#Sing Me to the Street

[nugothrhythms]

Music video to "Sing Me to the Street" by Brooklyn, New York-based deathrock and cowpunk band Bambara off of 2020 album Stray

Warning for some flashing imagery throughout

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

From Mickey Ralph's (the Good Omens Graphic Designer) website :) <3

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

Vincent Price and Uncle Deadly singing "You've Got A Friend" - The Muppet Show (1977)

[whotfelsewantedtobelynnyx]

Headcanon that the real reason Carmilla was so preemptively over Alastor being back in town was because between Rosie (excited), Vox (it’s complicated), and the rest of the Overlords (massive gossips. See Zestial.), he’s been the topic of pretty much every conversation in their social circle for the past month.

Alastor: I’m sure you’ve all been wondering where I’ve been.

Carmilla: No. No, I haven’t. And if I have to hear one more word about it, I am going to lose my goddamn mind.

(the three different betting pools running simultaneously were what pushed her over the edge)

[creationsekai]

i think an AU where Ena and Akito become a singing team is fucking funnty

[hadesknockedupintheunderworld]

In another universe Christine and Erik skipped town and they live happily together raising Gustave...

[ohdeargodnoo]

do you see it? my vision?

ik i said highschool, but im thinking specifically one of those stuffy private schools. honestly this whole au is inspired by the movie Sing Street, which is amazing and you should watch it.

[stardustsea]

drive it like you stole it from sing street. you agree

[swordheld]

hi! your blog is one of my favourites and i absolutely adore reading your thoughts. my grandfather recently passed away and it feels like i lost myself with him. how do i continue living after this? there is this constant weight on my chest and it feels like an emptiness has made a home inside of me. how do i go on when it feels like the world crashed on my shoulders?

hello, love! this is so very sweet and kind of you, and i hope you're treating yourself gently and kindly right now - there aren't words for a loss like this. that heaviness is difficult, and hard, and painful. it's okay if things don't feel okay, right now, or even soon - i think that's something that a lot of the people i know that have gone through similar grief feel: like they should be able to get back to a relative 'normal' in a [insert far too short period of time].

but it's okay if it hurts. that's where i'd like to start. you're allowed to feel that emptiness, that world-crashed feeling that goes beyond words, beyond time. don't feel like you have to rush this to feel some sort of better. things get easier with time, i promise you this, but sometimes painful feelings are important to feel, too. cry, scream, feel your emotions. they're a part of you. grieve.

it's perhaps a little silly, but when i think about death i always think about a couple of space songs: mainly drops of jupiter by train and saturn by sleeping at last. there are perhaps others that speak to the emotions better, but these two have always hit something a little deeper for me, and are popular for a wide-reaching reason.

and while personally i don't know much about grief like this, i do know a lot about love; and i think they're a lot of the same thing.

the people we love are a part of us, and this is why it takes from us so deeply when we lose them, because it does feel like we've lost a part of ourselves in the wake of it. but it's because they were so central to our experiences of living - our lives, that the separation introduces a hollowness - a place where they used to be. a home that now goes unlived in.

an emptiness, like you said.

but just because they're not here physically, doesn't mean he's not still there, in your heart, in your life, your memory. you can hold him close in smaller ways, as well: steal a sweater, or cologne/scent for something a little more physical and long lasting for remembering. hold onto the memories you cherish, the things that made you laugh, the ease of slow mornings and gentle nights. write them all down, slide a few photographs in there, go through it and add more when you miss him. keep them all close, keep them in your heart.

you're not alone, in this. he's still there, with you, it's just - in the little things.

he's with you in the way you see and go about your daily life, in doing what he liked to do, in the ways he interacted with the world that you shared with him. the memories you recall fondly when the night is late or the moment is right and something calls it into you like a melody, an old bell, laughter you'd recognize anywhere.

but i think, perhaps most importantly above all others - talk about him. with your family, your friends, his friends, strangers; stories are how we keep the people we love alive. the connections they've made, the legacies and experiences they've left behind, and so, so many stories.

