#While the bayou sings songs of the setting sun

[leafatlaw]

I think rolan should have gotten to die in Rands arms

it would have been good for them

[xxfaithlynxx]

Personal

Word Count: 7k (7445)

Songs: (Beginning where Sy is singing to her) No One Else Like You- Adam Levine, (Hotel Shower) Personal- PLAZA

Warnings: 18+ Content. <- if you don't fall under that then keep scrolling, respectfully.

NOT PROOFREAD!

Please DO NOT steal or plagiarize my work. Much appreciated! As always.

Ω ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ Ω

Chapter 12:

We drove until nightfall, my arms and legs were aching and my ass had a charlie horse. Sylus had started singing a couple times to pass the time, songs I didn’t recognize, but I knew they were more for staving off the utter boredom that was beginning to consume me. Scenery could only go so far, even as beautiful as it was. As the sun started to set over the trees, leaving behind their shadows and growing lethargy, he’d started singing, his voice carrying through the speakers into my ears, words about blue bayou’s, saving nickels and saving dimes, looking forward to happier times. It was a beautiful song. I asked him if I could hear the original whenever we arrived on his pack lands. 

Another song seemed familiar, but still entirely unknown to me. I’d enjoyed the words immensely, and had even found myself trying to hum along. 

“...but between me and him, guess who,”

“Will spend their whole life waiting,”

“For someone just like you!”

“That looks like you,”

“That feels like you,”

“That smiles like you.”

“I need someone just like you,”

“Love me true,”

“I’m forever blue,”

“Cause there’s no one else like-” 

I’d found myself looking up as he sang, watching the beginnings of deep navy blue and black consume the orange and and yellows of the sunset as he whooped and hollered through the tune he was hearing in his head. 

“I want you in my arms,” 

“I see you in my dreams,” 

“I’m gonna make you mine,” 

“As crazy as it seems,” 

“Girl, you, yes you,” He’d patted my knee at that part.

“I need someone just like you.”

I loved his voice, why he’d pretended he couldn’t sing while we were in the Pens was something I really wanted to clear up, so I chose to ask once his song was over. 

“Sylus?” I tapped his left thigh to get his attention and he hummed in response. “Why did you pretend that you couldn’t sing when we were locked away together in the Pens?” 

He chuckled through the mic, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m tone deaf, sweetie.” 

I smacked my hand against him, “ Liar. ” My remark made him laugh loudly through the speaker, going as far as to throw his head back in the moment before he rested his left hand over the hand I had on his left leg. Looking over his shoulder, I could see the orange glow of lights ahead. “Where are we?” I asked, not that I’d recall it while it was so dark.

“Almost there.” His answer, vague– as always. I could feel him tapping out a tune against the back of my hand as I felt him shift in his seat. Checking his mirrors, not that we’d seen a stitch of traffic on this road the entire time we’d been driving. For such a well preserved stretch of highway, there was surprisingly no one on the road. 

“Why haven’t we seen anyone?” 

“We aren’t exactly on a main highway, sweetie. Not a lot of people these days take back roads.” I felt him release the throttle as we approached the lights. A large floating sign for a hotel stood tall beside the road, boasting their hospitalities. The fact that they had a pool, and in suite breakfasts. “Not exactly my style, but it’ll have to do.” I heard him murmur as he slowed the motorcycle enough to pull into the roundabout. “Would’ve preferred something five star.” I snorted. 

“Babe, we were just sleeping in a tree . If this has an actual bed, I’ll be happy. You can suck it up.” My words made him chuckle, but I could still sense through our bond that he was annoyed it wasn’t more luxurious. 

As he parked at an angle in one of the lots, he kicked out the stand and sat there for a second, his helmeted head tilted up as he looked at the five story building of the hotel. I unclipped the buckle of my helmet and pulled it off, curling an arm through the jaw before leaning against his shoulder. “You okay?” 

He reached up, unbuckling and pulling off his own helmet before answering me, “Yes. I’m just… concerned.” 

“About?”

He turned his head to look at me, “Are you sure we should stop here? I’m sure there are nicer places in town.” 

I shook my head, “Sylus, sweetie, relax. This place is fine! It’s better than a moss filled tree, and it is surely better than laying on a wood panelled floor with nothing but a rolled up towel for a pillow.” Swinging myself off of the back, I made sure to stretch out my sore limbs before turning back to face him. He was still seated on the bike, glaring up at the building. “ Sylus .” I enunciated his name as I stepped towards him. When he didn’t look at me, I reached out and as gently as I could, gripped his face on either side of his mouth with one hand, turning him forcefully so he had to look at me. I only spoke when his eyes met mine. “ This. Will. Be. Fine. C’mon, I’m tired and sore– and craving a shower.” 

He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, but finally nodded. “ Thank Goddess. I thought you were gonna sit here all night.” I said with a wink. He rolled his eyes before dismounting, and gathering the duffle from one of the saddle bags… or boxes now that I took a moment to actually look at them. 

Slinging the duffle over his shoulder, I reached out a hand and he stared at it for a second before his eyes met mine. “Oh c’mon.” I teased, “Afraid to take a girl’s hand?” 

He snatched my hand, and twined our fingers together, pulling me up against his side, “Other girls, yes. You? No, besides-” He lifted our hands and turned them so he could kiss the back of mine, “this one is mine,” then again, “ you’re all mine. ” He winked at me before lightly nipping the edge of my thumb, “Don’t forget that, sweetie .” His eyes flashed between Stayrus and back to him, making me shiver involuntarily. 

We walked up to the sliding doors, and they squealed as they opened, causing the broad man beside me to tense up. I rubbed my thumb over the back of his hand in reassurance, but also had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. Groaning under his breath, Sylus led me up to the front counter, where no one was in sight. I could sense his irritation rising, so I reached out with my free hand and tapped on the bell on the counter that had a little card next to it with cursive written on it. ‘Ring For Service’. 

“Hello! Yes, sorry. So so–” a tiny woman came bustling around a corner off to our right, causing both of us to turn our heads. She'd stopped mid step when she saw Sylus, and I had to roll my eyes as she swept her gaze over him, clearly enjoying what she saw. I felt Sirius ruffle her hackles in a territorial fashion before I nudged her down. ‘Calm down… she wouldn’t try anything.’

She’s human… and unmated, she’d try it. Watch. I wanted to roll my eyes, but decided against it as the little woman, who stood a whole head shorter than me even, swept behind the counter and leaned against it, her eyes glued to my mate, as her ample bosom swelled over her folded elbows, nearly popping free from her low cut top. Ah, I see now. She’s a notorious flirt. 

Not to be underestimated. That did make me smirk. Deciding to simply stand back and watch, I waited as she smiled up at Sylus, when I glanced up at him through my lashes, I found him looking at the little woman with an odd expression, like he was confused by her behaviour. 

“Ma’am, we’d like a room.” Was all he said, and I saw her visibly shiver as her shiny red glossed lips parted from hearing his panty-droppingly low voice. Good grief… I hope I wasn’t this bad. 

Stayrus told me about the morning you presented, dear. You were far worse. Honestly, I only wish I was there for it. I groaned inwardly at her, still keeping my eyes panning between the little hotelier and my mate, who seemed to be growing more and more uncomfortable as she stared at him with her big doe eyes, seemingly uncaring about his request. 

I’d wanted to try something since the night we shifted, so I pushed out through our bond, “Would you like some help?” 

His eyes flickered momentarily before I heard his strained response, “Yes, dear God, make her stop staring at me.” I eased myself between the counter and Sylus, putting on the most polite smile I could muster, watching her gaze turn sour as if her meal was spoiled. 

“Ma’am, I believe my husband asked for a room?” I gestured to Sylus briefly before returning my attention to her. I watched as a pout formed across her face, her cheeks reddening. 

“Right,” she slid off the counter and plopped herself into her chair in a rather unladylike way before turning her attention to a computer hidden beneath the high ledge. “Looks like we have two rooms left, our honeymoon suite, and a double.” I wasn’t sure what a double meant, but before I could answer, Sylus piped up from behind me, covering my shoulder with his right hand and giving a light squeeze. 

“We’ll take the honeymoon suite.” I turned to look at him with my brows furrowed. 

“What’s wrong with the regular double?” I asked him through the link and he just gave me a look. Rolling my eyes, I acquiesced to his demand and took a step back as he stepped forward, producing a shiny black and gold card from one of his many pockets before she could ask what form of payment he preferred. 

I knew he had wealth, but even the card looked expensive. I watched as he handed the card to the hotelier, and that smooth smile returned to her face, having his attention again. Causing me to shake my head in disbelief. Yes, he’s gorgeous. He’s also mine, lady. Back the fuck off… I didn’t realize I’d been glaring until she met my eyes and she immediately turned ashen and backed off a tick. 

Seems you have more fire about you than meets the eye, dear. I heard Siri chuckle in my head, as I crossed my arms over my chest while I waited for the little woman to return Sylus’ credit card so we could get to our room. I sighed and lifted a brow when she handed his card, and a keycard back with two hands and just had to rest one of them over his as he retrieved the pieces of plastic. He nodded to her before pulling away, she didn’t seem to notice his discomfort, but I sure as shit did. When he turned back to me, I immediately took his hand and gave it a squeeze. 

“I feel dirty.” He whispered through the bond, making me roll my bottom lip between my teeth to keep the giggle fit at bay.

He held out the keycard to me and I took it, looking down at it while I responded, “There’s a shower just calling your name. The faster we get the fuck away from this lobby, the quicker you can wash off the scary lady’s fingerprints, deal?”

When I looked up at him, he was already smiling down at me. 

When we approached the elevator, something in the atmosphere shifted just as he reached out to tap the faded silver button. I flicked my gaze around our surroundings, but I couldn’t see anything out of place or different, but what would I know. I furrowed my brows and was about to ask him about the shift, but the soft ding of the carriage’s arrival gave me pause. As the doors slid open, I felt the weight, and warmth of his hand pressing against my lower back, ushering me into the surprisingly small space. 

I walked in first, unable to hold back my unease. I'd never been on an elevator before, but I’d seen bits and pieces of a movie called Devil that Caleb had put on. Getting locked in one was the last thing I wanted, although… I glanced up at Sylus, and internally shrugged, maybe being locked in an elevator wouldn’t be that bad, not with him there. 

It was while I was having that thought, that I felt something shift around us again. Causing the little hairs all along my arms to stand on end, and gooseflesh to bubble up all the way down to my toes. The air felt heavier, warmer. I wanted to chalk it up to the small space, and the fact that as shifters, specifically him as an Alpha– that he ran hotter than the average human, but that wasn’t it. I caught his scent as he leaned over to press the button for the fifth floor, and felt my eyelids flutter. 

It wasn’t the atmosphere. It was us. 

I swallowed thickly as I looked up at the too-slow climbing numbers above the doors, inhaling a shaky breath through my nose. If I was aware of the charge in the air, I could only assume he was as well. Glancing out the corner of my eye at him, I could see he was tense. Hands balled into fists at his sides, eyes locked on the display showing those glowing green numbers. His jaw was tense, giving me a clear view of the prominent line leading down to his chin. 

I couldn’t help but admire his profile for that moment, his narrow straight nose. The heavy brow, his narrowed eyes, those perfect plush lips. The protuberance of his Adam's apple, bobbing as he swallowed his nerves. Through the bond, I could feel he was nervous. I’d caught little moments of the romcoms my sister watched on occasion, I knew what it meant– to a point– when a man and woman went to a hotel together. Even if we were here to rest, it was still a hotel, and he’d asked deliberately for the honeymoon suite. 

This wasn’t entirely a different kind of feeling from when he’d first kissed me in the hollow of that tree, this did seem deeper. Less primitive, but just as carnal. This feeling wasn’t causing a low thrum of fear to encompass my lungs, no this feeling felt strangely good. I opened my mouth to speak, but the ding of the elevator made me jump, again interrupting me. I could feel sweat drip down my back as the door slid open, revealing a mahogany colored hallway. Far too rich in paisley patterns, and low mood lighting from the stretch of wall sconces. 

“This way.” He’d stepped out of the elevator and had turned left down the hallway, leaving me to catch up with him, already feeling slightly out of breath from pent up tension. Is it always going to be like this?

Depends. 

‘On?’

Your chemistry in bed.

‘Isn’t our chemistry already good, without the bed?’

I felt her smirk, Yes, and no. 

I crossed my arms over my chest and exhaled hard through my nose as I followed him, chewing the corner of my lip as I thought about what was possible to come. He’d said he wouldn’t touch me again until we had our wolves under control, but then he’d kissed me after my panic attack. 

And in the parking lot… what he’d said when he’d taken my hand? Oh, this was confusing. 

I knew I wanted him… as he said he needed me to after my first shift, in that pond. What I didn’t want was aggression. What had happened in the oak, I didn’t want that. That’d been too familiar to past trauma, and I knew Stayrus didn’t mean to hurt me, and that our wolves had nearly gotten out of control, but we’d reigned them in, right? We could control them if we needed.

I stopped a meter or two away from him as he turned, a hand held out. I stared at the menacing limb for a moment. Long fingers, tipped with sharply trimmed, square bedded nails, calluses dotted the large expanse of his palm. Deep creases dipped over that palm, separating his hand into what looked like three and a half segments. I wonder what a Psychic would think about his palm…. “Ori..?” His soft voice broke my reverie and I blinked up at him, “Can’t get in without the keycard, sweetheart.” 

Slipping my hand into the bulky pocket of the black hoody, I produced the shiny white room key and took a step forward to place it in his hand, feeling heat rolling off of him in waves as my fingers brushed the skin of his palm. He nodded sharply before turning away from me, without his heavy gaze on me, I felt like I could breathe again, but only barely. His movements had flared up his scent all over the hallway, and I could feel myself breathing him in, almost involuntarily. I’d caught whiffs of him previously, but nothing quite like this; I remembered the vanilla, the leather, the oud, the pepper… but now, there was more. Deeper, headier scents that wrapped around my senses like a smoke screen, drawing me in. Amber and spice, notes of rosewood and whiskey.

A sharp chirp sounded in the silence around us as he slid the keycard into its slot and turned the handle to our room. An effective system, I supposed, if you remembered to keep that easily losable plastic card on your person. He swung the door wide, and stood aside, head swiveling to look back at me, gesturing with his chin for me to go in. 

Beyond the door, was a small, but nicely decorated hallway. Deep sable colored furniture, coat rack and end table to lay keys and such. Matching baseboards, and moulding against the ceiling. Livening up the cream paint of the walls. Stepping further into the room, I took in the small bistro table set for two against the far wall. Said wall was floor to ceiling windows that stretched the entire expanse, a single sliding door leading out to a rounded balcony. Large potted plants stood at each end of the wrought iron terrace rail. 

