, Stefan Betke’s work has always been both comforting and disconcerting. The amiotic swells and heartbeat bass frequencies generate a warm human feel in his music despite their origins in serendipitously damaged equipment. Fading, his first album in five years explores Betke’s reactions to his mother’s dementia and reflects on the nature of personality, memory and soul. Building on his trademark glitchy beats and oceanic bass tones, the eight tracks echo a consciousness unmoored by the fog of unfamiliarity that smothers and distorts but never completely submerges awareness. “Tölpel” (slang for klutz) evokes impatient fingers tapping out the guilty resentment of the forgotten and the frustration of the forgetful. The title track closes with a woozy waltz punctuated by recurrent sparks. Fading is a deeply felt work; somber, reflective, stumbling towards understanding and acceptance, alive to the nuances and petty nettles of grief and above all beautiful in its ambivalence.

Andrew Forell

Quakers — II: The Next Wave (Stones Throw)

II - The Next Wave by Quakers

After eight years of silence following 2012’s self-titled debut, Stones Throw production trio Quakers (Portishead’s Geoff Barrow as Fuzzface, 7-Stu-7 and Katalyst) dropped the 50-track beat tape Supa K: Heavy Tremors out of nowhere in September and now, just two months later, are back with another 33-track behemoth that allows a litany of emcees to shine. Calling this The Next Wave is a bit of a stretch when you consider many of the voices on here are from guys who’ve been in the game for years or even decades (Jeru the Damaja, Detroit’s Phat Kat and Guilty Simpson, Chicagoan Jeremiah Jae, etc.), but even so, the dusty grooves and Dilla loops prove perfect foils for many of those who hit the mic. My favorite might be Sageinfinite slotting in with the organ grinder “A Myth,” but even if you don’t like it, everyone’s in and out quick. If you’re burned out on Griselda, give this a go for 1990s vibes of a different kind.

Patrick Masterson

Rival Consoles — Articulation (Erased Tapes)

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There are deep pockets of silence in “Articulation,” ink black stops between the thump and clack of dance beat, sudden intervals of nothingness amidst limber synthetic melodies. London-based producer Ryan West, who records as Rival Consoles, layers sound on sound in some tracks, letting the foundations slip like tectonic plates on top of one another, but he is also very much aware of the power of quiet, whether dark or luminously light. Consider, for instance, his closer, “Sudden Awareness of Now,” whose buoyant melody skitters across factory-sized fan blasts of whooshing sound. The rhythm is light footed and agile, pieced together from staccato elements that hold the air and light. Like Jon Hopkins, West uses the glitch and twitch to insinuate the infinite, chiming overtones and hovering backdrops to represent a gnostic, communal state of existence. “Vibrations on a String” may jump to the steady thump, thump, thump of dance, but as its gleaming plasticine tones blow out into horn blast dissonance, the cut is more about becoming than being.

Jennifer Kelly

Sweeping Promises — Hunger for a Way Out (Feel It)

Hunger for a Way Out by Sweeping Promises

The title track bounds headlong on a rubbery bassline, picking up a Messthetick-y blare of junk shop keyboards. All the sudden, there’s Lira Mondal unleashing a giddy screed of angular pop punk tunefulness, her partner in Sweeping Promises, Caulfield, stabbing and stuttering on guitar. In some ways, this band is straight out of late 1980s London, jitter-flirting with offkilter hooks a la Delta Five or Girls at Our Best. In others, they are utterly modern, lacing austere pogo beats with lush, elaborate vocal counterpoints. “Falling Forward” is a continuous rush of clamped in guitar scramble and agile, bouncing bass, anthemic trills breaking for robotic chants; it’s a mesh of sounds that always seems ready to collapse in a heap, but instead finds its antic balance just in time.

Jennifer Kelly

Martin Taxt — First Room (SOFA)

First Room by Martin Taxt

Sometimes a room is more than a room. In the matter at hand, it is a space that proposes a state of mind and a consequent set of experiences. It is also the score for a piece of music that extrapolate that state into the realm of sound. The cover of First Room depicts a pattern of tatami mats that you might find in a Japanese tea room. Martin Taxt is a microtonal tubaist and also the holder of an advanced degree in music and architecture (next time someone tells you that some good thing can’t happen, remember that in Norway you can not only get such a degree; you can then go ahead and present a CD that shows your work. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in the stars, but in our society.). This music takes inspiration from the integrated aesthetic of the tea ceremony, using carefully placed and deliberately sustained sounds to create an environment in which subtle changes count for a lot. The album’s contents were created by mixing together two performances, one with and another without an audience. Taxt and accompanist Vilde Marghrete Aas layer long tones from a tuba, double bass, viola da gamba and sine waves. Their precise juxtapositions create a sense of focus, somewhat like a concentrated version of Ellen Fullman’s long string music, and if that statement means something to you, so will this music.

Bill Meyer

Ulaan Janthina — Ulaan Janthina II (Worstward)

Ulaan Janthina (Part II) by Ulaan Janthina

Part two of Steven R. Smith’s latest recording project echoes the first volume in several key aspects. It is a tape made in small numbers and packaged like a present from your favorite cottage industry; in this case, the custom-printed box comes with an old playing card, a hand-printed image of jellyfish, an old skeleton key and a nut. And Smith, who most often plays guitars and home-made stringed instruments, once more plays keyboards, which enable him to etch finer lines of melody. The chief difference between this tape and its predecessor is the melodies themselves, which have begun to attain the evocative simplicity of mid-1970s Cluster.

Bill Meyer

Various Artists — Joyous Sounds! (Chicago Research)

Joyous Sounds! by Various Artists

It’s been less than two years, but Blake Karlson’s Chicago Research imprint has already made its presence known both in the Windy City and beyond as fine purveyors of all things industrial, EBM, post-punk and experimental electronics. There were two compilations released within days of one another toward the beginning of October, and while Preliminaries of Silence veers more toward soothing ambient textures, Joyous Sounds! is more upbeat and rhythmic (Bravias Lattice’s “Liquid Vistas” is a beautiful exception). My favorite track is Club Music’s “Musclebound” (not a Spandau Ballet cover, as it turns out), but the underlying menace of Civic Center’s “Filigree” and Rottweiler’s pummeling “Ancient Baths” sit alongside merely unsettling fare like Lily the Fields’ “Porcelain” well. If you’re not already aboard or just have a Wax Trax-sized hole in your heart, you have a lot of work ahead of you with this label’s consistently superlative output.

Patrick Masterson

Kurt Vile — Speed, Sound, Lonely KV (Matador)

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Given John Prine's passing from COVID-19 this year, the new Kurt Vile EP might be received as a tribute to the late artist, with extra significance coming from Prine's appearance here. Four years in the works, Speed, Sound, Lonely KV offers more than just tribute, though. Prine's guest spot (if you could call it that) on his own “How Lucky” certainly makes for a moving highlight, the two singers fitting together nicely as Prine's gruff tone balance's his partner's smoother voice. Vile also covers Prine on “Speed of the Sound of Loneliness,” and he adds “Gone Girl” by Cowboy Jack Clement as he takes further cosmic steps.

His two originals here complete the record, and, mixed in with the covers, draw out the lesson. Vile's entire EP blends the country influences with his more typical dreamy sound, the guitar work bridging the gap between a songwriter's backing and something more ethereal. Nashville, it seems, has always suited Vile just fine, and hearing him embrace that tradition more immediately adds an extra layer to his work. Putting a cowboy hat on his previous aesthetic puts him opens up new but related paths for him, and the five tracks here could play on either a Kris Kristofferson mix or a laid-back indie-rocker playlist. Either way, they'd be highlights on an endless loop.

Justin Cober-Lake

WhoMadeWho — Synchronicity (Kompakt)

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Danish trio WhoMadeWho — drummer Tomas Barfod, guitarist Jeppe Kjellberg and bassist/singer Tomas Høffding — make enjoyable indie dance music that suffers somewhat from lack of personality and a tendency toward a middle ground. That may be due to an effort to accommodate a roster of Kompakt-related collaborators including Michael Mayer, Echonomist and Robag Wruhme. While there’s nothing bad and some pretty good here, the individual songs flit by, pausing briefly to set one’s head nodding and feet tapping, before evaporating from the mind. “Shadow of Doubt” featuring Hamburg’s Adana Twins has the kind of driving bass that anchored New Order hits but also, unfortunately, the unconvincing vocals only Bernard Sumner could get away with. More successful moments like the eerie piano riff and jazz inflections of “Dream Hoarding” with Frank Wiedemann, the arpeggiated house of “Der Abend birgt keine Ruh” featuring Perel and miserablist Pet Shop Boys inflected closer “If You Leave” do stick. Synchronicity might work well on the dance floor, but it doesn’t quite sustain at home.

Andrew Forell

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dat-fandom-losertown · 5 years ago

Text

Cat Out of the Bag

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Chapter 1: Prologue & The Encounter

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Neko!Hank Anderson x Artist/Author!Connor

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Warnings: Swearing (assume this’ll be in all future chapters as well lol), A tad of Violence, Panic attack similar to my own, Blood/Injury Mention

Word Count: 9,453 (I have no clue how to write short chapters/fics lol)

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

Synopsis:

“I ain’t some starvin’, twink cat that you can just bring home and teach how to trust and love or whatever the fuck else books try to say. Hell, I’m not even a Persian or Maine Coon cat with those bushy, pale tails like people always love to give us bears. I’m just an old, fat calico.”

“I personally don’t agree with the stereotypes as well. But as I offered before, you’re always welcome to leave. The front door is right there, I’m not keeping you trapped here... If you wanted to stay, though, I can make you breakfast? You can watch me make your breakfast, or you can make it yourself if you want.”

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

~> Next

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Growing up, Connor was always stuck in the worlds he fabricated in his mind, and he wasn’t ashamed of it like his family tried to tell him to be. Even when he would introduce himself to people since middle school, he would always say his name then state that he had an uncontrollably active imagination, and if they ever are speaking to him and he doesn’t appear to be actively listening that they should try to not be offended. He just simply found inspiration and was committing whatever it was to memory to come back to later, or has laid out a simple plot to follow along later. He really meant no harm or disrespect to them.

Let’s just say that, among the school’s nerds, jocks, or other cliques, “Crazy Connor” did not fit into any social group, and regularly gained more bullies than friends. He never minded too much, though. He always lived vicariously through his character’s lives which he created, and they always had plenty of friends and allies they could turn to when in trouble. That’s all he needed, or at least, that’s what he always convinced himself so he wouldn’t become swallowed by loneliness.

By his first year in high school, he wrote an entire book, and by the end of his first year, he wrote another, longer one. For his second year in high school, he was “gently persuaded” into taking an art class for whatever reason the school offered (he wasn’t listening on purpose that time), and he discovered he had a natural gift in the subject. With the encouragement of his art teacher and his one and only friend, Markus, he started posting his artworks on a blog he created just for this purpose, that way he didn’t flood his normal social medias with the unusual content. Soon after, he bought himself the equipment to start doing digital art and quickly switched to that for any piece that wasn’t a graded assignment.

By the end of Connor’s second year, an online social media influencer found the one fanart of them he made– and his blog and all of his other works by extension– by pure chance. After some talking and interactions, they asked if they could commission him to do a small line of t-shirt merch designs. Of course, Connor said yes. They loved it, and so did the customers and fans who looked at and bought the t-shirts. He still knows to this day that he is more than extremely lucky to have had this chance.

After designing the merch, his art blog started gaining more attention, and by christmas break of his third year in high school, he was making more money each month than any student he knew with a job. He got donations from very generous people just for sharing his art and little comic scenes, and he regularly got commissions from people, and was even asked to create pin and more t-shirt designs for that same online influencer. Connor never gave up writing, however, he simply never posted it anywhere public. Although, as soon as he turned 18 early in his Senior year, he immediately self-published the first book he wrote after doing some heavy editing (it was an actual cringefest trying to read through it), and made it well known on his blog that more were coming in the somewhat-near future.

It didn’t do too well, to say the least. A world where nekojins and inujins don’t exist, especially for the sake of not making certain things in the plot happen conveniently and provide crude or perverted humor? It doesn’t fly for most people. He didn’t give up, though, of course not. He expected this book to not do well at all, so he wasn’t put off in the slightest. He self-published his next book during his final new year’s break of high school, which ended up doing much better than his first, considering it was a fantasy adventure genre and had a nekojin as one of the main characters. Looking back on it now, this is probably where his career in writing first started.

Up until this point, Connor was convinced he’d be stuck at a nine-to-five office job for his entire life, since he couldn’t see himself doing what he loved due to the lack of publisher and author connections and, as much as he loves art, that’s not where his true passion lies. He knew that he’d eventually get burnt out if it were his job and only source of income. Although, he also couldn’t imagine doing something he actively disliked because he would rather rip his hair out than be an accountant or anything of the sort like what his family wanted. However, this second book made him realise that it could be possible to do what he wanted full time.

As Connor very soon found out, nekojins and inujins weren’t popularly a main character in books or any media for that matter, and if they were, the book almost always had a forbidden love type of plot or the partial-human was a slave of some sort of one of the other main characters. The fact that Connor, a high schooler, wrote a book with a kick-ass nekojin who gives no fucks and takes no shits as a main character with a pure human lover/sidekick was decidedly open minded and extremely controversial.

At one point, an encounter with a reporter brought up the question of how he found the courage to make such a bold statement. Connor felt somewhat guilty when he admitted that this story idea had just been in his head for so long and it just had a bad-ass nekojin as the main character. He put no thought into what people would think about it or what kind of statement it could possibly give. It’s just what the story always was, so he made it how it is. Simple as that.

And apparently that was an open minded answer. The fact that he hadn’t even thought about what the public might think and didn’t care whatsoever that the main character was a nekojin proved that in his head was a world that easily existed where partial humans and pure humans lived in perfect equality. The writers of those articles weren’t exactly wrong, but Connor still didn’t like how every single one of his artworks and writing pieces were soon heavily criticized and people looked far more into them than even Connor himself thought was possible. It was almost intriguing how people could pull such in-depth ideas and conspiracies from works that were made simply because he thought “Oh, this kind of pose looks cool for this character” and “Wow, these colors look cool with it so we’ll smash them together like this” and “Ta Da! I did it! I made a thing! Look guys!”.

By the time he graduated, he was in the midst of self-publishing a third book that Connor carefully picked because the story line didn’t have anything blatantly controversial in it. His fourth or fifth ones didn’t have anything especially attention-grabbing in them either. Although, that’s just how he planned them in his head. Yes, he did have other titles deemed more risky and controversial, but he didn’t release them only because he didn’t want that kind of attention on him again yet. Eventually, all the controversy surrounding Connor had died down once people began realising that such a large statement from him was likely going to be a one time deal. All that was left behind from the ordeal was a sudden spike in interest and income from the people who found his work because of the fuss.

Yes, he hated that partial human slavery still existed, and no, he never planned on getting one of his own and helping the economy of those types of businesses, but he couldn’t gather the bravery needed to make any grand statements on his blog and march along with the groups of people trying to make things equal. He had morals and human decency, but they apparently didn’t run deep enough to make him less terrified of the mass of negative attention he once faced, so he supported the protesters in spirit for doing what he can’t with minor guilt.

He still feels that way even now at 32 years old. He’s lucky enough to no longer be a starving artist, and he moved out of Markus’ and Simon’s shared apartment to live on his own a couple years ago. He still mainly does digital pieces when creating art, but he took inspiration from Markus and his father and started using different types of traditional medias again. Although, somewhere down the line, art stopped being the larger source of his income, and started being extra cash he put into savings and funding for larger luxury items– such as trips across America for more experiences that he could use in his art and books.

He no longer has to self-publish anymore, yet he still occasionally does under an alias when his agent, a good friend of his by the name Luther, wants him to change too many aspects of a book to make it more commercialized. He has told Connor in the past that he comes up with other manuscripts to pitch quickly compared to the other writers he works with, so he doesn’t worry too often about Connor self-publishing something he didn’t accept. He understands that, to Connor, these aren’t just books, these are tiny pieces of himself in written form. Though, Luther always goes into detail about what parts he doesn’t like and why because there are times where Connor decides that the world in his head would be made better with the changes Luther wanted.

Connor is currently heading home after one of said moments. He just got done with a meeting to pitch his next potential book, and Luther had suggested that he change the time travel portion in it to make it a trilogy and expand on some character’s backstory and development. Connor, not understanding why he hadn’t written a series of any kind yet, since most of his books are rather long, quickly and happily agreed to go home and edit large chunks of it to make it work.

He wonders if he can somehow convince Luther or the publishing company to hold off on publishing the books until all three are completed. Connor hates waiting months for sequels and much prefers having all of the books in a series so he can binge them, and he knows that he’s far from the only one who feels this way. They probably won’t stall until all 3 books are fully completed, though. He’ll just have to somehow work quicker than usual without getting burnt out, or pitch a different book from his list of ideas to work on in the meantime.

Connor blinks out of his head to pause and take in the scenery around him. Connor’s lucky to live in a more suburban area. He’s always been an extremely light sleeper, so he could never get much rest when he lived in the city with his family. The nearest area like that is just far enough away that the only evidence of it being there are the skyscrapers in the distance and the fact there are precisely 14 stars on a clear night sky, and on the nights that aren’t clear, the clouds over the downtown area have an enchanting glow to them.

In the area Connor lives in now, most of the roads are all one lane per direction, with the exception of the main roads with the stores and sloppy grids of traffic lights. This is where Connor is right now, walking along the strangely empty sidewalk. He lives in one of the apartment buildings in the area, and the rumble of cars and occasional shrieks of emergency vehicles are enough to make him want to move back to Markus’ quieter area, despite there still being five more months left on his two-year lease. Looking off to the side where his apartment building should be, Connor decides that he should start hunting for other apartments if he really wants to move somewhere else.

Connor pulls out his phone to take a picture of the serene scene he’s just been greeted by. The setting sun casting the sky in a brilliantly beautiful gradient of rich orange and gold. He has to shove the small sense of guilt away for thinking something that air pollution has caused is gorgeous, because that’s exactly what it is. The small trees that are planted in the middle of the wide sidewalk on the other side of the road look like a black void is trying to rip and glitch its way into swallowing the sky whole, yet is always coming up short. The road he walks along is empty for now due to the traffic light glowing red behind him, which gives him a chance to get an unobscured picture.

This is the perfect scene to paint back at home. Maybe it’s just the thing to finally get him out of his art block.

Connor quickly snaps several pictures at varying levels of brightness and contrast before the light turns green. He quickly puts his phone away and continues on his way home. Honestly, Connor should have taken an Uber or something instead of walking, but he isn’t regretting it quite yet. He probably will in a few minutes, though, when the only light will be from the moon and the occasional street light. He supposes he can always call an Uber now, but he’s currently only a fifteen minute walk away from his apartment complex if he doesn’t take the shortcut through the trees, closer to ten minutes if he does.

Besides, the air is nice and cool for once, if not a bit on the humid side– but that’s just what happens when you live along the east coast, you get non-stop humid air. On top of the air being nice, Connor really needs to get more of it from outside, rather than the stale air inside. The last time he left his apartment (besides hopping into his car for grocery, work, or mail related journeys) was probably a little under a year ago, maybe a little over. Sure, once in a while he’ll open his windows, but that isn’t the same as being outside, feeling the sun on his skin and slight breeze in his hair.

Huh, that could make a cool land in his series. A place where no matter where a person stands within the small civilization, there is always wind to be felt. They could remain protected and unspotted with the use of a force field of sorts that spreads itself over the town. Maybe that could be because they are a true neutral civilization and don’t want any part in the war–

A thud of something hitting metal immediately followed by a quiet groan of pain interrupts Connor’s wandering train of thought. He probably wouldn’t have even heard it if he hadn’t retained his habit of somehow being alert to his surroundings while zoned out from back when he was in school. He doesn’t even know where the painful sounds came from, but that doesn’t matter because he wouldn’t just jump in to other people’s problems. What if there isn’t anything happening at all and that was just someone who tripped and fell?