how lucky, we are - to love so much it takes a piece of us when they go. grief is the other side of the coin, but it does not mean our love goes away. it lives in you. it lives in everyone who knew him, in the smallest pieces of our lives.

the people we love never really leave us, like this: they're in how we cook and the way we fold our newspapers, our laundry, in the radio stations we tune in to and the way we decorate our walls, our photo albums. they're in the way we store our mail, organize our closets, the scribbled notes in the indexes of our books. the meals we love and the drinks we mix, the way we spend time with one another. they've been passed down for generations, for longer than history - and we are all the luckier for it.

think about what you shared with him, and do it intentionally. bring him into your life, like this, again. whether it's crosswords or poetry or sports or anything else. if one doesn't help, try another. something might click.

i hope things feel a little easier for you, as they tend to do only with time. i hope you find joy in your grief, even if it is small and hard to grasp at first. know that your hurt stems from so much love that there isn't a place to put it properly, and that it is something so meaningful and hurting poets and storytellers have been struggling to put it into words and sounds that feel like the fit right for eons, and that it is also just simply yours. sometimes things don't have to make sense. sometimes they just are - unable to be put into words or neat little sentiments, as unfair and tragic as they come.

but i promise it will not feel like this forever. your love is real. and perhaps, on where to begin on from here - i think it's less on finding where to begin and just beginning. and you've already started. you've taken the most important and crucial step: the first one. wherever you go, after that, from here? you'll figure it out. you always have, and you always do. it'll come, as things always do. love leads us, as does light - and you're never alone in your hurt. in your grief, your missing something dear to you. i think if you talk about it with others, you'll find they have ways of helping you cope as well - and they have so much love of their own to spare, too.

as an aside, here is the song (northern star by dom fera) i was listening to when i wrote this, for no other reason more than it makes me think of connections, and love, and how we hold onto the people we love and how they change us, wonderfully and intrinsically. it's a little more joyous than the others i've mentioned, and plays like a story, and it made me think of what is at the core of this, love and stories and i am here with you, and maybe it'll bring you some joy, if you'd like it. wishing you all my love and ease 💛

[tavolgisvist]

You Tell Me

When was that summer when the skies were blue? The bright red cardinal flew down from his tree You tell me When was that summer when it never rained? The air was buzzin' with the sweet old honey bee Let's see You tell me Were we there, was it real? Is it truly how I feel? Maybe You tell me Were we there, is it true? Was I really there with you? Let's see You tell me When was that summer of a dozen words? The butterflies and hummingbirds flew free Let's see You tell me Let's see You tell me

“I was really happy he [David Khane] let me include the count-in. It’s iconic.”

(Paul McCartney about You Tell Me recording)

A lovely sunny summer day. Once again, I was out at John’s house in Weybridge. <…> Around that time there was quite a spate of summer songs. ‘Daydream’ and ‘Summer in the City’ by The Lovin’ Spoonful, The Kinks’ ‘Sunny Afternoon’ – I think all those came out during the same year, 1966. We wanted to write something sunny. Both John and I had grown up while the music hall tradition was still very vibrant, so it was always in the back of our minds. There are lots of songs about the sun, and they make you happy: ‘The Sun Has Got His Hat On’ or ‘On the Sunny Side of the Street’. It was now time for us to do ours. So we’ve got love and sun, what more do we want? ‘We take a walk, the sun is shining down / Burns my feet as they touch the ground’ – that was a nice memory of summer. ‘Then we’d lie beneath a shady tree / I love her and she’s loving me’. It’s really a very happy song.

