#and davide whips out his electric guitar

[melting-morning-blues]

here you go, have some miscellaneous fcbf band au content ^^

disaster!

dreamcatcher's what

dreamcatcher's scream

acaね, rin音, yaffle's character

disaster lineup inspired by @lacunasbalustrade and i's band au headcannons lol

+ cuz i love kiri

radwimps ft. toaka's suzume

general guideline in case anyone gets confused:

each person has their own colour

coloured italicised lyrics means more than one person is singing (usually indicated in the tabs [idk what to call them] through the first two letters of the members' names eg. kyoya & rouga -> ky/ro)

uncoloured italicised lyrics means vocals not done by the members (eg. backing vocals)

"all" -> everyone sings the line(s). uncoloured in the tab because there's not enough letters for me to colour lol

i usually put notes in square brackets between verses when there's a break in the song/an instrument interlude

just heard some dreamcatcher songs that fit disaster (fcbf).... might do lyric docs for them later ☺️

[tac-the-unseen]

OUAGH the last one gave me the idea of a musician reader x slasher

If I were to suggest a specific genre maybe they’re into rock because. Yeah.

Could you do something with that?

Slashers x Musician Reader

Micheal Myers:

•Plays it off but thinks it cool as hell

•He did play the piano for a very short time in his childhood, but the ward made him very rusty 

•Will happily watch any concerts you put on for him

•Will Secretly watch you if you don't 

Billy loomis & Stu macher:

•They both immediately pitch in a song request 

•They bring up the fact that you play an instrument to win arguments with people 

•Will eventually find a way to break your instrument 

•They will be very apologetic about it 

•attempts to replace it 

Thomas Hewitt:

•very interested 

•He's curious by nature, he wants to know everything he can about it 

•Your instrument is the most expensive thing in the house 

•daydreams about being able to play a song for you, one day

•until then, he'll try to figure it out himself 

Bubba Sawyer:

•Tries to sing along when you play

•he also dances but always ends up knocking stuff over

•Will sit in front of the door so her brothers can't get in while you're playing

•They constantly complain about the racket 

•Chop-top will occasionally sit in while you play 

Bo Sinclair:

•immediately shows you his acoustic 

•brags about how he can out play you

•loses miserably because he only practiced for a couple months 

•mad about it

•polishes its case whenever he comes around to it 

Vincent Sinclair:

•romanticizes it by thinking about how you're two different types of artists 

•Sketches you playing your instrument 

•Sheepishly asks you to pose

•makes a mini wax sculpture of your instrument 

•He get super giddy if you play a song for him

Lester Sinclair:

•extremely impressed 

•He's always thought of being able to play an instrument as a high class/rich person activity 

•Falls asleep while you play, Not because you're boring, But because he finds it soothing 

•will find out how to care for your instrument so he can help repair any damages it might face

Billy Lenz:

•probably was the reason He zeroed in on you in the first place 

•fines it incredibly alluring and wanted you to play all the time 

•Will find a way to get his grubby hands on your instrument 

•Will eventually break it but not feel sorry 

•(Not So) patiently waits for you to get it fixed

Brahms Heelshire:

•He can play the piano and just uses it as another excuse to hang out with you 

•looks up songs to properly make a duet with you 

•whenever conversations died down or get a little stale, he whips out the instrument card 

•whether you did or didn't know how to play an instrument he's going to romanticize it anyway 

Hannibal Lecter:

•insists on making some kind of duet with you, and whether or not your instruments align with each other 

•buy stuff to make for your instrument is a mint condition 

•’humbly’ braggs about your talent at his dinner parties 

•Will make you food associated with your instrument(s) (look that up, it's a real thing because of course it is)

Will Graham:

•Like to watch you play whatever it is you play

•He's never really had any interest in instruments, But he starts listening to videos featuring your instrument. 

•Casually asks Hannibal facts about your instrument 

•makes you a little charm related to your instrument to put on your keychain 

•Has flashbacks to the guy with his throat turned into a Cello 

The Lost Boys:

•They all at some point have picked up an instrument 

•David can play the Piano, Organ, violin, and guitar

•Dwayne can play the Hand drums, flute, and Bass guitar

•Paul can play the clarinet, electric guitar, French horn, and marimba 

•Marko can play the Drums, Harp, Cello, and viola

•They have all genuinely considered starting a band 

•No matter what you play, you'll fit in

Thanks for reading <3

I went for a more neutral tone with this fic. Because I don't want to write 16 other fanfics about specific music genres ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠🎀)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

[missybee-writes]

Shadow in the Dark: Chapter One - Cursed

Genre: Sci-fi; Romance; Horror

Warnings: (eventual) sexual content; violence; gore; swearing; alcohol and drug use.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!OC

Summary

In July ‘85, an ambitious realtor sells the crumbling Creel house to a family looking for a new start.

Rose McAllister may be living in a grand and gothic murder house in a small Midwest town, but senior year in high school is the stuff of her nightmares: a last chance at a normal school year without being the odd one out, the sick girl, the weirdo from across the pond. Blend in, make it through the year, and make some friends. Stay unnoticed at all costs.

Hawkins, and one seriously loud-mouthed metalhead, is about to flip that carefully laid plan Upside Down.

---

Chapter two: Munson Magic

Ao3 link

---

Chapter One

Rose was fucked. Some unearthly being had marked her for disaster, she was sure of it.

“This isn’t happening, this cannot be happening,” she chanted over and over to herself. “Hawkins is way too small for us to be lost. I’m cursed. And it’s not even nine a.m.”

Her mother sighed from the driver’s seat. “You are not cursed. I just took a wrong turn at the Memorial Hospital. Maybe if I loop around...”

“How do you explain the alarm clocks? You can’t blame faulty wiring this time, all of the electrics were replaced last week.” Rose gestured wildly.

This morning she had woken slow, bleary-eyed and heavy-limbed, with the gnawing feeling in her bones that something was just wrong. Something beyond the weird disorientation of being in a new bed, and a new house. Wooden beams flexed and creaked - no surprise with half the walls stripped down to boards in the remodel - and it hit her: no radio, no cheery blast of synth or guitar or whatever popular music central Indiana’s finest radio stations had to offer, drifting from the alarm on her bedside table.

One glance at the alarm clock confirmed it; grey pixels where the neon red numbers should be. Dead. Another power cut, she thought. But no, as she sat up, brain-fogged, the light from the floor lamp still glowed buttery yellow, casting a faintly pulsing light on the faces of Simon Le Bon, David Bowie, and the newest addition to the posters that covered the exposed brick wall: Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones, his rumpled shirt slightly unbuttoned, fedora askew, whip hooked on his belt.

No time to ogle Indy, she’d thrown herself from bed, a clumsy hurricane tripping, hopping and falling down the winding stairs to the second storey hall. The old clock was just about visible through the walnut bannister, its gold pendulum swinging back and forth and heralding her own personal doom: seven forty six, just fourteen minutes until Hawkins High closed its doors and classes began.

“Bollocks! Fucking hell!” She’d cried out.

One alarm clock dead? Fine, no problem, plausible. But when her mother and Jerry stumbled from the master bedroom, awakened by her foul mouth instead of their own alarm clock - which also happened to be dead, despite the rest of the electrics in the bedrooms working fine - an eerie feeling of the unnatural crept up her spine. After a manic rush to brush her teeth, grab her neatly stacked books and throw on some clothes, she found the washer dryer had stopped-mid cycle, and her carefully planned outfit options all lay in a damp, musty heap in the machine drum. It only confirmed that fate, karma, whatever one might call it, was stacked against her.

“Jerry said it might be a power surge,” her mother said, eyes on the road and foot on the gas pedal. “The plant is running on a skeleton crew until they fix the new conductor...convection...honestly, I don’t understand anything he says, but it sounds important. He’s called in additional engineers from Indianapolis to help.”

Rose chewed her lip, literally biting back the dozen denials and witty remarks that came to her mind all at once. If the power had surged, the old bulbs in the lamps should have been the first to go. But Jerry was no-man’s land in the battleground between her and her mother; though her stepfather’s goofy behaviour sometimes begged for it, he was too nice to mock. After meeting her mother two years ago, he launched an all-out campaign to win her over, bringing her tapes, magazines, and a new VHS player so they could watch her favourite films together. But most of all, he made her prim and proper mother laugh more than she had ever seen, even more than when Dad was alive. Against all odds, Rose kind of, just about, liked him.

“The teachers will understand, Rosebud. It’s your first day. And besides, you’ll only be ten minutes late.”

“Exactly,” Rose’s head thumped back on the headrest of the passenger seat. “It’s the end of the fucking world.”

The streets here were endless, a thick wall of trees speeding past in a blur of green, broken by the occasional driveways of modest one-storey homes. All unfamiliar, and strange.

They turned a corner, passing bright yellow school buses, already empty and relieved of their precious cargo, but were met with oncoming traffic and a chorus of loud car horns.

“Jesus, Mum, you’re on the wrong side of the road. Right, go right!” Rose said shrilly, panic swirling in her gut and sending her voice a few octaves too high.

A sudden jerk of the wheel had the tires screeching and her stomach flipping upside-down; the car tilted as it swerved into the right lane, Rose’s fingers digging into the beige leather interior of the station wagon like a drowning man clinging to a liferaft.

“Oops,” her mother muttered mildly. She had no longer than Rose to get dressed and run out the house, but somehow she looked just as mumsy as always. Hands perfectly positioned at ten and two, not a hair out of place in her blonde bob or a single crease in her frumpy crochet cardigan, despite the chaotic driving. “I don't know if I'll ever get used to driving on the wrong side of the road. Jerry would have taken you, but he has a meeting with the Department of Energy at the plant this morning. About the promotion.”

“It’s OK. I’d rather be here with you. As much as I like Jerry, you’re my mum.” Rose said.

Hawkins High School appeared at the end of the street, its squat, single-storey front building surrounded by bikes and cars. They pulled into the parking lot, taking up a space by the front doors. Only a few stragglers remained in the lot: someone chaining up a bicycle, another girl running through the front doors with cheeks pink from exertion, a teacher with a worn briefcase.

Rose instinctively grabbed her mother’s hand, and they sat for a moment in pleasant silence. It was always like this, when mum drove her to the hospital. A minute of respite before the shitshow began.

“Ready?” Mum squeezed her hand.

Nope. Not at all. American high school, a more terrifying prospect than any hospital ward, or any of the sixth form schools at home where she would be unnoticed and normal...well, perhaps not normal, but only the sick girl, not the new kid with a different accent, with no idea how any of this worked. Too late to turn back now.

She launched herself out of the passenger door, clutching her leather satchel to her chest. “Ready.”

The shiny window of the station wagon reflected her own image back to her, a mess of long, red-brown curls that looked like a bird's nest, no time today to tame it with a brush and half a can of Aquanet. She dragged her hands through her hair in a vague attempt to tidy it up, until something else caught her eye in the reflection.

“We have to go back. The dress...I can’t wear it,” Rose said. It was faded green and floral, with a square neckline, and ending just above the knee. A bit old fashioned, maybe, and not exactly her first choice, but her favourite clothes all sat mouldy and damp in the washer dryer at home. It was bought at least four years ago, before Rose’s last growth spurt, when she really filled out. But it wasn’t the close fit of the fabric or the definite visible cleavage that had her worried.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Her mother was leaning over to the passenger side of the car, brows knitted in confusion. But when she realised the source of the panic, her whole demeanour changed. Mum’s hands flew to her own chest, and she unbuttoned her cardigan hurriedly. She flung it off her shoulders and threw it to Rose out the passenger door, who swore like a sailor as tugged it over the green dress, buttoning it all the way to the top. The cardigan was shell-pink with a cream Peter Pan collar. It clashed horribly with the dress, but it covered her all the way to her collarbones.

“I'm sorry, are you Rose?” A sweet voice called out behind her. “Rose McAllister?”

Rose turned slowly. The girl behind her was a foil to Rose, hair styled, blue pastel skirt perfectly matching her eyes. She looked like she’d just stepped from a John Hughes movie in those white leather boots, scarf artfully tied at her neck. Preppy with a capital p.

“Hi?” The girl smiled weakly.

“Hi? Am I?” Rose spluttered. “Hi. Sorry, I am Rose. That’s what I mean to say. That’s me, I am she.”

Oh god. Nought to crazy in under ten seconds. It really was her superpower.

Put-together-girl smiled, seemingly not put off by the bundle of awkwardness before her, and shook her hand. “Great, I thought you’d accidentally ended up at the Middle School for a while there. I’m Nancy. Nancy Wheeler, part of the school welcome committee. If you want to say goodbye to your mom, i’ll take you to register for your classes. Janice in the principal’s office has all the forms ready for you, it shouldn’t take too long.”

Rose gave her mother a final smile. “Thanks Mum. See you at three,” she closed the car door soundly.

But nope, instead of leaving, the drivers’ window rolled down and her mother’s blonde bob leaned out the window. “Just one thing before I go...Nancy, you couldn’t point out the nurse’s office, could you?”

Nancy Wheeler paused for just a second, and nodded toward a small brick building over to the right. “It’s just there, Mrs. McAllister. It’s shared with the Middle School.”

Mum smiled as she got out of the car, and turned to Rose’s guide. “It’s Mrs. Gruber, but thank you, dear.”

“Do you have to?” Rose asked her mother through gritted teeth. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“I won’t be long. I promise, Rosebud.”

Oh god, the shame. She was eighteen, not eight. Nicknames were acceptable at home, but not in public.

“Sorry Mrs Gruber.” Nancy waved to her retreating figure.

Distance. Rose sought it straight away, shiny new sneakers pounding on the cracked pavement beneath the great big tiger poster on the wall, bounding toward the door. Nothing like your mother tagging along on your first day of school to make classes seem more appealing than hanging about outside.

“So,” Nancy caught up quickly, guiding her into hallways striped orange and green. “I should tell you a little about the school. There are almost a hundred students, about seventy per year. We have band, math club, AV club, drama club, and that’s just for starters. Girls have a soccer team. Usual sports, but you should know basketball is bigger than football here. Go Tigers!” Nancy’s little cheer was lukewarm at best, but she seemed genuinely nice. “ I guess it looks a little lame to someone who just moved from England. I mean, the teachers here are good, but you’re probably used to more academic rigour, right?”

“Not really.” Rose eyed her surroundings nervously, big colourful notice boards peppered with hand-drawn signs about pep rallies, someone offering French tuition, and a whole list of dates and match times. “School is school, but I don‘t think we had as many extra curricular activities at home. Except hockey, and the pub.” And definitely not so many weird ones. In one corner, a wad of chewing gum was stuck on the board, pinning up a strange devil-like drawing, letters H E L L interrupted by a pastel yellow flyer advertising auditions for A Streetcar Named Desire. She desperately wanted to lift it up and find out what kind of hell Hawkins High School was hiding.

“Still, must be hard joining in senior year. You must miss your friends.”

“So much.” Rose lied, plastering on a smile. “I’m just calling and writing to them all the time.” Surely her gran counted. And she did call her friend Elaine from the hospital ward, when Elaine could breathe well enough to actually talk back. One benefit to being new? No reputation to overcome. A new slate, a chance to shine. If only shining didn’t involve being so visible. “Thank you for doing this, I know you probably have to, but it’s nice to not be faced with a thousand faces at once, you know?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Nancy shrugged it off with a wave.

Janice in the principal’s office gave her a stack of forms, and she went through them one by one with a freshly sharpened pencil whilst Nancy filled her in on the school.

“People here are friendly, most of the time. If you want, I could hook you up with some clubs. I run the school paper and the yearbook committee. It’s a lot, but I plan on early application to colleges - i’m in this fight with my mom and dad about applying to any Ivies - and then i’ll have a lot of time in the second half of senior year. That should tie in nicely with the production of the yearbook.” Nancy was in full flow, working through all the things on her clearly enormous brain. Rose handed back some of the papers to Janice and got a schedule in return, and Nancy led her into a maze of hallways,

“Here’s your locker.” Nancy smiled, patting a metal grill whose beige paint was flaking away. “Your combination is 2-2-6-2, but you can change that anytime. Your first period is English with Mrs O’Donnell. This semester they’re working on classic short stories. Oh, you should know that homecoming is next week. I’m on the committee for that too, since Heather and...uh...a couple of the members left over the summer. And that means I’m probably on the hook for prom committee too, unless Jennifer P shapes up and actually orders the decorations. I know it’s really soon bearing in mind this is your first day, but I could probably get you a homecoming ticket, if you wanted? My boyfriend moved to California a few weeks ago, so i’ll be there stag, manning the punchbowl probably. What I mean is, I don’t know if you have a boyfriend or anything, but girls go stag all the time. Guys too.”

Rose’s face was flushing warm just listening to it. She followed Nancy with her head buzzing, her smile cracking as they stopped halfway down the hall.

“Nancy, I'm going to level with you. I only understood about half of what you said. I have this very vague understanding of the word homecoming from watching a couple of John Hughes films, but what is the difference between homecoming and prom? Isn’t it all just dancing to shit music without alcohol - something which I'm pretty annoyed about, by the way. At home the pubs will serve you from about fourteen, even in your school uniform if the police aren’t about.”

Nancy was shocked, frozen as Rose started rambling. And once she started, it was like a broken pipe, overflowing without any sign of stopping.

“What’s a yearbook?” Rose continued. “Why do you need a committee of people to make a book? College is University to me, but I couldn’t tell you if it’s early to apply, because I have no idea when people actually apply. And you said basketball instead of football, but then you also said girls play soccer...soccer to me is football, so now I'm thinking to myself, McAllister, have you been living under a rock? Do Americans call it football for boys and soccer for girls? Or do the girls get to play football, but the boys don’t - and by that I suppose I mean soccer, not your football where you have to strap on a helmet and thirty pounds of foam padding just to play a bit of bloody rugby. Because at home, girls play basketball, only we call it netball. But not the tough girls, they play hockey. God, when I think about it, everything about sports is so unbelievably stupid, isn’t it? I have no idea why it's life or death to some people. Sorry, I don’t know if you are big on sports.”

Rose laughed hysterically, “You seem really nice, and I can’t believe I'm already proving that I'm a lunatic with no social skils. I feel like I'm trapped in a film or a play and I don’t know the lines, but everyone else does. And at some point, I'm going to end up naked in front of a chalkboard whilst everyone laughs at me, and then hopefully wake up sweating in bed at home in Oxfordshire. Except this isn’t a bad dream, this is fucking real.”

Nancy covered her hands with her face, blue eyes wide with horror. Her gaze drifted from Rose to a point behind her shoulder that suddenly seemed to be interesting.

Rose’s stomach did another flip upside-down. “Someone’s right behind me, aren’t they.”

Nancy nodded. At some point during her unhinged rant they had arrived at an open door. A door to a class full of open-mouthed teenagers gawking at her, like she had three eyes or an extra head.

“Miss McAllister.” A bespectacled woman in a tweed pencil skirt and addressed her, “How nice of you to join us. I’m Mrs O’Donnell, and it seems I'll have the dubious honour of teaching you English for your senior year. Now I don’t know how you do things in Britain, but in America, we arrive at our classes on time.”

Yep, that checks out. All those years wishing for a clean slate, and within moments she’s covered it in dirt. So much for a new start.

“This is my fault.” Nancy bravely interjected. “I’m the reason she was late, Mrs O’Donnell. I just babbled on and on about school, and I didn’t even think about what I was saying. Truth is, the welcoming committee doesn’t really do that much welcoming. We’ve had one new student in the last year, and he was from Illinois. Not counting Billy...” her face clouded over for a second. “Please don’t punish her for my mistake.”

“Hmm.” O’Donnell hummed, fiddling with her tortoiseshell spectacles, clearly swayed by the appeal on Rose’s behalf. “I don’t like tardiness, and I don’t like disrespect. But perhaps I can let you off this time, Miss McAllister. Why don’t you come in and introduce yourself to your classmates?”

With a nervous apology to Nancy, Rose clutched her books and papers, and stepped into English class as gingerly as if it were Dante’s seventh circle of hell. Thirty teens sat expectantly at their tables, books spilling over desks, bags on the floor. They watched her every move , and at least half of them in some kind of sports gear. Which she just insulted, of course. If only the ground could swallow her up, or make her invisible. Anything to take her away from the thirty pairs of eyes that prickled across her skin. Yup, cursed.

A guy with a mullet and one of those fancy green jackets sniggered behind his fist. “Chalkboard’s right there. You gonna take your clothes off, or what? We can do it elsewhere honey, I wouldn’t mind a more private show, if you know what i’m talkin’ about.”

“Nice cardigan,” someone mocked. Rose’s closed her hands in fists, to stop herself from fidgeting with it. Laughter spread across the class like wildfire. Great. Just fucking great.

“Andy, I will not tell you again,” O’Donnell pointed at the lewd-mouthed jock, chalk in hand. “Talk back once more and you’ll join Mr Munson in the principal’s office. Go on then, introduce yourself Miss McAllister. I’m sure the class is just dying to hear more about you.”

Dead. She was dead alright. Deceased. Six feet under. Nancy Wheeler can write her obituary and put it in the school paper. Rose McAllister, gone, and totally forgotten. Cause of death: foot in mouth.

“Hello.” Her voice cracked. “I’m Rose. I moved to Hawkins a month ago, after my stepdad got a new job. Or, he got his old job back at the power plant. He grew up here. As for me, I Iove to read, classics mostly-”

“Nerd alert.” Quipped a girl in a polka dot blouse, just under her breath enough for the teacher not to notice. Cue more laughing from the sporty side of the class.

“I speak French, I, um, I saw Live Aid this summer in London, just before we moved out here.”

