#but with Bowie it's more of a comforting thing because he's reminiscing about his own parent

[sbd-laytall]

Andi + Saying Mom/Dad For The First Time

[magnys-voss]

Heathen - David Bowie

released June 10/11 2002

In 5 days I will be seeing Brett Morgan’s Moonage Daydream and I am so excited!!! In honor of this event I’ve decided to challenge myself to go out of my usual depth and try to recreate Bowie album covers. I’m going to post one per day until the 15th. I’ll go over each album and express my thoughts on them because each one I’ve chosen to portray is special to me because each one I’ve chosen to recreate is special to me and I feel it’s only respectful to the work I’m portraying. I am genuinely in love with each of these albums and this is the best way I know how to express that in celebration of this exciting time to be a Bowie fan!

The opening track “Sunday” is a song that resonates with recent events in the world and my own personal life. The anxious realization that life has changed and it’s terrifying but there’s hope for a brighter tomorrow. I absolutely love it.

“Slip Away” is a song about missing someone, there’s a restless nostalgia to it I’ve come to understand more with age. “Slow Burn” makes more sense to me now too. The constant subconscious uneasiness of knowing that one is helpless in the constant terrifying changes and atrocities in the world…. But you have to keep going and finding joy in the small things in life. It’s not great and it’s exhausting but the cycle continues on and on and on.

“Afraid” is a great song about wanting to overcoming fear and anxiety. Something I’ve constantly looked to Bowie for guidance on. He’s an artist that has always been open about his struggles with anxiety and I appreciate that a lot. David said that early on in his career he created his personas in order to help him feel more comfortable on stage. Something I definitely relate to with my drag. I think there’s really no getting rid of it completely, fear is a natural emotion that has to be acknowledged and honored, but it doesn’t have to rule you. That’s what I take away from this song and a lot of Bowie’s work.

“Cactus”, “I’ve Been Waiting For You”, and “I Took A Trip on a Gemini Spaceship” are all fantastic covers. “5:15 the Angels Have Gone” and “Everyone Says ‘Hi’” are solemnly relaxing songs about moving on from stagnant relationships or places. I enjoy the mixed emotions they both possess concerning those difficult transitions in life. Then “A Better Future” is a marvelously defiant declaration to whatever controls the universe to give us a better future….. which definitely still resonates 20 years later. Things have gotten better in certain ways with gay marriage being legalized and people becoming more empowered in their identities and rights…. But there’s still so much wrong. One can only continue to hope or succumb to desperation. I thoroughly enjoy the closing title track too, “Heathen (The Rays)”. It’s reminiscent of Bowie’s work with Brian Eno, the dreamy build up is exquisite.

I left my favorite for last, “I Would Be Your Slave” is a song I’ve loved since I first heard it…. I loved the excruciated feelings expressed over unrequited love. Of course when I was a teen it encompassed my love life (or lack there of) but as I began to have my crisis of faith later in my teens the song suddenly made more sense…. And it terrified me. I refused to listen to it for years until well…. Recently. This song has been one of my anthems while processing my religious trauma I’ve been working through this year. It’s cathartic and definitely in my top 10 Bowie songs.

If you read this whole thing thank you and I hope it inspires anyone to go take a listen to a phenomenal piece of art. Thank you David Bowie for Heathen.

[angst-fairygodmother]

Ground Control (Luther Hargreeves x Reader)

A/N: I was just minding my own business, listening to a little David Bowie, and my brain suddenly made me feel Luther Feelings...so I figured why not. Word Count: 1315 Content Warning: none Now cross-posted to AO3: here

Your first communication with Luther Hargreeves had been an accident. A solar flare had scrambled some signals and redirected his call somehow to your line, reaching a non-emergency medical helpline instead of his father. At first you thought he was having some sort of delusional episode and tried to carefully guide him through it, following the script you had been taught in your much-too-short training only a few weeks before. When you finally realized who he was, and that he was not in any distress, your misunderstanding had led to a moment of awkward laughter and what you thought might have been clumsy attempt a pickup line (“Well if I was delusional, at least I still would have gotten to talk to you”) and you staying on the line with him well into your lunch break, only for him to disconnect abruptly as a result of whatever tinkering he had been trying to do while you chatted.

The loss of the connection made you unexpectedly sad, but you tried to shrug it off and forget the odd encounter. Instead, you couldn’t get the sound of his voice, his laugh, out of your head. You found yourself writing him little notes and letters, just talking about your day or news events, or something you saw that made you smile. They were meaningless and obviously, you never sent them, and if you were being honest, they made you feel a little silly, but they were something to pass the time.

On a rainy, slow work day a few weeks later, you were fiddling with a pen, bouncing it off the desk repeatedly and trying to catch it in the air, when one of your coworkers popped their head over the top of your cubicle.

“Hey, there’s some guy on the line asking specifically for you. Says you helped him pass time on the moon before?”

You shot straight up in your chair, grabbing at your receiver a little too quickly and insisting they transfer him to you, but luckily they took it as concern for a ‘patient’ and nodded.

“Hello?” you asked, heart racing in your chest.

“Hi,” came his shy voice, a little awkward but sweet and you tried to imagine what he might look like. “It’s uh, it’s Luther Hargreeves.”

“I figured by the mention of the moon,” you teased. “Did something happen with the connection again?”

“No. I was…I wanted to try and call you again. I felt bad about how our last conversation ended.”

“It was rather…abrupt.”

“And also, I liked talking to you. It’s pretty lonely up here on the moon.”

You felt your face grow hot with a blush and thanked your lucky stars that he couldn’t see the stupid grin that spread across your face at his words.

“Oh,” you said lamely.

“Yeah. I hope that’s okay. I didn’t even think about how it’s probably creepy. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s very sweet actually. But I am at work so I can’t really…look I’m not supposed to do this but I can give you my home number and if you ever want to talk, you can reach me there?”

“I’d like that a lot, Y/N. Thank you.”

~

That conversation marked the beginning of something between you and Luther Hargreeves, though you weren’t rightly sure what to call it. Every two weeks or so, you’d get a call, usually late at night, and you’d make a cup of coffee and sit on the sill of your window, as far as the phone-cord could stretch, looking up at the moon while you talked to him about everything, anything, nothing at all. Sometimes he would just reminisce and tell stories about his childhood. Others you would tell him about your day and how utterly unfulfilled you were feeling at your job, and then later that you quit it to go back to school and learn to do something more proactive and about your classes. Your unsent letters and imaginary correspondence quickly became real conversations, and the feelings you had been resisting continued to develop.