So he checks the time (for evidence purposes, just in case) and keeps walking straight, hyper aware of every little movement and sound around him, yet never turning his head. That is, until he jumps at the abrupt sound of sharp laughter coming from behind the boutique that’s closed for the night.

“The fucker’s weak and already passing out! Who would’ve guessed! Ha!” a nasally voice taunts. Connor freezes against both his will and better judgement.

“Should we call some place to pick ‘im up? We could get some extra cash?” a woman asks.

“Hell no!” a masculine voice shouts, “Who the hell do you think would want an old, fat neko like him, anyway. We’d be doing everyone a favor by just killing it.”

That gets Connor moving silently into the narrow alley towards the voices. He may be socially awkward and loathe conflict, but he grew up training in different types of combat and self-defense. If someone’s life is in danger, he damn sure will fight, and as long as none of these people have a gun, he will win.

“Uh, I didn’t fuckin’ sign up for murder.” the nasally voice says uneasily, “I just wanted to go out and have a good time.”

“Ugh, it’s not like we’d get caught. And even if we did for some reason, we would get a slap on the wrist at most.”

“Are you actually that fuckin’ stupid, Damien?” the woman snaps. “If we kill him, that will be seen as worse than killing an animal. Even I’m not stupid enough to think that we’d get away with something that in a place out in the open like this. Someone’s gonna have to take out trash, and evidence of us being here is everywhere.”

Connor finally lets himself fall still, ceasing his silent shuffling towards the corner. He presses against the wall in hopes to lower the chances of being spotted, and promptly rests his back on something sticky. He jumps forward just slightly, but not enough to be seen.

“What was that?” the first guy asks.

But is apparently loud enough to be heard.

Connor braces himself for a fight, tensing up and getting into position–

“Dude, you’re being paranoid. Let’s just get the fuck out of here. I’m bored, anyway, and getting eaten alive by mosquitoes.” The supposed ringleader persuades, his boots thumping on the concrete as he walks away. Connor lets himself relax, thankful that nothing more is going to happen for now.

“Same. C’mon.” The woman starts following him if the sound of clacking heels is anything to go by.

There’s a relieved sigh, then one last set of footsteps walking away. Luckily, based off of the sounds of scuffling and skateboards from around the corner, there’s another way to get in and out of that place besides the one Connor is hiding in. He stays completely still and silent for several minutes after they’re gone, just to make sure they won’t come back. When he finally feels that it’s safe enough to look at the time on his phone, only twelve minutes have passed since he last checked it.

Taking a deep breath, he moves himself out of his hiding place. He spots the large nekojin laying against a dumpster in the alley and can immediately tell that the 911 emergency responders won’t do much, if anything, for him because there’s no collar around his neck and no obvious lethal wounds. The poor guy’s got blood in his hair, which is grey with age, and there’s a bit of blood on the ground and dumpster where he was presumably knocked down. His wrist is also zip tied to the back handle of the dumpster, so his arm is raised high above his head and Connor can see where the zip tie is digging into his skin. He watches as the man takes a small breath with a small sigh of relief.

That seems to make something in Connor click, because he’s suddenly dropping to his knees to check for any less obvious injuries. First thing’s first, Connor removes the zip tie from the man’s wrist by jamming his fingernail between the latch and tail slowly undoing the loop. He carefully puts the man’s arm down by his side. Connor only knows so much about first aid and injuries from past, admittedly extensive research for his books and comic scenes, but he does remember how to spot the signs of various broken bones. He also knows that won’t be enough to make sure he’s actually okay.

Therefore, he yanks his phone out of his pocket and texts his friend, Kara, who is some kind of doctor, hoping that she’ll be kind enough to come and look this guy over herself. It’s not like Connor wouldn’t pay her for her expertise, after all.

Connor Child Today at 19:28 (7:28)

Hey, are you busy right now?

Connor doesn’t even have time to repocket his phone before it vibrates in his hand. She mustn't be busy, if she responded so quickly.

Best Mom Friend Today at 19:28 (7:28)

i’m free. what’s up

Connor Child Today at 19:29 (7:29)

You know how you’re a doctor? Are you, like, a general doctor, or are you specialized in something? And is there a difference between pure and partial humans medically/biologically?

Best Mom Friend Today at 19:30 (7:30)

We’ll call it a general one. and no there aren’t major differences besides the tail and ears and heightened senses and all that jazz.

weren’t you just with luther? what happened?

Connor Child Today at 19:20 (7:30)

I was, but I found an injured Nekojin that was beat up by these three assholes while walking home. It doesn’t look life threatening, but I’m not a doctor and I also have no way of getting him to my place.

When Kara doesn’t respond immediately, Connor carefully lifts up the large man’s shirt, carefully avoiding touching his white, tan, and black blotched tail that’s draped protectively across his chest before he passed out. He notes that there’s a lot of bruising, which could mean a few things, some worse than others. He’s taking even breaths instead of short, sporadic ones, though, which could be a good sign. After checking a few other things tenderly and carefully, Connor decides that it’s probably okay to carefully lay the stranger down so he can check his back.

It’s immediately apparent that they jumped him from behind. The entire back of his shirt has blood all over it, and some blood on the wall and dumpster where he was leaned against them. After a solid twenty seconds of processing what he’s seeing and choosing what to do about this first, Connor finally forces himself to tenderly lift the back of his shirt up. He notices that none of the cuts should be deep enough to do any lasting damage beyond scars. He doesn’t even think blood loss should be a problem, since the blood wasn’t even visible for the most part until he was rolled over. That doesn’t account for any possible internal bleeding though, and for the fact that Connor still isn’t a doctor.

At that thought, Kara finally messages back with perfect timing.

Best Mom Friend Today at 19:34 (7:34)

first of all, where are you?

second of all, you shouldn’t bring strangers into your home.

third of all, you should take him to a hospital anyway.

Connor cringes at his phone at the last suggestion, then begins typing.

Connor Child Today at 19:35 (7:35)

We both know he won’t get proper care at a hospital, especially since he doesn’t appear to have a collar or a way of contacting someone who will pay off the debt for the stay. Also, I’ve already thought about every other option besides bringing him to a hospital and they all end with him getting abandoned and/or hurt again out here. I don’t wanna leave him like that.

It’s then that Connor realizes that he likely has most of the things needed to take care of these types of injuries at home in his jumbo first aid kit. Markus bought it for him on his birthday as a jab at how clumsy he is, but it’s come in handy multiple times since then and none of his friends let it die.

Connor Child Today at 19:36 (7:36)

Besides, I think I have everything needed to clean him up at my apartment, I’m just not sure about any internal injuries or how to move him.

Oh god damn it, apparently Connor’s going to be one of the dumbasses who brings injured strangers back home. He can’t just leave him out here and he can’t trust anyone else in this area– state, even– to not abuse this guy as soon as Connor is out of sight, though. He gently feels around the stranger’s head, carefully avoiding his tan and black ears, for any obvious injuries as he works things out in his head.

Maybe he can call Markus to come over to help keep watch just in case? No, he and Simon are out in New York on vacation until Monday, and today’s Thursday. He can’t ask Carl or Luther to come over, since Carl is old and wheelchair bound and, as well as Luther can act and despite his massive size, he does much worse with conflict than Connor does. He’d be on edge from being around a wild card for the night, then stressed for days after. Connor knows Kara would come help him out, but she doesn’t get enough sleep as it is, with the weird hospital hours and helping with taking care of Alice. She doesn’t need to be more involved in this than she already is, anyways.

This is either going to end surprisingly well or very badly, and Connor has a feeling of which it’s going to be. That is decidedly not a good sign, but Connor elects to ignore it anyway.

Connor finds a rather large knot on the right side of the man’s head where the majority of the blood in his hair is, which is probably the same injury that pretty much knocked him out in the first place. He doesn’t even know if there’s a way to check for concussions when the person is unconscious.

His phone finally pings an alert for a new message.

Best Mom Friend Today at 19:37 (7:37)

fine, you win. tell me where you are and i’ll bring you guys to your place. who’s staying with you, cause it isn’t going to be me or luther.

Connor Child Today at 19:37 (7:37)

Thank you so much!! I’m at the boutique near my apartment complex! And I have a friend that I’m going to message!

You’re the best!!

Connor rolls the stranger into what he hopes is a more comfortable position, then finds a place where he’ll be able to watch the parallel parking lanes in front of the boutique and the unconscious nekojin at the same time. His phone chimes again, and he doesn’t bother opening it for the simple three letter in the message notification.

Best Mom Friend Today at 19:41 (7:41)

Omw

With that taken care of, all there is left to do is wait for Kara. He moves and sits down in his spot, and just a bit over ten minutes later, she pulls up. Connor glances back at the old stranger, making sure he won’t die or something in his absence, then quickly steps out of the alley so Kara will see him. She does and parks her blue SUV in the spot closest to where Connor is waiting.

“Kara! You’re a lifesaver, really!” he calls after Kara steps out of her car.

“I know, I know,” She shuts the door behind her, “Where’s the guy?”

“He’s back here. I didn’t want to move him too much.”

She nods in approval and silently follows him to the old nekojin, then starts looking over his wounds. She decides that the cuts on his back aren’t as bad as they could be and the bleeding has already slowed down a bit. At her request, Connor retells everything he knows. After a few more minutes of checking, she states that the stranger no doubt has a concussion and will need plenty of rest and another check up once he’s awake. Thankfully, she doesn’t think his wrist is dislocated or fractured or anything, and his ribs seem fine. Together, they carefully lift the unconscious man into the back of the SUV, and Connor climbs in the back to sit with him.

They reach Connor’s apartment complex in just over two minutes (he swears he isn’t staring at the clock in the car), then fight to awkwardly lift the man out of the car and up the flight of stairs to Connor’s apartment. Once inside, they lay him on the bed in the guest room. Kara makes a comment about the sheets not making it through unscathed, but Connor disregards her with an obvious lie about needing new sheets anyway.

Kara then washes the man’s back and arms then carefully tends to his plentiful superficial wounds with Connor’s help, since there was apparently glass in some of his cuts. By the time they’re finished with that and the man has a light blanket draped over him, a couple of hours have gone by. Kara leaves once Connor promises (lies) that the person he texted about staying over will be on their way very soon and isn’t there now because they have a shift at the grocery store.

Now that Connor is completely alone and is starting to feel the nerves from having a large, presumably strong stranger unconscious in his home, he doesn’t quite know what to do. Normally when things get stressful or unusual, he’d write a short story depicting a character going through something that would make them just as uncomfortable and stressed as he is and post it on his Patreon, but he doesn’t want the click-clacking of his keyboard to mask any noises that the man might make.

After a bit of thinking and standing around, he decides to paint the sunset he took a picture of earlier.

He goes down the short hallway that connects his room, laundry room, and bathroom to the rest of the apartment. He opens the closet on the right side of the room and grabs a canvas and various paints and brushes. Going back out to the area of life, as Connor calls it (since the kitchen, dining room, and living room are all one large area, with the living room sectioned off by couches and the kitchen by a counter island and tiles on the ground), he sets up his stuff on his small, square table. He makes sure he’s facing the doors to his and the guest rooms with his back to the front door and the sliding door to his balcony/patio thing.

He pauses in his painting every 45 minutes to an hour so he can check on the nekojin. When the sun finally rises in the morning, Connor’s finished two sellable paintings and is starting a third. He has officially reached the level of exhaustion where he no longer feels tired as long as he ignores the pressure behind his eyes and the headache starting to form. Sometimes his insomnia-like-symptoms flare up until he gets to this point, so he isn’t worried.

After checking on the man yet again, Connor decides to fix a breakfast sandwich using his near-expired bacon and a tube of premade biscuits. He makes enough eggs and bacon for only one person, not knowing when the nekojin will wake up and if he even eats eggs or meat.

He’s in the middle of putting his food on a plate when there’s a slight and distant creak. If he were alone, Connor would have been able to convince himself that it was the building settling or something of the like, but he isn’t. He quickly turns around and is relieved to see nothing behind him. He hastily scoops the last bit of eggs onto his plate before cautiously walking through the living area towards the guest room. He pauses right at the door and listens for movement, just in case the man woke up and is trying to do something stupid and/or dangerous.

Connor may be trained in various types of combat and self defense, but he’s not stupid enough to think that makes him invincible. Especially against someone who is as large as that man was, and that’s excluding the chances that this stranger has training in some kind of combat as well.

After a couple of seconds of complete silence, Connor hesitantly opens the door just wide enough to slowly peek half of his head through. He immediately sees that the man is no longer in his bed. He’s barely able to open the door wider to step inside before a heavy weight barrels into him from the side. Next thing he knows, he’s pinned to the wall by a furious nekojin, with his ears pinned to his head and fangs sharp as needles. It’s already getting hard to breathe and Connor, as predicted, can’t move the arm that’s pushed against his throat. Trying to move his right arm and both legs is useless because the man also has them pinned enough to where he can’t make any effective attacks on him.

He must have some kind of training in combat as well, or has learned from personal experience. Connor is completely screwed if this man decides he is too much of a threat or isn’t worth his time.

“Cause any trouble and I make your life painful, ya hear?” the man snarls lowly, and if Connor wasn’t already used to being pinned against walls and threatened, he’d probably be panicking right now. Connor rapidly nods as calmly as he can (which isn’t nearly calm enough) while being in this situation. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Connor” he rasps painfully, “I’m– no harm. Please–”

The older man hisses, and it sounds nothing like when cats do it. When cats hiss, it almost sounds like an air leakage from a pipe; high pitched and more breathy than anything. This hiss, though, is not unlike what demons sound like in horror movies. It’s lower and almost growlish and absolutely terrifying enough to make up for the lack of a small, agile body.

It shuts Connor up to say the absolute least.

“Where the fuck did you bring me?”

“My–” Connor coughs and gasps painfully, “apartment.” That must have been the wrong answer because the pressure on his throat increases. Since moving the arm is impossible, he starts patting it to try to signal the stranger that he really needs air.

“I can fuckin’ see that, dumbass. I meant where the fuck is this place?”

“Not– far, fr-from… alley…” Huh, so the darkness not only invades from the sides of your vision, but the focus of it also dims too. And nobody ever mentioned in the books he read about how much pressure is building in his head right now, like it’s going to explode soon. Aw great, now he’s starting to mildly dissociate. Just what he needs.

The nekojin is trying to say something to him, but the only things he can make out clearly from the sudden white noise are “you”, “better”, and “punk”. Connor doesn’t want to agree to something preposterous, but he also doesn’t want to try to ask for clarification or anything like that and make the man angrier. He suddenly has a fleeting thought of dying here, and his mind just as suddenly latches onto it and won’t let go. God he’s so fucking stupid. He knew this was a horrible idea, and he still fucking did it. Why doesn’t he ever listen to anyone?

Just as Connor tries to reach his left arm up to damage the man’s face somehow and force him to let go, he’s abruptly released.

Connor barely avoids dropping to the ground and instead leans against the wall because his legs want to function more like jelly than anything remotely solid. He coughs and gasps but locks his knees so he’s less likely to fall over into a more defenseless position. He distantly recognizes that the nekojin is trying to talk to him again, but he’s too preoccupied with getting air into his lungs and not falling over to even try to decipher it. Thankfully, whatever he said apparently wasn’t super important because nothing happens when Connor doesn’t give any kind of response, and nothing continues to happen until he’s breathing normally and standing up on his own again.

“You said I wasn’t far from the alley,” the nekojin spits out, “How close is it?”

Connor blinks the tears from his eyes. “Five minute walk, maybe.” he answers quietly, throat hurting.

“Where are your roommates?”

“Don’t have any.”

“You live completely alone?” he asks, an eyebrow raised in suspicion.

Connor silently nods.

“Why’d you bring me here? Think you could tame some fuckin’ stray to be your personal pet? ‘Cause you’re very wrong.” he ends in a growl. It sends shivers up Connor’s spine and he can feel the sweat on him beading and rolling down. If this comes to blows again, there’s no way Connor will be able to win, especially not like this.

“No. You’re hurt.” he says more sure, finally lifting his head to meet the other’s eyes.

“You honestly expect me to believe that you brought an old, stray nekojin home just because he was a little hurt?”

Connor nods. “Didn’t know if you were bleeding out or not–”

He shuts his mouth with a click and braces himself for another attack when he sees the stranger move. It’s barely a shift to the side, but it’s enough to send Connor back into highest alert. The guy must realise this because he shifts backward a step.

“What do you get outta patchin’ me up?”

“...technically nothing?”

“No one does anything without any reward, so fuckin’ spill it.” he spits.

“A clear conscious, maybe?” There’s no bite in his words, only the underlying fear of giving the wrong answer. When the older man doesn’t immediately shoot another question, Connor continues. “Look, I just don’t like it when people’re in pain. I wanted to help, so I did.”

“People.” When Connor stares blankly in return, he continues. “I’m not people. Won’t ever be, thanks to the ears and tail.”

“You should be people.” he breathes. “A lot of others agree with me, nowadays.”

“Ah, so you’re one of those activists? You realise you guys are going to get killed before anything substantial changes right?”

“I’m– uh, I’m not really an activist? I don’t like all the attention.” Connor forces himself to loosen up a little, more to prove that he isn’t a danger to the wild card in front of him and less because he actually wants to. “It makes me nervous.”

“Yet you supposedly bring home a dangerous stranger from the streets into your own home just for the sake of patching up a few scratches.”

Connor stands at full height once more, his voice sharp, “You also have severe bruising and a concussion. And the hospital wouldn’t have done much for you because it wasn’t immediately life threatening and you don’t have a collar.”

“If it wasn’t fucking life threatening then you should have left me out there! To hell with your hero dilemma or whatever the fuck you have!” the man snaps, waving his arms in wide, angry gestures, “How the hell did you even know where to find me, if you really aren’t with the fuckers who did this to me?”

“I was walking home from work and heard someone get hit, then voices threatening murder. I just stayed until they left in case I needed to jump in and stop them.” Connor says gravely.

The man sighs. Connor can feel his exhaustion from that one breath alone, but holds his ground. He doesn’t know what is genuine and what is an act to get him to lower his defenses. He’s suddenly aware that he’s shaking.

“And how the fuck did you get me here?” His tone is slightly less angry.

“Called a friend with a car. She’s the one who patched you up ‘cause she’s a doctor.” Connor tries to slow his trembling, and, to his surprise, it’s kind of working.

The older man eyes him, “And why the fuck did she help?”

“She thought someone else was staying with me last night so I wasn’t alone with you.” Connor blurts before reassuring, “No one else is here, but she doesn’t know that. She has her own things to worry about. I don’t want her involved.” With that, he stops his breathing exercises, confident he won’t start panting or hyperventilating.

“And you don’t have one?” he can almost hear the raised eyebrow accompanying the nekojin’s question.

“Not really.” He doesn’t really want to talk about this, especially not to someone he doesn’t know.

“Nothin’ to lose by taking in a stranger, huh? Self destructive much?”

“Not– not exactly.”

There’s a few moments of tense silence. Connor still refuses to move a single muscle from earlier and it’s starting to get strenuous now, but he won’t lower his guard until he knows this nekojin isn’t a threat anymore.

“...You’re not gonna try to name me or some shit?” the partial-human asks warily and, if Connor isn’t wrong, with a hint of timidity.

That… was not at all what Connor was expecting out of the gruff man after what has been going down. He didn’t even know that people did that to partial humans. It sadly makes sense, though, considering history. Animals have always been renamed with little issue, and back in the day, people used to do just the same to partial humans too. Connor thought that kind of thing died decades ago, though.

“No? I didn’t even fully realize that was a thing people still did…”

“And none of these drawers have clothes of my size in them?”

“I– No! Check if you want but–”

Connor falls silent when the other man suddenly turns to the single dresser in the room and opens the first drawer. Every drawer after that was opened and reshut with great haste. Finding it all empty, he moves on to the closet and goes through the small shelving unit in there. He once again finds nothing, and shuts the closet with an obvious breath of relief. He sharply turns back to Connor. The man must see something in Connor because he sighs and shuffles towards where he’s still sitting against the wall.

“You really don’t want any ownership over me?” The man sounds less angry and more skeptical.