A silent pause. A peppy blonde cheerleader clapped her hands together. “Oh my god, that is so bitchin. Who was the cutest? Was it Spandau Ballet? They’re British too, right?”

Relief washed through her, almost as intoxicating as the cranberry and vodka mixers all the cool girls at home drank in the Nag’s Head. Not that Rose was often in the popular crowd, not since she got sick. “I’m more of a Queen or Bowie girl myself. Freddie was unbelievable, couldn’t take your eyes off him. Status Quo and The Who were amazing too. But...uh...Spandau Ballet, yeah. Martin Kemp is cracking to look at, isn’t he?”

“That’s enough, that’s enough,” O’Donnell quietened them down. “I see we’ve devolved into cute musicians or whatever you young people class as music these days. Settle down. We have a lot to work through before this assignment. And before you ask, Andy, it’s due next Friday, despite the interruption.”

Andy, that wonderful mouth-breathing specimen of idiot found in schools everywhere, flipped off the teacher as soon as her back was turned.

“Was Edgar Allen Poe on your curriculum at home, Miss McAllister?” She said, whilst writing on the chalkboard.

“No. I haven’t read any.”

“That’s alright, just take a seat and listen. You can get caught up over the weekend.”

The class returned to their books, and Rose fled the front of the classroom for an empty desk at the back of the room. At least this way she could wallow in eternal shame without eyes on her back. Her bag deposited on the floor, she collapsed quietly into the wooden desk, shrinking down as far as she could in the arse-numbing seat. Pencil tapping nervously on her book, until her neighbour took mercy on her and passed over a dog-eared copy of Edgar Allen Poe’s short stories, pages folded over at The Tell-Tale Heart.

Shit. Not one she was familiar with. Give her Shakespeare, give her Hardy or Dickens or any of the Bronte’s - hell, even Tolkein or McAffrey or Pratchett - and she’d be talking a mile a minute about them. Poe, not really in her wheelhouse.

Minutes passed as the class read passages aloud, and talked about the imagery. She scanned the story, reading it through as quick as possible, scribbling down some notes as the class discussed it. Rose flipped over a page and found the story was over already, five punchy pages of compact gothic imagery. Concise. That was a blessing, for her first day.

Behind the battered book, something on the desk caught her eye. A grim reaper in a hooded cowl, hand clutching a gruesome looking scythe. The lines were clean, and it wasn’t just inked on the desk, it was etched, scratched into the wood with a pen or a pin or something sharp. It was good. Clearly someone found O’Donnell’s class so riveting, they turned to the visual arts instead.

“OK.” O’Donnell sighed heavily. “So what do we think about the themes? Someone? Anyone? Becky, how about you?”

Polka dot shirt girl ummed and ahed. “I guess, madness?”

“Yes, Becky. Well done. The concept of madness. Anyone else?”

A hand shot up. Jock number two, sat next to his mullet-haired buddy Andy. “I don’t know about the class, but I have some concerns.”

“What a surprise. I would ask you to share them in private, Mr Carter, but that would be a foolish hope, wouldn’t it.”

“That’s right. Mrs O’Donnell. I think my fellow classmates are counting on me to speak the honest truth, and say what we’re all thinking. I’m shocked that impressionable young minds are being asked to read this explicit material. The narrator killed someone in cold blood, and we’re being told he’s not insane, because he was careful and calm whilst doing it?” Blonde jock paused and looked around, working the crowd like a pro. “I mean, to commit murder, to hack a guy to pieces and bury him under the floorboards...that’s the worst kind of evil.

“And don’t we all deserve to spend our formative years studying something that shows the best of humanity? I don’t know about you, but I turn my mind to Psalms 141: Do not let my heart be drawn to what is evil so that I take part in wicked deeds along with those who are evildoers. Mrs O’Donnell, I say we remove this book from the curriculum. My father supports the idea, and he’s willing to take it to the school board next month.”

“Yeah, what Jason said,” Andy piped up, bumping his friend’s fist. “Let’s throw it in the trash, and the assignment due next Friday. I did like the haunted house part though, with the ghost stuck under the floorboards. Don’t know how a ghost has a heartbeat, though. Weird.”

Rose stifled a smile, and turned back down to the grim reaper on the desk. At some point in all the talk of beating hearts her hand had settled over her chest, over the cardigan covering her dress. still buttoned up. A sudden impulse had her grabbing for a red marker pen, and drawing a heart onto the desk, in the path of the grim reaper’s scythe. She was careful not to overlap the original, so the artist could scrub it out if they didn’t like the random addition to their work.

“I’m sure the school board will give it serious thought, Jason,” O’Donnell grumbled, already ground down before second period. “Any more themes in the work? Come on, come on. This will help in the assignment. Miss Buckley, are you with us?”

A girl blatantly napping on her desk in one corner jolted awake at the prodding of a neighbour, her eyes wired, and hair tousled from lying on the desk. “Themes? Right, yeah. Themes. It’s got haunted houses, and death.” The girl turned introspective, eyes glazing over. “There’s guilt, for having lived through something so scary, right? Like he did all these terrible things, and survived. He kinda wants to get it off his chest and admits to murrder straight away, which is a stupid move for someone who calls himself smart, a lot. Reminds me of a dingus I know. He’s so desperate to talk about all the creepy stuff that happened in that house, even though it will get him in trouble. Guilt just eats away at you. Yeah, definitely guilt.”

The teacher looks almost surprised. “Very astute, Robin. If you can keep awake for the rest of your senior year, you might just get an A in this class.”

“Nice,” Robin smiled. “The previously mentioned dingus will be hearing about this later. So much for the senior slump.”

Rose had little time to ponder what on earth a dingus was, as O’Donnell was talking again. “What about comparisons to other work? Does it remind you of anything we studied last year?”

Silence. It was nice and quiet in the back of the room, and being thrust into the spotlight was the last thing Rose wanted. But this was books, this was her element. Something compelled her to raise her hand.

“Miss McAllister, I realise you won’t have covered last year’s work either, i’ll set you up with a reading list.”

“I had some thoughts about this part,” Rose held up the book. “‘There came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart.’ There’s something so gothic and logical about the prose. It reminds me of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“Sir what-now?” Polka dot girl muttered.

“Uh, Sherlock Holmes,” Robin added, feigning holding a microscope to her eye and pulling a funny face. “You know, its elementary, my dear Watson.”

“Yes, exactly.” Rose grinned, delighted. “Sherlock Holmes. And Lovecraft too. I think they both came after Poe, so he might have been an influence.”

O’Donnell looked like she’d sucked on a lemon, her thin lips pursed until they almost disappeared. “I thought you hadn’t read the material?”

“I just did.”

“Just now?”

“Yes.”

“And you came to that conclusion within the space of a few minutes?”

Rose eyed her suspiciously. “Yes?”

The teacher looked down over the rims of her glasses. “It would not look good for you to lie on your first day, would it.”

“I assure you, Mrs O’Donnell, I am not a liar. Just a quick reader.”

Snickering floated through the air, disturbing the silent battle of wills stretching across the little classroom. “See? Nerd,” Becky in the polka dots said. “But I thought you weren’t supposed to be smart. My mom said you’re eighteen already, and she works in the office at the power plant. You’re a super senior.”

Desks shuffled, heads swivelled, and now everyone was staring at Rose again. Great, just bloody great.

“In case you were wondering,” Andy said mockingly. “A super senior is someone who repeats the year, cause they failed.”

“Strangely enough, I could deduce that,” Rose said bitterly.

“Enough, class,” O’Donnell tried to regain control, throwing her hands up in the air. “We are not going to discuss the intricate personal lives of our students. Save that for the cafeteria. Back to the book.”

Where was that hole in the ground when she needed it? Rose blocked it all out as best she could, focusing on the cool grim reaper on the desk. Whispers and titters floated across the room again, until Jason the preacher-in-training spoke. “Wait. I know who you are. Your dad - or stepdad, whatever - is Jerry the Goober, right?”

“It’s Gruber, not Goober,” Rose mumbled.

He slapped his jean-clad leg. “Yeah, I knew it. He was class of ‘60, same as my dad. You guys bought the old murder house on Morehead.”

Even O’Donnell stopped, making no further attempt to hold back their stampede of questions

“The creepy old place opposite the playground? Jesus, that place is definitely haunted.” “How many people died there?” “Is there still blood in the floorboards? I bet there is...gnarly.”

Her new home was five times the size of her house in England. Hell, ten times. A wrap around porch, original fireplaces in half the rooms, enough space to swing a family of cats. Three floors and a basement, each room panelled in walnut and grander than the last. True, it was a little...different. Grant, gothic, pretty much in ruins. And yes, Rose had heard there were some horrific acts in the house’s past, something she’d rather not dwell on. But it wasn’t haunted.

“Haunting isn’t real, dumbass.” A guy in a plaid cut-off shirt actually said in her defence, aimed at the one of the jocks. “People watch a lot of Ghostbusters and horror movies, it doesn’t make that shit real.”

“God damn freak,” Andy retorted under his breath. “How’d that place even get sold? Isn’t the old dude that owns it still alive?”

“Someone broke into it last year and cut themselves on a pane of glass,” Rose explained. “The Roane County Housing Board declared it unsafe, so they forced the sale. They said it was a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

The bell rang out and made Rose jump, each and every teen grabbing up their books and fleeing for the door. Except Jason Carver, who stayed back for a few seconds to glare menacingly.

“Assignments. Friday.” O’Donnell cried out the door. “And will someone find Mr Munson, he needs to pick up his...never mind, why do I bother.”

---

The crush of students in the hallway moving to their next classes provided Rose with a little anonymity, and the map pushed into her hands by Nancy Wheeler, plus the small size of the school, meant she could navigate to her Chemistry class without asking for help or accidentally pissing off an entire class of peers.

Mr Kaminski’s class was far less traumatic. She said a simple hi to the room and sat down at the back once again, working diligently on a hydrocarbon pop quiz that kept the class mercifully quiet, and focused on something other than the new girl. Chemistry was hardly her favourite, but it was material she had learned long before, schoolwork splayed across the sterile white sheets of a hospital bed, one eye out the window on the world below.

Then the bell of doom rang out again, and the most nerve-wracking forty-five minutes of the day dawned. Lunch. She marched to the cafeteria like a soldier to battle, scouting out the exits, the seating hierarchy and potential to hide from enemy combatants in a corner or behind a pillar of a room.

Yes, the student body of Hawkins High School stared at her. No, they did not approach. Either the students didn’t care about the new girl, they hadn’t worked out who she was yet, or her episode this morning had spread so widely throughout the school that no one wanted to talk to her. So she swiped a tray of congealed looking meat in grey sauce and green beans, and found a spot on an empty lunch table in the corner of the room, poking at the food until her stomach calmed down enough to eat it.

The basketball team entered the cafeteria to a round of applause, their green and white uniforms lurid under the harsh fluorescent lights, smiles brittle as they cheered for some kind of game tonight in the gym. She supposed this was what happened when your first day of school was three weeks into September, on a Friday. Novelty worn off by early afternoon.

Justin from her English class held court in the centre of the room, holding a bright orange ball as he worked the room. She heard a thump, thump, thump as he dribbled it up and down by the cheerleaders’ table. They all preened as he spun it around on his finger, and it looked so ridiculous she almost choked on a slimy green bean.

Another thud, another voice, this one louder. White sneakers hit a different tabletop and plastic lunch trays bounced, an earthquake of dark hair, denim and leather, upending some poor kid’s apple and carton of milk. The guy on the table pranced about, spitting out words so quickly she couldn’t make them out. Whatever it was, his friends laughed. His voice dropped mockingly, arms flailing at the jocks dribbling balls across the room.

Denim rocker guy squatted down with the awkward grace of an alleycat, a jean chain smacking against the table, and dragged his knuckles around, grunting like an ape. His friends laughed harder, each one looking up at him as if he hung the moon.

“Eat it, freak,” Jason shouted across the cafeteria.

Denim guy grunted and beat his chest with his fists. It only enraged the jocks; the more they cursed and shouted at him, the more he responded like a monkey. Rose snorted with laughter. His confidence was off the charts, no fucks to give, shame completely absent. It was kind of hard to look away from. Magnetic, really.

“Brutal, but effective,” a voice agreed at her side. “I think that’s the longest I've seen Munson go without talking.”

Robin from English class casually leaned on her table, with a ‘I care so little about this that it's cool’ vibe about her tousled hair, check shirt and an honest-to-god tie tucked into high waisted trousers. Very Annie Hall. “Sup, new girl. What are you doing on the ghost table?”

“Ghost table?”

“The one place in the cafeteria that’s hidden from the view of the jocks table, great exit path to the doors. Yeah. I see your attempts to hide, new girl. Is it OK if I call you that, or is that totally presumptuous? God, it is, isn’t it. Stupid Robin. What about McAllister. Has a nice ring to it, kinda like a detective’s name. McAllister. Buckley and McAllister, one’s a straight-laced pencil pusher, the other’s a beat cop with a dark past who doesn’t play by the rules, together they must solve a murder...or no, old fashioned detectives like Holmes and Watson,” her accent changed to a strangled attempt at a posh accent. “The curious case of the Hawkins High murder.”

Rose beamed, watching Robin’s elbow slip off the table, the girl reeling backward and clumsily righting herself.

“Mystery solved, partner,” Rose joined in. “Victim, one Jason Carver, brutally killed in the cafeteria, bled of his dignity in front of a hundred witnesses. Suspect, one suspiciously intelligent gorilla wearing a curious sleeveless denim jacket. Murder weapon, a crude, yet cleverly executed, parody of his bestial behaviour. And in front of the cheerleaders too.”

“I knew it,” Robin slapped the table. “I knew you’d be cool. I could just tell. And I may have slept through the incident in the hallway, but several reliable sources have since told me it was crushing to the fragile male ego. I love you already. Come and sit with us, you’re not languishing here all alone.”

A flood of warmth spread through her chest. “Really?”

“Really. Come on, partner. And by us I mean Beth and Linda, we’re over here.”

Rose snatched up her tray, led by the frenetic Robin to a table by the stage, walking right around the table of jocks. Jason Carver shot her a look of...disdain? Intrigue? It was something weird, anyway.

Beth and Linda were leaning over the table, whispering in hushed voices when they arrived.

“Buckley and McAllister, reporting for duty,” Robin dropped onto the bench with a thud, saluting at her friends. “This is the legendary new girl I mentioned earlier. Rose, this is Beth Wildfire, retired goalie, with a leg so full of metal she can’t ever go near a magnet,” she waved at a brunette who sat stiffly, with her leg propped on the bench. “And this is Linda Chen, our fearless leader and captain,” she poked the lunch tray of a girl in a numbered sweater, dark hair pinned back with bubblegum-purple barrettes.

“Football girl,” Linda said appraisingly. “We heard about you. So soccer is for wimps, huh?”

Rose winced and choked on a sip of juice from a carton. “Technically, I didn’t say that. I said the tough girls at home played hockey. But everyone plays soccer at home. It’s clearly the superior sport.”

It got a little awkward after that, each of the girls finishing their lunch wordlessly.

Robin cleared her throat. “Oooh, I forgot to mention we’re the girls’ soccer team, didn’t I...” she trailed off. “All the drawbacks of using the sweaty locker rooms, none of the perks of having a letterman jacket or a sweet spot on the social hierarchy. Hey, did I mention Rose went to Live Aid this summer? In London?”

Robin’s contagious smiles and easy banter made it almost easy; the four of them spoke for half an hour and more, Rose cross-examined on her thoughts about every band from the last ten years (Wham was so overrated, obviously) to movies (anything with Harrison Ford) to fashion (in her head, a slightly more punk version of Princess Di. In reality, whatever looked passable at the time). Having the spotlight on herself was not entirely comfortable, but by the end of the lunch hour she may have just avoided being a complete social pariah.

“So,” Robin drummed her hands on the plastic lunch tray. “I admit, I had an ulterior motive in bringing you here.”

Rose braced herself. “Which is...”

“Soccer tryouts,” Linda interjected, rolling up her sleeves. “We’re seriously down on numbers this year. Two of our team were killed in the fire a couple months back...I don’t know if you heard about that.”

“Shit,” Rose said. “I’m so sorry.” The mall had devastated Hawkins just before she arrived. No small place could lose that many of its people without touching the lives of everyone in the town.

“And Veronica’s parents pulled her out of school over the summer; they moved to Maine. Said this town was cursed, which it probably is,” Linda admitted.

“Ha.” Robin croaked. “Yeah, cursed. Like...like that magic shit’s real. Nope, just a regular old mall fire. Nothin’ to see here, except a whole lotta pain and sadness. And ash. From the totally natural fire.”

Linda eyed her suspiciously. “After Beth broke her leg, we’re down to four players. I don’t think we’ll be able to field a team this season, not unless we find another player for a five-a-side. We have tryouts tonight, would you wanna maybe come?”

“Oh,” Rose’s brows raised. “I’m not sure I can. I can’t do gym this year.”

Beth looked confused. “What do you mean, you can’t do gym?”

“I have a note that gets me out of gym for the whole year. I have free periods instead.”

Robin squealed and stood up. “There’s a note to get you out of gym? For the whole year? It’s senior year...that’s all of gym, gym forever, gym never again. That’s an option? What does one have to do to get one of these notes?”

“Major health issues,” Rose said. She didn’t elaborate. It would be nice to go one full day without being sick girl. “Mum had the note signed by three specialists at the hospital, and I think the school nurse.”

Robin sat down again, flushing and averting her gaze. “Okay then, permanent gym-pass is a no-go. Damn, I was excited for a minute there.”

A thousand questions ran around in Rose’s head. “So you like soccer, but hate gym?”

“Yes, and yes,” Robin blurted out. “I can’t face that rope climbing thing one more time. I might be fast, but I have the arm strength of a cabbage and I fall over like a lot. Wait, does that mean you can’t run or move around quickly or do anything strenuous? Should we be watching you carefully?”

“Not really. I’m better, or at least I should be. It’s just my mum, she’s over protective.”

Cogs were turning in Linda’s head, and she chewed and swallowed a forkful of carrot before speaking. “So technically, you can’t do gym. But what about sports teams outside of school hours?”

“Yeah,” Robin clicked her fingers and pointed them like guns. “I love a good loophole. If it’s out of hours, it doesn’t count.”

Rose hummed noncommittally.

“Oh come on,” Robin whined. “None of the other girls want to come, and I won’t even have to explain the offside rule to you. That takes half the tryout! Otherwise it will only be me and Linda.”

Did she want to throw herself into sports on her first day of school? Probably not. In fact, she didn’t really like soccer, and she only pretended to understand the offside rule when the lads in the pub screamed at the telly, cig in one hand, pint in the other. But the vague promise of a friendship group was too strong a lure. “OK. I’m in, i’ll come to tryouts. But I don’t have a change of clothes, i’m completely unprepared.”

“Yes, McAllister!” Robin punched the air, tie coming loose from her pants. “Come to the girls locker room after last period, i’ll find you something. You know where the gym is?”

Rose hung her arms like a gorilla, imitating the rebel rocker raising hell on the table earlier. “If I get lost, i’ll follow the monkeys in letterman jackets.”

“See?” Robin walked backwards out of the cafeteria, tripping over a bench and recovering swiftly. “Knew you’d be cool.”

---

A quick call to her mother on the school payphone by the front door set it in stone. “Pick me up at seven instead of three please, I have an after school club, think I made some friends, love you, bye.” She said it quickly and slammed the receiver down, so her mum couldn't draw breath to argue or question the change in plans.

Rose nearly skipped to her first free period, immersing herself in the library like a drunk stumbling into a bar after a dry spell. She was in school full-time finally for the first time in a couple of years, and she had a year of uninterrupted studying to look forward to. Her fingers skipped over the spines of Chaucer, Austen, Shelley, until she found the works of Hawthorne, Twain, Fitzgerald and Salinger. Most of them were new to her, one of the benefits of moving across an ocean and beginning a new curriculum. The librarian Ms Miller just about died on the spot, having an avid lover of literature to speak to for an hour. Things for Rose McAllister were looking on the up.

History went by in a blur; most of her classmates were not in Mrs O’Donnell’s English class of misery this morning, so she got to introduce herself all over again, without fucking it up with an epicly bad monologue. Her other classes were fine, turns out mathematics pretty universal and if you’re good at it there, you’re good at it here too.

Two forty-five. The home stretch. Her pencil tapped the desk in agitation, thinking about soccer tryouts. Yes, she might be rusty, but she wasn’t half as weak as her mother made her out to be. And she did know her way around a football pitch, even if it was from watching the boys from the sidelines on the rare occasion she was in school and had a few friends to tag along with. This madcap plan of Robin’s might just work.

When Mr Fitz let the class out ten minutes early so he could make an appointment, she was out of her chair like a shot, peering at her school map. Right past the tiger mascot painted on the wall, through the double doors, and into a room...that was dark, and full of shelving. Ah. Definitely not the locker room.

“I just don’t know, Rob.” Linda Chen’s muffled voice sounded on the other side of a cupboard door; clearly the locker room was just next door. “She pissed off every sports team in the school within five minutes of arriving. Basketball, football, soccer...the cheerleaders just by association. If it wasn’t so damaging to me socially to be seen with her, i’d be kind of impressed.”

“Come on,” Robin whined. “I’m a grade-A klutz and I have verbal diarrhoea, and you guys like having me around, right?”

“That’s different,” the other one, Beth, reasoned. “You’re our friend. I know you’ve been a little off since Starcourt, but-”

“Off? Of course i’ve been off. I saw shit you wouldn’t believe, Beth. Forgive me if i’m not as peppy as I used to be.”

“I know you were there, Rob, but we all lost people that day. And I don’t think I have the energy to be all fake nice to this new girl, when i’m just sad and tired, you know? It’s senior year, its too late for that kind of bullshit.”