Your favorite nights were the ones where he just described the view: how blue the earth was from up above, the pattern of the swirling clouds, and the mapwork of lights whole cities that were just tiny points, even smaller than the stars.

When you said you wished you could see it, he agreed, that it would be nice for you to be there with him instead of so far away.

“Oh really?” you felt yourself smirk as you teased him.

“Yeah. I mean, I’m all alone up here, it might be nice to have someone else with me.”

Your heart dropped. Was he just desperate for companionship rather than wanting you specifically?

“And I feel like I really know you, and I can trust you. I’m not actually good at talking to people most of the time, but with you, Y/N, it feels so easy.”

“Well, I’m glad I make you feel comfortable,” you said, smiling. “Because I really enjoy talking to you, I look forward to it a lot.”

“My life is so much better because of that solar flare you know,” he said. “I think the universe wanted us to meet.”

“Luther…”

“I’m serious, Y/N.  I don’t have a lot of people in my life, besides my family. I never have. But I can tell anyway that you’re special. And when I come back to Earth, I’d really like to meet you, maybe take you to dinner? But even if I can’t or you don’t want to, I…planning all the things I want to tell you the next time we talk has made being up here bearable.”

You felt your eyes welling up with tears. “Oh Luther…” you fell silent as you tried to wrap your head around everything he was saying. You found yourself listening to the gentle crooning of a radio from one of the apartments below, focusing in on it as if it was all that was anchoring you in place, and it filled you with an overwhelming certainty.

There’s a starman, waiting in the sky, he’s told us not to blow it, ‘cause he knows it’s all worthwhile…

‘Don’t blow this,’ you told yourself.

“Y/N?” Luther’s voice pulled you back to yourself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come on so strong or scare you or anything…”

“No, Luther, it’s okay. It’s not that…I mean you didn’t…I just never expected you to maybe feel the same way I did. I mean, I’ve been falling for you for months, and I thought it would be one-sided, some unrequited crush. You are incredible, both your past and the things you’ve done with your family, and what you’re doing now. I mean…I’m just an ordinary person, I can’t compare to space or saving the world or…all that.”

“You don’t have to Y/N. I don’t want you compete with my life, I just…want you to be part of it.”

“I think I’d like that, a lot.”

“It’s a date.”

Your heart fluttered at the thought and you fought down a girlish squeal, determined not to devolve into a teen with a crush on a popstar, even if that was the way he made you feel.

“I have to go soon,” he admitted reluctantly.

You pouted at the phone even though he couldn’t see it before a devilish idea. “Well if you really must…hey, you said you wished I was up there with you right?”

“Yeah, I did. But really I just meant that I wished I was in the same place as you instead of hundreds of thousands of miles apart.”

“I dunno, I think I like the sound of it. The two of us, up there. All alone together. Imagine the things we could get up to.”

You heard him choke back a groan and your smirk broadened.

“Anyway, goodnight Luther. Have…pleasant dreams.”

[faeriexqueen]

Labyrinth 30 Day Challenge (Days 23 - 30) (*Last batch to answer! As I suspected, I forgot about these. XD)

23 - Do you have any theories about the movie? 

I have a few, though most tend to center around Jareth and his background. My personal headcanon is that he is some variant of fae, though regardless of what he is [ex. fae, human, goblin], I think his existence is linked directly to human belief, such as seen with Sarah and her influence/power. Going off of this, I tend to theorize that the Underground overall is a mirror reflection of the Aboveground, but in the sense that it reflects dreams/beliefs/fantasies. That’s why it’s reminiscent of the old faerie stories in so many ways, and humans have the ability to mold the Aboveground to reflect whatever their dreams/fairytale stories are.

24 - Add a scene to the story. 

Since I don’t have the bandwidth to write it out, one scene I would add is something involving Jareth after the ballroom scene - given the expression he makes when Sarah breaks free of the hallucination, I really would have liked to have seen a scene with him following that. (What was his reaction? What did he do afterward?) I feel like something after that moment could have given us a lot of insight into Jareth overall, that maybe we didn’t necessarily get with other scenes. Basically, I’d add another scene with Jareth in some capacity though. I always love seeing him. XD

25 - Would you like a remake of Labyrinth? How do you imagine it would be? 

I personally would not like a remake - aside from the fact that I think remakes in general have become exhausting cash grabs, I really feel like it would be hard to keep the magic and integrity of the original film. Labyrinth definitely isn’t perfect from a technical standpoint by today’s standards, but there’s so much charm to the puppetry. The cast was excellent, and I really can’t imagine anyone other than David Bowie in Jareth’s role. If a remake was done, I really don’t think it’d have the same effect or impact as the original.

26 - What about a sequel? 

I’m pretty iffy on this, but my general feeling is I wouldn’t like one. However, I would be open to a prequel or spin-off centered on the Underground/goblin characters, similar to how The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance was. I’m a huge fan of The Dark Crystal and was blown away by that series, though I think a huge part of it was that the main characters in AOR weren’t Jen and Kira. I feel like the focus would have to be shifted to other characters for it to be successful, but I think a spin-off/prequel could work with that level of detail and worldbuilding that AOR received.

27 - 10 years have passed. What do you think happened with Sarah, Jareth, etc? 

This is where fanfiction is such a fun thing, because we can think about what might have happened. Personally, I think Sarah and Jareth’s paths split. I think Sarah was able to grow into herself more as a person, but Jareth was held back by something - he couldn’t keep her, and he couldn’t follow her. There was some kind of sense of isolation at the end, and I’m not sure if Jareth ever resolved whatever was going on. (Whereas Sarah’s arc came full circle, Jareth’s felt as though it got stuck - as though he were left without something. And I think that was intentional on Jim Henson’s part.) Not to say a happier ending wasn’t waiting for Jareth - this is just my own personal interpretation of the story, and I think it’s one reason it always impacted me as a child and made me a little sad. His arc always read as little more tragic to me.

28 - If Jareth and Sarah meet each other again, how do you think this meeting would be? 

I think it could go a lot of ways - there could be some uncertainty and distrust on Sarah’s end, and Jareth could be bitter - angry and yearning. But, I think there could also be a mutual respect for how matched they seemed to be? It’s tricky, because Jareth doesn’t have power over Sarah, but by the end of the film, they feel closer to equals in some regards than not. I definitely believe they made a lasting impression on one another.

