#Like how many people have told me something completely devastating or some intimate personal detail and I've responded with laughter. Omg

[kalluun-patangaroa]

Waking up to a new morning...

The Observer, Sunday 15 September 2002

Written by Amy Raphael

After the booze, coke, crack and smack, Suede's Brett Anderson is back in the land of the living with renewed optimism and a new album 

Brett Anderson grew up hanging around car parks, drinking lukewarm cans of Special Brew and taking acid. Occasionally, he caught the train from Hayward's Heath to Brighton, less than half an hour away, but still a world away. He would buy punk records and, perhaps, a Nagasaki Nightmare patch to sew on to his red ski jacket.

His mother, who died in 1989, was an aspiring artist; his father was mostly unemployed and obsessed with classical music. He wanted his son to be a classical pianist, but Brett had other ideas. Lost in suburban adolescence, he was drawn to the Smiths, to Morrissey's melancholic lyrics, his eccentric persona. He wanted to be a pop star; he would be a pop star. He had no doubt.

Anderson moved to London in the late 1980s, living in a small flat in Notting Hill. He studied architecture at the London School of Economics, but only while he got a band together. Here he met Justine Frischmann and, with old school friend Mat Osman, formed Suede in the early Nineties as an antidote to grunge and anodyne pop.

Anderson borrowed Bowie's Seventies glamour and a little of his Anthony Newley-style vocals. He looked to the Walker Brothers's extravagant, string-laden productions and appropriated Mick Jagger's sexual flamboyance for his stage show. Yet Suede were totally original, unlike anything else at the time. Dressed in secondhand suits and with casually held cigarettes as a prop, Anderson wanted to write pop songs with an edge; sleazy, druggy, urban vignettes which would sit uncomfortably in the saccharine-tinged charts.

Like his lyrics, Anderson was brash, cocky, confident. He talked of being 'a bisexual man who's never had a homosexual experience', realising it was an interesting quote, even if he knew he would probably always lose his heart to the prettiest of girls.

When I first met him, in the spring of 1993, Suede were enjoying their second year of press hysteria, of being endlessly hailed as the best new band in Britain. Fiddling with his Bryan Ferry fringe, Anderson asserted: 'I am a ridiculous fan of Suede. I do sit at home and listen to us. I do enjoy our music.'

He talked about performing 'Metal Mickey', the band's second single, on Top of the Pops. 'When I was growing up, Top of the Pops was the greatest thing, after tea on a Thursday night... brilliant! You get a ridiculous sense of history doing it. It was a milestone in my life; it somehow validated my life, which is pathetic really.'

By rights, Suede should have been not only the best band in Britain but also the biggest. Yet it did not happen that way. During the recording of the second album, the brilliant Dog Man Star, guitarist Bernard Butler walked out. It was as though Johnny Marr had left the Smiths before completing Meat Is Murder. The band could have given up, but they did not; they went on to make Coming Up, which went straight to the top of the album charts. Then, three years ago, disaster struck during the recording of Suede's fourth album, Head Music. Anderson was in trouble: the pale adolescent who had swigged Special Brew in desolate car parks was now a pop star addicted to crack.

Brett Anderson sits in a battered leather Sixties chair in the living-room of his four- storey west London home sipping a mug of black coffee. He has lived here for three or four years, moving into the street just as Peter Mandelson was moving out. The living-room is immaculate: books, CDs and records are neatly stacked on shelves, probably in alphabetical order.

Anderson's 6ft frame is as angular as ever but more toned than before, the detail of his muscles showing through a tight black T-shirt. Gone is the jumble-sale chic of the early Nineties; he now pops into Harvey Nichols.

He appears to have lost none of his self-assurance but, a decade on from his bold entrance into the world of pop, Anderson has mellowed, grown-up. By his own admission, he is still highly strung and admits he is probably as skinny as a 17-year-old at almost 35 because of nervous energy. But he no longer refuses to listen to new bands in case they are better than Suede; he praises the Streets, the Vines and the Flaming Lips.