“Yeah, well clearly this was a bad idea, Forget it.” Robin spat out. “I just wanted you to be happy, but I won’t be making the same mistake twice.”

Doors slammed and voices faded. The darkness was kind of foggy and Rose couldn’t see far ahead of her, but she stood in the dark for a few minutes, still processing what she had just heard. Hopes crushed, balloon deflated. Can't say she was surprised. Don’t want too much of a good thing, that would break a lifelong pattern. Yes, she could tell that Linda and Beth were hesitant, but Robin too? The one person she formed a connection with on her first day?

She crept out of the janitor’s closet, marching toward the front doors of the school...where her mother wouldn’t be for hours, because she had just called to change her pick up time. Shit.

Rose was not above admitting she considered getting back in that closet for a moment, but that would be completely absurd. Instead she trudged back to the library, where tall bookshelves might keep her hidden and their contents keep her occupied for a few hours on a Friday evening.

A steady trickle of people were heading her way, going from classes to the gym for whatever ball-in-hoop sports stuff she had mocked and derided by accident earlier, clearly alienating the more popular half of the student body in one fell swoop.

Head down, with a notebook covering the bottom half of her face, she inched through the thickening crowd and found the welcome fortress of the library doors...closed. Open hours, eight til three.

“Motherfucker,” She mumbled.

More people streamed toward her, but Rose couldn’t face another witness to her shitty day, and ducked behind the lockers.

An unknown guy’s voice floated through the halls. “...I bet Tommy will break up with her, now he’s at community college in Cartersville. Pretty faces are a dime a dozen in college, and Carol P is yesterday’s news.”

“Carol’s hot.” Meathead Andy from English class offered. “I’ll pick up the pieces if her ass gets dumped.”

“You are such a dick.”

“Just saying what we all think, man. But i’m not counting on it. Maybe I should make a move on the new girl. She might be a nerd, but she’s got a couple of redeeming features, if you know what I mean. Probably hotter than Carol.”

“Did you ever think you just have a thing for redheads? Besides, the new girl is irritating as fuck. And she’s not exactly cheerleader material. I thought she was kinda fat.”

Andy sniggered, his voice fading as he walked away. “Nah, she was just standing next to Nancy Wheeler. Wheeler’s built like a broom handle. And I don’t need a girl to be a cheerleader, just give good head.”

The jocks slithered away to the gym, and the garish orange and green walls began to feel suffocating. She pushed hard on the library door hoping it might somehow be unlocked, but it didn’t budge. Her chest was aching, skin flushing and breathing hard. She tried another. Classroom after classroom, door after door, all fucking locked. What is this, a prison?

Her feet pounded the hallways, pushing blindly until one of the doors yielded and she burst into a darkened space. Content there was no one else around, she flung her back across the room like a discus, crashing into some kind of clothing rack, almost exploding in a puff of red velvet and pink taffeta as it dragged some costumes to the floor.

“Aaah,” the roar came out before she could stop it. Some kind of drama room, filled with dark curtains and crowded rows of props, dominated by a big table. She slammed her fist on it impulsive,, scattering some of its contents to the ground in a metallic crash.

This was as good a place as any to wither away and die, so she walked to the far corner, leaned back and slid down the wall, knees folded beneath her.

There was something comforting about defeat. At least, sitting on the floor in a dishevelled heap, she’d hit a literal rock bottom. Nowhere to go but up.

Yes, she could call home and get a ride back home within the next fifteen minutes. But that meant admitting defeat, reliving the entire experience over and over, prodded and poked by an interfering mother. She couldn’t even hope that Jerry would answer. He was far too honest to keep a secret. Nope, she was stuck here amongst the stage lights, costumes, and decaying dreams of Midwestern theatre kids until seven, which was three and a half hours away.

Plastered on the stage curtain was a sign coloured in orange and red, a cool drawing of a horned demon that looked eerily familiar. Just like the flyer from this morning. Sprawled in bold letters: HELLFIRE. Interesting.

Her velvet-lined, backlit refuge from the high school world didn’t last long. Deep voices bickered passionately in the hall, footsteps squeaked on linoleum, and the door was flung open with so much energy that it nearly popped off its hinges.

“...i’m telling you, man, the frozen lair of Iymrith is just a warm up campaign. I needed to test the mettle of you sheepies before the good stuff next semester. I had to see if you knew your ass from your elbow.” Someone breezed into Rose’s view, a mop of dark frizzy hair, just visible over the huge wooden table that dominated the room.

A squeal of laughter followed, a younger guy’s voice. “Or our class from our elbow. Get it, our class? Our characters’ class?”

“Oh my god, stop Dustin,” a third person protested. “He gets character classes. He’s probably been a DM since we were, like, toddlers.”

“Jesus, Wheeler. Crit hit. I’m not that goddamn old.” The older guy spoke, coming into Rose’s view. He stumbled backward with his hand over his denim and leather jacket combo, as if punctured in the heart. The menace from the cafeteria, gorilla boy, now sentient and walking on two legs. “But the DM in me does thrive on this servant-master dynamic, so keep the subservience coming. My ego could do with a little stroking.”

“Ew...” The ‘Wheeler kid’ moaned; he was lanky, with a grown-out bowl haircut and a grimace peeling apart his lips.

Their leader was unperturbed. He leapt onto a heavy carved chair, wobbling, arms outstretched as he balanced on the makeshift throne. “Bow down, minions. Kneel and pledge obeisance. Damn, I could get drunk off this power. I should get a crown, or something.”

“You already have a throne, isn’t that enough? Or have we birthed a tyrant?” A dark skinned guy with braces shook his head, a trace of envy in his narrowed eyes.

Rose froze like a rabbit in headlights. Her position on the floor was hidden by the clothes rack, but not hidden enough. There were more of them, a hurricane of teenage hormones, awkward haircuts and matching Hellfire shirts swirling about the table and taking off their leather jackets, setting up the table with boards and boxes and...game pieces? She had no clue what they were doing, but they had wider grins and more buzz than the all manufactured cheer in the cafeteria put together.

“Uh...Eddie?” One of the older guys says, holding up something beige and cylindrical. “Drama kids have been messing with our stuff again. I can’t find your goblet, and a couple of the candles are broken.”

“Goddamn thespians,” the rocker Eddie’s voice dropped, all gravelly and menacing. “Completely out of touch with the real world, acting out bullshit stories for the man, nothing but corporate message after corporate message. Harris is gonna know about this the next time he wants to buy off me. Touch Hellfire’s stuff, and i’ll add ten dollars to the going rate. S.A.S. Special asshole supplement.”

“I thought you had to be a girl to be a thespian. If Harris is a guy, does that mean he likes girls, or other guys?”

A kid in an eye-wateringly bright shirt over his Hellfire top, and a cap covering his curls, held up his palms in desperation. “He said thespians, not lesbians, Jeff,” he lisped, pent up with manic energy. “Thespians are lovers of the theatre, not girls who like other girls.”

“Ha. Lesbians.” Someone giggled. Laughter erupted. It might appear to be a weird cult, but they were teenage boys after all.

“Silence,” Eddie the rocker snapper. Commanded, even. One word and the group shut up, watching him warily. He dropped to his ripped-denim kees and crawled under the table. “First Sinclair shakes us off for tryouts - I don’t know how big shiny balls have a greater lure than the harsh, yet beautiful, plains of the Icewind Dale, but hey, critical thinking doesn’t really kick in until you at least finish puberty, freshies - and now my goblet has vanished? It’s all stacking up against me, man. I don’t know, i’m not feeling good about this.”

“Careful Dustin,” one of the group warned. A voice she knew, the one from her English class with the torn up plaid shirt. “You do not want to mess with Eddie’s ambience. I did that once in sophomore year. Set up a session in my garage during the holidays. Let’s just say, the more immersed the DM, the nicer he is during the campaign. You guys don’t want to see him grouchy.”

Wheeler scoffed. “Come on, Gareth. This isn’t grouchy?”

“Not. Even. Close,” Gareth crossed his arms over his plaid-covered chest. “Your buddy Lucas really messed up, skipping out on the third Hellfire night of the year. It’s not even October, and we’re gonna have to bring out a secondary character or something. At least the place could look good.”

“Gareth the Great is right, children. Ambience is a key part of storytelling. It’s all about the mood,” Eddie replied, dragging out the last word. He manhandled the bags on the floor, peering into nooks and crannies, nosing around like a stray dog looking for scraps, completely beneath the table, facing away from Rose. Until, abruptly, he wheeled around on his knees.

Doe eyes met hers, liquid dark and wide, framed by frizzy rocker hair. His manic, dynamic presence froze perfectly, like a VHS tape on pause, cogs in that brain working overtime. He stared blankly at the interloper in his domain, who was scrunched up on the floor, hiding all along in the corner. And right in front of her feet, his shiny pewter goblet.

Rose held her breath. She waited for it. Cursing, shouting, orders to leave. Instead, his lips curled up in a grin, one so contagious and earnest that she couldn’t help but smile back. He raised a finger to his mouth, silver rings pressing against his lips, asking for her silence. She nodded back once. Permission sought: request granted.

Ten seconds passed by without either of them breaking eye contact; Rose hadn’t appreciated just how long ten seconds really was, when you were caught in someone’s gaze. Snared like a rabbit, unable to move, unable to look away. Bordering on weird, but not necessarily bad weird. A standoff, destination unknown.

“Eddie,” The Wheeler kid moaned and kicked his chair leg. “Can we find your goblet later? My sister’s leaving school at seven, and she’s not above ditching us if we’re late.”

“Mike’s not lying,” Dustin backed him up. “She has totally done that before. Ruthless. And every minute we lose searching for goblets is one minute less in the frozen wastes of the Icewind Dale. Just think of how much storytelling you can fit into a minute, Dungeon Master.”

That phrase hit her in the chest. She maintained eye contact, and mouthed Dungeon master?

Eddie, still beneath the table, gave her a wolfish grin, split from ear to ear, teeth shining pearlescent white in the light of the candles. He tried to motion something to her, but knocked his head on the underside of the table in the process.

“Earth to Eddie,” the bigger of the guys called out.

The man in question rubbed the back of his head, snapped out of some deep thinking. “Right, goblet. We have a problem. A naughty nymph must have snatched it and run back to her lair.”

He winked at her, dimple etched into his cheek, and she had to stop her shoulders from shaking with laughter.

Jeff sighed a second time. “What the hell’s keeping you down there? I cannot sub again, I was a terrible DM last year when you had mono. I let you guys defeat Asmodeus in fifteen minutes. Asmodeus, ruler of the Nine Hells. It took me five times as long to plan the damn campaign!”

Rose and Eddie conversed in gestures as the guys above them spoke. A full blown wordless conversation captured with a tiny shrug, a smile, a raised eyebrow. He was clearly trying to tell her something, and wouldn't give her up to the group.

A theoretical light bulb flipped on over Eddie’s head, and he flapped his hands wildly, pointing at the rack of costumes just to her side. Implication clear - get behind it. Wait, what? This wasn’t an escape plan; duck back there would lead her further from the door. Did he expect her to stay there until seven?

“Eddie!” Jeff called out.

Eddie’s shoulders sagged in defeat, and he addressed the group above. “Yup, that’s me. But as Wheeler so kindly pointed out, i’m an old man now. Knees aren’t what they used to be.”

Rose peered behind over her shoulder, checking out the fully hidden spot behind the clothes rack. Target acquired. Unfortunately she couldn’t make it without being seen by the minions at the table.

She nudged her chin toward it and Eddie caught on. Another grin, another gleam in his dark eyes. He rolled out from under the table, groaning theatrically, arm held out.

“Give us a hand, Henderson.”

The freshman smiled so wide his braces almost popped out and complied immediately. It was endearing, actually. He stepped forward, forearm grasping Eddie’s, planting his feet on the floor firmly. But not firm enough.

Eddie grabbed him and tugged him hard, toppling the kid on top of his stomach, wind knocked out with a dramatic groan. They landed in a heap of tangled limbs, with the kid’s neon cap flung across the room.

“Oh my god!” He cried out.

“Sorry, Henderson. Shouldn’t have had that second tray of mystery meat at lunch.”

“You only ate half a bag of pretzels, dude.”

They were distracted, backs turned. She sprung into action, launching behind the clothing rack, cursing under her breath as she nudged the goblet accidentally.

A pink costume became her refuge, layer upon layer of taffeta, the size of a small sedan. She felt hot and itchy just looking at the scratchy fabric. A dress for a princess, or maybe the good witch in Oz?

“This is hazing, isn’t it? Mom told me all about it.” Dustin lisped, hands on hips. “Keep it up, Dungeon Master. If you think a little rough housing will deter this halfling bard, you are seriously mistaken.”

But just as the guys finished helping Dustin to his feet, Mike shooting forward to grab his hat, the goblet where Rose just sat began to roll.

“Gentlemen!” Eddie roared, even more maniacally than before, diverting them again. “Before we begin I propose a detour. A side quest, if you will.”

Rose inched out her hand, slowly enough not to attract wandering eyes, and retrieved the goblet, just as they took their seats, wooden chairs scraping heavily on the linoleum.

“What kind of side quest?” Gareth from English class asked.

“Your party is weak. Your ranger Lucas the Fickle-hearted has abandoned you upon the road-”

“That’s not his name!” Dustin protested.

“Yeah, well, i’m rebranding him,” Eddie declared. “Like I said, Lucas the Fickle-hearted has fallen prey to the cheap thrill of a local tourney, drawn to test his mettle upon the melee ground and take his place as a totally righteous, totally boooring knight of the Kingswatch. But you, good sirs, you make it to a humble tavern on the edge of the forest. There you are greeted by an old companion, Eddie the Bard. Tears streaming down his face, he tells you his cherished goblet is gone, a ring of dried crimson wine staining the table where it once sat.”

He sprung forth, grabbing the back of Mike Wheeler’s chair and narrating directly into his ear. “What’s that, you say? Tis merely a pewter cup, worth nothing more than a couple of coppers on the open market? No, gentlemen. This cup is the secret to the bard’s otherworldly music, spelled to give the bearer great luck and fortune. Charisma off the charts, baby. A Goblet of Rock.”

She had no idea what this Hellfire club was actually doing, but it seemed like a cross between a board game and a storytelling exercise. And this Eddie was...good. Really good. But a knot wound tight in Rose’s stomach as he belaboured the importance of the cup in her very hands. A cup he was no doubt trying to work back into the story.

“I say we retrieve the goblet,” Gareth folded his hands under his chin. “Our party is one man down, and we need all the help we can get if we’re going to defeat the storm dragon Iymrith. Maybe this bard will owe us a favour, and give us a companion or an artefact to slay the dragon.”

“Hear hear,” Dustin thumped the table, shaking about some small pieces Rose couldn’t see. “I walk into the tavern at the head of the party-”

“Hey,” Jeff protested, shooting Dustin a jealous look. “I’m the senior member here. I should lead the party.”

Eddie raised a hand. “No one disputes your position, Jeff. But let the little halfling make his move.”

Dustin took a deep breath. “I open the tavern door, toss my hat onto the table, and flag down a serving wench. Our throats are dusty from the road, so I take a few of our silver coins from the last dungeon crawl and purchase six flagons of mead. Eddie brings them to us.”

Eddie leapt onto his chair, squatting on his heels. “Welcome, patron. I would stay and sup a flagon of mead with you fine warriors, but my troubles overwhelm me. Without the Goblet of Rock, my charisma remains too low to wield my mighty Warlock, and shred to my heart’s content. No guitar, no revellers, no coin for Eddie the Bard. I'm in need of help to keep bread on my table and patrons in my tavern.”

Chris chuckled low and ominous. “If it’s steel you’re after, I, the dwarf Thordus Boulderbash, will take my battleaxe and face any man who dares take the Goblet of Rock.”

“Thordus has a fearsome reputation in these parts, my chaotic-good friend,” Eddie pats him on the back. “But this cup thief is no warrior. A nymph of seriously high stealth crept into the tavern as the guests slept, and made away with the cup before dawn’s light woke me from my slumber.”

For a moment, Rose was too captivated by the story to absorb her supposed leading role in it.

Gareth cleared his throat. “This nymph, she pretty by any chance?”

Eddie leaned in, weight on his elbows. “Fairer than the sunrise over the Greypeak mountains.”

Rose’s brain tripped, lights out, power surged. Even someone with her abysmal track record could recognise the flirtatious tone in his voice. Wait...was this just part of the game? Was he like that with everyone? She wished another girl was in the room, so she could get a sense of normality, something to compare this to.

“Niiice,” Gareth drawled.

“Wait, how would you even know it was a nymph in the first place?” Dustin asked, twirling a pencil between his fingers. “She was gone before daybreak, we have no evidence.”

“Well, gentlefolk, I happen to have an enchanted mirror in the tavern. Caught a glimpse of the wild little thing just as she booked it out the window, leaving behind a lock of auburn hair. And we all know that a nymph cannot be slain by steel alone, so break out your charisma, boys, we’re gonna have to find her, and convince her to return the Goblet of Rock.”

They whooped and applauded, more revved up than a crowd of football hooligans, and Rose had to fist her hands in her crochet cardigan to stop herself from joining in. Something was about to happen, and she was hopping around on the scales between terror and excitement, brimming with a nervous energy.

She couldn’t see the table close up, but she heard dice roll and gasps from the guys at the table, Eddie narrating something about scores, determining the outcome of a battle, or perhaps a decision. It was hard to tell, without any context. It took a few minutes, and her brain didn’t take much of it in.

“Adventurers,” Eddie addressed them after a brief burst of action. “The forest glade beckons, a sea of autumn-gold leaves rustles in the wind. You’ve fought hard to get past the elemental spirits, and emerged bloody, but victorious. Now place down your swords, for the final hurdle is one of wit, not one of might.”

“As our party’s bard, I step toward the tranquil pool,” Dustin says gravely, as if the weight of the world lay on his shoulders. “I take out my lute, and play a tune of such beauty that the nymph hiding in the forest must-”

“Hold on there, halfling,” Eddie silenced him. He looked on edge, his silver rings tap, tap, tapping against the wooden table incessantly. “There are some things a guy’s gotta do himself.”

Mike gawped. “DM’s don’t join in like that, man.”

“You’ll live, sheepies,” Eddie said, dripping in sarcasm. “I, Eddie the Bard, thank the halfling for his admittedly awesome lute playing, and step toward the glassy surface of the forest pool.”

He took a deep breath, stood up suddenly, and turned toward her hidden lair behind the costume rack. Oh god. She was going to die on the spot, she was going to combust from embarrassment if he brought her out. But somehow, even stronger, was the fear that he wouldn’t. He stepped slowly toward her hiding spot, eyes scanning the piles of clothes for a rough idea of where she might be.

“Lady nymph,” he began, voice cracking a little. “You fled my tavern before we could meet, my goblet in your clutches. If you would honour this humble bard with your name, we might determine what you desire in return for the Goblet of Rock.”

“Dude, please don’t make me do a girl's voice again,” Gareth begged. “My vocal cords can’t take it.”

Fuck it. This was the most entertained she’d been all day. All year, probably. Rose swept aside the hangers of clothes with a flourish. She stepped out, to a chorus of shouts and an ear-splitting scream.

Dustin shrieked like a banshee, his hat lost yet again as jolted out of his chair and into Mike’s lap.“Jesus! What the hell?”

“Get off me, man.” Mike said, pushing him away.

“Oh my god, a plant?” Jeff roared. “This is fucking unprecedented Eddie. It’s without precedent!”

“I must be high right now,” Gareth mumbled. “You guys see what I see, right?”

Eddie was right there, tall and frizzy-haired and only two steps away, eyes as wide as saucers. Rose barely had time to notice how tall he was before he dropped to one knee like a chivalrous knight, hand outstretched toward her.

Rose gripped the goblet hard, fight or flight kicking in hard. Ten paces and she’d be out of the door, into the night. Or, at least, into the bleak corridors of Hawkins High.

“Hey,” Eddie said low under his breath, ignoring his friends’ drama behind him. “Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

He held out his hand again, palms wide, sleeves rolled back, ink snaking up his forearm. Close up, he was even more intense, with a jack o’lantern grin. He spoke again, this time loud enough for the group to hear.

“The nymph dares to emerge from the forest pool, bearing the goblet. But will she tell a humble bard her name?”

Brain whirring quickly, Rose realised she’d need a story. Her social skills? Dubious. Eclectic book knowledge, and rambling profusely at the worst of times? Proficient. She couldn’t just use her real name, could she? Nymphs...nature, mythology, natural places. Might just be enough to go on.

“Lady Thorn,” she said, doing her best to imitate his dramatic narrative voice. She placed her hand in his; skin warm, rings cool, surprisingly gentle. “But you, good sir, can call me Rose.”

The group were whooping, chaotic energy rolling off them in waves. Dustin was still hyperventilating, and the guys were giving him shit for reacting like a ten year old girl.

“Lady Thorn,” Eddie clutched her hand in supplication. “We seek the return of the Goblet of Rock. Name your price, fair maiden.”

An hour ago, she’d name a one way ticket back to the Shire. Now, the road to Rivendell was starting to look a little interesting. Question is, was this the Council of Elrond, or a table of leather-jacket clad, hormonal, teenage Nazgul?

“Is that his girlfriend?” Mike asked, face scrunched up in confusion.

“Nope,” Jeff answered. “We have sighted a UFO: unidentified female object. Contact made, presence yet to be explained.”

Rose frowned at being called an object, but there was too much going on in the room to be distracted by it. She held the goblet in her free hand up to the stage light, pausing for dramatic effect, and to figure out what on earth she might say. “I am new to the land of...”

