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snowbellewells · 4 years ago

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CSSNS20: “A Cottage by the Sea” ~ the Epilogue

** A grateful Thank You to @searchingwardrobes once more for this gorgeous cover art!!

** Thank you as well to the @cssns20 event and those who have stuck with this story despite my halting and glacially slow posting schedule. You’ve reached the happily ever after at last! :)

Summary: Princess Emma has always been drawn to the shores of Misthaven, where the sea meets the shore near her parents’ castle. When an unknown boy washes up on the sand, with eyes as fathomless and blue as the waters that brought him to her, he soon becomes Emma’s best friend, her partner in crime, and her other half. But the tides give and the tides take away, and as her blue-eyed boy sails in her father’s navy and risks all in defense of those who made him family, unexpected danger and challenge will try to tear them apart, and might well show him just where he came from that day he first appeared to her from the sea…”

From the beginning here on Tumblr or on AO3 ~Epilogue ~

When they could finally bear to part from each other (some hours later, if Emma was honest, a blush flooding into her cheeks upon reflection) they made their way toward her parents’ castle. With Killian’s navigational knowledge and natural instincts, not to mention Emma’s lifelong penchant for wandering the beaches and hilly paths around her kingdom whenever she could do so, it wasn’t long before they could see the familiar spires and turrets rising into the sky in the distance ahead of them.

Despite putting themselves back together as presentably as possible, little could be done for the soaked and rather bedraggled state of their clothes, not that Emma could bring herself to mind very much. They had hardly stopped holding hands since Killian had emerged from the sea and come back to her once more, and returning hand-in-hand was the least of their worries at appearing before the throne. Raising her fingers entwined with his up to his lips, Killian pressed sweet kisses to her knuckles, looking away from the imposing sight of the castle before them to hold Emma’s gaze intensely with each step they took. “Your parents will be overjoyed to see you return unharmed, Love,” he murmured, humored affection lighting his eyes along with the words. “You must have sent them out of their minds with worry, setting off alone on a fool’s errand the way you did.”

Shaking her head with an indignant huff, Emma managed to break away from his incendiary stare to defend herself. “I don’t see why they should expect anything else! Either of them would have done the same if the other were missing. Are they not the fabled True Loves who claim they will always find each other?” She tossed her disheveled mane of curls saucily when he had the nerve to snicker at her pique. Narrowing her green eyes at him. Emma went in for the kill. “Thank that’s funny, do you? Well, I suppose you’re going to tell me you would simply sit in safety and comfort doing nothing if our roles were reversed and I had gone missing?”

That did stop the humored teasing in his manner. There was no way he could ever lie to her, and they both knew he would do anything, cross any distance or boundary to come to her aid if she needed him, so he really had no denial to offer.

“That’s what I thought,” Emma concluded with a smart little bob of her chin. And then, shaking the fraught moment off - she had too much to be overjoyed for at present - she leaned into his side to whisper against his still half-bared warm chest, “And that’s exactly as it should be.”

Killian merely hummed noncommittally low in his throat. He was not about to admit for a moment that he was flattered and touched that Emma had come seeking him against all odds. He was - infinitely so - but he would never consider his own life or limb worth his princess putting herself at risk. It had been a revelation to see her once more when her trusty little skiff had appeared on the horizon, but if she had not made it to Calypso’s island… if she had been lost…

Rather than answering her directly, he offered a gentle smile which stirred something delicate and warm in her stomach despite the interlude in the surf they had already shared. Shaking her head, Emma eyed him with knowing fondness before she reminding him sincerely, “They love you too, you know that, right? You are the one they will be overjoyed to see alive and well.”

His head dipped into a quick, dismissive little nod, while a finger went almost unconsciously to scratch behind his ear. Clearly, her sailor was no more willing to believe his place within the royal family than he had ever been. “Aye, as you say,” he agreed lightly, but he didn’t elaborate and she didn’t push.

Instead, Emma let their joined hands swing easily between them as they moved toward the castle with renewed purpose and waited for him to speak when he was ready. She was biding her time as patiently as she could. Killian would soon see at any rate - as soon as they stood before her parents.

After that, with the castle in view, they kept traveling steadily, and it did not take long at all for them to enter her parents’ throne room; her mother cried out with joy and rushed forward to embrace them both, her tears of relief wetting her daughter’s hair before she turned to clasp her adopted son to her breast. Emma tried to shoot him a look of pleased satisfaction, ‘See? What did I tell you?’ clearly conveyed, but she couldn’t catch his eye over her mother’s enthusiastic fussing and fluttering, nor could she get a word in edgewise to badger him.

Then her father reached them as well. He hadn’t run, giving his wife her reunion moment, he had kept a more sedate pace, but his immense solace at their arrival was felt as he engulfed Emma in his strong arms, one large hand cradling the back of her head, and for a moment squeezing tightly enough to seem he might never let go. “Thank Heavens you made it home, Sweetheart,” he breathed softly against the hair at her temple. Quickly, he stepped aside just enough to reach Killian too, clasping his upper arm firmly. “Thank goodness the both of you have returned.”

Snow nodded fervently, wiping more tears from her cheeks even as they continued to fall from her twinkling eyes. She was beaming in spite of her emotion, adding, “You were right, Baby.” A knowing look and press of the hand for her daughter had Emma simply returning the gesture with quiet grace; the frustration she had felt when she set out forgotten now in the happy reunion with Killian at her side. “And praise be that you were! What a blessing to have you here with us again, Killian.”

The older monarch’s green eyes still sparkled a verdant hue as lovely and captivating as her daughter’s, her raven hair only barely beginning to be streaked with a sophisticated grey. Still, Queen Snow White had all the enthusiasm and energy of a much younger woman as she turned to her husband. “Charming! We should celebrate! Don’t you think?”

The king’s full lips had tilted upwards in mirth, knowing his wife and her love of royal events all too well after so many years together. She was still clutching his hand, but didn’t even give him a chance to answer aloud before turning back to Killian and Emma enthusiastically.

“What do you think?” she pressed, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. “A homecoming ball, in honor of your safe return?”

Emma found she expected the flush that suffused her sailor’s skin at the suggestion, stealing up his neck, over his cheeks and even to the very tips of his adorably elfin ears, as he ducked his head at the Queen’s lavish plan. It would seem she was beginning to know her love’s quirks nearly as well as her father knew her mother’s - True Loves and all. “There’s no need for all of that fuss over me, your Majesty,” Killian answered hastily. In fact, he gulped and quickly raised his face to stare directly into Snow’s gaze intently. “Actually, I mean no offense, but I would prefer to simply return to my duties without fanfare. It hardly seems right to have such a celebration when all the others on the ship - good men, all of them - were lost.”

Snow’s expression sobered quickly, her compassion immediately making her feel for Killian’s loss of friends and compatriots, and for those sailors’ families. Obviously, she and Charming had seen to notifying those households and making sure any widows and orphans left behind by the lost sailors were cared for, but she could see that Killian held some sort of responsibility on his shoulders that was not ready to be recognized for making his way home when others could not. “Of course,” she stated firmly, “You’re right.” Her smile was more tempered, but still hopeful and encouraging; reminding the rest of them in the room just why her kingdom followed her absolutely, why her people loved her, and how she could inspire others to carry on whatever the odds. “Perhaps a memorial service for those who were lost would be more in order.”

“As you say, your Highness,” Killian agreed simply, bowing his head in deference to her decision.

“Good man,” the King added heartily, the words low and restrained, but no less meant. Reaching out , he clasped forearms with Killian, who returned the gesture, though soon he had been pulled into a less dignified fatherly embrace, bone-crushing and back-slapping strength giving away King David’s happiness equal to his more effusive wife’s at seeing their honorary son home again.

~~***~~

Meanwhile, back out to sea, well beneath the surface off Misthaven’s shores, startling changes were afoot. From the very deepest bowels of Davy Jones’ dungeons and caves, the aftershocks and reverberations of his defeat were still being felt, radiating out in ripples as the darkest shadowed corners of his domain were slowly brought to light.

