#The Nashville Sound Review

[musicrunsthroughmysoul]

I was reading a review in a Big Country fanzine issue of a late '90s gig by The Raphaels, (Stuart Adamson and Marcus Hummon's band) apparently before they were called The Raphaels, and one thing that stuck out to me that is still sitting deeply and pleasantly in my mind was the (male) reviewer's girlfriend who didn't initially really care about seeing Stuart or Big Country absolutely LOVED the opening band who had a woman lead vocalist. The guy was like 'My girlfriend didn't really understand all the hullabaloo about Big Country and why I was so excited to see Stuart live', but she loved the last-minute opening band with the woman lead vocalist.

IDK. He didn't even mention anything about why she loved them (except that she apparently loved the opening band's cover of "Sittin' On The Dock of the Bay" which I think is mighty ambitious of a song to cover...by ANYBODY), but I just get this sense that, yeah, especially if the band/artist performing is good, some form of recognition in terms of representation is probably going to have a big impact on enjoyment. Does that make sense? Like if you go to a show where you don't know anything about the performers (and maybe don't even know who's performing), you're probably going to gravitate at least a tiny bit toward those performing who represent you in some form. Maybe it's stupid to believe that this experience is a predictable one, but I can say fairly confidently that with more than half the shows I've ever attended where I wasn't familiar with the performers beforehand, I went away most impressed, inspired, and gratified by women artists or bands that included at least one woman in them (whether they were vocalists or not - that doesn't matter to me). Does that also have anything to do with how weary I am of music, new or old, by cishet white men, though? Hmm...that is a valid thought to ponder.

Anyway...being a fan of music is just kind of funny sometimes - what will inspire us, and why, and when.

[mywifeleftme]

354: Leon Russell // Hank Wilson's Back, Vol. I

Hank Wilson's Back, Vol. I Leon Russell 1973, Shelter

Leon Russell’s Hank Wilson’s Back Vol. I ends with a sudden burst of hysterical laughter, which is usually what I feel Leon’s doing at my expense when I listen to his records, but Hank is a pretty straight affair. We’re looking at 13 classic bluegrass and country standards, most such obvious choices that it would be a real challenge to record one of the thousand best versions of a given song, let alone a newly definitive one. None of these are that, but the record’s a breezy listen. Russell was a prolific session player before his songwriting career took off, and he puts together an all-star crew of sidemen, including J.J. Cale, Billy Byrd, and members of the Wrecking Crew, Nashville Cats, and Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section. (Plus a sleeve design by Eve Babitz!) This’ll shock, but they sound pretty good.

The more reverent arrangements (mostly on side one) are nice but not necessarily thrilling. When Russell and company give a swampier Tulsa Sound read though, you’re in for a ball. The credits to his rollicking take on Jimmie Driftwood’s “The Battle of New Orleans” list no less than six guitar players, and you can hear all of them putting in work: crunching riffs, high sitar-like accents, even a spacy steel guitar bridge. We get a nice take on Leon Payne’s “Lost Highway” too, Russell singing like he’s got a wad of chew stuffed in his cheek, the whole track bobbing along like R. Crumb’s “Keep on Truckin’” guy. Russell’s not bad on the ballads either: there’s a splendid version of “Am I That Easy to Forget” that compares well to Gram Parsons’ work from the same year on Grievous Angel.

If I were rating the record, I’d say side one is a respectable 3/5, and side two a strong 4/5—so split the difference and call it a 3.5, well worth a grab for fans of great country-western musicianship and appreciators of the ‘70s Russell/Cale/Clapton sound.

354/365

[thejoyofviolentmovement]

New Video: JOVM Mainstay Robert Finley Shares Slow-Burning Ballad "Nobody Wants To Be Lonely"

New Video: JOVM Mainstay Robert Finley Shares Slow-Burning Ballad "Nobody Wants To Be Lonely" @therobertfinley @easyeyesound @Bigfeatpr @danauerbach

69 year-old Winnsboro, LA-born, Bernice, LA-based singer/songwriter and JOVM mainstay Robert Finley‘s highly-anticipated fourth album, Black Bayou is slated for an October 27, 2023 release through Easy Eye Sound. Black Bayou sees the JOVM mainstay continuing his wildly successful collaboration with Dan Auerbach. Much like its immediate predecessor, the new album’s material is a deeply personal…

[jacke-12]

The End of the World (1962) - Skeeter Davis

Genre: Nashville sound

Peak position on US Billboard Hot 100: 2

Skeeter Davis was a country singer who crossed over into pop to sing this hit song. It is another song that leans hard into melodrama and cheesiness, even featuring an oh-so-sad spoken word section as these sort of songs often do. I do love it though; it is a beautiful song.

Much like "A Teenager In Love" by Dion and the Belmonts which I have reviewed, this is a song that works because you believe the emotion of the lyrics, as over the top as they are. Sure, it is fun to laugh at breakup songs like this, but often the emotions they depict are a bit silly from the perspective of someone not experiencing them. If I was feeling lovesick I know that this song would feel really powerful to me - the realisation that the whole world carries on around you after your life seems to have ended is a particularly hard one (I believe that The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows calls this realisation that you are not the main character in everyone's life "sonder"?). So many of these early pop songs require an Oscar-worthy acting performance to make them believable though, and Skeeter Davis absolutely succeeds here.

She has a gorgeous, smooth voice, with a noticeable country twang that I think makes it easier to connect with the singing - accents often serve as reminders of the real human behind the vocals. Her voice is carried on this luscious bed of melancholic strings and piano - its all very grand and huge, but its like she's all alone in a big, elaborate mansion looking wistfully out the window into the rain, the richness around her providing no comfort.

I would absolutely understand someone finding this an insufferably dreary song, since it is entirely humourless and it really wants to emphasise the misery, but it just works for me. I think there is definitely an element of irony in my enjoyment of it - definitely in the very dated spoken word section - but I stand by this being a genuinely evocative and moving piece of music.

[comphy-and-cozy]

One Night Standards - Anthony Beauvillier

Pairing: Anthony Beauvillier x fem!OC

Summary: Country music sensation and Nashville sweetheart Harper Mitchell just got out of a very public, very messy breakup. She doesn't want a relationship, and, fortunately for her, Anthony Beauvillier won't be around long enough to start one. All of the makings of a perfect arrangement... right?

Word Count: 9K

Author’s Note: My first ever Beau fic!! Written for @offside-the-lines for @wyattjohnston's Summer Fic Exchange! Rox, I had a blast creating this universe for you and hope that you enjoy! S/O to Demi and @smileysvech for the plot help and being ever-helpful sounding boards.

Warnings: Alcohol use/mention, cheating themes, implied smut, friends-with-benefit relationship.

NHL Masterlist | Moodboard

AMERICA’S SWEETHEARTS NO MORE: ‘MICHARDS’ SPLIT!

Sources close to country music star Harper Mitchell confirm that she has split from her boyfriend, Joey Richards of 3 years amid leaked photos of him with another woman. The Daydreamin’ in Denim singer, 27, has declined for comment. 

Harper blows a puff of air out of her lips, swiping out of Twitter. Absently, her hand moves to toy with her necklace—the one Joey had bought her to celebrate her song going Platinum. There’s a brief moment as she realizes it’s not there anymore, that she gave it to a friend of a friend so she could get it out of her house. 

It’s a simple action, miniscule in the grand scheme of her life or even her day, but it strikes her hard all the same. Within moments, her eyes are lining with tears, the all-too-familiar lump sitting heavy in her throat. She lets a tear fall before exhaling slowly. “God dammit, Joey.”

The sharp ring of her phone jolts her out of her thoughts, her agent’s name flashing across the screen beside a star emoji. When she answers, she’s greeted by a laundry list of upcoming meetings, interviews, and appearances; Harper bites back the urge to ask when she’s going to get a break.

“Don’t forget you have Erin Alvey’s album release party tomorrow night,” Candice is saying. Harper can hear the jingling of her keys as the engine turns over on the other end of the phone. “Dress code is Denim & Diamonds. I sent you a few outfit ideas and a screenshot of the details again.”

“Got it,” Harper hums, mind briefly flitting to the denim corset she has hanging in her closet. She makes a mental note to pull out a few options, even though the thought of going out in public and having to socialize makes her itch. “Will—will he be there?”

Candice pauses, and a soft almost motherly tone takes over. “No, Har. He won’t.”

Harper nods to herself, humming to let Candice know she heard. Candice continues, “There will be some press there, though. Make sure to practice up on your statements, okay? They should be focused on Erin’s album, but you know they’re looking for a reaction out of you.”

“Right,” she replies, the voice inside her head reminding her to give that man nothing. 

After reviewing a few more upcoming to do’s, Candice bids her goodbye, and once again, Harper is left alone in silence. She practices her brave face, taking a deep breath before heading to the closet to plan out her outfit; she’ll be damned if she doesn’t show up to the party hotter than ever, with no outward sign of any distress. 

———

When Filip Forsberg sent the team group chat an invitation to his wife’s album release party, Anthony had accepted quickly. Initially, he was eager to seize the opportunity to bond with some of his new teammates, but now that it’s the day of, it’s the last thing he wants to do. Still, he forces himself to pull a shirt out of one of his suitcases, tossing it in the dryer to iron out some of the wrinkles after being haphazardly chucked inside following his third trade call in two years. 

Another trade, another team, with new teammates, new facilities, new plays. At this point, he’s starting to consider himself an expert in getting traded. On one hand, he’s appreciated the opportunity to explore multiple new cities while he’s young and single. On the other, he’s noticed that he’s growing jaded, hesitant—unwilling, even, to grow attached to anything or anyone on his new team, because if he’s learned anything over the last few years, it’s that all of it is temporary. 

Anthony allows himself to mope a little bit, but it’s a text from Dante confirming that he’s going to pick him up in an hour that gives him the motivation to get his head back in the game and hop in the shower. He takes care to get himself ready; maybe, if he puts the effort in, the sting of the trade will dull. Maybe he’ll find a pretty girl to get lost in for a night. 

By the time he’s getting into Dante’s car, he’s feeling much more confident and social—the getting-ready gin and tonic he had certainly helped. He’s grateful for Barzy, even states away, for introducing him to Dante a few summers ago; the familiar face has made things a little less lonely since arriving in Nashville. 