“Icewind Dale.” Dustin supplied quickly, braces sparking in the spotlights as he grinned.

“...to the land of Icewind Dale,” Rose continued nervously. “I was torn from my simple hedgerow in the Shire and cast to these frozen forests without hope or expectation of returning home again. I seek...uh...I seek a guide to help me navigate these new lands.”

“A guide, huh?” Eddie pondered, turning to the table behind him. “Can we do that, gentlemen?”

Mike was the first to respond. “No traveller walks the road alone on our watch. But first, we roll. She has to have a skill check.”

Eddie threw back his head. “Uh, kid Wheeler, remember what I said about my omnipotence earlier? Don’t forget who the DM is here. Me, buddy. I call the shots.”

Gareth sighed dramatically. “Besides, what are you even rolling against? She has no stats, no abilities, just a name and a goblet!”

Chris shuts his gaping mouth just long enough to ask her: “You don’t happen to have a character sheet, do you? Do you have any thoughts on your alignment? I’m sensing lawful good, but nymphs are pretty wild. Maybe chaotic good?”

Rose was at a loss. “Wait,” she said, brandishing the goblet. “I can’t believe i’m about ramble at completely unknown people again, because it worked out so well for me in English class this morning, but I have no idea what you are talking about. What’s an alignment? A character sheet? Stats?”

“I truly hate to use a sports term, but time out, people,” Eddie declared. He stopped, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth, weighing up something behind his dark doe-eyes. “Sweetheart, either that is a world class fake accent, or you’re not from these parts. Have you ever played Dungeons and Dragons?”

She narrowed her eyes. “What are Dungeons and Dragons?”

“What?” Eddie let go of her hand and paced up and down, hands on his hips. “Really? Like, never? Not heard of a dungeon master...the D20...the ‘we’ll sacrifice your firstborn’ brand of satanic panic troubling the hearts and minds of parents all across America? ”

She thought about it. “Is D20 a band? I don’t really watch much MTV, though my stepdad did just get cable. Are they any good?”

He reeled backward until he hit the table, arms flailing in the air. Anyone else would have left it there but Eddie threw himself backward, rolling on top of the table like an invisible hand was dragging him. “No way. No way. That can’t be happening. But you just played along like a pro!”

She burst out laughing. He was really hamming it up, knocking over everything on the table - the candles narrowly snatched by the guys, whose quick thinking prevented the drama room going up in a puff of smoke.

“It’s not a band, it’s a twenty sided dice,” Mike said slowly, like he was talking to a toddler. “There are other numbered dice too. Not just six.”

“Yeah, we use them to make decisions on our actions, the success of our attacks...you know, it’s just how we roll.” Dustin squealed a laugh. “I said, how we roll...’cause it's a dice.”

Groans echoed across the room, second hand embarrassment so strong you could cut it with a knife, but the corner of Eddie’s lips still turned up into a smile. Their teasing clearly stayed on the right side of friendly.

He vaulted off the table clumsily, and staggered back over, approaching Rose gingerly, like she were a flight risk liable to run at any second. “Wait, wait. Before we return to the Icewind Dale I have to ask. Who are you, and how in the nine hells of Asmodeus did you appear in the centre of Hellfire on a Friday night?”

“Hold on, hold on,” Dustin interrupted. “You two really don’t know each other?”

“We go a long way back,” Eddie boasted, chest puffed out. “All the way back to that table incident thirty minutes ago. And trust me, if I'd seen the lady before, I would have remembered.”

That feeling bubbled up again, like warm whiskey coursing through her veins. “I’m Rose. It’s my first day of senior year. My first ever day of high school since we moved. So naturally I've pissed off half the school, some of the teachers, and got trapped in a supply closet whilst the nice girls talk behind my back. My social life has withered and died in a single day, like a fragile desert flower.”

Eddie nodded along. “So a quiet Friday, then.”

“Just fucking fantastic. I found a dark corner to hide my shame, only to find myself in the middle of a satanic cult. Those two John Hughes films that I watched over the summer did not prepare me for this American high school experience.”

“Yeah. It’s less Sixteen Candles, more Nightmare on Elm Street.” He smiled a dopey, lopsided smile, and fidgeted with his hands. “I’m Eddie, by the way. Munson. First days suck, I would know, I've had more than my fair share. The gentlemen behind me here are fellow D&D enthusiasts and members of Hellfire: Jeff, Chris and Gareth are long-time members, and we have some new little sheepies, Dustin and Mike. Lucas too, if he can drop his shiny rubber balls long enough to commit to the campaign.”

A chorus of Hi’s and waves introduced the players to her, but watching them from the corner of the room had given her a decent sense of their personalities and dynamics.

“Come on, guys, shuffle round the table and make space for the lady,” Eddie commanded. He dashed over to the wall and manhandled a heavy wooden chair into place, directly on the right side of his ornate throne. He bowed and gestured at the empty seat, then the colour drained from his face. “I didn’t even ask if you wanted to join, did I. It's not an obligation. You can walk right out of here having nailed the best side quest in Hellfire history.”

“We should warn you,” Gareth imparted wisely, “if you’re looking to be popular around here, this is the wrong place to be. We’re not exactly tight with the jocks or the party kids.”

Eddie pointed to himself with both thumbs. “They don’t call me Eddie the Freak for nothing.”

Her decision was already made, the moment Eddie spotted her from under that table and smiled. Here was a group of strangers going out of their way to make her feel welcome, without knowing a single thing about her.

Rose felt a lump in her throat. “You would put up with a complete idiot who doesn’t know her class from her elbow?”

Dustin’s fist pumped the air. “Yes! Puns are totally cool, I knew it.”

“I don’t mind,” Mike said. “I taught my girlfriend D&D, she had to start somewhere.”

Eddie did a double take. “You have a girlfriend, freshie?”

“She moved to California just before the school year.”

“Ah,” Jeff drew out the syllable knowingly. “Out of state. Convenient excuse.”

“I wouldn’t call it convenient,” Dustin disagreed. “My girlfriend Suzie is in Utah, and that totally sucks. It’s been forty-six days since Camp Nowhere finished, which means two hundred and ninety-nine before I see her again next summer.”

Gareth groaned. “Come on, man. Both the freshmen have girlfriends? How is that even statistically possible?”

Dustin leaned forward intently, “Well if you look at the number of D&D players, profile them by age and cross reference them with the number of-”

Eddie’s hand smothered Dustin’s mouth. “Shh, halfling. He did not mean literally. Besides, the lady hasn’t given us her answer. Sweetheart, do you wanna help us take down Iymrith, the storm dragon? I have a feeling these novices will need a helping hand. It is going to be brutal.”

Rose took a seat at Eddie’s right hand side, and picked up the many-sided lump of red plastic on the board. “I suppose I could join you. Do you know why?”

He fell for it, hook, line and sinker. “Why?”

She dropped the D20 on the table. “Because this is how I roll.”

Dustin dislodged the Dungeon Master’s mouth; fuse lit, laughter exploding from his chest like a stick of dynamite. Groans turned to laughs.

Eddie smiled, and opened his arms wide. “Welcome to Hellfire.”

[searchingwardrobes]

Not the Type: 1/7

Here it is, my contribution to the @captainswanmoviemarathon​ ! Aka, the Bring it On AU no one asked for. I have a love/hate relationship with this movie. On the one hand, I love it as a rom com. On the other hand, as a sports movie, it’s awful. I was a cheerleader myself, and did a brief stint coaching, so I have some issues with this movie. First of all, where is the coach?!? Can you imagine a male driven sports movie without a coach? Remember the Titans with no coach? Glory Road with no coach? Miracle with no coach? I mean, come on! And do you really think a high school is gonna let their students do stunts that can potentially cause paralysis or death without adult supervision? And while they do portray the cheerleaders as athletes, in my opinion, they still hyper-sexualize them. The girls are also way too catty with each other. I can tell you from personal experience, that you need massive trust to do those stunts. Just sayin. Anyway, this whole soap box is to say that this is a LOOSE adaptation of Bring it On written by someone who loves the sport it portrays. But don’t worry, this modern day Lieutenant Duckling AU will have plenty of fluff, feels, flirty banter, and epic kisses. I would like to say this is the cheerleading version of @welllpthisishappening​ ‘s Blue Line universe, but I don’t pretend to be that brilliant. Laura’s writing did inspire me as I wrote this “sports fic,” however, so massive props to her: the queen of sports writing!

Massive thanks to the mods of the Captain Swan Movie Marathon event as well as all of the other writers. The discord chats have been a blast - especially when you all helped me brainstorm a title for this. Thanks to @hookedonapirate​ for being an awesome beta and to @rumdrum91​ for giving the first chapter a quick once over even while you are insanely busy.

This fic is about . . . 85% complete? It will be updated every Saturday. I’ll shut up now and get to the point . . .

Summary: Emma Swan first notices him in the stands at the Friday night football game. She can tell right away Killian Jones is not the football type. Then again, she's not the cheerleader type either, but here she is with pom poms. Life hasn't ever gone the way Emma planned. Lately, that's actually been a good thing. Maybe Killian Jones is a good thing, too.

Rated: T

Also on Ao3

Tagging: @snowbellewells​​​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​​​​ @kmomof4​​​​ @let-it-raines​​​ @teamhook​​​​ @bethacaciakay​​​​ @xhookswenchx​​​​ @tiganasummertree​​​ @shireness-says​​​​ @stahlop​​​​ @scientificapricot​​​​ @welllpthisishappening​​​ @resident-of-storybrooke​​​​ @thislassishooked​​​​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​​​ @kday426​​​​ @ekr032-blog-blog​​​​ @lfh1226-linda​​​​ @ultraluckycatnd​​​ @nikkiemms​​​ @optomisticgirl​​​​ @profdanglaisstuff​​​ @carpedzem​​​ @ohmakemeahercules​​​​ @branlovestowrite​​​ @superchocovian​​​ @sherlockianwhovian​​​​ @vvbooklady1256​​​ @hollyethecurious​​​​ @winterbaby89​​​​ @delirious-latenight-laughs​​​ @jennjenn615​​​ @snidgetsafan​ @spartanguard​ @itsfabianadocarmo​

Bounce left, bounce right. Two hip shakes. Roger rabbit, Roger Rabbit. Bobby Brown, Bobby Brown. Cabbage patch. Electric slide. Repeat.

Emma repeated the steps to the dance like a mantra in her head. A cheerleader was supposed to smile all the time, but she couldn’t conjure one up as she bounced through the choreography that dated back to 1989. Okay, maybe they threw in the cabbage patch in 1994, but still. This shit was old.

The band sped up as they played through another round of “Louie, Louie,” and the cheerleading squad was racing through the dance like a tape on fast forward. The band thought it was hilarious and never ceased to tire of the schtick.

Emma was doing what felt like her hundredth Roger Rabbit when she caught sight of him. A large book half covered his face, so she could still see his arched brow and smirk. She held his gaze as she went into her Bobby Browns, and he lowered his book, still staring openly, a crooked grin filling his face. Was he mocking her? She stared him down as she did the cabbage patch, and his eyes widened. She tilted her chin as she went into the electric slide, and his tongue swiped his lips.

“Louie, Louie” finally, mercifully, ended. Emma whipped her ponytail as she broke the guy’s stare. She bounced up and down, waving her pom poms and shouting “Go Knights!” Mary Margaret had finally gotten her to stop rolling her eyes.

“Well look at you, Emma Swan,” Ruby said as they all turned to watch the game and cheer the offense.

“What?” Emma stood at attention, just like all the other girls, her poms on her hips.

“Don’t play dumb, Emma,” Ashley quipped on her other side. “We’re better at it than you.”

“That guy,” Ruby explained. “You were having cheer sex with him.”

“Cheer sex? Seriously?”

Emma tossed her poms down to the ground and tightened her ponytail angrily. She hated football season.

🏈 🏈 🏈 🏈 🏈 🏈

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Emma whirled around to find herself face to face with the guy she was definitely not having cheer sex with. Whatever the hell that was. She rolled her eyes. Mary Margaret couldn’t do anything about it during half time.

“Just because I’m baring my midriff and my skirt barely covers my hips doesn’t give you permission to ogle me.”

His blue eyes widened. Very blue, actually. No! It didn’t matter if his eyes were pretty; he was a creep.

“You misunderstand me, love.”

“Not your love.” Though he did have a hot accent. What? No! Nothing about him was hot.

He sighed. “Look, I couldn’t help watching you. All the other girls had fake smiles, but you . . . “ he shrugged. “You looked like you hated being here as much as I do.”

Emma blinked in surprise, and her gaze darted to the hardback copy of The Two Towers clutched in his hand. She also took in his slightly disheveled hair, slender build, and Pink Floyd t-shirt. Clearly not the football type.

The students in line behind them for the concession stand grumbled for them to move, so they both shuffled forward.

Emma smiled apologetically and extended her hand. “Emma Swan.”

“Killian Jones.”

“So, what are doing here, hipster?”

He chuckled and ducked his head. He looked a lot more bashful than he had in the stands.

“Granny insisted I put down my guitar, stop singing depressing songs, and get my ass here to support my foster siblings. Her words exactly.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “You’re Ruby’s new foster brother!”

He leaned closer and winked. “Guilty as charged.”

******************************************************

“Cheer sex, Ruby!” Emma snapped as she returned from the concession stand with her bottle of water and bag of pretzels. She lifted the items up on auto-pilot for Coach Ava’s approval, which she received. The Coach insisted on healthy snacks during games and practice. Some of the girls chafed at the rule, but Emma had no problem with it. The last thing she wanted was someone hurling from the top of a pyramid because they had just wolfed down chili cheese fries or something.

“What?” Ruby asked before taking a bite of the apple in her hand.

“Cheer sex,” Emma repeated, “with your foster brother? Ew!”

Ruby rolled her eyes as she chewed and swallowed. “Let me emphasize the foster part. If you wanna bang Killian, I won’t stop you.”

Emma let out a groan of frustration as several of the other girls giggled. “I’m not banging anyone.”

“Exactly! And why is that, Emma?”

“Leave her alone,” Mary Margaret admonished. “Just banging someone isn’t what she needs.”

Emma appreciated Mary Margaret’s positivity - usually - but she wasn’t in the mood for another speech on true love. “I’d actually prefer a complete change of topic.”

“Good,” the girls jumped at the sound of Coach Ava’s voice behind them, “because you only have five minutes left of half time to finish those snacks. Which is kind of hard to do when you’re yapping.”

“Okay, coach,” the girls grumbled good-naturedly. They all loved Ava, and not just because she was Mary Margaret’s mom. She really cared about all of them and was both tough and fair as a coach. Better even than some of the gymnastics coaches Emma had had. Emma had never planned on being a cheerleader, but Emma was used to things in her life not going according to plan. That was usually for the worst, but lately she had to admit it had been for the better. She hadn’t planned on being adopted by the Nolans, either, and that had been the best thing to ever happen to her. When the social worker brought her to her new foster mother, Ruth, and foster brother, David, she had fully expected it to be nothing more than yet another brief stay. She hadn’t expected to be loved.

She hadn’t expected to love in return.

Emma tossed her empty pretzel bag into the trash can near the stadium stairs. She took another swig of her water, then tossed the bottle into her cheer bag that was monogrammed with her name and a megaphone. It was cheesy and matched the bags of all the other girls.

She hadn’t expected to like this group of girls, either. Hadn’t expected to find a group of athletes, but she did. Yes, since age thirteen, life had been surprising her rather than throwing her curveballs. Maybe thirteen was actually her lucky number. Now she was seventeen and had an actual family in addition to fifteen sisters.

With pom poms.

🏈 🏈 🏈 🏈 🏈 🏈

Emma crammed her first and second period books into her locker, grabbed the stuff she needed for third, then slammed the door shut. She took off down the hall at almost a sprint. TV and movies were shit in portraying high school. Kids hanging out by their lockers chatting at any and all times of the day. Complete and utter lies. Storybrooke High gave kids five minutes - five minutes! - to get to each class. There were some breaks where she didn’t have time to stop at her locker, but her American History book weighed about three tons and she refused to lug it around all day. She didn’t care if it was completely out of her way. She was chucking that book, damn it, before she threw her back out. Three weeks into the year, and she had it timed down to the second.

She did not have time to be slammed into and knocked to her rear end. “Hey!” she shouted at the jerk who’d plowed into her.

A hand reached down and hauled her to her feet. “Apologies lass.”

She knew that accent before she looked into those blue eyes. She suddenly realized she was still clutching Killian’s hand in hers. She yanked her hand away.

“Yeah, well watch where you’re going next time.”

He grinned in a way that was three-fourths charming and one-fourth roguish. “A pleasure as always, Swan.”

Then the ridiculous boy bowed over her hand and kissed it! She rolled her eyes. He arched his brow.

“Advanced Trigonometry?”

He was offering her a pad of graph paper that had her homework scrawled all over it. She snatched it from him and stuffed it into her bag. It was then she realized the zipper was broken. Great. Just great.

“Why are you so interested in my class schedule?”

He shrugged as he rocked back on his heels. “I’m impressed is all.”

She lifted one shoulder, then dropped it as she attempted to balance her busted backpack in both arms. “My mom insisted on one advanced course this year, and math’s the one subject I don’t suck at.”

He tilted his head. “Intriguing.”

“Why?” she snapped. “Because you assume cheerleaders are moronic sluts?” The bell rang, and she dropped her head back with a groan. “Great! Now you’ve made me late.”

She shouldered past him, and her hackles raised when she heard his low chuckle. He laid a hand on her arm before she could move away and lowered his head to her ear.

“Most guys would find your attitude off-putting, but I love a challenge.”

“Sure you do,” she muttered as she stalked away.

At practice that afternoon, she was informing Ruby that her brother was an absolute pain in the ass.

[ducktracy]

117. billboard frolics (1935)

release date: november 16th, 1935

series: merrie melodies

director: friz freleng

starring: cliff nazarro (eddie camphor, worm), billy bletcher (rub-em-off)

the first cartoon to use “merrily we roll along”, which, fittingly enough, would become the theme song for the merrie melodies starting in 1936 and all the way through 1964. it wasn’t formally adopted as the theme song until 1936’s boulevardier of the bronx, but still worth noting. if my memory serves me correctly, this is also the first merrie melody whose title isn’t reflective of the song showcased in the cartoon. as always, billboard advertisements come to life, and trouble brews when a hungry cat preys upon a helpless little chick.

it’s night, and a grassy lot in the city is illuminated by a number of stray billboards. focus on a billboard advertising old maid cleanser, some other menial posters, and finally a poster advertising eddie camphor and rub-em-off “and his wioleen”. an obvious reference to singer eddie cantor, a star who would find himself in many a looney tunes short. rub-em-off is also a spoof on his violinist david rubinoff.

eddie does his signature cartoon “eye roll”, referenced in cartoons such as shuffle off to buffalo and slap happy pappy to name a very select few. together they launch into “merrily we roll along”, which cantor sang originally. the impression of cantor is fun and lively, and bletcher’s characterization as rub-em-off is just as amusing. they don’t do much in terms of dance, but it still remains relatively lively.

song number over, dance routine begins. a cocktail shaker in a poster shakes itself like maracas, accompanying a girl advertising all expense tours to cuba. the animation feels looser than normal, but the dance remains fun and playful. your stereotypical freleng girl.

some hot tamales lend their voices, strumming a fork like a guitar, reused from how do i know it’s sunday, as is a sequence of clogging maids birthed from “old maid cleanser” cans. now a sequence with russian rye bread dancing the hopak, their advertisement reading “baked on the five year plan”—a reference to stalin’s five year plan(s). animation is fun for all of these sequences, but none too groundbreaking.

a more upbeat, amusing sequence as a line of penguins engage in a dance sequence, rolling on their mannequin feet like skates and intermittently quacking—because all penguins quack, right? a woman in an above advertisement rains powder below on the penguins to create the illusion of snow. one of the more entertaining dancing sequences in the cartoon, if not the most entertaining. the animation is smooth and flouncy.

the stars of the girl at the ironing board make a comeback and reuse their dances from the aforementioned short. two tapdancing pajamas do their thing, drumming their buttflaps on upturned wash tubs, while the main “woman” from the short (nothing more than an assortment of clothes) dances as well. smooth animation, and the addition of color is a nice touch, but nothing extremelt wow-worthy. freleng’s knack for timing is not to be taken for granted, however.

meanwhile, a hungry chick spots a worm writhing around in an apple. as all hungry, inquisitive chicks do, the little bird jabs its head inside the apple in an attempt to snag the poor worm. reused from pop goes your heart, the worm crawls out of the other end of the apple and gives the chick a spanking, the chick leaping around in pain and clutching its derrière. even more determined (especially after the worm mocks the chick), the bird tugs at the worm, the worm clutching desperately to a nearby twig for support. just as the worm is about to be made into mush, it pushes against the apple, knocking the apple into the chick and sending the chick into a daze.

enter a chase scene, the worm rolling around like a wheel while the bird nips at it from behind. truthfully i forget which exact cartoon it was sourced from, ain’t nature grand!? but the animation of the worm has DEFINITELY been reused in many a harman-ising cartoon. after 100+ cartoons, it gets harder to keep track, especially when those early cartoons are so barebones.

the bird chases the worm right into a junk pile, dragging out a long strand... which turns out to be an air pump. knocking into a branch sends a propped up cellar door crashing straight on top of the pump. an amusing visual as the chick, connector still in its mouth, inflates like a balloon, even floating into the air and flopping to the ground.

enter the same cat from it’s got me now!, creeping along a fence. it passes by the moon, illuminating the cat’s innards like an x-ray, recycled from sittin’ on a backyard fence. the food chain reminds us of its existence as the cat sees the chick, licking its lips. the cat pounces, providing a menacing meowl (animation of the closeup reused from my green fedora).

i LOVE this chick’s face. full of personality, probably the most this cartoon has had so far. the chick provides a smug, guilty grin as it sways to and fro nervously. a cheeky grin as the bird bids goodbye with a wave, trotting away nonchalantly... and instantly picking up into a hurried run.

an advertisement of a bellhop, labeled “‘CALLING FOR PHILMORE’ CIGARETTES”, notices the chick’s peril and shouts “calling all cars! calling all cars!” two police officers in a “police chief gasoline” ad (a reference to texaco’s fire chief gasoline that was used until the 1970s) chase after the cat... figuratively. a fun visual as their car speeds along, a jaunty rendition of “merrily we roll along” underscoring the scene, yet their car only speeds along inside their billboard. in reality, they’re merely suspended. one of the officers whips out a machine gun and shoots at the cat (lovely, huh?), the bullets actually breaking the barrier between realities.

an advertisement for “the electric hand” pokes the victor phonograph dog, alerting the dog to the trouble. the dog (fun fact: he actually has a name—nipper) chases after the cat, running straight into a tube. the conniving cat turns the valves on the tube so as to trap the dog, the dog reduced to a mere barking bump thrashing around inside the metal pipe.

back to the chick, who runs for its life after realizing the cat is free of distraction (i wonder where we’ll see more cat and bird cartoons. curious indeed). just as the cat has the poor bird cornered, the arm from the arm and hammer logo—this time parodied as “ham & armour” conks the cat right on the head with its signature hammer. the little bird perched itself on top of the dazed cat’s head, slapping its sides and crowing like a rooster (parallel to country boy). iris out.

it’s unfair of me to deduct points for recycled animation, but i have a different perspective than a moviegoer in 1935, or even you reading this (unless you’re as much as a nut as i am and have actually taken my recommendations and watched these, to which i say 1) thank you and 2) hang in there). watching all of these cartoons in rapid succession, you pick up on recycled animation much quicker, and so you can’t help but notice it. the average moviegoer isn’t going to say “hey! that was used in the girl at the ironing board, directed by friz freleng, released august 23rd, 1934 as a part of the merrie melodies series!” so, because of that, i won’t try to let that influence my opinion so much. but the retakes were rife in this one, and an indicator that they were either out of time, money, ideas, or all three.

the cartoon felt incoherent and not exactly sloppy, but extremely loose, the closeups of the cat meowing especially. all of the gags have lost their novelty (again speaking as someone who is watching these one after the other), and it’s hard not to say “i’ve seen this before, it’s getting old, it’s not funny.” it’s also difficult to come down from the high that was gold diggers of ‘49. not at all tex’s best, far from it, but from what we’ve seen so FAR it’s like a huge sigh of relief. and thus, going back to cartoons like these make for a harder transition.

this cartoon wasn’t THAT bad, though. the music was fun (how can you hate hearing the merrie melodies theme song, knowing it would be THE merrie melodies theme song?) and the eddie cantor caricature was highly amusing. freleng’s musical timing saved a lot of visuals from being too dry and trite. but it just doesn’t have much going for it, it lacks coherence and confidence. it just feels like friz���s heart wasn’t fully in it. so, i’d say skip it. yet, as always...

link!