29 - Do you think there is a message in the movie? What? 

For me, the biggest message was always that transition from childhood to adulthood, and how it isn’t cut and dry - there are things you will yearn for and need (such as Sarah indicating she needs Hoggle, Ludo, and Didymus at the end, occasionally for no reason at all), but there are also things and people you will have to walk away from (ex. Jareth). It’s always been a really bittersweet message that I think speaks to a lot of people (myself included). Honestly, for years the ending of Labyrinth made me simultaneously happy and sad, and I think it took a while before I realized this message was why. 

30 - Last one: What made you like/love Labyrinth?

It kind of goes back to the first question I answered of how I discovered it, but as a little kid I just...loved Sarah’s dress. And you know, not even the ballgown, but the white one she wears in the park. For some reason, that’s my earliest memory of when I saw the film. As a child, it just was a real fantasy for me. The puppetry and goblins were really engaging even though I was scared when I first saw them, and it honestly has always felt like such a layered film. I can always go back to it and rewatch things, catching stuff I might have missed. It’s just a deeply comforting film to watch and is always a nice offer of a little escapism. ^^

Days 01 - 07. Day 08. Days 09 - 15. Days 16 - 22.

[dilemmaemma]

“ Faux Leather Couch “

➵  2 September 2020

I decided to put my go-to Spotify playlist on shuffle since it has a wide variety of songs, artists, and emotions. The playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/5ar7g38brsymwy1gjtw7pk6h8/playlist/3BLPmuDKDwiRP1zo4AEPH8?si=C1wL8DPbQd2OKHvpgJlQ2g  if you are interested in listening to it at all. 

I can only remember these out of all the songs I listened to: 

Tupelo Honey by Van Morrison, The Wind Cries Mary by Jimi Hendrix, Behind Blue Eyes by The Who, Cold Cold Man by Saint Motel, These Days by Nico, Sucked Out by Superdrag, Sattellite of Love by Lou Reed, End of the Innocence by Don Henley, A Feast of Friends by Jim Morrison, Promises I’ve Made by Emitt Rhodes, Thick as a Brick (Pt. I) by Jethro Tull, Changes by David Bowie, You Don’t Know How it Feels by Tom Petty, Femme Fatale by The Velvet Underground, If I’m Being Honest by Dodie, Goodbye Blue Skies by Pink Floyd, Ma jeunesse by Carla Bruni, and Thunder Road by Bruce Springsteen.

“How are you coping with this?”

 “She was your best friend.”

 “I haven’t seen you cry once. Not even when I though you were going to cry did you cry.”

 “If she were my best friend, I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t know how I could even hold it together, and you still made it through work after hearing what happened.”

 “Just tell me what is going through your head.”

 I knew I wouldn’t receive an answer in return to any of my questions. Not because she refused to answer or didn’t know how to answer but because I never even managed to ask them. Fear and the lack of assertiveness kept me from asking. 

  Self-expression is something taboo and unspoken of in the blue eyed family. Verbal cries are meant to be muscles through, and tears are meant to be sucked back into the aqueducts behind each blue eye. Ridicule is never a response to emotional fits, but there is always an unspoken judgment.

 This was an entirely different occasion though. There is a reason to cry -- a reason for all of us to cry, but everyone treated it like a normal day. The only emotions that seemed to rise was at dinner. An almost omomius silence settled around the dinner table. Each family member subconciously knew what the other was thinking. Not due to the tightly knit nature of the average southern family. They weren’t the average southern family. Not a member of the family understood the other’s thoughts, but at that moment they did. The family was internalizing a loss. She is no longer breathing the same air as us; she is no longer living among us.

 Receiving the text was a strange feeling. It was a numbing moment. It took a moment to even recognize what happened. One moment, someone is conscious and coherent, and the next, they have no sense of reality and call their husband “Ricky” when his name is nothing close. One moment, you see someone, and the next, you aren’t allowed to see them. The next day, you get a text saying they are gone.

 Poof.

 Gone-zo.

 It made me wonder if I truly appreciated the last time I got to see her. The harder I think, the more muddled the June memory becomes. It is disappointing to realize I can’t remember everything about the visit when it feels like I should remember every bit of dialogue. What I do remember seems like too little to call a memory; it feels like I cannot tell if it is my friend’s memory or my own. I remember how nervous it felt going inside. I had not seen her or her husband in years, and I couldn’t exactly remember how to talk to them. It was even harder due to the elephant in the room: cancer. It made my thighs sweaty and stick to the faux leather couch every time I fidgeted where I sat.

 Little things kept me calm. The way she made light-hearted jokes about what plagued her body. The way the old yellow Labrador Retriever begged for his backside to be scratched, and every time I gave him a good scratch, puppy size balls of fluff shedded off. And the way the room had not changed. The furniture sat in the same exact spot as before. The lack of change was comforting. The only remodeling seemed to be the new kitchen backsplash. What did change was the old DVD case shelf I filed through as a child, asking my mom if I could watch them. Everything I picked out at the time seemed to be Will Ferrell’s greatest hits, but I was only allowed to watch them on regular TV.

  This reminded me of the more vivid memories that are hidden deep in the filing cabinets of my hippocampus. The two I seem to remember most were in ma jeunesse. 

  The year is unclear, but it feels like it is the first time I ever met her. It was a night of fun for my mom to see her best friend. She somehow managed to convice my mom to watch a comedy special with a foul-mouthed comedian/ventriloquist. Maybe the dolls made it stimulating for me, but I believe what kept me entertained was the fact that everyone was laughing. I didn’t understand the inuendos or anything the man said, but I unerstood it was funny to them which gave me a reason to laugh along with them. It made me want to make people laugh.

 By the next childhood visit, I was prepared to pull my first prank. She was the one who helped me execute it. My dad had fallen asleep early into the night. The man has always had a napping habit, and since it was a night meant to be spent with friends, he had to pay for slacking off. We decided to paint his toenails bright red. We used her nail polish, and he slept through the entire procedure. He never realized they were painted until the next day when he had to go to the drug store in flipflops to buy nail polish remover and cotton balls.

  After losing her, the memories don’t seem to be too deeply hidden after all. They reappear at random points of my day. Every morning, afternoon, and night seems to draw me in to reminisce. The shower brings out the deep thinking most of all. I don’t regret remembering though. I couldn’t. 

[kalluun-patangaroa]

Waking up to a new morning...