As my eyes panned over the room, I was aware of Sylus behind me, closing the door. How could I not be viscerally aware of the man, who’s scent was threatening to overpower me. 

My eyes fell on the hearth in the far corner in an attempt to keep myself grounded, the structure was rounded off the corner of the room, and there was already a fire going in it. I suddenly wanted to know if it was real or not. I couldn’t see any obvious signs that it was electric, but there were no tools to clean the ashes with, so it probably was. 

I jumped slightly as warm hands came down on my shoulders, a chin moving to rest on the crown of my head, as he joined me in looking around. “I suppose it’s better than I initially pictured.” As I felt him turn his head, his chin ruffling my hair as he did so, I felt and heard him swallow heavily as I could only guess he spotted the massive four post bed directly across from the floor to ceiling window. I’d never seen a bed so big. It dominated the room, and I’d found myself staring at it while he’d leaned his chin on me. 

Clearing his throat, he shuffled past me and stiffly made his way to the far side of the room, to a small table and desk on the far side of the bed, next to the fireplace. I heard a cork pop and liquid pour into a glass. With his back to me, I heard him groan as he lifted and tipped the glass back, downing the contents whole. Little bit of liquid courage? 

I went to take a step towards the bistro table, but something to my left caught my attention. Turning, I found a sable colored door, partially opened. Stepping towards it, I peered through the thin opening and felt a rush of excitement flood into my chest. A gorgeous, fully equipped bathroom lay beyond. Pushing the door open, I stepped inside and gawked. 

Along the far end of the rectangular room was a long marble counter, tall white gold faucets. Thick square edged, cream colored basins for sinks; and a wide mirror stood above the high ledge of the matching black marble backsplash. Hanging wall sconces were placed sporadically around the room, giving the space a very dim but romantic feel. To the right of the sinks was another floor to ceiling window, but this one was clouded, only allowing light through. Standing on a small dais was a large claw foot soaker tub with a high back, and another tall white gold faucet against the edge along the wall. 

Taking another tentative step into the massive room, I turned to my left and came upon a partitioned off area where a cream colored toilet sat. Looking closer, I saw a sliding door that we could use for extra privacy. Further to my left, stood a massive glass panelled walk-in steam shower that took up the entire end of the room. Shower heads of different sizes and styles were placed everywhere. My eyes caught on the massive square looking beast in the center. 

“I could live in this bathroom.” I found myself whispering, panning my eyes over everything once more, trying to choose what came first. A luxurious bath? The use of a proper clean toilet? 

I heard footsteps behind me, and felt the heat coming off of him as he entered the room, “Wow. Bathroom is nicer than the rest of the room.” He stepped around me to look around. “Shower first?” I looked between him and the massive glass enclosed space, he was looking at me, almost expectantly. 

“Uh, you can shower first… like I said downstairs– now you can clean the scary lady’s fingerprints off.” 

Was that disappointment I saw flashing across his eyes? No… right?

As perceptive as you are sometimes, my Ori. You can be incredibly dense. 

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

I think you know what he was asking you. 

I swallowed around the lump in my throat, I did know. I just wasn’t sure…. 

I stood frozen in place for a tick too long when I suddenly realized he was pulling the hoodie and his too tight black t-shirt over his head. Revealing the expanse of muscle and skin of his broad back. Oh shit. 

The air around me was getting too heavy, and I didn’t know where to look as a flutter of butterflies took flight in my gut. I’d seen this man naked, why was I acting like some virgin flower now? 

You haven’t seen ALL of him naked, need I remind you. 

‘Shut up!’ I panicked silently when he turned and faced me, a curious curl to one side of his mouth as he tipped his head to the side. I knew my eyes must be as wide as saucers. 

“You okay? You’re pale, sweetie.” A shudder ran through me as his big hands dropped to his hips, biceps flexing as his thumbs curled and paused around the waistband of his sweats. “Would you like to shower first?” 

I felt the wind get knocked out of me as my eyes lifted to meet his, as I shook my head. Squeaking a quick “No, you first” before turning on my heel, and nearly sprinting from the room– but having the decency to close the door behind me through the growing panic. 

Wuss.

‘Shut. Up. Sirius. No one asked you!’

Ω  ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶  Ω

SYLUS

Ω  ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶  Ω

‘She seems really on edge, do you think she’s still nervous about Caleb?’ Sylus asked his wolf, his eyes locked on the door Ori had disappeared through. ‘Or is it me?’

Both of you… will be the death of us spirits. By the Moon. Sylus, THINK. 

‘What are you talking about, Stayrus? I asked a question.’ The man shook his head and pushed his sweats down to his ankles, stepping out of them and shoving them aside to worry about later.

You have never been this dense, Sylus. You are unmated. In a Hotel room- a Honeymoon Suite no less! That you chose, I might add. One very large bed. Have you really not noticed? This entire situation screams sex. 

With the glass sliding door handle in hand, Sylus froze. He knew that when they entered the room she’d gotten tense, but he just thought it was because it was such a new environment. All she’d ever known was Ephraim’s pack and the one house before the Pens where she met him. 

A wave of panic made him shudder as he just stood there, half in, half out of the vast shower stall. His eyes glued to the door, the only thing separating him from her. He’d noticed the warmth surrounding them in the elevator, but shifters always ran hotter than the typical human, and the carriage was much smaller than average. He’d smelt her, but he’d been smelling her for days. Her scent was ingrained in his system at this point. Traveling with her, having her wrapped around him on the back of his beloved motorcycle. She was his mate. 

He’d noticed the way she’d looked at him, once while they were in the elevator. With her heavy lidded eyes, gawking at him from beneath her lashes. Walking up to their room together, he’d felt her staring at the back of his head. She’d been oddly silent, and when he’d turned and asked her for the keycard, she was so in her head she hadn’t noticed at first. 

He’d seen how she’d been biting her lip as her brain worked, and something inside him had wanted to reach out and pull that lip free just so he could lean down and nibble on it himself. Was that what the warmth surrounding them was? Arousal? This entire time? 

You really are dense. Do you even remember what you told her outside this building?

Sylus had entered the shower’s stall, and had started pacing in a short back and forth. Reaching up to run his hands through his hair. Shit, that’s right. The way he’d held her hand, kissed it, and how he’d looked at her. “You’re all mine.” He closed his eyes tightly, muttering an expletive.

‘You don’t think she’s expecting anything, do you?’

Of course she is! What a foolish question. Siri and I may have gotten carried away earlier, but we will step away for you both. You know that. You two have been tiptoeing around this– especially you. Your rut will be upon you within days, Sylus. Do you really want to be in a human run hotel for that? 

‘Shit.’ Sylus had been so caught up trying to return to his pack lands and caring for her, he’d forgotten all about the impending rut looming over his head. This last week had him curious, even being newly presented, would her heat sync up to his rut? With how much time and how often they found themselves close to each other, needing to touch or be touched by the other. 

It is possible. Until her first heat, Siri is unable to track it for her, for now we do not know when it will happen to her. 

Sylus sighed, turning to the plethora of buttons and dials on the end wall. It didn’t take long for him to figure out what did what, and what shower head connected to what button. He’d eyed the large waterfall head at the center, same as she had been, so he chose that. 

As water sputtered and then started raining down. Moisture and steam immediately clouded the wall of glass. Stepping under the onslaught, Sylus tipped his head back, letting the water sluice down his shoulders, his back, his hips, the globes of his ass and down his legs. Washing away the sweat and grime from the last few days. Checking around, he spotted an alcove hidden in the corner, several small hotel sized bottles stood, now dripping from the moisture in the air. He snorted, between the two of them, they’d need all of the bottles. 

You do have things in that bag of yours. 

His ears pricked as he eyed the wall for a moment, an idea forming. Turning towards the glass, he took a steadying breath before gripping the handle and poking his head out, a cloud of steam billowed out from behind him as he cleared his throat and called out, “Ori? Sweetie, can you bring me the shampoo, conditioner and body wash from my bag?”

Now, over the sound of the shower, he couldn’t quite hear what was happening on the other side of the door, but he knew she heard him. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d sat herself on the edge of the bed and had been twiddling her thumbs. 

He drummed his fingers over the glass panel as he waited, his nerves fluttered as the door creaked open slowly. When she peaked her head around the corner, she had one arm braced with the three bottles of supplies, while her free hand was covering her eyes. He had to smile at her antics, she had no idea how adorable she was. 

“Here you go.” She said, her voice was quiet, as she stepped further into the room. 

“You’re going to have to get closer than that, sweetie. ” He grinned. 

When she didn’t move, a note of mischief took a hold of him and he stepped out of the shower, closer to her. He had no idea where this confidence was coming from, but he wasn’t about to waste this moment. He knew that a bond could weaken if intercourse wasn’t introduced, and he also knew that he would need to mark her… but that involved something he didn’t think she was ready for. Maybe, just maybe…. 

I will ask Siri to step away, and I will do the same. 

‘Thank you, Stayrus.’ So this was going to happen then. With their wolves stepping back, this was their chance to try for something deeper. Let their bond form entirely. 

Unless you need me to walk you through it, given that this is your first time and all. 

Sylus didn’t get a chance to say anything back before he felt Stayrus’ laughter die as he turned away from the link. This was completely natural… an instinctual act. He sighed through his nose as he looked down at the little omega in front of him. Instinctual… Reaching out, he took the bottles from her slowly. Visibly, he couldn’t see anything wrong with her, aside from her prudish behaviour of covering her eyes. Through their bond, he could just barely sense the nerves, how they slammed through her like waves crashing over a sandbar. 

He wanted to take this slow, for her. 

Crouching, he placed the bottles on the floor before standing upright again, taking that final step towards her. Letting the heat he knew he exuded envelope her, letting his scent circle her in an attempt to try and ease some of what must be turmoil inside her. 

Lifting a still dripping wet hand, he curled two fingers over her wrist and pried the hand away from her face. Smirking down at her when he found her eyes closed tight. “Ori.” He said her name in a breath, moving his eyes over every nuance of her face, cataloging everything about her into memory.  His other hand came up to curl his index under her chin, tilting her face up so when she did open her eyes, she’d have to look at him. 

When those beautiful baby blues of hers did open, he felt like his lungs had disappeared. Fuck, she’s beautiful. He could see the arousal in her eyes, he could smell it on her now, now that he was paying attention. Beneath that fire, he could also see a layer of fear. He knew she didn’t want what had happened in the tree to happen again, neither did he. 

“Did Siri step back?” He asked, looking between her eyes, watching for any change, anything at all to tell him she didn’t want this. When she nodded slowly, he saw her pupils dilate. Brushing his thumb over her bottom lip, he leaned forward slowly, giving her time to back away. To say no. 

She didn’t move, she just watched him for a moment, but her lips parted as he watched her inhale deeply through her nose. She seemed just as affected by his scent as he was hers. He had a brief moment where his mind wandered to whether or not Aurora’s scent had affected him like this, but he quickly shook that thought aside, now was not the time to wonder about his past. Not when his future was standing right in front of him.

He licked his lips, and watched as her eyes tracked the movement. Gods, he wanted her. “Do you remember what I asked you?” 

“When?” Her voice was just above a whisper, but there was a level of need bubbling beneath the surface that had him holding back a moan. 

He lowered his head, and pressed his mouth to the side of her throat, reveling in the sound of her swift intake of breath, closing his eyes, he brushed his lips over the spot at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, feeling the heat beneath her skin pool to the surface. “In the pond. Do you remember what I said to you?” His breathing was beginning to come in small pants as he held back from touching her further. 

She shivered, “You need me to want you.” He felt her head tip away from him, giving him further access to the column of her neck. 

He inhaled deeply before whispering in a sigh, “And do you?” He remembered telling her more than that, but that didn’t matter, not with her this close, not with her scent permeating his senses like they were. 

It was barely a word as she simply breathed the syllable, “ Yes.” and that was all he needed before he closed his mouth over her neck, lapping his tongue over her skin, before moving up slowly to the corner of her jaw, leaving small wet kisses until he found the corner of her mouth. 

Pulling back briefly, he met her eyes with his and could see how blown her pupils were, how fast her breathing had become. Leaning back, he took her hand and without breaking eye contact, he backed up, back to the open doorway of the shower. “ Strip, Omega. ” He felt the lick of control as the command passed his lips, causing a wave of need to pool low in his stomach. 

For a moment, he forgot what she’d told him… that before she’d presented, an Alpha’s commands would make her physically ill. Looking at her now, one would never have known. Maybe it was commands from any other Alpha save for him, because he watched in awe as she slowly pulled the hoodie and that puny t-shirt over her head, swinging her shoulder length hair free before tossing the garments off to the side, and reaching down for the tie of her sweats. He swallowed as he tracked her movements, he knew there was nothing under those. 

His jaw popped when the fabric fell to the floor. He tried to recall if he’d had the pleasure of seeing her entirely nude, but there’d been the water level of the swamp, the walk back to the tree where they’d both more or less looked anywhere but at each other. Laying next to each other in the hollowed oak, having her leg thrown over his hip, being too close to her to get a good look; and then beside the motorcycle, when she’d changed-- he’d been too surprised to see anything. 

Now… now he was beside himself as he was blessed with the full view of her gorgeous nude body. Her wolf spirit had healed every scar, softened her form. Filled her out with muscle. Less like the skeleton he’d initially met, and more the perfect woman that he’d always seen her as. Extending an arm, he offered her his hand. Not demanding, not commanding. He wanted her to know that she could always back away if she didn’t want to continue. He needed her to know she had that power. Always. 

When she hooked her fingers over his, he smiled at her. Her eyes still locked on his as he led her backward into the steam laden shower and under the pelting water from above. Giving her hand a little tug, he brought her closer to him, twirling her so her back pressed against his front. He knew she could feel what the sight of her was doing to him, he was painfully hard against her thigh, but he didn’t care. 

A wave of her scent poured through his senses and he leaned forward again, pressing his nose, followed by his mouth to her neck again, where he kissed and then inhaled again.“ Do you know what your scent reminds me of?” A soft sound like a purr came from her throat before he slid his tongue up her neck, tasting her, “ Steamy and sweet. Like cherry wine.” 

With his substantial height, he towered over her as he brought his mouth up to her jaw, where he laid open mouthed kisses and licks to her skin. Moving his hands so they slowly slid from her shoulders, down her biceps and forearms, before twining the fingers of one through hers only to lift it, so she arched her arm over her head, where he placed her hand at the nape of his neck before releasing her hand to continue his own path down the side of her body, while his other hand lightly wrapped around her other wrist, using the length of his index finger to keep her palm flat as he slid her hand up the edge of her hip and over her belly before cupping her palm over her own breast, letting her pleasure herself a little before he tried anything substantial. 

“ Sylus…” She whispered, the fingers he’d placed at the back of his neck, curled into his hair and pulled slightly, not enough to pull him away, but enough where the sound of her voice and the sharp pinch of her hair pulling pulled a moan from within his chest. 