[localgoblin]

I stole this because I want to see my pals answers and also I’m bored as darn.

Nickname: Kitty is the newest one and it’s a fave now. Kat, Kate, KitKat (also a fave), and фüXгйюfîœ the death bringer.

Zodiac: Sun in Libra. Moon in Gemini. Rising is Leo.

Height: 5’9 aka 69 inches ;^)

House: Gryffindor, but I know jack SHIT about Harry Potter and intend to keep it that way.

Favorite Musicians: I’m just going to start listing in no order. Gorillaz, Rex Orange County, David Bowie, The Buttress, Mac Demarco, Cage The Elephant, Tame Impala, Tyler The Creator, Kill Bill: The Rapper, Jack Stauber, The Smiths, Biggie Smalls, Atlas, Watsky, Willie Nelson, etc etc etc etc.

Song stuck in your head: Sleeptalking by Kill Bill: The Rapper. Specifically the lyrics “Show them fuckers holy hell, Sake in the holy grail”.

Dream Trip: I mean this in the least weeaboo way possible please do not kick my ass, but I would love to visit Japan because I could get my hands on exclusive Japanese fashion, taste authentic food and explore what nature AND the city has to offer there.

Following: 150

Followers: 124

Do you get asks: Not often, but every now and again.

Amount of sleep: It varies! It usually depends on if I have work or responsibilities the next day! Or if I’m with Josh. I tend to lay in bed longer with him because it is comfy and nice.

Lucky numbers: 3, 7, 13, 333.

What are you wearing: a giant oversized shirt, thigh high socks and underwear. Peak goblin hours.

Dream Job: I would love to be an actress, but more realistically maybe a therapist of some sort? Dance therapy is really interesting to me.

Instrument: Ukulele because I’m a basic bitch and I know like 4 chords on my electric guitar that I neglect on the daily.

Languages: English and enough Russian to survive in the country for a few weeks, I need to sharpen back up on it.

Favorite songs: Right now I’m really feeling Shuggie by Foxygen. A few others I’m feeling right now would be Clay Pigeons by Michael Cera, Like or Like Like by Miniature Tigers, Whip a Tesla by Yung Gravy, and Cha Cha by Freddie Dread.

Random Fact: My license plate says Mothman and my car is covered in Mothman stickers.

Aesthetic: Depending on my mood I’m one of three things. Clothing wise:

1. Slutty dad who is stuck in the 80’s and just wants to jam out with only one button on his shirt clasped.

2. Goth gf who can and will snap each bone in your body using only her eyelashes. Harnesses, jewelry and black boots. Everything is coordinating, EVERYTHING. This bitch PEGS.

3. Soft ùwú baby ass motherfucker in some frills and pretty colors and shit, fluffy hairstyles and pouty lips. Absolutely just babey.

TAGGING YOU GUYS BC I REALLY WANNA SEE UR RESPONSES: @stomachkrampus @bodypotty @fuckthekingandhischicken @rottinggalaxy

[iwritefanficnotprophecies]

The Lost Boys Rock Band!AU since no one else was gonna do it

‘David and the Lost Boys’ gets publicity after their newest album ‘Lost in Santa Carla’ becomes a best seller.

David is the lead singer.

Paul is the drummer.

Marko and Dwayne play bass/electric guitar alternately.

Paul is the fan-favorite just cause he’s more interactive with the fans than the other guys are.

Laddie is Dwayne’s little brother who goes on tour with them sometimes.

Star is their publicist who David had a fling with once upon a time.

Max is their producer/manager and constantly whips out the boys’ lifetime contracts when they misbehave.

The band has headquarters in Santa Carla.

Once the Lost Boys made it big, they got enough money to fix up and then move into an abandoned hotel that they hung around as kids.

They only come out at night cause their sleep schedules are fucked up from a world tour.

Michael and Sam are street performers who just recently moved to Santa Carla.

Sam plays the ukulele (really well) and Michael sings.

Star watches them perform and sees potential in Michael.

Starts coaching him and getting him gigs behind David’s back.

Max falls in love with Lucy and thinks that by making her sons famous, she’ll be more susceptible to loving him.

Michael joins the band as a dual vocalist

He’s kinda unhappy with it so only signs the temporary contract with Max to secure a somewhat stable career.

Meanwhile Sam stumbles across a small garage band called ‘The Frogs’ and becomes friends with the members, Alan and Edgar.

They have rehearsals in the comic shop after it closes.

They want Sam to join because they recognize his talent and don’t want him to fall into one of Max’s contracts like his brother did.

Since Sam can only play the Uke, the Frog brothers give him guitar lessons.

Michael is a little offended that Sam doesn’t want to join The Lost Boys with him but understands why when David makes him to go tons of big, intense parties/panels/concerts that he can’t get out of because-say it with me-the contract binds him to certain social events.

David is secretly overwhelming Michael so he chickens out and leaves the band.

When Michael approaches Sam and the Frog brothers about leaving the band, they help him find loopholes in the contract.

“CONTRACTS SIGNED BY MINORS AREN’T LEGALLY BINDING, BITCH!”

When Lucy finds out that her boyfriend has been scamming her son, they break up.

That’s all I got, man.

[dustedmagazine]

Dust Volume 5, No. 1

Idris Ackamoor and the Pyramids

Our first Dust of the year ties up loose ends from 2018 with several of our writers using the holiday break to rip through big piles of neglected discs, find the good and the great and share their observations. It’s an impressive haul with a little something for everyone from fusion-y Afro-jazz to twin guitar reveries (played by actual twins) to improvised percussion to a fascinating bandleader who reminds us of everyone and no one. This edition’s contributors included Bill Meyer (who wins this round), Isaac Olson, Derek Taylor, Patrick Masterson, Jennifer Kelly and Jonathan Shaw. Happy new year.

Idris Ackamoor and the Pyramids — An Angel Fell (Strut)

An Angel Fell by Idris Ackamoor and the Pyramids

What makes An Angel Fell, the latest from Idris Ackamoor and his resurrected Pyramids, such a blast is how effortlessly they mix Afrobeat, Afro-Cuban, dub, free jazz, blues, soul, gospel, bossa nova, and Arkestral vocals without sounding like a pastiche. What makes it important is that this inclusive, post-everything musical approach is married to an equally inclusive and utopian political sensibility: inclusive in the sense that sci-fi parables are given a seat at the table next to real world concerns, and utopian in the sense that the mystical Afrofuturism of songs like “An Angel Fell” and goofy exotica of “Papyrus” never trivialize the album highlight, “Soliloquy for Michael Brown,” which, despite its name, includes the whole damn band. Most importantly, it’s inclusive in the sense that Ackamoor and company want you marching and dancing with them, and utopian in that they whipped up a joyous hour and seven minutes of scorching solos, arresting hooks, and straight fire to get you there.

Isaac Olson

  Anna & Elizabeth — The Invisible Comes To US (Smithsonian Folkways Recordings)

Ann Roberts-Gevalt and Elizabeth LaPrelle have used backlit, hand-cranked scrolls to illustrate the stories they rendered with Appalachian harmonies and strings. On their third album, The Invisible Comes to Us, they reframe their tradition-steeped sound with retro-futurist instrumentation supplied by producer and multi-instrumentalist Benjamin Lazar Davis of Cuddle Magic and accompanists such as drummer Jim White (Xylouris White, Dirty Three) and steel guitarist Susan Alcorn. Vocoders, feedback, brass and Mellotron keep the sound varied and far from by-the-numbers folk, but the duo don’t tamper much with their impassive presentation of Civil War-vintage infidelity. It’s hard to shake the suspicion that the duo could have made just as strong an album with just their voices and strings, but that doesn’t keep this from being an intriguing advancement of the evolving folk music paradigm.

Bill Meyer

  Martin Blume / Wilbert de Joode / John Butcher — Low Yellow (Jazzwerkstatt)

The title of this trio recording is a bit of a stumper. When the CD is playing words like “bright,” “acute” and “mercurial” come more quickly to mind than “low” or any single color. German drummer Martin Blume, Dutch bassist Wilbert de Joode and English saxophonist John Butcher have been playing together since 2004, and this live set from 2016 is a splendid example of the aesthetic and methodological rapport that can evolve over such a span. These men might not know exactly what they’re going to do when they get on stage, but it’s pretty clear what they are doing. They improvise with an exacting attention to process that allows a music to come into existence that would not be possible if you swapped any player for another, yet never involves one musician dominating the others. Each has a highly distinct musical vocabulary and sufficient differences in background for the music to surprise in deeply satisfying ways.  

Bill Meyer  

 Bixiga 70 — Quebra Cabeça (Glitterbeat)

Quebra Cabeça by Bixiga 70

Quebra Cabeça means jigsaw puzzle in Portuguese, and this latest double LP from the Afro-Brazilian ten-piece certainly fits a lot of pieces together here — rattling barrio percussion, twitchy Lagos-funked guitars, 1970s American blaxploitation soundtracks, space-age synths and swaggering sax and brass frontlines. If it sounds like too many parts, that’s where you’re wrong. Cuts like “Pedra de Raio” integrate the mystic chill of trippy fusion with a molten throb of samba rhythm. An effortless propulsion of hand drums, bumping bass and warm West African guitars moves the cut forward; serpentine sax melodies and blurts of brass jut off from the foundation. “Levante” syncopates, but slowly, with undulating, Eastern-toned sax lines weaving snake dances over it all. “Torre” picks up the pace from there, leaning into its Afro-funk influences with an agitated tangle of trebly guitars, cow-bells and blasts of horns. None of these pieces are jammed in willy-nilly, and everything fits. If you like the Budos Band, but wish they’d do a Fela tribute, this is your jam.

Jennifer Kelly

 East of the Valley Blues — Ressemblera (Astral Spirits)

Ressemblera by East of the Valley Blues

Cryptophasia, a.k.a twinspeak, is the phenomenon of twins developing a language of their own, largely or entirely unintelligible to outsiders. East of the Valley Blues, comprised of Andrew and Patrick Cahill, is a twin guitar group, which is to say, they each play guitar and are literally twins, and while their knotty, wholly improvised fourth release, Ressemblera, isn’t entirely cryptophasic, you’ll need to listen closely to start piecing it together. Grab a pair of headphones and you get a brother in each ear, which helps. So suddenly do the brothers Cahill pick up, break off and drop shards of rhythm and melody that Ressemblera never resembles other guitar music but their own for more than seconds at a time. You’ll hear snatches of Fahey, Connors, Bailey et al. but the fun of Ressemblera comes from hearing familiar sounds doubly refracted through the Cahill’s unique styles and responses to each other. Ressemblera plays out in one, dense half hour track and a short epilogue, making it the least accessible East of the Valley Blues release to date, but for those willing to dive in, it might be the most rewarding.  

Isaac Olson

 Flanger Magazine — Breslin (Sophomore Lounge)

FLANGER MAGAZINE "Breslin" by Flanger Magazine

Remember Caboladies? For a few years back at the height of the synth resurgence, they kept up a respectable stream of squelchy sound, only to disappear like memories of Myspace. It would appear that Christopher David Bush of Caboladies has taken a path somewhat akin to that navigated by laptop rockers who swapped their Macs for modular synths; go back, man, peel back the generations of gear. The digital sheen’s gone from his solo music as Flanger Magazine, replaced by an unenhanced analog vibe generated by acoustic guitar, monophonic synthesizer, and field recordings of birds that bath near the Ohio River. Instead of the audio expanse of yore, he crafts shy and pensive themes that would be just about right for that PBS afternoon drama you dreamed up after a few too many mid-day snacks about the adventures of some long-haired Scottish mid-teens in already-outgrown flare-legged pants their friends the runaway redundant robots. Damn, that was a good dream.

Bill Meyer

 Fred Frith Trio – Closer to the Ground (Intakt)

Closer to the Ground by Fred Frith Trio

Rigorously resisting complacency and conformity across stacked decades can carry the consequences of burnout for even the most ardent and resilient of creative musicians. Closer to the Ground is evidence of guitarist Fred Frith coming to terms with this fact and realizing with renewed vigor the pleasures of playing in a band. Ensemble endeavors have been a regular outlet since his youth and while the measure of their enduring value is no epiphany, the company of bassist Jason Hoopes (fielding both acoustic and electric strings) and drummer Jordan Glenn has an obvious and immediate effect of dialing in the guitarist’s mercurial and explosive side. Both sidemen are mere fractions of the Frith’s age, but each is quick to illustrate that when levied against ardor and experience any differential is just a number. Grooves are plentiful, mixing prog rock atmospherics, dub and latticed drones with a flexing, propulsive sense of consensual purpose. Frith syncs his strings to all manner of filters and pigments, refusing to hew to any enduring signature and his partners respond with a similarly colorful palette of support. Titles for the nine pieces are all evocative, but in the end its the assembled aqueous sounds that adhere to the space between the ears above all else.

Derek Taylor  

  Fritz Hauser – Laboratorio (hat[now]ART)

The lede to the liners accompanying Fritz Hauser’s Laboratorio is “Drums and Space,” as an accurate and pithy a synopsis of the Swiss percussionist’s art as a curious neophyte listener could ask for. Hauser’s been active as a Contemporary Classical composer for much of his career, constructing complex music that draws on all manner of drum family devices. He’s also devoted time to associations with world-class improvisers including Joe McPhee and Jöelle Léandre. Here, the focus is on solo pieces devised around the nexus of music and architecture with inspiration provided by students of the latter. As with past Hauser projects the organized sounds are exacting. Identified only by a sequential Italian number, each piece explores facets of his assembled kit (snare, toms, cymbals, woodblocks, etc.) and how those components interact and refract within the crystalline acoustics of the recording space. Ranging from ghostly metallic whispers to strident tumbling rhythms the revolving parts create a recital rich with diaphanous dynamics and precision pivots in direction. Hauser’s an unassuming master of his craft and this hours’ worth of drum-driven dramaturgy delivers on nearly every count.

Derek Taylor

  Sarah Hennies / Greg Stuart — Rundle (Notice Recordings)

Rundle by Sarah Hennies & Greg Stuart

A few years back Sarah Hennies released an album called Work. While that was a solo CD of composed music, and this is an improvised collaboration between Hennies and fellow percussionist Greg Stuart (who, along with Tim Feeney, comprise the trio Meridian), the title comes to mind when listening to this cassette. For while both musicians are well acquainted with realizing profound, provocative and beautiful works by Michael Pisaro, Clara de Asis and Hennies herself, the vibe here is “let’s get to work.”  The two musicians approach the assembled resources of the Banff Centre for the Arts and Creativity like a couple of tradespeople sizing up a tool shop. “What do you have here?” “What can I do with this?” “What shall we build?” Moving decisively between hard objects, scraped surfaces and hovering mallet and piano figures, they construct an edifice of sound rich in tonal and temporal contrasts. Nice work.

Bill Meyer

 MP Hopkins — G.R/S.S (Aussenraum)

MP Hopkins is a both sides of the coin kind of guy. Heads, you get abbreviation.

G.R stands for “The Gallery Rounds” and S.S for “Scratchy Sentence.” Tales, you get elongation. Each of those pieces lasts a side, and each side is an unhurried investigation of the sounds that happen when not much happens. The first is a collection of degraded field recordings of forced air ventilation, not-quite-heard conversations and other stuff you aren’t supposed to notice when you check out some art. “Scratchy Sentence” is the outcome of Hopkins’ struggle to get something out of some synthesizers he didn’t really know how to use, which he compares to the task of coaxing conversation from a grumpy old man. The old man might say, “well if you learned how I talk, I’d sing!” It’s true, but who is holding classes on the lingo of old EMS and Arp machines? You learn as you go, and the discoveries that you make during that early struggle just might yield some cool sounds. That is the case here.

Bill Meyer

  Sarah Longfield — Disparity (Season of Mist)

Sarah Longfield can shred — but is that enough? Maybe it is, in a field of music that’s as hyperbolically dude-centric as virtuoso-level rock guitar. Steve Vai, Yngwie Malmsteen, the fellows in Animals as Leaders: there’s little restraint in their compositions or performative styles, which feature as much groin-focused acrobatics as tapping harmonics. So, it’s sort of refreshing to watch Longfield do her thing. She plays. Occasionally she nods her head. Much of her music is as overstuffed as the spiraling, wanking, proggy nonsense that acts like Animals as Leaders churn out. But Longfield’s understated presence and her emotionally poignant vocals keep the songs grounded, if a bit mannerly.

Jonathan Shaw  

 Richard Papiercuts — Twisting the Night (Ever/Never)

Twisting The Night by Richard Papiercuts

Richard Papiercuts sings in a gothy baritone, tossing off mordant asides like a 1930s movie star. That is, he’s somewhere in the Venn Diagram where the dank glamor of Bauhaus intersects with the Monochrome Set’s fey wit (it’s a very small slice). To add to the complications, his band is large, multi-instrumented and exuberant, prone to happy squalls of guitar and irresistible blurts of brass and saxophone, but also clearly aligned with punk rock’s brevity and punch. (Think Olivia Tremor Control playing Minutemen covers.) And so, it is very hard to get a handle on Richard Papiercuts, much less to box him in with reference and antecedents, but it is much easier to say fuck it all and just dive in. You can start at the beginning with “A Place to Stay,” a walloping beat galloping between big slashes of guitars, and Papiercuts singing archly about (I think) having a baby. Or move right to the ebullient roar of distorted guitars in “Starless Summer Night,” where a rackety, endlessly repeated groove recalls rave-y shoegaze bands like Chapterhouse. “The Riddle” sounds exactly like the Pixies until it doesn’t, that is until its grinding bass and incandescent guitar gives way to a joyful overload of jangling strings, banged piano keys and loopy riffs of trombone and sax.  “World and Not World (Twisting the Night)” begins in a pinging new wave synth, which is subsumed not much later by a rushing krautish momentum. And over it all Papiercuts presides, morose, poetic, disdainful and stylish. If rock stars still roamed the earth, he’d be one.

Jennifer Kelly

 Dane Rousay — Neuter cassette (Dane Rousay)

Neuter by Dane Rousay

The cassette’s case is pink. The playing is decisive and attentive to contrast, but also reserved. The title cancels gender, and by implication conventionally binary readings of just what a solo drum performance is about. Dane Rousay’s latest recording highlights the communicative power of orchestrated gestures. Each strike, scrape or roll not only fills up space, but asks you to think about the point of that sound manifesting in that space for as long as it is around and as long as you think about it. That’s not just a solo percussion tape you’re hearing; that’s existential expression.