With their nefarious master so undeniably vanquished, the unfortunate souls pressed into Davy’s service by death at sea were released at last - a boon unlooked for - too much for many of them to have even hoped to receive after so long. Gradually, their souls felts the weight of their imprisonment lighten, the metaphorical chains binding them in darkness and the deep releasing their hold.

And one such soul, captured not so much by misfortune or chance than by demented grand design, could feel those shackles fall away more profoundly than most. Liam Jones broke the surface not far from the beautiful if deserted shores of Ogygia. Not sure where exactly he was, the elder Jones sibling bobbed in the shallows, taking in his surroundings curiously and thrilling to the feel of the sun on his skin. Wherever he was, he could remain until he found out; he could stay forever, if he chose. Or he could build a vessel and sail elsewhere. Either way, he would no longer be summoned back to his prison at another’s beck and call.

Still marveling at the return of long departed human sensations returning throughout his body, Liam struck out with a strong, determined stroke, swimming for shore. Ater so long trapped below, it seemed strange needing air to breathe, feeling the human pinch in his muscles at the exertion, the chill of such cold water enveloping his skin. And yet, pleasant or not, each bit of stimuli made his breath catch and his heart pound; it meant he was alive, unbelievable as it might seem.

Though he could have managed the distance in seconds with the powers tied to his father that he had possessed, it still took Liam little time to reach the sandy ground stretched out where the water washed up and over it in a continually receiving and returning caress. He had always been a strong swimmer, with the sea in his veins. “Her little guppy” he distantly remembered his mother saying, in one of the few hazy visions of her his memory had retained; her voice gently teasing, dark eyes crackling with good humor and pride. Strange that he would think of her now, after so many years…

Reaching land, Liam staggered out of the surf, chest heaving, eyes scanning the area, already taking note and attempting to discern where he might be. He would have bet he had been banished to the very edge of the known world for his shift in loyalty, if his father still held any power. However, the blast that had rocked him and made him lose all sense of time and place, even consciousness for some moments, and which had made Emma vanish from his hold, had seemingly destroyed and ruined Davy himself. It had also almost certainly nullified any punishment the old monster would have tried to throw at him. He must be somewhere in the known world; and yet, it resembled nowhere he had ever traveled himself, now anywhere he had charted or mapped, before.

He was half-sitting, half-leaning against a large branch stretched across the sand, the trunk of some tree felled from a small stand of them nearby making a decent resting place to catch his breath, when he sensed he was not alone. Keen senses from a life of hard work and striving to protect a younger sibling thrust into the harsh world much too soon, were returning to him more and more with each moment that passed. Where nothing had been able to truly hurt him as one of Davy’s souls in the deep, his senses now all but blared in self-preservation to be on the alert.

Turning sharply to look back toward the surf he had only just emerged from, he saw a lovely female form standing on the edge of the sand, watching him, unmoving as the waves washed up over his feet and back out to sea again. Though she made no move, nor did she speak, the space between them seemed almost to vibrate with tension - as if she wanted to run to him, to speak, even though he couldn’t say that he knew her, not for sure. Still, the sense of unseen danger, the need to watch his back was gone. Liam forced himself to release a taut breath and lower his shoulders… then slowly took a step forward.

The graceful, dark haired lady before him did the same, took two quick steps nearer in fact, as if she could hold herself in check no longer. It was as he squinted, moving forward again and trying to see more clearly against the bright light of the sun glancing off the water as it began to lower to the evening horizon, that who she must be - impossible as it was - became suddenly clear. A stronger breeze kicked up, sending the gauzy, draped, light robe she wore whipping against her calves and making her hair fly wildly across her face, her elegant hand reaching up to catch the riotous, nearly black curls and hold them back, even as a joyous, enchanting laugh escaped her throat and rang merrily in the space still between them.

And then he knew. That laugh came echoing back to him from long-treasured, nearly forgotten memories of a little house on a hill looking out over deep blue waters. Of a dark-headed woman standing on the slope waiting hopefully for the ship she expected to come in, those same wild tresses - curly as his and as dark as Killian’s - floating around her in the breeze. That same laugh had tickled his childish ears, always pleasing him when he was the one to call it forth, and the voice that accompanied the laughter, so warm and mellifluous, had sung him to sleep when he missed his papa, and soothed his young heart when he was hurt or afraid. His mouth opened, wanting to greet her though no sound came out, no words escaping. ‘Mother,’ his soul cried.

She reached him at that moment. Her cool palms framing his face gently as she seemed to drink in his features like a woman long denied. “Liam… my dear, precious son,” she crooned softly, as if she could feel how overcome he was.

His mother’s touch, her sweet voice in his ears once more, brought tears to his eyes for the first time in what felt like ages. She opened her arms, swaying slightly as his shoulders shook, and she simply held him as she had so long ago. “I’m here, Darling. You’ve had to be so strong. I’m here now,” she soothed. “Just let it go.”

~~***~~

When the storm of his emotions had calmed, Liam learned from Calypso all that had truly taken place when they were children - who she was, where she had been and why, just as Killian had on this very island as well. It seemed so fantastical: their mother, a sea nymph, the sea nymph of myth and legend, making he and Killian half supernatural beings as well, even before his disastrous stint as one of his father’s minions. And yet, it made a strange sort of sense to him as well, as the pieces shifted and settled within his mind. He had been older when they were left with only their father, remembered more… and it had never seemed quite right that their mother would simply vanish. His father’s abrupt, “She left us, went back to her own,” had never rung true. He might have been a mere eight-year-old, but he saw enough, understood enough, to know that it had been Mama who kept them fed and clothed with what little Papa provided. Mama who snuggled with them when storms raged and kept them warm when cold winds whistled through the cracks in the walls. It was Papa who was seldom home, who seemed likelier to take off one day and never return. Whereas he had believed Mama, had known she meant it with every fiber of her being when she’d sworn to him that she would stay with them as long as she could. He had missed her terribly when he woke one morning, so early it was still dark, to Papa shaking him, urging him to hurry - they were off on an adventure. The ache had faded over time; he had thrown himself into seeing to Killian, making sure his little brother knew the songs she had sung, the stories she had told, and that he did not lose that last little germ of sweetness - despite what their lives had then become - that sweetness which reminded Liam of the mother they had both lost.

To see her before him now, hardly able to stop brushing her fingers through his curls or squeezing his hand with both of hers, eased something deep inside that had still been gaping wide and empty though the pain had dulled. They had been taken from her. She had been seeking them, wishing for them back, all along.

Finally he managed to clear his throat, blink out of the awed daze he’d been in, and asked anxiously, “And you’ve seen Killian? And his princess? They - they’re safe?”

Her loving smile, so fond and proud, warmed Liam’s heart in a way that was wonderfully healing. “More than that, they are home… together… and ecstatically happy.”

“Good,” he nodded, genuinely relieved, even if he felt sadness welling too, knowing Killian was where he belonged, but not sure he would ever see his little brother again. He wasn’t even sure why he hadn’t passed on to the afterlife, or just where he was, what he was, or what was next.

“You always were so noble,” his mother commented, shaking her head as she studied him calmly. “So thoughtful. I can see you’re wondering what’s next. The truth is, that choice is yours, Liam. You deserve that much, after so much time was taken from you, against your will.”

Blinking, Liam simply stared back at his mother, trying to grasp that the next step was fully his to make at last. He was no longer bound to another’s whims and designs, no longer pulled by strings that made him feel little more than a puppet torn by what he desired and what he was ordered to do.

Calypso beside him offered a sadly hollow smile, taking her eldest’s hand with a gentle squeeze, and whether because of her supernatural nature, or simply because she was his mother, he could see that she understood. “You may move on at last, to the peace and rest that you have earned and to which you should have been welcomed long ago. Or, seeing as how Davy never fully let nature and time take their courses, and you are not completely dead, nor fully alive, you might also remain here with me on this island and in these waters surrounding it - a guide and caretaker of the sea, which you are already well adapted to with your part-nymph heritage.”