The party is a few miles outside of the downtown area, giving Dante the chance to provide Anthony with a quick rundown of the dynamics of the team and what to expect. They joke around, make some idle chit chat, laugh about a few stupid memes. When they arrive twenty minutes later, Anthony steps out of the car with a little extra swagger in his step.

Inside, he and Dante quickly find a few of the other Predators in the corner of the room, munching on some hors d’oeuvres. They settle in, chattering about what celebrities they might see at the event. Anthony’s eyes roam, absorbing the elaborate decor, before his eyes land on a familiar face.

“Oh my God, that’s Harper Mitchell,” he whispers. “I’ve had a crush on her for years.”

Ryan raises his eyebrow, then grins at Anthony. “Really? A Frenchman like you?”

“You forget who my friends were in New York. All kinds of country boys over there,” Anthony replies, his mind flashing briefly to the country music Mat would blast in the car on the way to and from the rink. “Barzy’s gonna die when I tell him she was here.”

The group mingles, Filip eventually making his way over to greet his teammates. Anthony does his best to be conversational, staying engaged, but he can’t help but glance across the room in search of long, dark curls and skin-tight jeans. He makes a mental note to text Barzy and tell her how much hotter she looks in person. 

Dante elbows Anthony, who is conveniently mid-sip of his drink. “Dude, she’s coming over. Buck up, Romeo.”

Across the room, Harper steels herself, finding comfort in the familiar brown eyes of her longtime friend’s husband, flanked by a posse of who she presumes are teammates. Outside of attending a few games with Erin, she knows next to nothing about hockey, but she’s always been surprised at how good looking Fil’s teammates are.

“Great to see you Fil,” she says, plastering her practiced smile on her face.

“You doing okay?” he whispers into her ear as he leans in for a hug. 

The tightness in her throat returns, the heavy lump sitting firmly. Harper swallows thickly, blinking quickly to rid her eyes of the tears that threaten to bubble over. “Yep. All good.”

If Filip sees through the weak lie, he doesn’t say anything, only pulls away and gestures to the group of guys behind him, standing awkwardly as they glance around. “You remember Dante and Ryan.”

“Of course,” she nods, offering each of them a smile. Her eyes connect with Ryan. “Great goal the other night.”

“And this is Beau—Anthony Beauvillier—he’s the new guy.”

“Nice to meet you.” Harper’s eyes lock with two cerulean ones. They’re kind, warm—comforting.  “Welcome to Nashville.”

“D’you live in Abberly Foundry?” he blurts it out before he has a chance to stop himself. 

Dante sputters out a laugh. “Dude, come on. You can’t just ask her where she lives.”

Anthony blushes, looking at Harper bashfully. “N-no, I’m sorry it came out that way. I mean, I live there too. I think I’ve seen you in the lobby a few times.”

“Hopefully you haven’t seen me after a show; usually those looks are a little rough,” Harper says with a smile.

He doesn’t have the balls to tell her she looks beautiful every time he’s seen her, so he just laughs it off instead. She turns her attention toward Ryan to ask about his kids, relieving Anthony of the pressure of having to carry on the conversation; instead, he takes a breath, a long swig of his drink, and slips himself into chatter with Dante. 

Even after she walks away to brush elbows with the other Nashville starlets, blue eyes follow Harper for the rest of the night.

———

She bumps into those same blue eyes in the elevator the next day, and Anthony offers to help carry her groceries to her apartment. Fortunately for his nerves, Harper is trained in small talk, asking him about how he’s liking the city and what he’s explored so far. He feels a little lame that the answer is virtually nothing outside of a handful of restaurants and bars. 

Once he’s inside her apartment—a slightly elevated version of his own—Anthony feels like he doesn’t belong there. His eyes dart around, taking in the decor: the little blue bowl by the counter for her keys, the flowers on the coffee table, the framed Sopranos picture next to her fridge.

“Tony’s my dad,” she explains when she notices Anthony amusedly chuckling at it. 

“Good dad to have,” he comments, setting the grocery bags in his arms down onto the counter. He stands awkwardly, not sure if he should leave or offer to help. 

“Are you a Sopranos fan, too?”

“Of course,” he grins, then puts on his best Italian accent. “What, no fuckin’ ziti?”

Harper’s laugh is loud, and Anthony feels a surge of pride in his chest that he made the Harper Mitchell laugh. “Finally, a man with taste.”

“I have a hard time sleeping after games sometimes,” he explains, helping her to empty her bags, “so I’ve made my way through a lot of shows.”

Her eyes narrow as she begins to put the groceries in their respective homes. The conversation flows naturally to her, comfortable with forcing all kinds of chatter at shows and appearances. “What’s your favorite that you watched recently?”

“The Jinx for sure,” he says. “It’s one of the craziest I’ve ever seen.”

Harper’s jaw drops, and at first, Anthony is afraid he said something wrong. But then her face lights up, and her eyes grow excited. “Oh my god – the hot mic footage!?”

Anthony shakes his head in disbelief, nodding in agreement. “I know. That was a wild way to end it. And to make people wait almost 10 years for another season!?”

“I won’t lie, I’ve been in a huge Bob Durst hyperfixation lately,” she laughs, excited that someone understands her niche interest. “I’ve been listening to the podcast, too.”

Anthony leaves an hour and a half later after a full-blown discussion about Robert Durst and The Jinx, along with her number stored securely in his phone and an open invitation to come over the next time he can’t sleep (“I have a lot of late nights, too,” she’d said). The next day, he sends her a Sopranos meme, not knowing it’s the catalyst that will change the rest of his life. 

From there, a flip switches. Just like that, Harper can barely remember what life was like before Anthony arrived—and Anthony can’t fathom a Nashville without Harper. They start spending much of their free time together, which, while limited, is made much more convenient due to the fact that the commute is only a short elevator ride up four floors. The days in between are filled with text messages and voice memos, usually random thoughts sprinkled in with a recap of some movie she’d recommended or silly updates on the road.

Anthony finds himself looking for her name on his phone when he leaves the gym, keeping mental notes of her schedule to know when he should clear his own to make time for her. He brushes off teasing from his teammates, razzing him for being a lovesick fanboy. 

From the start, despite both Forsbergs digging on multiple occasions for more information, Harper never could quite put a label on the relationship she and Anthony had. She’d clocked the way his eyes flicked down to the curve of her breast, yet she also was keenly aware of the many opportunities he’d had to make a move and never had. He was cute, but she wasn’t interested in pursuing anything farther—not after Joey. She needed time to heal, to recover, to grow on her own. She’d focus on her career, write an album telling her story. And then she’d find someone.

If she was lucky, maybe Anthony would be waiting there at the end of it all.

———

It’s a few weeks into their newfound routine when Harper declines a request to hang out, informing Anthony that she’s having a girl’s night out at the bars to “celebrate her freedom”. 

While disappointed, Anthony is equally eager to have a night to himself to relax. It’s been a whirlwind few weeks adjusting to his new team, new routine, new friends. He gets takeout—Harper’s favorite Italian place just down the block—and, after calling his mom, he fires up the Playstation to lose himself in a game for a while.

A few hours later, he sets down his controller, stretching his legs out with a groan. He glances at the clock on the microwave, his mind briefly flitting to Harper, hoping that she’s drinking and dancing Joey out of her system. It feels a bit strange, he thinks, to be home on a night off and not be with her, but he knows that a night out on the town is therapeutic in a way he could never provide. 

Then, his mind starts to wander, thinking back on the times he’s heard people say that catch phrase, The best way to get over someone is to get under somebody else, and he can feel his skin crawl at the thought. His blood simmers low in his stomach, the ugly head of jealousy roaring as he pushes away the images floating into his head. 

Of course he’s attracted to Harper—who wouldn’t be? Long, dark hair, her big, brown eyes, a body that’s more fitting for a supermodel than a musical artist; she has it all, and a bubbly, quick wit that would make anyone fall in love with her. 

Not that he’s in love with her. Or even has feelings for her. They barely know each other—that would be crazy. Never mind the fact that she’s the only girl he’s really spoken to since he got to Nashville. Hell, he hasn’t even thought about opening the apps to find a girl, even though he’s sure he could pick one up with ease. 

He blames it on the season, on the craziness of yet another trade, of prepping for the playoffs. A nagging feeling inside of him knows that’s not entirely it, like part of him is whispering to himself, She’s right there, idiot.

But there's no way a girl like that could ever be interested in him—a measley, dumb jock who hasn’t had a home since New York. Harper Mitchell is far too intelligent, successful, and driven to ever give him a second glance. He doesn’t even have the money factor to give him an edge over who he presumes are his potential competitors. 

So, friendly neighbors it is.

He wrestles down the thought as he climbs into bed, though his mind is clouded with thoughts of Harper as he falls asleep.

Anthony blinks awake, taking a few moments to acclimate himself. A quick check confirms he’s in bed and it’s late—only the low light of the moon shines behind the drawn curtains. As consciousness begins to seep back in, he realizes that it’s a disjointed knocking at the door that woke him.

A glance at the clock—2:48am—has a confused grunt emerging from his throat before he’s begrudgingly dragging himself out of bed. Slipping on the pair of sweatpants he’d left in a pile on the floor, Anthony blinks more sleep out of his eyes, navigating his way to the front door.

“Harper?”

“Anthony!” she squeals, launching herself forward. Strong arms are there to catch her, leather skirt and all. “I missed you.”

He stifles a laugh, stumbling back inside his apartment and hoping she didn’t wake any of his neighbors. “Harper, did you just get home?”

It’s only when he pulls away that he notes the large brown paper bag clutched in her hand: McDonald’s. Judging by the large Diet Coke and heavenly scent of fresh fries, along with the glassiness of Harper’s eyes, Anthony deduces in short order that it’s a drunk meal. 

“Dave took me to Mickey’s,” she explains.

“Dave?”

“M’Uber driver,” Harper slurs, tugging open the brown bag and fishing out a box of chicken nuggets.

Anthony stifles a chuckle watching her dunk an entire nugget into the honey mustard sauce packet. He also realizes how little he’s clothed—he hadn’t thrown a shirt on in his sleepy march to the door. 