When he lifted his head from her neck, she whined . Making him groan between pants for air. When he stepped back, wanting to see what she’d do, he smirked as she spun around on him. Her pupils blown so wide, the blue of her eyes had vanished entirely. “Why did you stop?” She asked, her voice was lust laden and by the looks of her heaving chest, he knew she wanted more. 

“If I don't, neither of us will get clean.” He said huskily, reaching up to push the sodden hair off of his forehead, combing it all back over his head. She looked down at the floor, and then seemed to remember, making quick moves to step outside the shower to grab the bottles he’d placed on the floor before returning. He watched her do all of this, on her own volition, without commands without being asked. 

“Wash my hair?” She asked, turning her back to face him again while holding out his shampoo bottle. Clearing his throat, he stepped back towards her, reaching out to take the bottle from her, opening it and dolling out a bit into his palm. He could smell her arousal, and it made his cock twitch angrily between his legs. He wanted to continue, but he needed to remember, to keep a clear part of his mind that even if this could be his first time, she wasn’t used to being cared for, or loved. Not emotionally or physically. 

He lathered the suds through her hair, enjoying the sounds he was eliciting from her lips from his touch alone. Her soft gasps, moans and purrs as he combs his fingers through the silky strands of her red brown hair. When she tilted her head up after he was done, he took that opportunity to use his height advantage and make use of it. He reached out and spread his palm over her vulnerable neck, and wrapped his fingers lightly around it, so his thumb and middle finger could feel her carotid arteries thrumming. When her eyes opened to look up at him, he smirked before leaning forward and capturing her mouth against his in an upside down kiss. The wet sounds of her lips moving against his made his chest flutter. A soft gasp escaped into her mouth from his as he felt her bite his lip. “Mmn...!” 

She pulled away this time, making him chuckle before she passed him the conditioner bottle with a sly grin. “Next.” 

Taking the bottle, he repeated the process he’d done with the shampoo. “Hmm, I hope you know I expect compensation for a job well done.” Once he was done, he grinned as he coiled the length of her hair over the top of her head, making her laugh. A sound he would devote to his core memories, no matter what. 

She turned to face him, and crooked a finger at him. “Lean over.” She said softly, but tentatively. 

As he did, he noticed she’d picked up the shampoo bottle and had squeezed out a dollop on to her palm and was now rubbing her hands together. When her hands met his head in a comically wet slap, he chuckled before meeting her eyes, “Not quite what I had in mind, sweetie. ” 

She smirked, “I know,” she paused before leaning up and pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose, “let someone take care of you for once, yeah?” He felt his eyes widen as the shock settled in his chest. He blinked, he’d been trying to get her to understand that he was there for her, now and however long she wanted him; but he’d never considered that she’d offer the same devotion to him. He’d been content in his thoughts of simply giving, that receiving never occurred to him. 

He let her wash his hair. He even let her playfully style the white strands after she’d cleared the suds and added the conditioner. He’d never had such a fun or arousing shower in his life. 

It was when the body wash came into play that had rendered him a panting mess. He didn’t think she’d follow through, but with her hands moving, squeezing and slicking over the contours, dips, muscle and plains of his torso, he knew he was a goner. He’d never been so hard in his life. Her forearms had simply brushed over the head of his engorged cock as she’d scrubbed him down, and it had nearly had him seeing stars and cumming right then and there. Gasping and panting for air as he watched her diligently take care of him. 

When she was done, she had a shy look about her, but she offered him the bottle all the same. 

“ My turn, Omega.”

Ω  ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶  Ω

[writercole]

Born on the Bayou

Words: 595

A/N: Wrote this up for @cajunquandary and her lovely follower challenge. It's a quick, short little drabble but it's fluffy and I love it. Congrats, B, my love, my Misha, my Dean. I love you muchly, gorgeous.

Credit: @padalelli for the header, @firefly-graphics for the divider You're all dolls.

When I was just a little boy

Standin' to my Daddy's knee

My Papa said "Son, don't let the man get you

And do what he done to me?

The sound of the old CCR song flowed out of the bluetooth speakers on the boat. You were laying on the bow sunbathing while Benny was rowing. He was singing along with Spotify quietly, timing his strokes with the beat of the song.

“Hey, Ben?” you called out from your perch on the bow. “Are you gonna tell me where we’re headed?”

“Patience, Cher,” he responded, “quit fishin’ for information. Ya not gettin’ it.”

You huffed a sigh and settled back to enjoy the view of the area you were in. The sun setting over the water provided a beautiful backdrop for the boat ride.

“Benny, tell me about your childhood while you row,” you asked of him. You’d heard the stories before, but it was so different from how you’d grown up. You loved to hear them over and over again.

“Alright, Cher,” he told you, “I was born over on Bayou Vermillion. My dad was one of those that blamed everything on ‘the man’ and ended up drinking himself to death. I was taken in by a nice woman who was called a houdoo priestess by the people who didn’t like her.”

Benny kept talking about his life growing up on the bayou with his foster mom and his dog as he rowed. He distracted you from where you were going with his tales, regaling you with story after story until he pulled the oars out of the water.

Your jaw dropped when you took in your surroundings. You were in the middle of a lagoon, trees all around you, geese surrounding your tiny boat. You were in awe of the beauty you took in and the peace you felt in this space.

“I found this when I was a kid. I wanted to share it with you, Cher,” Benny told you.

“Benny, it’s beautiful,” you responded. The geese swam right up to the boat.

Benny produced a bag of oats and handed it to you. “Wanna feed ‘em, Cher?” he questioned with a dazzling smile.

You eagerly took the bag of oats and started tossing them over the side of the boat, delighting the geese and causing them to dive. You giggled in delight when they dipped their heads into the water to grab the oats that were fed to them.

Benny smiled as you continued feeding them, enjoying your happiness as the sun set behind the trees. “Cher, I’ve been thinking. We’ve been together for a long time now, and I’ve never been as happy as I am sitting here with you in this boat,” Benny started, “I can’t see myself spending a single day without you.”

You turned around to see Benny holding a beautiful princess cut diamond ring. You gasped and put your hands up to your mouth in shock.

“You are the best thing I’ve ever had in my life. You are like the sun, lighting my life; like the north star, leading me home. Would you make me the luckiest man in the world and be my wife?”

“Oh, Benny!” you exclaimed, “Yes! A thousand, million times, yes!”

You leaned across the boat and pulled Benny into a sweet kiss. He put the ring on your finger and kissed it, looking into your eyes with all the passion and love he could muster. “I love you, Cher. More than you could ever imagine.”

“I love you too, Benny.”

Tags: @waywardbaby @cajunquandary @thinkinghardhardlythinking @thefallenbibliophilequote @that-one-gay-girl @flamencodiva @saiyanprincessswanie @akshi8278

[aeneidpdf]

big sky country

chapter: 3/?

word count: 4.3k+

summary: they set out for Niagara Falls, and stop for lunch at Becket Quarry.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24394804/chapters/59282086

They got through the checkout line quickly, and then they were back in the van- Pete in the back, Ray and Art in the middle seats, and Abraham and Collie up front. Abraham fiddled with his phone, pulling up the directions to Niagara Falls while Collie popped in the first of the Johnny Cash CDs that Pete had bought.

It was the American IV: The Man Comes Around album. Johnny Cash’s voice came over the speakers, saying: "And I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder. One of the four beasts saying, 'Come and see.' and I saw, and behold a white horse."

“Great,” Abraham said. “A song about judgement day to start our trip. That’s not a bad sign at all.”

“It’s just a song,” Ray said.

“Ray’s right,” Pete added, lazing in the back row. “No need to worry yourself, Abe. Geez, good thing it wasn’t God’s Gonna Cut You Down or we never would’ve gotten this thing off the ground.”

In the side mirror, Art could see a hint of a grimace on Abraham’s face, but Collie was laughing and asking him to start the directions. Over top of the music, came the canned voice of the maps app: “Turn right to merge onto Maine Turnpike toward I-95. In 55 miles, keep left on I-95 South.”

Collie whistled low through his teeth. “Shit. Fifty-five miles.”

“Better get a move on!” It was Pete, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Lot more where that came from.”

Collie didn’t answer that, and they pulled out of the parking lot and merged onto the Maine Turnpike. Art didn’t quite know what he thought about the song, but he felt like he was on Abraham’s side. He didn’t practice much now, but he was raised Baptist, and his family had been heavily involved in the church down home in Louisiana, until they moved. They’d found a new church when they moved up to Maine. Art had been baptized in Highland Lake, just a thirty minute drive out of Portland, when he was eleven.

He had stood in the water that came up nearly to his armpits, his clothing floating loose around him and the marshy bottom of the lake swirling and tugging at his feet. It was a bright hot day in early May, but the water was cold, and the look in the minister’s eyes was serious. Art had been scared then. He wanted to turn tail and run back to his mother. But his mother and father and aunt and uncle were watching with bated breath, and his siblings were waiting on the shore, their shoes and socks shucked off and tossed aside. They were watching him too, and waiting for their turn. He was the oldest now; he had to be brave.

Art had then been dunked under the water and he resisted the urge to thrash against the strong hands that held him. The lake water wrapped around him and engulfed him like a coffin. He was drowning. He had forgotten to take a breath before the minister submerged him, and now he was drowning. He thought of another body, rotting in standing water, and bubbles expelled from his mouth in a mad burst as he let out a soundless scream. Finally, he was hauled up by the collar of his starched white dress shirt, and he came up breathless and temporarily blinded by the sun, while his mother cheered hysterically on the shore.

Thinking of it now still made him feel like he was going to be sick.

Even more than religion though, his life was ruled by superstition.

Superstitions were as sure as summer storms and waves of summer heat rising up from the cracked and melted asphalt. The whole south was steeped in superstition, and the Baker family was no exception. Superstition worked its way into the practices and customs of every season. On New Year’s, they ate black-eyed peas and collard greens for good luck and money. In fact, that was what they ate nearly all year round, because that was what they could afford.

The Baker children went around town with dimes strung around their necks to ward off the devil, and whenever his mother opened a new loaf of bread, she threw the first end slice in the garbage. “To keep money comin’ our way,” she explained when Art asked about it. Art watched, forlorn and hungry, as she tossed the bread into the garbage. Money never seemed to come their way.

In the summer, when the alligators came out of hibernation and the humidity floated off the wetlands and settled heavily over everything, Art was warned about alligators climbing out of the bayou and slithering under his house. Those meant there would be a death in the family soon. Art always took the stairs up and down the porch two at a time, frantic to get away from the monster hiding under the house, waiting for the perfect moment to snap at his ankles and drag him under.

There weren’t any alligators in Maine, but Art still sometimes dreamed of one, lying in wait for him, red eyes glowing out of the darkness. He shuddered imperceptibly at the thought.

Would a song ruin their whole trip? No, but a part of him still felt apprehensive.

Outside the window, South Portland disappeared, and they were on the Maine Turnpike, heading south. The song had changed, and Hurt was playing now. Over the van’s speaker system, Johnny Cash’s voice sang: “What have I become, my sweetest friend? Everyone I know goes away in the end.” The guitar melody built behind his voice in a way that made Art’s chest tighten. It rose in a crescendo and then disappeared as the next verse began.

“Have any of you heard the original of this song?” Ray asked.

From behind them, Pete answered, “Yeah. Nine Inch Nails. It’s good, but, you know, it’s not this.”

“I’d be fucking pissed if I wrote a song and then found out Johnny Cash did a cover of it,” Collie said.

Abraham laughed in the passenger seat. “Of course you’d be pissed.”

“Well, yeah! You write a song about some personal shit, and then Johnny Cash comes along and sings it and makes it a hundred times better. How would you feel?”

He thought for a moment and shrugged. “Shit, yeah. I guess I’d be kinda mad too.”

“You guys are thinking about it the wrong way,” Art said. “Imagine getting a call that Johnny Cash wants to record your song? That’d be exciting. That’d be an honor.”

He could see Collie looking at him in the rearview mirror, his eyes creased with his smile. “I guess that’s right.” It made Art smile too, and duck his head.

“It’s a good thing you’re on this thing with us, Art,” Abraham said, twisting around in his seat to face him. “It’s a good thing at least one of us isn’t an asshole.”

“Hey!” Pete protested. “Ray’s not an asshole.”

Ray snorted, and said, “Thanks, Pete.” Abraham twisted back around in his seat. The song changed. Art looked back out the window.

///

In a half hour, approximately forty miles into their journey, they passed a sign saying that there was a  toll plaza in four miles.

“Alright,” Collie said, turning the music down a few notches. “Who brought cash for tolls?” Silence answered him. Art had completely forgotten that they’d even need to pay tolls. “Jesus, nobody?”

“There’s a rest stop coming up on the right,” Abraham told him, reading the road signs as they zoomed past. “There’ll be an ATM there. We can take some cash out there.”

A couple miles down the road and they pulled into the rest stop. The parking lot was mostly empty as they all piled out of the minivan. The rest stop was a small building with a dramatically slanting roof and the front was mostly covered over with windows. Out front was a Smokey the Bear statue with a sign next to him proclaiming the fire danger in the area for today. The risk was low.

“I say we each take out $20,” Abraham suggested. “That should be good to start out, right?”

“I think so,” Ray said, looking like he was deep in thought. “After this, we’ve got a toll to get on the New Hampshire turnpike, and a shitton of them in Massachusetts. Once we’re west of New York, I have no clue.”

“Geez, you’re like a walking road map,” Pete said admiringly. Ray ducked his head. “We can spend whatever leftover cash we have on food and stuff.”

The group turned and headed towards the rest stop. Art followed, but Collie caught his arm and held him back. Art looked down at the hand and then into his friend’s face. Collie dropped his hand quickly.

“Art, if you want I can take out money for both of us,” he offered, his face flushed like he was embarrassed. “You don’t have to take out the $20 if you don’t want to.” Art heard the implication there. He meant: “if you can’t.”

Now it was Art’s turn to feel embarrassed. It brought him back to being a kid, and not being allowed to go to birthday parties because he couldn’t afford to rent the bowling shoes or the roller skates. It brought him back to eleventh grade, when they all got their driver’s licenses and started to go out to eat on the weekends and pass late nights crammed into diner booths. Pete had always pulled him aside and offered to pay his way for him. Pete always looked at him with a kind and earnest look in his eyes, and shame always rolled around in Art’s stomach like a hot coal.

He felt it now, rolling around in his stomach and pressing down on the back of his neck, forcing him to look down at his shoes. Collie was bouncing from one foot to the other, looking back at the rest stop every so often. The others were probably already crowded around the ATM, wondering what the hell was wrong with them.