(Paul McCartney about Good Day Sunshine (1966), The Lyrics, 2021)

There's that old Maurice Chevalier song from Gigi called 'I remember It Well', which goes, ‘We met at nine, we met at eight, I was on time, no, you were late / Ah, yes, I remember it well’. I love that. A great little routine. The man in the song doesn’t quite remember, but the woman does, and ‘You Tell Me’ is a little bit like that. This is just memory. Often I think, ‘Oh my God, I really met Elvis Presley. I was really in his house, and it was a moment in time that really happened.’ That’s all there is to it. It just happened. Sometimes I pinch myself and think, ‘Was I really on the same couch as Elvis, talking about this stuff?’ I want to remember it three hundred per cent more; I want to bring it back: ‘Were we there, was it real? / Is it truly how I feel? / Maybe / You tell me’. <…> Because Linda’s father had a place in the Hamptons, I started going out there with her. That’s way over forty years ago – could be over fifty. I think that’s also where I wrote this, sometime in the early 2000s, and perhaps where the line about the red cardinal came from too, since you see them out there. ‘When was that summer of a dozen words?’ When everything’s going really well, nobody needs to talk, so you may just be sitting around with someone and reading books, or reading a newspaper, and you hardly even speak because there’s no need to; you’re in such a comfortable situation. ‘When was that summer when it never rained?’ I like that I’m not even going to try and remember what year it was. I remember hearing a story in the 1960s, when everyone was looking towards India and Indian mysticism, of some guy who was visiting a friend, and he came into the room and just sat down in a corner, and they didn’t speak. The idea was they were such good friends that they wouldn’t speak until someone had something to say. It wouldn’t just be, ‘What did you think of the football the other day?’ They were absolutely in each other’s presence, not needing to say anything. When they spoke it had to be meaningful. I liked the image of the peacefulness in that room. David Gilmour and Paul Weller, a couple of musicians whose opinion I value, independently sent me messages to say, ‘Wow, I like that one’ – to say that this song was one of their favourites of mine. Your main feedback is generally from critics, so it’s nice to get responses from people who’ve heard the song, especially real musicians, and were affected enough that they can be bothered to actually write to you. These days, it’s a message on your phone; there aren’t many people now who would sit down with beautiful old Basildon Bond stationery and expand it a bit. I don’t do too much letter writing myself anymore, but I have to admit I do like handwriting. I enjoyed being taught it at school, and I had a ‘proper’ way of handwriting. I miss the old stationery. I love the civility of letter writing. George Martin always wrote a letter to thank me for his birthday gift. We’d done ‘When I’m Sixty-Four’ together, so I would always send a birthday bottle of wine, and he would handwrite me a very elegant note. It was always a delight. In fact, I’ve kept most of them. George’s widow, Lady Judy Martin, has the same sensibility. It was very much what you did when I was growing up, but also, a certain class did it. I don’t know of many of my working-class friends in the street who did it, but my family did, and I had friends later, who lived in places like Hampstead, who would open their mail in the morning and answer it. They had one of those little envelope slitters, and they would be quite organised: ‘Dear Henry, What a surprise to hear from you. I was thinking of you only the other day . . .’ I like the civility of that. You know, the working-class equivalent of letters was the postcard. You used to write and try to be amusing. That’s when you could say things like, ‘The air was buzzing with the sweet old honeybee’. Now we have Instagram, but the postcard was the Instagram of its day.

(Paul McCartney about You Tell Me (2007), The Lyrics, 2021)

Lying behind the phrase ‘We’re on our way home’ is less the literal sense of going back to London, but more about trying to get in touch with the people we once were. The postcard sending does have a very literal feel, though. Whenever Linda and I went away, we would buy lots of postcards and send them to all our friends. John was also a great postcard sender, so you’d get some great stuff from him.

(Paul McCartney about Two Of Us (1969), The Lyrics, 2021)

[pparacxosm]

mike faist just put me out of my misery and stick it in please i’m begging you

[ultraviolenced888]

the we're on easy street song haunts me to this day btw i get you daryl im not as strong as you

[akkivee]

HE DROPPED

[jacks-weird-world]

Jack singing 'All of me' 🤭🤭🤭

[afterlife-2004]

Reminds me of “The World Was Wide Enough”, a song from the musical, Hamilton!

[soruset]

i'm going to write a song about rodydeku guys it's done i'm sorry the obsession got this far