#era: nice guy

[fyboynextdoor]

© xshyn

[fybnd]

BOYNEXTDOOR's 2024 in Polaroids - 3rd EP [19.99]

[queeniehostapasta]

Some sillyh Hanvi doodles because I love girlboss and male wife…send help pls…

[artharakka]

1. Addax nasomaculatus (addax) | 2. Litocranius walleri (gerenuk) | 3. Tragelaphus eurycerus (bongo) | 4. Oryx gazella (gemsbok) | 5. Bos taurus (Aubrac cattle) | 6. Ovis canadensis (bighorn sheep) | 7. Sivatherium | 8. Pakicetus | 9. Diceros bicornis (black rhinoceros)

[uhhlifeig]

Sweat - March 25 - word count: 568 - @wolfstarmicrofic

The four fifth-years huddled around the piece of parchment.

It had taken years of their time, almost the entire time that they had already spent at Hogwarts, but it was almost done.

“Right, boys, we just need to sign now,” James said pompously. “Moony, you first- you came up with the idea.”

Remus nodded, dipping his quill into the pre-prepared magical ink, then signing his nickname.

He grinned with relief as the parchment seemed to absorb the ink, and his signature vanished. “Thank Merlin it works, I was sweating my tail off back here.”

James clapped his hands excitedly. “Alright, Moons, choose who signs next.”

Remus would have said Sirius even if his boyfriend hadn’t been looking at him with puppy-dog eyes. Being his boyfriend had perks, sometimes.

“Yes, Pads, your turn,” he sighed, rolling his eyes fondly.

Sirius cheered, pecking Remus on the cheek. “Thanks, Moonlight.”

He did the same thing that Remus had done before him, scrawling Padfoot on the sheet and watching his name fade.

“Wormy’s next,” Sirius said, grinning at James’s look of betrayal and disbelief. 

“Sweet,” Peter said, snatching the quill and penning his own name, before handing the quill over to James.

“Thank you, Pete,” he said. “You’re a good friend, unlike someone.” He shot Sirius a playful glare.

Sirius stuck out his tongue. “It’s not my fault you’re always pining after Lily. Payback, Prongs.”

“Oh, fuck you,” James said in mock-anger, putting his own nickname on the parchment rather aggressively.

“No thanks, Moony’s already doing that quite well.”

“Oh, we know,” Peter said dryly. “We can hear, and no offense, Remus- your silencing charms are shite.”

“Oi, shuddup,” Remus said, flushing a deep beetroot. “We have a bit more to do.”

“The blood?”

“The blood,” he confirmed. “Now everyone stick out a finger- just a little cutting hex, and we’re done.”

James looked slightly queasy. “Are you sure we need this to finish the map?”

“If you want to add our personalities, then yes. Padfoot can confirm.”

Everyone looked at Sirius, who nodded in affirmation. “We need blood magic to infuse the Map with us. Otherwise it’s just another map.”

“Fine,” James huffed, looking away. “Just tell me when you’re done bleeding me dry.”

“We are done, Prongs,” Remus said amusedly. “Sirius was a great distraction. Now, let’s see what it does.” He pointed his wand at the parchment and muttered, “Revelio.”

Instantly, messages began to form.

Messr. Prongs is judging Mr. Lupin for forgetting the password already.

Messr. Padfoot would like Mr. Lupin to know that he looks quite dashing and intelligent today and that he would quite like to take Mr. Lupin to bed.

Messr. Wormtail would like for Messr. Padfoot to kindly shut the fuck up about Mr. Lupin.

Messr. Moony has no comment, for he is flipping Messr. Padfoot off with his incorporeal finger.

Messr. Padfoot would like to say that Messr. Moony has wounded him deeply and should now make up for it with kisses.

Messr. Prongs is attempting to strangle Messr. Padfoot with imaginary hands.

And on and on it went.

Remus whooped. “It’s working! Finally, thank Merlin.”

“I think Messr. Padfoot is right, Moons,” Sirius purred, scooting closer to his boyfriend. “You are very smart, and I would quite like to take you to bed.”

“And I think Messr. Wormtail is right,” Peter interrupted. “Stop traumatizing me, guys. I’ve already heard way too much.”

[ecstarry]

once upon a time - what if regulus was a ghost that only james could see

“Regulus.”  There was no need for James to lift his head from the book to know that was his name. It rolled off his tongue as naturally as his own. 