“It’s alright, Collie. I can pay my own way. I have some money saved up,” he answered, finally looking back up at Collie. “Besides, it’s not like any of us have a ton of money.” Sickly he thought: there’s a big difference between being middle class and being poor. He knew that, and he knew Collie knew that. For a second, he thought Collie was going to say it, but mercifully, he didn’t. He just patted Art on the back, and the two of them walked across the parking lot to the rest stop.

///

Once they had finished at the rest stop, Collie had a modest stack of twenty dollar bills in his hand. The twisted the key in the ignition and the van rumbled to life. They pulled easily out onto the highway.

It was still only 9:30 in the morning, and the only traffic was huge semi-trucks carrying goods and produce across state lines. They rose up around the minivan on all sides, dwarfing it. Art figured the traffic would be heavier once they got closer to Boston. The route that Pete had devised had them driving within thirty miles of the city before veering off west into New York. Abraham’s phone estimated they wouldn’t reach Niagara Falls until 5:00 in the evening.

Their Johnny Cash CD had just restarted, and Abraham was shuffling through the other ones Pete had bought as Collie pulled up to the tollbooth. The toll only cost $3.00, and he handed the woman working in the booth a twenty with what looked like an apologetic smile. She gave him his change, the bar lifted, and they drove on.

“She probably thought I was a dick, paying with a twenty,” he mumbled to himself, sticking the change in his cup holder as he continued down I-95 South. Over the radio, Johnny Cash sang: “Whoever is unjust let him be unjust still. Whoever is righteous let him be righteous still. Whoever is filthy let him be filthy still. Listen to the words long written down, when the man comes around.” It was the song that had played when they first left the Target back in South Portland, the song that had made Abraham nervous. It made Art nervous, too. The upbeat guitar playing underneath it only served to remind him of his father, playing hymns on the back porch in Louisiana. The songs were always happy, but they said such horrible things.

He wondered if Abraham still thought the song was a bad sign. He wanted to ask him, but couldn’t bring himself to do it, in the car, in broad daylight. It seemed like the sort of thing where, if you admitted to it in the daylight, all the monsters and all the bad luck in the world would find you and strike you down. Better to say it in the dark, where you could hide. Art gulped- he guessed he was more superstitious than he thought.

Abraham ejected the CD, causing the music to cut out sharply. He put in the next CD, the American III: Solitary Man album. The first song on the album was I Won’t Back Down. A cover of a Tom Petty song. He noticed Collie was singing softly to himself. It made Art smile. He knew it was just the sort of song Collie would latch onto.

Ray had turned in his seat, and he and Pete had their heads together, putting their playlist together. Collie’s words in the Target that morning hadn’t deterred them.

“How much do y’all have so far?” Art asked, turning in his seat too to face them better.

“We’ve got like a hundred songs,” Ray answered. “All sorts of stuff.”

“Wow,” was Art’s only response.

“I think once we add a bit more we’ll be done,” Pete added. “We’re gonna be on the road for some ninety hours. Gotta be prepared.”

Art turned back around. Not for the first time, he wondered what exactly he had set into motion. Ninety hours on the road.

They crossed over a bridge, and beneath them the Piscataqua River lazed along. Some sailboats were gliding over the surface. Art wondered what it would be like, to lay on the deck on a sailboat, warming in the sun. Maybe his friends would be there too, casting their fishing lines over the side of the boat. Art decided that would be nice.

A sign posted on their right announced that they were entering New Hampshire.

“Look at that! We’re in New Hampshire!” he gasped out.

“New state!” Abe cheered, banging on the car dashboard.

“Maybe New Hampshire will be more to your liking, Parker,” Pete teased from the backseat.

Art was excited- it had been a long time since he’d crossed the Maine state line. They finished crossing the bridge, and the Maine Turnpike became the Blue Star Turnpike. The trip felt real in a way it hadn’t before. Art hadn’t left Maine since he was a kid, and now he was going to travel across the country. He looked around him, eagerly left and right, and took it all in.

After another twenty miles of driving, they came to another tollbooth. “Christ, again?” Collie exclaimed. “Fuck Maine, and fuck Maine’s roads.” They all laughed at his customary outburst.

“I think you mean New Hampshire?” Abe supplied.

“Yeah, fuck New Hampshire, too,” Collie grumbled.

“So… so far Parker hates 4% of states. Should we start placing bets on what that number’ll be by the end of the trip?” Pete asked.

Collie ignored him and gave the man at the tollbooth a few crumpled dollar bills. Then they were through.

“You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” Ray asked him fondly.

“Not at all,” Pete replied, and leaned back in his seat.

Art looked out the window.

///

They were in New Hampshire for only half an hour, and then they were crossing into Massachusetts. Another state to add to Art’s list. As they passed over the state line, Pete asked, in that fake earnest voice of his, “What do ya think of this one, Collie? Gonna add it to the list? Make it 6%?”

“You’re gonna get your stupid ass thrown out,” Art choked out between laughs.

“Art’s right, Pete. You’re getting yourself on my shit list,” Collie said.

“Who isn’t on your shit list?” Abraham asked.

“You know, Abe, you’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Hell, it’s fun to watch you get all red in the face.” Abraham grinned. Collie rolled his eyes but grinned too and kept on driving. They merged onto I-495 South, and then all the road signs began to point towards Boston.

“I was thinking we could stop and eat lunch around noon, and then switch drivers,” Pete said. His antagonistic streak seemed to be over, and he was back to examining the itinerary he’d put together for the trip.

“That sounds like a good idea,” Ray agreed.

“I like the sound of that,” Collie said.

“How you doin’ up there, Collie?” Art asked.

“Oh, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me,” he assured, rolling back his shoulders and stretching. “But I’ll be ready to switch two hours from now.”

///

They were mostly quiet after that, just singing along to the CD playing over the radio, until they were nearing Lawrence, Massachusetts. There was an exit leading onto I-93 South, which would take them into Boston.

“Collie, can we go to Boston?” Abraham asked, looking longingly out the window, as if he could see the city’s skyline from the highway, thirty miles away. “I’ve never been to Boston.”

“Who the fuck lives in Maine and hasn’t been to Boston?” Collie asked in disbelief. “I’m not even from here and I’ve fucking been to Boston.”

“Well, fuck you. I don’t have a car, dipshit,” Abe shot back.

“That’s a shitty excuse. Just take a Greyhound from Portland into Boston,” Collie replied. “You guys have been to Boston, right? Even you, Art?”

Ray and Pete nodded, but Art shook his head. “No, I’ve never been. Until this, I hadn’t even left Maine in like eight years.”

They all looked faintly surprised at this. “Jesus, what?” Collie asked incredulously. “I’ve failed the two of you as a friend,” he said to Art and Abraham. “Once we get back, I’m taking the two of you to Boston.”

Art liked the sound of that- exploring a new city with Abraham and Collie Parker. His world seemed so much bigger than it had this morning, so much bigger than his present in Maine and his past in Louisiana.

///

By the time noon rolled around, they were nearing Blandford, Massachusetts. Boston was over a hundred miles behind them. “Pull off here,” Abraham instructed, and Collie did, and they rolled into Blandford. The welcome sign said the population was 1,233.

“There’s a park around here that’s really pretty. We should eat there,” Ray said, looking intently at his phone screen. Collie asked for directions, and Ray gave them. After a few minutes of driving they pulled into the parking lot of Becket Quarry and Collie paid the parking attendant $10. They’d already spent nearly $20, and it had only been a few hours. That stack of twenties wasn’t stretching as far as Art thought it would.

They all got out of the van and crowded around the trunk, pulling sandwiches and water bottles out of the cooler Abraham had brought. Collie grabbed one of the packs of beef jerky out of a Target bag, and then they were locking up the van and heading down the trail.

It wasn’t a far walk to the quarry, and along the path and trees surrounded them, green and leafy and tall. They reached the end of the path, and came upon the quarry. It was beautiful- the surface of the water reflected the endless blue sky overhead, and large rock faces emerged from the water and towered over it, covered over with moss and bright green foliage. There were a few different groups sitting around the quarry, but it was mostly empty- plenty of room for them to spread out and eat their lunch.

Abraham climbed one of the smaller rock formations overlooking the water and set his water and sandwich down. “We should go swimming.”

The rest of the group looked eager, excited at the prospect, but Art hesitated. “How deep is it?” he asked.

“Well, it’s a quarry, so I think the most shallow spot will still be at least forty feet,” Ray answered.

“Forty feet,” Art repeated softly to himself. That was awfully deep. It would be easy to disappear in that water and never come up again. That old panic gripped him.

The rest of them were stripping down to their boxers to swim. Abraham dove in first, and then Pete jumped in, dragging Ray with him by his hands. Collie went next, doing a cannonball and splashing the three of them in the water.

Art wished he could follow, but he imagined jumping in and sinking down down down, away from the light. Instead he took off his shoes and socks and sat at the edge of the water, his legs under it up to his mid-calves. The water was cold, perfectly refreshing for a summer day.

A few feet away, Abraham was floating on his back, and Pete and Ray splashed at him, giggling to each other like conspirators. Collie was swimming laps around them, his tanned arms glinting in the sunlight. Show off, Art thought, and suppressed a secret smile.

It made Art happy to watch him, and it felt good to bask in the sun, to feel it on his arms and his legs. It was still early June, but the temperature must have climbed past eighty degrees. It had been humid in the forest, but by the water the air felt crisp and clean.

The sun flashed brilliantly off the surface of the water, casting his friends in a harsh glare. They looked like an old overexposed photograph, or a child’s crayon-colored dream come to life. This, he thought, is what summer is.

Collie noticed him sitting on the bank alone and swam over. “You coming in?” he asked. Art shook his head. “Can you not swim?”

“I can swim,” Art answered. “It’s just… it’s too deep.” He could only see a foot or two below the water’s surface. Below that, darkness straight down. He could see Collie’s arms as he tread water, but the rest of him was obscured by the quarry water. Pete, Ray, and Abraham were just floating heads, bobbing and laughing a dozen yards from shore.

“Oh.” Collie pushed his wet hair out of his face. “I get that.” He braced his hands on the rock and lifted himself up out of the water, sitting next to Art. Art’s shirt sleeve was wet from where Collie’s arm touched his.

“You don’t have to stop swimming on account of me,” he said softly.

“Oh, it’s not on account of you,” Collie answered. “We have to dry off and eat anyways. I don’t know about the rest of them, but I don’t want to drive around for another four hours in wet shorts.”

They sat in companionable silence for a minute, Collie kicking his legs and churning up water. The droplets seemed to catch fire in the afternoon sunlight. “What bothers you about the water?” Collie asked, looking over at him. The heat of Collie’s arm was still heavy against his arm, but neither of them moved away. Art’s face burned with the proximity.

“I can’t see the bottom. I can swim fine,” Art explained. “But I don’t like it when I can’t see the bottom.” He almost wanted to add that no one knew what was down there, lurking below the reach of the sun. But that was the stuff of nightmares, and he didn’t want to seem stupid.

“We’ll have to find you a swimming pool, then,” Collie replied.

Art fixed him with a look. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No, I’m not making fun of you. I’m trying to be nice. I don’t make fun of you, you know. At least not, like, seriously.” He had a faintly hurt look in his eyes, like this was something he really wanted to get across.

Art answered that look with a smile. “A swimming pool sounds nice, then.”

“Good,” Collie said simply. He got up and walked over to where his clothes were discarded, and started getting dressed. Art averted his eyes. He called out to the three in the water, “Come on and get out now! We gotta hit the road soon to keep on schedule!”

“Don’t be so lame!” Pete shouted back, in the middle of dunking Ray under the water. Ray pushed him away, laughing.

“Dumbass, it’s your schedule,” Collie answered, sitting back down and ripping open the pack of beef jerky. “Get over here and eat your sandwiches.” The three reluctantly swam over and pulled themselves out of water, instead eating their lunch and drying under the sun. Art left his perch on the edge of the rock and went to sit with them.

They ate their sandwiches and drank from their water bottles, warming themselves in the sun and keeping an eye on the time. When it hit 1:00 PM, Collie got up and said, “Time to go, guys. Pete, you’re driving.” He tossed the keys, and Pete caught them cleanly.

“Aye aye, captain.” Pete gave a mock salute and started getting dressed. “Ray can sit up front with me. We’ll debut our playlist.”

“Can’t wait,” Collie grumbled.

As they left, Art looked back at the quarry one more time, at the murky depths and the glare it cast on the rock formations surrounding it. Then, he turned around and followed his friends through the trees.

[daggerzine]

Ray Farrell on music and his time at SST, Blast First, Geffen and many more.

Ray Farrell has had a lifetime surrounded by music. First as a fan as a young kid and then eventually working for a series of record labels. He’s obviously a fan first and foremost as you can tell by reading below. It also seemed like he was there at the beginning of some major music scenes happening.

I had met Ray very briefly at one of the A.C. Elks hardcore shows that Ralph Jones put on in Atlantic City in the Summer of 1985 though Ray doesn’t remember it (honestly, a bunch of us were standing in a circle and chatting so I’m not even sure if any proper introductions were done).

Anyway, knowing some of the record labels that Ray had worked for I wanted to hear the whole story. I contacted him and shot him some questions and he was more than happy to elaborate and let us know where he’s been and where he’s going.  Take it away, Ray!

 Where did you grow up?

RF-Jersey City and Parsippany, New Jersey in the 60/70’s. I have two younger brothers.

What did you listen to first…classic rock or stuff earlier than that?

RF-Rock wasn’t classic yet. My earliest memories of music are my parents’ modest collection of 45’s and grandparents’ 78’s. My mom had a handful of singles on Chess and Satellite (pre-Stax)  that she said fell off a truck. We rented our house from a family connected to the mob. The records probably came from them. My mom and her sisters often sang Tin Pan Alley era songs at family gatherings. Harmony was encouraged!

Some records I heard as a toddler stayed with me forever. Lonnie Donegan’s “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor?” is a skiffle classic. Chuck Berry’s “Guitar Boogie” and “Last Night” by the Mar- Keys are still favorites.  I remember being spooked by the overblown production of the “Johnny Cash Sings Hank Williams” e.p. on Sun Records. In the mid 60’s, my mom had top 40 radio on in the house unless my dad was home. When I was in kindergarten, a high school neighbor in our building babysat me for a couple hours after school a few days a week.  Her girlfriends came over regularly. They listened to a lot of doo-wop, which I still love today. The babysitter and her friends taught me how to slow dance, even though I wasn’t nearly a full grown boy. J

My best friend in 7th grade was a Beatles fanatic and we immersed ourselves in decoding clues to the “Paul McCartney Is Dead” gimmick. That was a brilliant scam and a fun short term hobby.  It was a deep dive into The Beatles music as a junior music detective.  By the time I started buying records, The Beatles were on their way out.