Bill Meyer

 Kenny Segal — Happy Little Trees (Ruby Yacht)

happy little trees by Kenny Segal

For a guy who’s fallen asleep to full-length Bob Ross episodes for years now (ask me about the days when I had to navigate endless hazardous popups on this one Chinese streaming site before the Rawse estate finally brought the whole series to YouTube), I really let myself down not investigating Kenny Segal’s Happy Little Trees closer to its mid-October release. The L.A. beatsmith, who made his name at Concrete Jungle playing drum n’ bass, has done work for Busdriver, Open Mike Eagle and collaborated with Milo, but he’s on his own here painting rhythms into the wilderness of your mind’s imagination sure to satisfy both the ASMR devotee in your life and that person who has fallen down the rabbit hole of Spotify chill mixes and cannot be retrieved. Featuring instrumental assistance including guitars, bass, sax, flute and piano from a tight cohort of co-conspirators, you’ll likely know where you stand based on the title of the seventh track alone: “Adultswimtypebeat.” Come, let’s make some big decisions together.

Patrick Masterson   

 Howard Stelzer — Across The Blazer (Marginal Frequency)

MFCD C | Across the Blazer by Howard Stelzer

The two tracks on Across the Blazer are founded upon a device beloved by sound designers. The Shepard Tone comprises three looped sine tones that are selectively faded to create the impression of an endlessly rising pitch. Imagine pitching a tent inside one of George Martin’s tape creations from “A Day in the Life” and spending the night while it never ends, and you’ve got an idea of what listening to this CD will do to you. It simultaneously instigates the apprehension that something is going to happen and the experience of nothing happening. Stelzer creates this experience with carefully filtered cassette tape noise, but the tools don’t really matter. It’s the vividness of the experience, which is enhanced by the halo-like masslessness of this enveloping sound, that counts.

Bill Meyer

 Szun Waves — New Hymn to Freedom (Leaf)

New Hymn To Freedom by Szun Waves

Much of New Hymn to Freedom, the latest by Szun Waves, a free improv drums, sax and electronics trio tangentially related to that booming jazz scene in London you’ve been hearing so much about, is the burbling and exhilarating aural equivalent of the (in)famous “Star Gate” sequence in 2001: A Space Odyssey, except there’s a younger, more hopeful version of yourself at the end of the tunnel. But the best tracks on New Hymn To Freedom, the gorgeous, nocturnal “Fall Into the Water” and the melancholy, swinging “Temple”, are grounded and restrained. It’s as easy to imagine them playing as you lay on the hood of your car as it is piloting yourself through the cosmos.   

Isaac Olson

 Terre Thaemlitz — Comp x Comp (Comatonse Recordings)

Comp x Comp by Terre Thaemlitz

Anyone too lazy (or naïve) to investigate the mammoth back catalog of producer, poet, queer theorist and all around champion of the disenfranchised Terre Thaemlitz beyond the canonized DJ Sprinkles release Midtown 120 Blues has been gifted something special as 2019 dawns: Thaemlitz’s Comatonse Recordings made its way to Bandcamp in early January with a hodgepodge of albums that, as she puts it, “I have sold out of, but there is not enough interest for a physical repress.” Among these releases – which include 1995’s organic Soil and 1999’s bait-and-switch-campaigned Love for Sale: Taking Stock in Our Pride – is something especially noteworthy, Comp x Comp. The 76-track album is, as its title would suggest, a compilation of minimalist glitch, noise, ambient and nigh orchestral pieces that largely eschew dancefloor adrenaline. A series of 10 disorienting audio shorts each around a half-minute, "Mille Glaces.000-009," will intrigue Mille Plateaux completists deprived of a chance to hear it when the label went bankrupt in ’03, but there are also proper tracks like the 11-minute “Get in and Drive” and “A Quiet of Intimacy Mirrors Distance.” Thaemlitz’s idea of filling out the remainder of a CD length with 47 mostly silent one-second tracks occupies much of the tracklisting, but don’t be fooled: You’re getting your 80 minutes’ worth… and not a second more or less.

Patrick Masterson

Mike Westbrook — Starcross Bridge (Hatology)

As befits a man known best as a big band leader, Mike Westbrook has not made many solo records. This is only his third in 43 years, and it freely references things and people who have passed. Aged 81 when he recorded it in December 2017, Westbrook has seen a lot. He’s old enough to remember World War II and the drabness of postwar England; old enough to have been persuaded first hand of swing and modern jazz’s life-giving inspirations; to have seen his band-mates experiment there way into free improvisation while the world went nuts for the Beatles; and to have seen his generation inevitably pass the world on to the ill-gripping paws that have dubious hold of it now. You can hear bits of all of that across this album’s 14 tracks, as well as more personal memories. Cherished favorites by Duke Ellington and Thelonious Monk bump up against pop tunes that he played with his wife Kate, and a couple originals are dedicated to musicians who played in his band but are no longer with us. Each performance feels as well framed as a remembered story, the one that you tell over and over to keep that memory alive.

Bill Meyer

 Woven Skull — S/T (Oaken Palace)

Woven Skull by Woven Skull

Ireland’s Woven Skull has a few neat tricks up their sleeve: they use drums, viola, mandola and whatever else is laying around, to whip up furious, black metal-esque squalls and eerie folk hauntings. They harness roiling free improv to mantric repetition and pentatonic, vaguely north African motifs. They mimic (and insert) the sounds of the bogs that surround their home base in Leitrim into their headier jams and, like their spiritual forbears Sun City Girls, they’ve got a penchant for homemade, bike bell gamelan. However, Woven Skull’s greatest trick is convincing you, for as long as they’re playing, that they’re the greatest band in the world. More serious than Sun City Girls and more playful than Bardo Pond, Woven Skull is a great introduction to your new favorite cult band.

Isaac Olson

[stqrked]

come on eddie (reddie fic)

Tuesday

Richie felt like the only one in the grade who wasn’t freaking out over the End of Middle School Dance.

So what? He thought. Who wants to spend their Friday night in a stuffy gymnasium full of hormonal teenagers drinking possibly contaminated punch and engaging in reckless acts of PDA?

Unfortunately for Richie, his boyfriend, Eddie, felt differently. Eddie was on the student counsel, and therefore required to go to the dance, and he refused to go alone. And when Richie tried to explain that he already had plans with a bag of chips and the arcade, Eddie simply rolled his eyes. It was when Eddie grabbed Richie’s sleeve, looked up into his eyes, stuck out his lower lip, and said, “please, Richie,” that Richie knew that he was going to have to join the ranks of his classmates in going to the Dance. After all, Eddie was so fucking cute that he found it hard to say no to him. Especially when puppy eyes were involved.

Bill laughed as Richie recounted the tale during Tuesday night band practise in Bill’s garage. Their band was called The Losers Club and it was kind of terrible. Richie knew it had the potential to be great, but they spent most of their practises listening to Bill ranting about Stan’s eyes instead of actually, you know, practising. Bev played electric guitar, Mike played violin, Bill played piano, Ben played drums, and Richie was the lead singer. Bev and Ben also did backup vocals. Stan called himself the manager, which just meant he didn’t attend any practises or actually do anything but still got a hypothetical 20% of their hypothetical profits.

“Hey, maybe we should perform at the dance!” Ben said, and Richie snapped out of his thoughts.

“Huh?”

“Th-that’s right,” Bill said. “The f-f-flyer said that they w-were taking applic-c-cations for students to p-perform during the d-d-dance.”

Richie snorted. “Guys, we’re not good enough.”

“Oh, because the standards of a middle school dance are so high,” Mike retorted. Then, turning to Ben, he said, “I think it’s a good idea. We’d have to work harder, but it could be fun.”

“I’m in,” Bev said brightly. “Come on, let’s do play some songs and at the end, vote on whether or not we should apply.”

“Fine,” Richie grumbled. He couldn’t help but get a little excited at the thought of singing for the entire grade, but he ignored it and set up the shitty microphone they had. Mike grabbed his violin, Ben situated himself in front of the drum set, Bill turned on his keyboard, and Bev slung her guitar over her shoulder—and the next morning, they sent Unofficial Manager Stan to the principal’s office, and he returned with the information that the rookie band known as The Losers Club would play at the dance.

Friday

By the time school let out on Friday, Richie began to realise that maybe they hadn’t really thought this through.

Not the band part. They had practised every day that week, and Richie thought they sounded great.

What Richie was worried about was going with Eddie.

Richie loved Eddie. Richie would tell you that. Eddie would tell you that. Anyone who had ever watched Richie and Eddie talk to eachother would tell you that. The problem was that Derry was not by any means an accepting town, and Richie could only imagine what would happen to him, and more importantly, to Eddie, if they went openly together. He briefly visualised everyone gawking at them, and the bullying that would follow them for long after the dance.

He didn't say any of this to Eddie. And on Friday night, when Richie put on a yellow sweater, gelled back his long curly hair, and biked to Eddie’s house, he almost didn’t care. Because Eddie Kaspbrak was the kind of adorable, sweet, beautiful boy that made Richie not care much about anything else at all. Eddie opened the door at the first knock, looking absolutely lovely in a pastel blue button up shirt and jeans. After quickly checking to make sure that Eddie’s mom wasn’t looking, Richie put his palms on Eddie’s cheeks and quickly but thoroughly kissed him full on the mouth, leaving Eddie giggling in shock against Richie’s lips. “Hi,” Eddie mumbled bashfully, and Richie smirked.

“You’re adorable,” he said, because it was undeniably true. Eddie blushed, pushed Richie lightly, and said, “Let’s go, loser.”

“That’s a funny way of pronouncing ‘awesome and incredibly sexy love of my life',” Richie responded, getting onto his bike, and Eddie rolled his eyes and hopped on the back of the bike, putting his arms securely around Richie’s waist to hold on.

“If you crash this thing, I’m telling my mom not to let you come to my funeral,” Eddie shouted as they sped towards the school, but Richie could barely hear him over the wind whipping in his ears.

When they arrived, they jumped off Richie’s bike, carefully locked it so that it wouldn’t get stolen, and stood outside of the school. They were early, because Eddie, as middle school secretary, had to set up the dance, and Richie and the rest of the band had to set up their instruments. Richie took a deep breath and squeezed Eddie’s hand outside the front door. “I love you,” he murmured, and Eddie leaned into his side.

“I love you too, asshole.”

Richie chuckled. “I don’t think the ‘asshole’ part was necessarily, but thanks anyway.” Then he was silent again. “You know we can’t—“ he paused, struggling to find the words. “You know we can’t be too obvious.”

“Yeah,” Eddie sighed. “I know.”

“Hey,” Richie said tenderly, putting a calloused hand under Eddie’s chin and lifting it so Eddie was looking at him. “I’m really sorry. I want to. So badly. To be able to kiss you in front of that room of people, let all of them know you’re mine.”

Eddie was quiet for a bit. Then, taking Richie completely by surprise, he put his arms around Richie’s neck and kissed him. “I’m yours,” he whispered, before abruptly letting go of him, turning on his heel, opening the door, and skipping into the school, leaving Richie behind with a dumb smile on his face.

———

They opened with a crowd pleaser. David Bowie was always a good way to kick off any event, in Richie Tozier’s humble opinion, and dances where no exception.

"Didn't know what time it was the lights were low, I leaned back on my radio,” Richie began in a low, husky voice, feeling the adrenaline build in his system as they grow closer to the chorus. Bill’s fingers gliding flawlessly over the piano keys as Bev harmonised in the background, and Richie jumped in place a bit as he belted out the chorus.

“There’s a starman waiting in the sky,

He’d like to come and meet us

But he think’s he’d blow our minds

There’s a starman waiting in the sky,

He’s told us not to blow it

Cause he knows it’s all worthwhile.

He told me

Let the children lose it

Let the children use it

Let all the children boogie”.

Between songs, Richie found himself looking at the ground and just smiling out at the gymnasium full of kids. They were really good, they had to be, because all of their classmates who generally hate them are cheering and singing along. They got through some Cyndi Lauper (Eddie insisted), and Africa by Toto, Take on Me, and a few more high energy songs that everyone seemed to enjoy.

Finally, they got to the second to last (and frankly, Richie’s favourite) song on the setlist. Richie grabbed the microphone, searching the crowd for Eddie. When he found him, they made brief eye contact, Richie raised his eyebrows and laughed slightly as he said, “So, this song is for a special someone in the audience,” he paused, grinning at the blush on Eddie’s face, “And without further ado,” he turned around to the other losers, “Hit it, Mike!”

Mike began playing the opening part of the song on his violin. Then, Ben came in with a hypnotising drum beat, and Bev’s guitar joined, and then it was Richie’s turn.

“Come on Eileen!” He sang dynamically, before repeating the same verse, “Come on Eileen!” He caught Eddie’s eye again, winked, and threw himself into his performance.

———

“So,” Richie drawled as he and Eddie exited the school, glasses slightly askew and hair a sweaty mess, “Was I good? Am I the hot punk-rocker boyfriend you’ve always wanted?”

“You were great,” Eddie said seriously, and Richie smiled down at him. He noted that they’re alone, he noted that he’s had a hell of a day, and he noted that Eddie was directly in front of him, looking cute as always and extremely kissable. He didn’t question his instincts, just leaned forward and kissed Eddie, intertwining their hands. When they pulled away, he twirled Eddie, waltzing clumsily in the dark.

“Come on Eddie,” Richie sang softly, looking at Eddie in the pale light. “Oh, I swear what he means, in this moment, you mean everything.”

Eddie just rolled his eyes and kissed Richie again.

[paulisded]

Live Ledge #406: Best Albums of 2019

This was another great year in music. So great, in fact, that many hours were spent narrowing down the year's release into the standard Ledge format of the 40 best albums of the year. In particular, it was a year that really saw a resurgence in anthemic power pop. It was also a year that saw a number of psych-rock bands so widely expand their sound and songwriting that a two-record set was necessary. Here's my list, and look for another similar post featuring the great reissue and box sets of the year.

1. Mikal Cronin, Seeker. Every year there is a record or two that deserves to find an audience outside of its typical subgenre. This year it’s the latest by Mikal Cronin, a stunning record that retains the psych-rock template of his past yet showcases a giant leap in songwriting. This record should be all over mainstream rock radio.

2. Bob Mould, Sunshine Rock. After a handful of records featuring dark, ferocious rock closer to his Husker Du days than his more poppy records with Sugar, Mould’s latest finds him possibly as close to happy as we’ve ever seen him. Ok, maybe happy is too strong of a word. Whatever it is the attitude is different, although still accompanied by his trademark buzzsaw guitars.

3. Pernice Brothers, Spread the Feeling. The most welcome comeback of the year. Every band featuring Joe Pernice seemed to acknowledge one major influence missing from most Americana bands and that’s his love of ‘80’s college rock. Just imagine a country-tinged power pop band that clearly loves Echo & The Bunnymen, The Smiths, and Lloyd Cole.

4. The Muffs, No Holiday. Such a tragedy. Two years ago, Muffs leader Kim Shattuck suddenly found herself unable to grip a guitar. It turned out to be ALS. Determined to finish one last album she gave all she could even as she quickly deteriorated from the disease. Eventually she was leading recording sessions while connected to a breathing tube. Sadly, she died less than two weeks before the release of one of the band’s best albums.

5. Purple Mountains, Purple Mountains. Purple Mountains was David Berman’s first project since the demise of Silver Jews in 2019, and it was a stunning display of his quirky songwriting skills. Unfortunately, the personal demons that had always been present in his art turned his big comeback into a tragedy, as he took his life just weeks after the record was released to glowing reviews.

6. The Resonars, No Exit. In a year that saw power pop rediscover its balls, The Resonars proved they always had their share of testicular fortitude. And it’s all the work of one man, Matt Rendon, who has over the last two decades created six albums of this sort of catchy but raucous power pop.

7. Kiwi Jr., Football Money. Power pop’s closest relative just has to be jangle pop, and both genres are at its best when the songwriting is as catchy as a late ‘70’s Nick Lowe single. There’s hooks galore on this Toronto band’s debut release.

8. Wand, Laughing Matter. There’s always been a bit of a fine line between psych and prog, and those lines have definitely narrowed in today’s crop of prog-rockers. One proof is the return of the double album, which every psych band seemed to release in 2019. The strongest record of that sort may have to be Wand’s fifth record, which succeeds by actually stripping back their sound a bit.

9. Wreckless Eric, Transience. It’s been a real treat to see the resurgence of Eric Goulden in the last few years, as album after album have ranked as his best ever. The latest sort of comes closest to his solo performances, as he lays tracks and tracks of both clean and enhanced acoustic and electric guitars over backing tracks laid down by Amy Rigby, Cheap Trick’s Tom Petersson, jazz horn player Artie Barbato, and The Rumour’s Steve Goulding.

10. Tim Presley’s White Fence, I Have To Feed Larry’s Hawk. Presley reportedly spent four years recording what may be the masterpiece of his career. How to describe the finished product is not easy, though, as various influences and sounds flow in and out of each and every track, yet there is an intimacy here that makes it feel like Presley just whipped up this musical cocktail in one long, intense evening.

11. The Cowboys, The Bottom Of A Rotten Flower. Good old punk-influenced straight up rock and roll. Nothing more, nothing less. And when it’s as good and as catchy as this it doesn’t need to be anything else.

12. Twin Peaks, Lookout Low. Five years ago, this Chicago-based band’s fabulous record Wild Onion was described by one of the band members as heavily influenced by Exile On Main Street. This record’s classic rock influence appears to be the first two records by The Band. That’s not to say they sound anything like either the Stones or The Band. No, in this case there is a laid back feel to their guitar-based indie rock that feels as if it’s straight out of a Woodstock basement.

13. The Dates, Ask Again Later. Garrett Goddard has been a member of a number of bands over the years, including King Tuff, Personal and the Pizzas, and The Cuts. His first record heading The Dates may have just topped anything else he’s ever worked on in the past. The melodies and hooks just melt in your ears, and the musical accompaniment throws The Byrds, Big Star, Shoes, Smithereens and seemingly a dozen other bands into the greatest blender ever invented.

14. Wilco, Ode To Joy. After Tweedy’s pair of solo acoustic records, I think I was ready for a full blown rock and roll Wilco album. It has been a while, right? Unfortunately, Ode To Joy comes off as a full band version of those solo records. Don’t get me wrong. It’s good. It’s very good. It just wasn’t what I needed from a 2019 Wilco album.

15. Guided By Voices, Zeppelin Over China. Another year, another trio of Guided By Voices records. Their second wind as a band has been nothing but stunning, as evidenced by this double album of almost nothing but anthems.

16. Tijuana Panthers, Carpet Denim. Every year there seems to be a new band that showcases elements of surf rock in their punk-influenced lo-fi garage sounds. What a shocker to find out that this is their sixth album! What sets them apart from others like them, besides the strength of their songwriting, is the ocassional elements of doo wop harmonies. Who knew that The Buzzcocks and Dion could co-exist in the same song?

17. Peter Perrett, Humanworld. After no new tunes for over 25 years, we now have two records in three years by the former leader of The Only Ones! Like 2017’s How The West Was One this record succeeds simply because Perrett isn’t trying to recreate the glory days, nor is he attempting to jump on current trends. Instead he accomplishes what real artists do, which is to create a sound that fits the song.

18. Frankie and the Witch Fingers, ZAM. Another great psych rock double album that incorporates and combines all sorts of atypical influences, including kraut, prog, and even a little funk.

19. Sweet Things, In Borrowed Shoes, On Borrowed Time. It may be hard to find a more varied rock and roll album than this debut record, as it jumps around from blues to soul to country to glam rock. There’s cameos by Alejandro Escovedo and members of The Uptown Horns. It’s the most ambitious trashy garage rock record I’ve heard in quite some time.

20. Cherry Pickles, Will Harden Your Nipples. As their bandcamp states, “one guitar, two drums, the basement band you always wanted to start”. This trio proudly combines all sorts of “outsider art” into a minimalistic sound that would certainly impress the namesake of the record’s best song “I Still Miss Lux”.

21. Ty Segall, First Taste. The prolific singer/guitarist was a bit quiet this year, actually. Well, for Segall a quiet year is one that only features a studio album, a live album, and a box set of outtakes. What makes his only new record of the year stand out is that there reportedly is not a guitar to be found on it! No, it’s not a synth-pop record. In fact, it ultimately isn’t that much different than what we’re used to hearing.

22. Pale Lips, After Dark. Gotta love snotty, hook-driven garage-punk that’s clearly inspired by major doses of The Muffs and The Ramones mixed with spoonfuls of surf and Spector-era girl groups.

23. The Darts, I Like You But Not Like That. This record was not what I expected. At all. Who would have predicted that Alternative Tentacles would put out such a sexy collection of horror-punk?

24. CTMF, Last Punk Standing. Nobody has so proudly hosted the flag of ‘60’s garage-punk as Wild Billy Childish. Well, “proud” is probably not the correct word to use, as Childish is as cantankerous as The Fall’s Mark E. Smith. Yet he consistently puts out records full of simple yet catchy guitar anthems, and this one is no exception.

25. Jordan Jones, Jordan Jones. What happens when you take the pop/rock highlights of ‘70’s AM radio and ramp it up a bit with power pop energy? You get this wonderful debut record.

26. The Mystery Lights, Too Much Tension! A melting pot of different styles rarely mesh well, but this New York band’s second album somehow manages to roll in and out of genres. A synth track leads into a homage to the Stooges which is then followed by a ‘60’ dance party. How do they get away with it?

27. Juliana Hatfield, Weird. It’s only fitting that an album dominated by a theme of being a lonely introvert would be created by one artist playing almost every instrument. That’s the case of the latest Hatfield collection of originals, and it’s one of the best of her career.