The Observer, Sunday 15 September 2002

Written by Amy Raphael

After the booze, coke, crack and smack, Suede's Brett Anderson is back in the land of the living with renewed optimism and a new album 

Brett Anderson grew up hanging around car parks, drinking lukewarm cans of Special Brew and taking acid. Occasionally, he caught the train from Hayward's Heath to Brighton, less than half an hour away, but still a world away. He would buy punk records and, perhaps, a Nagasaki Nightmare patch to sew on to his red ski jacket.

His mother, who died in 1989, was an aspiring artist; his father was mostly unemployed and obsessed with classical music. He wanted his son to be a classical pianist, but Brett had other ideas. Lost in suburban adolescence, he was drawn to the Smiths, to Morrissey's melancholic lyrics, his eccentric persona. He wanted to be a pop star; he would be a pop star. He had no doubt.

Anderson moved to London in the late 1980s, living in a small flat in Notting Hill. He studied architecture at the London School of Economics, but only while he got a band together. Here he met Justine Frischmann and, with old school friend Mat Osman, formed Suede in the early Nineties as an antidote to grunge and anodyne pop.

Anderson borrowed Bowie's Seventies glamour and a little of his Anthony Newley-style vocals. He looked to the Walker Brothers's extravagant, string-laden productions and appropriated Mick Jagger's sexual flamboyance for his stage show. Yet Suede were totally original, unlike anything else at the time. Dressed in secondhand suits and with casually held cigarettes as a prop, Anderson wanted to write pop songs with an edge; sleazy, druggy, urban vignettes which would sit uncomfortably in the saccharine-tinged charts.

Like his lyrics, Anderson was brash, cocky, confident. He talked of being 'a bisexual man who's never had a homosexual experience', realising it was an interesting quote, even if he knew he would probably always lose his heart to the prettiest of girls.

When I first met him, in the spring of 1993, Suede were enjoying their second year of press hysteria, of being endlessly hailed as the best new band in Britain. Fiddling with his Bryan Ferry fringe, Anderson asserted: 'I am a ridiculous fan of Suede. I do sit at home and listen to us. I do enjoy our music.'

He talked about performing 'Metal Mickey', the band's second single, on Top of the Pops. 'When I was growing up, Top of the Pops was the greatest thing, after tea on a Thursday night... brilliant! You get a ridiculous sense of history doing it. It was a milestone in my life; it somehow validated my life, which is pathetic really.'

By rights, Suede should have been not only the best band in Britain but also the biggest. Yet it did not happen that way. During the recording of the second album, the brilliant Dog Man Star, guitarist Bernard Butler walked out. It was as though Johnny Marr had left the Smiths before completing Meat Is Murder. The band could have given up, but they did not; they went on to make Coming Up, which went straight to the top of the album charts. Then, three years ago, disaster struck during the recording of Suede's fourth album, Head Music. Anderson was in trouble: the pale adolescent who had swigged Special Brew in desolate car parks was now a pop star addicted to crack.

Brett Anderson sits in a battered leather Sixties chair in the living-room of his four- storey west London home sipping a mug of black coffee. He has lived here for three or four years, moving into the street just as Peter Mandelson was moving out. The living-room is immaculate: books, CDs and records are neatly stacked on shelves, probably in alphabetical order.

Anderson's 6ft frame is as angular as ever but more toned than before, the detail of his muscles showing through a tight black T-shirt. Gone is the jumble-sale chic of the early Nineties; he now pops into Harvey Nichols.

He appears to have lost none of his self-assurance but, a decade on from his bold entrance into the world of pop, Anderson has mellowed, grown-up. By his own admission, he is still highly strung and admits he is probably as skinny as a 17-year-old at almost 35 because of nervous energy. But he no longer refuses to listen to new bands in case they are better than Suede; he praises the Streets, the Vines and the Flaming Lips.

This healthy, relaxed person who enjoys the odd mug of strong black coffee is a recent incarnation. At some point in the late Nineties, Anderson lost himself. He became part of one his songs and ended up a drug addict.

He talks about his new regime: swimming, eating well, hardly touching alcohol. No drugs. Did he give everything up at once? 'It was kind of gradual... giving up drugs is a strange thing, because you can't just do it straight away. You stop for a bit then it bleeds into your life again. It takes great willpower to stop suddenly.'

He sighs and looks into the distance. 'I got sick of it really. I felt as though I'd outgrown it. It wasn't something I kept wanting to put myself through and I was turning into an absolute tit. Incapable of having a relationship, incapable of going out and behaving like a normal human being. Constantly paranoid...'

The drug odyssey started with cocaine, but soon it was not enough. 'Cocaine is child's play. After a while, it didn't give me enough of a buzz, so I got into crack. I was a crack addict for ages, I was a smack addict for ages...'

Another deep sigh. 'It's part of my past, really. I'm not far enough away to be talking about it. It's only recently I've been able to say the word "crack".'

When Head Music was being recorded, he says he wasn't really there. He would turn up but his mind was not focused. The album went to number one but it was not up to Suede's standards; as Anderson acknowledges, it was 'flashy, bombastic; an extreme version of the band'.

He laughs, happier to talk about the good times. 'Last year, when I decided not to destroy myself any more, I kind of disappeared off to the countryside with a huge amount of books, a guitar and a typewriter... and wondered what the outcome would be.'

He spent six months alone. It was a revelation to discover that he could spend time by himself. 'I think a lot of people are shit scared of being on their own. Me too. From the age of 14 to 30, I jumped from bed to bed in fear of being alone. Being in the cottage in the middle in Surrey, I learned that if one day everything fucks up, I could actually go and live on my own. It's a total option.'

For a long time, Anderson had avoided reading books, worried that his lyric writing would be affected by other people's use of language. Last year, he decided it was time to fill his head with some new information. Although he had been told for years that his imagery was reminiscent of J.G. Ballard, he read the author for the first time in the cottage - and was flattered. He read Ian McEwan's back catalogue and challenging books such as Michel Houellebecq's Atomised.

Despite his self-imposed exile, it still took Anderson a long time to perfect Suede's fifth album, the self-consciously celebratory A New Morning. The band tried to make an 'electronic folk' album by working with producer Tony Hoffer, who had impressed with his work on Beck's Midnight Vultures. However, unable to make an understated album, they eventually called in their old friend Stephen Street, the Smiths producer.