I happily lived for many months on only three albums-

CCR’s “Bayou Country”, Iron Butterfly’s “In A Gadda Da Vida” and the Beatles “Sgt. Pepper.” I joined the Columbia Record Club. I got the first twelve albums for one buck. That was a popular scam.  Those first twelve records shaped my taste because they were the only records I had. I didn’t know what to order but I chose very well in retrospect. After that, I bought a lot of records. I didn’t smoke, but many of my friends did. A carton of cigs cost the same as an lp- 5 bucks.

I learned in 7th grade that if I knew the songs that girls liked, we would have something to talk about. Girls loved Tommy James and The Shondells and The Rascals. I still do! I had a wider range in music taste than most of my high school friends. Everyone in my extended circle loved the Stones, Neil Young and the Allman Brothers. In a tighter circle we were into David Bowie, Lou Reed, Sparks, Todd Rundgren etc. I loved Mountain, Led Zep, Hendrix, Budgie, The Kinks, Alice Cooper, Sabbath. At first, The Stooges seemed too deep and serious for me. A little scary because I thought if teenagers felt like this all over the world, I’m doomed.  I bought the album with “Loose” and played that song for weeks before listening to the rest of it. The girl next door had Iggy’ s “Raw Power” album the week it was released. When glam rock was happening in England, there was a weekly NYC radio show that played the Melody Maker Top 30 singles. I was fascinated by T.Rex, Slade, Hawkwind.  I don’t recall if prog rock was a tag yet, I knew that I didn’t like songs that rambled on for more than 7 minutes. There were exceptions of course- some King Crimson, Yes, Mahavishnu. I was impressionable. Radio station WBAI hosted “Free Music Store” concerts with local acts. One show was a keyboard  group  called Mother Mallard that had banks of synthesizers on stage. They were similar to the music of Phillip Glass and Steve Reich, who you would only hear on that same radio station. I talked myself into buying their records, but it took years to comprehend them. I was too young to be listening to such serious stuff. I played soccer and ran track for a couple years. During meets at other schools, I made friends. At parties I heard Issac Hayes, Bohannon and James Brown records. Brown was all over top 40 radio. Rhythm guitar was my jam! Soul and funk records were best for that. I spent many nights listening to AM radio. The signal travels farther at night, so I’d listen to stations far away. It didn’t matter what kind of music it was. Some of my relatives had short wave radios. I was more interested in radio production than short wave content. The production quality has not changed much since then.  It often sounds like broadcasts trapped in the ether for the last 30 years.

 While I was in high school, it was common for local colleges to host rock and jazz concerts for low prices, sometimes free. The schools had to spend the money sitting in the student union coffers.   There was a live music club in my town called Joint In The Woods. The venue began as a banquet hall that doubled as a meeting hall for Boy Scout Jamborees and the like.  When it became the Joint, it was a disco. The first night of live music was a show with Iggy & The Stooges. The regular disco patrons were pissed!  The guys were mostly goombah’s in Quiana print shirts and bell bottoms. Three or four guys smacked Iggy around after his set.  Sure enough, he played Max’s Kansas City the next night as if nothing happened. Because of this club, touring bands were suddenly playing in my town. Badfinger, Roy Wood’s Wizzard, Muddy Waters. The NY Dolls were scheduled but didn’t show up. Springsteen was often an opening act. The N.J. legal drinking age had just lowered to 18. It was a great time. I was still in school, so I wasn’t staying out on weeknights.

I was determined to learn NYC music history by hitting all the Greenwich Village clubs and talking to the owners and bartenders. It didn’t matter what kind of music they specialized in- I was into the vibe. There were occasional scary nights parking near CB’s or jazz spots in that neighborhood. Folk music was on FM radio at the time. A high school friend booked a local coffee house called Tea & Cheese. Mostly locals and ambitious tri-state artists. Martin Mull, Aztec Two Step, Garland Jeffries. Some of Lou Reed’s touring band, The Tots, played there.  I went to all kinds of record stores, mainly those that sold rock imports and cutouts. I was fascinated by the street level buzz of a record. In ’74, I heard dub reggae for the first time. The only stores to get that music were in Queens because there was a strong West Indian community there. It may have been the “Harder They Come” soundtrack that got me started. There was a “pay to play” radio station in Newark - WHBI. DJ’s had to buy their airtime. Arnold “Trinidad” Henry had a weekly show playing new calypso and reggae. He was more into calypso than reggae.  A lot of calypso was political and comical. Arnold was fascinating! There was often a personal crisis he’d talk about on the air. My favorite incident was when he said that his life had been threatened during the program, so he locked himself in the studio.. Someone called the cops. They convinced him to unlock the door. He just wanted more airtime.  Arnold played the first reggae dub track I’d heard- full dub albums were a new concept at the time. Most dub was found on the flipsides of reggae 45’s. One of the shows sponsors was Chin Randy’s Records in Queens. I trekked out there by train to buy my first dub records. That was a trip! Randy Chin’s family went on to start VP Records.

 What was the first alternative/independent music you got into? How did it happen (friends? older siblings?)

RF-The term “punk” as a music style hadn’t been coined yet.  I vaguely recall equating “punk” with the great “Nuggets” compilation or something Greg Shaw might have writ in Bomp Magzine. I didn’t identify labels as independent. I knew that if the label design was simple and the address was listed, it was probably a small company.  There were plenty of record stores carrying obscure stuff.   I bought import records from a few NYC stores. I took the bus in until I was old enough to drive.  One store Pantasia, was up in The Bronx. I went there one Christmas eve day to get the import of the second Sadistic Mika Band album. The clerk talked me into buying the harder to find first album as well. He said it sounded like Shel Talmy produced it. I knew who that was and it was a revelation to talk to somebody in a record store at that level. That is what a record store should be! I read Phonograph Record magazine, Bomp and Trouser Press regularly.  Patti Smith and Television self released their debut singles- those are the first “indie” records I bought, followed by the first two Pere Ubu singles.  I remember hearing the Modern Lovers’ “Roadrunner” from the Bezerkley Chartbusters comp on WFMU and thinking that there must be more music like that. It was refreshing.

Seeing Patti Smith and Television perform at CBGB’s changed my life. I connected the dots. I had BÖC albums on which Patti had co-writes.  She had a poem insert in Todd Rundgren’s “A Wizard, A True Star” album. She read a Morrison poem on a Ray Manzarek lp. She wrote for rock music mags with distinctive style. I read a brief story about her in the Voice and went to see her do her annual Rock N’ Rimbaud show. Shortly after that she and Television played CBGB’s for six weekends in early ’75. Both bands were really great. Patti didn’t have a drummer yet. Richard Hell was a big inspiration to me.  He looked cool. He played bass like he just picked it up the month before. That was a new concept.  Television changed bass players in the middle of the residency. Television was the first band I saw with short hair and they dressed like teenage delinquents circa 1962. The CBGB’s jukebox had a good number of 60’s garage records. In my head I conceived Television  to be inspired by that music.  Made sense to me- Lenny Kaye, who assembled the “Nuggets” comp,  is in the PSG. When I went back to see Television headline, The Ramones opened. Seeing The Ramones again, Talking Heads opened. It seemed like the streak of seeing great new bands would not end. They were distinctly NYC sounds. They could not have merged anywhere else.  I remember avoiding the band Suicide because I didn’t think the music could be good J. Bands like Tuff Darts, Mumps and The Marbles opened shows but I wasn’t thrilled by them. A CBGB’s band that doesn’t get mentioned much is Mink DeVille. They wore matching outfits like they were playing a low budget Miami dive in 1962J.  The club still had the small corner stage. The p.a. was ok and the bands had small amps. The music wasn’t loud in a “rock” way. You could sit at a table right in front of the band. Although we consider the club a birthplace of punk, the club showcased local bands that had been around for a while. I think the club upgraded the p.a. once before building the big stage. I realized at that point that when a band was great or at least interesting live, the records were basic documents of the band’s sound.

What was your first job in the music scene/industry?

RF- Before realizing I wanted to be in the business, I hounded import mail order guys on the phone about non-lp b-sides and albums that weren’t released stateside.  I was fascinated by the process.  Why were some records not in stores even though they had local airplay? My dad did not listen to much music, but he had an army buddy that made a living in Al Hirt’s band. He came to our house once. He gave my dad a copy of John Fahey’s “After The Ball” album, which he played on.  I liked his stories about the session man side of the business.  Fahey treated him well.  I was generally shy, but when it came to music I would approach anyone I thought I could learn from.  I heard horror stories about the music biz in NYC but learned later that those were a mob related labels. At the time, I thought the entire NYC music biz might be that way. I planned to move to California anyway.   In high school, I go-fer’d at local Jersey radio stations and talked my way into meeting a few top FM radio dj’s. I thought I wanted to be a professional dj, but my dad wisely talked me out of that. The itinerant radio jock life would not be for me. It was a racket.

In ’76, I took a long low budget cross country trip with my high school sweetheart.  Along the way, I stayed in Memphis for three weeks with a cousin who was stationed at the Millington naval base.  Got a job at a hip movie theatre that served liquor.  I found Alex Chilton in the phone book and spent an afternoon talking with him. I wasn’t yet legal drinking age in Tennessee. It amused him that a fan showed up in his town who was not old enough to drink.  En route to Cali, Tulsa, OK was on my route to find Shelter Records and studio , but it  shut down and the label moved to L.A. At the time, Dwight Twilley’s “I’m On Fire” was a radio hit. I didn’t think there were still bands like that. Twilley was from Tulsa, but had moved to L.A. by that time.

When I arrived in L.A. I visited small label record company offices. A few offered me jobs or references. I spent two weeks crashing at the Malibu house of a distant family friend. I didn’t want to live in L.A. but I was encouraged by the opportunities. I got a job at the famous record store- Rather Ripped in Berkeley, CA.

 Patti Smith told me about Rather Ripped before I left Jersey. In ’75, she and her band went to California for shows in L.A. and Berkeley. The northern Cali shows were set up by the store. She did a poetry reading there. This is well before “Horses” was released.  I bought a couple records from the store’s Dedicated Fool mail order service. They had a monthly catalog on newsprint. Thousands of records in tiny font.  Every record was described with a few words. This is 1976 and punk rock was just getting started. I worked as a prep cook in a charcuterie associated with Alice Waters’ famous restaurant Chez Panisse. The proprietor knew the record store owners. I wasn’t actively looking to work there, but I talked about music all day every day. They fast tracked me for an interview. Because of a scheduling mistake, Tom Petty interviewed me for the job. His first album just came out and “American Girl” was close to being a hit single. The band came to the store before a local show. Tom overheard the owner apologizing for not being able to do the interview, so he offered to conduct it.  It was great. I knew all about his label, Shelter Records.  I deliberately avoided talking about The Ramones and Patti Smith because punk was new and against the grain.  At the end of the interview Tom told the owners that if he lived in Berkeley, he’d buy all his records from me.  The store owner still had to interview me formally the next day, but I knew that I nailed it.

 It was owned by two dynamic gents that were connected to Berkeley society and Bay Area journalists. They weren’t typical record store guys. They celebrated the 70’s in the moment. They held court with well known music scribes, musicians, dj’s. They were good friends of The Residents. Perhaps my strangest story is meeting The Residents with the Rather Ripped owners at a S.F. Irish bar that specialized in Irish Coffee’s. I had only recently heard of the group, so I was not cognizant of their marketing myth.   At the bar, we were with our girlfriends and wives. One of the Residents tried to convince me and my gf to go back their place for a hot tub session.  I laughed out loud and said “geez, what a bunch of hippies”! We didn’t go. In retrospect, I should have gone on the condition that they wore eyeball heads in the tub. At that time, The Residents rarely performed live, but they did in 1975 for the store’s birthday party. The early Bezerkley Records (Jonathan Richman, Greg Kihn) was distributed to stores through Rather Ripped. Their office was a few blocks away. At the store, each employee had unique music taste and expertise. Pop music was changing rapidly with a new energy. Some of us were tapped into it.  We all had to know the key new releases in every genre because we were tastemakers. Major labels would beg us to do window displays for new releases. But if they could not find a store employee that liked that artist, it was no go. So, no Pablo Cruise window display.  We weren’t against major labels, but we put a lot of energy into selling the ton of music that we loved. Our focus was on imports, indies, promos and cut outs where we could get a good price mark up.  We had a rare record search service with customers all over the world. We’d find rare records through trade-ins and by combing record stores all over the state.

There were a few import distributors, but they weren’t hip to many small run U.S. independent releases. That was understandable because bands didn’t often press enough records for a distributor to get excited about. In other words, why spend half your day hunting down records that were only pressed in small quantities. Just as they start selling, you’re out of stock. There gonna sell a hell of a lot more Scorpions’ picture discs!   As always, some distributors financed exclusive re-pressings of records that had momentum. The only way to get records like Roky Erikson’s “Two Headed Dog” single or The Flamin’ Groovies’ “You Tore Me Down” 45 was directly through mail order.  I wrote to label addresses listed in Trouser Press and fanzines to buy direct in order to sell them in the store with no competition. Major label sales reps didn’t prioritize us  because we didn’t shift bulk units of the hits. However, we were so plugged in to the lesser known artists that we were a good place for record companies to try and start a buzz. We could swell 50-100 of a record that all the other stores sold a handful of. Bands showed up at the store while touring.  Springsteen bought Dylan bootlegs from us by mail order. Patti Smith’s manager Jane Friedman used the store as a home base when Patti and John Cale came through the area.

Berkeley is in the East Bay of the S.F. bay area. A few months after starting at Rather Ripped, I realized that the city had a rich music scene well before punk /new wave started. There was Fantasy Records, a well known jazz r&b label but best known for CCR;  Arhoolie, Solid Smoke, Metalanguage;  the contemp classical labels- Lovely Music and 1750 Arch; folk and blues labels like Takoma and Olivia. Of course, bands like Chrome and others started labels to release their own music. Ralph Records was started by The Residents, and they began signing bands.  Rather Ripped was also a center for improv, electronic and meditation records.

In ’77 or ’78   I joined the nascent Maximum Rock N Roll radio team. This was well before the magazine. In the early days there were weeks when we didn’t have enough new punk records to fill the two hour weekly show. Tim Yohannon was all about energetic, real rock n roll, so he filled in the program with records by Gene Vincent, The Sonics etc. BTW, Tim applied green masking tape to the three closed sides of every record he had. He gave me a Mekons double single  he decided he didn’t like. It was in a  gatefold sleeve that he sealed shut with his green tape!  Sometimes he re-designed the cover art…never for the better. He made his own pic sleeves for 45’s that didn’t have them. Bands would stare at their own records in bewilderment. Tim was archiving the records of the entire punk and hardcore movement worldwide.