Pulled out of his thoughts, Anthony realizes that Harper’s chewing has slowed and that she’s unabashedly staring at his exposed torso. He watches her eyes trail along the lines of his muscle, dipping lower until the view is obscured by the thick hem of his sweatpants.

“You’re hot,” she says, bluntly. Anthony’s laugh quirks up the side of his mouth.

He figures he doesn’t have much to lose, so he says, “So are you.”

Harper flips her hair. “Do you think so?”

“I think you’re beautiful.”

In response, she dunks another nugget into the sauce. “You’re sweet.”

Anthony opens his mouth to reply when Harper’s face contorts. Her eyes widen, and she chucks the nugget out of her hand while darting into the bathroom. The door shuts behind her and he winces when he hears the muffled sound of retching.

After laughing to himself, watching the smallest hope of earning a kiss from Harper Mitchell’s pretty lips drift away, he debates whether he should offer to hold her hair back. Ultimately, he opts to pour a big glass of water, grab the Advil bottle, and find a t-shirt in his dresser drawer.

He knocks softly on the bathroom door, helping her up and leading her back to his bedroom after cleaning her up. Not exactly the way he’d envisioned Harper in his bed, but he supposes beggars can’t be choosers.

It takes a bit of wrangling and no shortage of discomfort on Anthony’s end to get Harper changed into his t-shirt, into bed, and to consume both the Advil and some of the water he poured. By the time he returns from brushing his teeth, she’s out like a light, and Anthony smiles to himself as he slides in next to her.

While it wasn’t what he had in mind initially, Anthony feels her warmth beside him and listens to the steady sound of her breathing. As he drifts off to sleep, he thinks to himself that he doesn’t mind one bit. 

———

Harper’s head pounds as soon as she opens her eyes. It takes a moment to register that she has no idea where she is, the bed and walls and curtains all unfamiliar. The space beside her in the bed is warm, but there’s nobody there. Where the fuck is she?

She racks her brain, only snippets of last night flickering into her memory. One thing she does remember are soft, blue eyes and a familiar laugh.

Anthony.

After checking herself to confirm she is, in fact, clothed, Harper sits up, almost forgetting about the splitting headache that’s threatening to ruin her day before it even begins. Massaging her temples, she groans.

“That good, huh?”

The voice startles her, and Harper glances up to see Anthony walking toward her, a steaming mug in his hand that he offers her as he approaches. He opens his palm to reveal two pills, which she accepts gratefully along with the coffee. “Thanks. How… why am I here?”

Anthony laughs. “Oh, you remember nothing, huh?”

“Oh god, what did I do?”

He fills her in on the details, from the mess of honey mustard to wrestling a t-shirt over her head to get her into bed. He does, however, decide to keep her drunken confession of attraction to him to himself. No need to divulge that yet.

“Did we… ?” Her voice is different, hesitant, and Anthony makes a mental note of it. He shakes his head, and the relief on her face nearly makes his heart crack. 

Harper laughs uncomfortably, the tension between them suddenly thick with the knowledge that both of them are thinking about the exact same thing: she doesn’t care to admit that the thought has crossed her mind prior to right now. She rubs her face with her hands with a groan. “I’m sorry. This is so embarrassing.”

Anthony waves a hand to brush it off as he says, “It’s nothing. You were… charming.” 

Her face contorts into an exaggerated expression of worry. “That sounds horrific. I don’t want to know.”

Harper lugs herself out of bed not long after, once the deep throb inside her skull subsides just slightly—though she’s not confident she’ll make it up the elevator without vomiting. Anthony doesn’t show any sign of discomfort from the social mishap from earlier, offering her an old pair of slides so she doesn’t have to make the trip back to her apartment in her heels. “For your walk of shame.”

She snorts, accepting them gratefully. “Does it count as a walk of shame if we didn’t even sleep together?”

“Well, technically we did sleep together,” Anthony says with a shoulder bump, enjoying the way her cheeks flush when he says it. 

“And now I’m leaving,” she says with another laugh, pulling open the door. “Goodbye, Anthony.”

———

Following their pseudo one night stand, Harper is grateful for a 2-day road trip that forces an extra few days to let her embarrassment settle. Even after multiple profuse apologies, she still feels mortified, but Anthony doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, he texts her after landing home to confirm their plans for “Nashville Day”, as Harper had dubbed it—a day, she had said, to show him some of the classics of Music City.

After practice, she meets him eagerly to take him to purchase his very first Nashville cowboy hat, which she makes him wear as she treats him to his first ever Nashville hot chicken sandwich (Anthony tries to blink away the tears in his eyes while simultaneously being incredibly impressed at the ease with which Harper puts away once of the spiciest things he’s ever eaten in his life). 

Following a quick ice cream detour—Harper doesn’t tell him that she thinks the ice cream will help his burning tongue—the third part of Nashville Day begins: a bar crawl to an assortment of classic Nashville bars, including the bar she’d first started performing at. 

“You ever been line dancing?” she asks, guiding him through the crowd on the sidewalk. The city is bustling, per usual, but Anthony doesn’t notice anyone except Harper and her floral wide-leg jeans.

“I’m from Quebec,” he laughs. “What do you think?”

Harper grins. “Great. Come with me.”

Anthony steels himself as he follows her between two wooden doors. It’s dimly lit, with low lighting shining on the worn, wooden floor–from years worth of dancing. Harper smiles.

“Can you do the Cupid Shuffle?”

“Uh… kind of?”

“It’s like that, just with more country music.”

Putting on a brave face, he nods with far more confidence than he feels. Harper finds two barstools—to let him ‘observe’ first before diving in himself. What Harper doesn’t notice, though, is that Anthony spends more time watching her smile and bounce her knee with the beat.

A small crowd gathers and he’s immediately overwhelmed by the synchronized shuffling, stomping, and tapping, but he tries to study the movements carefully. A few songs pass but he’s nowhere near feeling confident enough to go out on his own—in fact, he’d be quite content sitting on the sidelines for the rest of the night, but of course, Harper has other plans. 

“Come on, this is my favorite one!” she squeals, seizing Anthony’s hand and dragging him out into the crowd before he has a chance to protest. Harper selects a spot on the edge of the line, positioning him beside her and jumping right into the moves. Anthony moves partially into panic mode, eyes darting around at the patrons around him moving perfectly in sync. His feet cross over themselves, awkward and out of place, and Harper laughs, exaggerating her movements to try and help him out. 

“Stomp, stomp, back, back,” she guides him, taking his hand again to turn him when the group shuffles and changes direction. 

Anthony’s got two left feet, but he manages to get a decent enough hold on the moves, following the beat—albeit a bit clumsily. Harper admires his commitment, watching the way his brows knit together in concentration.

Eventually, he gets the hang of it… sort of. Still, he’s relieved when Harper exits the dance floor, nursing his bruised ego while they make their way to get another drink.

“You did good out there for your first time,” she says encouragingly. 

Anthony scoffs, biting back a laugh. “Yeah, right.”

“I’ve seen worse,” she replies with a wink. Her eyes trail over to the mechanical bull on the other side of the room, the crowd around it growing. “You want to scratch another first off your list tonight?”

Blue eyes follow her line of sight, widening when they register what she’s referring to. He’s shaking his head before he can get the words out. “Not a chance.”

“You’re scared,” she says teasingly, sticking her tongue out. “I get it. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

The crowd cheers as she hauls herself up on the saddle. Anthony ignores the pulse below his belt at the image of her legs straddling the bull, but he can’t help the throb watching the way her hips loosen and roll with the movements of the bull. It’s not his fault his brain decided to conjure the image of her doing the exact same thing on top of him.

Fortunately for him, he’s adjusted himself and she doesn’t seem to notice the half-hard erection when she rejoins him after getting knocked off—after an impressive 18 seconds.

“I’m really glad I didn’t try to compete with you,” he says, handing back her drink that she’d left with him for safe keeping. “I’d probably end up on IR and get yelled at by my coaches.”

Harper laughs. “I’ll accept that as an excuse. But after your season is done, you’re getting on that bull.”

“Aye aye,” he says with a salute. 

The pair fall silent for a few moments, distracted by the next patron getting flung off the bull in an aggressive 3-second ride. 

“Why don’t you have a girl, Anthony?” The question comes from out of nowhere.

“What do you mean?”

She takes another sip. “You’re handsome, you’re successful, you’re an athlete, you’re funny. What girl wouldn’t want you?”

Anthony’s heart starts to pound in his chest, his breathing quickening. Keep it cool, man. He shrugs with a nervous chuckle, faffing some string of “yeah, I just–just not really into that right now, while I’m young, you know?”

Harper observes him for a moment, lost in thought as she swirls the lime in her Corona. Anthony lets the moment sit, returning her gaze with a cool and patient smile, his eyes bonded to hers. 

When she speaks, Anthony’s expression falters at first. “The good thing about Joey was that he understood the schedule. So much hopping. Meetings, promos, shows, events. My career isn’t going to be second place to a relationship, so better to date someone who understands that lifestyle.”

Anthony nods, following along. He can practically see the flight path of this conversation, wrestling with the slight increase in his pulse as it plays out in front of him.

“‘Course, maybe that didn’t help, either,” she says with a laugh. 

It’s Anthony’s turn to leave a long silence, contemplating her curiously. He weighs the words on his tongue, toying around with them before speaking them out loud. “Sounds like you need a friends-with-benefits.”

Harper considers. Friends with benefits gives the company of a partner, but without the attachment. At least, in theory. 

“Everyone knows friends with benefits doesn’t work,” she retorts. “Someone always falls for the other.”

“Not if one of them is leaving Nashville this summer.”

Her eyebrows raise. The offer, no longer subtle, is hanging out in the open on the bar lined with scuff marks and water rings from damp bottles. 

“You sure you want to be saying that?” An invisible line in the sand, officially crossed.

A smile graces Anthony’s lips, which he then wets with another swig of his beer. “Most girls only want to date me for the celebrity—to say they’re fucking an NHL player.”

The rest of his sentence doesn’t make it out, but it’s obvious what comes next. But not you.

Because Harper gets it. She’s a celebrity herself, has even more fame and accolades than Anthony, is comfortable with the public eye and everything that comes with having a blue checkmark next to her name. There’s no need to skirt over the clout-chasing and wallet-grabbing insecurities.