She paused there, resting a hand on the side of his face, her thumb lightly stroked his cheek, before she drew a deep breath and continued. “I won’t try to pretend I wouldn’t love for that to be your choice. I would like nothing more. However, I imagine you will choose the third option. You may return to mortal life with your brother and those who have become his family. Your natural life - and its fleeting span with all the mortal frailties - will be restored for you to live out as you would have done had your father not disrupted Fate’s course.”

Liam’s heart began to pound with excitement at her words, though he would have been happy simply to be free of the troubling limbo which had trapped him for so long, to feel the sun on his skin and the wind on his face as he sailed the waves once more, rather than merely looking up from his prison beneath them. He would not have thought returning to stand at his brother’s side - restored to life - could be an option.

Nodding kindly, even as she brushed away a single tear, Calypso sighed. “I thought as much,” she confirmed. “You took such good care of Killian. He looks up to you and still misses you so. It would have been quite a surprise had you chosen any other way.”

“I am sorry, Mother,” Liam began, floundering for a way to explain that he loved her too, but the pull back to the life which had been stolen was just too strong.

“No, my son,” she interrupted, stilling him with a light hand to his chest, “don’t apologize. This is as it should be.”

And so it was, that as the sun rose the next morning, spread across the sky in vibrant hues over Misthaven’s shores, a magnificent tall ship - proud, strong, and gleaming new - sailed into the royal port, one stunningly familiar form at the wheel, straining to see the dark-haired lieutenant who waited on the docks with the royals, waving to him frantically in welcome. The brothers Jones were reunited at last.

~~***~~

Four years (and nine months) later…

Once again, as was often the case on hazy summer evenings, the gathering twilight shadows and purpled hues of the darkening sky found two solitary figures strolling arm-in-arm along the sand on the shores of Ogygia. If one were to draw nearer still, they would see the dark head of tousled, windswept hair bend down to the glowing golden waves of the shorter figure, as Misthaven’s prince consort whispered in the ear of his princess wife, a secret for only the two of them which made her throw her head back in carefree laughter before she stood on tiptoe, clinging shamelessly to his arms for balance to kiss him him thoroughly and soundly.

Tired from sun and wind and salt water, dazed and deliriously happy as they were, both recognized it was a perfect day drawing to a close around them; one of the sort which were growing increasingly numbered as May dwindled toward June, and the two months allotted them each year to steal for their own, away from royal duty, on the island belonging to his sea goddess mother came to an end once more.

They had married in the fall, not at all long after their return and the defeat of Davy Jones. It had seemed impossible and ridiculous to wait in drawn out courtship to be joined as man and wife; there would never be another for Killian but Emma, nor for Emma but him. Both had nearly given their lives to be sure they had a future together, and neither wished to wait for that hard won future to begin.

Of course, only a couple of weeks into married life, they had found out just how lucky it was they had not delayed. Emma was expecting their first child. Exactly nine months to the day from their first joining in the sand and surf of her kingdom’s shore, where they had first made love surrounded by the very ocean which always brought them back together, their twins were born. The palace officially announced the two baby boys as being early; common for twins and easily presented as fact, but princess and lieutenant-turned-prince knew the truth, and two living reminders of a moment they would never wish to forget were an unexpected blessing. Little David Liam Jones and Henry Leopold Jones had been their love and joy personified in living form before their eyes each day since then. Their sons, identical in looks, energy, enthusiasm and daring loved the water every bit as much as their parents, and had taken to the annual summer escape with only their parents and uncle to see their other grandma each May with dauntless excitement. What four-year-olds wouldn’t want to run wild as young colts all day in sun and surf until exhaustion felled them, only to rise again and do the same the following morn?

Emma, for her part, wanted Killian to be able to visit his mother; did not ever wish to see her taken from him again. Yet she also, much as she loved her people, her kingdom, and her parents, and though she accepted the rule she would one day take upon her own shoulders, found this summer retreat a paradise she would never wish to trade. Though Killian’s patriotism, loyalty to the crown, and place by her side as support and advisor was an immense comfort, Emma could not deny how freeing it was to be far from crowds of admirers, petticoats, policies, protocols, and packed agendas for a time. Only her husband, her babies, and sandy beach and windswept waves as far as the eye could see…

That evening, as they finished a supper of fish Killian had managed to catch for them despite the rather dubious help two exuberant four-year-olds proved to be, simple bread, and mangoes from further inland, both Henry and David had fallen over in weary contentment with full bellies and tired, sunkissed limbs. Chuckling together, Emma had cleared a path and opened doors in their small cottage as Killian carried each to their beds, tucking them in without causing either boy to wake.

For themselves, Emma and Killian left the cleanup for the next day and tiptoed quietly to their own bedroom for a moment alone, together in the whispers of moonlight that crept in through the open window with a gentle breeze.

Letting her fingers lazily twine with his as she led him forward easily, Emma found her breath stolen as Killian stopped near the foot of their bed, tugging her insistently back against his solid form. His arms came up to wrap around her in warm security, and she melted at her husband’s touch. His unshaven cheek prickled her skin when he kissed along her collarbone and up her neck, making her shiver despite the heat.

He had divested her of the light shift she wore almost before she realized it was gone, and his hands were questing boldly over her bared skin, causing a low, throaty moan to escape her lips, only barely managing to keep it soft enough not to wake their children from slumber. It took embarrassingly little time for him to have her thrumming with desire in every nerve ending, particularly with her hormones as wildly raging as they were.

As if he could read her thoughts’ direction, Killian paused his seductive teasing for his hands to rest protectively over her slightly rounded stomach, searching her gaze earnestly before murmuring, “Are you certain this is alright for the little one, Love?”

Emma met his eyes with exasperation; his worry sweet, but oft-repeated by this point. The last month when she had carried their twins had been miserable, and their delivery had been long, difficult, and turned more than a bit traumatic before it was through. Her recovery had been slow and painful, and they had seriously considered whether they wished to try for any more children. But Emma had found that she could not rid her mind of the image of her husband with a tiny baby girl cradled in his arms. Her heart had urged her to try once more, and now she hoped and prayed that a daughter might be safely on her way.

Nodding in answer to Killian’s question, she tried to pull him to her once more, and to smooth the worried creases from his brow.

“But,” he pulled back again, “are we positive? I never want to hurt you, or - “

Shaking her head, Emma could see that stronger measures were needed. Gripping the front of the loose linen shirt he wore barely buttoned, she pulled hard and threw her weight toward the bed, sending them both toppling onto the mattress with a gentle bounce. She rolled quickly to trap him with her body, and leaned in close to assure him, “You won’t hurt me, Killian. I know that as surely as I know anything.”

His whole face lit up with relief and love at her words, warming with one of the most stunning smiles she had ever seen. Satisfied that he was put at ease once more, she turned his face to her own with a finger at his chin and quirked her eyebrow in mischief as she teased, “Well, you won’t hurt me unless you leave me with this ache you’ve started…”

Rolling them once again in the tangled sheets to catch her between his arms as he hovered over her, diving down to steal her breath once more, he rasped, “Well then, Darling, if you insist.”

As the moon shone down on the island’s gleaming waters, they spoke without words, one in body and soul, perfectly happy in their cottage by the sea.