Eventually, Tim brought in Ruth Schwartz, and Jeff Bale as co-hosts- both great people.  Jello Biafra was a frequent guest. Tim assembled the “Not So Quiet On The Western Front” lp and later organized syndication for the radio show. I remember hearing the first Disorder ep and thinking -this is the future! J  It was exciting. But soon, most hardcore records sounded alike to me. It was like- “Do you want more fries with your fries?” I went to plenty of live shows without knowing a lot about the bands playing them. I was happy when the fashion trended away from jackboots to sneakers…getting a boot kick to the head in a stage dive could be brutal.  I didn’t see a lot of skinhead violence at shows, but I know it was changing the scene.

San Francisco and Berkeley were important music centers, activist meccas as well as creative artistic and intellectual hubs.  Yohannon had history as an activist. He identified with public protests for causes & social issues.  For many teenagers, punk rock was a rite of passage. I think it changed a lot of kids’ lives for the better.  The overriding message was to be civically aware of what is going on around you and what affects your life.

 Tell me about your time at Arhoolie Records. Where was it located?

Rather Ripped’s owners had a falling out and the remaining owner just wanted to sell records and antiques with his wife. He moved it to a nearby city. Just before the store closed, he told me of an open position at Back Room Distribution, a division of Arhoolie. It was in El Cerrito, a small town north of Berkeley. Chris Strachwitz, the owner of Arhoolie is a legendary record man. He recorded many of his early blues albums with a tape recorder in his car.  He owned the legendary Down Home Music store in the same building.  Separated by partition behind the store was Back Room.  It was an indie label distributor for blues, folk roots music. Rounder Records was still a new label at the time. I gotta admit, when Rounder issued The Shaggs “Philosophy Of The World’ I was in seventh heaven. I worked primarily for the distributor, grooming to be a sales rep but I spent a lot of time in the store.  At first, I didn’t yet relate to blues and country music. But there were a lot of touring artists in those styles making a living. It was a strong network of clubs, fans, radio shows and press that fueled it. The store had an incredible selection of obscure 50’s/60’s rockabilly and garage band comps. The Cramps were my favorite band at the time.  The rockabilly comps  mostly on a the Dutch White Label, were treasure troves of insane songs.  My heart was in new music- whatever you wanna call it, punk, new wave, art music. That’s the business I wanted to be in.  I used my time to learn more about distribution operations. The people that worked at Arhoolie and in its community were fun music heads. There were a lot of good musicians among them.  It was a great time to live in Berkeley.

What was next, Rough Trade and CD Presents? Was that in San Francisco? I went to that Rough Trade store a few times and it was an amazing store.

I knew folks from Rough Trade UK because I bought imports from them to sell @ Rather Ripped. When they wanted to open in the U.S. they contacted me, but at the time the wage was low and there wasn’t enough space to work. I was interested in working in the distribution division, not the store. They speiled something about it being a socialist business.  I stayed at Arhoolie for a little while longer.  In the meantime, I was offered my own weekly late night radio show on Pacifica’s  KPFA in Berkeley- same station as Maximum Rock N’Roll. I took over a show called “Night Sky”, an ambient music program. My interim program title was “No More Mr. Night Sky” until I settled on “Assassinatin’ Rhythm”. The station’s music director was a contemporary classical composer closely associated with avant -garde and 20th century music. A major segment of my show was for industrial, post-punk and undefinable music. I hosted a few live on- air performances with Z’ev, Slovenly and Angst among others. Negativland’s “Over The Edge” program started on KPFA around this time. KPFA was 100,000 watts of power with affiliate stations covering the Central Valley down to Fresno and Bakersfield.

 When the time was right, I moved to Rough Trade’s U.S. distribution company in Berkeley. The record store was in San Francisco. We distributed a lot of British records sent by Rough Trade UK, often in small quantities.  Rough Trade US was set up to press and distribute select RT and Factory records by Joy Division, ACR, The Fall, Stiff Little Fingers, Crass. It was cheaper and more effective to press in the U.S and Canada. I also distributed some U.S. labels but there was one Brit on the staff that hated most American music.  On top of that, it could be a dangerous place to work. One of the staff was importing reggae records and weed from Jamaica to our warehouse. The local connection was shot on his porch shortly after he picked up a shipment! I was lucky to spend a few days travelling with Mark E.Smith of The Fall. He loved obscure rockabilly and garage band records. I was able to return to Memphis for a while to prep the first Panther Burns album for release. Tony Wilson of Factory put up most of the money to keep RTUS going. He was a brilliant character, but I learned from talking with him how not to conduct business. I often got sample records from bands that wanted distribution. Pell Mell’s “Rhyming Guitars” e.p.  was the start of my long association with the band. I enjoyed selling records to stores all over the country. I learned about local scenes, records, fanzines, clubs and college radio stations everywhere. Making these sources connect for touring bands and record sales was exciting. Because Rough Trade is British, we had the benefit of connections with club dj’s. We pressed and promoted New Order’s “Blue Monday” single on a shoestring budget.  For a long time, it was the best kept secret from the mainstream.  I left Rough Trade for Subterranean Records ( Flipper etc) for a spell while working in a record store. The guy that put up the money for the record store ran guns to Cuba through Mexico. Thankfully, not through the actual store.  I booked Cali shows for Panther Burns, The Wipers, Sonic Youth, Whitehouse.

Who owned the CD Presents label? I remember that Avengers compilation.

It was owned by a lawyer, David Ferguson. He had a recording studio as well.  I didn’t understand why he wanted to run a label. He did not have an ear for music. But we did release a Tales Of Terror lp!  He almost released a DOA album that I thought the band would kill him over. Many years later I got into a fist fight with one of David’s employees in a limo ride shared with Ferguson and Lydia Lunch. We fought through the window separating the driver from the passengers. I would love to recreate that for a film. Good times!

My main role there was to set up the first Billy Bragg record in the U.S. Billy’s manager was the legendary Peter Jenner and both were great to work with. They were using CD Presents as a stepping stone to a major label. In the meantime, I knew a few people at SST. Joe Carducci is an old friend. He was pitching me to move to L.A. and work there,  but I resisted for a while. I had just met the woman that I knew would be the love of my life. I didn’t want to move to SoCal. Joe gave me an ultimatum. He sent three advance cassettes that convinced me to go- Meat Puppets’ “Up On The Sun”, Minutemen’s “Double Nickels” and Huskers’ “New Day Rising” That’s an excellent recruiting strategy. I later married the love of my life.

On the side I booked shows for bands I loved. Gerard Cosloy asked me to book Sonic Youth first northern Cali shows. I also booked shows for The Wipers and noise band Whitehouse

Was SST Records next? How long did you last there and what was that like?

I was there for three years. “How long did you last there?” sounds like I was biding my time :)   I’m often asked about my time with SST.

Carducci hired me to do PR. That meant publicity, college radio, regional press. Video was a valuable promo tool. MTV’s “120 Minutes” program was a great way to promote our records.

In 1987 we put out more records than Warner Brothers. By that time, I hired people to help.

I’ve done a number of interviews about SST. If you have specific questions, shoot. I recall that my social life was almost entirely with my co-workers and bands on the label. I was nearly oblivious to music from other labels. I was a big fan of Dischord and Homestead. Metallica, COC, Voivod and the Birthday Party/Nick Cave were my non-SST staples.

I think around this time I had met you briefly in NJ at one of the Elks Lodge shows that my old friend Ralph Jones put on. Were you living in NJ at that point or just visiting?

You’ve mentioned that before and I don’t recall the specific show. I moved out of NJ permanently in ’76. I came back for annual summer visits to NYC, north Jersey and Philly. Some high school friends went to Upsala College, then the home of WFMU. On my first visit back in ’76  I met Irwin Chusid and R. Stevie Moore. Some high school friends were connected to Feelies before they took that name.

Was Blast First! next? I met Pat Naylor once and hung out with her at a show and she was really sweet.

Yeah around the time I left SST, the folks in Sonic Youth called saying that they had left as well. They wanted me to be involved with Blast First! in the U.S. I knew Paul Smith because he released their albums in the UK. Blast First UK released a number of Touch N Go and SST records. The label was a division of Mute which had a  U.S. deal with Enigma. My job was almost entirely “Daydream Nation” promotion. It was so much fun to be able to go deep  with one album. We issued Ciccone Youth shortly afterward, which augmented the overall Sonic Youth story.  The only other active touring band was Band Of Susans and on a limited level, Lunachicks and Big Stick.  It was only one year of work before Enigma cut Mute/Blast First loose. I went on Sonic Youth’s Soviet Union tour and I had a few memorable meetings with Sun Ra. David Bowie called a few times asking about recording studios that Dino Jr and Sonic Youth used.  Bowie had a brilliant idea to record Suicide’s “Dream Baby Dream” with Glenn Branca’s large guitar group. We tried following up on it but Bowie was immersed in Tin Machine and other projects.

Was it on to Geffen then?

Yes, Sonic Youth had good meetings with the label. I had recently met Mark Kates who was championing the signing.  He suggested that I come in to meet the entire company. He brought my name up with David who said, “we need someone like that here”.

I had fleeting thoughts that working for a major was “selling out”...punching corporate clock. I wanted to apply what I knew on a larger scale.  

What was that like, working for a proper major label? Was David Geffen still involved?

On my second day there, David called me into his office. He is down to earth, street smart. Like many of the best in the biz, he didn’t have an attitude.  He had met with the Meat Puppets. He sensed that Dinosaur Jr. was important. I reminded him that I was not hired for a&r.

He said- “I don’t assign job titles. If you find something else you’d like to do here, you can pursue it ‘after 5pm’ ”. I found reissue projects like the Pere Ubu box and Raincoats catalog. I recorded a new Raincoats album.  I signed Southern Culture On The Skids, Garrison Starr, Skiploader. I assembled and recorded Rob Zombie’s Halloween Hootenanny comp. With Sonic Youth, I pondered making records with John Fahey and Townes Van Zandt. After ten years, it was time to move on.

Tell us what you do now, didn’t you get involved with digital music at some point?

Geffen Records was folded into Interscope in 1999 and I was bored with the limitations of the business as it was.  Digital music was gaining ground solely through illegal file trading on Napster. I knew there would be a major shift in the business moving to digital. I worked for the download site. eMusic.com, signing distribution agreements with labels. This was years before iTunes and YouTube. Major labels would not work with us because mp3 files are open source files that could be traded freely without control.  They saw eMusic as a facilitator of illegal file trading. Like marijuana use leading to hard drugs!  In the big picture, I knew that digital downloads weren’t “sexy”.  But at some point, digital music would develop into something easier to track and use. We skipped the major labels. The bigger independent labels understood that digital music would be the future.  It was a great place to be. I knew a lot of music, but I had no idea there were so many labels in every country. One label owner told me that I had the best  job in the world. I knew that to explain this new unproven music format it could be an uphill climb. So I took the time to research label websites for song samples. That way I could find common ground with label owners. There’s surf music in Brazil? There’s a young female cellist duo in Prague that make energetic music? There’s archaic royalty rules connected to opera arrangements? Bring it on!  It certainly changed how I listen to music.

It was a time when business rules and legal rights had to change in order to deal with digital income disbursement. For example, digital downloads could be sold by the song while royalty payments were based on album sales. eMusic was at the forefront of those changes. When iTunes launched, digital music was “legitimized”. Borne out of eMusic was RoyaltyShare which provides a royalty accounting platform for labels. It is now a division of The Orchard and I divide my time between The Orchard and RoyaltyShare.

Who are some current bands you are into?

A loaded question! I listen to a lot of new music. I spend a lot of time listening to records and cd’s in my collection. Of current artists,  I really like Steve Gunn’s music. I listen to the projects involving members of Sonic Youth.  Bill Nace, Kim’s partner in Body/Head is a guitar genius. Body/Head’s music is a cathartic experience for me.  London is lucky to have Thurston Moore living and working there. I think the music they make separately is far more exciting that what Sonic Youth would’ve made if still together.

Lately I’m digging Melenas from Spain, Hayvenlar Alemi from Turkey. Quin Kirchner is a Chicago based  drummer that put out a great jazz record in 2018 called “The Other Side Of Time”. I think he plays on Ryley Walker ‘s records.

Because I’ve spent so much time with the music of Sonic Youth, Branca and Rhys Chatham, I crave the occasional dive into instrumental symphonic guitar army and tonal stuff. Current favorites in that vein are Bosse De Nage, Pelican, Sunn O)))

Given the chance I’ll see any performance by Mary Halvorson, Ches Smith, Marc Ribot or Mary Lattimore.

It took me years to get it, but I’m now a big fan of Keiji Haino’ music.  Dean McPhee is a British guitarist I really like. I just bought a couple of Willie Lane lp’s on Feeding Tube.

I research music history and the development of the industry. There are historical and social components of every type of music by culture, country, time period. I love stories about riots at premieres of new avant garde works. I read a book about famous classical composers in the 18th Century playing home concerts (salons) where people are talking the entire time…but they are paid handsomely for the performance.   Streaming music sites and YouTube are vast repositories of music and cultural documentation.

Do you still make it out to many shows?

I go to two/three shows a month when I’m home and more when traveling especially NY/London. I start work early in the morning so I’m not out late often.  I understand why people see less live music as they get older. I’m done with music festivals. The Big Ears Festival is the only Stateside event that might inspire me to stand for eight hours.

I always hear music by new artists that I really like. I don’t always go to see the live show. Sometimes I hear a new band that sounds like a band  I liked 20 years ago.  I wouldn’t deliberately see a band that uses another band’s sound as a template.

 What are your top 10 desert island discs?

I cannot do 10. It’s 20 or nothing. If you say sorry Ray, it will be nothing. FineJ If I’m on an island, I’ll listen to the ocean waves and sounds of nature. If I’m relegated to a desert, I’ll listen to the blood coarsing through my veins.

Miles Davis- Kind Of Blue

Television- Marquee Moon

Peter Brotzmann- Machine Gun

Sex Pistols -Never Mind The Bollocks

Rolling Stones- Let It Bleed

Soundtrack – The Harder They Come

Billy Harper – Black Saint

Kleenex/Liliput- First Songs

Patti Smith Group -Easter

Hound Dog Taylor & The Houserockers- Houserockin’

Led Zeppelin- Houses Of The Holy

Sonic Youth – Daydream Nation

Elvis Presley- Sun Sessions

The Cramps- Songs The Lord Taught Us

Pell Mell -Flow

Procol Harum- A Salty Dog

Sibelius- Complete Symphonies

Lou Reed -Coney Island Baby

Meat Puppets- Up On The Sun

The Kinks- Kinks Kronikles

 “Hmm....Flow or Star City?”

 Any final words? Closing comments? Anything you wanted to mention that I didn’t ask.