Plus, they’re neighbors. Convenient for short notice booty calls—and easy to go to bed alone. The sporadic travel schedules are mutual, as are late nights, early mornings, and quick nights at home. And with Anthony’s future up in the air, it practically guaranteed a clean split at the end of it all.

“Is that all?”

Anthony nudges his empty bottle toward the edge of the bar, leaning in closer toward Harper as he does so. The sweet scent of her perfume invades his senses when he brings his lips closer to her ear before whispering, “I really, really want to fuck you.”

She feels a low pulse in her gut at his words, then downs the rest of her beer. No longer able to deny her burgeoning attraction to him, she shrugs. “Alright. Show me what you got then, Tito.”

Anthony grins at the nickname, sitting back and offering his hand. Harper accepts it, and soon enough, they’re climbing into the backseat of an Uber.

They end up at Harper’s, and Anthony doesn’t demonstrate patience when he kisses her as soon as the door closes. His tongue is practiced, and Harper gets the distinct sense that he’s been waiting for this for a while. His hands card through her hair, holding her close like he can’t bear to part with her. 

“If we’re going to do this—” she begins, wrestling his shirt over his head, pausing for a moment to admire the god-like physique underneath his clothes. She’s never seen it sober, and she wants to enjoy it. Her eyes trailed over the deep cut of his muscles, words stuck in her throat as she gapes at the sight in front of her. 

Anthony’s lips curl up, amused by the way he appears to have rendered her—the bubbly, famously charismatic Harper Mitchell—speechless. His hands are steady pressed against her sides, hot on her skin. He brings her attention away from his body when he asks cheekily, “Do what?”

“I’m serious, Anthony,” she says, more sternly after she wrenches herself away from his tempting lips. “If we’re going to do—this—that’s all it is. I’m not doing the whole ‘Oops I fell in love with you’ shtick, and I need you to be okay with that. Okay?”

The subtle twitch of his jaw is the only sign of any hesitation; a beat passes, and he nods so smoothly that Harper is almost surprised. He doesn’t give her much time to dwell on it, though, when he presses forward to capture her lips again, leaning her against the wall.

“Whatever you say,” he breathes. 

There isn’t much talking from there, save for the sound of lips on skin, soft moans, and the rustle of sheets. Anthony’s body slots against hers, skin hot as he moves slowly, deeply. Harper’s fingers press into the dips of his biceps, pleasure radiating.

When they lie beside each other panting later, Harper turns to face him. The best way to describe the way he’s feeling is shock at how explosive, how other worldly it was to be with her. He’ll come to grips with the fact that he actually slept with the country singer he’s had a crush on for years later.

Anthony feels her eyes on him and he lets his hand rest on her side. Her voice is soft when she asks, “What are you thinking about?” 

“How this has got to be in the top five greatest decisions of my life.”

“Only top five?” She nudges his leg teasingly. 

“I’ll re-evaluate after next time.”

It doesn’t take long for their already practiced routine to become ritual: during periods they’re both home, one rarely spends an evening alone. Sometimes she’ll bring takeout, sometimes he’ll cook and they’ll watch a hockey game or a movie, and sometimes they go straight into the bedroom—particularly after a few extra days apart.

For once, the ‘friends with benefits’ thing works. Things are easy between them, casual, and the base they’d already established for their relationship makes things smooth. Harper’s having fun, and, for the first time since she saw those videos of Joey, she feels happy. 

And Anthony? He doesn’t tell her, but he secretly wonders if their arrangement is actually the best decision he’s ever made. 

———

The room is quiet, save for the slowing heavy breathing. Harper’s legs feel like jelly and the space between her thighs tingles with a warm radiance that only Anthony can bring. 

“What happened with Joey?” 

Harper casts him a sideways glance, sheet rustling with the movement. Moonlight streams in through the half-parted curtains of Anthony’s bedroom. It’s always funny to see the same view that she has from her own apartment, but in an entirely different space. “I don’t want to do pillow talk, Anthony.”

He pauses for a moment, smiling to himself. “Okay,” he says, slipping out from underneath the sheet; Harper’s eyes instinctively move to the generous, shapely curve of his ass. The cool, purple light of the moon illuminates the shape and lines of his back muscles as he leans down to pull on his boxers, then his sweatpants, then his Alo t-shirt. Strolling out of the open bedroom door, Harper hears his feet padding down the hallway rug, followed by the sound of a cabinet, a clink of glass, and finally, the sound of a cup being filled with liquid. 

Moments later, Anthony saunters back into the room, climbing back onto the bed. He hands her a stemless glass of wine, then grabs the remote from the bedside table and clicks on the television mounted across the room.

“Now it’s just two friends hanging out.”

Harper can’t help the short, exhaled laugh that slips out despite the impact of the message. She blinks, letting her eyes flick down to the glass. The red wine sloshes inside, its tart scent drifting into her nose. She takes a sip.

“I thought we were happy,” she says after a while. Her voice is quiet, reflective, shaking just the slightest bit. Anthony sits patiently and listens. “We were talking about moving in together.”

The glow from the television lights up the side of Harper’s face, cast down as she tells her story. Anthony watches her, his heart lurching at the expression on her face. But he needs to know. Needs to know what he’s working with, what his barrier to being with her—really being with her—looks like. 

“He checked in at night when we were apart, FaceTimes a lot of the time too, so it honestly wasn’t anywhere on my radar; I genuinely had no idea he was sneaking around.. I thought the pictures were photoshopped—just something someone was making up on the internet for drama.” She pauses. “But then I saw the videos.”

Anthony’s mouth falls open. “There were videos?”

“Multiple,” she says, a soft, sad smile on her face as she glances over to him. His heart fractures.

“I’m sorry,” he says dumbly. “That’s awful. What did you do?”

“I’m not sure what it was like in Chicago, but it blew up here. There was no way he didn’t know that I knew. So I packed up his shit, left it on the porch of his house, and that was it. I didn’t give him the chance to explain himself or apologize.”

Shit. “Still… that’s a lot to have to deal with. You need closure.”

“I deserve better than that,” Harper says matter-of-factly. “And anyone who isn’t going to give me that doesn’t deserve my time. No closure necessary.”

Anthony nods, struck with the sheer force of her strong persona. He hesitates, the words sitting in his mouth for a few moments as he debates if he should speak them out. But he can’t miss the opportunity—not when this is the closest he’s come to uncovering the truth. “Is that why you won’t do a relationship?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Not every partner you have is going to be like that, you know,” he offers. 

Harper shakes her head, taking a sip of the wine. “I’m not ready to take that risk yet.”

———

It isn’t until the end of April that Harper realizes the enormous space Anthony had carved out for himself in her life. She’s sitting on his mattress, legs crossed with an oversized Islanders sweatshirt on, playing him a portion of a demo she’d recorded earlier that day. His suitcase is out, and he’s in the process of packing for an extended trip to Vancouver—at least, longer than he’d been away since they started spending time together.

“A whole week?” she pouted.

“It’s only five days,” he laughs, folding a hoodie and placing it into the bag. He glances at her, liking the sight of her on his bed and in his clothes. The sleeves of the blue sweatshirt are baggy, rolled over her wrists, and the hem at the bottom swims over her thighs. Then he adds, “You look good in that.”

“I look good in everything,” she says with a cheeky wink.

“You do,” he agrees. “And nothing, too.”

A pulse awakens between Harper’s thighs at the heat in his eyes when he says it, gone with a blink when he returns to the closet to pull out more clothes.

“I don’t know how to be here alone anymore!” she whines.

Anthony snorts before tossing a few pairs of rolled up socks into his bag. “Are you sure it’s not just because you start to get cranky when you go a few days without dick?”

Scoffing, Harper rolls her eyes. “I can get plenty of dick, if I want it. I don’t need you for that.”

If her sharp words hurt him, he doesn’t show it, instead sending a smirk in her direction. He zips up his suitcase, setting it on the floor before turning back to her. Blue eyes lock with hers as he slides a knee onto the mattress, then the other, slinking his way toward her until his legs are straddling hers, his lips mere inches from her own. Harper feels a flutter in her heart that mimics the one between her legs, heat flooding through her at the proximity of his body. “You don’t need me, but you sure do want me.”

Just like that, she’s putty beneath him, melting as soon as his plush lips press against hers. Heat radiates through her system as the kiss intensifies, allowing his tongue to slip into her mouth. Anthony’s fingers lace with hers and pin her hands against the mattress, bracketing her face with his arms.

Abruptly, he pulls away from her, his cheeks flushed. Another smug smile curls up on his face, observing the hitch in her throat and the glassiness of her eyes. 

“You sure you can get that somewhere else?”

———

Eliminated in the first round, the Predators’ playoff run isn’t nearly as deep as Anthony hoped it’d be. Not just for the obvious—chasing his dream of winning the Stanley Cup, but because the end of the season means his inevitable departure from Nashville, and, ultimately, Harper. 

As disappointing as the loss is, hearing the deafening silence of Predators fans at Bridgestone Arena, he’s grateful for the lack of travel home afterwards. He feels strange packing up his things after the game, seeing the disappointment and frustration running deep in the locker room, not knowing if he’ll be back in this place come October to help them take another run at it.

Harper arrives to his apartment not long after he does, wordlessly joining him in the shower he stepped into. Their bodies blend into one under the warm water, cascading over their joined form as she allows Anthony to work out his conflicting feelings in the comfort of her arms. It’s quiet, sensual; his lips seek out peace by marking up the smooth skin of her neck and collarbones while he presses his hips into hers, following a steady and slow rhythm until they’re both reaching their climax in the steam-filled room.

She stays over that night, a rare but not unheard of occurrence as their relationship has progressed. After another round of silent, sinful therapy, Anthony is plagued by his typical post-game insomnia, heightened by the disappointment of his loss and the uncertainty of his future. He watches Harper sleep, soaking in each breath, the rise and fall of her chest, the glow of her skin underneath the moonlight. Her air-dried hair is wavy, a little bit of frizz, and even in the dark, the sparse freckles on her nose stand out against her tawny skin.

It’s almost 2:30am by the time he realizes he’s been gazing at her for over an hour. He’s a little bit embarrassed, quickly blinking away even though she’s been dead to the world ever since he made her come for the third time that night. It was too easy to trail his eyes over the lines of her face, the fullness of her lips, drowning out the stressors of the outside world with Harper’s beauty.