Tagging: @cssns @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @jennjenn615 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi @therooksshiningknight @spartanguard @optomisticgirl @tiganasummertree @gingerchangeling @thisonesatellite @shireness-says @stahlop @xsajx @lfh1226-linda @drowned-dreamer @thislassishooked @kday426 @ultraluckycatnd @tornadoamy @xhookswenchx @donteattheappleshook @elizabeethan @wefoundloveunderthelight @darkcolinodonorgasm @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @scientificapricot @resident-of-storybrooke @ilovemesomekillianjones @vvbooklady1256

#cssns20 #cs au mc #lieutenant duckling mc #a cottage by the sea #the epilogue

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dustedmagazine · 4 years ago

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Dust Volume 6, Number 9

New Bomb Turks

Late summer in the oddest year in memory, and we are still, improbably, deluged by music. The world, it seems, will go out with a bang and a whimper and a steady four-on-the-floor, and we at Dusted expect to have headphones on when it all blows to smithereens. This month’s Dust covers the usual gamut, from milestone ambient reissues to several varieties of improvised jazz, from eerie folk to honest punk rock, from surprising debuts to unlooked for but welcome re-emergences. Two hurricanes, a hinged and unhinged convention, wildfires, confusing hybrid school plans and scorching days won’t stop us, and they shouldn’t stop you either. Some days music is the only thing that makes sense. Listen along with Ian Mathers, Bill Meyer, Tim Clarke, Jennifer Kelly, Justin Cober-Lake, Andrew Forell, Ray Garraty, Nate Knaebel, Jonathan Shaw, Ian Forsythe and Patrick Masterson.

Aix Em Klemm — Aix Em Klemm (Kranky)

Aix Em Klemm by Aix Em Klemm

If there’s one word that probably applies to most fans of Stars of the Lid and its many peers and offshoots, it might just be “patient.” Which means the fact that Aix Em Klemm, the so-far one-off duo between SotL’s Adam Wiltzie and Labradford/Anjou’s Robert Donne, put out this stunning record just under 20 years ago and haven’t followed it up yet is probably regarded more as unfortunate than maddening. With Kranky issuing Aix Em Klemm on vinyl for the first time, though, and even saying of the duo “they still collaborate musically so new Aix Em Klemm recordings remain a possibility,” it’s a perfect time to both appreciate what they did actually give us and maybe just gently lament that there hasn’t been any follow up (yet?). From the reserved vocals that introduce “The Girl With the Flesh Colored Crayon” before it ebbs into beautifully reassuring drones, to the closing, improv-ed highlight “Sparkwood and Twentyone” (written and recorded on the day, after a year or more of trading tapes and mulling a collaboration), Aix Em Klemm stakes out its own unique place in the oeuvres of its creators and its transporting enough that a little over 40 minutes never feels like enough. Still, we can wait for more.

Ian Mathers

Lina Allemano’s Ohrenschmaus — Rats and Mice (Lumo)

Rats and Mice by Lina Allemano's Ohrenschmaus

Pop the word Ohrenschmaus into a translator program and you’ll find that it’s German for “ear candy.” The choice of language makes sense, since the name applies to Canadian trumpeter Lina Allemano’s Berlin-based trio. But the imagery breaks down, since the music that she, electric bassist Dan Peter Sundland and drummer Michael Griener play isn’t sweet and easy. Allemano’s compositions are concentrated, full of events that are involving to follow and demanding to negotiate. One might expect the group’s configuration to leave plenty of room, but between the contrasting written events and the enthusiastic elaborations that the players work upon them, this music does not feel spacious at all. Griener shifts between skin and metal surfaces, and Sundland detonates flurries of activity, but the busyness of their activity never seems gratuitous. No, it’s just the thing to amplify the eventfulness of their leader’s fluent and wide-ranging playing.

Bill Meyer

Jaye Bartell — Kokomo (Radiator Music)

Kokomo by Jaye Bartell

2016 Light Enough introduced me to Jaye Bartell’s pleasingly deep and measured vocal delivery and his elegant way with a tune, reminiscent of Leonard Cohen or M. Ward. There and on this new album, his words have the precision and droll humor of a writer sharply aware of the impact of a well-turned phrase. Kokomo takes its title from the faintly ridiculous and pathologically catchy Beach Boys song featured in the soundtrack to Cocktail. Bartell posits here that too often we live trying to bridge the gulf between our dreams and reality — and how tragi-comic this can be. Tellingly, Bartell’s music is sober and deftly played, but with a lightness to its step and a glint in its eye. (Look no further than the lovely, lilting “Sky Diver,” with its brushed drums and harpsichord.) He’s a smart, reassuring companion, someone who has gone the extra mile for his craft and doesn’t see the need to jump through hoops to catch your attention.

Tim Clarke

Kath Bloom—Bye Bye These Are the Days (Dear Life Records)

Bye Bye These Are The Days by Kath Bloom

You might know Kath Bloom from her 1980s work with Loren Mazzacane Connors or from her spectral “Come Here” featured prominently in the 1995 film “Before Sunrise.” Her high flickering soprano, fluted with vibrato, is instantly recognizable, grounded in down-to-earth folk music, but tinged with otherworldly spiritual resonance. And oddly, her voice hasn’t changed much over the years. Up to last year (before the world fell apart), she was still performing periodically in Connecticut and Western Massachusetts, and now we have a new record from her, some 40 years past her Daggett Records debut. Here, her songs are gently shaped around her distinctive voice and twining dual guitars (she plays with fellow Connecticut musician Dave Shapiro of Alexander), yet not soft. They have a wiry idiosyncracy and a resistance to cliché, and the way the guitars work together is rather lovely. I like “When Your House Is Burning,” a song where the central metaphor—a burning house—is so precisely described that it may not be a metaphor at all, not a stand-in for musings on the value of connection, the fleetingness of stuff, but the thing itself. Bloom adds harmonica for the pensive “How Do You Survive,” a song about aging with grace and humor, and in her worn-in voices, the melody stretches out like spider web, transparent but nonetheless very strong.

Jennifer Kelly

Catholic Guilt — This Is What Honesty Sounds Like (Wiretap)

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Catholic Guilt really want us to get their honesty (there's no irony in the new EP's title This Is What Honesty Sounds Like). Authenticity has long been a vaunted (or derided) element of pop music, but the Melbourne-based quintet aren't posturing. They deliver straightforward rock with straightforward thinking, but that doesn't mean the music's easy. The group looks at the world with a mix of dismay and hope, as if they recognize that life is difficult but we don't have to let it kill us. The new EP leans into pop-punk, letting the upbeat approach direct the energy of the two standout tracks. “A Boutique Affair” looks at the challenges of increasing isolation as we age: “It's hard to make friends in your 20s / It's even harder to make 'em in your 30s / At this point I'm really dreading / The thought of making it to my 40s.” Vocalist Brenton Harris might wonder why we should bother growing, but he's determined to age loudly. Single “The Awful Truth” turns its pop guitars into rage as it looks at the sex abuse scandal in the Catholic church. By the time Harris says, “I can't wait to watch you burn,” it's clear that the truth may be awful, but at least it's honest.

Justin Cober-Lake

Cutout — Cutout (Driff)

Cutout by Jorrit Dijkstra, Jeb Bishop, Pandelis Karayorgis, Nate McBride, Luther Gray

The name Cutout implies removal, but that won’t get you very far in understanding this Boston-based jazz quintet’s music. Quite the contrary, Cutout’s performance dynamic involves judicious addition by a group of musicians who have made a long-term commitment to playing together. Alto and soprano saxophonist Jorrit Dijkstra and pianist Pandelis Karayorgis have been business and creative partners for years. They are the co-operators of Driff Records, all of whose releases feature one or both musicians, and they have shared several ensembles, including the large band Bathysphere, the Steve Lacy-themed Whammies, and Cutout. Trombonist Jeb Bishop, bassist Nate McBride, and Luther Gray often show up in these groups, and their smooth execution of sharp corners and sudden turnarounds reflects their shared understanding. What distinguishes Cutout from their other bands is the way they bring material by all five members into the set. Some of this album’s six tracks are single compositions, but others are sequential suites joined by improvisations. There’s plenty of dynamite soloing at work here, but the most intriguing turns come when one of the players elegantly links a couple of his bandmates’ compositions.