I’ve been involved off and on with the artist Raymond Pettibon for a music project called Supersession. He has made records under this moniker before. This project began in 1990 and stalled for many years. We revived it a couple years ago. I play bass. Raymond wrote many pages of words and lyrics that he passed to the band, encouraging us to write music behind them. It’s different from Raymond’s other records because it is not improvised. Rick Sepulveda, our guitarist is a great songwriter and he wrote music for Raymond’s words. Rick sings a bunch of the songs because Raymond loves his voice. We did a  NYC performance in November that was really fun. So now of course, I’m thinking we should play monthly in L.A. We are nearly finished with the album that we recorded at Casa Hanzo, the San Pedro studio Mike Watt owns with Pete Mazich. Raymond is a brilliant man; fun and inspiring to work with. When I practice with Rick, he’ll often break into a cover song deep in the recess of memory. Like John Cale’s “Hanky Panky Nohow” ,Kevin Ayers’ “Oh Wot A Dream” or the Doors “Wishful Sinful”. We may cover a Harry Toledo song. It’s a blast.  I hope to have the album finished in July.

 Tav, Bobby, Pell Mell and Ray 

[brooklynislandgirl]

Married/Ship Meme for Beth and Marion :)c

Married Life Meme || Accepting

leaves their dirty clothes on the floor

Tatters of clothes like forgotten steamers of ribbons litter the ground. Darkly wet and sticky not even close to drying in the humid heat. A few lay there, trampled in the victory that had snatched them in the first place, others consigned to the earth in an effort to escape.

Further into the thickets of cypress and moss cloth is occasionally replaced with flesh for all the same reasons. It’s a grisly scene to come across, the implications of it both nauseating and fearsome.

Startled birds take loud wing, squawking warnings to their fellows but the swamp swallows that up. What’s worse though is the spectral echo of laughter and rough, ragged shrieks no human mouth can make. This is how legends are born. How they seed themselves into the earth and shadow below, and breathe just under the surface of algae-green carpeted pools.But then again, who ever said hide-and-seek wasn’t a full-contact sport had never Beth and her rougarou. 

forgets to run the dish washer

“I gotta dishwasher, sha,” she says. “M’own two hands.”Beth lays curled up on the couch, wrapped in a sheet as she watches Marion from across the room. The woman sounds a little offended and she’s not sure why. It was meant innocently, not as a social commentary on the way she lives. 

“Can I help a’least?”“Non.” The word is a little harsher than it’s meant and rests, quivering in the air. And she knows guilt is gnawing on Marion even though Beth has told her a hundred times that there’s nothing to be ashamed of. While she doesn’t walk in two worlds like Marion does, she understands it, otherwise she’d never even think to have made the offer.The bites will heal in a few hours, less if she speeds up the process, but the wound here only continues to atrophy.

pumps gas for the car

Marion resists the urge to light another cigarette as she sits in the driver’s seat, her thumbs tapping out a staccato rhythm on the steering wheel that has nothing to do with music and everything about the tension making camp between her shoulder blades.Outside, Beth is pumping gas and chirping away in undimmed enthusiasm for La Fete Louisiane up in Baton Rouge. She flits between asking for the dozenth time who Bienville and Évangéline are as if she can’t keep it in her head ~and bless that girl, maybe she can’t ~ and wondering if they should have made their own tintamarre. She talks about the presentations from the Houma Nation and asks after the origin of zydeco music, if Marion’s ever played pétanque. And maybe the last straw is when she talks about the first time she’s ever eaten crawdads, because she mentions the Other One.

It’s enough to make the beast snap and she does everything she can to keep it caged. “Ya done yet?”

drives when they’re going somewhere

And she’s still talking when she climbs back into the car; she might be adorable but Beth certainly doesn’t have the sense God gave a goose. That’s all youth and the undiminished innocence she manages to hold onto despite everything. And just maybe, Marion admits when she puts the truck into gear and pulls away from the gas station, she envies the little woman for that. And her man even more, though she avoids thinking about that. She breathes in the first tainted breath of the cigarette she promised herself and then switches on the radio to put a little distance between those bleaker thoughts and it’s as though someone, somewhere’s cursed her.

Beth sings along, to Marion. To the road. To the open road. She’s not very good at it but she makes up in volume and enthusiasm what she lacks in skill. One little hand comes to rest on Marion’s shoulder. “Love is in the water, love is in the air. Show me where to look, tell me, will love be there? Will love be there? Teach me how to speak, teach me how to share...”

She doesn’t seem to notice the way Marion’s body stiffens or the not quite affectionate look slanted her way and carries on with the impromptu serenade, right against Marion’s ear now.

“Beth?”

“Whoa…heaven let ya light shine down. Whooooaa, heaven let ya light shine down…yeah?”

“Go to bed wit dat.” Pointed, sharp.

The singing stops. There’s silence for a few precious minutes and then…“Is dat like one come on or one bad thing?”

For fuck’s sake.

“Eiddah way, pass a good time, yeah?” And oh how she giggles bright as sunshine.

rearranges the furniture

Weeks later and the hairs on the back of Marion’s neck stand as she makes her way back to her place. There’s sweat in the air and the slightest rasp of heavy breathing and she was not expecting company. Except that she should have. Under all of it is the smell of sandalwood, cinnamon and those flowers from across the sea.

When she makes her way inside there’s the little witch. Bare feet balanced on the balls of her toes, arms stretched out and straining as she fights a new couch. She’s losing ground as she tries to push it into place, and that alone demands the question how she got it here in the first place, how she’d moved the old one on her own and a moment later she’s on her knees with a loud gasp of surprise.

Only then does she seem to notice Marion and grins. “Su’prise?”

falls asleep with the TV on

So maybe the couch isn’t the worst. It’s certainly soft enough and the only memories attached to it are the ones they’re making. And maybe Marion doesn’t mind so much that someone so small manages to take up so much room, both physically and emotionally. The book she’d been reading out-loud falls to the floor and Marion doesn’t bother to reach for it, her hands are otherwise occupied. She’ll never really admit it but she likes the feel of Beth’s unruly locks beneath her fingers and if she moves, the girl was likely to wake up and realise just how late it was.Tells herself that she’ll send Beth away tomorrow, tell her that she can’t keep coming over when she pleases, that she doesn’t need the poetry and the softness. She’ll say a hundred cruel things, only half of which Beth will understand; the language is easy but maybe the witch is made of Teflon because no clue seems to stick.

The same promise Marion has made a handful of times, same promise she knows she’ll break when she drags the old afghan over those tiny shoulders.

gets to use the bathroom first

And it’s singing again that Marion wakes up to, this time from the bathroom where the door is open and bleeding steam into the rest of the house. The smell of coffee competes with soap, bacon with something softer, more delicately layered.

“But when we rise, is like strawberry fields. If I treated ya bad, ya bruise m’ face. Couldn’ love ya more, ya got a beautiful taste….”

And fists clench in the sheets. Half convinced that maybe she’s not as sweet and innocent as she appears, and is in fact, trying to kill Marion a little bit at a time. It’s almost insidious and that makes it all the more appealing.

With a half-swallowed groan, Marion drags herself up out of bed and chases the song.

decides the temperature for the ac/heater

She never complains about the heat. No matter how humid ~the kind where you shower on Monday and are still wet come Friday~ the air gets, no matter how much vitality it saps from every living thing for miles, Beth delights in it.She tells Marion stories about sandy beaches and the murmur of the ocean under skies that are endlessly blue. She talks about thriving jungles full of exotic plants and taking what you wanted to eat if you can reach up and grab it. She talks of riding the sea, compares Snowballs to Shave Ice. She talks of old friends and relatives, though never her parents. To hear her talk is to imagine she was born right out of the waves and given over to this fabled hero of a man who looks just like her. Marion has suffered graciously through endless pictures of him.

Once in a while, she says she misses snow, the only thing she ever really liked about New York aside from the people she knew. Says she prefers the bayou because it’s less crowded and quieter and it never really gets cold.

She doesn’t really know, does she, that sometimes the chill has nothing to do with the weather, and how heat is leeched out of the body as it cools under the snap of jaws. If she’s very, very lucky, she’ll never find out.

sets up holiday decorations

Days melt into one another, from spring to harvest. Days shorten in length until night becomes dominant and in the deeper parts, the glaring eye of the sun fails to thrive at all. Marion marks the passing of the seasons by what there is to hunt, and what grows. She doesn’t have much use for gourds that will only rot from the inside out, or trees pulled indoors and strung with lights and tinsel; proof against the long, hungry winter. Paper-hearts aren’t any substitute for the once-living kind.

But she indulges Beth because it’s harmless and it’s sweet and those are things that Marion isn’t so familiar with. And because trying to stop her is roughly like sifting through the Sahara with a child’s shovel and pail. She draws the line at matching costumes, though, even if it is Mardi Gras.

leaves the lights on

Marion asked about the lights, once. What she got was a tangled web of answers, all of which only made half sense. The fear of the dark had filled Beth since childhood, maybe before she’d ever left the womb. There were things that lived in it, a writhing mass of shadows. One in particular had singled her out and came to her in the night, stealing her ability to move, to think, to breathe. That even the smallest of lights could keep it away, or at least that’s what her brother had told her, which in turn, made it Gospel truth.

Marion’s not so sure. Some of the other things she’s said that her brother told her sometimes were wildly inaccurate if not flat-out wrong. But it seems to make the little witch feel safe in some ways. Makes her easier to find at night when she carries the lantern out to her grove.And maybe the one thing even the Rougarou isn’t so keen on snuffing out is that little glimmer of hope that radiates out from her.

uses the bathroom with the door open

Standing on ceremony wasn’t a thing for them, that sense of privacy used up after the first two months they’d known each other. She says body functions are all natural and that skin was the first clothing and weird things like that, and Marion is pretty sure it’s all just an excuse. The one thing though that she’s always hated is having her bare legs showing.So she waits.Perfectly motionless until she hears the sink running and the sound of bristles scraping teeth.  Leans a shoulder in the door way and takes a good long look.The scar is pretty bad, jagged in its pattern and runs from the back of her knee to just above the ankle on an otherwise shapely limb. There’s a marked lack of muscle that leaves it shrivelled, stunted in comparison. How strange it was. Marion knows how much of Beth has been consumed, and how savage the tearing of flesh, almost down to the bone. She’s watched as slowly the witch’s body has rebuilt itself time and again without blemish, without anything more than a sweetly muffled sigh or an agonised cry that becomes something else entirely {the girl’s wiring is off, the way pain and pleasure for her are so intertwined}, and she eventually dances away without any evidence of the feeding. So why was that different.She almost feels guilty again when she looks up and sees Beth staring at her from the cracked mirror, green eyes for once bearing a light of anger uncommon to her. 

She speaks in her Haole tongue, not the pidgin so reminiscent of Creole. “It’s from before. Nothing I can do now can fix it. Nothing anyone else can do can fix it. A reminder that all magick comes with a price and it’s usually paid in blood.” From a limb.From a brother.From her soul itself.“Excuse me, mele, I need to get dressed.”And she shuts the door. 

fixes the plumbing (or calls the plumber)

The miasma of piss, sweat, and fear vies with the natural wet decay of the bayou. The Rougarou had been patiently hunting it down for most of the night, toying with its source, baiting it. Had chased it to ground...and dropped the scent for mere moments. Thick saliva dripped down its wicked teeth, carrion breath hot and fetid pushing out from the spaces between. It snarled at this new development, unhappy by any stretch of the imagination. Had chased the pitiful creature into the witch’s domain, and that warding around her grove had interrupted the prey’s tracks.But even so, it couldn’t soak up her words as she condemned the cowering, pitiful mass of regrets and weapons.“I know what ya huntin’ for. An’ dis is where ya vigil against da dark ends.” She raises her blade but doesn’t strike the Hunter with it, merely points with it’s sharp tip. Her other hand contains a roughly man shaped doll, made of bleached bone, tanned sinew. “When it’s done wi'ya, wha’evah is lef’ gonna get scattered across da swamp as a warnin’.” She snapped a limb of the effigy and bone shatters in the man, his wail loud. “Any of ya kind dat makes it into da bayou gonna meet a similar fate.” Another snap, another limb and the man collapses to his knees, hands in fists supporting his weight.He tries to plead with her but her face is a mask as luminescent and impassive as the moon above the canopy. “This place is my home, an’ da beast belongs t’ me. T’ink of me as very jealous an’ vindictive.” Another limb, another scream. “An’ unnerstan’ dat I’m da last t’ink ya eyes will evah set upon.”

She continues to break the hunter, bit by bit, occasionally using her powers to keep him conscious and a live to prolong the pain and the suffering.

The hunter manages to almost make it to sunrise.

[thejonzone]

It's True that Kendall Jenner Loves Neil Young

On the Beach, Neil Young’s ode to perserverance, plus its direct predecessor, Tonight’s the Night, represent my favorite section of Young’s discography. These albums are motivated by grief, the death of Crazy Horse’s guitarist Danny Whitten and roadie Bruce Berry, both to overdose. Young begins Tonight’s the Night with the title track, and gives a concise obit for Berry-- Bruce Berry was a working man / he used to load that Econoline van. The albums arrange Neil’s grief and combine with his desire to isolate in reaction to the huge success of his music.

The two albums are incredible-- inherently searching, Tonight’s second half takes place on the road, as Neil drives and sings and smokes and cries, intent to get out and away. And while Tonight is ramshackle, On the Beach is more polished, and has a bit of a wider scope, not so much blindly in reaction to death and fame but taking in the larger landscape of his life and his era, trying to make sense of where he was.

What makes Neil Young’s music appealing to me is that his cadences, melodies, and pacing always seem to match my depression. Often downtrodden and lethargic, his music moves to the same slow-thumping heartbeat in me that thinks about throwing it all away.

On the Beach has always struck a chord with me, not even considering the music, because of the album cover. A car lies crashed deep into the sand, only it’s back bumper still sticking out. A pair of beach chairs sit empty underneath an umbrella. Neil is in the background, hands in his pockets, looking out at the water. It sets the tone for the album, with Neil as maybe a bit of a party pooper, contemplating rather than reveling, on the outside looking away.

It is a little bit strange that I found Neil Young’s title track to On the Beach in the middle of Kendall Jenner’s Apple Music playlist “Summer of ZAZA”. Certainly, Kendall herself didn’t put this playlist together, but why is “On the Beach” included? One keyword search led to another, yada yada yada, now Neil’s song about the disillusionment of fame lands on a collection of “sunny, beach-ready songs”.

It’s easy to think that Neil’s song’s placement here is a mistake. But what if it isn’t? Is it such a stretch to imagine that Neil Young and Kendall Jenner are more similar than different?

But first...what exactly is a summer of ZAZA? Is it short for pizza pizza? Or perhaps a nod to Hungarian-American actress Zsa Zsa Gabor? Zaza is, I believe, a slang term for weed-- is Kendall endorsing a summer of flying high on grass? Maybe ZAZA is a new term, one that Kendall wants to get the ball rolling on. “How was the pool party?” “Oh, simply zaza, darling.”