It had been five winters since he had company throughout the day. Five winters since James had shared a house with anyone while the sun was still out. Five winters with no memory of someone else sitting with him during his meals. 

[sciderman]

h-handsome...

[fyboynextdoor]

© meongrish

[prideprejudce]

academia men will call themselves politically left-side leaning and then build a weapon of mass destruction to cause the extinction of all humankind as we know it 😔

[sophaeros]

the strokes for rip it up - new zealand, october/november 2001 / no. 283 — print version web version

Simple Scruffy Spunks

Scruffy rock stars get all the chicks. Julie Warmington and Kylie Klein Nixon corner the dashingly shaggy boys from the Strokes in London — once at an interview, then at a party — and find they just wanna drink and rock.

Meeting Julian Casablancas is like meeting living proof that rock'n'roll will never die. The 22-year-old New Yorker and singer with the Strokes should be embracing the "now" culture of many of his peers. He should be scrupulously clean, drug and booze free, heading down to Florida for the summer break with a pretty blond on his arm and Basement Jaxx on his personal MP3 player.

But he's not. Rip It Up still hasn't met him. He's in bed, hungover and refusing to get up. He is unwashed, jet lagged and beer crusted. Yay! We don't mind. When he finally does show, two hours late for the day's round of interviews, he's dishevelled and rye. His grin is about as infectious as rabies and he is, quite frankly, sexy as fuck.

"Hey, this is new," notes band manager Ryan Gentles, who’s been sitting fretting in the hotel lobby for what appears to be half the night and all of the morning. He's referring to Julian's tan La Coste jumper, not the attitude.

When we get our turn at the Strokes info trough, the boys are tucking into Thai rice and a round of amber nectar. It's 1pm. Handshakes and suitably half-arsed "nice to meet yous" are flung at us and we wade in.

"New Zealand," bellows Fabrizio "Call Me Fab" Moretti (drummer) when he hears the article is for Rip It Up. "Man, that's supposed to be a beautiful place. I have a friend who went there on an exchange, he said it was really cool." Aww, how sweet, he's heard of us. So when are you gonna go play there? "Dunno," whispers bass player Nicolai Fraiture shyly, "but we're going to Australia next month." Ah, great. Let's move on shall we?

—

"The coolest band on the planet", "the saviours of rock", playing on the catwalks of New York and Paris, hounded, followed and adored. Rumours abound — their names are made up, they were put together by the lead singer's dad (John Casablancas, founder of the Elite Model Agency), they're constantly fighting with each other, they're constantly fighting with strangers, they drink to much, they're gay, they're straight, they're homophobes. Everybody wants to know everything they can. But one thing is sure, The Strokes are roundly agreed to be the quintessential rock band, the "great white hope" of nu-rock'n'roll. They're more than that.

They're five guys who hooked up in high school with a shared interest in booze, girls and guitars. Casablancas (the vocals, wit, sex, and charm behind The Strokes) met Nicky Valensi* (the guitar playing, gorgeously cynical, faux English schoolboy) at New York City's Drake School before being shipped off to L'Institut Le Rosey in Switzerland for some "discipline". It was here that Casablancas bonded with Albert Hammond Jnr (dead pan and wised-up afro with a guitar).

Seems the Hammonds were having the same problems as Casablancas. Neither Julian nor Albert has anything particularly nice to say about the school, apart from adoring it for introducing them to each other. A year later Julian would be re-united with Nicky and meet up with Nicolai Fraiture (bass, stoically shy and sweet) and Fabrizio Moretti (drummer, earnest and excitable, all round ace guy) at The Dwight School on Manhattan's Upper West Side.

When fate drew Albert to the Big Apple via Los Angeles (his songwriting father, Albert Hammond, wrote It Never Rains In Southern California), Julian was the first person he looked up. Luckily the first vestiges of The Strokes had already been formed and all they needed was another guitarist. Albert was their man.

They performed together — properly — for the first time in 1998. There are stories floating around about debuts at Nicky's sister's 21st birthday and seedy bars in the village. Almost all these stories they will admit, are true. So they slowly built up up a reputation until finally getting booked at New York's Mercury Lounge. There they met Ryan Gentles, who became their manager. The Strokes were complete.

The rest will be history, as premature as that might be for a band who have just released their debut album, Is This It?.

So what are they all about? Besides saving us from the glut of pre-masticated pop and souls stifling dance, what are their hopes and ambitions?