Bill Meyer

Tim Daisy & Ken Vandermark — Consequent Duos: series 2a (Audiographic)

Consequent Duos: series 2a by Tim Daisy & Ken Vandermark

Ken Vandermark is a notoriously busy guy; in any ordinary year, the multi-reedist logs an extraordinary number of miles traveled, gigs played, records released and musical partners engaged. This 75-minute long recording braids together three threads of inquiry. It inaugurates the second volume of Consequent Duos, a shelf-full of improvised duos played in North America, mostly with Americans. And as with the other volumes of series 2a, it is a download-only release, part of a sequence of album-length recordings that may not be deemed to be major efforts, but that nonetheless don’t deserve to be filed away forever on some hard drive. Finally, it shares one night in Vandermark’s two decades and counting relationship with drummer Tim Daisy. It takes about ten seconds of any random selection from this concert recording, which preserves what went down one Sunday night in August 2011, to hear why these guys keep working together. The trust and empathy forged by playing literally hundreds of concerts together manifests in music that feels effortless, no matter how technically demanding it actually is. Whether it is the sound of drums being played at a galloping pace with the lightness of knitting needles while the baritone sax pops and roars eruptive masses of sound, or the bass clarinet leaping and trilling with joyous abandon while the percussion swings with dance beats that could get you arrested in certain countries, these guys know just how to make each other sound really good.

Bill Meyer

The Dillards — Old Road New Again (Pinecastle)

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The Dillards' influence on popular music outstrips their own fame (they might even be as well remembered for appearing on The Andy Griffith Show as they are for their proper recordings). The group became an important part of the development of country-rock, especially as they expanded the possible sounds of bluegrass. Nearly 60 years after their first release, they return with Old Road New Again. Only Rodney Dillard (sounding younger than his age) remains from the initial lineup, but he brings along a number of guests to fill out his act. Don Henley appears, and if “My Last Sunset” drifts into Eagles territory, that's no surprise, but Ricky Skaggs, Sam Bush, and others prove the act has plenty of flexibility left in it, whether cutting an original or reworking a classic like “Save the Last Dance.” The album winds down with “This Old Road” and a recounting of some musical history through playful allusion. Even as Dillard looks back, though, he thinks about new ways to push forward. Although the record could work just as reminiscence, the artists show more interest in what comes next.

Justin Cober-Lake

Fire! Orchestra / Krzysztof Penderecki — Actions (Rune Grammofon)

Rune Grammofon · Fire! Orchestra - Actions (excerpt)

The Fire! Orchestra is not so much Swedish saxophonist Mats Gustafsson’s big band as his big house, the place where he can bring his myriad interests together and invite them to interact. They have already taken on free jazz, krautrock and abstracted songcraft, so why not one of the earliest documents of post-third stream classical-jazz interaction? Polish composer Krzysztof Penderecki originally composed Actions for Free Jazz Orchestra after hearing the Globe Unity Orchestra and handed it off to trumpeter Don Cherry to realize its first performance in 1971. Cherry’s imprint upon Gustafsson is deep; where do you think his long-running trio, The Thing, got its name? But this is no mere recreation. Some of Fire! Orchestra’s members weren’t even alive when the first version was performed, so the task is to find a way of playing the piece that makes sense now. So, they stretch things out, letting passages evolve organically. Special credit is due to the three-piece, whose contributions melt and glow.

Bill Meyer

Ganser — Just Look At That Sky (felte)

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Chicago quartet Ganser explores the bewilderment, claustrophobia and anxiety induced paranoia of the times on their latest album Just Look At That Sky. Brian Cundiff’s lockstep drumming anchors the record as Charlie Landsman whips out driving chords and intricate riffs that summon touchstones like Ian MacKaye, Thurston Moore and Rowland S Howard and push the songs to the edge of control. Spiky, equally detached and declamatory, Alicia Gaines (bass) and Nadia Garofalo (keyboards) share vocal duties working inside the kinetic rhythms to explore an interior world reactive to circumstance but seeking paths forward.

Centerpiece “Emergency Equipment and Exits” demonstrates what the band can do when they stretch out and build layers of dread; Cundiff and Gaines drop into a propulsive groove as Gaines sings of parties past and now lost to the new reality: “Swallowing negative space/Like DB Cooper falling/Until I too am nothing/And it all seemed so big.” The tempo drops, a lonely keyboard riff, the song builds as Gaines intones “It’s a long way down” and Landsman’s guitar howls into the ether. The combination of exhilaration and enervation encapsulates the power that makes Ganser stand out amongst their peers working at similar intersections of post punk and art noise.

Andrew Forell

Godcaster — Long Haired Locusts (Ramp Local)

Long Haired Locusts by Godcaster

Possibly it’s the pandemic, though the trend seems to predate early 2020, but we have not heard a lot of over-stuffed, over-instrumented, over-the-top art-prog ensemblery lately. Godcaster, from Philly, busts the one-guitarist-on-the-couch paradigm wide open in this manic, Zappa-esque adventure. First of all, there are half a dozen musicians, augmenting the usual bass/drums/guitar with outre axes like flute, trombone and a variety of synthesized keyboards. All six of them lock into wiggy, hyper funky overdrive in opening salvo “Even Your Blood is Electric.” It’s a righteous groove, a tight and feisty disco extravanganza that mutated in the lab, but that sells it short and blurs the complications. Other cuts take the temperature down, but not the oddity. “Apparition of Mother Mary in My Neighborhood” feels like an almost pop song, though conceptualized by a 12-tone composer and interpreted in odd-numbered time signatures. Long Haired Locusts is too precise and earnest to be a gag, but an anarchist sense of humor pops up, as in the single “Don’t Make Stevie Wonder Wonder,” a Curlew-ish irregular jam punctuated with jump-rope chants. All these cuts have a lot of moving parts, a sense of play and a manic attention to detail, and if you’re sick of sad folksinger live streams, Godcaster could be just what you’re looking for.

Jennifer Kelly

Haptic — Uncollected Works (2005-2010) (Haptic)

Uncollected Works (2005-2010) by Haptic

Haptic is best characterized as a Chicago combo. Even though one or another of its members has lived out of town for roughly a third of their existence, the influence that such a situation has on their work’s pace only confirms that they are a band that needs to share space to get much done. The recordings on this DL-only collection of compilation contributions and curios dates from the first third of their existence, when Steven Hess, Joseph Clayton Mills, and Adam Sonderberg got together on a weekly basis. Heard end to end, these tracks don’t sound much alike. But whether the project at hand is framing a few piano noises with collected sounds, stretching out a bell’s toll, or patiently exploring the potential of signal corps training jazz, it sounds like the work of a common understanding about how sound can be molded and reframed.

Bill Meyer

Boldy James — The Versace Tape (Griselda Records)

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On his third album this year, Boldy James pairs up with Jay Versace, but despite a change in producers, there is little to distinguish the three tapes. After a long hiatus Boldy churns out music to flood the market, and every new tape causes head-scratching. Was it necessary to release this? As a stone cold pro, Boldy never repeats himself. He also never says anything new. His blueprint is all business talk with designer names splashed here and there: “First come, first serve, first through the third, no dealings \ Mama, I apologize, ain't mean to hurt your feelings.” When he steers towards Mafia references in his songs he sounds a bit archaic (but he already sounded retro when he first started in early 2010s). On The Versace Tape, as always, he raps like he’s not giving us the whole picture. He’s holding back, but maybe what’s left unsaid is the best part.