Yet more trouble was ahead. Anderson says Suede have faced many 'big dramas' over the past decade - Frischmann left the band early on to form Elastica and soon after ended her relationship with Anderson, moving in with Britpop's golden boy, Damon Albarn; Bernard Butler walked out with little warning; the drugs took control - but still the band were not prepared for keyboard player Neil Codling's exit. He was forced to leave in the middle of recording A New Morning suffering from chronic fatigue syndrome.

Anderson says he was furious when Codling left.'He couldn't help it, I know, but I did feel aggrieved. I felt let down. But more at the universe than at Neil. I tend not to show how I feel about these things in public. It's like when Bernard first left, I was devastated. I felt as though that original line-up was really special. And we will never know what might have been.'

At times, Anderson sounds as though he has had an epiphany in the past year. He smiles. 'Well, you only need to listen to A New Morning to realise that. The title is very much a metaphor. It's a very optimistic record; the first single is called "Positivity", for God's sake. It's a talismanic song for the album. It's a good pop single, but we've haven't gone for a Disney kitsch, happy, clappy, neon thing.'

He looks serious for a moment. 'For me, the album is about the sense that you can only experience real happiness if you've experienced real sadness.'

Has he had therapy? His whole body shakes with a strange, high-pitched laughter. 'No! No! But I am happier now. I feel more comfortable with myself. I feel as though I'm due some happiness. I've just started going out with someone I really like. I've made an album which is intimate and warm. I don't any more have the need to be talked about constantly, that adolescent need for constant pampering...'

A swig of the lukewarm coffee and a wry smile. 'And, best of all, I don't feel like a troubled, paranoid tit any more.'

A New Morning is released on 30 September

[thesinglesjukebox]

HARRY STYLES - LIGHTS UP

[5.33]

If Harry puts his Lights Up, maybe he can change the world?

Kayla Beardslee: When I say, What the hell is this structure?, I mean it in both a complimentary and a confused way. On one hand, it's nice that Styles is experimenting beyond the traditional pop song structure, but on the other, "Lights Up" ends after a single chorus, barely even establishing itself as worthy of attention. Maybe it'll sound better in the context of the album (an argument I'm not particularly fond of), but releasing a slightly muddled, interlude-like creation as a lead single is a risky move. The production is fine (glad to see Jeff Bhasker get a new production credit), but my real quibble is with the lyrics, which are, frankly, a mess. Maybe they're trying to say something personal, but there are absolutely no specific images here, only meaningless abstractions. "What do you mean?," "I'm sorry by the way," "Can't you see?": we never learn what these lines are actually referencing, what conversation or larger topic they're responding to. Styles just throws them out like they're important -- he's singing these lines, so they must be, right? -- but never bothers to elaborate. And let's talk about the central light/dark conceit. The prechorus says, "All the lights couldn't put out the dark / Running through my heart," so the idea is that there's a darkness inside Styles that isn't affected by the light. But the chorus switches to him stepping into the light, shining, and saying "I'm not ever going back," so I guess the dark has been put out and that first part was an irrelevant lie and oh my god what's even the point of all this hype if the music can't communicate anything of substance. [3]

Isabel Cole: Remember how Leonard DiCaprio used to be like, I mean, yes, super pretty, but also a gifted young actor with an unteachable movie star charisma and a wonderful sincerity that brought real feeling even to schlock like Titanic, only it was not enough for him to be rich and beautiful and famous and actually, in fact, extremely good at his craft, he decided he needed to be, like,serious, he needed to earn the respect of the joyless mediocrity-lovers of the Academy, he had to prove himself as An Artist as defined by perhaps the least imaginative deliberative body in the performing arts, and now he hasn't given a good performance since 2002 because no matter how committed his choices and no matter how thoughtful his physicality, he is incapable of convincing because you can always see the thinking behind the acting, you can't ever believe he is anyone other than a man desperately committed to embodying his own self-seriousness which is leaking off him so potently you wonder if his castmates can smell it on set? Anyway, "All the lights couldn't put out the dark running through my heart" is a pretty great line, so it's too bad that this song sucks. [3]

Alfred Soto: A hashtag in search of a song, a yearning in search of an object, messianic in a godless world, strummy without sincerity, "Lights Up" incarnates 2019. But I light a candle for another "Fireproof" and "No Control." [4]

Alex Clifton: Harry certainly isn't afraid to take risks. He's got a bit of an oddball swing to his singles--making his solo debut track about childbirth was a creative move. "Lights Out" sounds like nothing on the radio currently which is pretty awesome; I love the tonal shift in the chorus that's reminiscent of Michael Jackson's "Rock With You" in particular as that is a rare move in pop music. I would love to see Harry go full on avant-garde on this album with hints of Elton and Bowie and judging by this single, he is on his way there. [7]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: For all of the think-pieces that "Lights Up" is getting for its sultry music video and Harry Styles's statements (or lack thereof) regarding his sexuality, it's easy to forget what this song even sounds like: it's a slice of gourmet vanilla cake, light and airy, rich in texture, basic but tasty. Lyrically, it's effective if unambitious, perfectly what Harry described in own words, "It's all about having sex and feeling sad." [7]

Katherine St Asaph: All the fancy production styles Styles pulls out of his voluminous costumes -- the "Rock With You" chords in the chorus, the gospel-ish backing vocals, the pummeling percussion breaks -- and all the glomming-on by Rolling Stone can't disguise the fact that this is a slightly gussied-up Shawn Mendes or OneRepublic song. Between this and the Niall song, One Direction's alumni seem to have a taste for the blandest of the band's old meat-and-potatoes rock influences. [4]

Claire Biddles: No fan of Harry Styles was surprised when, instead of trailing the imminent sort-of-surprise release of his new single on social media, he popped up in the replies of a fan on Twitter, telling her to spend her money on therapy instead of tickets to his next tour. "I'll wait for you," he promised. Like therapy, Harry Styles exists to reflect our selves back at us; a reassuring presence that can be whoever we need him to be. "Lights Up" is a good song, but that matters less than the comfort and affirmation of the open question at its heart. "Do you know who you are?" Harry asks us -- as always centring our needs, giving us space, listening rather than waiting to speak. The best pop stars, the best crushes, aid our self-actualisation. Harry Styles is the perfect pop star, the perfect crush, because he understands this dynamic better than anyone else -- an uncomplicated delivery system for our multitudinous desires and selves. [7]