His eyes grow heavy, lost in thought, amused at himself for literally watching her sleep. He hadn’t even thought about hockey.

Anthony’s eyes widen. He hadn’t thought about hockey on the last night of his season, with no contract in place for his next, after an abysmal performance in what was supposed to be a promising postseason. Instead, he’s being a lovesick puppy staring at a girl who isn’t his. 

And all at once, it hits him. He’s in love with Harper.

And he’s leaving Nashville. Doesn’t know if he’ll be back. And he promised her he wouldn’t catch feelings. Practically guaranteed it. 

His heart thuds in his chest as the realization sets in. Despite his fear and uncertainty about the enormous wrench it just put into his… well, life, he’s suddenly wondering how long he’d lived with this feeling for Harper and didn’t know it. He’s never been so aware of the beating of his heart in his chest, memorizing the feel of it.

Harper stirs beside him, as if her subconscious has finally realized he’s been staring at her for way too long. He turns his head and closes his eyes, feigning sleep, unsure if she’s awake or just shifting. Sleep closes in on him, not claiming him completely before he feels a gentle press of lips against his sleeping cheek.

———

In the morning, his scent is the first thing that Harper registers, head resting heavily on Anthony’s bicep. His leg is pressed against hers, and a subtle adjustment of her hips confirms that neither of them bothered to put clothes on last night. He’s warm, solid against her body, and the steadiness of his deep breathing is calming. 

She wonders how late he stayed awake. He’d thoroughly exhausted her—the space between her legs aches deliciously when she stretches—and the thought flits through her mind that last night was probably one of the last times she’d be with him for awhile. Maybe ever. 

So she savors it. Instead of leaving the way she always has, the way she knows she should, she snuggles into his warmth, soaking it in one last time.

When Anthony wakes, Harper is practically wrapped around him, nuzzled underneath his chin. His heart hammers in his chest as his revelation from the night before sinks in.

He’s in love with Harper Mitchell. And she’s naked in his bed.

Anthony’s mind rolls, wondering if he should tell her. And if he should, what should he say—and when? He’s running out of time, his time in Nashville slipping away faster than he’s ready to accept. 

By the time Harper wakes, he’s made the executive decision to wait. Not yet. 

She stays for a plate of scrambled eggs and one more round against the counter when a comforting hug gets quickly heated. Anthony stares at the door long after she leaves, words echoing in his head in a hopeless jumble.

It isn’t until the next day when he’s packing up his bedroom and finds a small, Harper-sized sock that he makes the split decision. He sends a quick text letting her know he’s on his way, and her expression is concerned when she answers the door. “Is everything okay?”

“Can I come in?”

She steps aside to let him in the door, following him anxiously into the kitchen where he turns to face her. “I’ve been thinking.”

Her arms cross and an amused expression floats over her face. “Oh yeah?”

“Reflecting,” he corrects. “On my time in Nashville, now that it’s…”

The words trail off, but Harper knows what’s next. Over.

“It’s been short, but I realized I dreaded the end of the season not because of getting eliminated, but because it meant I’d be leaving you.”

The words hang heavy between them. He sighs and speaks again. “You asked me why I don’t have a girl, and the truth is that I didn’t know what I wanted until I woke up with you in my bed.” 

Another beat passes and he waits for the message to hit. Then he confesses, “You’re what I want, Harper.”

“Anthony,” she says, like a warning. He can hear the way her voice trembles, and he can feel the lift in his heart. “Don’t do this.”

He ignores her, ignores the way her body stiffens. If he can just get through to her, she’ll see. He’s sure of it. 

“You said it yourself—you deserve better than how Joey treated you. You know that I can and will treat you better. Exactly how you deserve.”

“You can’t say that.”

“Why not?” he challenges. “I know you feel the same.”

Harper exhales harshly, her hands on her hips. For a second, Anthony is scared of her and the fire in her eyes.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel,” she finally says. Joey flashes through her mind, glimpses of the video of him kissing another girl, of the way it felt like the world had stopped when she saw it. The lump in her throat is heavy, and she shoves away any flitter of hope that burns quietly in her chest. She can’t—cannot—allow that to happen again.

“Does it matter how I feel?”

Harper’s eyes shoot up to Anthony’s, the usual cerulean swimming with a deeper cornflower shade. She can’t place the emotion behind it. Concern? Hurt? Something else?

“I care how you feel,” she says, “but no matter how you feel, it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want that. I can’t do it right now.”

“That’s a crock of shit, and you know it. We’ve basically been dating this entire time.”

Harper shakes her head. “Your definition of dating must be very different from mine.”

“Sleepovers, movie nights, coffee dates, constant texting,” he lists, counting them off on his fingers. “That doesn’t sound like dating to you?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Not fair? What’s not fair is you not even giving me a chance when you know I’m right!”

“You knew that’s all this was!” Harper exclaims, her heartbeat racing. “You agreed to that before any of this started, Anthony.”

Anthony bristles, his jaw clenching. His breath quickens and anger bubbles in the pit of his stomach—he can hear the resistance in her voice. Why won’t she admit she feels the same? He knows she does.

But if she isn’t going to, or doesn’t want to, then there’s no use in trying. And he can’t keep falling harder for her—not if she isn’t going to reciprocate. 

“Then maybe we should quit while we’re ahead.”

Something flashes in Harper’s eyes, so fast he barely catches it before it’s gone and replaced by cold. Her back stiffens and she draws herself up taller. “Maybe we should.”

The silence in the room is heavy and uncomfortable. Anthony and Harper stare at each other, unspoken words swirling in the air between them. There’s so much left to say, so many things left unsaid, but Anthony’s head is too clouded with defeat and frustration.

So, he shrugs, bids an uncomfortable goodbye, and takes his leave of her apartment. Harper stands in silence, wondering how, after all the care she took to protect herself after Joey,  she feels the same ache in her heart as the day he’d left.

———

The next day, Harper has a songwriting session with Zoey, who, fortunately for her, comes prepared with three half-written songs. They’re easier, take a little less brain power, and she’s grateful for a friend who came prepared. Waking up was easy, but remembering her and Anthony’s fight had been tough.

Those three songs turn into a warmup, and three hours later, Harper emerges from a songwriting haze, almost half an album deep. There’s work to do, but she’s pleased with what they came up with, her mind already swimming with other ideas that she’s sure she’ll be recording half-completed voice memos with for the rest of the night. 

She stays to chat with Zoey for a little while, catching up on the latest in each other’s lives and making plans for coffee soon. Harper packs up her things, murmuring a goodbye with her head swimming.

“Who is he?”

Zoey’s voice comes from behind her, and Harper pauses, her keys jingling in her hand. She turns. “Who is who?”

“The guy in those songs.”

“What are you talking about? Zo, it was Joey,” she says.

“Not all of it. There’s someone else in there.”

Anthony’s eyes float through her mind, and although she can lie to Zoey, she can’t lie to herself. 

Harper flies home, rushing up the elevator and pounding on Anthony’s door. She stands impatiently, heart thumping in her chest, listening for the familiar sound of his feet on the tiled floor of the kitchen. 

The sound doesn’t come, though, and Harper waits by the door until a building manager comes by and informs her that the resident of unit 1293 turned in his keys earlier that day. Vaguely aware of offering a short ‘thank you’, Harper returns to her own apartment in shock. 

Anthony is gone.

And she’s only just realized that she’s in love with him.

Twenty four hours later, she’s on a plane. Her heart beats in her throat as she watches it touchdown. Bienvenue a Montreal flashes on the screen outside the jet bridge. Harper finds the address she bribed Filip for in her phone, pulling up her Lyft app. 

Once she’s in the vehicle, she blows out a breath and loses herself in thought. The Montreal skyline comes into view outside the window, and she’s instantly surrounded by everything Anthony. The trees, the buildings, the streets—she wonders how many of them he’s seen, been to. She thinks about going to those places with him.

When the red Nissan pulls up to the house, Harper thanks her driver and steps out. Her hands shake, but she pushes through, clutching the handle of her small duffle bag until she’s knocking at the door.

Anthony’s face is nothing but shock when he opens the door. “Harper?”

“Anthony,” she says, breathless. She’s frozen in place, staring at him, like she forgot what she came there for. His eyes, she notices, are the same shade of cool, cornflowery blue as that day he’d left. It makes her heart ache.

“What are you doing here?” His words pull her out of her thoughts and she briefly wonders how long she’d been staring at him in silence. 

“I couldn’t—I couldn’t let you leave like that. After everything we—I just couldn’t.”

He sighs, stepping outside and closing the door behind him. “You made it clear how you feel, Harper. You didn’t need to come all this way to say it again.”

“No, Anthony,” she says, watching his expression shift when she says it. “I was wrong. I was scared. I am scared.”

“Of what?”

Harper shifts on her feet, the lump in her throat tightening. Anthony’s gaze is firm and unwavering. “Of getting hurt again. Of Joey happening all over again. Of you leaving.”

It clicks for him, then, the worry in her eyes. “I’m not Joey, Harper. I think you know that. I can’t promise that everything will be perfect always, but I’m willing to give it my best shot because I think you’re worth it.”

“What if you decide I’m not worth it anymore?”

Anthony takes her hand in his, stroking the back of it with his thumb. “Harper, you are kind, funny, smart, talented, and beautiful. Anyone who doesn't see that isn’t worth your time anymore. Myself included.”

She doesn’t reply. It’s almost overwhelming, the things he says to her; she sees kind things about her written in articles and posted online, but it sounds entirely different coming from his mouth. He continues, “That’s what I was trying to tell you the other day. You are worth it. And I’d like to prove it to you, if you let me.”

Their eyes meet, bodies unconsciously floating together. Anthony stays quiet, gauging her face for a reaction. The fear is still there, looming over her in a silent and constant threat, but blue eyes pierce through the veil and she focuses hard on them to push the rest away.

Then, she smiles. “Kiss me, you idiot.”

[krispyweiss]

Song Review: Ringo Starr - “Time on My Hands”

After more than a half-century away, Ringo Starr is returning to country music.

“Time on My Hands” announces the Jan. 10, 2025, release of Look Up, Starr’s first full-length foray into the genre since 1970’s Beaucoups of Blues. And with T Bone Burnett behind the board and guest slots from Billy Strings, Molly Tuttle, Alison Krauss, Lucius and Larkin Poe, it has potential.