This healthy, relaxed person who enjoys the odd mug of strong black coffee is a recent incarnation. At some point in the late Nineties, Anderson lost himself. He became part of one his songs and ended up a drug addict.

He talks about his new regime: swimming, eating well, hardly touching alcohol. No drugs. Did he give everything up at once? 'It was kind of gradual... giving up drugs is a strange thing, because you can't just do it straight away. You stop for a bit then it bleeds into your life again. It takes great willpower to stop suddenly.'

He sighs and looks into the distance. 'I got sick of it really. I felt as though I'd outgrown it. It wasn't something I kept wanting to put myself through and I was turning into an absolute tit. Incapable of having a relationship, incapable of going out and behaving like a normal human being. Constantly paranoid...'

The drug odyssey started with cocaine, but soon it was not enough. 'Cocaine is child's play. After a while, it didn't give me enough of a buzz, so I got into crack. I was a crack addict for ages, I was a smack addict for ages...'

Another deep sigh. 'It's part of my past, really. I'm not far enough away to be talking about it. It's only recently I've been able to say the word "crack".'

When Head Music was being recorded, he says he wasn't really there. He would turn up but his mind was not focused. The album went to number one but it was not up to Suede's standards; as Anderson acknowledges, it was 'flashy, bombastic; an extreme version of the band'.

He laughs, happier to talk about the good times. 'Last year, when I decided not to destroy myself any more, I kind of disappeared off to the countryside with a huge amount of books, a guitar and a typewriter... and wondered what the outcome would be.'

He spent six months alone. It was a revelation to discover that he could spend time by himself. 'I think a lot of people are shit scared of being on their own. Me too. From the age of 14 to 30, I jumped from bed to bed in fear of being alone. Being in the cottage in the middle in Surrey, I learned that if one day everything fucks up, I could actually go and live on my own. It's a total option.'

For a long time, Anderson had avoided reading books, worried that his lyric writing would be affected by other people's use of language. Last year, he decided it was time to fill his head with some new information. Although he had been told for years that his imagery was reminiscent of J.G. Ballard, he read the author for the first time in the cottage - and was flattered. He read Ian McEwan's back catalogue and challenging books such as Michel Houellebecq's Atomised.

Despite his self-imposed exile, it still took Anderson a long time to perfect Suede's fifth album, the self-consciously celebratory A New Morning. The band tried to make an 'electronic folk' album by working with producer Tony Hoffer, who had impressed with his work on Beck's Midnight Vultures. However, unable to make an understated album, they eventually called in their old friend Stephen Street, the Smiths producer.

Yet more trouble was ahead. Anderson says Suede have faced many 'big dramas' over the past decade - Frischmann left the band early on to form Elastica and soon after ended her relationship with Anderson, moving in with Britpop's golden boy, Damon Albarn; Bernard Butler walked out with little warning; the drugs took control - but still the band were not prepared for keyboard player Neil Codling's exit. He was forced to leave in the middle of recording A New Morning suffering from chronic fatigue syndrome.

Anderson says he was furious when Codling left.'He couldn't help it, I know, but I did feel aggrieved. I felt let down. But more at the universe than at Neil. I tend not to show how I feel about these things in public. It's like when Bernard first left, I was devastated. I felt as though that original line-up was really special. And we will never know what might have been.'

At times, Anderson sounds as though he has had an epiphany in the past year. He smiles. 'Well, you only need to listen to A New Morning to realise that. The title is very much a metaphor. It's a very optimistic record; the first single is called "Positivity", for God's sake. It's a talismanic song for the album. It's a good pop single, but we've haven't gone for a Disney kitsch, happy, clappy, neon thing.'

He looks serious for a moment. 'For me, the album is about the sense that you can only experience real happiness if you've experienced real sadness.'

Has he had therapy? His whole body shakes with a strange, high-pitched laughter. 'No! No! But I am happier now. I feel more comfortable with myself. I feel as though I'm due some happiness. I've just started going out with someone I really like. I've made an album which is intimate and warm. I don't any more have the need to be talked about constantly, that adolescent need for constant pampering...'

A swig of the lukewarm coffee and a wry smile. 'And, best of all, I don't feel like a troubled, paranoid tit any more.'