Stephen Eisermann: What a breathtaking declaration this is. The chaotic production are wrapped perfectly by Harry's warm vocals, and it all builds to that wonderful climax of a bridge where we meet Harry. He introduces us on his terms, using this song's video and the release date (yes, releasing on National Coming Out Day is quite the stunt) to really drive home the message, but man if this doesn't feel like some kind of big event. There are so many arguments that coming out shouldn't be an event, but man if this isn't an argument that it should be. [8]

Elisabeth Sanders: Rock and roll is no longer the counterculture, and hasn't been for decades. Most of us know this, I think--that a genre that was scandalous catharsis more than half a century ago is now a bastion of old-school respectability cloaked in nothing but the thin aesthetics of its long-gone indecorousness. And so, in a way, it's the perfect thing to turn to if you're, say, a former boy-band pop idol trying to shrug off the casual disdain that a certain kind of modern pop evokes. If you want patriarchal legitimacy, sour cream and onion flavor, but you never want to have to admit it.This is not to take some ultracontrarian edgelord view that the only truly authentic thing is commercially-viable stadium pop, because at least it's honest, but to say merely this: everybody's trying to signify something, no matter what. Even the painfully earnest.Which brings us past the folk-rock village of Harry's 2017 self-titled debut, around-about the gorgeously flamboyant suits and the Met Ball hosting gig, through the Rolling Stone interviews and carefully-minimal social media presence, to Lights Up. And it's... fine. It's certainly not a bad song, but it is one that I forgot the tune of immediately after hearing. Frankly, I still can't remember it even now, and I listened to it for the dozenth time a few seconds ago. It's just pop enough to be pop, just ponderous enough to not really be THAT kind of pop. It's got some fun spangly bits. It's probably got a lot of noises made by real instruments in it. And, most notably, it's got a fantastic, evocative, gay as hell video, which almost successfully conceals the fact that the song itself is playing it safe as midcentury, tastefully-appointed houses. And I guess all this makes me kind of wonder: Harry, DO you know who you are? [5]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[ancientbooshartifacts]