“If you don’t believe me, then you can always leave. I don’t want to trap you. But you’re still hurt.” Only silence follows, so Connor tries again to make this man trust that he won’t slap a collar on him. “I’ve never been interested in getting a nekojin. I hate what you guys have to endure, and I’ve always pretty much seen everyone as equals. It actually got me a bit of unwanted attention when I was younger.” He adds after a split second of hesitation.

The stranger huffs in what seems like a mocking manner. Connor can understand why.

“You sure you’re not an activist? Going out and parading and getting arrested by plan?”

Connor fights the urge to squirm in shame and apprehension and shakes his head. “I’ve always been too shy for anything like that, and I don’t like a lot of attention focused on me. It’s stressful.”

The man takes two steps closer to Connor, who instinctively tenses, not realizing that he ever relaxed just the slightest bit in the first place. The other pauses, then shuffles back half a step, putting his hands in his pockets in a way that makes it obvious that he’s forcing himself to do so, rather than keep them ready for a fight and out in the open.

“How do I know you aren’t with those three brats and are gonna try your shot at taming my fugly mug into something sellable? Hm? How do I know that no one’s waiting to catch me if I try to leave like you offered?”

Connor speaks without thinking. “You’re not fugly, just in need of a shower and new clothes.” Connor hates the tense silence that immediately follows, so Connor quickly moves on and fills it, “And, I– uh– I guess you don’t? I mean, I don’t know how to prove it? That I don’t think it’s a good idea to ‘tame’ anyone? I mean, don’t you need those life skills? To like, survive and stuff in our current society?”

The nekojin only gapes at him as if he’s said something completely absurd, and knowing himself, he probably did without realizing it. When it becomes obvious that Connor isn’t going to continue, the stranger shakes his head incredulously.

“Do you know how many people would call a nekojin’s feral state ‘life skills’? Even the damn activists have their own ideas about how our sanity should be managed. Are you fucking insane?”

Connor winces at his tone. “Uh… I mean, you don’t seem feral to me, as such… But I know I’m socially awkward and I’ve been told I’m dense–”

“I can’t tell if you’re shitting me or if you’re really trying hard to get me to not fucking hate you.” He suddenly sniffs the air and his expression becomes darker. “Something is burning. What the hell are you cooking?”

Burning? Connor thinks, sniffing the air. He can’t really smell anything. A partial-human’s sense of must be substantially stronger than a pure human’s; a single truth within the many lies of the internet.

“I was making a breakfast sandwich before you woke up… It might be the biscuits that you smell burning?”

He should really go pull them out of the oven, but he’s still afraid that this guy will pounce on him again if he tries to make an unannounced move for the door, and he doesn’t want a repeat of that whatsoever. On another note, there is absolutely no way he’s going to have his back turned to an aggressive stranger for any amount of time, especially because this one has claws and fangs.

“Fine, I smell the eggs and bacon too, but I’m gonna go sit out where you’ll be cooking so I know where you are and what you’re doing.” He straightens up and crosses his arms defiantly. The post is practically begging Connor to refuse the guy so he can do something about it. Too bad Connor doesn’t want to.

“That’s fine,” Connor pauses, then tries something bold at the last moment, “As long as you tell me what to call you.” The other startles at that, “I’m tired of calling you ‘stranger’ and ‘nekojin’ in my head.” Connor relaxes his pose just enough to seem like he isn’t ready to spring into any kind of action still, even though he definitely still is. “I’m Connor.”

He scrutinizes the younger man, then sighs and untenses just a tad. “Fine. Lead the way, then. I’m Hank, and that’s all you’re gonna get outta me.”

“I didn’t expect anything else.” He attempts a smile that he suspects looks more like a grimace.

Now that Connor is somewhat confident that the stranger– Hank isn’t going to pounce on him the moment his back is turned, he’s able to exit the door and walk to the kitchen area without looking alarmingly tense and uncomfortable. Connor hears a door close as he finds and pulls on a pair of oven mitts. Connor still keeps a mental map of where Hank is by the sound of his footsteps as he grabs the pan of moderately burned biscuits out of the oven.

He sets the pan on the counter so the cooked-to-dark-brown biscuits can cool so the trash bag doesn’t melt when he throws them away. Then he swiftly pulls out a stool from the kitchen island and takes the smoke alarm off of the ceiling, then deactivating it right as it begins beeping with the timing and grace of only someone who has done this a million other times can achieve. He gets down and puts the stool back. He moves back to the oven and turns it off all while avoiding having his back completely to Hank, who’s standing in his living room.

There’s complete silence in the room that makes Connor’s nerves bristle. Connor glances over to the knife block next to the fridge, knowing that he would never actually use them to harm anyone, but he likes to believe he could bluff his way out of a dire situation. Although, now that he’s thinking about it, maybe he couldn’t. Hank would probably be unfazed or get angrier after everything he’s experienced in his lifetime, and that’s if he somehow believes that Connor would actually use said knife after everything he’s said and done.

Connor jumps when Hank starts speaking.

“Everything good now? You’ve been standing there starin’ at nothin’ like a lunatic.”

Connor says nothing, choosing to just nod instead as he casually crosses his arms and leans against the counter next to the oven in a strained act of nonchalance.

Hank studies him carefully. “Why are you helping me, really?”

Connor can’t help but silently sigh. He may have already said this once or twice before, and he may not blame the guy in the slightest for not believing him, but still. It’s not like his answer is going to change from when he asked earlier. Although, that may be why he’s asking again, as some form of test or something.

“Like I said before, I don’t think I’ll get anything tangible out of this. If you really need something, then maybe self-satisfaction or a clean conscious for helping someone in need, but nothing tangible like money.” Hank shoots him a blank look that he hates. He sighs. “I just– My gut told me that you needed some real help, and I was going to give it whether you were a pure human or partial. It’s just that after finding out you had cat ears and a tail, I knew that no hospital in the area was going to give you proper care so 911 was essentially useless. I generally have good intuition when it comes to people, so I trusted it and brought you home instead of leaving you tied down in that nasty alley.” What Connor doesn’t mention aloud is how he’s been regretting not leaving him bandaged up in the cleaner part of that alley ever since he couldn’t see the other man in the guest room’s bed earlier.

His last statement catches Hank’s attention, who then turns his head to look away from Connor for the first time since being awake and looks out a window. He clears his throat, cutting off Connor’s growing panic. The guy’s head is down and his shoulders are slumped, but it’s still obvious that he’s still on edge and wary of his surroundings and Connor. When he speaks, it sounds like he has to force the sound from his lips.

“Look, Connor, I’m sorry for snapping at you, even if I don’t entirely regret protecting myself like that. But I still don’t trust or like you, got it?”

“Yeah. The sentiment is kind of the same right now, no offense.”

“None taken,” Hank pauses and straightens up, “Do you at least get where I’m coming from, though?” he takes a step forward. “Like, according to society, I am an untamed animal or slave, and I wake up in a strange room and am getting checked on every god damned minute by a complete stranger when the last thing I remember is getting kicked around and beat with broken bottles.” He shakes his head and looks away.

“I ain’t some starvin’, twink cat that you can just bring home and teach how to trust and love or whatever the fuck else books try to say. Hell, I’m not even a Persian or Maine Coon cat with those big bushy tails like people always love to give us larger people. I’m just an old, fat calico.”

Hank suddenly stiffens upon saying that last word, but Connor ignores it and lowers his head.

“I personally don’t agree with the stereotypes as well. But as I offered before,” Connor raises his head to meet Hank’s eyes again, “you’re always welcome to leave, The front door is right there. I’m not keeping you trapped here, and there’s not anyone after you or anything that I know of, so…” Connor shrugs.

For the first time this morning, Hank looks more uncomfortable than anything else, and Connor doesn’t really have the energy to unpack that. He starting to feel tired because of the lack of adrenaline in his system, so he’ll probably need some caffeinated tea soon. Maybe a new breakfast to go with it, too; his stomach is starting to hurt with hunger because he forgot dinner last night.

Still, Hank hasn’t responded, so Connor takes this opportunity to give him the explicit option to stay because he’s already given the nekojin multiple outs and, as stupid as Connor knows he can be, he doesn’t think Hank should be left on his own quite yet. Besides, he really doesn’t think that Hank will do any harm for no reason. His anger and violence earlier were understandable at the least, and neither of them seem to want a repeat of that any time soon. Connor doesn’t think he’s making the wrong decision by doing this since Hank’s already here in his apartment, anyway. Emphasis on think.

“If you wanted to stay, though, I can make you breakfast? Or you can watch me make your breakfast, or just make it yourself if you want. I mean, because I’m willing to bet that you haven’t had anything decent in a while, yeah?” He chuckles awkwardly. It almost works to make the atmosphere less heavy. Almost.

Hank stares him down, obviously still skeptical and wary of Connor. The creator tries to not do anything that could be taken as suspicious, but that in of itself could be suspicious in a way. A few more seconds pass like this in tense silence before Hank finally sighs and relaxes his shoulders the slightest bit.

“What the fucking hell is my life anymore.” He mumbles, then raises his voice to a normal speaking level “Alright. I’m gonna sit on that stool,” He points to one of the two the kitchen island, “And I’m gonna watch you so you don’t poison my food. And then you can hear me if I even so much as shuffle, so you’ll know I won’t attack you from behind.”

“Okay.” He watches as Hank moves with a slight limp in his left leg and sits with a poorly concealed wince. “Did you… did you want to maybe redress your wounds? I have over the counter pain meds if you want, but I doubt you’d trust that.”

“You’re right. I don’t trust that a single fucking bit. This ain’t nothin’ I haven’t gone through before, so you can quit your worryin’.” Hank hesitates, then continues, almost meeker. “And you don’t need to worry about allergies. I’ll eat anythin’.”

Connor simply nods in response, already getting used to Hank’s vulgarity and irritation. It’s probably not healthy why he’s already getting used to it, considering it’s mostly due to questionable parenting choices and plenty of childhood bullying, but no one really has the time or patience to unpack that right now (or ever, if Connor has any say in it). Therefore, he does what he does second best, and instead of slowly unpacking that box of troubles and sorting through it like any healthy person should, he simply tapes that box shut tightly with three layers of duct tape and shoves it to the back of his mental storage unit while he takes out his pan cleaner to wash off the remnants of his food before starting Hank’s.

As he gathers ingredients and tools to the island so Hank can see exactly what Connor is doing at all times, he never once looks up at Hank. The why from earlier tries to rear its ugly head again, but he shoves and forces it down again with practiced ease. Unlike what it has to say about the damnable why, his gut is telling him that Hank isn’t really a bad person, that he’s just been dealt a shit hand in his life. It’s right about people much more often than it’s not, and Connor can only hope that this isn’t one of those times where it’s not.

He finds himself almost wanting to like Hank, to show him that the world isn’t completely filled with stupid assholes, only mostly full.

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

~> Next

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

A/N: Hey guys!! I hope you didn’t mind the wait too much, but I ended up changing the plot to this story last minute and rewrote this chapter, like, 3 and a half times now? So, yeah, there’s that. This chapter was a bit angsty and I still kinda really hate it, but!! But!!! I am moving on because Protective Hank™ will be making an appearance next chapter!! The next chapter of The Drift Between Us may not come for a couple of weeks because I have to update the EXO x Reader I’m writing on a blog I share with my friend that I have been neglecting lately Lol. So, that’s pretty much it! Thank you for taking the time to read this, and I hope you have a pleasant day/night! 😊💕

#hankcon #hank x connor #hank anderson x connor #hankcon fanfiction #hankcon fanfic #hankcon au #hannor fanfic #hannor fanfiction #hannor au #hannor #neko hank anderson #dbh neko hank #cat out of the bag #chapter 1

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askalucario-blog · 6 years ago

Photo

Caption: ‘yule’ when finished, Kennedy gives each of the masks a name and completes the project by posting an image online images courtesy of the artist.

Damselfrau interview: a peek behind the many masks of the London-based artist

if you somehow stumbled accidentally upon the work of Norwegian artist damselfrau, you’d be forgiven for thinking you had unearthed a cache of ancient vestments; something mystical, arcane—maybe even occult. defined by intricate beadwork, delicate lace and bold, bright color, damselfrau’s masks are at once visually arresting and bewitchingly unsettling. beautifully reshaping the face of the wearer, her work is laden with character, suggesting not just individual personalities, but whole narratives, histories, and worlds of their own.

the name ‘damselfrau’ is inherently contradictory. while ‘frau’ is a term used for married women, ‘damsel’ denotes one who is unmarried. combined, they form the paradoxical and provocative pseudonym adopted by artist magnhild kennedy—originally as a skype username, now as a professional alias—that she likes to interpret as ‘married to oneself’. it’s a fitting mantle for an artist who has become renowned for her masks; a craft that involves placing another ‘self’ on top of your own, creating both a combination of the two and suggesting something entirely new altogether.

damselfrau masks in vogue portugal, ‘the bold side of christmas’image by vasily agreneko, styling by pierre-alexandre fillaire

originally from trondheim in norway, damselfrau moved to london in 2007. while both of her parents are artists, she herself never formally trained. rather, kennedy’s practice originated somewhere a little less conventional: the dance floors of london’s nightclubs. working at a vintage designer shop in islington at the time, kennedy drew inspiration from the collection of clothes around her and was able to sew her own pieces behind the counter, which she would then wear clubbing. eye-catching, eccentric and strangely seductive, it’s no wonder that mask quickly became her craft of choice.

since then, damselfrau has made pieces for artists like mø and beyoncé, and collaborated with alister mackie and louis vuitton. beads, glass, lace, textiles, paint, hair, paper: everything and anything can be included in one of damselfrau’s creations. rather than chaos however, the result is one of organic artistry. ‘for me the mask is a place where different elements come together as situation,’ she says in her artist’s statement. ‘the work is about this place-situation, more so than the mask as a theme or category of form. the mask is a place’. livened by the found nature of the materials that comprise them, damselfrau’s masks perfectly walk the line between being delicate artworks of visual poetry and ghostly uniforms for the mystical.

damselfrau’s intricate gold face piece can be spotted at the start of this music video for mø’s track ‘kamikaze’

designboom spoke with the artist recently about her journey toward mask making, the best spots in london to find new materials, and her plans for the new year.

designboom: you come from a particularly artistic family. what was your own personal journey like as an artist in light of this? do you remember the first time you sat down and said, ‘right, I’m going to make a mask’? how did it turn out?

magnhild kennedy: I came to myself quite late. I’ve always made various types of stuff, but nothing good. I’ve known since I was a teen that I was going to have to head to london at some point, but it didn’t happen until I was in my late 20’s. I have no idea how masks became the format for me, I’m not particularly interested in masks as a category. I worked in a vintage design shop when I first moved here. looking at the old clothes, their details and decor gave me some insight into making. I went to car-boot sales every weekend to find utilities for our new life here, and started schlepping home all kinds of funny materials, textiles and bits I found there.

I had to do something with all these materials. it started with making masks for a party and the format stuck. from there it just grew slowly and organically. five years ago my husband robert started dalston pier studio. I got myself a proper work shop there and felt it was the time take it seriously. I felt like an imposter for the longest time. I’m self taught, I didn’t go to school past the age of 19. but growing up with two artist parents, it’s been schooling from day one

DB: you work a lot in found textiles and have spoken about picking up materials in car boot sales and the like. what is the strangest place you’ve ever found material for a mask, and when working on a new piece, do you have a go-to place in london to start looking for inspiration?

MK: I find things everywhere, I have picked fruit netting out of bins. one christmas in paris, they decorated the trees of the champs-élysées with plastic crystals. rouge ones had fallen off and been stepped into the dirt pavement and I scratched out pocket fulls. I’ve picked gold confetti off the floor at alternative miss world. friends bring me things from their travels too. a friend gave me a norwegian 1700’s hair wreath, a japanese friend gave me an antique geisha hair piece I crocheted into a mask. old tea towels. I’ll use whatever if it has personality.

just walking out the door is inspiration, really. I live in dalston. people from everywhere in the world, young and old. fashion kids. charity shops. I’ll go to sir john soane’s museum. the wallace collection. spitalfields on thursdays. dennis severs’ house. dover street market. a pub.

DB: how long does it usually take to finish a mask, and what is the longest you have ever worked on a single piece?

MK: anything from a day to forever! I have unfinished masks on my shelves that have been waiting for ‘something’ for months—years even. I’ll just have to wait until that right something comes along.

percifor’‘I felt like an imposter for the longest time…but growing up with two artist parents, it’s been schooling from day one’

DB: I know you originally made masks for clubbing in london. how has creating masks specifically for a club environment and club culture in general influenced the work you make? do you still wear your masks clubbing?

MK: it’s been a loooong time since I went clubbing! I might make myself something fun for halloween if I am going to some party. the ‘craft something from nothing’ element of the club culture was inspiring. what some people could make out of some egg carton, tape and paint, you know? there was no hierarchy amongst the materials. that is the main thing I learned that I have brought with me into the work.

‘uro’‘there was no hierarchy amongst the materials. that is the main thing (…) I have brought with me into the work’

DB: how do you personally feel when wearing one of your creations, and what do you hope the experience is for an onlooker?

MK: I don’t wear the masks much once they are done. I try my best not to make to many decisions for the masks. people see what they see. it’s none of my business!

DB: you have collaborated with a lot of really interesting people in the past. are there any artists you are particularly influenced by, or anyone you would love to work with in future?

MK: when I was a kid I saw moebius’ and enki bilal’s comics, and they definitely still inform what I do. I’m very interested in homes and how people surround themselves. I decorate a lot. I sew my own christmas ornaments. at the moment I am taken with the book ‘dawnridge’, about tony duquette’s wonderfully OTT home. he was an artist, film and set designer in hollywood. I like miniature model makers like charles matton and thierry bosquet.

I like spaces over-informed by the people who use them and live in them. I have always felt I work mostly like a decorator. my all time greatest obsession is versailles. I don’t have a particular person in mind, so my dream collab would definitely be with versailles.

DB: you often talk about your masks having a character and life of their own. how much of yourself do you see in each piece you make, or do you always see it as a separate entity from the start? what stage in the process does a mask’s character start to reveal itself, and what does that moment feel like?

MK: separate entity I think…it’s a kind of meditative state, making these things. i’m always surprised by what comes out and that I have made something. usually the character changes several times along the way. there are very few conscious choices taken along the way, or at least it feels like it.

I try to think as little as possible, really and just go by instinct. no overthinking. I have clear physical reactions in the brain to if something works or not. like two ant antennae meeting, releasing some warm spark. some severe chemical reaction, it’s totally a high.

DB: you have a strong presence on instagram and images of your work are understandably popular on sites like instagram and tumblr. how integral to your process is social media, and how has it impacted the way you make work, if at all?

MK: it’s a big part of the work. a mask isn’t finished until I have taken a portrait of it and sent it out on general internet high-ways like my instagram or blogspot. this way the mask makes a life of its own and communicates its own being. it’s how it has turned into actual work.

DB: are you working on anything at the moment you’d like to share with us, and what does 2019 hold for damselfrau?

MK: yes! I’m very excited. I have been invited to exhibit at the national museum of decorative arts trondheim in norway this september. it’s the first time I’ll show the masks in the flesh in norway, so it’s pretty grand for me. I used to visit this museum as a kid, I have strong feeling for this building. it’s surreal to be showing there. I am also working on an interesting project with queen mary university and designer rachel freire, incorporating technical fabrics and movement sensors with my masks. that’s a new universe for me—very cool.

DB: any personal mottos or words of wisdom you try to live by?

MK: ‘walk, don’t run’, as my dad always says.