A New Morning is released on 30 September

[elliotwarren]

🎊 happy birthday gabriel adams! 🎊 

It was always his eyes that people noticed first. Well. That was a lie. If they got past his skin color, the way his fingers dug into his arms, the soft whispers to invisible things, it was his eyes. Silver, Meg always said, making him sound something special. Gabriel let a smile tweak his features and brushed dark, messy hair off his forehead. That was just as pointless as correcting Meg. 

all art pictured was commissioned by me and are not free to use. feel free to dm me for specific credits. 

I’m about to unpack a lot of shit and get way more intimate with everyone on this blog than I have previously, so I hope you’re mentally prepared for this. It’s going to be a hard read, but I’ve been wanting to talk about this stuff for a long time. 

so almost every year I try to talk about my oldest character, Gabriel. This year, I wanted to dig a little deeper, and address myself as a writer. Within the last couple of years, I’ve had to own up to some shit with this character. I was a bad writer.

“No, Elliot, you weren’t bad! You were just - “

No folks, I’m not discussing my skill as a writer. I’m specifically addressing my treatment of people, representation, and stereotypes.

I was a shitty person.

cw for ableism, discussion of own health, suicide mention, drug use in a fictional character, and general shitty handling of mental illness. 

I’m not super positive Gabriel started as Gabriel. The earliest I remember him was a novel I wrote my Freshman year - in 2006ish. I think I vaguely remember him existing as a something earlier on in middle school, but nothing concrete until later. My first ever novel! It was exactly 100 pages, front and back, written in black pen. It was a blatant rip off of an Anne Rice novel where vampires took over a city and killed and ate them in their court. I don’t even remember if that was actually the plot, but I do remember it being Anne Rice inspired, which is a whole other problem altogether. Towards the end of the novel, I asked my friends in choir class to check off next to character names to decide who died. 

I think 3 out of 45 characters made it out alive. Also there were 45 characters. Many of them had scenes from their POV. Yeah. 

Gabriel wasn’t the protagonist then, and he rarely has been until the last handful of years. He was just an edgy probably vampire guy who appeared at random with cryptic warnings, who periodically would get the protagonist out of trouble while also existing as a side antagonist. He did survive - although barely. 

Later, I had the super unique wild idea to make him ‘crazy’. I took to roleplay forums, where other teenagers I barely knew told me that my writing was good and my character was interesting, and I plagued them with my edgy, cool, sometimes serial killer character that all the girls were into. Sometimes the guys, which I was cool with - after all, I had a lesbian couple as a friend in high school. You know, I was tolerant. 

Made you uncomfortable yet? Me too. 

Gabriel was the troubled white boy who heard voices and saw ghosts, somehow got by as a homeless teenager, and sometimes he killed people but it was definitely not his fault. He went on to win character of the month on a forum based around experimental testing inside an asylum. I was ecstatic. I took him everywhere, and people loved him. Not one person called me out. Not a one. 

My freshman year of college, I joined a group on deviantart, where talented artists I’d admired from a distance were glad to have a rare writer, and after making a nervous start with another character I stepped in with Gabriel. The group was entirely based around the story line, as well as critique and self-improvement. I was ecstatic. 

With the assistance of a roleplay partner - now my roommate - I went on to finish my first novel in years, with Gabriel as one of two protagonists. I still have it, somewhere, printed out in a binder. Pretty sure I left it at a friend’s house. It featured Gabe, and my roommate’s character, after Gabriel ‘accidentally’ almost killed her because of the voices and kidnapped her to his apartment in an attempt to fix his mistake. The novel ended with Gabriel realizing he was an idiot, and heavily implied that he killed himself via morphine, which he was also somewhat addicted to for no apparent reason.

At some point in the mess, I down spiraled. I was upset and miserable and something in my brain finally cracked. I’d been dealing for years what I later learned to be chemical depression, but a specific event in my life caused a complete and total meltdown. I stopped writing. I was constantly making posts to tumblr rather than talking to anyone about how I wanted to kill myself. I stopped going to class, stopped seeing people, and my roommate at the time heard me crying at night more than once. I was completely devastated, and I will never forgive that person. 