Carpe Noctem

Author: Silent-Fields

Year: 2010

Rating: PG-13

Characters: Richmond, Anthrax & Ebola

Richmond watched as the children of the night careened about in a haze of smoke, extending their pale arms towards Heaven and Hell. After weeks of careful research, tonight was the night Richmond had decided to set out and experience his first goth club. He had chosen Pandora's Box because it offered two rooms spinning various genres, a lounge, and a very extensive bar. He was in the gothic room at the moment, enjoying the contrast of ethereal female vocals with demonic male ones echoing from the club's speakers. With his last few paychecks as Project Executive, Richmond built himself up an extensive wardrobe, favoring mostly Victorian and Edwardian inspired styles, but liking the cuts on many of the more modern clothes as well. Most of his old clothes were then donated, but he did keep a few pieces. A purple dress shirt did look quite nice with a black tie. For his debut he wore a black frock coat, a black ruffled shirt whose cuffs dangled just enough over his hands to be dramatic but not a hindrance, and a maroon waistcoat. Black trousers and pointed boots completed his outfit. He had recreated the eye make-up he had done for Denholm's father's funeral, but chose to simply line his lips' natural shape rather than draw them into a frown. He wanted to be approachable, trying for subtle indifference with a hint of misery for tonight's look. His parents had been more upset about his demotion than his new lifestyle. "You always liked The Addams Family and Tim Burton movies," his mother said with a shake of her head. "And there was that time your father took you to see Kiss. But Richmond dear, can you still support yourself?" Richmond had enough savings to cover any emergencies that may arise within the next few months and tended to live rather frugally, so the lower pay hadn't really bothered him. What had been surprising was how much more comfortable he was now, finding solace in the shadows of the night after years of corporate competition under harsh florescent. Richmond had been so lost in reminiscing that he didn't notice two girls approaching him until they were right in front of him. The taller of the two was wearing a long black velvet dress with bell sleeves, her wavy blonde hair flowing over both her shoulders. The shorter girl's black hair was pinned back with spider shaped sliver clips, and she wearing a black knee-length tank dress with zippers on the straps, fishnet stockings, and combat boots. Both wore matching necklaces, a silver dagger on a satin cord that stopped at the tops of their breasts. Drinks in hand and small purses on their shoulders, they introduced themselves. "Hello, I'm Ebola.” said the blonde, her manner stoic. "And I'm Anthrax." said the other, her tone equally void of emotion. "Richmond." He replied with a bow. Oh dear, should I have created pseudonym? Alabaster? No, sounds silly. Ammonite? Possibly too obscure. Maybe I should have used my last name, it does sound a bit more gothic . . . "We haven't seen you here before, is this your first time?" Anthrax asked, interrupting his thoughts. "Oh yes, yes it is." "They seem to be playing older stuff tonight, not a bad night to drop in. Would you care to join us in the lounge?" Richmond nodded and Anthrax's lips curled upwardly slightly, flashing the tips of a pair of fangs as she turned toward the door. Richmond followed as the girls effortless weaved their way through the dancing patrons towards the lounge. They sat on a vacant purple velvet settee while Richmond sat in an adjacent chair, the table in front of them covered with ashtrays and empty glasses. Candlelight and black fabric draped from the ceiling surrounded them. Ebola sat her glass down and fished a cigarette and lighter out of her purse while Anthrax and Richmond held on to their drinks. "So Richmond, what do you do?" Ebola asked, lighting her cigarette. She held up her free hand before he could reply. "Wait, let me guess. Computer programmer? No no, graphic designer." Richmond furrowed his brow in confusion. "Nearly every guy here works with computers," Anthrax explained. "It provides a relaxed office dress code and a pay check that supports the lifestyle." "Oh. Um, I work in IT." It felt odd saying that, as Richmond still had no idea what kind of work he was expected to do. Though it is quite nice working in the basement. "Ah." Anthrax took a sip of her drink, something dark red. "The bartender here is quite excellent, always coming up with some new delicious and deadly cocktail. I see you've gone with The Green Fairy." "I quite like absinthe." Richmond replied with perhaps too much enthusiasm. He was drinking a cocktail of the previously mentioned bartender's own design. While lounge was relaxing, Pandora's Box was primarily a dance club, and did not lend itself to melting sugar cubes into luminous green filled glasses, so he settled for a mixed drink that contained some of his favorite liquor. "Oh I'm sure you'll meet him eventually." Ebola said, rolling her eyes. Richmond looked quite confused. "Absinthe is the owner and operator of a S&M club nearby." Anthrax explained. "It's members only with the exception of a few events throughout the year." She looked him up and down. "You could probably become a member without too much difficulty." "Oh I see." Richmond wasn't quite sure how he was supposed to interpret that statement. "Um . . . are you members?" "Yes." Ebola replied, taking a drag from her cigarette. "Why, are you interested?" "Not now, maybe one day." Richmond shifted and took a sip of his drink. He noticed Anthrax looking him again and he suddenly wondered if maroon was too bright of a colour for the occasion. "This isn't just your first time here is it?" she asked. "It's your first time out a goth club." Richmond blinked. "Oh dear, was it obvious?" "A bit" she replied, her fangs once again peeking out over her near smile. "Oh. Well I am still feeling my way around the culture." he admitted "It does get associated with a lot of different things." Anthrax commented. "How did you become interested in the lifestyle?" Ebola asked, placing her cigarette on the closest ashtray. "Cradle of Fifth." he replied, hiding his grin with a sip of his drink. "May I ask you two what interested you in becoming goth?" "Sure," Ebola said with a shrug. "For Anthrax it was The Hunger, that film with David Bowie as a vampire and Susan Sarandon's lesbian scene. If that wasn't enough the moment we start the film she's shaking me asking 'What's this song? Who's that bloke in the cage??'" Anthrax glared at Ebola. "You're the one with the thing for David Bowie." She turned to Richmond, "My older brother was into the scene as well so I'd often watch him put on his make-up before he went out and developed an interest from there. As for Ebola, she fancied my brother." "That wasn't the only reason, you cow." She glared back at Anthrax before replying. "I always loved Lydia's outfits in Beetlejuice, I wanted to dress like her every day. But it was so distressing to see her so happy and normal looking at the end of the film." "Oh yes, I agree. Even if the song is very catchy." Richmond swirled his drink in his glass, watching the bright green whirlpool, wondering what question to ask next. Perhaps they know someplace that provides a more appropriate atmosphere for drinking absinthe . . . Ebola reached for her cigarette, noticing a man walking quickly past them. "Good Evening, Lord Catalyst." she called out. The man froze and turned around with a grimace on his face. He was dressed similar to Richmond, but had chosen to accessorize with a top hat and cane. "You two!" he said with a slight twitch, pointing his finger accusingly. He turned to Richmond dramatically, his cape swirling to match his movement. "Take heed my dear fellow! They are harpies, who will snatch away your soul!" He glared at the two girls on the settee. "I do not mean this as a compliment!" "Oh fuck off!" Ebola hissed. "Or shall we tell him why you're so uncomfortable around us?" Lord Catalyst jumped, his twitch increasing in intensity, and scuttled away. Both girls exchanged a look and a snicker before turning to Richmond. "I'm sorry Richmond. We . . . collect boys on occasion but tonight we were just looking for conversation," explained Anthrax. "Though you are very handsome.” Ebola added. "That's quite alright. I must say, you both have beautiful skulls." "Thank you," they replied in unison. They spent the rest of the evening chatting away in the lounge, occasionally getting up to dance when a song came on that the girls insisted Richmond must dance to. Soon the antique grandfather clock in the lounge struck three, signaling that the evening was at an end. "You've both been very helpful. Thank you." said Richmond as they exited the club, trying not to smile. "There isn't a goth rule again smiling, Richmond." Ebola said with a laugh. "Just don't make it a regular habit." After exchanging phone numbers and email addresses the group went their separate ways, with the promise to meet again soon. ----------------------------------- For the first couple of years they were always out together; going to clubs and films and tea parties in graveyards, meeting up to chat and shop and dance. Anthrax and Ebola quickly discovered Richmond had no trouble pulling, his shy demeanor combined with his theatrical delivery proved highly amusing and rather attractive to both goths and non-goths of all genders. Sometimes they would meet just to compare notes on their various conquests. As the years went on Richmond began to come out less and less, mainly communicating by email and only occasionally by phone. He would still show up to major events and travel with them for Whitby, but Richmond slowly withdrew into his own world as Anthrax and Ebola continued to venture out in to the night. ----------------------------------- Neither Ebola nor Anthrax had seen Richmond for months and after weeks of persistent emails and phone calls, he agreed to come out. Before heading to Pandora's Box they decided to meet up at a near by cafe, sitting in a booth in the back corner, for privacy as well as ambience. Always a gentleman, Richmond waited until the girls had settled before sitting down. Anthrax sat near the wall, dangling her fingers over the table candle as she waited for her tea bag to steep. Ebola stirred her coffee, watching the creamer swirl. Both waited silently, wanting Richmond to speak first. He stared at his coffee, watching the stream curl out of the mug for a while before speaking. "My old boss committed suicide. He just jumped out of a window one day." Anthrax gasped and Ebola jumped slightly. That wasn't the whole story of course, but Richmond didn't feel like explaining that the pensions at Reynholm Industries had been tampered with for years and if Denholm had chosen to think about it, there had probably been an easy way to fix them. But Denholm has always been impulsive and unpredictable, up until the last moments of his life. "The one that demoted you?" Ebola asked carefully. Richmond nodded, still not looking up at either of them. "I slept with him shortly before it happened. It wasn't anything serious; I knew that before we did anything. In a way it sort of felt like closure." Richmond took a slip of his coffee, continuing to look at the table. "I wasn't allowed to attend the funeral, but at the time it didn't really bother me. As the weeks went on though, I found myself becoming rather depressed." "How are they treating you at work?" asked Anthrax. "Oh much better, I'm allowed out during daytime hours now. I still don't talk to my coworkers much - don't really see a reason to. I'm just sort of . . . there." Richmond looked up, saw two pairs of sympathetic looking milky lenses, and looked back down. "I'm not quite sure what to do with myself now." Ebola looked at Anthrax, biting her lip slightly. They searched each other eyes for the right words. Today it was Anthrax's turn to have the epiphany, eyes widening as she turned to face Richmond once more. "Richmond, do you remember the last thing that came out of Pandora's Box?" Richmond looked up from his drink at Anthrax, allowing his frown to become one of confusion rather than despair. She reached across the table and took hold of one of his hands. "It was hope." Richmond blinked, his mouth forming a silent "Oh". Ebola reached across and took hold of his other hand, both girls squeezing before letting go. The friends finished their drinks in a comfortable silence. "I think it's the industrial room tonight my dears." Ebola said as she began to rise out of the booth. "We can dance the night away and count how many times someone samples Dune." "No complaints here." Richmond replied, waiting until Anthrax was out of the booth before standing, trailing behind them both as they walked toward the front. "Oh Richmond we must tell you about this ridiculous boy we met at The Black Spider." Anthrax turned as he held the cafe door open. "He looked a bit like you but lacked your depth. When we asked him what his favorite song was he said it was Gary Numan's Dominion Day." Richmond sneered slightly as he followed her out. "First time?" "First and last, thankfully." And so the friends set out to drink and dance, extending their arms towards the infinite possibilities that lay ahead of them, capturing the night in their pale hands.