Ray Garraty

Madeline Kenney — Sucker’s Lunch (Carpark)

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How big can a pop song go? This Oakland songwriter’s third full-length is boundlessly expansive without being particularly loud, the choruses swelling effortlessly, like a soap bubble blown to the size of your head. Kenney worked with Wye Oak’s Jenn Wasner and Andy Stack to produce Sucker’s Lunch and taps Lambchop’s Kurt Wagner, Boy Scout’s Taylor Vick and film composer Stephen Steinbrink for vocals. “Tell You Everything” is translucently gorgeous, layers of guitars, drum, percussion and saxophone shifting in iridescent patterns that never overwhelm its sleepy vocals. “Jenny” increases the friction, with a hard beat, surging synths and shoe-gazey gloss on the guitars, but sweetness in the vocals. Kenney’s subject matter is love and its complications, but she ends the disc in “Sweet Coffee” with a lucid purity. “I’m making coffee,” she croons in a breathy voice out of dreams, “Won’t you sit with me?” Sure, let me pull up a chair.

Jennifer Kelly

Josh Kimbrough — Slither, Soar and Disappear (Tompkins Square)

Slither, Soar & Disappear by Josh Kimbrough

Writing an album in the spaces around an infant’s schedule is a delicate business, but Josh Kimbrough managed it quite well on this lovely album. His finger-picked rambles unfold like the slip-sliding time in a baby’s first year, a tumble of frantic activity interspersed with quiet, contemplative intervals. Kimbrough, a veteran of the North Carolina-based Trekky Collective, plays softly but with precision on acoustic solo pieces like “Sunbathing Water Snake” and “Giant Leopard Moth,” but his work really takes on warmth and resonance when he invites collaborators into his quiet, sunlit world. Blues-flecked “Two-thirds of a Snowman” gains an eerie glow from Andrew Marlin’s mandolin, which echoes Kimbrough’s licks in an upper register like the light hitting a shadowy corner. A sustained synth note in “Glowing Treetops” glitters like the surface of a pond—that’s Jeff Crawford of the Dead Tongues, who also play some bass—while gentle bent guitar notes zing like mosquitoes off its clear, cool liquid surface. Bobby Britt loops lush fiddle flourishes around this and other Kimbrough melodies; a rich, subtle blend of string timbres enlivens many of these tracks. The natural world also makes its appearance as well, most prominently in weather-haunted “The Shape of the Wind Is a Tree,” though the album’s light, clean tone throughout is like an open window. And yet despite multiple intermeshing elements, the album works very gently, light and soft enough not to wake a sleeping little one. “Simon’s Lullaby,” near the end, is beautifully communal, supporting Kimbrough’s clear, pensive guitar with the reassuring throb of cello, the bright promise of flute. Much of child raising is a solitary process, but Kimbrough’s meditation on it is not.

Jennifer Kelly

Kimmig-Studer-Zimmerlin And George Lewis— Kimmig-Studer-Zimmerlin And George Lewis (Ezz-thetics)

Violinist Harald Kimmig, cellist Alfed Zimmerlin and double bassist Daniel Studer have been mapping out the possibilities of extra-idiomatic improvisation since 2009. They favor juxtapositions of raw and refined timbre, and in their roiling web of activity, the quicker a gesture passes, the more impact it seems to have. The Middle European trio matches up well with American trombonist/electronicist George Lewis, who is likewise devoted to making music spontaneously and unbounded by genre prescriptions or proscriptions. There are passages where it sounds like the four musicians have transcribed muttering and stifled laughter into musical activity. This incomprehensible vocal quality proves magnetic, drawing the listener ever deeper into the fray. While some might object to “chatty” improvisation, in this company, it’s a virtue.

Bill Meyer

Matmos — The Consuming Flame: Open Exercises in Group Form (Thrill Jockey)

The Consuming Flame: Open Exercises in Group Form by Matmos

Given the vigor with which Drew Daniel and MC Schmidt approach all of their work, it’s surprising to find Matmos’s new album, The Consuming Flame, to be somewhat lacking in cohesion. Like many of their previous releases there is a unifying concept — in this case, they corralled musical contributions recorded at 99bpm from 99 contributors — but it feels like the creative limitations they imposed on this project weren’t quite stringent enough. Inevitably, given the wide range of contributors (including Oneohtrix Point Never, Yo La Tengo and Mouse On Mars) and Matmos’s formidable technical virtuosity, there are plenty of satisfying passages that feature inventive vocal cut-ups, ear-catching beats and playful juxtapositions, but the presentation of these ideas within three continuous hour-long collages makes it hard to sift the gold as the music flows past. Bizarrely, the album’s presentation on Spotify is more listener-friendly, with each of the three discs broken down into digestible tracks that can be easily trimmed from the bigger picture to assemble your own collage of favorites.

Tim Clarke

Meridian Brothers — Cumbia Siglo XXI (Bongo Joe)

Cumbia Siglo XXI by Meridian Brothers

Eblis Alvarez, the sole musician behind the long-running Colombian space roots experiment known as Meridian Brothers, takes inspiration from like-minded predecessors in Cumbia Siglo XX for this electro-shocked take on coastal cumbia. Eerie blasts of jet-set synthesizer, buzzing funk bass and video game bleeps and bloops haunt the clip-clopping rhythms of these mad ditties. It’s like a Star Wars space port built on the verge of primitive villages, donkey tails swatting flies while lazer beams zip by. “Cumbia de la fuente” gene-splices syncopated hand-drum beats and traditional-sounding choruses with the splintered buzz of synth bass and glittery spurts of MIDI-generated arpeggios. It’s a hot tropical celebration lit by UFO glow. “Puya del Empresario” nudges a hip swaying cumbia rhythm to the foreground, but blares a rough-edged synth riff over it. “Cumbia del Pichaman” transforms Dusty Springfield’s “Son of a Preacherman” into a surreal technological marvel, buzzes and squeaks punctuating the offbeats like a DIY version of Zaxxon gone soft in the equatorial heat.

Jennifer Kelly

Nas — King’s Disease (Mass Appeal)

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Like all of Nas’s output in this century, King’s Disease, his 13th album, is pretty much unlistenable. King from the title here has two meanings. Every black man is a king (every woman is a queen) or should be. And second, it reminds that Nas is a king of rap, even though his royal days are long over. But even kings had to live on crumbs of their fame. With regard to the current moment in history, the album compels the listeners to unite and wear their blackness proud. Nas’ idea for achieving that? Just listen to his truisms and patronizing rants. On “Ultra Black” it’s “We goin' ultra black, I gotta toast to that”. On ‘Til the War is Won”, dedicated to women, it’s “May God gives strength to women who lost their sons \ I give all I have 'til the war is won.” All Nas gives to a black community is his bad music and maybe some charity. Every track here is to some degree about empowering black people, yet the only person Nas ends up empowering is himself. Every line on King’s Disease is disguised as virtue signaling, and the last thing we all need now is patronizing advices from rap millionaires.

Ray Garraty

The New Bomb Turks — Nightmare Scenario: Diamond Edition (Self-released)

Nightmare Scenario - Diamond Edition by New Bomb Turks

It would be understandable if, upon hearing the New Bomb Turks 1993 debut full-length, Destroy-Oh-Boy!,��you thought to yourself, "They'll never top this." You wouldn't necessarily be wrong, but you'd be neglecting a much larger story and a key release in their catalog, 2000's Nightmare Scenario. With their debut, the Ohio quartet built a distinct machine out of familiar parts: cheap-lager-fueled thrash, butterflyin'-around rock 'n' roll swagger and barstool-philosopher lyrics. And with the possible exception of fellow buckeyes Gaunt, no other band at the time combined those attributes in quite the same way. It was as if America finally had its own Saints. The Turks would go on to make five more LPs over the next decade. Though lost in the shuffle a bit after jumping to Epitaph in 1996, the band were never going to become darlings of that label's skater boi base anyway. You certainly can't blame them for trying to reach a new audience nor should you overlook the output from that era. 2000's Nightmare Scenario, their third for Epitaph, is gritty, witty, and so full of Midwest blastitude you'd think it was year zero at Datapanik (or at least 1991). Yet to hear the album in its original mixes by Detroit studio guru Jim Diamond, newly issued for the 20th anniversary of its release, is all the more gratifying. It's stripped of that extra coat of paint found on the original, and it reveals what a decade's-worth of relentlessly plying one's trade in the punk rock free market will get you. The Turks were an absolute musical force by this point: they could still hit warp speed but could also swing with the best of them. And frontman Eric Davidson is in full possession of his vocal gifts (always a key aspect of the band's sound), nestling into the groove like a Funhouse-era Iggy or leading the charge as needed. The 20th anniversary Diamond Edition of the album is a nice reminder of just how consistently good the New Bomb Turks were and a nice splash of Pabst in the face for anyone who slept on that reality the first time around.