But the lead single, awash as it is in Nashville Sound strings and steel guitar designed to disguise a pop song, doesn’t bode well. And though Starr didn’t write it - Burnett, co-producer Daniel Tashian and Paul Kennerley did that - “Time on My Hands” is stifled by the simplistic lyrics that plague so much of the former Fab drummer’s music.

I used to have a true love/everything was fine/but now she’s found a new love/she’s no longer mine, Starr sings on the intro.

There are 10 more songs and nine of them have at least one the aforementioned guests on board, so the potential remains. That said, “Time on My Hands” is an inauspicious calling card.

Grade card: Ringo Starr - “Time on My Hands” - C-

10/18/24

[silveredsound]

How you go from harry styles to hockey I will never understand.

I was going to make a little joke, as I do, (would have been v hilarious, best joke ever pls know this) and leave it at that. But like, it's been raining for over 24 hours, it's 2am and it might be good for me to reflect a little.. So sorry anon I am going emote all over your ask (which (the ask) sounds a bit judgey tbh but the written word is NOT a great conveyor of tone so that might be on me.)

On one hand it's just fandom. And, I think it's been pretty clear that as much as I love Henry Stars, I'm not like, a 'Harry is the be all and end all of all music creation and creativity and actions.' I like him for the good and the bad, and I don't leave critical thinking at the door. (Not saying I'm the only person to do this, just that it's hard sometimes in fan spaces and Stans definitely do..)

Which, can make it hard to participate in fandom as a lot of people are not great at irony, or accepting that someone else can say, god damn that is a terrible song - and that it's okay for that to happen. It doesn't mean that the person who expressed the neg opinion is not still a fan of the artist they were speaking about. Same with if the artist you are a fan of does something that gives you the ick.

I def learnt this when Harry went to Google Camp the first time. Like obviously I've been around 1d fandom in some way since 2012 ish I think it was - and it was my own reaction to Harry going to Camp Douchebags the first time that made me go, oh jeez Silv, you are a bit too involved in the parasocial relationship here. Like I was genuinely upset that he'd done something I thought was so dumb and wanky.

Anyway, clearly I still loved - love - him and I celebrated him and spent a fuckload of money on him and engaged in fandom and etc etc. But I just did at that point I think turn a little from heading in a very blinkers on version of fandom to one that's def more me - where you just get to have fun, make fun be creative, make friends! and have a bit of a perv depending on the silk cream vanilla ice cream outfit Harry might be wearing in Nashville.

I like RPF. I mean I like all transformative works and fandom extending and enhancing source material via creation, but I don't have an issue with RPF. I believe in 4th wall. And I clearly have written 1d fic. A lot of my good fandom mates, and real life best friend(s) are people I have met through sharing a love of writing in fandom spaces. Obviously all the best writers in 1d went to Hockey. And I stayed here. And I tried. I wanted to be where my friends where. I had fomo and I was lonely! My fandom had changed in a few ways all around the same time.

But Hockey is very confusing, (for starters as I often say to Angela or Joanna, snow is fake) and nothing clicked for me - it seemed large and I had no idea where to even start and I didn't really try.

But I think the change in some fandom fellow participants, and also anons being mean when they would get even a glimpse in their peripheral that I might have vaguely indicated that Henry did something that I thought was dumb or embarrassing, or just not that good, (it's no fun sharing a thought and feeling chatty about it, and wanting to engage with other people's thoughts if some random is going to anonymously tell you that you are a dumb c*nt and should delete etc etc so I stopped sharing any thoughts at all.) Of course Nick leaving breakfast and then R1 altogether - as well as obviously my whole life narrowing to a point that was just tend Mama- work - tend mama - work - tend mama - sleep - grow a tumour - tend mama left me not so much time for proper joyful engagement.

And then, in Jan/Feb this year, I think as I'd been looking at book reviews and as soon as you search for a book on tik tok they push book tok romance reviews into your feed and I think then that pushed an actual hockey clip (which is a really shite 4th wall issue as is the whole Kraken thing etc) and I can't even remember what it was but I know I then swiped through and watched other videos on the account and like 1d being adorable shites repeating stock answers and sitting on top of each other I was intrigued by what seemed to be very dumb and very entertaining.

But Silv, you cry, what about the emotions! You need emotions! Ah, yes, see, because I am nothing but devoted I had followed Angela and La's hockey blogs, and something La posted grabbed my attention and I followed a link and read an article and I was like. Oh, I want to read more about these kids. So I did. And after a little while I reached out to La and was like, um, I think I get it. And I posted something about the Fantilli Bros and then Max reached out and tbh I don't think anything says it better than my wide eyed enthusiasm reply. (You are probably by now thinking, Silv why is your answer to Max so short, why didn't I just get a paragraph? This is an endless essay with no conclusion or indeed a thesis statement, (that is if you have even made it down to here) & anon I can only apologise.)

I am really enjoying learning so many new things, being welcomed into a new space of connection and joy and silliness and emotional breakdowns. It's been so lovely to meet new people who are so excited to share their niche interest with you and no one minds how many questions I have and everyone searches out Primera and Important Past Instagram Posts from the archives - and of course reconnecting with people who I have always been friends with, fandom changes didn't change that, but it's delightful chatting much more often. The other day Angela and I watched an Avs game together via Tumblr chats, which was delightful, to learn about the team and to talk about random other things, and I've spent my last month of Saturdays watching umich with lovely people who La introduced me to, and having MANY EMOTIONS. (It's like hanging out all posting about a show's fits and one liners and if he's going to sing medicine but it's many pantomime gooseberrys. The performative homoeroticisim, wild hair, jokes, punching (only now during not pre show work outs ) and very goddamn impressive skill and physicality is actually pretty similar). Meghan and I have been able to chat through our very similar horrible experiences with cancer and mums with cancer and it's been so lovely and strengthening to be able to share that experience with a person who beyond gets it, and then also I've been able to announce to her that I want to write a fic about 5 ways Nolan saw god with the UMich Bible Study Group but didn't find faith. which is obviously a completely ridiculous concept but equally worthy of discussion. It's this that I love so much about fandom friendship - you share SO much because you are sharing something that gives you intimate joy, so the relationship always starts from a place of an automatic mutual understanding and empathy - and from there we make it our own.

But also, I really like the game. Like I love watching them play, all of them! It's fast (obviously - and oblig have to say - ice is slippery) and it's hard - and they make it look easy. When one of the special players (they are all special, but one of the ones who play almost with innate ability) makes a pass or a turn sometimes it's almost almost magic, like how the fuck did they see that gap between four players, and did you see how they kept the puck a moment longer so they could release it perfectly into the lane !! Hot.

The game can be all encompassing and it's SO SO SO silly. Like it's the dumbest sport. It's The Show. I'll put on ESPN and stream a match while I'm working during the day (the time difference is perfect for once) and I'm spending time cos I want to, learning the rules and the logistics and business side of it all. And of course, the differences between college hockey and the show. Idk. It just clicked on so many levels for me.

And so, I have no idea why it took me so long to transition from Henry to Hockey, but I am not surprised I did now that I have - it def wasn't something that I was bloody expecting. And Anon I will say this, the last few years of my life have been sad, hard, and tbh shitty. Now, I know what it's like to have fucked years, so I am not saying this to try to be and show off but 2024 feels a bit better. I feel clearer, I have started to lose some weight (15ish kg so far depending on the time of the month) and now I have a meeting w a PT on Tuesday as I actually don't care what I weigh but I want to get stronger and reduce my visceral fat as it will be better for hormones which is better for lessening my cancer reoccurrence %.

God knows it's (2024) not all roses, I literally had surgery again a fortnight ago and the cost of living in Sydney is giving me so much anxiety. I am still a terribly disorganised mess, my work is undergoing a complete restructure (thanks NSW gmnt) and my clean washing is NEVER folded and put away, it's always in the basket - but I feel so happy and entertained and creative - I am writing again! like it's joy. It's ye olde you are who you are at this moment but you are also the 4 year old you and the 15, 27, 34 year old you - girlhood (non gendered concept of not literal interpretation) and I love it. 💛🩵🌱

[rodeoromeo]

Bob Dylan concert review cont. I swear he was doing his pointing thing at one point and I died. He whips his head around to stare pointedly at the band when he’s ready to end a song. the way he flips really aggressively to the next song in his binder on top of the piano is really funny to me. he sits at the piano with his legs pretty close together but then will stand up in the widest stance you’ve ever seen on a man. he really really jams on the keys he may just be playing piano and not guitar but he’s giving it a lot. his voice is very strong and clear! when I paint my masterpiece is such a great song and he sings it the best live of any other song on the set list in my opinion. he clearly really likes key west (philosopher pirate) you can tell by the way he gets into it. hearing him sing stuff like I’ve made up my mind to give myself to you and to be alone with you is really thrilling. he puts so much sultry passion into them I’m sorry but it’s extremely working. to be alone with you sounds way different than on Nashville Skyline and I REALLY like his current adaptation of it. he played harmonica at the very end of the show. when he was finished he stood up and wobbled towards the front of the stage and looked at everyone . then he put his gay ass hand on hip and stepped backwards a bunch and left. I love him deeply and I can’t actually express how significant it felt to get to hear his voice reflected around that theater. okay that’s all

[ts1989fanatic]

Taylor Swift's fans are renowned for their loyalty and dedication.

Known colloquially as "Swifties," they sell out stadiums in minutes; spend weeks creating intricate outfits that pay tribute to her albums; comb through her lyrics to find Easter eggs and secret messages.

Back in November, the fandom received national attention for taking action after Ticketmaster bungled the Eras Tour presale.

The backlash was so loud and so fervent that the Department of Justice launched an antitrust investigation into Ticketmaster's parent company. The power of Swifties became clearer than ever.

Indeed, the sheer passion of Swift's fans has helped make her the biggest pop star in the world — but that doesn't grant them absolute access to her life and personal space.

Recently, Swift obsessives have been exhibiting overzealous — and frankly concerning — behavior. Videos have circulated online that show swarms of people camping outside her home in New York City and Electric Lady Studios, where she's been spotted working in between tour dates. Other clips show fans chasing her car down the street.