[newyorkisartsyfartsy]

Arts and Culture Reporting Final Exam

By: Eliza Peppel

Question #1:

Carl Andre’s Lack of Artistic Individuality

American sculptor Carl Andre (b. 1935) is well known for his minimalist, geometric pieces. To me, these peieces are not only visually unimpressive, but lack any sort of meaning, depth, or originality. They tend to do close to nothing for the eye, and while Andre claims he tries “desperately in a world of replicas to produce things that are not replicas of anything” (quote from 1972), his pieces are reminiscent of sidewalks, flooring, or simple cubic shapes. Even he seems to, at times, be aware of when he falls short, saying, during the construction of his piece The Last Ladder, “I realized the wood was better before I cut it, than after. I did not improve it in any way” (1959).

Carl Andre is also known for being married to, and accused of the murder of, fellow artist Ana Mendieta. Mendieta was a Cuban multimedia artist whose work explored violence, sex, and death, often shocking viewers. The two were married for less than a year when Mendieta fell from their shared apartment window during an argument and was killed. Supposedly the two argued often about their success as artists and their work.

To me, Andre’s career is an excellent example of the ease with which male artists too often achieve success and vast recognition. He is an embodiment of privilege. For centuries, female artists have lived in the background of the art world, having to work twice as hard or pick up on amazing luck to be recognized as deserving of the same respect as their male counterparts. In my eyes, Andre is famous because he is a wealthy man who makes art, not because his art is impactful, or because he is intelligent. Whether or not Andre murdered Mendieta, the two married artists still tell an engaging story. Mendieta’s work drips with boundary-pushing meaning, exposing her grief, exploring death and sexuality, which took a toll on her reputation and success. Andre doesn’t seem to take any sort of risks in his work. He seems instead to live on a pedestal, basking in the grand recognition and his alleged superiority to others.

Question #2:

The Catharsis and Romance of David Bowie:

How one man raised a world full of teenagers.

When I was 14 my dad took me to the David Bowie exhibit at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London on a rainy day. I knew close to nothing of Bowie, besides the memory of the Hunky Dory album cover, and the grainy image of him pulling his blonde hair back (I thought it was a woman). The exhibit focused on his costumes and clothing, including jewelry, platform shoes, wigs. I was utterly absorbed. At 14, I had a stubborn habit of hiding away, not believing most parts of myself to be potentially valuable, and not thinking of living as anything someone like me could make anything out of besides the ordinary. David Bowie made me see life as a performance, a party. While suppressing myself had become second nature, David Bowie danced his feelings, adored being the center of attention. Openly bisexual and visibly androgynous, Bowie gave sexuality a new meaning. He embraced the blur, erased the lines: Got your mother in a whirl, she’s not sure if you’re a boy or a girl.

I didn’t hate my parents, but I often resented the typical expectations they stood for. I was determined not to live like I was expected to. Throughout my teens, Bowie’s music seemed to be a soundtrack to a personal revolution, one where I enjoyed myself, saw my own value. A perspective emerged in which things didn’t need to be taken so seriously. In “Space Oddity”, Bowie pokes fun at the space race, at men in suits on computers fulfilling desperate childhood astronaut dreams with a sort of disgusting solemnity. Bowie reminded us we’re children, animals even, with an inevitable wildness we cannot continue to deny.

When he died, I grieved as I would for a friend or a mentor, as much of the world seemed to. His death seemed to move the world that he helped raise, all teenagers he saved from their own respective decades. I felt like I had been left alone to fend for myself. Bowie seemed to become the “Starman” that he sang about: There's a starman waiting in the sky, He'd like to come and meet us, but he thinks he'd blow our minds. He had always been saying, as the starman does, Let all the children boogie.

As I got older and left home, entering college, his music started to become more saddening. Listening to “Five Years” while making my way through a glum crowd in the dead of New York City’s winter, I wasn’t thinking about revolution, or joy, or sexuality, I was thinking about death, about all the missed connections, wasted love, the unrequited, the end of the world, of childhood. The song wasn’t about making the most of anything anymore, it was about everything that had passed by when I wasn’t looking.

David Bowie’s unapologetically provocative existence expanded the concept music in an immeasurable way. His work is less about his voice or talent, and more about his presentation of an entire self, which he sewed to his music. To listen to a song is to listen to his desires, philosophies, and energy. He turned the world on its head.

Fun (but serious) #1: Singalong

A song I love from the class playlist is “ABC’s of New York” by Princess Nokia. I’d never heard of Princess Nokia before, and I love the song because while it’s a laid back lo-fi jam, it’s also an incredibly dense commentary on New York City culture, a detailed snapshot. The song consists of a pretty extreme list of typical New York City images (including Tompkins Sq Park, skater boys, and bodegas), played along a smooth beat and intermingled with relevant sound effects (such as a recording of the subway doors warning statement).

Princess Nokia is a New York native so it seems only natural she’d pen such a skillful love letter to her hometown. It’s a reminder of my appreciation of the city’s quirks, both pretty and ugly. New York is a polarizing place full of extremes and energy, and it’s easy to get fed up or tired out. “ABC’s of New York” is a song that brings out the city’s personality, and brings back the charm.

Fun (but serious) #2: Reflection

The only thing that’s changed is how much I appreciate Jonathan Richman. On the worksheet I mentioned him in my answer to question 5, and how my parents passed his music down to me and how much of a comfort it is. However, I’ve really come to love him more in the past months. I saw him live again and it moved me in a new way. I can’t stress the amount of carelessness he seems to carry, and how light and contagious it is. At 67 he plays live incredibly often and in concert, he improvises lyrics, sings in multiple languages, recites poetry, and dances wildly to instrumentals. His energy is unmatchable. He has a way of making any stresses seem nonexistent. To me he’s reminiscent of a prophet, handing out wisdom through song, and perpetually finding the humor and tenderness in everything. I have so much love for him and his work.

[sorayahigashikata]

Chapter 21: "Sports are serious business."