Playing music and doing their stuff, by all accounts. Their stuff: a sublime mix of 70s New York City and noughty's savvy. Fashion flash and strep throats, with a smattering of anglophilia to match the op-shop chic. Garage soul-sensibilities and themes as diverse as personal disgust and underage lust.

We discover that Julian always roots for the underdog and doesn't "really give a fuck about baseball," and that the last time Albert cried was "as the plane was taking off". For Fab it was when Nicky's girlfriend dumped him (for the cute one from Weezer no less). At this, Nicky leaps to his feet to sing, Don't Cry For Me Fabrizio, at the top of his lungs.

"The Beatles hated each other, but we love each other," Nicky says. To prove the point they all agree that if they could only take five things to a desert island they would take each other and their manager. That is until Julian demands that one band member opt out so they can "take something more useful like a girl, or our fucking instruments". Just in time Nicky reasons that they can make their instruments out of coconuts and bamboo.

The band is open and unguarded — they want to chat. Chiefly with each other, but it's fine just being around this kind of energy.

Julian F. Casablancas. Nicholai Fraiture. Fabrizio Moretti. Nicky Valensi. Albert Hammond Jnr. The Strokes have got cool names. "I guess we just had cool parents who chose our names," chimes Fab. "My mom was like: (mock Italian accent) 'I think this boy will be a rocking roll star'."

The table then descends into chaos and spilt pints as they discuss the finer moments of Mrs. Moretti's experience. "But," adds Fab soberly, "she didn't know I was only going to be a drummer... she was too extravagant."

—

They take themselves seriously, oh yes. The album, Is This It?, took them one month to record... 30 days. It is the product of their "salad days" gigging around Manhattan and Philadelphia.

"That's why it works so well," says Fab, "we've had a really really long time to perfect the album outside the studio... an album that's who we are as The Strokes."

Who they are is a piece of carefully crafted art that will move you from the groin on out. A record to be cherished for its ability to make you smile and get up. Surely this is the wonder of Is This It? It's rock'n'roll that makes ya wanna move.

After experimenting with a different producer, namely Gil Norton of Husker Du and Pixies fame, the boys went back to their old friend Gordon Raphael who originally produced their three song EP Modern Age. They wanted to cut back on production, as Albert says, "To keep it true to the live set."

They all agree that Norton was great, but not for them. "Doing things professionally doesn't fit with our style," the lax and by now pissed voice of Julian crawls across the table. "If we stay raw it sounds, like... great."

Talk about understated. On the track Take It Or Leave It you can hear this man's tonsils crying out for mercy, you can smell the blood on Albert's shirt sleeves. This ain't no Radiohead mate.

They just wanna rock, and drink. Which has to be admired.

They're so un-phased by the media's insistence on linking them to The Velvet Underground, The Stooges, The Ramones and any number of late 70s New York punk they care to mention. Is This It? isn't going to shatter anyone's illusions about what these boys want to sound like.

"What a cool band to be compared to," admits Julian about The Velvet Underground. He means a band that's beloved and credible, different and weird... not to mention fucking good. "It's sorta a subconscious goal to have music that cool, but actually make it popular... a cool way to make popular music more interesting."

Rip It Up demands an explanation for so suddenly signing to majorinos RCA then. A chorus of oohs and ahhs goes up around the table before the earnest protestations that RCA are the best of a bad bunch. They do look slightly... defensive? Albert pipes up: "It's like being bisexual. Yeah, you get the best of both worlds."

The rest of the band agrees. "They just give us money and stay out of our way," says Nicky, flicking his hair out of his eyes.

Are they unrepentant about signing to a major? "I had the fucking head of RCA on the phone 4 o'clock in the morning," states Julian, "telling me how much he loved the album." Yes indeed.

Why is this not sickening? Why are the credibility censors not in overdrive? Because this is a band pure and simple. Mates who saw the spark reflected in each other. And they ain't that pretty, or well dressed. OK they are, but the point is, they just are. The Strokes were always going to happen thank Christ. A wake-up call for the apathetic. No slouching unless you mean it.

Julian says: "I wanted to make the music sound like it was from 30 years ago, but being heard now. With everything that entails. Do you understand?" If he means pared down and honest to the point of embarrassing, then yes. "Or the other way, like music from the future heard now."

True, Is This It? sounds a lot like it's something you dug out of your dad's wardrobe where the band on the cover are all wearing winkle pickers, whatever they are. There's more though, it's an understanding and knowledge that blasts the naïveté of 60s garage out into space.