#facemask

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tinymixtapes · 6 years ago

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Feature: 2018: Second Quarter Favorites

TMT’s Musical Innovation Summit, now in its 14th year, is the oldest meeting of its kind in the industry. Like last quarter’s summit, roughly 10 music professionals from TMT gathered in New York to discuss the latest musical breakthroughs and make predictions on which releases will spark future awe-inspiring innovations. To help make the predictions, we interviewed 45 random fans, 30 venture capitalists, and a handful of media who cover the music industry across the country to get their collective thoughts on what’s imminent. That list is then honed by eliminating long-shot candidates, followed by a double-elimination round to get rid of shitty artists. Nominees are thoroughly vetted, and the groups eliminate candidates throughout the process. Today, we are proud to present the results: the BEST 26 releases of the last three months (with a shortlist at the end). We predict that these releases will change music forever. --- SOPHIE OIL OF EVERY PEARL’S UN-INSIDES [Future Classic] [WATCH · READ] Now’s raw doubt flanges in this memory’s mercury, and we’re back in the basement dark, floor paved with silver marbles. We will shine a light on one, outline the floor with reflecting. I ask are you sure of this? and you say no, never not of any thing. You squeeze your foreign-feeling shoulder, slim quick doubt. Then you hold a marble up to your eye, unclipped cuticles before corneas, a silver pearl. It’s okay. Flashlight on. We gape. There is no neat sequence. No light is set Surface contorts seeing. The shining is bent in coils. There is no straight path, just what we can move into in this whole new world. Roll the flashlight, and it’s a world warping, brilliance refracted, reflections re-membering. The world we built in the dark teaches us how being between might be. Our un-insides, SOPHIE’s sound, teaches us that brilliance doesn’t diminish its self, that light and self and is what we call it. And you say call me Vivian. Becoming who we’re becoming, “no matter where I go, you’ll be here in my heart.” –Frank Falisi --- Playboi Carti Die Lit [Interscope/AWGE] [LISTEN · READ] The arrival of Playboi Carti’s debut album proper, following last year’s crucial self-titled mixtape, could seem like a mere victory lap, an easy cop-out that plays up to the well-established framework of overstuffed rap albums in the streaming age. What a pleasure, then, that Die Lit implodes that logic. The heady balance of mood pieces and out-and-out anthems that characterized Playboi Carti is further refined here, but even without that baggage, Die Lit is a success on its own terms, a flickering visage that compounds Carti’s most enticing impulses — barely-there vocals, Reichian repetition, knotty Pi’erre Bourne beats — with all the best facets of the album form. And if Carti is only incidental on the mic, the tracks left in his wake are anything but. Herein lies a set of real Ohrwürmer, the inner soundtrack to your day, long after the album subsides. The cloud bursts forth; lightning really does strike twice. –Soe Jherwood --- DJ Healer / Prime Minister of Doom Nothing 2 Loose / Mudshadow Propaganda [All Possible Worlds] [LISTEN · LISTEN] On DJ Metatron’s 2 The Sky, the anonymous artist threaded a Jake Gyllenhaal interview through intricate waves of house music that helped give rise to this enigmatic and highly gifted producer. This year, his efforts have come twofold, with a double release under two new monikers that plot the same channels of intricacy but through two very different means. In place of the Donnie Darko reflection that deepens the narrative of 2 The Sky is a 2002 Whitney Houston interview with Diane Sawyer, where the troubled singer discusses her drug problems and an unnerving sense of optimism that inevitably collapsed 10 years later. Essentially, the music that accompanies both of these otherwise unrelated samples is the atmospheric gel that binds them together; an actor speaking about his fascination with a perplexing story line, and a generational icon battling with herself, fighting to overcome the very thing that took her life. That disparity lies at the heart of this joint release, which merges two highly distinctive personalities while linking them through religious and personal overtones. Mudshadow Propaganda is perfect in its projection of minimal techno tracks that build on the traits of our secretive producer’s expired alias, The Prince of Denmark, while Nothing 2 Loose is almost confessional in the sincerity that it lays bare. But where both records celebrate the dexterity and imagination of a single producer, they also paint a picture of human existence at its most conflicted, from the carnal and the primitive to the haunted and the divine. –Birkut --- Grouper Grid of Points [Kranky] [LISTEN · READ] In seven tracks and less than 30 minutes, Liz Harris sought to take us nowhere. So she stranded us anywhere. Giving up on finding anything instructive or stabilizing in the passing moan of a stray vocal, the odd cluster of muted piano keys, or the occasional sharp gust of static, it became clear that the only place where anything “new” could happen was in a place where nothing old and familiar was left. “Where are we?” started to sound more like “Where aren’t we?” It might have been some heavenly shoreline where the water was the same perfect gunmetal color as the sky, but it might just as likely have been the vacant parking lot of some long-since-demolished Disneyland. It didn’t really matter. Anyplace we chose to stand and look from was just as good (or bad) as another. “Might as well call this the center,” we figured. Gotta start somewhere. –Dan Smart --- Seth Graham Gasp [Orange Milk/Noumenal Loom] [LISTEN · READ] A symphony of perversions and memories that ignites every time you rapid-fire through your Instagram stories. Refried beans left over from the camping trip you took to a closed beta somewhere off the coast of Spy Kids 4D. A million splintered renderings of classical text that you half-scrawled onto the back of your hand before you realized that you were actually just passed out on the keyboard again. Gasp is like a raw feed of how music itself operates in 2018; brief bursts of genius materializing right before us, only to be swept away and digested into something unrecognizably new. The entire sum of human history rubbing elbows with that ASMR video you had to rush to minimize before your roommate could ask you what the fuck you were just watching. A guy as unassuming as Orange Milk label head Seth Graham conjuring up untold universes of possibility from his home in Dayton, OH, his bank of MIDIs a window into our gentle, distraught, and hilarious world. –Sam Goldner [pagebreak] Klein cc [Self-Released] [LISTEN · READ] “Oh my god! Who’s actually going to listen to this?” asks Klein, lounging with friends, reflecting on her last EP, Tommy and a still-emerging network of diasporic black art and sound. A year and new EP later, cc sees Klein more comfortable in the discomfort, pushing further with her collages of confrontational intimacy. “You have to squint” as the voices build and spiral, like an endless loop of out-of-office replies, a pitch-bent dawn chorus, singing to each other, but listening too. Klein made us think: about blackness, about opacity, about femininity and Disney princesses, all at once. Feelings too, and a lack of language to convey them; anxiety, elation, mania, but less medical, sometimes an incantation, sometimes an exorcism. In cc, Klein created a space of unique and disarming affect and mood: a deeper, darker stage in the process of “me being my own therapist,” the sound of someone finding a plurality of voices, of listening to yourself. –Joel White --- Beach House 7 [Sub Pop] [WATCH · READ] Attempting to describe what dreams are seems like a task both impossible and pretentious. But, as it floats like a wandering mind, drifting from thought to thought with each track, 7 certainly feels like a dream. Alex Scally plays guitar, but it sounds like an unfamiliar squall from another universe. Victoria Legrand sings, but it comes out in French. Look at the clock, you’ll be unable to tell how much time has passed. You know, dream stuff. For a genre that gets its name from something as complex as the random images our brains send to us while we sleep, “dream pop” music can often be very formulaic. That’s why, seven albums into their career, it’s remarkable that Beach House have found a way to not only completely refresh their sound, but make perhaps their best album yet. Awash in a chaotic darkness that’s been lingering in different forms throughout their entire discography, 7 hurtles towards oblivion: beautiful, glorious, infinite. –Jeremy Klein --- Eartheater Irisiri [PAN] [WATCH · LISTEN · READ] I keep losing track of Irisiri; it keeps slipping away from me. This isn’t meant as the insult it might scan as. An elegiac spin on the cyber-cyborg-meat-machine kick that everything relevant is twirling toward, this series of sad little processed ditties and twisted car jams charts a swerve back-and-forth between evasiveness and directness. Its unnerving stuff, giving the impression of solidity while remaining impossible to hold. Flirting with hip-hop and electro-acoustic, bedroom pop and sexed-up sopping wet plastic, it keeps moving out of view, even as I keep returning to it. Listening to the album is like chasing an object out of reach, an object I desire without knowning, a body I want without seeing. Also, C.L.I.T. fucking slaps. –Jessie Jeffrey Dunn Rovinelli --- THE HIRS COLLECTIVE FRIENDS. LOVERS. FAVORITES. [SRA/Get Better] [LISTEN · READ] For a few decades now, raw musical aggression has been underpinned with a lot of unintelligible vocal sentiment. Just steam on in with howling, power riffs and punishing beats please. But what’s that on the edge of the blast radius, dashing in headlong through the smoke? Clear sentiments that uplift, testify, and provide some sharp kicks in heteronormativity’s floppy old dick? Yes please! Even with its closing remix section, the album’s corroded (and collaborative) essence remains triumphantly tight. The perfect way Lilium Kobayashi’s quick stomping techno pop take on “Murdered by a Woman” flits to “Wake Up Tomorrow” when this album is on repeat further dispels any sort of tacked-on/bonus trax superfluousness. The cultural constant of immediate, frothing punk rage is obviously not going anywhere. It’s essential to have an album, in fuck-this-shit 2018, where that rage is specifically righteous, even with its eternally itinerant self-laceration (i.e., humanity). –Willcoma --- Delroy Edwards Rio Grande [L.A. Club Resource] [LISTEN · READ] Delroy Edwards has made the funk (in its many different strains) the connective tissue of his intrepid, joyful, and often perplexing work. It’s an approach never as explicit as in his latest LP, Rio Grande. That might indeed be its greatest success. In Rio Grande, keeping the raw, hissy, determinedly idiosyncratic credentials that first introduced him to the world, Edwards lets the funk take center stage; sometimes riding grimy techno beats, other times pushing beyond the ridiculous-by-design minimalism of the grooves. The goal is simple: to provide his audience with interesting jams to dance to. Edwards takes pride in the anonymous efficiency of that pretense, as the name of his label L.A. Club Resource indicates. He is happy to be the reliable supplier of a service, the invisible demiurge leading patrons to delirium; slipping in some eccentric turns here and there for the kick of it, to the enjoyment of all but mostly because… why the hell not?. And, let there be no doubt, Rio Grande is the most effective toolkit he has yet assembled in pursuit of that goal. –jrodriguez6 [pagebreak] emamouse X yeongrak mouth mouse maus [Quantum Natives] [LISTEN · READ] Hey, not to bring this up here, but borders, am I right? Why do we even have these invisible lines dividing my side from yours? We can get so much more done without them, not to mention the added benefit of not having to split up families in real life as they cross the imaginary demarcations. Who on earth has the chutzpah to enact stupid shit like that? Not emamouse — no way. No, emamouse had the opposite in mind as she commented from her Tokyo base of ops, “What’s this thing keeping me out of New Zealand? An ocean? Screw that!” And thus, the BORDER between Japan and New Zealand was erased forever — whether through the magic of the internet or the ocean suddenly turning into a jello trampoline is anyone’s guess. But emamouse was no longer separated from NZ sound slinger/cartoon centipede yeongrak, and together, through the magic of Quantum Natives, mouth mouse maus was born, a sticky, gooey, sugary, epilepsy-inducing strobe blast of video-game grit and played-with-too-much pink slime from a plastic egg. Cookcook, in her review, inferred that utopias can emerge from collectivity, highlighting the compatibility of these two artists. I think what she meant was “Fruitopia,” which someone obviously spilled all over the mouth mouse maus backup hard drive. Remember Fruitopia? That was Coca-Cola’s own attempt to eradicate borders, except they were the borders between taste and… OK, between them and your money. –Ryan Masteller --- Félicia Atkinson Coyotes [Geographic North] [LISTEN] I once went to New Mexico but mostly stayed inside. Reasons why. Félicia Atkinson’s Coyotes, inspired by her own trip to New Mexico, maps a journey I may have taken, among other wonders. The crafted narrative and its exploratory form gestures toward an experiential unknown. Her travel log collages echoes, maps, receipts, dried leaves, sand stuck in the crevices of shoes, plaques, diary entries, signposts, mythology, spirituality, and the facts and facets of the land’s native and colonial histories into a total atmosphere, something approaching a direct translation of a lingering impression. It’s so effective and affecting, because the whole is actually a scrap: “a slip of paper, something/tiny & torn off/lifted by the wind” writes poet Christian Hawkey in Citizen Of. Atkinson lineates her memories into similarly moving verses. –Cookcook --- Pusha T Daytona [G.O.O.D. Music] [LISTEN · READ] DAYTONA by Pusha T is hard work. It’s this blurb being written at 5:20 AM on the 7-train to “the office” a day after having led 46 tweens on a non-stop four-day Boston field trip. It’s teaching about heterosexism and female empowerment, leading sixth grade field day, and handling logistics for eighth grade graduation in a single day. It’s your body feeling like a crash-test dummy on a Wednesday, having left in the early, early morning, putting in 12 hours of sweating gallons for money, and arriving home at 8:30 PM. It’s wearing Terminator shades on 125th Street talking Spanish to people you never met. It’s the endurance of confidence while facing every fear you’ve experienced — focused — diving straight into the freezing water. DAYTONA proves Pusha T and Kanye are relentless professionals that continue to transcend literary and sonic aesthetics in space and time. We need role models like these, forever. –C Monster --- DJ Koze Knock Knock [Pampa] [LISTEN · READ] Many publications have referred to Stefan Kozalla as a “trickster” or a “prankster.” While there are freckles of truth on the face of that assessment, much of his affability comes from his most mistaken quality: his earnestness. It’s what makes him such a delightful musicmaker. Being earnest, of course, is the perfect foil to the kind of negativist universalism that plagues the psychedelics/mindfulness landscape in which DJ Koze so often finds himself (and, also, finds himself). Koze’s House is perfect (see: “Pick Up”) and his plunder-pop turns weird into sublime and vice versa (see: the wails incorporated into “Scratch That”), but it’s his unpresuming and gracious approach to influences, samples, and collaborations that push this record into extraordinary territory. It’s not alien; it’s absolutely Earthly, and it reflects so well the modest subject that is Koze. After all, Koze never changes, except in his affections. –E. Fosl --- Elysia Crampton Elysia Crampton [Break World] [WATCH · READ] Elysia Crampton opens in media res, with a nativity. And then it revs up, restlessly — its machinic gears grind like plant medicine visions; water flows and burbles; disharmonic chords take us in unanticipatable directions. And through it all, the oscollo, the feline guardian of people outside gender binaries, oscillates wildly. Elysia Crampton’s maximalist approach takes it beyond the strings and cackles of 2016’s Demon City, yet Golgotha remains always present. Standout track “Moscow (Mariposa Voladora)” was inspired by Ofelia, a Bolivian mariposa (“femme revolutionary”), and it judders roughly, darkly. Crampton’s Aymara and trans identity are her displaced subjects, particularly in light of the gestural movement between her origins in Bolivia and her current home in the US. But this is not any straightforward folk music revival — rather, it’s a deconstruction that reconstructs. The difficulties and contradictions of critical theory, in particular writers such as José Muñoz and his exploration of queer brown-ness, are braided into the work. The first written reference to queers as mariposillas (“little butterflies”) is from Pedro Cieza de León, in the 16th century, in which he compares “sodomites,” subject to punishment by burning at the stake, to moths drawn to the flame. The suffering of our ancestors can’t be recuperated, but through art, we may yet dance grotesquely but triumphantly on the pyre. –Rowan Savage [pagebreak] The Caretaker Everywhere at the end of time - Stage 4 [History Always Favours The Winners] [LISTEN · READ] The late hauntologist Mark Fisher once cruelly noted that the OED lists one of the earliest meanings of the word “haunt” as “to provide with a home, house.” And now that we live in a world that has lost the very possibility of loss, we have also lost the one who can lose, cohabiting with oneself in the present’s presence. Ghosts no longer have a home to haunt in any case, and their yearning and lingering voices are consigned to a past that can never pass away. Although it is haunting and horrifying to behold Everywhere at the end of time’s fourth installment pass from memories to their source — what Kirby calls “the post-awareness stage” — perhaps we must be grateful that someone can forget (for (us)). For, the source of memory must remain, even after all memory has been stripped away from it, even though this source can never be aware of itself. Yet, this source is not, strictly speaking, an identity. What it may be I do not know, but The Caretaker allows you to hear, what, behind those eyes, devoid of any recognition of life; we hope, we plead to be someone who remembers us, yet the only bliss, as transient as it is empty, is the wry smile that, for an instant, says, “Do not save me.” –Evan Coral --- Lucrecia Dalt Anticlines [RVNG Intl.] [WATCH · READ] OK, Hoag. You wake up in 1925, in a different place but with the same objects. Lucrecia Dalt’s Anticlines is playing on the victrola. She sings, “Skinless others/ Oils on waters,” and you realize you’re in the same room as the killer. The only other person in the room is dressed exactly like you, and that person’s talking up the other place — the one you believe you are still in — saying, “I think you’d like it there.” Where again? Both places go out of view. Now possibly dreaming, in a time and place before flight, Gein or radio, you wait at a blue-dipped railway platform as trains roll by on their way to Oclupaca and Ortseam. You’re hoping to catch a ride to somewhere similar but elsewhere, more elemental, past the unseen concupiscence between thermosphere and exosphere, out there where you don’t have to wonder, anymore, what the toys do while you’re away. –Rick Weaver --- Tierra Whack Whack World [Self-Released] [STREAM] In the face of incomprehensible excess and stream-gaming nonsense, Tierra Whack — yes, that’s her real name — provides a grotesque yet charming response with the wonderfully weird “Whack World.” Rather than dragging the tempo or chopping the tracklist, the 22-year-old Philly rapper embraces something like a skip-button aesthetic of preview clips and non-member samples, unceremoniously cutting off her songs as soon as they hit the one-minute mark. With 15 songs in just 15 minutes — an absurdity further heightened by its surreal video — traditional payoffs are just beyond reach, forcing us to sit through a goofy, lighthearted romp of youthful innovation and bizarre genre play that includes everything from slow jams and trap bangers to country parodies and kids pop. It’s delightfully ridiculous and sometimes annoying af, but it arrives with undeniable energy and child-like wonder, bursting out confetti-like from a singular, captivating voice who’s on one of this year’s quickest and most unexpected come-ups. Blink and you’ll miss it. That’s the point. –ミスターおしっこ --- GAS Rausch [Kompakt] [WATCH · LISTEN · READ] I consumed the hour-long experience of Rausch, blaring through my headphones, as golden hour became twilight and the mosquitoes started biting. Luckily, my timing was great; 2017’s Narkopop, with its penchant for forlorn ruminations, ultimately owed a lot to its namesake: pop music. Now, those hopeful moments of liquid sunlight are far away. Rausch finds GAS staying true to its typically ascetic atmosphere, but any strand of accessible melodicism is replaced by shattering layers of dissonant drone upon drone, Doppler effect-synths, and percussive textures that pierce through it all — shimmering cymbals, palpitating kick-snare rhythms. As each funeral march bleeds into the next, the delirious effects of Rausch take hold. My arms are covered in bites, and temperatures still haven’t dropped below 90. For the superimposed intensity of Rausch, a more fitting listening environment couldn’t be created. –Rounak Maiti --- The Body I Have Fought Against It, But I Can’t Any Longer [Thrill Jockey] [LISTEN · READ] It’s so much to bear. We’re expected to carry more than our own weight. The pain and suffering of our past traumas, the present crises, the future uncertainties. More and more, any attempts to alleviate the pain, to share the burden, are undermined. All we ever wanted, all untenable. They demand purity (in lieu of that, submission by “privilege”), individuality, personalization, subscription. They won’t cry for us. Everything must be on you and you alone. Time will not notice you are nothing. You are already hatred as an abstract to someone else. The pull of the personal must end. The allure of ontology and self-indulgence must be shattered in the face of those who leer lewdly into its mirror and contort on the floor in false ecstasy. But it is a painful burden. “I lower my guilty-looking eyes. I’m afraid of looking people in the eye.” War is necessary and proper, to shatter illusions. But it’s all so much to bear. –Ze Pequeno [pagebreak] serpentwithfeet soil [Tri Angle/Secretly Canadian] [WATCH · LISTEN · READ] It’s crazy to think that soil is serpentwithfeet’s debut album. The queer, pagan singer, a former choir boy from Baltimore, emerged in 2016 with blisters, a set of mesmerizing slices of new age R&B delving into faith, superstition, and love. His voice and composition live up to the lofty themes; delicate and meandering, serpent recalled the acrobatic opulence of 90s R&B with brooding, industrial production from The Haxan Cloak. The most visionary artists are those who sound like nothing other than themselves and exhibit a gravitational aura that inspires imitation, lust, and disbelief. soil lurches and waltzes, while Josiah Wise, who prefers to go by “serpent,” remains fully exposed in the mix, employing innovative vocal stacks that whisper, conjure, and croon behind him like a choir of restless spirits. Despite the divine quality to serpent’s voice, which is at times shellacked with layers, often battling against static noise and its own quivering vibrato, the subject matter of soil is immediately relatable and quotidian: the navigation of a shifting dating landscape, the sublime essences of individuals, intimacy and grace in heartbreak, the projection of sorrow onto the world. serpent doesn’t want to be “small sad,” but “big, big sad,” to the point that he’s sure his friends are “tired of him talking.” The domesticity infects us all: How can we properly grieve? How can we redeem ourselves? The occult instrumentation falls away to reveal a queer individual who is merely describing their personal desires. –Ross Devlin --- Sara Davachi Let Night Come On Bells End The Day [Recital] [LISTEN · READ] I walked through the streets barefoot, clothed only in a robe. The bells were ringing, playing their ancient song, letting the world know that the night had begun. My feet were bleeding from the cobblestone streets, which is how they found me in the morning, just outside of town in the woods. I didn’t drink that night. The evening swept me up, and some tribal instinct forced me outside in virtually nothing. My neighbors looked and closed their curtain as I kept walking, holding the hand of the force that was dragging me. I remember parts like my head hurting and my eyes watering. I remember spinning in the center of town underneath a street lamp. I don’t remember why I left town and headed toward the woods. I don’t know why I left my house. I remember being woken up by the police and being embarrassed to face to my neighbors. They took me home and put me in bed, because the medic cleared me at the site. I’ve never spoken of it since, and I still clench up when the night comes on and the bells end the day. –Sam Tornow --- Jenny Hval The Long Sleep EP [Sacred Bones] [WATCH · LISTEN · READ] Roping in some of her favorite jazz musicians to explore ideas, Jenny Hval has managed to escape the noose of her recent collaborative concepts and delve within to produce yet another stunning act of imagination. The pure reach and weight of The Long Sleep is extraordinary. Hval moves across emotional ground with certainty and delicacy, capturing the subtlest of feelings. Like a soundtrack to a brilliant short, Hval plays with recurring motifs first presented in the “conventional” “Spells,” but then swerves genre expectations along the way, through the piano-led clap frappe of “The Dreamer Is Everyone in Her Dream” to the blissful title track drone. On “I Want to Tell You Something,” her presence is so powerful, as she attempts to express trance closure through an oblique narrative before realizing simple words are all she needs. Fecund, savage, and irresistible, The Long Sleep demonstrates once again why Hval is so intriguing. –David Nadelle --- Gemini Sisters Gemini Sisters [Psychic Trouble] [LISTEN] How does one describe something so beautiful and uplifting — a beacon of light in a shroud a darkness. I was wallowing deep in the muck and mire, desperate to claw out of it rather than sinking down into it. But that tar pit of sorrow and defeat is thick, and it cares not about your will. But I saw the light and followed it. It led me to two helpful, outstretched hands. Jon Kolodij and Matt Christensen met my palm with a hardy grasp and a hefty pull. And I felt the warmth of Gemini Sisters. The sprawling, uplifting sonic aura of the duo’s debut speaks to energy from whence Kolodij and Christensen are christened: the two having their daughters born on the same day of the same year (and those offspring being Geminis). It shows with the delicacy of their aural attack. It is spiritual, reaching toward the heavens to pluck the constellation and bringing its brightness to our darkest places. Right now, the flesh is weak and the mind wavers. But our essence remains pure and chaste. Thanks to Kolodij and Christensen, I have traded the hastened quicksand for a tether to the sprawling galaxy. –Jspicer --- Christina Vantzou No. 4 [Kranky] [LISTEN · READ] When you’re in a vehicle moving at a slow, constant speed, sometimes you can convince yourself that you aren’t moving at all. No. 4 moves me like that. I know how tired that metaphor is, and if you listen to gentle drones like “At Dawn” and “Remote Polyphony” and think I’m a hack for digging the spatial metaphor up once again to describe slow, deliberate music, I understand. But I feel that uneasy compromise between motion and rest deeply and at every strange, shimmering moment of the album. It’s in the bells of “Percussion in Nonspace,” ringing in a sort of dual presence and absence; in the little arpeggio that creeps up through “Doorway;” in the pitch-affected choral chant that closes out “Sound House.” Whether we interpret track titles as thematic hints or as mere word games, the names of the tracks on No. 4 suggest, along with the music, that Christina Vantzou wants to domesticate and eventually upend and denature space through sound. Usually a device for ordering abstraction, she turns that hackneyed spatial metaphor into one for abstracting order. This record moves at no speed, in no direction, and toward no goal, except maybe to suspend us temporarily in a kind of beauty without dimension, not far from terror. –Will Neibergall --- Kanye West ye [G.O.O.D./Def Jam] [LISTEN · READ] Just because an album sparks cathartic conversations doesn’t mean it’s good, and not all good albums invite candid dinner table discussions concerning their mercurial merits. Kanye, however, has just as big of a reputation for arousing furor as he does for leaving listeners speechless. Meanwhile, critics scramble for thoughtful words that won’t get them blacklisted for being associated with that black magic that has been infiltrating every aspect of daily life since Cain murdered Abel, thus birthing division. Calling ye a divisive document at TMT would be an understatement, and attributing its inclusion here to justifying countless hours of collectively unpacking just over 23 minutes of noise would obscure what ye actually contains: disturbing spoken word admonitions about premeditated murder, breathless bars on prescription drug addiction, ironic fantasies about butts of sex scandals, gorgeous gospel keys and beautiful dark twisted harmonies, celebratory reflections on fame and success, spectral arena rock vibes, and staggering room for growth cleared out by fear and love and loyalty. Regardless of our own individual feelings, ye keeps reminding us that this music shit that gets us through each day often requires plunging into dark places and reemerging with our own beacons of light. Believe it or not, I still love it, and like watching a bright-eyed child grow up in a world this dark, I’m terrified and excited for what’s next. –Jazz Scott --- The Shortlist: King Vision Ultra’s Pain of Mind, Shygirl’s Cruel Practice, Oneohtrix Point Never’s Age Of, Ashley Paul’s Lost In Shadows, James Ferraro’s Four Pieces For Mirai, Larry Wish’s How More Can You Need, Jon Hassell’s Listening To Pictures, Rainforest Spiritual Enslavement’s Red Ants Genesis, Parquet Courts’s Wide Awake!, The Carters’ EVERYTHING IS LOVE, Bernice’s Puff LP, Carla Bozulich’s Quieter, Pinkshinyultrablast’s Miserable Miracles, Duppy Gun Productions’s Miro Tape, DRINKS’s Hippo Lite, Valee’s GOOD Job, You Found Me, and Frog Eyes’ Violet Psalms. http://j.mp/2Kt2EKx