The playlist is, surprisingly, melancholy. And that’s not just because Gorillaz’ “On Melancholy Hill'' is included(???). Some songs are sad and don’t feel like beach-hangin’ standards, like Linda Ronstadt’s cover of Blue Bayou, or Gregory Alan Isakov’s “Idaho”, a song I do not know but who’s lyrics include: Now it’s white as snow / watch the evening glow / across Idaho. Which are not summertime fun lyrics! Sure, there are 2019 summertime hits like “Truth Hurts” by Lizzo and “Venice Bitch” by Lana, but Yo La Tengo’s “Today is the Day”? Maybe included because it is on the album Summer Sun. SahBabii’s incredibly horny "Squidiculous" is here (Skinny jean king, can’t fit my nuts in this bitch), but why is that alongside the yearning coo’s and admittedly not fun in the sun vibes of Bobby Vinton’s “Please Love Me Forever”?? The playlist is strange in this way, and makes me wonder if Kendall Jenner is sad.

“On the Beach”, the most out of place song with the best SEO, does line up in some ways with Kendall Jenner. Young moved to Los Angeles in the late 60’s and found a lot of success there, helping to define the Laurel Canyon folk sound. Not only was he a part of Buffalo Springfield and CSNY, but upon going solo he had a megahit with 1972’s Harvest. Neil Young’s level of fame might not have reached a Kardashian level ever, but it’s not like he was some podunk folk singer playing to three people in a basement. He was a star.

And he had trouble with it-- with people’s expectations of who he should be, of what he should make next, of everything he ended up representing. It weighed on the guy. And it’s clear on On the Beach’s title track that Young is torn between the visibility fame gives him and his desire to be alone and hidden: I need a crowd of people, but I can't face them day to day / Though my problems are meaningless, that don't make them go away / I need a crowd of people, but I can't face them day to day, he sings.

I’m not here to say I understand or know how Kendall Jenner feels. But I imagine that if I had cameras constantly pointed my way, making posts for my millions of faceless followers to support the empire of attention that had been built around me, I might relate to Neil.

But then again, I’m not so sure Neil and Kendall would get along. On the Beach is full of moments where Neil is quite candid and straightforward in his wish to smash Los Angeles’ rose-colored glasses, like in “Revolution Blues”, when he sings Well, I hear that Laurel Canyon is full of famous stars / But I hate them worse than lepers and I'll kill them in their cars.

Just like Neil considers the body of water before him on the beach, so have I, staring out, taking in the contours wind creates on the surface, watching cormorants dive underneath for fish, waiting for them to re-emerge. Sometimes the world comes back together when you take a step back. Neil’s album is so great because it hits on something that I think is universal-- we watch water and it causes us to think past ourselves. I want to believe that Kendall goes out to her private section of the Pacific Ocean and stares out at it. Maybe Neil’s plaintive harmonica floats around her head as she fantasizes about giving it all up, taking up an alias, and moving up to Alaska. As Neil sings later on in the album, on "Motion Picture (For Carrie)", Well all those headlines they just bore me now / I’m deep inside myself but I’ll get out somehow. The Summer of ZAZA was almost certainly made by an overworked Kardashian-employed social media person who typed “on the beach song” into the Google search bar. But maybe right now Kendall is staring out at a cloudy California beach, running “Ambulance Blues” back, and considering which Zuma deep-cut is going to make this year’s playlist. I’d rather the latter be true.

[gigslist]

Woodstock Artist's Pay 1969

How Much Woodstock Performers Were Paid 50 Years Ago — and Who's the Richest Star Now Source: https://finance.yahoo.com/news/heres-much-woodstock-performers-got-193016216.html

Before Woodstock was a cultural phenomenon, it was a financial fiasco.

Organizers behind the legendary music festival in upstate New York, which celebrates its 50th anniversary this summer, said they wound up $1.3 million in debt after the historic 1969 event—roughly $9 million in today’s dollars. But they eventually broke even years later thanks to album and movie ticket sales.

In addition to basic problems like miles of traffic jams and a lack of sanitation and food for a colossal crowd estimated at over 400,000, Woodstock organizers failed to adequately fence in the concert area. As a result, many fans attended without paying for admission ��� which was $18 for the three-day festival, the equivalent of about $125 today. That meant festival producers had even less money than expected to pay Woodstock’s performers, several of whom reportedly demanded twice their usual pay rate, upfront.

How much did bands get paid for playing at Woodstock in 1969? The amounts varied widely, according to generally accepted reports that have surfaced over the years and trace back to an old story in Variety. The disparity in some of the paychecks is dramatic: Woodstock headliner Jimi Hendrix was paid over 20 times higher than another guitar icon, Carlos Santana, who was mostly unknown at the time.

Woodstock organizers were inclined to pay top dollar to artists like Hendrix, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and Jefferson Airplane because they were desperate to put well-known talent on the bill. Leading up to the festival, top acts like the Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, The Doors, John Lennon, and Bob Dylan all declined to perform at Woodstock. Some on-the-spot improvisation was also necessary for Woodstock producers: In order to get stars like Jimi Hendrix on stage, organizers reportedly convinced a local bank to open up after hours during the festival and took out an emergency loan.

Here’s how much performers were paid for playing at the original Woodstock festival in 1969, along with some updates on who is the richest rock star now.

Jimi Hendrix: $18,000

In the two years before Woodstock, Jimi Hendrix had put out three studio albums that each reached the top 5 best-seller list in the U.S.: “Are You Experienced,” “Axis: Bold as Love,” and “Electric Ladyland.” The latter peaked at No. 1 on Billboard in late 1968 and remained in the charts for 40 weeks.

So it was certainly justified that Jimi Hendrix was billed as the overall headliner at Woodstock in 1969, and that he commanded the highest paycheck of all performers. Hendrix was paid $18,000 for appearing at Woodstock, which is the equivalent of about $125,000 today.

There was also a clause in his contract stipulating that no one could perform after Jimi Hendrix at the festival. Because there were so many delays and miscues at Woodstock, Hendrix didn’t wind up on stage until the morning of day four of the three-day festival, Monday, August 18, 1969. By that time, the vast majority of people had left — meaning that most fans didn’t even see the Woodstock headliner perform, including his legendary version of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Side note: His performance at Woodstock represented the only Grammy nomination Jimi Hendrix received while he was alive, and he didn’t win.

Blood, Sweat & Tears: $15,000

Blood, Sweat & Tears had a No. 1 album in 1969, and the band’s biggest hit, “Spinning Wheel,” was peaking during that summer. That’s why Blood, Sweat & Tears received the second-highest paycheck at Woodstock, $15,000 — or $105,000 in today’s dollars.

Creedence Clearwater Revival, Joan Baez: $10,000 Each

The folksinger and activist Joan Baez was 28 years old and six months pregnant when she took the stage at 3 a.m. on the first night of Woodstock. Decades later, she told the New York Times that she had been incredibly shy, suffered severe stage fright, and had no idea what songs to perform.

“Not everybody knows me, and my music isn’t rock ’n’ roll,” Baez recalled, noting that she didn’t really fit in at the scene in upstate New York. “I was a political activist, and there were not many of those at Woodstock.” Baez wound up singing the traditional spiritual “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” and Bob Dylan’s “I Shall Be Released,” among other songs.

The Woodstock setlist for Creedence Clearwater Revival, led by singer-songwriter John Fogerty, includes many classics still played on the radio today, including “Born on a Bayou,” “Suzie Q,” “Bad Moon Rising,” and “Proud Mary.” CCR went through an ugly breakup in the early 1970s, but the band’s full performance from 50 years was finally just released as an album this summer, “Live at Woodstock.”

Joan Baez and Creedence Clearwater Revival were among the highest-paid performers at Woodstock, receiving $10,000 each, or about $70,000 today, after adjusting for inflation. According to Celebrity Net Worth, John Fogerty has an estimated net worth of $70 million today, while Joan Baez’s net worth is roughly $11 million.

Jefferson Airplane, The Band, Janis Joplin: $7,500 Each

In the next tier of highest-paid Woodstock performers come some of the top music stars in the late 1960s, who received $7,500 apiece (equivalent of about $52,000 today). Janis Joplin put on what many consider her breakthrough performance at the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival, and two years later at Woodstock she played crowd favorites like “Piece of My Heart” and “Ball and Chain.” Both Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix died due to drug overdoses a little over a year after Woodstock.

The Band, best known at that point for their song “The Weight” and for playing regular as Bob Dylan’s band, were actually locals who lived in the area where the festival was held. “After three days of people being hammered by weather and music, it was hard to get a take on the mood,” The Band’s Robbie Robertson wrote in Rolling Stone 20 years after Woodstock. “We played a slow, haunting set of mountain music. We lived up there, near Woodstock, and it seemed kind of appropriate from our point of view.”

Jefferson Airplane, the quintessential 1960s San Francisco psychedelic rock band, were well-known for top 10 hits like “Somebody to Love” and “White Rabbit” when Woodstock took place. Part of band, led by singer Grace Slick, was reborn as the Starship in the 1980s, when it released pop songs that topped the charts like “We Built This City” and “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now.” Grace Slick has an estimated net worth today of about $20 million, per Celebrity Net Worth.

Richie Havens, Sly & the Family Stone, Canned Heat, The Who: $6,000 – $7,000 Each

A band called Sweetwater was supposed to be the opening act at Woodstock, but they were stuck in traffic when the festival was scheduled to start. Richie Havens and his bandhad driven up to the festival site from New York City early, and after hopping on a short helicopter ride to land near the stage, they wound up opening Woodstock on Friday evening. Havens played for nearly three hours, and his extended setlist included several Beatles songs and the memorable improvisation known simply as “Freedom.”

Of the other Woodstock acts that received reported payments of $6,000 to $7,000 ($42,000 to $49,000 today), the best known by far is The Who. A 1969 report by Rolling Stone said that The Who’s manager collected $11,200 before the band’s performance at Woodstock, but that’s believed to be an exaggeration. The Who singer Roger Daltrey did confirm, however, that it demanded upfront payment before the band began its set at 5 a.m., after waiting around backstage for some 14 hours.

“Woodstock wasn’t peace and love,” Daltrey recalled to the New York Times recently. “People were screaming at the promoters, people were screaming to get paid. We had to get paid, or we couldn’t get back home.”

The British band, which released “My Generation” in 1965 and the historic rock opera “Tommy” in 1969, was still a big enough deal in 2010 to be asked to play the Super Bowl halftime show, and they are working on a new album expected to be released in 2019. The two core members of The Who, Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend, are probably the richest Woodstock performers still alive today, with net worths estimated at $85 million and $105 million, respectively.

Sly & the Family Stone, whose music blended funk, soul, and rock and has been sampled abundantly by rap artists like Dr. Dre, A Tribe Called Quest, and Arrested Development, received $7,000 for performing at Woodstock in 1969. They didn’t go on stage until 5 a.m., band member Rose Stone recalled later in an NPR interview. “The sun started to come up and all of a sudden all we could see was just a sea of people,” she said. “I think it was like an apex of our group.”

Arlo Guthrie, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young: $5,000 Each

The second time that Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young played live as a band, it was in front of hundreds of thousands of people at Woodstock. Neil Young had recently been asked to join the trio of David Crosby, Stephen Stills, and Graham Nash, who had released their first album in the spring of 1969. At Woodstock, the famously prickly Neil Young refused to be filmed and most of the band’s acoustic set featured just Crosby, Stills & Nash, who opened with their epic “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.”

Arlo Guthrie, the song of folk music icon Woody Guthrie, was only 19 years old when he played at Woodstock. He was expecting to perform on the festival’s second day, and he indulged in plenty of champagne backstage on the first night because there was no food and nothing else to drink, Guthrie later recalled. Then Woodstock organizers suddenly asked Guthrie to play on the first night. “Richie Havens has been up there playing for hours. There’s nobody else and you’ve got to play now,” they told him.

Guthrie played a short set, and by most accounts it wasn’t a particularly good performance. He didn’t play his best-known song, the 18-minute-long antiestablishment saga “Alice’s Restaurant,” which was released in 1967.

Arlo Guthrie and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young were paid $5,000 each for playing at Woodstock, about $35,000 today. Neil Young, who has had decades of success as a solo artist and leader of other bands outside CSNY, is now the richest star in this group, with a net worth currently estimated at $65 million.

The Grateful Dead: $2,500

Perhaps no band is more closely associated with the hippie movement and the kind of crowd drawn to Woodstock than the Grateful Dead. But members of the band admit that the Grateful Dead’s set at Woodstock, played while the rain poured down and consisting of only five songs, was a disaster.

“The stage was wet, and the electricity was coming through me. I was conducting! Touching my guitar and the microphone was nearly fatal,” the Grateful Dead’s Bob Weir told Rolling Stone. “It was probably the worst set we’ve ever performed. And to have performed it in front of a crowd that size was not an altogether fulfilling experience.”

Santana: $750

Here’s the rest of the low end of the payscale at Woodstock in 1969, according to Variety:

• Ravi Shankar: $4,500 • Johnny Winter: $3,750 • Ten Years After: $3,250 • Country Joe and the Fish: $2,500 • Incredible String Band: $2,250 • Mountain: $2,000 • Tim Hardin: $2,000 • Joe Cocker: $1,375 • Sweetwater: $1,250 • John Sebastian: $1,000 • Melanie: $750 • Santana: $750 • Sha Na Na: $700 • Keef Hartley: $500 • Quill: $375

Of these artists, two performances in particular stand out for how memorably they played — and how little they were paid. The British singer Joe Cocker’s iconic version of the Beatles’ “With a Little Help From My Friends” closed his set and probably summed up the vibe at Woodstock as well as any song.

Then there’s Santana. Few people at Woodstock had heard of Santana, which in the summer of 1969 was a mostly unknown band led by 22-year-old Carlos Santana, a guitar phenom who performed in his teenage years at bars and strip clubs in Tijuana, Mexico. Santana received $750 for playing at Woodstock — about $5,000 in today’s dollars, and 24 times less than Jimi Hendrix’s paycheck — and it was money well spent. Carlos Santana was high on mescaline when the band took the stage on Saturday afternoon, and by most accounts they blew people’s minds with electrifying performances of songs like “Evil Ways” and “Soul Sacrifice.”

Three decades after Woodstock, Carlos Santana was an established rock god and released the album “Supernatural,” featuring collaborations with the likes of Lauryn Hill, Eric Clapton, and Rob Thomas. The Santana-Thomas song “Smooth” became one of the biggest-selling singles of all time, and Santana collected multiple Grammy Awards in 1999. Today, Carlos Santana is 72 years old and has a net worth estimated at $50 million.