Later, I made a bigger mistake and lost someone very close to me. In the last couple of years I’ve come to terms that I was definitely in love with her. I can never repair that damage. I snapped, for awhile, and became obsessive and gross and just a really shitty person. 

I eventually realized college and the situations were killing me, and after 4 and a half years - so close to graduating, everyone said, not realizing I’d failed most of my classes - I made the decision to drop. I moved in with my old college roommate, bummed around their house, and intended to go back to work at a summer camp like I did every year. Except I got fired, for essentially being too old and likely for budget reasons, as I made more than everyone else there. 

Obviously this was really good for my mental health.

Somewhere during the mess I started taking a look at self improvement, and turned back to writing. More specifically, what I was doing wrong. The more I wrote the more I started looking into developing Gabriel as a character, with an actual background I wasn’t making up to seem edgy as I hopped from forum to forum, and I started looking into how to write him accurately.

And I mourned all that time and all the damage I did and how many people who probably silently put up with my shit. 

I spent years writing Gabriel as this deranged, unhinged being who hurt other people. Now I try to make up for it - I spend extensive time reading articles on mental illness, specific case studies, listening to interviews and doing my best to soak up every little detail I can. 

Gabriel is schizophrenic, primarily experiencing mild visual hallucinations and occasional auditory hallucinations, typically in times of stress. He does not kill people - if he does, it has nothing to do with his mental health and more to do with that, once again, Gabriel is a vampire. Like me, he copes with depression and anxiety, born of a situation. I shifted Gabriel from being a shitty, ‘crazy’ white boy to a nervous, wary young man dealing with some shit that no one should have to deal with. I researched therapy, and coping mechanisms, and even found some that help me with my issues. I created Jamie, Gabriel’s psychiatrist and friend. I decided to cut some of the mayo out of my work and made Gabriel’s mother an immigrant from Mexico, and it’s been worth it! I get to research a fascinating, fun culture, and it has improved Gabriel as a character to have a culture. 

I realized, at some point, that I’m asexual - and Gabriel is too. I’ve put a lot of myself into him. It’s been therapeutic, and I feel better about Gabriel as a character. 

There’s been a lot of change over the years. Gabriel is an entirely different person, and it has greatly affected and I think improved my writing. More than anything, it has changed my outlook on everything, and I hope that some day I can some how make up for all the damage I did with presenting him the way I did. People with schizophrenia are no more likely to hurt or kill someone than anyone else, and many if not most serial killers are just shitty entitled white people. Like me. 

It’s been a long time - at least 12 years, if not more. I’ve changed a lot. Gabriel has too. I hope that the next 12 years let me finally finish telling a story about him, and that the world as a whole stop tip toeing around mental illness. I wish someone had told me 12 years ago that making someone ‘crazy’ wasn’t cool or neat or unique, and that I was a super toxic, harmful person. 

I’m never going to be writing a story about what it’s like to live and cope with mental illness. While I deal with it, it’s not really my story to tell. I’m never going to tell a tale about what it’s like to be the son of a Mexican immigrant in shitty white america. That’s not my job either. I might tell the story of being a queer asexual, because that definitely applies to me. But Gabriel is a vivid person to me, and I’m glad I’ve learned proper representation. I’m sure I’ll still make mistakes, and I keep waiting for someone to call me out on something. I wish someone had. I wish someone had said, hey, if your protagonist is also the villain and the only mentally ill person in the story, you’re a bad writer and you should feel bad.

That’s your personal call out, if it applies. I hope not. 

Don’t be afraid of representation of the ‘touchy’ subjects. But do right by them. Talk to people from those situations, read stories by people from those situations whether it’s relevant or not, watch interviews, see movies. If you can’t do right by a culture or an illness or a person, that’s okay. But take a step back, work hard, and just go for it. Don’t be afraid to ask for opinions, critique, help. 

Please. Learn from your mistakes. 

I talked a whole fucking lot and if you read all of it, you’re a star. Good night.