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cadpadawan · 5 years ago

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31-Day Music Challenge

The social media is now flooded with all kinds of funny challenges, as people are stuck at home with nothing much to do. I guess online gaming, or getting shitfaced, becomes increasingly boring, when all kinds of tiresome responsibilites, like work, do not present any restrictions and limitations anymore. In a way, Facebook has started to resonate the air of those naive first few years, when your newsfeed was basically just one continuous stream of challenge that and challenge this.

Well, why the hell not?

What else is there to do, in order to pass the time with your mental health intact?

So, here I am...just another bored individual to join this endless crusade to make life worth living again, to make my personal life great again. Thus, I jumped on the wagon, and took on this fancy 31-day music challenge, that has been circulating in Facebook (for years, I think).

Although, I didn't find it challenging enough to just type the daily keyword in the Spotify search box and post the result in my Facebook wall. Because: more is more.

(Go ask Yngwie Malmsteen, if you don't believe me...)

The challenge for day #1 was to pick a song with a colour in the title.

I could immediately come up with a bunch of songs, only to realize that the vast majority of the song titles were themed around two basic colours: black and blue. I guess songwriters are a lazy bunch, when it comes to colours. It's pretty obvious, why lyricist everywhere find these two colours exceptionally appealing and resort to the abundant use of them, neglecting all the wonderful possibilites posed by the other colours of the spectrum. Of course black and blue, in terms of emotion and imagination, are much stronger than, say, yellow and orange. So, instead of just settling with the first few titles that came to mind, I wondered if I could come up with one song for each colour I can think of. I mean: a song that bears some personal meaning to me. In practice, this challenge basically meant that I would have to think hard while rummaging through the main three Spotify playlists that I have compiled with something like +16k or +17k songtitles, with the addition of my personal collection of some +2600 cd's – at least the rarities section for songs that are not available in Spotify.

Let's see if I have the stamina to go through my cd-racks, though. I had the forethought to organize my cd's in alphabetical order, by the name of the artist, years ago. For some weird reason, my beloved spouse has not yet agreed to the idea of re-furnishing our apartment with the central theme being those precious compact discs. That's why the cd-racks are placed in somewhat random and impractical fashion: most of them are located in the living room, with a few sections located in our bedroom. I guess, it's a good thing I had disposed of my vintage Rhodes-electric piano by the time when we started dating 20 years ago. I'm pretty sure she would have opposed strongly to the idea of having the instrument as a kitchen table, with the giant lid down. My Rhodes-piano was the so-called suitcase model, with a keyboard of 73 keys. When I moved out from my parents' house in the mid-90's, I decorated my one-room-apartment in the ethos of Japanese minimalism, due to the fact that I spent most of my income on records and alcohol. That Rhodes-piano served as a kitchen table, when I wasn't actually playing with it. Because: why the hell not?

Ok, then. The first colour...it shall be black.

Oh, boy! What a multitude of choices it presents! Should I pick an iconic 90's grunge anthem, like Soundgarden's Black Hole Sun? After all, I saw the band on stage in Helsinki cirka 1995. (I say ”cirka” because I'm not 100% sure about the year, and I'm too lazy to look it up in Google) The fond memories of those grungey early years in the 90's instantly remind me of a couple of equally important bands: Pearl Jam and Alice in Chains. Although, I've never seen either of them live. Pearl Jam had a song titled Black on their breakthrough debut album Ten. Alice in Chains had a killer track titled Black Gives Way to Blue. That epochal Pearl Jam album played non-stop in my car stereos at the time of its' release. I had it copied on a C-cassette. Remember that vintage format, anyone? (Yes, I'm THAT old...) With this particular AIC song I fell in love much later, as it was the title track on the band's comeback album, released in 2009 with the new singer William DuWall. First, I kinda hesitated to give this new AIC line-up any chances, but it turned out to be pretty damn good. Obviously, nothing can top the impact, that the Laney Staley-fronted AIC made with their Dirt-album in 1992. At the time of its' release, that album was a full-blown mindfuck! In retrospect, the year 1992 seems to have been pretty kick-ass, in terms of album releases:

Alice in Chains: Dirt

Rage Against The Machine: Rage Against The Machine

R.E.M.: Automatic for the People

Pantera: Vulgar Display of Power

Tori Amos: Little Earthquakes

Faith No More: Angel Dust

Dream Theater: Images and Words

Aphex Twin: Selected Ambient Works 85-92

Prince & The New Power Generation: (Love Symbol Album)

Stereo MC's: Connected

Tom Waits: Bone Machine

Sade: Love Deluxe

The Prodigy: Experience

Megadeth: Countdown to Extinction

Eric B. & Rakim: Don't Sweat the Technique

The Orb: U.F.Orb

k.d.Lang: Ingenue

Suzanne Vega: 99.9 Fº

Stone Temple Pilots: Core

Curve: Doppelganger

Nick Cave: Henry's Dream

Neneh Cherry: Homebrew

Maybe I should choose something less obvious? At least, it would make this challenge less arduous for me, because it's evident that making a choice between two particularly dear songs from the past is nothing short of impossible. When in doubt, go for the dark horse! So, here goes: my choice for the song with the colour black in the title is:

Bonobo: Black Sands

Being something of a jazz aficionado, despite not really possessing any of the musical prowess to actually play jazz myself, it was love at first soundbite, when I chanced to hear the title track from Bonobo's 2010 album Black Sands on Bassoradio's morning special back in the day. Bonobo is the musical alias of British DJ-producer-musician Simon Green. His career spawns from the 90's trip hop aesthetics, with heavy influences of jazz and world music. Spicing up electronic beats with raw jazz samples, or even live musicians, was the thing to do, somewhere along the mid-90's. I guess it all started with a few insightful hip-hop artists layering their ghetto stompers with the occassional hardbop jazz sample back in the late 80's. For a short period, acid jazz was the coolest shit ever in the early 90's. In a somewhat natural chain of events, jazz eventually made its way to the brand new genres that evolved around the middle of the decade, trip hop and jungle, too.

That's how I got sucked into the all-consuming whirlpool of this abominable voodoo music – jazz. It's a wonder no-one has come up with a gateway theory yet, regarding the highly addictive nature of jazz music. It usually starts with small doses: an occassional jazz sample is slipped in the hip-hop track, or the breakdown section of a rock song is ornamented with a brief, improvised saxophone lead. Then you find yourself craving for more, and start delving into the depths of acid jazz, nu jazz, or whatever new genre that has incorporated jazz as an inherent element in its' aesthetic toolkit. After this honeymoon period, that might spawn over years and years, you eventually catch yourself red-handed, holding a genuine jazz album in your hands at the local record store, probably the usual entry-level drug-of-choice jazz classic: Kind of Blue by Miles Davis. It has been awarded the title of the greatest jazz album of all time – and for a reason, too. Multiple times. Then you're hooked. Next thing you know, you'll be blasting John Coltrane at a family reunion, with your beloved relatives giving you the dead-eyed stare, doubting the state of your mental well-being. Long story short: you simply cannot go wrong with a mellow waltz rhythm that's punctuated with the organic groove of a flesh-and-blood jazz drummer, and topped with hauntingly beautiful brass harmony.

Next up: the colour blue...

Again, I could go for something utterly obvious, like the song titled Blue by A Perfect Circle. Those lucky few, who know me in person, should be well aware of the fact, that I'm quite a diehard fanboy of the band. I was lucky enough to see the band's live performance a few years back, when they paid Finland a visit. Nevertheless, I think I can come up with something more unexpected.

Just let me think for a sec...

Remember the band Europe? Of course you do! (Unless you were born yesterday, like some, eww, millennial!) I think it would've required some exceptional measures in the noble art of cutting contact with the external world to not have been exposed to the band's 1986 megahit Final Countdown, during the past 34 years. (Fuck! Do I feel old yet?!?) BUT...before you dismiss the band as yet another hair-metal has-been, check out this song:

Europe: Not Supposed To Sing The Blues

It's pretty damn hard to believe it's a song by the same band that's responsible for that Final Countdown atrocity. To be honest, that particular throwback 80's hard rock ear-worm wouldn't probably get under my skin in such a thoroughly repulsive fashion, had I not performed the song countless times myself. It was quite an essential part of the live repertoire of the party band, that I toured with cirka 2004-2008. The modus operandi of this covers-only band was to play the most annoying 80's megahits, with the lyrics translated in Finnish with a liberal amount of tongue-in-cheek references to gay erotica. (On a side note, the band was actually quite popular in certain small regions, despite this dubious approach and the substantially high level of bad taste incorporated in the lyrics and live performances. We even ended up playing in a genuine gay wedding once. The humour of the band was, after all, benevolent albeit a bit harsh, at least in the context of these politically correct times...)

The song Not Supposed to Sing the Blues was released in 2012. It's pretty evident, that during this 26-year-period, following the release of Final Countdown, Europe managed to grow some serious balls, hidden somewhere below my musical radar. The oriental sounding motif, played with some cool mellotron string patch in the refrain before the chorus, has a nice Led Zeppelin-esque feel to it. You can't really go wrong with a slowed-down hard rock blues that is sugar-coated with a grain of Kashmir-strings, now can you?

Next up: white...

What first comes to mind? Whiter Shade of Pale by Procol Harum, and Nights in White Satin by the Moody Blues, obviously. You see, I had both of these tracks in vinyl format, way back in the early 90's, when I was going through my ”moustache prog from the 70's”-phase. (Although, this particular Procol Harum song was actually released in 1968, and the Moody Blues song in 1967 – but, in order to be consistent and thorough, I had to dig deeper, to the roots of the prog...to the very dinosaur fossils)

I could throw in White Room by Cream, too. I used to listen to these particular tracks A LOT! In the age of vinyl, conducting a music marathon themed around, say, 60's and 70's ”moustache music”, was actually quite a laborous ritual. Every 25 minutes, or so, I had to flip the side of the record. Shuffling songs totally at random was simply a no-go-zone. Nowadays, it's so easy to compile a lengthy set of personal favorites in Spotify, WinAmp, iTunes, or whatever the fuck application you'd prefer, and just hit the randomize-button...fucking millennials, they have it SO easy. They have no idea of the struggle.

That's why we had those vintage C-cassettes: to copy that very special selection of songs, compiled with tender love and care, onto a format, that didn't require you to be on a constant lookout for when the album side was closing to an end. Besides, before the onslaught of cd-players, those vintage C-cassettes were the only way to impress people with either your refined taste in music, or with the lack of it, while you were occupied with the gentle art of pussy racing, driving around downtown in your awkwardly tuned-up mirthmobile, every goddamn Friday night.

I could pick White Wedding by Billy Idol, too...

It was one of those 80's hits that I used to play with the ”covers only”-party band.

Nah...

I think I will have to choose between Aisles of White by the Aussie soft-prog band the Butterfly Effect, and The Heart of a Cold White Land by the Finnish doomsters Swallow the Sun.

My beloved wife introduced me to Aussie prog, some 10 years ago. The gateway drug, I think, was Karnivool with their music video for All I Know. One day, when I was coming home from work, I caught my wife watching this particular video in YouTube. A little bit later, she unearthed a shitload of Aussie bands in Spotify. I guess she must've been hitting that ”similar artists”-link quite relentlessly. The Butterfly Effect was one of those magnificent bands she discovered. I remember hearing the song In A Memory for the first time. It struck a chord with me, in such a profound way, that I felt compelled to order the album Imago ASAP from some Australian music webstore. At the time, the back catalogue of the Butterfly Effect wasn't available in Finland. I don't know, if it's available even now, because the band is no longer active, I think. Aisles of White is the track #2 on that album, released in 2006. The band released one more kick-ass album in 2008, titled Final Conversation of Kings, and then I don't know what the hell happened.

Swallow the Sun is a bit doomish Finnish metal band, and I'm not really sure, when I actually found the band's music. I think I had their debut album The Morning Never Came (2003) in my cd-rack for years, but it wasn't until 2012, with the release of the magnificent Emerald Forest and the Blackbird album, that I truly fell in love with the band. It took me some five years to actually haul my ass to their gig for the first time. Every single time, when I found out that they were touring nearby, I was too busy with some utterly meaningless work-related bullshit to make it. Finally, in 2017 it happened. I had managed to get rid of my soul-sucking job, although due to a pretty hardcore reason (a brain tumour), so when I found out that Swallow the Sun was performing in Helsinki, in the legendary rock venue Tavastia, I definitely made sure that I was there – and fuck me sideways! It was indeed one of the best live performances that I have ever experienced, hands down!

In 2015, Swallow the Sun released a monolithic triple album Songs From the North, and this particular track, The Heart of a Cold White Land, is on the disc II, that is focused on the beauty side of the band's doom palette.

Swallow the Sun: The Heart of a Cold White Land

Next up: Red

Sielun Veljet was one of the most iconic Finnish rock bands in the 80's. The band released only a couple of albums with lyrics in English, of which the 1989 release Softwood Music Under Slow Pillars was the only one with the songs originally written in English. There was some other attempts to gain international fame and fortune, but in those cases, the songs were merely English translations of their most beloved hit songs, initially written in Finnish. This particular album was planned for international release – but the label executives were pretty disappointed, to say the least, when the band came up with an album full of acoustic psychedelia. It was released only in Finland and Sweden. The artwork on the album cover is actually a painting by a Peruvian artist Pablo Amaringo, depicting the shamanic ayahuasca ritual. Listening through this album in one go is somewhat similar experience, I would guess: a rewarding journey into the depths of the human psyche, albeit potentially exhausting, especially if you're not exactly in the proper mindset to begin with.