It's one thing to wait for hours in the pouring rain to watch Swift deliver a spectacular concert. That's her job. It's another, more sinister thing to wait for hours on the sidewalk, just to film her car entering her home garage. That's her life.

Swift has been candid about fending off stalkers throughout her career, making this behavior particularly egregious for anyone who claims to care about her well-being.

"My fear of violence has continued into my personal life," she wrote for Elle in 2019. "I carry QuikClot army-grade bandage dressing, which is for gunshot or stab wounds. Websites and tabloids have taken it upon themselves to post every home address I've ever had online. You get enough stalkers trying to break into your house and you kind of start prepping for bad things."

This is not to say that Swift's most fervent fans are all stalkers, but it's easy to see how this behavior could be triggering for someone who's been stalked. And as Swift said in her "Miss Americana" documentary in 2020, "There's a difference between 'I really connect with your lyrics' and 'I'm going to break in.'" Some Swifties clearly need to be reminded of where that line is.

This is also not the first time Swifties have overstepped. Some fans have been known to harass members of the LGBTQ community for analyzing Swift's songs through a queer lens. Others have sent insults and death threats to music critics for less-than-glowing reviews of Swift's music.

Of course, this behavior isn't unique to Swifties. But Swift's lack of admonition is uniquely strange. She has marketed herself as someone who's not afraid to speak up to defend her values, someone who has explicitly condemned homophobes and bullies in her music.

Swift has also said she's proud of her affectionate relationship with fans. She has invited Swifties to her Nashville home for album listening parties; sent personalized notes to celebrate milestones; donated money for college tuitions; protected concertgoers from aggressive security guards.

Unfortunately, a healthy relationship cannot be sustained with affection alone, be it interpersonal or parasocial.

At the risk of sounding like a wannabe therapist, constructive feedback is essential for growth — and when someone you love disrespects your boundaries, it's not constructive to say silent.

This is something that Phoebe Bridgers, Swift's friend and collaborator, knows all too well.

Although Bridgers experiences fame on a vastly different level than Swift, she has also been subjected to abuse and entitlement at the hands of "people with my picture as their Twitter picture."

In a March interview with Them, Bridgers said she was "bullied" in the midst of a speculative frenzy about her dating life — while she was on the way to her father's funeral.

"I've had people take more than I'm giving, and I'm giving a lot," Bridgers recently told the Wall Street Journal. "I'm pretty fucking transparent, because I would value that in someone whose music I liked when I was a kid. Seeing any representation of any feeling and anything true was awesome to me. To be punished for that is so dark."

"There's a higher chance that you'll meet a fan that you hate than a fan that you love," she added. "You're way more likely to be confronted with someone who just violated your privacy."

If these quotes rub you the wrong way, you may be the problem.

Connecting to a person's music does not give you the right to violate her privacy, and Bridgers isn't afraid to draw that line. I wish more musicians would follow suit.

Ahead of Bridgers' final performance at the Eras Tour on Sunday, I hope Swift is able to absorb some of her bravery and wisdom. It's OK to criticize people for bad behavior — and the fans who stick around are the ones worth keeping.

ts1989fanatic

Even the media can get it right on occasion, the recent behaviour by some so called swifties is bordering on STALKING and needs to stop.

Unless we all want to go back to why she disappeared again.

[theshowliveontour]

Niall Horan stopped by Nashville on June 3 to play at Bridgestone Arena. With him, he brought his host of solo hits that have kept his spotlight burning bright long after One Direction called it quits. Though Horan has been on his own for several years now, he seems to have carved out a niche for himself with his latest tour. In support of his third studio album, The Show, Horan hit every mark on Monday night.

Horan has always had a powerful stage presence–he proved that long before his solo career kicked off. But, you can tell that his latest release has instilled a newfound confidence into an already assured Horan. Everything about this tour seemed to align perfectly with his artistry: a rich and diverse band, a rock-influenced sound, and an unmeasurable amount of energy. The entire promotional cycle for The Show has felt like an artist coming into his own and this show was no different.

The setlist was anthem after anthem, hit after hit. Though he did account for some slower moments, the majority of the show was rowdy. Highlights from the setlist included him opening with “Nice to Meet Ya,” “Black and White,” and “Heartbreak Weather.” The crowd couldn’t seem to sing those songs loudly enough.

As always, Horan threw the One Direction stalwarts a bone and played “Stockholm Syndrome.” Despite not being in his personal discography, it fit right in with its rocky tones and edgier lyrics. Of course, the crowd was more than appreciative of the nod to his boyband days.

Of course, with the show being in Nashville, Horan had to bring out a special guest. The roar of the crowd doubled when Horan brought out Noah Kahan to perform his breakout hit “This Town.” Kahan’s folky sensibilities played well with Horan’s country-esque track.

Horan seems to get better at every turn. Each of his albums adds a new layer to Horan’s artistry. Though we have no doubt he will continue to evolve, he has a pretty strong hand with The Show and this tour.

[oscarupsets]

Hello friends! We've hit 1975. 50ish years til the present, but still feels like forever to go.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was the 2nd highest grossing film of 1975 behind Jaws (which became the *then* highest grossing film of all time).

Nicholson seems to bring a similar flair to this role as he did in Five Easy Pieces and Chinatown, leading me to believe any other film I see him in will be just as successful.

The ending seems odd and out of place, but having not yet read the novel on which it's based, I'm not sure if the disconnect is due to the writing or the production. It's not bad, rather just abrupt.

Other than that, I have no complaints. Both of the films this week rely on ensemble casts with familiar faces. It's easy to connect with each of the patients in this facility and feel for them during both the good and the bad.

ON THE OTHER HAND 😐, Nashville did not have me thinking the same way. This film boasts an ensemble cast of 24 main characters and by the end, I didn't care about any of them but silent Jeff Goldblum on his motorcycle.

Nashville is a political satire, and while usually I love satires, Robert Altman's style just clearly isn't for me. I've read that Altman is known for his natural, overlapping dialogue, and most of the film was improvised to really embrace the mundane, documentary style.

Both of those traits combined lead to 24 characters talking for 160 minutes without really having anything to say? I felt exactly as I did following The Last Picture Show. I got the idea they were going for, I think they did a great job portraying/panning southern America, I just didn't really enjoy it.

There is also a heavy reliance on music, and while the music is nice, it leads to prolonged stretches that don't advance the plot at all. A lot of people like it though!! So don't take my word for it, please!

At the 48th Academy Awards, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest became the second film to win the "Big 5" awards: Picture, Director, Screenplay, Actor, and Actress. In fact, those were the only 5 Oscars it won, with many below-the-line categories going to Barry Lyndon and Jaws.

It also won the same 5 at the Golden Globes, a feat that is not really tracked, and a BAFTA for editing.

Nashville's wins at the major ceremonies were almost all for its music. It won one BAFTA for sound and an Oscar and a Golden Globe for song. It was heavily recognized by both the New York Film Critics Circle and the National Society of Film Critics (which is not new for 1975, I'm just adding it now).

Despite having a staggeringly high Metascore (based on 24 reviews), Nashville is below average for Upsets for overall current reception.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was recognized at the 30th BAFTA ceremony, while the 4 remaining Best Picture nominees were recognized the previous year at the 29th ceremony. Nashville was not nominated for Best Film and did not win any BAFTAs from 5 nominations.

Unofficial Review: Not an upset. Perhaps I need to watch Nashville again with a new perspective.

[dollarbin]

Nickel Bin #16:

Gillian Welch's City Girl

My devotion to the Dollar Bin finds much of its origin in my distaste for the fashionable present.

Why consider cutting edge eyewear when the glasses I splurged for in 1999 still work great thanks to the screw I recently harvested out of a pair of give away sunglasses? Why lust after Shakey's big new $800 Archives III box when my 92 cent copy of Trans alluringly beckons? Why consider the compellingly fresh titles suggested by the New York Times Book Review when a garage sale copy of No Name, Wilkie Collins 900 page follow up to 1860's fabulous The Woman in White, which zooms in on a ravishingly beautiful female master of disguises who is seeking to overthrow the tyranny of pre-Victorian era marriage and inheritance laws, graces my nightstand?

And why, oh why, should I write about Gillian Welch's new record, which my famous brother tells me is AMAZING, when I'm still grooving to the mammoth bootleg collection they put out a few years back?

After all, check out City Girl. People have taken the time to listen to this song 17 thousand times on YouTube in the past 3 years; that's only 3.4 Billion plays less than T. Swift's remake of Shake It Off (I don't even want to know how often that song's terrible original has been enjoyed by the masses).

But City Girl is amazing! Buried at the tale end of Lost Songs, a Covid-era collection of 40 (!) never before heard, rushed through originals Gillian and Dave Rawlings completed over 20 years ago to fulfill and then jettison a music publishing contract, City Girl sports a Tom Petty-ready chord progression, an arena-ready chorus and a grinningly obvious declaration of feminine independence.

The whole things sounds almost nothing like a Gillian Welch song in that it is so simple and straight-forward; she and Dave could have taken this song straight to Nashville, added a rhythm track, keyboards and a dull guitar solo and had themselves a hit.

Instead they recorded it once privately and never touched it again: too easy to play, they figured. Too commercial!

I'll get into their new record; I really will. But first I'll give Lost Songs a few more plays and finish No Name. I gotta find out how Magdalen Vanstone and Captain Wragge hoodwink Noel Vanstone's domineering housekeeper.

And along the way you won't catch me becoming the 1.41 Billionth listener to Shake It Off: I ain't no city girl.

[thisaintascenereviews]

Falling In Reverse - Popular Monster

You clicked on this review thinking you’d get a blasphemous review of the new Falling In Reverse album, huh? I hate to say “gotcha,” but I’m gonna be real here — there’s not much to say about Popular Monster. It’s bad, don’t get me wrong, but it’s nothing of an album. It’s the type of bad you think it’ll be, whether it’s Ronnie Radke sounding whinier than he ever has, his white guy rapping being utterly awful, his lyrics basically amounting to “you can’t say that anymore” for 40 minutes, or how bland and uninspired the instrumentation sounds, but what fun is tearing that apart limb from limb? Maybe a decade ago, when I was younger and it was more fun to hate things, but now that I’m older, where’s the fun in it?