28. Kevin Morby, Oh My God. Rolling Stone recently described the Kansas City native as a “secular guy with a spiritual side”, and that’s never been more evident than on his fifth album. RS goes on to compare this record to Dylan’s gospel years but it’s actually more similar to a record like New Morning, where Biblical imagery is referenced but not necessarily the main topic.

29. Drahla, Useless Coordinates. Post-punk also made a comeback this year, and one of the best purveyors of that sound is this trio of Wire fanatics. And like Wire there’s a bit of a ferocity in this record that’s missing in much of their post-punk cohorts.

30. Gino and the Goons, Do The Get Around. Take Chuck Berry, The Sonics, Motorhead, The Ramones, The Stooges and a few other “rawk’ legends and toss them into a blender and you get the dirty sound that Gino and the Goons have mastered over the course of five records. You know what you’re getting from these guys, but they always deliver.

31. Young Guv, Guv I & II. The side project of Fucked Up guitarist Ben Cook could be described as a lo-fi tribute to bands such as Big Star and Teenage Fanclub. But then out of the blue comes a synth tune that’s almost danceable. It’s just part of the charm of this double record.

32. Ravi Shavi, Blackout Deluxe. Some records are sleepers. They don’t work the first time you hear them. They may not even work on the fourth or fifth airing. Then suddenly you can’t stop listening. That’s the case with this new wave-influenced, Prince-obsessed, garage rock group.

33. ATOM, In Every Dream Home. Just like the previous record, ATOM didn’t work for me at first. Then suddenly I had to race to the stereo to crank up the volume. What changed? Well,it helps when the musicians are Australian indie rock heavy weights led by Crime and the City Solution’s Harry Howard.

34. Geoff Palmer, Pulling Out All The Stops/Brad Marino, Extra Credit. (Tie) I can’t possibly vote for one of these records to be higher than the other. The pair both were members of the The Connection and The New Trocaderos. Both of them are veteran power pop performers who have written more than their share of catchy tunes. And both may have put out the records of their careers.

36. Honey Radar, Ruby Puff Of Dust.. A lot of reviews of this Philly band compare them to Guided By Voices, but I honestly don’t understand why. Yet it’s what made me check them out, and I do appreciate their fuzzy psych-rock sound.

37. Titus Andronicus, An Obelisk. Produced by Bob Mould and recorded at Steve Albini’s Chicago studio, Titus’ sixth album is their most straight ahead to date, although as always leader Patrick Stickles’ lyrics are open to interpretation.

38. The Dream Syndicate, These Times. While most band reunions never result in worthwhile albums (or any new music at all), there are instances where the second run rivals the first. That’s the case with these leaders of the mid-’80’s “Paisley Underground”, and it’s mainly because they refuse to just rest on their laurels.

39. Jesse Malin, Sunset Kids. The teaming of Malin with Lucinda Williams may seem like a head scratcher, but it actually works! Not only does Williams produce the album, she duets with him on a handful of the album’s tracks. The end results may be quieter than a typical Malin album but the tunes are also as strong as a typical Malin album.

40. More Kicks, More Kicks. Haven’t I said that this was a year for great power pop? Here’s another one. This time it’s a UK group, and like the others I’ve highlighted there’s nothing wimpy here. It’s pop music that absolutely rocks.

After listening, please go purchase those tracks you enjoy! You can find this show at almost any podcast site, including iTunes and Stitcher...or

CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD THE SHOW!

Note: Tracks from the albums listed above were presented in reverse "Casey Kasem countdown" order. In two instances (Darts/Pale Lips and The Muffs/Purple Mountains), songs were erroneously flipped in error. I apologize for this mistake.

1. More Kicks, I'm on the Brink

2. Jesse Malin, Room 13

3. The Dream Syndicate, Bullet Holes

4. Titus Andronicus, Troubleman Unlimited

5. Honey Radar, Cornflake ESP

6. Brad Marino, Broken Record Baby

7. Geoff Palmer, All The Hits

8. ATOM, No Future

9. Ravi Shavi, Riding High

10. Young Guv, She's A Fantasy

11. Gino And The Goons, Pills In MY Pocket

12. Drahla, Gilded Cloud

13. Kevin Morby, OMG Rock n Roll

14. Juliana Hatfield, Staying In

15. The Mystery Lights, I'm So Tired (of Living In The City)

16. Jordan Jones, Rumors Girls

17. CTMF, You're the One I Idolise

18. Pale Lips, Some Sort Of Rock n' Roll

19. The Darts, Don't Hold My Hand

20. Ty Segall, Taste

21. Cherry Pickles, I Still Miss Lux

22. The Sweet Things, Dead or Worse

23. Frankie and the Witch Fingers, Purple Velvet

24. Peter Perrett, Love Comes On Silent Feet

25. Tijuana Panthers, Path of Totality

26. Guided by Voices, Your Lights Are Out

27. Wilco, Everyone Hides

28. The Dates, pictures with rene

29. Twin Peaks, Laid In Gold

30. The Cowboys, Female Behavior Book

31. White Fence, I Love You

32. Wreckless Eric, Strange Locomotion

33. Wand, Walkie Talkie

34. Kiwi jr., Murder in the Cathedral

35. The Resonars, The Man Who Does Nothing

36. The Muffs, No Holiday

37. Purple Mountains, That's Just the Way That I Feel

38. Pernice Brothers, Mint Condition

39. Bob Mould, Sunshine Rock

40. Mikal Cronin, I've Got Reason

[traversetheatre]

10 Questions: Douglas Maxwell

Grab a cup of tea and a biscuit, find yourself a comfortable chair and settle down for this bumper edition of 10 Questions with The Whip Hand playwright, Douglas Maxwell.

From reading recommendations to his writing playlist, from sharing the times he almost gave up on playwriting, to how theatre continues to surprise and delight him, you won’t regret a moment of reading Douglas’ heartfelt and hilarious responses...

[10 minute read]

1.    What was your inspiration for writing The Whip Hand?

I honestly can’t remember. Usually my plays have specific autobiographical beginnings. But this one had been brewing in the back of my mind for so long that where it came from is lost to me now. In fact I used to worry that if I sat on this thing for much longer someone else would come along with the same idea and steal my thunder.

I think I was reluctant to write it not because of the subject matter but because of the style. I knew it would have to play in ‘real time’ in one room, which isn’t the sexiest way to do a play nowadays. You rarely get new plays like that in Scotland. And it’s difficult. It takes a lot of old-school playwriting skill to keep that stuff flying. But actually, that’s where a lot of the play’s power comes from.

I started writing it in a hotel room in Montreal a few years ago. I was over there with The Traverse at La Licorne, who were doing a reading of one of my plays. I had just seen 20,000 Days on Earth, the Nick Cave film. I was so inspired that I knew I’d have to write something that night. But I hadn’t brought anything to work on. Because I’d been thinking about it for so long The Whip Hand was the only new thing I knew I could start without any notes.  

2.    What three words would you use to sum up the play?

As anyone who has seen my plays will know, I rarely use as few as three words to describe anything. But, as my hand is forced…

Dramatic.  Involving. Truthful.

(The Whip Hand. Image David Monteith-Hodge)

3.    How do you want audiences to feel having watched The Whip Hand?

Playwriting is about holding the audience’s attention and moving us from one state to another. They way in which we’re held, and the way in which we’re moved, are up for grabs and different with every play.  

With The Whip Hand I want to grip people with the characters and the premise, but to keep the ground beneath our feet ever-shifting with the story. Hopefully by shifting tones, assumptions, expectations and loyalties, it’ll mean that we’re always questioning our own attitudes to what the characters are talking about.

And although the style and the set-up of the play is quite straightforward, because of the backstory it soon unfolds into something complex and mercurial.

This is not a reasonable, balanced, even-handed “issue play”. That’s for someone else to do. 

There’s a rawness to the characters, and a rawness to what they’re on about that means this stuff is not handled with care: it’s smashed on the floor like a bottle - shards everywhere.  

Ideally though, at the end, hearts will be pounding…

4.    Do you have a favourite line or moment in the play?

There’s a big speech about a third of the way in that changes absolutely everything. And there’s a character who stays quite quiet for the first act, but when he gets going things really rev up.  And the last ten minutes are pretty explosive.  

(The Whip Hand. Image David Monteith-Hodge)

5.    Can you tell us about your writing environment?

I write at a desk in our bedroom. I have a laptop sitting on three big old hardback books. (For no other reason apart from size they happen to be: School Girls Holiday Book 1952, Tom Wolfe’s Back To Blood and a beautiful James Hogg collection, The Ettrick Shephard, Poems and Life.)  

I need the screen at eye-level cos I’ve got bad back and the beginnings of a stoop, so I plug in a keyboard and try to watch my posture. It doesn’t work. I’m still curled up like an Olympian cyclist most of the day. I’ve got some books on my desk (a Chambers Dictionary, Fowler’s Modern English Usage and my diary) and a lamp.  

I face the wall, but there’s a wee alcove with a CD player in it.  I usually have four or five CDs in a pile beside it. (Today they are the new OK Computer reissue, Kid A, Dan Auerbach’s last album and a Hug of Thunder by Broken Social Scene.)  I’ve got a wee New York Giants American football stress-reliever thing that I chuck about when I’m thinking/skiving. And there’s a little Lego pterodactyl that the drummer in Fever Dream: Southside made me as a souvenir.  

In the alcove, there’s a framed picture of my dad and another of my friend Bob, who was the source of Charlie Sonata.  

At my feet, under the desk, is a printer and a record player.  It’s not a good record player. It’s got crappy wee speakers built into the sides. Everything sounds like punk on this machine. It can make Simon and Garfunkel sound like the MC5. I like it for live albums. Before The Flood is in it right now.  

(In case you find it of interest, we made a playlist of these suggestions that you can listen to, here.)

I have two guitars within reach – one acoustic, one electric - again for that good old thinking/skiving reflex.  

(Charlie Sonata, Lyceum Theatre)

6.    If you could spend a day with a character from one of your plays, who would it be and what would you do together?

I know this will sound pretentious and awful, but I feel like I spend too much time with my characters as it is. They’re not enigmatic or unknown to me, as they are to many writers. They’re sometimes just versions of myself – or versions of aspects of myself.  Sometimes they’re straight from my day-to-day life.  Anyway, I feel like they all live in my world and I know them very, very well. So, that being said, I don’t really feel the need to go to Butlin’s with them or anything.

But, again at the high risk of sounding completely insufferable, I do love them. I don’t start writing a play until I get a big sore pang of empathy for all of the characters.

7.    Can you tell us about the first play you wrote?

It was an adaptation of The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner by James Hogg. I ran a wee theatre company when I was at University (and co-founded the Stirling University Musical Society fact fans!). I did an English Literature degree and asked if I could write a play for my honours dissertation. I was the first person to ever do that, I think, so they had no idea how to mark it – which worked in my favour. It was an unreadable undergraduate piece of pretentious pseudo-intellectual nonsense. But I staged it in the Macrobert with a cast of thousands, it went down a storm and I was addicted for life. My second play was a farce about an assassination attempt on Oscar Wilde. Oof. Terrible. And listen, that was by no means my most ill-advised idea from that period. In fact that was just the beginning of five years of writing duff play after duff play and sending them off in brown envelopes to be rightfully rejected by every theatre in the land.  

Not including the stuff I wrote for youth theatres and business conferences, 

I wrote twenty-one full-length plays before I finally wrote a good one.

The Traverse was my only open door by the end of that period.  I really hope they don’t have any of those plays in their archive.

(The Whip Hand. Image David Monteith-Hodge)

8.    Going on from that, what advice would you give to your younger playwriting self?

I don’t really regret anything from that time.  Although it was disheartening and hard I did my 10,000 hours when I was young and stupid so it was fine.  And the way it happened meant that I developed such a strange, wide-ranging set of playwriting skills that when I could finally control it and write something good I was fully armed.  

It didn’t matter that I slept in my mate’s kitchen for 5 years; in a flat with no heating, no shower and no cooker.  It didn’t matter that I signed on or worked in crappy part-time jobs. I was totally dedicated to writing plays and I’m proud of my younger self for never giving up, for always pushing to get better and for making every day a school day.  

I remember one summer night when I only had enough money for either a chip-roll for tea or a bottle of beer. I chose the bottle of beer.  As I walked to the offy it occurred to me that I was just pretending; that if my plays weren’t actually going on (which they obviously weren’t) then my whole life was just some daft game.  I was a fake. I was pretending to be a writer. I went back to that Withnail flat and wrote all night – what I was writing God knows. But now I look back at that guy and think that I was never more of a real writer than that night.  

The guy who needs advice is the guy who finally had a couple of plays on – his dreams came true! That guy’s swanning about thinking he’s Tennessee Williams or something. To him I say, ‘Shut your face a minute, will you? Be true to your characters, not your ego. You know nothing yet so keep schtoom and learn quicker. You represent the plays, not the other way round. Don’t wait for humility to be thrust upon you.  Keep writing the plays you feel like writing, not the plays you think you should be writing.  And if the only reason you’re doing a job is for the money then don’t do the job.’

9.    What has been your most memorable theatre experience – either as a member of the audience, or as part of the creative team?

I have so many important memories of shows, and loads of personal experiences that are profound and vital to me, it would be a bum steer to mention any specifics.  

But I’m a good audience member. I hardly ever hate anything I see in a theatre. This will make me sound like an intellectual weakling no doubt, but the simple act of performance – any performance – always works its magic on me. Always. When a show starts, when someone comes out and begins to perform I always feel like I want to cry.

I’ve noticed that the type of person who works in theatre and hates everything they see and can’t bring themselves to say something positive about anything – let alone gush enthusiastically about someone else’s show – well, they tend to be not very good. Theatre needs enthusiasm. That’s the fuel. Real theatre people love theatre. Why else would you do it? There’s no bloody money. Nah, sneering disdain and world-weary sighs are for people that like reading reviews more than going to see a play. Talented people, people who are always pushing themselves forward and really grafting hard at their craft are always open to being blown away. They can see the flashes of greatness in even the most underpowered show. They’re fans.

10.  Are there any websites, books or other resources that you find particularly useful as a playwright?

All writers are readers, of course. That’s just a fact. So I always have a novel on the go. But I’m also always reading for work. I read scripts all the time, particularly from shows in London I’ll never see, or old plays that someone mentions that I’ve never read or a playwright I’m completely unaware of. In the last few weeks, I’ve read Anthony and Cleopatra, Enemy of the People and I have The Ferryman and An Octoroon lined up. I also read loads and loads of scripts from unproduced writers and students.  

Writers improve by reading as many plays as we can and writing as much as we can. The writing is more important.

Plus we have to go to the theatre all the time or our words turn academic, inward and heavy. Sometimes when I’m at a show, before the lights go down, I look around and wonder ‘will the play I was writing today work with this crowd?’ You’d be amazed how often the answer to that is no. So I think, ‘what would work then?’

Mind you, we probably make the biggest leaps forward by looking at our own work with a cold eye, rather than by reading someone else’s play. And when you start to work with actors and deal with audiences, then the learning curve really steepens.

But as far as a reading list goes, starting with Aristotle’s Poetics is always a good idea (but not the stuff about comedy – he’s way off on that). I’ve got a soft spot for stories about Broadway writers frantically re-writing shows based on bad audience reactions in Boston. There’s a lot to learn there I think. Act One by Moss Hart, On The Street Where I Live by Alan Jay Lerner and Rewrites by Neil Simon are all fantastic. I found Dario Fo’s Tricks of the Trade and John McGrath’s A Good Night Out particularly good for writing for a Scottish audience, even though that’s not what they’re actually about. In that respect, Ian Brown’s Scottish Theatre: Diversity, Language, Continuity is the best.  

Screenwriting books are a laugh for a busman’s holiday, but they’re best avoided for playwrights.  All that prescriptive stuff about the hero’s journey and page layout and story structure just doesn’t count on the modern stage.    

There are no rules, of course.  No right way or wrong way to make a play.  What works on this one won’t necessarily work for the next one. And the same play is different each night, which is the joy of it.  We’re making moments in time, not monuments.  Plays are designed to be seen only once. It’s more like planning a party than writing a novel.  

Sun 6 – Sun 27 Aug You can book tickets for The Whip Hand here.

[musiccosmosru]

At this point in her career, Julien Baker is too popular to be playing the smallest stage at Pitchfork Music Festival. But the smallest stage is also the most intimate stage, and intimacy is what Julien Baker traffics in. So there she was, walking onto the Blue Stage as Friday afternoon was giving way to evening, her slim, tatted-up arms extending from the sleeves of a Terror T-shirt. I’m told one goes to a Terror show expecting to get kicked in the brain. For those favorably disposed toward her spare, trembling, ambient balladry, a Julien Baker concert promises to put your heart through similar treatment.

On this drizzly Chicago summer day, the rending began with “Turn Out The Lights,” the title track from the star-making album she put out last year. That release expanded the 22-year-old’s profile such that she could easily have commanded a larger group’s attention on one of the two main stages across Union Park. As it stands, several thousand crammed into a tree-filled corner of the festival to watch her sing about the dark, decaying apartment where “there’s no one left between myself and me.” Song after song, many of them joined her in beating back whatever darkness haunts them by howling along to lines such as “The harder I swim, the faster I sink!” and “Maybe it’s all gonna turn out all right/ Oh, I know that it’s not, but I have to believe that it is!” Quite a few more of them merely stood awestruck.

For the last three years, since the release of her remarkable debut Sprained Ankle, Baker has been touring relentlessly doing a version of this gig all over the world at shabby bars, ornate theaters, and outdoor festivals like this one. It goes like this: Baker, armed with an electric guitar and an arsenal of effects pedals, steps to the microphone and emotes with slow-building splendor, building from plaintive whispers to passionate wails. Behind her voice, guitar parts filtered through mounds of reverb and delay are looped and layered to create rising action. Not much else is involved; the songs are so delicate and naked that even the occasional addition of piano or violin constitutes a major dynamic uptick.

This low-key intensity does not always lend itself to a music festival environment, where noise from nearby stages regularly spills over into whatever sonic space a performer leaves empty. Friday, that meant booming bass and vigorous shouting from hometown hero Saba’s performance on the Red Stage. At one point Baker told us, “I think that’s Saba,” and enthusiastically endorsed his recent album Care For Me. Noticing how fired-up Saba and his audience were getting, she continued, “I wish I could do that. I wish I could just be like, ‘Make some noise!’” The crowd responded with vociferous cheers for a good solid minute.

That sort of reception was fitting, and not just because of what a rousing performance Baker was putting on. Even if it’s true that her musical and personal aesthetic doesn’t exactly jibe with rowdy demands for affirmation, all those nights on stage have helped her develop confidence as a performer worlds away from the wobbly, talented kid I beheld at a small Columbus bar three years ago. Maybe she’s still the type to say, “I find it immensely flattering when large groups of people gather to watch me play. It’s pretty neat.” But these days she’s also spiking her radical vulnerability with what almost passes for rock-star swagger. It manifests in small details like the way she lifts her guitar against her chin a song’s climax, the satisfied way she bites her bottom lip in the wake of conjuring celestial drama, or the wild-eyed smile that breaks out when she sings, “I would have stayed if you asked me to.”

Baker has evolved the campfire emo catharsis of Dashboard Confessional into post-rock worship music — sometimes literally, as when she faces her life’s many trials and mistakes and cries out, “I rejoice!” She grew up in church and continues to identify as a Christian, and the influence of modern evangelical music on her songwriting is unmissable, even when she’s not so overtly praising the Lord. Her twist on the format is weightier than most because she’s as real and raw about her pain and flaws as David penning a psalm. Her songs present not a Hallmark joy but one always fighting for its life in the face of loneliness, fear, depression, substance abuse, and creeping death.

There is a passage of scripture in 2 Corinthians 4 about the role of suffering in a Christian’s life. The band Jars Of Clay took their name from it, but foremost it reminds me of Baker’s music. It reads like so: “For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ. But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body.”

The idea is that as the struggles of this world chip away at a person’s exterior, it allows God’s power to shine through from inside. I hear something like that in Baker’s music. She steps onstage and cracks herself open along the fault lines left over from trauma, and something bright and powerful beams from among the wreckage. Her songs are barely there, faint glimmers that do not evoke physical shapes so much as spirits hovering in the air, whipped up time and again into clouds of glory. It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah, and then suddenly it’s a consuming fire. For 45 minutes Friday, Pitchfork Music Festival was engulfed.

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The post Julien Baker Pitchfork Festival Review: Rock-Star Confidence Meets Radical Vulnerability appeared first on MusicCosmoS.