Well, ever since I got exposed to the oriental psychedelia of, say, Jimi Hendrix, Kingston Wall, and the like, I seem to have acquired a taste for this kind of weird and druggy, over-the-top freeform musical expression.

Sielun Veljet: Hey-Ho, Red Banana

Ok, then...What next?

What other colours are there, anyway? The three primary colours are: red, yellow and blue. All the other colours can be derived from these three fuckers. To be precise, I think black does not actually qualify as a colour... So, I've got most of these covered already. Of course, in order to pick some hairs, printers actually use magenta, yellow and cyan as their primary colours – and black, obviously. I can't recall a single song with ”magenta” or ”cyan” in the title, though. I could come up with a band or two, with these colours in the band name, such as Magenta Skycode, or Cyan Velvet Project, but song titles?

Nada.

Maybe, if I combed through my post-rock and soundtrack archives, I could come up with some epic 15-minute instrumental with either cyan or magenta mentioned in the lengthy piece of contemporary literature, that is supposed to be the title of the song...but I guess those tracks would not exactly mean worlds to me, as I clearly cannot remember them now. If something comes to mind, while I'm writing down this epistle, I'll address that particular colour and song, accordingly. Now, I shall get on with this challenge journal, onto the next ”normal”, everyday colour...

Which is?

The colour green.

Having played keyboards in a dubious number of proggy bands, with the tonal preferences leaning heavily toward everything vintage, I might as well pick a mellow Hammond-organ classic, such as Green Onions by Booker T. & the MG's, or a vintage synth classic from THE motion picture soundtrack album of all time: Memories of Green by Vangelis, from the timeless Blade Runner soundtrack.

But I won't...

It wasn't actually easy to come up with that many titles with the colour green mentioned. Excluding these two aforementioned classics, I could barely come up with four! As much as I like the desert rock stonerism of Kuyss, the song Green Machine is not my personal favourite in their back catalogue. So that narrows my options to three. The problem is that two of these songs seem to defy the laws of quantum physics: they both take a firm stranglehold on my soul, and throw it casually down the dark and dangerous alleys of nostalgia.

In the midst of 90's acid jazz boom, I had a peculiar habit of buying compilation cd's at random, if the heading on the cover somehow suggested that the contents of the cd had anything to do with this particular genre of music. By impulse-buying music I discovered a lot of gems, like the song Apple Green by Mother Earth. The band was an English acid jazz outfit, virtually unheard of in Finland, despite the tidal wave of acid jazz washing over also these rural perimeters. If Jamiroquai, the Brand New Heavies et al. rub you the right way, you definitely need to check this band out. I can still remember clearly, as if it happened yesterday, how I picked this acid jazz compilation from the vaults of the local record store that no longer exists.

Mr. Big was a band everybody just loved to hate at the turn of the decace, when the gigantic hair-do's of the 80's started to flatten out, and flannel shirts were showing faint signs of becoming the next level shit in the never-ending quest for cool. At the time, I was an under-aged college drop-out, devoting my attention to the finer things of guitar playing techniques, instead of studying for a decent profession. I had received my first electric guitar from my parents in 1988, and for the following 5-6 years, I spent most of my time and energy in an attempt to unravel the secrets of how to play guitar like Jimi Hendrix. I listened to quite a lot of speed and thrash metal on the side, too. Y'know, bands such as Anthrax, Metallica, Slayer and Stone, which was quite a legendary Finnish speed metal band in the late 80's. My budding personal artistic expression was anyhow more influenced by legendary old timers, like Hendrix. I simply loathed all sorts of pyrotechnical wankery (with the exception of certain tracks by Steve Vai and Joe Satriani). Mr. Big's lead guitarist Paul Gilbert was famous for that very special blend of technical stuff, that I wasn't interested in, not in the slightest. So, I never really gave the band a chance. I think my misconception of the band's music as some kind of a shit-show of technical masturbation was due to some instructional videos hosted by Gilbert. After all, his fame as a highly skilled guitarist must have derived from his contributions to several guitar magazines and instructional videos, instead of his career in Mr. Big. So, everytime I heard the intro of, say, To Be With You, on my car radio, I simply had to change the channel. In order to do so, I had to manually rotate the tuning knob. Yes, my first car stereos were THAT vintage! What a time it was to be alive! Years later, with the maturity of age like with a fine wine, I finally listened to the worn-out hits of this horrid band only to find out that – bummer! - in terms of songwriting, those goddamn Mr.Big hits were actually not that bad at all. The song Green-Tinted Sixties Mind was released on the album Lean Into It in 1991. Now, everytime I am exposed to this particular song, I am instantly reminded of what a stuck-up elitistic music snob I used to be during those emotionally tumultuous times.

So, I could resort to the luck of the draw, but luckily I've got one more candidate to go.

Lonely the Brave is one of my most recent findings. It's an English alt.rock band from Cambridge, formed in 2008. I really don't know much about the band, just this one song titled The Blue, The Green. I was exposed to it while playing the music trivia game Songpop 2 with my mobile phone during the past two years, I think. The game is about guessing songs within the timeframe of a 15 second clip. Pretty addictive at first, actually. This 15-second-soundbite was enough to gain my full attention, so I had to check out the song in full, instantly. I cannot pinpoint what exactly it is, but this particular song has that vague feeling of ”something”, that draws me to listen to it, time and time again.

Lonely The Brave: The Blue, The Green

Next up: yellow.

I was first introduced to Frank Zappa's unique music in the late 80's, by my classmate Jussi, who kindly exposed me to the timeless classic Bobby Brown Goes Down. At the delicate age of 15, it was a pretty anticipated reaction that the explicit song lyrics would strike a chord. A few years later, as I was browsing through the vinyl section at the local second hand record store, I came across a pure treasure: the gatefold vinyl edition of Roxy & Elsewhere by Frank Zappa & The Mothers. In mint condition, too! Dropping the needle on the first groove on the black vinyl back home was like taking the first hit of some mind-altering illegal substance. My perception of reality changed in an instant – and there was no going back. Such an exciting mixture of fusion jazz, rock and harsh satire was sure to make me an addict. So, in no time at all I built up enough tolerance and moved onto semi-lethal dosages, and purchased the albums Hot Rats, Grand Wazoo and Apostophe('). The last one was released in the year, when I was born (1974), and it included the hilarious 4-part rock suite about the unfortunate adventures of an eskimo named Nanook. One part of the suite is titled: Don't Eat the Yellow Snow. Sound advice at the time of a global pandemic, that originated from some peculiar pathogen spillover event in China, don't cha think?

Frank Zappa: Don't Eat The Yellow Snow

Not many colours left, I think...

Next up: purple.

I was exposed to the music of Jimi Hendrix via a documentary on TV, when I was a rosy-cheeked 7th grader in junior high. It happened around the same time, when I got my first electic guitar. So, I guess it must have been written in the stars, or something. The universe simply wanted me to focus on the noble art of guitarism, instead of getting a college degree on psychopathological marketing or accounting (fuck no!). My first guitar was a cheap stratocaster-copy with a Williams-logo on it. In a way, it resembled the vintage Mellotron keyboard: it simply would refuse to keep in tune. One of the first songs that I learned, despite the frustrating limitations imposed by the crap tuners on the guitar, was Purple Haze by Hendrix. I had to learn it by ear. You see, back in the gloomy days of the late 80's, there just wasn't that many guitar tabs around. Not in Finland, anyway. Later I did find an instructional guitar playing manual at the local library, with a few pages dedicated to the art of Jimi Hendrix. Mainly, the only viable option to learn any contemporary rock song, or even any classic from the days long gone, was either to learn it by ear, or to resort to the occassional tabs provided by the international guitar magazines – if you were fortunate enough to spot these much-sought publications at your local bookstore. (These fuckin' millennials have it SO easy!) On the other hand, learning to play primarily by ear must have developed my improvisational skills a great deal, as an added bonus. Improvisation is not so much about throwing up some pre-programmed fancy gimmicks at any given chance, but actually LISTENING to what your fellow musicians are playing and responding accordingly.

Next up: grey.

I think it was my dear wife, once again, who first introduced me to the band Thrice, by playing the song Digital Sea from the band's double album Alchemy Index, a long, long time ago. The band's vocalist/guitarist Dustin Kensrue is one of those few singers, who are blessed with a distinctive voice that speaks, or to be more precise, sings volumes. He might not have the same gravitas like Mark Lanegan or Tom Waits, but nevertheless, he has the voice of a protagonist who's been to hell and back. Mark Lanegan sounds like he's got a season ticket, and Tom Waits sounds like he's the devil running the show – or, to put it in Waits' own words:

”Don't you know, there ain't no devil,

that's just God when he's drunk...”

 Tom Waits: Heartattack and Vine

Anyways, the lyrics in a Thrice song could be compiled of a list of phone numbers, or the decimals of Pi (like Kate Bush actually did), and it would still sound like a profound wisdom concerning the transformative journey of being fully human.

Thrice: The Grey

Last but not least, the colour: turquoise.

For years, I actually thought that Boards of Canada was indeed a Canadian outfit. Y'know, indie bands in particular come up with these band names that have some funny and ironic twist. Somewhere along the way, it finally dawned on me that this magnificent electronic duo is actually from Scotland. Well, of course it is! If my memory isn't playing any tricks on me now, I'm pretty sure that Soulsavers and Hidden Orchestra are Scottish, too. And they all have something in common. Each of these electronic outfits has an extraordinary and unique, boss-level prominance in the way they manage to capture emotion in their instrumentals.

Boards of Canada released a 5-minute electronic epic titled Turquoise Hexagon Sun on the album Music Has the Right to Children in 1998. The name of the song is actually a reference to the duo's recording studio Hexagon Sun. It makes it even more marvellous, that an instrumental track with a title deriving from something so mundane can touch your heartstrings so deeply. It's not that often, when an electronic instrumental with a hip-hop beat, glassy vintage synth motifs and deliberately lo-fi production paired with grainy samples, manage to do that. These Scottish bastards must've been onto something...

Well, that's pretty much all there was to the first day in this music challenge! I was supposed to pick one song, and I ended up writing a fucking novel about it...Tomorrow the plot shall thicken even more, when I introduce you to the theme of the day #2.

In the meanwhile, you can do yourself a favour and listen to:

Boards of Canada: Turquoise Hexagon Sun

Stay tuned! Cheers!

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zodiacoracle · 7 years ago

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Scrapbook: In which I declare my love for the umpteenth time

[This was originally targeted to be published in October, but shit happened and I don’t think I will ever finish this now, so I’m posting it as is.]

[No, that’s not the kind of title I would have used if this was a proper, finished post.]

Have you played the demo for Octopath Traveler? It's a gorgeous looking game, and it looks fun. It's shaping up to be the Romancing SaGa of what Bravely Default was to classic Final Fantasy. On top of that, the music is wonderful. Too bad I don't have a Switch.

I hope you didn't think I'd write about my impression on the game.

Here's the thing though: I love Yasunori Nishiki, the composer. I love his music with my whole being, more than anything that isn't charming Spanish Flamenco or Tango inspired music. Oh, it just happens he has written such songs too. As you can see, he's really high in my list, I think he's one of the best composers I've heard in recent years.

And so with Octopus Octopath being the topical thing at the moment, there's no better time to talk about him than now! And I'd like to introduce a couple of his songs!

>> Profile

Yasunori Nishiki was born in Kanagawa, Japan, on July 10, 1985. Nishiki graduated from Film Scoring program of Tokyo College of Music in 2009 and joined KONAMI directly after.

His first contribution as a composer in Konami was for Quiz Magic Academy VII, released in 2010. He continued composing for the series until the ninth installment, Quiz Magic Academy Kenja no Tobira, after which he left the team to be the sound director and main composer of then-new Oreca Battle. He later also became the sound director of another game related to Oreca, the arcade version of the mobile game Dragon Collection.

Behind the alias Vivian, he first debuted in Bemani, Konami's line of arcade music games, in REFLEC BEAT colette, 2012, with the song guerre à outrance. His latest appearance in Bemani to date was in beatmania IIDX 23 copula, 2015. It is currently unknown if he will use this alias again in the future.

He also made contributions to a number of console titles, such as NeverDead and Frontier Gate - which he composed almost half of the soundtrack of.

In 2015, Nishiki left Konami and started freelancing. Outside of Konami, he took on various projects, working as a composer/arranger or synth manipulator amongst others. The projects he has written composition for include SHOW BY ROCK!!, the theme song of Fate/Extella, the anime adaptation of Granblue Fantasy, and the latest, Square Enix's Project Octopath Traveler.

So, I've been following Nishiki's activities ever since I first heard Vanity in jubeat saucer. That was in December 2012? Five years ago? How time flies! Around that time was also when I started getting into QMA music.

By the way, I mentioned Romancing SaGa above, but did you know Nishiki made an official rearrangement of SaGa music for SE's Lord of Vermillion Arena? It was SaGa Frontier 2, though.

Anyway, wow, Octopath Traveler. I didn't think the day when he would be recognized by so many people would come so soon, but here we are. I'm so proud, so happy for him. It makes me want to introduce some of his songs that may share the same style as Octopath.

I like to take any chance I can get to introduce his music to people, particularly his Oreca songs, and this time isn't any different. If you have ever wondered why Oreca in particular, there are two reasons why. The first is, Konami has uploaded a lot of Oreca songs to YouTube, making it easier to share them the legal/officially approved way. The second is, in my opinion, Oreca was where Nishiki shone the brightest in his time in Konami.

Nishiki worked on Oreca ever since it was first developed then released in 2012, and he kept composing for it until he left Konami in 2015. Within that time period, he composed and arranged about 150 songs for this little game alone, his songs making up more than half of its whole soundtrack at the time of the writing of this post.

The reason behind the huge number of songs in this game is because, being a constantly updated arcade game, it has lots and lots of boss characters, and almost every one of them has a battle theme of their own. It also has a decent number of stage music and such, but those character themes make up most of the game's soundtrack.

This is where Nishiki showed his true potential. Back when he was in QMA sound team, he only composed orchestral songs. In Oreca, he still was fond of orchestral songs (and still is until now), but to realize the vision of unique character battle themes he branched into other genres, revealing the versatile artist in him. From electronic and pop to rock and metal, from ethnic and classic sounds to modern ones, from mellow to aggressive - he covered everything he could.

[Then my plan was to review some of his Oreca songs, but, well. Below are the songs I considered to be included in this post, along with some short comments instead.]

[Of course I wouldn’t have included everything if I finished this post. Choosing is hard, however.]

Great Sorcery Mimi & Sisi's Theme: A safe song that played straight to his strengths, but a solid one nevertheless. It’s unexpectedly complex for a pair of goofy mice. I adore the sense of adventure in this song.

Mage Knight Chaos Magica's Theme: I’ve always felt Nishiki’s music might have some baroque roots, then this song came.

Deep Sea Emperor Barolo's Theme: This is the last boss. That was the feeling I got when I first heard this song.

Underworld God Anubis' Theme: I wanted to include this just to make a point that his dominantly electronic work can be as strong as everything else by him.

Kudlak's Theme: I like to call this song “Faux Castlevania” but really. It’s a song for a vampire character, I won’t be surprised if it was intentional. Oh, and, Nishiki rearranged Beginning too for Oreca. Despite being Faux Castlevania, this song is still brimming with his usual details.

Thin Ice Knight Dante's Theme: A rearrangement of a popular song for a popular character - popular between Oreca players, at least. A cold and lonely arrangement of an elegant song.

Purgatory Emperor Ares' Theme: Menacing, dark, and moody. It also has another version featuring Yuma Ito’s solo violin. You can never have enough of his violin when it comes to Nishiki’s music.

Great Djinn Ifrit's Theme: One of his more atmospheric songs, but still reeks off boss smell.

Dragon themes in a separate category, as he took one composition and rearranged it plenty of times. I’d argue the dragon theme is his most important legacy in Oreca. I want all Konami composers to remix the dragon theme.

The original dragon theme, for reference.

Ocean Stream Dragon's Theme: I think I picked this for similar reason as I picked Mimi & Sisi’s theme: it sounds like such a delightful adventure. It also has a lot of castanets, I like it when he use castanets.

Great Tree Root Dragon's Theme: Nishiki described this song as “dark fantasy” and I agree. This whimsical rearrangement is one of my favorite dragon themes.

Dragon Emperor Fei Long's Theme: I think I added this into consideration mostly to add variety. It also sounds really pleasant.

Celestial Dragon Bahamuth's Theme: Bahamuth and this song was to debut in WHF, an important event for the game, he gave everything into it and even incorporated real choir as he was in such high spirit. I will always remember about this little story. It turned into a grand song fitting of Bahamuth, and everything was worth it.

Divine Dragon Kuzuryu's Theme: My original intention was to only include songs that are officially uploaded, but I wanted to give an exception for this song badly. It’s easily one of the best dragon themes. It may not sound like a dragon theme at first, but if you listen closely you’ll hear that this is a dragon theme through and through. Here the usual melody takes a backseat while a new one gives a new soul into the song. Sachiko Watabe’s serene vocals definitely bring the song to life. I salute her, especially for that difficult chorus. Also, I vaguely remember Nishiki saying something along the line of “vocal song for BGM is unusual, especially in arcade games” but I don’t remember where. Twitter? Somewhere else? Eh? Anyway I’m glad he went for it anyway because that decision led to this song coming into existence. Thank you.

[Thank you for everything. Sorry I couldn’t finish this, I will do better next time.]

[I will always support you wherever you are.]

#scrap #eritalk #yasunori nishiki

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rayninsyde · 7 years ago

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Simpsonwave: the inkblot of a generation - by reddit poster NME24

Link to original post: HERE

It is a dark room, with a single-cushion sofa.

A sullen man walks in. Wearing a robe and a large pair of headphones, he sits and clicks his Walkman. As the camera slowly pans into his face – Homer Simpson’s face – melancholic synth chords usher us into a glitchy VHS world of shooting stars, childhood memories, frantic running, and unreal colours.

To the 3 million YouTube viewers of C R I S I S – even the hundreds in the comments who professed to crying – this so-called genre of Simpsonwave almost feels like a joke. And that’s because to anyone who knows its parent genre, Vaporwave, it is a joke. Isn’t it?

Origins

“Writing about vaporwave in 2016 is almost impossible” Scott Beauchamp would lament within a few months of C R I S I S being posted. Indeed, for the first web-grown genre to scratch mainstream recognition in music history, it remains awkward to write about. Critics such as Simon Chandler (2016) are prone to forgetting that Vaporwave the EDM movement is only half the story; vaporwave the meme is its other half.

In February of 2012, MACINTOSH PLUS released the online album Floral Shoppe, and with 10 million views in its first year, one song would become synonymous with the genre:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cU8HrO7XuiE

The out-of-place Japanese title, the cover art’s surreal juxtaposition of ancient and digital, and most importantly, the soulless, disfigured Muzak-like samples left an impression on critics. To Jonathon Dean (2012), this was “one of the best single documents of the vaporwave scene yet”, which “carefully constructs its own meditative headspace through the careful accretion of defamiliarized memory triggers”. Critical theorists such as Grafton Tanner (2013) quickly saw more than a “meditative headspace”. As a trend of combining such eerie samples with grainy commercials was popularized by Saint Pepsi’s Enjoy Yourself and Private Caller, such critics saw an unspoken anti-capitalist satire, drowning the listener in Reagan-era consumer culture to subvert its appeal.

“Why any confusion?” you ask. Just interview MACINTOSH PLUS or Saint Pepsi and their motivations should be clear. Then you run into another uncanny aspect: the alien distance between the artists and their listeners. Vaporwave artists use corporate-inspired pseudonyms, avoid interviews, and make no effort to show their faces, let alone promote themselves. When Bandcamp finally got a hold of Ramona Xavier (Chandler, 2016), who used MACINTOSH PLUS as a one-time alias, she responded “the ideological and philosophical themes behind my work come from a personal place – kind of a quarantine zone in my brain that I don’t let people into”. Each artist is a ghost on the internet, the “non-place” so many of us were raised in, which like a shopping mall, looks similar wherever in the world you go. That they refuse to be more than avatars indeed suggests deliberate alienation.