NOTE: Never above a little frat boy humor, the Turks were always much more about mocking those particular attitudes than ever truly embracing them. With that in mind 100 percent of the digital will be donated to Black Queer & Intersectional Collective bqic.net and Columbus Freedom Fund www.instagram.com/columbusfreedomfund www.instagram.com/columbusfreedomfund.

Nate Knaebel

Siege Column — Darkside Legions (Nuclear War Now!)

Darkside Legions by Siege Column

Some thoughts that occurred on first listening to Darkside Legions, the new LP from Siege Column: Track one, “Devil’s Knights of Hell”: “Whoa, this is pretty nuts. Exciting — raw and barely coherent, but exciting.” Track three, “Snakeskin Mask”: “Okay, I get it. All this stupidity is just too frigging stupid. Enough, already…” Track five, “Funeral Fiend”: “Holy shit! I think this may be genius-level stupid!” And so on. The record keeps on doing that, and the listener (this one, anyways) keeps on generating phrases like “genius-level stupid” in an attempt to cope with the experience. Siege Column is constituted of two shadowy figures from somewhere deep in the chemically treated wilds of New Jersey, and for sure, this is music that could only come from New Jersey. I still can’t figure out if Darkside Legions is too moronic for words, or if that projection beyond words is the mark of some sort of greatness. Meanwhile, the next song is peeling out like a 1969 Chevelle that needs some serious muffler work, trailing empty cans of cheap domestic, wads of bloody paper towel and the smell of burnt hair. Yikes. Feel like I better catch up…

Jonathan Shaw

Smokescreens — “Fork in the Road” (Slumberland)

A Strange Dream by Smokescreens

A new single from LA’s Smokescreens is notably partly because David Kilgour took a hand in it, distilling the band’s jangly sweet sound in a Clean-like way, where the guitar comes coated in liquid clarity and everything else is drenched in beautiful fuzz. Even if you’ve been liking Smokescreens for a while, “Fork in the Road,” is something special, the thump of bass glowing quietly, the guitars cavorting, a synthesizer building dense shimmery textures, the chorus softly harmonized around a koan-ish verse. (How do you go straight at the fork in the road? ) The guitar solo two minutes in is worth the trip all by itself. If the upcoming album is anything like this tune, I’m in.

Jennifer Kelly

Matt Sowell — Organize Or Die (Feeding Tube)

Organize Or Die by Matt Sowell

Too often, the words “sounds like John Fahey” denote either laziness or a sparse descriptive vocabulary on the part of the people who utter them. But it cannot be denied, Matt Sowell sounds like he’s closely studied Fahey’s records, especially the less experimental ones of his Takoma/Vanguard period. There’s a similar melding of bluesy styling, compositional elegance, and emotional evocation. But Sowell’s motives are different. Where Fahey’s music looked at the snarl of personal memory and the blacker, deeper pit of his tangled subconscious, Sowell’s looks outward. Fahey tried to subdue demons within; Sowell calls out the devils of capitalism, and honors the purity of respect untainted by dollars or oil. Of course, since his music is purely instrumental, you can project whatever you want onto it. But in times like these, we need all the resistance and resonance we can get.

Bill Meyer

Treasury of Puppies — S/t (Förlag För Fri Musik)

Treasury of Puppies by Treasury of Puppies

The Gothenburg duo of Charlott Malmenholt and Joakim Karlsson’s debut release as the Treasury of Puppies is lo-fi depressive but charming pop, recorded at the beginning of 2020. A Fairly short release, barely pushing past an EP length, it's in the vein of other Swedish underground releases of the past few years. The two trade chilly, spoken-sung vocals over a set of eight tracks, either buoyed by repeating, fuzzy guitars alongside field recordings, sauntering looped drums and hand-tampered tape sounds, or a layer of delayed static and fuzz churning under over drifting bells and slowly rotating keys.

Ian Forsythe

Trio No Mas — A Tragedy Of Fermented Undulation (Mars Williams)

A Tragedy Of Fermented Undulation by TRIO NO MAS

Chicago has saxophonic tradition, and part of that convention is the expectation that the city’s saxophonists work hard. However you look at it, Mars Williams holds up his end. He’s busy on both local and world stages. In recent years you can hear him melding Albert Ayler and Xmas carols on a couple of continents, freely improvising with the Extraordinary Popular Delusions and playing not-just-old-memories rock and roll with the Psychedelic Furs. But it would seem that he has room for another band, if the situation is right, and that’s the genesis of this trio. Williams sat in with brothers Stefan and Aaron Gonzalez when the Texan rhythm section came through Chicago and then made a couple quick passes through their neck of the woods. This live recording, which is being sold as a download as Williams figures how to make up for not going on the road with the Furs this year, brings us to the other way that Chicago saxophonists work hard. Switching between several horns, he plays them all with a mix of vein-popping force and pyrotechnic fluency. The freres Gonzalez toggle between heavy lurching and molten streaming, pulling back every now and then to create quiet spaces in which Williams can tap into yet another Chicago tradition — the evocative chatter of little toy instruments. If you can handle the unbearable lightness of the no-physical format, this music brings plenty of satisfying heaviness to the sonic realm.

Bill Meyer

Various Artists — Total 20 (Kompakt)

Total 20 by Various Artists

Since 1999, each summer Cologne’s Kompakt label has compiled recent and new tracks from their roster. For fans of the label’s distinctive musical aesthetic — a shuffling, playful, pop-facing, experimental minimalist form of techno — the Total series seems a must-have, but the series has also served as an entrée into Kompakt’s world for curious newcomers, casual listeners and cash-strapped collectors. Total 20 maintains the high standards of its predecessors. Coming in at two plus hours and 22 tracks from stalwarts Michael Mayer, Voigt und Voigt and Jörg Burger share space with newcomers like Kiwi and David Douglas. This edition works as a soundtrack for in home dance sessions, concentrated listening and background for escaping the mope and drag of enforced isolation. The music itself is uniformly of high quality, but the sequencing is key here. Moments of elegantly constructed ambient minimalism (Soela’s “White Becomes Black”), euphoric vocal house (Kiwi’s “Hello Echo”) and high concept psy-trance (ANNA & KITTEN’s “Forever Ravers”) are interwoven with the familiar midtempo Kompakt sound. While it’s a lot to digest at first and may to some ears merge into an amorphous mass, Total 20 will lift your mood, shift your body and shake off your funk. Have a taste, you may find yourself grazing if not gorging.

Andrew Forell

Verikyyneleet — Ilman Kuolemaa (I, Voidhanger)

Ilman Kuolemaa by VERIKYYNELEET

This new LP from Finland’s Verikyyneleet hits a bunch of the essential marks for hyper-obscure, one-man black metal: Difficult to pronounce and vaguely creepy name? Yep (translated from Finnish, Verikyyneleet means something like “tears of blood). Primitivist, kvlt-ish album art with lots of spindly, symmetrical, necromantical forms? Yep (pretty cool, too). Ghastly, croaked, semi-strangulated vocals and sweeping, epical song structures that likely attempt to represent the frozen forests of the Laplander landscape? Yep (see especially “Yhta Luonnon Kansaa,” which empties into another song called “The Great Scream in Nature”). But in spite of the degrees of familiarity struck by those various notes, there’s a compelling idiosyncrasy to Ilman Kuolemaa. And although Finnish weirdo Isla Valve — sole creator of the sounds — has been releasing music under the Verikyyneleet name since 2006, he hasn’t exactly been prolific: two demos in 2006, an EP last year, and now this LP. It’s all rather mysterious. But whatever the back story, the songs are really good. There’s a slightly smeared, off-kilter sound that adds to the strangeness. Is it 4 am and suddenly really, really quiet, wherever you are? Here’s your soundtrack. Light up some candles, turn it up loud and freak out the neighbors.