You and I both know this album sucks, let alone which ways it’ll suck, so why bother with it? I’m all for talking shit about bad music, especially when it deserves it, but this is just boring. There’s nothing I can’t say that a lot of other people already have, so let’s talk about something better instead. For every Falling In Reverse, there are two way better bands and artists that deserve your time and attention. Instead of talking about this piece of shit album, I wanted to subvert expectations and talk about a few albums I found recently that are way better, specifically three. I’ll be writing full reviews of these albums, but for the time being, I wanted to highlight a few recently released debut albums from unknown / underground artists that are way better than this pile of trash.

First up is the debut album from Grace Bowers & The Hodge Podge, entitled Wine On Venus. This record is from 18-year-old guitarist and songwriter Grace Bowers. A guitar prodigy who just played at the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville, this record is also produced by one of the guys from the band Brothers Osborne, but its sound is rooted in 60s and 70s blues-rock, soul, funk, and hard-rock. It’s a solid ride across a literal hodge podge of styles, and she rides that wave well. She doesn’t provide vocals, only guitar, but at the same time, the vocalist is utterly killer. This album isn’t anything unique, per se, but from a young guitar player that’s only getting started? This is pretty absolutely impressive and worth a listen if you love any kind of classic rock.

Next up is the debut album from rock / post-hardcore band Nova Charisma, entitled Metropolitan. This duo is made up of the vocalist of Hail The Sun and one of the key members and songwriters of Eidola and Royal Coda, and they’ve been relatively quiet since 2020, but they’re back with an unexpectedly great debut album. This record is a lot catchier and more melodic than either project(s) from these guys, which is a welcomed change, because I’m sick of a lot of “Swancore” these days, where it all just sounds the same, but this album is unique enough to really stick out. They have elements of post-hardcore, progressive-rock, pop-rock, alternative-rock, and even some funkier bass work that wouldn’t sound out of place in the 1970s. There’s something on each song to really capture your attention, but this is a great debut that took a few too many years to make.

Finally, I wanted to highlight an album that I found a few weeks back, but I’ve been waiting to really sink my teeth into it. That’s the debut album from Chicago rock / new wave / post-punk band Brigette Calls Me Baby, entitled The Future Is Our Way Out. Like with the other two albums, I plan on reviewing these in more depth, but this album randomly came across my radar a couple weeks back, and I was absolutely blown away. These guys take 1950s rockabilly and mix it with 1980s new wave and post-punk, as well as a dash of modern indie-rock. This is one of the most unique albums I’ve heard in a long time, but it sounds so seamless. It’s got such a timeless feel to it, but it sounds huge, melodramatic, and larger than life. Their vocalist, who is a big part of why this thing works so well, has a voice that sounds like it came out of the 1950s, but he sounds like Elvis and Morrissey at the same time. This record is one of a handful I find every year that just blows me away, and this is no exception.

[thejoyofviolentmovement]

New Video: JOVM Mainstay Robert Finley Shares Anthemic and Bluesy Stomp "Waste of Time"

New Video: JOVM Mainstay Robert Finley Shares Anthemic and Bluesy Stomp "Waste of Time" @therobertfinley @easyeyesound @Bigfeatpr @danauerbach

69 year-old Winnsboro, LA-born, Bernice, LA-based singer/songwriter and JOVM mainstay Robert Finley‘s highly-anticipated fourth album, Black Bayou was released last Friday through his longtime label home Easy Eye Sound. The album sees the JOVM mainstay continuing his wildly successful collaboration with Easy Eye Sound founder and The Black Keys frontman Dan Auerbach. Much like its immediate…

[bananaofswifts]

Taylor Swift review, Arizona: On the first night of her Eras tour, Swift seems as liberated as she’s ever been.

5 STARS - By Kelsey Barnes

When Taylor Swift released her second album, Fearless, back in 2008, she was a bright-eyed singer-songwriter hoping to make it big in Nashville. Fifteen years later, it’s evident that she’s made it big everywhere. “I don’t know how it gets better than this,” the 33-year-old sings to a stadium of 70,000 people. Every last one of them shares the sentiment.

The five years since Swift’s last tour have been among her most prolific. She’s made four additions to her “family” of albums: 2019’s Lover, 2020’s Folklore and Evermore, and 2022’s Midnights. At the same time, she’s been busy re-recording her first six albums as part of her plan to reclaim the master recordings, following a very public battle with her former record label.

Her “Eras Tour” was designed as a journey through that staggering back catalogue of 10 albums, from her earlier country twang on her self-titled debut to the shift to synth-pop on 1989, then to the subdued folk and alt-rock of Folklore and Evermore. Throughout the opening night of the tour, it frequently feels as though the audience is being caught up with Swift’s past, present and future. In the 44-song setlist that spans three hours and 15 minutes, she shows why the “era” concept is so integral to who she is. Each chapter marks a specific shift in her artistry.

There’s a palpable elation at the State Farm Stadium in Glendale, Arizona. Costumes are emblazoned with hand-painted lyrics; faces are bright with glitter; hands are covered in Swift’s lucky number 13. The fans I speak to say the concert feels like “coming home”. Swift herself admits to feeling a little overwhelmed: “I’ll be trying to keep it together all night.”

Plenty of Swift’s biggest hits make it onto the setlist, of course, but there are surprises, too. Like the fact that she opens on “Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince”, the hazy synth-driven track from Lover, inspired by Swift’s political disillusionment. On it, she cast herself as a high school student dealing with bullies as an allegory for the right-wing gaining power in the US, and the heartbreak and despair that came with it. Deeper album cuts appear in the form of “Illicit Affairs”, the haunting track on which Swift battles her inner emotions, and a striking acoustic version of “Mirrorball”, which she dedicates to her fans. Later, they get the chance to scream-sing along to some of her most cutting lyrics on “Vigilante S***” (“I don’t dress for women/ I don’t dress for men/ Lately I’ve been dressing for revenge”).

Each era transition is marked by both a costume and set change. “Look What You Made Me Do”, the 2017 single that heralded her return after a lengthy hiatus, sees different versions of Swift inside glass boxes: a nod to a time when she grappled to reconcile her sense of self with her public image. For songs from the autumnal, insular Folklore and Evermore, the stage is overtaken by trees and a cosy, moss-covered cabin. At one point, the stage is bare aside from a long wooden table that she arranges for two people. It’s sparse and cold, reflecting the stark sound of “tolerate it”, where she pleads for another person’s attention.

It’s telling that Swift closes on “Karma”, a tongue-in-cheek nod to how she ultimately rose above the tabloid headlines, feuds and rivalries that once circled her like vultures. Dressed in a shimmering fringed jacket, joining in with her troupe of dancers, she seems as liberated as she’s ever been. “Ask me why so many fade/ but I’m still here,” she sings. The answer is right there for all to see.

[lunapaper]

Album Review: 'Country Curious' EP - Lola Kirke

Pop has never been more country, and country has never been more pop.   

Names like Kacey Musgraves, Maren Morris, Kelsea Ballerini and Morgan Wallen (controversies aside) have well and truly embedded themselves in the mainstream. And, of course, there’s Beyoncé’s Cowboy Carter, which, despite all the country imagery and distinct country twang, is not a country album, according to the singer.  

Country Curious, by singer/actress Lola Kirke, however, is a country album (or EP, to be specific). It’s right there in the title. Her cowgirl journey started long ago: Born in London, raised in New York and moving to Nashville in the middle of a pandemic, developing a love for Tanya Tucker, The Judds and Rosanne Cash's Seven Year Ache along the way. Her second album, Lady for Sale, was even released through Jack White's Third Man Records.  

She chronicles this full-on transformation on the EP's first single, 'He Says Y'all,' a feminist take on 'bro-country' delivered with tongue firmly in cheek. Like 2022's Lady for Sale, Kirke turns the campy goodness up to 11 with a rollicking honky tonk groove, ready to move down South and start teasing her hair for a dirty man with a cowboy drawl. I bet she thinks his tractor's sexy, too!  

The smoky slow burn of 'All My Exes Live in LA' (featuring Swedish sister duo and fellow lovers of Americana, First Aid Kit) is also fun, flirty and feminist, referencing George Strait as she leaves the freeway littered with broken hearts, heading 'For the mountains or the desert or my mama's or anywhere else.'  

‘My House,’ meanwhile, serves absolute cunt when it comes to the traditional country ballad. Instead of begging for her man to come back home, she’s kicking him out and reclaiming her space, singing ''Cause I never have to worry about if you'll come home/I'm not crying over you, now I'm better off alone' with a big damn smile on her faceas she dances around her house while chugging a beer at 10am.  

Ending the EP is the slow winding ‘Karma,’ featuring the aforementioned Rosanne Cash. Dedicated to a lying, cheating douche bro with the big important job, it's a perfect mix of contemporary country and rugged 70s nostalgia, featuring sublime harmonies that just beautifully melt into one another and lyrics that give Taylor's own 'Karma' a serious run for their money ('She never quits/Or forgets/I don't mess with karma/But I sure love that bitch').  

Lola Kirke is more than just a little curious about country music. Where Lady for Sale saw her give it a bright, kitschy 80s glow, this EP sees her lean all the way in, with a lot of its blues and roots influence able to be attributed to producer and lifelong friend, Elle King. 

It’s masterfully constructed and cleverly written, more so than Lady for Sale at times. It should earn Kirke some kind of acclaim as Musgraves or Ballerini or Morris, just like Lady for Sale should’ve had the singer/actress occupying the same space as Rina and Carly Rae: Cult pop girlies who deliver on the niche camp in spades. 

This imbalance hasn’t gone unnoticed by Kirke noting the ‘mediocre’ 6.4 review Lady for Sale received from Pitchfork (which, coming from those guys, is laughable) in a recent interview with the official Grammys website, along with her dissatisfaction with Hollywood and the lack of decent roles (While I’m at it, Mozart in the Jungle deserved so much better, fuck Amazon for cancelling it so they could fund their stupid Lord of the Rings spinoff series). 

Nonetheless, Country Curious proves that heartbreak can be rather empowering and even funny sometimes. Kirke manages to pull off the impossible, balancing humour and heart in a country song without sounding too cartoonish or cynical. She just sounds like she’s having a blast, at this point making way better country bops than the bros...