If that was the intent, you wouldn’t know it from the comments either. With its S P A C E D O U T T I T L E S, grainy Japanese commercials and faceless marble statues, it’s only fair that an aesthetic intended to leave the listener empty, confused and nostalgic was ripe for being mocked. It was, as Sam Sutherland acknowledges, endless second-hand parodying of this aesthetic across Reddit, YouTube and 4chan, as much as Vaporwave’s first-hand parody of consumerism, that propelled it into virality.

The undercurrent

It needn’t be said that postmodernism, parody and self-parody go hand-in-hand. A complete scepticism of grand narratives leads to deconstructing the “sincere” into the detached or comedic, leaving irony as the only means of expression. This scepticism lends itself to (though is not limited to) globalization, pop culture, and the worship of laissez-faire capitalism that emerged in the 1980s. Such songs as MACINTOSH PLUS’s リサフランク420 / 現代のコンピュー are a thorough exercise in deconstruction. The song samples Diana Ross’s Make Your Move, and with it, the synth sounds, motorik pulse, and cutesy lyrics emblematic of an 80s pop song. Ross’s voice is then pitched down to become ostensibly male, and the song is slowed down to assume an air of mediocrity. The lyrics are chopped and repeated ad nausem until they take on different meanings: “do you understand that it’s all in your hands?” becomes “do you understand that it’s all in your head?”

Much as a song about serious love is undermined to become one about solitude and solipsism in the digital “non-place”, the seriousness of vaporwave is undermined by internet users who, in the spirit of irony and sarcasm, refuse to take it seriously. Thus the saying “vaporwave is dead – long live vaporwave” (Beauchamp, 2016).

“Postmodernism feeds off distance,” Seth Abramson observed in 2014. “Radios, and even the early years of technological industrialization, emphasized distance in a way that was unmistakable. The internet, by comparison, is a strange mix of distance and closeness, detachment and immediacy – our sense of ourselves and strangers’ varying senses of us – that postmodernism doesn’t really seem to describe well”.

The shift

What then, given the history of Vaporwave, is so significant about an edited Homer Simpson listening to Resonance on his Walkman?

That it reconstructs the comedic and the detached into the sincere.

The Simpsonwave subgenre is best explained by YouTube user JavCee (2016): “take footage of early episodes of the Simpsons… now edit some wavy music to the footage…next, add a dream-like filter and VHS distortion to the entire video to represent the adult longing for a childhood they thought they had… even alternative scenes to better showcase the brain synapses sometimes crossing in memories…creating phantoms of times that probably never existed in the first place.”

This is quite a turn to take from Vaporwave’s agenda as we’ve described it. There is, as Sutherland (2016) points out: “something to be said about a new emotional resonance being added to a genre of music that I would argue exists specifically to mock the commercial and corporate vibe of mall-type music”.

As Homer sits like us – alone at night, ears plugged, facial expression vacant – we enter his mind to find something different to the cartoon caricature of an overweight, suburban dad. We’re suddenly thrust in memories of Marge as a teenager, Homer driving alone, his mother embracing him in a dream – Homer bowling alone – visions of his children – Homer running alone – his wife in bed. The second memory Homer thinks about, perhaps his most recent, is him sitting on bed with a strange woman, and bursting into tears.

The unexpected pain of watching this is both generational and personal; in the days that we curled up on the couch to watch The Simpsons after school, masculinity dictated that this was a side rarely acknowledged of not just cartoon fathers, but of our own fathers as well. Now, in one surreal moment, Homer Simpson runs through the woods from his thoughts, a tender victim of the passage of time.

In uploading this video, Lucian Hughes has injected meaning into not just a comedic cartoon, but a satirical genre that deliberately robs the listener of comfort. But should we allow him?

In 1993, author David Foster Wallace was a generation early in heralding “new sincerity”: “The next real literary ‘rebels’ in this country might well emerge as some weird bunch of anti-rebels, born oglers who dare somehow to back away from ironic watching, who have the childish gall actually to endorse and instantiate single-entendre principles”

Such a feeling steps away from presenting the meaninglessness of the society we have, and instead focuses on meaning at either the personal level, or in the societal future or past. To Vermeulen (2010), this is termed “meta-modernism”, something which “acknowledges that history's purpose will never be fulfilled because it does not exist. Critically, however, it nevertheless takes toward it as if it does exist. Inspired by a modern naïveté yet informed by postmodern scepticism, the metamodern discourse consciously commits itself to an impossible possibility.” Simpsonwave acknowledges the fakeness of the series, and brings that fakeness up a notch through the creation of alternate scenes.

Such videos as C R I S I S and W H E R E A M I G O I N G? both admit their manufactured nature and press on in pursuit of emotion. They are beyond political agendas and seek to quench, rather than solely bring attention to, a deep generational starvation of meaning.

And that is for better or for worse.

#simpsonwave #vaporwave #a e s t h e t i c

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hollywritesinstardust · 7 years ago

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Sister Sinner: Chapter Three

Request: Do you do cross-overs? I was thinking Neal Caffery’s younger sister works with the BAU, her brother, Mozzie, and Peter on a case, and ends up crushing on Derek Morgan.

Fandom: Criminal Minds/White Collar

Characters/Pairings: Derek Morgan/Reader; JJ, OMC

Words: 2,497

Y/N - Your Name

The first part of the operation was supposed to be the simplest, but to you, it was the worst. Sitting at a bar, sipping on an apple martini, waiting to be approached by a strongman within the closely-knit family, felt like you were a gazelle at the watering hole. At least when you were engaged, you had cards you could play. You may not be able to win in a fight if the person was any stronger than Mozzie, but as long as you could run your mouth, you were never entirely helpless. Of course, that required having someone to run your mouth to.

There was a wire underneath your clothes and a small tracking chip installed inside one of the medium-sized stud earrings you wore. The wire was wrapped around your abdomen and you could feel it between your breasts where it was threaded over your bra. Your high-necked blouse ensured that it wouldn’t be seen, but no matter how many times you let the feds deck you out, it never felt normal. Your pleated skirt was the only part of your ensemble you might’ve normally worn. Your shoes looked nice, but they had heels that Sara could substitute her baton for.

You were out of your depth a little. In truth, the majority of your experience with violent crimes had been as a victim, not an investigator. Adler, Larssen, Wilkes, Dobbs and Collins – they’d all tried to hurt you, typically because they wanted something to hold over Neal’s head. Luckily for you, your resourcefulness and a little help from Neal (and occasionally, you grudgingly admitted, from Peter) your worst injuries had amounted to a minor concussion and a broken bone. You knew it could’ve been a much different story, so whenever you could avoid it, you didn’t get involved.

This time, though, people were dying. Maybe years ago, that wouldn’t have been enough of an incentive for you. When you were on the run with Neal, Mozzie, and Kate – your own little crew – you had lived by a few principles, one of them being that you had to look after yourselves first. Now you understood that just because it might get you hurt didn’t mean you shouldn’t do it. The FBI was out of ideas. Their only semi-legitimate alternative was likely to decimate someone’s real life, assuming they weren’t killed, and of all their consultants, you were the one who probably wouldn’t get murdered. If you refused, more people would die, and you couldn’t take that on your conscience.

Someone pulled out the bar stool to your right and sat down heavily, twirling around so their legs were under the counter. You resolutely didn’t look until you had finished your martini. You wanted to act like you weren’t nervous or in a hurry. It wasn’t too difficult – you’d been hit on enough to learn not to make your responses very obvious.

Finally, you put down your empty glass and turned your head to look at your guest. The bartender had stopped by, but he had waved the man off. He looked big, heavyset – strong. Not someone you wanted to make mad at you. Opting for Alex’s tried and true approach – seductive and cunning – you rolled your shoulders back with your hands in your lap, licking your lips as you faced him.

Sharp brown eyes, thick black hair in a buzz cut, and what looked like a prison tat on the lower left side of his neck gave you a pretty good idea of his temperament. His biceps and pecs were visible through his solid black shirt, a shadow of thin stubble decorated his jaw, and his nose was crooked from being broken. Even if you didn’t know how to tell prison tattoos apart from others, you would’ve been nervous to be alone with him.

Not for the first time, you questioned exactly how quickly Derek would be able to get to you if you had to raise the alarm.

You’d always been pretty cynical, but you’d learned to keep your mouth shut when you thought not-so-nice things. In this instance, you wondered what the likelihood of him crushing your fingers would be if you shook his hands. Whatever the statistic was, it probably looked better for you than the odds of being pummeled if you pissed him off, so politeness it was.

“Sofia,” you said, lightly accenting your voice. Accents could make or break a role; you and Neal could mimic most of them. Rossi had been impressed. You gave your new alias’ last name and held out your hand, fingernails manicured in hot pink.

“Gio,” he responded in a grunt, looking over your shoulder. As you’d predicted, his grip was firm almost to the point of being painful. He held on longer than strictly necessary, and you fought off a grimace and the urge to shake your hand out when he let go.

Flagging down the bartender, you ordered yourself another martini, and a gin tonic for your new pal. He seemed like the type to enjoy gin tonics. The bartender mixed the drinks in front of you, even doing a trick by throwing the mixing canister, but you were a bit more interested in making sure your neck wasn’t going to be snapped.

“Well, Gio, I trust you understand my situation.” You kept your voice light and took your drink straight to your mouth when it was handed to you. For the muscleman’s part, he didn’t even touch the alcohol supplied to him. You swallowed and licked your lips again, combating a dry throat. “There’s a very nice collection of very nice toys being brought through from Canada.” You avoided words like armament and smuggled – you wanted to be direct, but you also wanted to act like a halfway-competent smuggler. “I’d like to get it off of my hands.” You offered a thin smile and held up your fingernails. “That much residue really isn’t good for my cuticles.”

Though you strongly doubted Gio – if that was even his real name – gave a damn about your cuticles, you seemed to have struck a chord. He stared at you contemplatively. You smiled saccharinely and tapped your nails on the counter. Gio wasn’t the one who was calling the shots. If he was, then honestly, the BAU didn’t need you to be the one undercover; they could’ve just sent in an agent or one of Ruiz’s department’s CIs. You had to assume that he was wearing something that either recorded your conversation or streamed it live to one of the bosses, or someone who the Gambinos trusted.

Regardless, you played nice. You did exactly as you were supposed to and delicately chose your phrasings, discussing with tact a heavy-duty artillery that would be untraceable to the source (your gain). Gio asked thinly-veiled questions and made what sounded very obviously like a poorly-obscured threat on the behalf of the people he worked for, to which you mentioned aloofly that he should try the tonic; the mixologist knows what he’s doing.

Neal had had operations that went much worse, much sooner, so even as more than an hour had passed, you relaxed gradually without changing your posture externally. A con artist that didn’t know fear was a dead con artist; you knew better than to take your nerves lightly. As they lessened, you became more optimistic that Derek was right, and this would be a quickly-burned persona with no more bloodshed.

“There is one more thing.” Gio had trouble understanding your English when you started to speak a little faster, so you’d courteously slowed down closer to his pace. The heavy Italian accent and the punctuated pauses made everything he said seem just a little more intimidating. It was a little unfair. “Miss Sofia, my employers do not appreciate being spied upon.”

“It’s bad for my business, too,” you flippantly agreed.

“So perhaps, you can tell me,” he said, shifting his shoulders, his muscles bulging as his hands curled into fists on the countertop beside his full glass of liquor, “Why there is an unmarked automobile outside.”

You scoffed, hoping against hope that the backup team would let you handle the situation. Part of you desperately wanted them to skedaddle, but the other part knew that, not only would that be suspicious, but if they went too far, they would lose the signal from the wire and then you would have no backup.

“I thought that was one of yours.” You stiffened, biting the inside of your cheek and peering across the bar. Ostensibly, you were looking for a red flag. In reality, you were trying to see if you recognized any agents in place to help you out. You couldn’t find any.

Gio’s hands moved while you were distracted. The next thing you knew, the hand that had tried squishing your fingers was attempting to pulverize your wrist. You couldn’t help the audible hiss that escaped you, or the instinctive act of jerking away, but the Italian held on. His uneven but sharp nails pinched your skin while the pressure around the thinner part of your wrist forced your flesh to dig into bones.

Forcing yourself to keep cool, you held your arm under the table. If anyone saw a woman being held like that, they might try to intervene. While normally you would’ve appreciated a diversion, now you wanted anything but. “If I had wanted to be manhandled,” you furiously whispered, glowering, “I would have gone to the cartels. I’m sure they’d be more than willing to make a trade.”

There was a delay between your words and the release of your wrist. It was enough to make you suspect that Gio was actually listening to someone talking into his ear, but you didn’t dare to ask. Prentiss’ warnings about not pressing for information echoed in your mind. You were offering; once you had them hooked, they’d give you the info themselves, and they’d feel confident doing it. The less flighty they were, the better everyone’s odds of surviving.

Gio moved his hands back, but still looked like he had more than half a mind to either roofie your martini and drag you into a big white van or drag you into the bathrooms and put a bullet through your insides. The sooner you were out, the better – maybe you could talk Neal into taking you for coffee once this was over. Coffee sounded good, and having someone else watching your back? Even better.

“How can my employers be certain?” He questioned you suspiciously, giving you the evil eye. You bit back a sigh and hoped that, if the BAU had been preparing to save the day, they now realized your life wasn’t in immediate peril.

You considered spinning a story about how many people there were in New York, and tax evasion, and unlicensed vehicles to cheat insurance rates or whatever. Even you knew that wouldn’t fly. La Cosa Nostra was too careful; as Reid mentioned, the undercover cop who’d gotten the evidence on Kuklinski had very nearly been killed himself, as they hadn’t realized until it was almost too late that the hitman had been intending to make the cop his next victim.

You ran through your list of underworld contacts, sorting through some of Neal’s and your aliases and contacts while you bought time by scoffing and looking into your drink. You sipped from your martini while you rapidly thought, shaking your head in disbelief at the question.

Nick, Steve, Lucy, Ben, and Emma – all the wrong backgrounds. James isn’t credible anymore. It seemed like the majority of aliases that could’ve actually been useful had either been burned during FBI investigations or discredited by some unforeseen circumstance. More than once, you’d had to skip out on a con because you’d realized something more important was happening, including but not limited to threats on yours, or someone else’s, life. While Neal had been in prison, you’d created an identity named Johanna. You’d burned that name yourself to protect a civilian who your mark had been planning to attack. You were far from morally straight, but you had priorities.

“Rydell,” you decided on by the time you’d set your glass down, shooting an offended and deadpan stare at the strongman, whose eyes hadn’t left you. “Gary Rydell. I make his problems disappear, he gives me favors.” You jerked your head towards the doors. “The unmarked is… insurance.” You smiled thinly. “No one lives in this business without insurance.”

Gio – and therefore, the Gambinos – seemed to buy it. You made sure to keep your attitude up so it seemed genuine, carefully paying attention to the nuances of things said. Your stress had returned threefold, but you applauded yourself for maneuvering out of certain death (or worse). Though you weren’t exactly looking forward to explaining to Neal that he shouldn’t use that name for a while, you were mostly just glad that he’d had an alias you could lean on. If anyone looked up Rydell, they’d find charges like smuggling, fraud, obstruction, evading arrest – possibly even racketeering, depending on how Peter fenced that last go-round right after Adler’s death. For a person like Sofia, Rydell was a suitable contact.

“This has been enlightening.” Gio offered you his hand again. Instead of taking it, you pursed your lips and lifted your right arm, showing off the bruises already beginning to color into your skin. He chuckled (this isn’t funny, you jackass) and put his hand down.

“Truly,” you dryly concurred.

“We will be in touch.”

Gio left as quickly as he came, and though you watched him go, you were impressed with how such a big man moved so swiftly, especially in a crowd. You pushed your glass away from you, spared a snide look at the untouched tonic, and laid out a fifty-dollar bill on the counter to cover the costs. Sliding off the table, you straightened the hem of your shirt down over the top of your skirt, found your balance on your stilettos, and made a trip to the women’s rooms.

Inside an empty stall, you pulled up your skirt and took your phone out of a thigh holster. You weren’t allowed to carry a gun, but you didn’t need licenses to buy holsters. Especially when you actually got them from Mozzie. You didn’t have pockets and you needed a way to securely hide your phone. While the BAU could hear everything from your end, you had no other way of communicating with them.

The dial tone rang only twice before it was picked up. “Yes?” It was JJ’s voice, patient and quiet, with no discernible background noise. She didn’t say who she was, just in case someone else had stolen your phone and was checking your contacts to make sure you weren’t lying.

“It’s me. He’s gone.” you said, keeping your voice hushed. You were alone in the bathroom, but didn’t think it was possible to be too cautious. “Did you get all that?”

A/N: Chapter 3/?; as promised, tagging @bestillmystuckyheart, @skeletoresinthebasement, and @werewitchling!

Canonical aliases referenced include Nick Halden (multiple episodes), Steve Tabernacle (multiple episodes), Benjamin Cooper (2.02 "Need to Know"), James Maine (4.01 "Wanted") and Gary Rydell (3.01 "On Guard").

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daylightarchives · 7 years ago

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GUIDE TO ONEOHTRIX POINT NEVER

As a fringe guy who’s always been more interested in experimentation and provocation than gratification of any sort, Oneohtrix Point Never (the alias of writer-producer-performer extraordinaire Daniel Lopatin) enjoys that intimidating “weirdo critical darling” status where the everyone from Pitchfork to Fantano to the pretentious bohemians of the wider blogosphere seem to love him, but the average listener (me, at one point, included) has no idea how he fits into the larger conversation surrounding electronic music or if he’d sound good tucked between other “ambient” and “vaporwave” artists on a playlist (hint: he wouldn’t). The point of this piece isn’t simply to ramble on about how profoundly difficult Oneohtrix Point Never is, though; I’m writing instead to make the argument that despite that aforementioned inaccessibility as an artist, the music of OPN is worth attempting to seriously listen to if you have even a passing interest in music as an art form, challenging art, or just plain interesting ideas.

To sum it up, Oneohtrix Point Never began as an ambient act fascinated with ideas like nostalgia and cultural memory, especially with relation to idealistic visions of the future as computers became widely used in the ‘90s (think ‘90s educational videos, nature documentaries, commercials, etc). After some widely successful releases in that genre, Lopatin expanded the OPN aesthetic, inventing vaporwave and releasing album after dizzying album of plunderphonics, early computer nostalgia trips, and, most recently, a cinematic epic encompassing dance music, grunge, and apparently, a lot of philosophy. An album by album guide to the artistic output of Lopatin as OPN follows… feel free to skip around if one thing seems more interesting than another: the OPN discography is about as varied as they come, and even if one album sounds like the most boring thing you could possibly listen to, I guarantee the literal inverse exists somewhere else - Lopatin’s musical canon really is that diverse. In depth reviews in the full post!

RIFTS (2009)

For those of us who weren’t in Brooklyn while Lopatin established himself as a local legend in ambient and noise scenes through a prolific run of cassette only releases from 2007-09, Rifts serves as a convenient collection of OPN’s three breakout albums from that period: Betrayed in the Octagon (2007), Zones Without People (2009), and Russian Mind (2009). As 2+ hours of incredibly dense music, I’d call Rifts probably one of OPN’s most intimidating releases, unless you really dig ambient music. However, for all of its uninviting qualities, Rifts can be an incredibly impressive listen, full of synth lines that echo into oblivion, invocations of an imagined future, and huge soundscapes that evoke the majesty of early ambient classics like Aphex Twin’s Selected Ambient Works Volume 2. That ambient-genre tag might seem to imply that Rifts’ 27 tracks are homogenous and basically formless, but it’s surprisingly easy to tell when one album ends and another begins: Betrayed in the Octagon is droning and melancholic, Zones Without People has a noticeable sci-fi bent with laser beam sound effects and serene field recordings, and Russian Mind sounds legitimately as though it was created by a computer (especially the icy and kind of funny title track). Rifts is admittedly not for the feint of heart, but can be great as a long and intense synth odyssey thats just as easy to actively engage with as it is to totally get lost in.