Jonathan Shaw

Young Dolph — Rich Slave (Paper Route Empire)

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It’s not a little ironic that Adolph Thornton, Jr., 35 years old and some seven records into his career (not counting the endless mixtapes floating around), has peaked both in hard numbers — Rich Slave hit #4 on the Billboard 200 — and stylistically with an album that arrives after the Memphis rapper was supposed to retire from the game. When GQ interviewed him in May, Dolph was locked in and hanging out with his kids, marinating on his next move; with Rich Slave, he’s unlocked a socially conscious side of himself that, admittedly, was always bubbling below the usual braggadocio. Alongside guest spots from Megan Thee Stallion, established sidekick Key Glock and Chicago staple G Herbo, Dolph tweaks his usual template to speak to the moment in what is his most effective full-length deployment yet. There are a trillion rappers who work this hustle, but no one’s done it better this year.

Patrick Masterson

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sidrisa-blog · 7 years ago

Text

Power and Magic

Read it here on AO3

Pairings: Loki x Reader and the lightest Sif X Thor

Chapter: 25/104 Microaggressions

Warnings: the usual: sex, death, and violence with light smatterings of misogynoir

Summary: The princes come with their exalted Father arriving amidst a hail of pomp and pageantry all parties would rather forgo. This is war, where men die, their blood purchasing land and peace until it's time for more men and more blood. But your mother adheres to the old rules of hearth and hospitality. The Lords of Asgard must be given their due despite the grim business precipitating their arrival. It is too bad they don't deserve it. There is nothing to recommend him, Loki, Prince of Asgard. He is rude and cold and childish. You try to find some merit in him. You find none. Exactly none. But maybe, after trial and tribulation,

You will.

Edvard is sweet but you thought he was just going introduce you to his friends or get you a glass of wine. You weren’t expecting him to ask you to dance. Rather you didn’t hear him ask because you were too busy asserting yourself with Loki in your damned head. You should have said no when you discovered his intentions, explained that you were saving your first dance for someone else. But you let him guide you to the floor anyway, his shaky, ill-coordinated steps making mash of your toes.

It’s a blessing unlooked for when Tolvir...Tolbard? Arrives to cut in. You can’t remember his name exactly, he rambled more than danced, going on about hunting and his estate in Breidablik. You end your dance early with him, faking pain in your legs. He offers to escort you to your seat on the dias but you decline.

“I must insist. A princess, especially one so delicate, must be accompanied.” His hand remains open for you to take it and he’s not moving. You really don’t wish to sit, you’re not even hurt but…

“Delicate Tolmund? Now what about this woman suggests such?”

A lady comes to your rescue, shooing Tolmund away with a sweet but withering grin. “I will escort the Princess, you’ve occupied enough of her time as it is.”

“Your Grace.” It’s Ylva. You’re grateful for her intervention, but you’re not quite thrilled with how she did it. You’re not ‘delicate’ it's true, but the way she says it makes you feel odd. Like you have no business being ‘delicate’ at all, like the notion of vulnerability is foreign to you, and after crying with Frigga and Niti about your mother you know damn well that’s not true. The moment passes long enough for you to let it go, ascribing your feelings to nerves and overthinking.

“My gratitude.” You whisper once Tolmund is out of earshot.

“Of course. Tolmund can be an incessant chatterbox. Going on about his brutish hobbies.”

You scrunch your brow a bit. “I actually rather enjoy hunting. Back home, the spring hunts would be going on about now. We shoot waterfowl and pheasants. There’s a huge feast.”

“Yes, but your home is here now is it not?”

“Uhh…” Such a simple question but it startles you. Makes you ask yourself: ‘Where is home now anyway?’ Is it the place you sleep, or the place where your ancestors sleep? Is it the place you’ve known for your life, or the place where your life is safe?

Ylva stares, noting the awkward and extended silence.

“I haven’t given that question much thought.” Your honesty is as much for her as it is for yourself. You don’t really know.

“I’m surprised. It seems Lady Frigga and Lord Odin have shown you nothing but hospitality.”

“Oh no, please don’t mistake me.” You defend yourself with a wave of your hands, hoping your hesitance didn’t convey contempt for your hosts. “They’ve been the kindest.”

“Yes, especially given the circumstances.”

“Right.” You offer a half-hearted answer considering such ‘circumstances’ were your mother dying, your uncle and cousin trying to kill you, and the death of your friends and allies.

She bleeds you with painless cuts, upsets your confidence, and rattles your peace. And she does it with a smile and the best intentions. You’re sure she’s not intentionally being rude or cutting but if her tongue was a knife, bits of you would be on the floor by now. Your scar burns, you lace your hands just under your breasts and over the injury. Your chilly fingers don’t soothe the pain.

“Still, no matter the circumstances.” She waves her hand, waving away your dead mother and stolen throne. “I’m glad you're here. It is good to have another highborn lady among us. And so beautiful besides.” She tucks a lock of your hair behind your ear, confused when it springs back defiantly returning to its proper place curled and kinked about your temples.

You suffer it, your hair never conforms without heat or heavy hands. “Thank you your Grace.”

“Please you must call me Ylva. I regret you left us so soon the other day. You must allow me to make it up to you.”

You let go of an anxious sigh, grateful for the change of topic.

“No no, the fault is mine.” It is, you made an ass of yourself and insulted that poor girl’s brother. “Is Lady Astrid here? I’d like to apologize.”

Ylva hums, thinking, looking as though she misplaced something she needs to find, like an earring or an idea.

“Oh, I don’t think I saw her here.”

Ylva comforts you when your face falls.

“You mustn’t be so hard on yourself for what happened. We all misspeak sometimes.”

“True, I didn’t know her brother, but he’s probably not the coward I called him.”

“Oh no, I looked into it. Her brother is most assuredly a coward, his job was to guard the supply chain and they found him guarding it very well from underneath a wagon.”

“Still, for all the horrors that go on in a battle, being under a cart might be a better pla--”

“But the girl was exceedingly foolish to suggest the Prince Loki is a coward.”

Your words tangle with hers but you choose to leave them behind rather than try to extract them. The last you saw him, he was glowering in a corner. When you look back to that same corner he’s not there and your heart sinks. “No, the Prince is no coward.”

“He has such a poor reputation. Some of it is earned, rest assured, but most of it isn’t.”

“Princess! Princess!” Thor thunders like his name, calling for you from clear across the hall. The crowd would part for him if he gave them half a chance to move but he just barrels through, determined to reach you.

Ylva pulls you close. “But however much his reputation is mere rumor I do know this: be careful Princess. It’s hardly a secret you’re next on his lists of conquests, the famed ‘Horse Princess’. And when he’s tired of you, he’s like to pass you along to his brother. That’s how they treat their lovers, no better than toys. Poor Olga, she never recovered and I’d hate to see that happen to you.”

She releases you, her poison planted, and bows before the heir apparent. “My Lord Thor.”

“Princess! Since my brother has forgotten about you, dance with me instead!”

He beams at you but you don’t take his hand, thinking wryly Ylva’s prediction has come true a little early.

“If my Lord Thor wishes for a dance, he may ask the Duchess instead.”

You figure you’ve killed him from the way his face falls. “I--I I meant…”

This is the height of ill-manners, you know it. But you can’t quite bring yourself to care. While Thor stammers, you leave, breezing past Ylva, unaware of the smirk on her face.

#power and magic #loki fanfiction #loki x reader #loki x black!reader #mcu fanfiction

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