[anthonycharlestabone]

Having trouble viewing? View in Browser Thursday, November 9, 2017 Welcome to Fox News First. Not signed up yet? Click here.   Developing now, Thursday, Nov. 9, 2017: Fox News Interview: Donna Brazile accuses Clinton campaign of being "condescending and dismissive" of her U.S. Navy to run rare 3-carrier military drill amid North Korea tensions Senate to unveil its version of a tax reform bill The co-founder of the firm behind the Trump dossier agrees to return to Capitol Hill to testify CMA Awards poke fun at Trump as Garth Brooks wins Entertainer of the Year THE LEAD STORY: Donna Brazile appeared to back away from some of the harshest claims made in her new book about last year’s presidential election in an interview with Fox News' Tucker Carlson. The former interim head of the Democratic National Committee lamented the Clinton campaign was "condescending and dismissive" toward her and complained that she didn't have total control of the party's resources ... In the wide-ranging interview, Brazile described her book as a "forensic examination" of the failures of the DNC and Clinton’s presidential campaign. Previously released excerpts from Brazile's book accused Clinton's top male campaign staffers of sexist treatment. But in the "Tucker Carlson Tonight" interview, Brazile characterized her conflict with campaign manager Robby Mook as a "generational" difference. When asked why she leaked questions at a Democratic primary town hall to members of Clinton’s campaign, she said she didn’t want the candidates to be "blindsided" - eliciting laughter from Tucker Carlson. Michael Goodwin: How Brazile's book exposes liberal media's Hillary health coverup Fox News Opinion: Trump's first year: Liberals keep screaming (and dreaming) FLASHBACK: Watch Election Night meltdowns over Trump by mainstream media U.S. NAVY SHOW OF STRENGTH: Three U.S. military aircraft carriers are heading to the same part of the world at the same time, to take part in a rare military exercise not seen in a decade ... The USS Ronald Reagan, based in Japan; the USS Theodore Roosevelt, based in San Diego; and the USS Nimitz, based at Naval Base Kitsap at Bremerton, Washington, will commence the strike force exercise in the Western Pacific Saturday through next Tuesday. The units will conduct coordinated operations in international waters to demonstrate the U.S. Navy’s unique capability to operate multiple carrier strike groups as a coordinated strike force effort. The announcement of the military exercise made no mention of President Trump's trip to Asia. But the maneuvers are connected with a string of moves to showcase U.S. military strength as Washington and its allies put diplomatic pressure on North Korea to end its nuclear weapons program and cease the testing of ballistic missiles. Trump to North Korea: 'Do not underestimate us' In Beijing, Trump presses China on North Korea and trade TAX REFORM PUT TO THE TEST: House and Senate Republican leaders were hoping to be united on tax reform to avoid a repeat of this summer’s ObamaCare repeal debacle. But that plan will be put to the test as the Senate prepares to unveil its version of the tax bill today, which reportedly could eliminate popular state and local tax deductions and include additional changes from the House bill … Any big differences between the competing bills could slow or sideline the legislation, though leaders are aiming for swift passage. Senate Republican leaders reportedly are considering the elimination of the state-and-local tax deductions, while the House is pushing only for a partial rollback and still deliberating in committee. FUSION GPS CO-FOUNDER RETURNING FOR MORE TESTIMONY: The co-founder of the opposition research firm behind the unverified and discredited Trump dossier has reached an agreement with the House Intelligence Committee to testify voluntarily on his involvement in the controversial project ... The Fusion GPS co-founder Glenn Simpson last appeared on Capitol Hill in August, when he testified before the Senate Judiciary Committee for 10 hours. His new testimony, scheduled for next Tuesday, comes following recent revelations that the Democratic National Committee and Clinton campaign funded the dossier. Fusion GPS official met with Russian operative before and after Trump Jr. sit-down Fusion GPS's ties to Clinton campaign, Russia investigation: What to know   THE 2017 CMA AWARDS IN REVIEW: The 51st Annual CMA Awards saw the best in county music come together, but it was Garth Brooks that took home the top prize, being crowned entertainer of the year ...  Carrie Underwood and Brad Paisley hosted the show for the 10th consecutive year. They opened the show on a somber note by listing off recent tragedies, such as last month's mass shooting in Las Vegas and Texas church shooting last Sunday.  But then the show pivoted to political quips, with Paisley and Underwood poking fun at President Trump. The stars commented on the recent controversy surrounding the CMAs press guidelines, noting that the show is supposed to be free of politics. Paisley lamented not being able to sing topical songs such as, "Way Down Yonder on the Scaramucci," "Hold Me Closer Bernie Sanders," "Harper Valley DNC" and "Stand by Your Manafort." Paisley then strummed a guitar and sung a parody of Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” with lyrics aimed at President Trump. 2017 CMA Awards: And the winners are... CMAs 2017 In Memoriam pays special tribute to Las Vegas victims   AS SEEN ON FOX NEWS BANNON DOWNPLAYS DEM VICTORIES: "What we had [in Virginia] was an establishment candidate in Ed Gillespie ... Virginia, because of Northern Virginia, is a blue state. Gillespie needed to embrace Trump more." – Former White House Chief Strategist Steve Bannon, on "Hannity," refuting liberal claims that Democrats' Election Day victories were a rebuke of Trump. WATCH POLITICS AND THE LAW COLLIDE: "We're going into a very dangerous period where we are using criminal laws as an extension of politics. There's this cottage industry coming up with crimes you can charge President Trump with." –  George Washington University Law Professor Jonathan Turley, on "The Story with Martha MacCallum," reflecting on new calls for President Trump's impeachment and Hillary Clinton's imprisonment. WATCH   ACROSS THE NATION Mexican citizen executed in Texas for decades-old killing vows he 'will be back for justice.' Benghazi militant charged for providing material support, resources to terrorists. Expert team prepares to retrieve remains of fallen WWII servicemen from up to 350 feet below ice.   MINDING YOUR BUSINESS General Electric signs $3.5 billion deals in China. U.S., AT&T at odds over CNN in Time Warner deal. Panera Bread to buy Au Bon Pain, CEO stepping down.   NEW IN FOX NEWS OPINION Judge Napolitano: What if government stinks at keeping us safe but is great at invading our privacy? Gregg Jarrett: Did Comey obstruct justice by protecting Hillary Clinton from prosecution? Rep. Marsha Blackburn: To save lives and money, we must cut off federal funding for sanctuary cities.   HOLLYWOOD SQUARED Kevin Spacey cut from movie coming out in December Will anti-Trump CNN Boss Jeff Zucker kill $84.5 billion deal? Terry Crews reportedly files a police report over sexual assault.   DID YOU HEAR ABOUT THIS? Pennsylvania man charged with DUI after showing up to vote a day early. Oregon police respond to call for help, turns out to be pet parrot.  Dolce & Gabbana is releasing a $110 pasta collection for the holidays.   STAY TUNED On Fox News: Fox & Friends, 6 a.m. ET: Actor and GOP congressional candidate Antonio Sabato Jr. talks about Trump's presidential election victory, one year later, Democrats in chaos over Donna Brazile bombshells and more; Fox News' Lea Gabrielle gives  guide to Veterans Week events. Your World with Neil Cavuto, 4 p.m. ET: House Majority Whip Steve Scalise takes on Election Day fallout, tax reform latest, the Texas church massacre and more. Special Report, 6 p.m. ET: Bret is on the scene in Beijing on President Trump's trip to Asia with live analysis and breaking news. On Fox Business: Mornings with Maria, 6 a.m. ET: Former Federal Reserve Chairman Alan Greenspan sounds off on the state of the economy, President Trump's pick to succeed Janet Yellen and more; and Jim Reid-Anderson, Six Flags CEO, Chris Waldeck, Lee Jeans president and Rep. Roger Williams of Financial Services Committee take on tax reform and Trump's trip to Asia. Varney & Co., 9 a.m. ET:  Former Reagan economist Art Laffer takes on Trump's trade talks with China; James Kallstrom, former FBI assistant director, sounds off on new questions on James Comey's handling of the Hillary Clinton email case. The Intelligence Report, 2 p.m. ET: House Budget Chairwoman Diane Black on the state of tax reform. On Fox News Radio: CHECK IT OUT  - Fox News Radio has launched the Fox News Rundown! This long-form podcast features insights from top newsmakers, along with reporters and contributors from across all Fox News Channel platforms. All episodes of this podcast can be found at: www.foxnewsrundown.com. Want it sent straight to your mobile device? Subscribe through Apple Podcasts, Google Play, and Stitcher.   #OnThisDay 2012: Retired four-star Army Gen. David Petraeus abruptly resigns as CIA director after an affair with his biographer, Paula Broadwell, is revealed by an FBI investigation. 1989: Communist East Germany throws open its borders, allowing citizens to travel freely to the West; joyous Germans dance atop the Berlin Wall. 1620: The passengers and crew of the Mayflower sight Cape Cod.   Thank you for joining us on Fox News First! Enjoy your Thursday and we'll see you in your inbox first thing Friday morning Unsubscribe | Contact Us ©2017 Fox News Network, LLC. All Rights Reserved. 1211 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY, 10036. Privacy Policy.

[devils-gatemedia]

  I was certainly expecting tonight’s The White Buffalo show to be pretty quiet as far as crowd sizes are concerned. Not only were Tyketto playing next door, but former Deep Purple bassist Glenn Hughes is appearing at the Garage, and inventors of heavy metal, Black Sabbath are playing their final ever show in Scotland. By the time I arrive, fans are already queuing around the corner to pack the venue, and already I’m noticing what a varied crowd it is. Young and old, from all walks of life, and as I’d guessed, plenty of SAMCRO fans, but more on that later.

Tonight’s support comes from Jarrod Dickenson. Standing alone on stage, the soft spoken, well dressed Texan introduces himself whilst many of the crowd are too busy chatting to notice. Performing a blend of country, blues and American folk, and switching between acoustic and electric guitar, he gradually wins the crowd over with his well-crafted songs. Numbers like “Rosalie”, with its gentle rolling fingerpicked guitar and soothing vocal, hush the crowd and are a delight to hear. Dickenson informs us it would be un-Texan of him to not sing us a cowboy song, so he does. Midway through said song, he jokes that there should be a harmonica solo, but he forgot his harmonica, so we’ll have to imagine it. It gets plenty of laughs as he attempts to whistle a substitute. There’s some deadpan humour too, as Jarrod announces he has a new album coming out. There is a single whoop from the crowd. “That’s exciting to me and two others”, he quips, “I know you’re probably tired of hearing all the old hits by now”. More laughter breaks the silence, and we’re treated to some cuts from the forthcoming release. His beautiful Gibson 335 guitar shimmers under the smooth crooning of one particular ballad. It’s a perfect blend, and extremely relaxing. There’s time for a cover version, Harlon Howards “Busted”, made famous by Johnny Cash and Ray Charles, and a final jazzy blues number before his time is up. It’s no easy task to step out on stage in a country far from home, with no backing band as a safety net, in front of people that may never have heard of you before, but Jarrod managed it splendidly. He is performing in Glasgow again on the 18th of March, and I, for one, will definitely be there.

Jake Smith, better known as The White Buffalo, hails from California and found fame when he performed a handful of songs on the soundtrack to the TV show Sons Of Anarchy. His edgy outlaw country style, mixed with dark lyrical themes, was perfect for the show about the rebel motorcycle club. Picked up by Earache records in the UK, he is on tour as the label sets about releasing his back catalogue, following the success of his last album “Love & The Death Of Damnation”. Flanked by a drummer and bassist, the White Buffalo takes the stage to a righteous applause as he begins with “Radio With No Sound”. With its sweet piano part, played by his bassist, it strolls along as gently as a lullaby before the band explode into “Hold The Line”. It’s a hefty slab of country punk that triggers plenty of whoopin’ and a-hollerin’ from the crowd. The White Buffalo stomps around the stage hammering out chords from his acoustic guitar, as thundering drums and a solid steady thump from the bass get the audience dancing.

It’s easy to see how many people first heard about The White Buffalo when he plays “Come Join The Murder” from the Sons of Anarchy soundtrack. Suddenly, every smartphone in the building seems to be out filming the performance. Unsurprisingly, there are lots of fans of the show and SAMCRO (the acronym for the show’s biker club, as if you already didn’t know). “I Got You”, one of my favourite songs from last year, is obviously a highlight, despite not having Audra Mae present to complete the duet. Smith handles both parts in his deep husky voice, and it’s a delight to hear it soar towards the end of the song. The crowd lap it up, and show their appreciation with more cheering and screaming. After a rousing “Home Is In Your Arms” Smith notices the huge mirror ball suspended from the ABC’s ceiling. “Let’s fire that fucker up”, the ABC does not disappoint, and as it spins, the venue is showered in thousands of lights for a brief moment, before it’s on with more music. “Joe And Jolene” features one hell of a drum solo that has the crowd at fever pitch. There are plenty of ups and downs as Smith follows the raucous number with the macabre ballad “The Whistler”, a tale about an ex-soldier that struggles to not be a killer. The whole show is an exhilarating performance. 23 songs in just under 2 hours. Choosing to let the music do the talking, Smith rarely speaks, but when he does, it’s with genuine surprise and gratitude at how well he is received. As “Love Song #1” is played during the encore, there is the sense that Smith is leaving us with a slow ballad. Oh no, not at all. The crowd are whipped into a fury as the band belts out “How The West Was Won”, the title track from the first of the re-issues. Smith brandishes his acoustic like a weapon as they hurtle through the song. Smith is a genuine craftsman of fine songs, a troubadour and teller of great stories through his music. With many of the outlaw country heroes now dead, long live the White Buffalo.

Review: Colin Plumb

Images: David Jamieson

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Review: The White Buffalo – ABC, Glasgow I was certainly expecting tonight’s The White Buffalo show to be pretty quiet as far as crowd sizes are concerned.

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: The Mexican Modernists Who Found Success in Decadence

Antonio “El Corcito” Ruiz, “Le Rêve de la Malinche” (1939, oil on masonite, Mexico, Galería de Arte Mexicano (courtesy Galería de Arte Mexicano, © photo INBA/Museo Nacional de Arte)

PARIS — In Mexique 1900–1950, the Mexican avant-garde art of the first half of the 20th century offers a disorientating paradox. Many of the 200 works in the show were derived from the Parisian avant-garde and are as exciting as a reggae version of “Hey Jude.” But sometimes the Mexican art manages to present a dark, gnarly, and fierce mysticism that challenges and extends French secular tastes in aesthetic experimentation.

Mexican artists and other artists under the influence of Mexican history often took up the grand theme of life by celebrating and mocking death. For the French poet and leader of the Surrealist movement André Breton, this mind-boggling, death-defying attitude was almost the purest incarnation of Surrealist theory. The Surrealist-affiliated Antonin Artaud famously lived there with the Rarámuri people in the mid 1930s, when he experimented with peyote (his notes about these experiences were later released in a volume titled The Peyote Dance). Inspired by his and Breton’s Mexican painter friend Federico Cantú Garza (excluded from this show), Artaud sought to find in Mexico a spirit of magical, nondualist vision and psyche.

Installation view of Mexique 1900–1950 at the Grand Palais; exhibition design by Atelier Jodar Architecture (photo © Didier Plowy for Rmn-Grand Palais)

I agree with both Breton and Artaud that being in Mexico can astonish in certain fierce places. At Teotihuacan, the pre-Hispanic Aztec site near Mexico City, I once walked along the Avenue of the Dead and climbed to the top of the Pyramid of the Sun, the largest pyramid in Teotihuacan and one of the largest in Mesoamerica, just as a huge thunderstorm rolled in. That scary and sublime experience opened up a freaked-out electrical understanding of Aztec life and artifacts to me in a way that no museum or book had. I experienced an immense sliding of Mexico into electrified, wet darkness as crescendo upon crescendo rang out around me. One moment form appeared solid and firm, and the next fleetingly cloud-like and darkly fugitive.

David Alfaro Siqueiros, “Autoportrait (Le Grand Colonel)” (1945), México, INBA, Museo Nacional de Arte Patrimoine culturel, 1982 (© INBA/Museo Nacional de Arte)

Transmitting something of the searing intensity of this conquest of the psyche, excerpts of ¡Que viva México! (1932) are projected large in this exhibition’s second gallery. It is a black-and-white film about Mexico by Sergei Eisenstein, the Soviet film director theorist who pioneered montage, and Grigori Aleksandrov. Like many Leftists, Eisenstein was enthralled by the Mexican socialist revolution in 1910 and in 1927 he had the opportunity to meet the Mexican muralist Diego Rivera, who was visiting Moscow for the celebrations of the Russian revolution’s 10th anniversary. Rivera had seen Eisenstein’s film The Battleship Potemkin (1925), and praised it by comparing it to his own work as a painter in service of the Mexican revolution.

Tina Modotti, “Guitar, Bandolier, and Sickle” (1929), Mexico, INBA, Museo Nacional de Arte, gift of the Maples Arce family, 2015 (© Francisco Kochen)

Unsurprisingly, the paintings and sculptures in this Grand Palais exhibition do not quite reward either fierce mystical musings or revolutionary expectations. However, there are many works to enjoy by Frida Kahlo and los tres grandes Mexican muralists — Rivera, David Alfaro Siqueiros, and José Clemente Orozco. Standouts include Rivera’s Neoclassical, Picasso-inspired “La Molendera” (“Woman Grinding Maize,” 1924); Kahlo’s “Tanto Frida” (“Both Fridas,” 1939) and “Autorretrato con el pelo corto” (“Self-Portrait with Cropped Hair,” 1940) — painted shortly after divorcing Rivera; Siqueiros’s pretentious self-portrait “Autorretrato (Le Grand Colonel)” (1945); and Orozco’s quite beautiful image “Les Femmes des soldats” (“Wives of Soldiers,” 1926). Tina Modotti’s photograph “Guitarra, bandolera y la hoz” (“Guitar, Bandolier and Sickle,” 1929) and Lola Álvarez Bravo’s “Retrato de Lola” (“Portrait of Lola,” circa 1930) are excellent, Constructivist style works.

Wolfgang Paalen, “Le Génie de l’espèce (os formant un pistolet)” (1938), bone, Colección Fundación Wolfgang e Isabel Paalen Comodato en Franz Mayer (© Museo Franz Mayer, Mexico)

But it is the German-Austrian-Mexican artist and art philosopher Wolfgang Paalen who picks up the mortality mockery mood I so enjoy with his assemblage “El genio de la especie (formación de hueso una pistola)” (“The Genius of the Species [Bone Formation Gun],” 1938). Paalen was Jewish and a member of the Abstraction-Création group and Surrealist movement in the mid-1930s while living in Mexico after fleeing the Nazis. Other Surrealist types in the show include Kahlo, Antonio M. Ruíz (nicknamed “El Corcito” for his resemblance to the then-popular matador Torero El Corcito), the Guatemalan artist Carlos Mérida, José Horna, Leonora Carrington (also a founding member of the Women’s Liberation Movement in Mexico during the 1970s), and Alice Rahon, but Paalen was unique in founding his own counter-Surrealist art magazine, DYN, in which he tried to reconcile diverging materialist and occult tendencies in Surrealism with his philosophy of contingency. His boney gun and the excerpts from ¡Que viva México! transmit better than the paintings featured here the mood of simultaneously honoring and mocking death typical of the Day of the Dead celebrations that I have experienced in Mexico.

I found the paintings in Mexique 1900–1950 a bit disappointing at first, until I placed some of them within the larger context of the mysticism of the Mexican Baroque tradition, which spanned from the middle of the 17th century through the late exuberant period of the 18th century. Unlike the early-20th century Mexican avant-garde’s adaptation of the Parisian avant-garde, the Mexican Baroque was neither an acceptance nor a negation of European aesthetics, but rather a fine and decadent abuse of them. This highly colorful Mexican brand of Baroque took gilded European conventions and whipped them rapturously into a glazed, colorful frenzy. The Mexican Baroque can teem with the all-over symmetrical complexities of shiny throbbing flowers, twisting leaves, spinning clouds, and dazzling embedded figures that I detected in the excessive flourishes of Kahlo’s “Le Cadre” (“The Frame,” 1938) and Ramón Cano Manilla’s “Indienne d’Oaxaca” (“Oaxaca Indian,” 1928), with its Henri Rousseau style of over-doing the naïve norm.

Installation view of Mexique 1900–1950 at the Grand Palais; exhibition design by Atelier Jodar Architecture (photo © Didier Plowy for Rmn-Grand Palais)

During one of my visits to Mexico, I found a good example of the mystic, saturating tendency in the late-Baroque Catholic church in the tiny Mexican village of Santa Maria Tonantzintla. Here, an excessive talavera decorative web danced around me in unrestrained profusion and forms seemed to explode with pleasure as everywhere foliage glistened, leaves shined, angels hovered, and carved fruit exuded thick drops of dark honey. Such syncretist excess is typical of the late-Hispanic Baroque, which is also called the Churrigueresque, after the Spanish architect José de Churriguera. This period has been called an exaggeration or overdetermination of the Baroque to such an extent that it marked the end of that era.

Ángel Zárraga, “La Femme et le Pantin” (1909), oil on canvas, Collection Andrés Blaisten (© DeAgostini/Leemage; © Adagp, Paris 2016)

The decadent Mexican exaggeration of European Baroque style explains a lot in this exhibition to me, particularly as it opens with Rivera’s “Retrato de Adolfo Best Maugard” (“Portrait of Adolfo Best Maugard,” 1913) and Ángel Zárraga’s decadent “La Femme et le Pantin” (“Woman and Puppet,” 1909). Zárraga’s is clearly a work heavily influenced by Decadent French theory, which is almost equivalent to the fin de siècle Symbolist theory. The foremost Decadent visual artist, in my estimation, was the extraordinary Félicien Rops, whose masterpiece “Pornokratès, La dame au cochon” (“Pornokratès, Lady and Pig,” 1878) seems to have registered particularly powerfully with Zárraga. As in “Pornokratès,” there is a discernible taste for the Symbolist theory of French poets Jean Moréas and Stéphane Mallarmé in Zárraga’s puppet painting.

I agree with Lucy Lippard’s assessment in The Lure of the Local that “space combined with memory defines place.” By looking backward into my memories of Mexican architecture while exploring Mexique 1900–1950, the show took on for me some of the added benefits to the imagination that mystical decadence offers. Mixing that with formal experimentation based in excess and political revolution make for a heady brew — just the libation called for in our time of right-wing, demagogic populism.

Installation view of Mexique 1900–1950 at the Grand Palais; exhibition design by Atelier Jodar Architecture (photo © Didier Plowy for Rmn-Grand Palais)

Mexique 1900–1950 continues at the Grand Palais ( 3 Avenue du Général Eisenhower, eighth arrondissement, Paris) through January 23, 2017.

The post The Mexican Modernists Who Found Success in Decadence appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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