Julian's descriptive powers and the knowledge aside, aren't they worried they'll lose this edge? Money, girls and power have wrecked havoc with better men than them. "But who cares as long as it sounds like we want," mutters a very distracted Nicky, only putting his head up occasionally from his magazine. "I mean, rawness, maybe we will want it more produced if that's what we like."

And herein lies the rub. In a perfect world RCA would not through money at these kids. RCA would ignore them no matter how good they actually were, no matter how much they want the cotton wool cosseting of the Big League. The band would have to work, creating themselves every step of the way. Paying their dues and becoming in the end a band utterly worthy of the 'great white hope' tag that has been hung carelessly on their coat hanger shoulders.

Will hype drown the creative spark? The worry is that in six months time no one's going to give a fig about Fab's broken hand, and Julian's dad, anymore than they'll care about any second album.

—

A few days later we bump into The Strokes lending moral support to fellow New York City space cadets, the Moldy Peaches, at their first London gig. The boys are high as heaven having come straight from the BBC where they recorded three songs for the legendary Top of the Pops. "Man," wails Julian, resplendent in pink silk tie and shiny grey suit jacket. "It was so fucking cool. It fuckin' rocked."

Fab is more sedate. "I can't believe we did it, but I fucked it up." Surely not? "I was so nervous I kept making mistakes. I sucked." But watching their performance on the show later it is easy to see that this is a band still on the rise, perfectionism aside, they control the stage, the cameras and above all, the hearts and souls of an audience more accustomed to Shaggy and Nelly Furtado. The fact that they’re on TOTP's at all (their single Hard To Explain entered the UK charts in the top 20 on a wave of passion and media hype) speaks volumes about the music buying public's desire for some Goddamn grunt.

At their epoch marking, celebrity studded, sold out show at Heaven in London, tickets are changing hands for £150 (NZ$500). The after party — the place is in a frenzy. The boys can barely move for the cameras clicking, autographs to be signed and girls hanging off every thread of their thrift store suits.

"I've been trying to get to the other side of the room for the last hour," Julian says incredulously. He's separated from his mates as they are accosted from all sides.

Nicky is posing in a photograph for a fan. Nicolai is signing a CD. Albert is being followed and literally clawed by a young female. It is as if she senses this is her only chance before he gets blasted into the rock pantheon. Fabrizio escapes the seething mass, broken hand in a sling (sadly replaced temporarily half way through their UK and Australian tour with Strokes friend Matt Romano), opting to talk to people outside the guest pass zone.

They have made it, with all that this entails. Young, talented, beautiful, cool and full of charisma, it seems that the rock and roll glitterati is at their blessed rock'n'roll feet. Hype and fashion aside, the music stands for itself. This is what we've been waiting for.

—

*Note 16/03/2025: Rip It Up appears to have gotten Nick and Nikolai mixed up. Julian and Nikolai were the ones who met first.

—

Stroke it

by Scott Kara

It’s nothing new, but God bless The Strokes. The comparisons between The Strokes and some bands from the past are obvious. Remember the first time you heard Nirvana's Nevermind or the Pixies Surfer Rosa and every damn song on the album was catchy –- well, that is true for the Strokes debut Is This it?

Even the band themselves make no secret of the formula behind their success. Julian Casablancas told Rip it Up: “I had this idea to make is This It? (their debut album] sound like music heard in the future, from 30 years ago.*

It's no surprise The Strokes stripped back gargle hails from New York, the home to the Ramones and Television.

At present American rock is known for either nu-metal - Linkin Park, Mudvayne, Limp Bizkit - or the clean and "nice" variety - Incubus, Train, Staind and Lifehouse. So it's a relief to have something as simple, raw and raunchy as The Strokes.

It makes you recall the past golden era of some American bands who paved the way for the Strokes like the Pixies, Husker Du, Sonic Youth and of course, Pavement.

As an indication of the influence these American bands had on world music take a look at Pavement front man, Stephen Malkmus. This low-key, lo-fi singer/guitarist is credited with inspiring Blur's true break-through album, The Great Escape.

Malkmus used to be friends with Blur's Damon Albarn but since Blur "ripped off" Pavement's signature sound on albums 13 and Blur, the relationship has been touchy. Malkmus is also credited with having some influence over Radiohead's OK Computer.