RETURNAL (2010)

As OPN’s major label debut and probably Lopatin’s first record with serious philosophical underpinnings, Returnal can be tough to talk about because for all of the conceptual heft behind the record, it can at times sound like it belongs somewhere in that Rifts comp. Returnal is the last Oneohtrix Point Never that I’d comfortably call ambient, and even then, Lopatin really pushes the limits of that signifier: opener Nil Admirari is a total industrial noise freakout and utterly horrifying. To hear Lopatin describe it, it’s a portrait of a distinctly modern kind of sensory overload: “the mom’s sucked into CNN, freaking out about Code Orange terrorist shit, while the kid is in the other room playing Halo 3, inside that weird Mars environment, killing some James Cameron–type predator;” strip away the 2010isms of that line and you’re left with a pretty poignant image that might hit close to home. From there, the album glides effortlessly into the ambient territory Lopatin has already pretty well mastered for seven serene drone tracks that, to quote Noel Gardner, don't invoke a vast space so much as the concept of vastness itself. Though I’m by no means an ambient expert, this record is pretty massive within that community, and, if anything I’ve described here interests you, you should definitely check Returnal out.

CHUCK PERSON’S ECCOJAMS VOL. 1 (2010)

A major stylistic break from OPN’s back catalog and something of a manifesto for the rest of his career, Chuck Person’s Eccojams Vol. 1 came into being innocuously enough as an anonymous youtube upload that Lopatin only retroactively took credit for (in the form of a remastered reissue) after it literally invented vaporwave. From this point forward in Lopatin’s career, the ambient soundscapes would be replaced by something distinctly more musical; namely, on this record and the next official Oneohtrix Point Never release, Replica, samples. The approach for Eccojams is deceptively simple: 15 tracks, and each one of them consists simply of one or sometimes two samples pulled from 80's easy listening hits or muzak slowed down to a narcotic tempo and pitch, then drenched in echo and effects. Per Loptain, the eccojam approach and idea was intended to be a way of reclaiming lost culture and bringing a DIY, memey edge to music long forgotten in the annals of commercial history. For all the heady philosophical stuff, the approach really took off, spawning a huge (now basically dead) movement of fellow artists making vaporwave, reinvigorating a probably ironic fascination for ‘90s culture online, and influencing artists like Clams Casino and Kanye West. To me, Eccojams really demonstrates just how thorough Lopatin’s understanding of internet culture and the philosophical underpinnings of nostalgia is - when was the last time you heard of someone intentionally and successfully inventing a meme, let alone someone this fringe? If you’ve ever used the word “aesthetic” ironically, you probably owe some of your sense of humor to this record and the space it’s carved out for itself at the strange intersection of music, philosophy, and internet culture.

REPLICA (2011)

Replica was also probably the closest thing to a mainstream moment Daniel Lopatin had ever had thus far in his career: coming off the heels of literally inventing a genre of music and touting yet another new musical approach, a much wider audience than before was now curious as to what Oneohtrix Point Never might come out with next. The album this newfound fanbase got was, characteristically, a crazy album even for OPN - even within its most accurate genre signifier, plunderphonics (sample based music that isn’t hip hop,) there really isn't anything even remotely similar. Built around a treasure trove of ‘80s commercials that Lopatin ordered by the boxful on VHS and dutifully sampled one-by-one, Replica is simultaneously really sprawling and kaleidoscopic but also very simple and minute. Songs like Andro and the title track are serene ambient pieces that are eventually swept up in these waves of massive synth lines and samples, and The Power of Persuasion and Sleep Dealer play almost like eccojams, endlessly looping, but with a renewed energy and intensity (Sleep Dealer, interestingly enough, is built entirely around a Wrigley’s gum commercial). Elsewhere on the record, Lopatin triggers sample after manipulated sample in a dizzying way that eventually gives way to these blurred, beautiful pieces on tracks like Child Soldier (see if you can catch the M.I.A. sample,) the kinda hilarious grossout track Nassau, and Up. There really isn’t anything like this record in the OPN discography or anywhere else, and it also represents at least to me an interesting development on the idea of “vaporwave” as this act of cultural reappropration: if Eccojams saw Lopatin reimagining hits ingrained within the public memory, Replica sees him digging deeper into the American cultural psyche and attacking the history of our consumer culture even harder, playing mindless bits of sales-driven non entertainment on a loop and beckoning listeners to create their own meaning within that weird headspace. I think it’s a ton of fun.

R PLUS SEVEN (2013)

My personal favorite Oneohtrix Point Never record, R Plus Seven takes the idea of experimenting with culturally passé sounds a step further by occupying itself with some Rifts-era ideas - namely, early '90s tech fascination and the host of now considered “cheesy” sounds that came with it. Every single sound on R Plus Seven is totally clean, shiny, and metallic, seeming to exist in a totally sterile environment. Whereas the human voices found occasionally on past OPN records belonged to old samples and occasionally Lopatin himself, the voices here are all computer generated choir patches and individual voices. The songs of R Plus Seven seem almost engineered to sound of a piece with someone old cultural touchstone: Americans begins like a NatGeo nature doc before dissolving into a cacophony of wordless voices and bubbling synths, Problem Areas seems ready to soundtrack an educational video about math or computers, and every other track is peppered with pianos, horns, voices, and other instrumentation that sounds delightfully canned. The other major addition to the OPN sound on R Plus Seven is an increasing penchant for total stylistic left turns: motifs establish themselves and build only to be obliterated by an abrupt wall of noise followed by a totally new idea… Call it cheesy, but to me, the album almost evokes a computer recursively rewriting its own code, constantly stopping and starting and working in frenetic fits in between. Not once does any sort of human touch shine through on this album, but that doesn’t make the album dispassionate or desolate: it actually makes R Plus Seven easily the most fascinating OPN album to date, begging the listener to engage with it every time it evokes some cultural memory long delegated to being simply out of style. Lopatin is inviting is audience to engage with the basic building blocks of music and the culture that surrounds it on R Plus Seven, asking us why we value some sounds over others and displaying a total virtuosity in the realm of “computer music.” A must listen for anyone who wants to make music on a computer, or simply take a horrifying trip through a house of mirrors reflecting fascinating distortions of the culture they grew up in.

GARDEN OF DELETE (2015)

Easily the most visceral and rhythmic Oneohtrix Point Never record, and probably the closest Lopatin has ever come to a pure “pop” moment - take that as you will. Garden of Delete takes a total left turn away from cerebral, ambient experiments, and towards driving rhythms, extremely bright synths, heavy basslines, and vocals that seem simultaneously horrified and in awe of the state of the world as it exists; since it’s OPN, you can also expect a healthy dose of weird samples, extremely manipulated instrumental performances, and general fuckery with any of the cultural expectations a listener would bring to the table when approaching something resembling EDM. Songs like lead single Sticky Drama and closer No Good are the closest approximations of EDM that OPN has ever attempted, with throbbing, resonant bass hits and surprisingly melodic vocals giving away to total noise freakouts and, on Sticky Drama, samples from obscure vlogs on Youtube (yet another example of how OPN really effortlessly threads culture as everyone experiences it into something totally alien). Elsewhere, OPN brings a newfound intensity to tracks that, had they been wrote for earlier albums, would’ve simply been motifs: standout Freaky Eyes is a gothic epic that, after a few seconds of Kanye style chipmunk-soul, gives way to 8-bit video soundtrack bliss and horror movie soundtrack fodder, complete with digitized screaming. Elsewhere, Animals is an honest to god ballad with honest to god lyrics and a beautiful acoustic guitar part, and I Bite Through It is a fascinating exploration of syncopation and rhythm. With Garden of Delete, Oneohtrix Point Never shifted his conceptual focus onto the present and with that shift came a massive stylistic change towards frenetic, crazed intensity that I don’t think anyone could’ve predicted. Another interesting element of Garden of Delete is its sort of cinematic edge, evidence of Lopatin’s increasing prevalence as a film score composer and of his abilities to really build soundscapes around his music or tracks like Animals, SDFK, and Child of Rage. As a document of an omnivorous, Adderal-fueled flavor insanity that couldn't exist without the internet, Garden of Delete is further proof of Daniel Lopatin’s deep fascination and understanding of the world we live in, and of his unique ability to process it into music that’s equal parts unique, engaging, weird, and fun. Definitely not the best entry point to the OPN discography, but perhaps on of Lopatin’s best works.

If you like ambient music a lot, I’d probably recommend you start with Returnal. If you’re more interested in Lopatin’s late period craziness, I’d probably start with R Plus Seven or Replica and go from there. Hope this inspires anyone curious or intimidated by Oneohtrix Point Never’s huge discography to give his stuff a try - if you can’t already tell, I think it’s a worthwhile dive to take.

#oneohtrix point never #opn #guide #reviews #daylight archives

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thebestplltheories · 8 years ago

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*NEW* Pretty Little Liars Endgame (Alternative)

Whilst I still stand by my first endgame theory, today I want to explore an alternative way the endgame could potentially unfold.

One day at Radley, Charlotte accidentally pushed Marion Cavanaugh off the roof. Jessica, who was on the board at Radley, agrees to help her niece Charlotte by ruling Marion’s death a suicide, but internally within Radley, Charlotte blamed Bethany for it. Charlotte reversed the roles when telling her story to the liars in 610 so that they would feel sorry for her.

Jessica feels bad that an innocent patient, Bethany, was blamed for something her niece did so she signs Bethany out of Radley to adopt and ride a horse. Considering she helped Charlotte get away with it, it is the absolute least Jessica can do. But Bethany isn’t appreciative of these sympathetic gifts because she knows that Jessica is having an affair with her father. Jessica asks Bethany to call her “aunt Jessie” as a way of saying “I’m not having an affair with your father, I’m just a long lost aunt hence I’ve been around your father lately!” Bethany throws a tantrum and buckets after Jessica’s lies. “Is it like mother like daughter?” and “can I trust anyone in that family?” says Bethany in her recordings. Bethany’s hatred is building towards two dead characters, ‘mother and daughter’ Charlotte and Jessica. (Even young Charles thought they were a part of the DiLaurentis family for quite some time.)

After Charles’ funeral, Charlotte’s doctors let her go, out of belief that trapping a transgender patient in a mental asylum isn’t doing any good. And, she’s apparently been making progress… again, Bethany was blamed for Charlotte’s fatal mistake. She never returned to Radley as Charlotte: she was free to walk the streets of Rosewood. She created the new alias CeCe Drake, after having found out about her birth mother Mary Drake (although having still never met her). CeCe attended college and shared a roommate, explaining how she knew everyone at Eric Kahn’s party and perhaps how she slipped into the Rosewood High yearbook. This also explains why Charlotte needed a visitors pass to see Mona in Radley, as she was no longer a patient that can sneak down the hall.

During college, CeCe and Noel happened to be at the same frat party. Noel accidentally pushed a girl down the stairs, but of course the bystander ex-Radley patient gets the blame for it. As a result, Charlotte is kicked out of college for something Noel did. Hence Noel helped Charlotte in the dollhouse; he felt he owed something to Charlotte. He took something from her that she worked extra hard for.

While CeCe was off beginning her new life in Rosewood (still before ‘that night’), Bethany was still in Radley, taking medication that should have Charlotte’s name on it, drowning in her own drool. That’s sure to drive her crazy.

“That night”, Bethany escaped with the intent of killing Charlotte as revenge for ruining her life. Jessica, who was Bethany’s caretaker at Radley, got a call that night from Radley workers informing her that Bethany has escaped. “I’m very worried, please send someone”, said Jessica, knowing how much Bethany hates her and her niece. A war was brewing. Charlotte wanted to hurt Bethany before Bethany harms anyone. Charlotte accidentally hit Ali instead of Bethany, but thankfully Mrs. Grunwald came to Ali’s rescue. “I swear I thought it was Bethany, mum” cried Charlotte.

Mona hit Bethany with a shovel thinking she was hitting Ali; she hated Ali that much. The purpose of a psychic saving Ali was because only a psychic could know to come back to Rosewood and save another person: Bethany Young. Mrs Grunwald sensed more danger and went and saved Bethany. I don’t like supernatural elements as much as the next person, but it exists, and we have to acknowledge it and use it.

Notice how the person saving Ali/Bethany is different in the two instances. TWO people were pulled out of the dirt. (Red sleeve vs no sleeve.)

Bethany Young is alive. Bethany Young is Uber A and AD, which stands for After Death. Whilst there have been many deaths over the seasons, Bethany’s “death” was THE death that started it all and so it’s very iconic for her to go by AD. We know AD has to be someone who has access to medical records, as they leaked Yvonne’s abortion and Veronica’s sickness. Who better than someone who successfully faked her death?

Bethany couldn’t stand the idea of that bitch Charlotte getting 5 years treatment and then getting to go home with her family, happily ever after. As revenge, Bethany killed Charlotte the exact same way that Charlotte killed Marion and blamed her for it: Charlotte was pushed off a building (bell-tower).

Here is our clue from the writers that we should be looking at Bethany. In the (FAKE) flashback we saw of Bethany, she was wearing this red sweater.

Yet we saw someone in an awfully similar red sweater walk into the bell-tower the very night Charlotte was killed: Bethany? Again, even though it was a fake flashback and that red sweater doesn’t technically exist, it is the writers foreshadowing.

And if it wasn’t already clear, Bethany killed Jessica, too… the affair that could’ve teared apart her family forever (Bethany might have become related to Charlotte, that thought scared Bethany!) and Jessica also helped Charlotte get away with pushing Marion. Jessica had to go. Season 5A made it extremely easy to guess that Melissa and/or Peter killed Jessica with Peter’s drugs, and hence they lied about where they were the night she was killed. Yet, here we are in 7A, and the writers still haven’t confirmed Melissa and Peter’s involvement. For that reason, I believe the answer is elsewhere. If it really was Melissa and Peter, that could’ve been confirmed years ago. If it really was Melissa and/or Peter, why is it being extended into season 7B? Because there’s more to the story. It was Bethany.

Bethany/AD chooses to frame Melissa for Charlotte’s murder. Out of all people in Rosewood, why did the killer chose Melissa? Because Melissa has a motive that would make sense in front of a jury: Charlotte sent Wren the video of Melissa confessing to burying Bethany the actual person in the grave, which lead to Wren breaking up with her. Melissa’s relationship crumbled, combined with the simple fact that Charlotte is in possession of a video that could destroy Melissa’s reputation forever, is why Bethany decided Melissa is the perfect candidate to frame: she would have a motive to want Charlotte dead.

Bethany stole Melissa’s suitcase, broke the handle and bashed Charlotte’s head with it. She then put the suitcase back before Melissa notices it’s missing… or did she? Whilst unpacking her clothes, Melissa says in 613 “I know I had more clothes in here”. Evidently Melissa’s suitcase was tampered with.

Melissa was the person sending unsigned, emoji texts throughout 6B. She was being harassed by Bethany, that if she doesn’t admit to killing Charlotte or find another killer before the end of the election night, her confession video will be shared with everyone.

How did Bethany even get her hands on this video? From Wren. As we know, Charlotte sent the video to Wren so clearly Wren is in possession of this video. The reason he instantly ended his relationship with Melissa is because Bethany is his sister and he was mad that Melissa potentially killed his sister and didn’t say anything. Of course, she’s alive now, but what a big secret that is to keep.

As Emily stated in 617 after being attacked, “there’s definitely 2 people after us”. Bethany wanted Emily to touch the suitcase handle (why not have a second person to frame?) whilst Melissa was the one trying to get it back to save herself.

Marlene has said there is one question she can’t wait to answer, but she can’t tell us what this question is because the question itself is a spoiler. That question is precisely “who is actually in the grave?" The answer is one that makes total sense: Alison’s twin. This also explains how the Jane Doe was identified as Alison in the first place: similar DNA.

They foreshadowed this in 513 by showing a dead Alison in a grave. This was the writers telling us that YES, despite all complications, there really is an Alison in the grave. We already have twins; Mary and Jessica. However, scientifically, twins CAN give birth to twins. So, it is possible to have another set of twins involved in the endgame. Also, Marlene has explicitly said that “we won’t see Courtney”. We may never actually find out the name of Ali’s twin. It doesn’t matter. They aren’t alive, they aren’t A like in the books. We will never see them. They are DEAD.

It’s also possible that the person in the grave is a random girl we’ve never met before - probably one of the many new cast members joining the finale.

This is tricky to answer for 2 reasons:

- At the time of this Tweet, Marlene knew there will be a FAKE flashback involving Bethany in 610. Ignore that flashback COMPLETELY. It never happened. That was Charlotte retelling a story of lies.

- There is before the incident regarding her face,

- There is after the incident regarding her face.

What incident?

One day whilst on temporary release, Bethany was with Jenna in Jenna’s garage. Alison and her friends threw fireworks inside and as a result, Jenna was blinded and Bethany was burnt. This is how the show is coming full circle as we are circling right back to the stories of season 1. Bethany hates Ali and the girls for the permanent damage she has suffered.

Alison blamed Toby for ‘The Jenna/Bethany Thing’ which Bethany assumes means that Toby was involved, too. Hence, in a true moment of anger right after her name was announced to the public on television, Bethany blew up Toby’s house.

Note that Bethany never shows her face in her pictures. This is not laziness by any means, she is actually a brilliant artist.

So whilst Bethany is framing Melissa for Charlotte’s murder, she is harassing the Liars over it too because they ruined her life.

Bethany/AD is walking around Rosewood in masks. Her face is deformed, on top of the fact that she’s supposed to be dead. She cannot show her face. Further, 6A revealed that Bethany Young shared a room in Radley with Leslie Stone. That same season we saw Leslie with boxes of glasses identical to those that AD has been wearing. Leslie knows Bethany is alive and she was trying to locate her long lost friend - she found her!

Bethany shot Spencer as not only revenge for burning her (The Jenna/Bethany Thing), but for being the one to bash her over the head that night. Of course, Spencer didn’t actually do it (Mona did) but since everyone in Rosewood thought it was Spencer, Bethany later latched on to this popular belief. (Note: if Alison survived a rock to the head, Bethany survived a bashing to the head, too. Heightened reality, unfortunately.)

This message was from Bethany:

Again, note the blacked face.

This Black Veil person from 401 was Bethany. CeCe’s story of who this person was, revolved around Sara Harvey pulling off a veil to reveal her face, but in reality, there is a (BURNT) Alison mask underneath that veil. CeCe’s version couldn’t be true as Sara never had a mask when she entered the limo. Sara never saw the girls as dolls - Sara was just Charlotte’s decoy, so it makes no sense for Sara to have been playing dolly earlier… This is Uber A.

Why would Sara Harvey care about Bethany Young? She doesn’t. Below is Bethany sending flowers to her family who she misses. She wants to tell them she’s alive and well! But first she wants to finish off this game and punish the people who hurt her.

Despite the above Tweet being from 2013, she is going to follow through with that in these final episodes because:

I know what you’re probably thinking… Bethany being Uber A is not satisfying. To me, it is! It goes right back to season 1 as it revolves around ‘that night’. The person that suffered that night in the pilot, is back for revenge!

I could do a part 2 for this theory to explain who is Bethany. Who are her parents? Is she a DiLaurentis? Is the “aunt Jessie” thing supposed to be taken literally - is she a Drake? Is she someone’s twin? Is Melissa Bethany? Is Sara Harvey Bethany (I hope not, but very possible)? Is Bethany Charlotte’s twin who also transitioned, hence Jason thought he saw CeCe that night (but really it was Bethany, like Charlotte says)? I believe we are dealing with Bethany - but who is Bethany, is for another day. I do NOT believe for a split second they will make Uber A be a person we’ve never met before. That’s pathetic.

When the Bethany-ideas came flooding to me, I googled ‘Bethany is Uber A’ to see the fan consensus on this topic and the first result was an amazing post by @the-outlast. Whilst we have some largely contrasting opinions on some aspects, shoutout to this person for a couple pieces of evidence I used to explain our belief that Bethany is alive :)

#PLL #pll theories #bethany young #pretty little liars #pll endgame

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