But if the USA has Malkmus and Pavement, then England would argue that they have Mark E Smith and the Fall. And if the USA and England have their patron saints of simple, clanging and banging music then New Zealand bands like The Clean, the Verlaines and Straitjacket Fits can claim some part in The Strokes DNA.

These so-called Flying Nun bands were a huge influence on Stephen Malkmus. "For me it was the years 1986 - 1990 when I was into Flying Nun," he told Rip It Up in April this year upon the release of his latest solo album."I went off to college and got into punk and New Zealand music. It was kind of poppy and jangly but it was slightly underground." What better way to describe The Strokes?

Clean, clang, bang

THE AMERICANS:

Ramones

Ramones (1976)

Blitzkrieg Bop was the Ramones first anthem. Rock’n’roll stripped back to its bare essentials — four chords, catchy tunes and deliciously daft words.

Television

Marquee Moon (1977)

The Strokes could very well be Television. But the difference is, Television played three-minute songs as well as ten-minute songs.

Husker Du

New Day Rising (1985)

Sonic three-man guitar rock. The opening assault of New Day Rising could just as well have signaled Apocalypse rising.

Sonic Youth

Daydream Nation (1989)

If the Ramones were simple, catchy rock’n’roll then Sonic Youth were simple, catchy, noise. Whether you’re sailing Cross The Breeze or riding a Silver Rocket — it’s a trip.

Pavement

Slanted and Enchanted (1992)

Debatable whether this is their best work but it’s what the public wanted and apparently what Blur — and Radiohead to a certain extent — needed.

THE BRITS:

The Fall

458489 A-Sides (1990)

This album encompasses the mid to late 80s when the Fall was at their arty, deviant best. Everything from warped opener Oh Brother! to the jaunt of Dead Beat Descendent.

THE NEW ZEALANDERS

The Clean

Boodle, Boodle, Boodle (1981)

Simple, catchy and child-like. It’s music that became uniquely Kiwi sounding and is a sound that many overseas still associate most strongly with NZ.

The Chills

Kaleidoscope World (1984)

This eight-song collection included everything from the dark foreboding Pink Frost to the rollicking Rolling Moon and the flutter of Kaleidoscope World.

The Bats

Daddy’s Highway

Noisy country pop music you can stage dive to. Their line up read like a mini NZ-super group including Robert Scott (ex-Clean) and Paul Kean (ex-Toy Love).

Straitjacket Fits

Melt (1990)

Shayne Carter (now Dimmer’s head honcho) has a unique voice and shows on Melt his genius songwriting talents. She Speeds might not be here, but who cares.

The Verlaines

Hallelujah All The Way Home (1985)

Graeme Dowqnes (see story over page) is a poet and story teller and puts it to music. He now teaches the rock’n’roll degree at Otago University.

[batcavescolony]

Me: I hate all superhero movies/shows that boil down to 'it's Superman but an Asshole' they al-

Megamind 2010: all?

Me: oh no not you, you're perfect.

[jackwhiteprophetic]

Please please please can we have a pining era where both Buck and Eddie are trying to work up the courage to make the first move. And they both keep daydreaming of how that would happen.

So we, we the audience, see two scenes: Buck walks past Eddie to get something from the fridge. Buck walks past Eddie but Eddie quickly stops him and proceeds to kiss him against the fridge... Eddie is broken out of this daydream by Buck putting a hand on his shoulder to check if he's okay.

We see this multiple times throughout an episode, their first kiss in many silly and unrealistic ways, and then when they finally do it, both just take a moment to look at each other and register that it's real. They both just break into really massive grins and the episode ends.

[eden-3000]

OMG! Severus Snape is such a 'Nice Guy'

Being friends with exactly one girl, who just so happens to be the girl you've had a crush on for ages?

Being mad at the guy she actually likes?

'I can treat her better' 'I've known her longer'

And then calling her a bitch/ mudblood when she calls you out?

Then treating her kid like crap because of your silly revenge fantasies?

[quirinah]

i! ro! ha! (six years edition)

[eliotquillon]

loving the jerejean trilogy thus far but damn do i have so much nostalgia for pre-tsc trojans fanon. do you remember latino jeremy knox….alvarez’s first name being sara….all those fics with jeremy and jean being roommates in the dorms….jeremy’s family not being evil….we used to laugh didn’t we. we used to have so much fun….

[electric-soulja-boy-porygon]

(TV critic voice) In a post MCU era, Danny Phantom is a brilliant deconstruction of the modern super hero by daring to ask "What if Superheroes got to be funny"