#gloria gallus

[endangered-liaison]

Dawn of the Final Day

[clockwork-sparrow]

Tales from the Frost

Stories following the conclusion of the RP Arc, TOWER.

Stories: [1] 2 3 4

Live your Todays

Sitting on Alvarium’s walls is a girl and standing behind that girl is a man. They’re only three years apart but that’s what it feels like to Gloria, sometimes. Everyone’s got jobs, hooked up, had kids, and croaked while she remained stuck in some mental, teenage purgatory of rebellion, discovery, and petty angst. Gloria pulls her coat tighter around herself and shivers from the cold.

“Fuck. You’ve always been skinny but now, you’re like a skeleton,” Florus says. He rests his hands on her shoulders and gives her a comforting squeeze. “…Stiff like one, too.”

“Piss off. Like you’re one to talk,” Gloria pouts.

“Hey, what’s worse? Sticking to meal replacements or doing whatever the hell fad you’re onto now?” Florus says. “Paleo, keto, activated charcoal. Wasn’t there a month where you only ate kale?”

“Kale is good! Not that you’d know, you tasteless prick.”

“Oh, fuck. Really got me there.”

Gloria snorts. Get stung enough times and you learn to ignore it. Besides, if Florus wasn’t being a little shit, then it’d be even more off putting at this point. Bantering like this reminds her of the old days; years of living normal lives, having normal wants, worrying about normal things. It’s behind them like a memory now, locked away by the horrors they survived and the loss they carry. Maybe she would have rather stayed in her middling, small-minded purgatory for a little while longer. It wasn’t so bad in hindsight. Gloria sniffs and hugs herself even tighter.

“Hey. I, uh.” Florus kneels down and takes a seat next to her. He keeps one arm wrapped around her shoulder. “You good?”

Gloria sends Florus a simmering glare because, like, of course not?! So why’s he even asking? As if anyone could be good after being barfed out of Final Days (and more)! Florus sucks in his lips and nods awkwardly to himself.

“I mean, yeah. Sorry. I know you’re not good. You’ve got literal roots tangled in your nerves and flowers coming out of your lungs and —“ Florus stops with a cringe. “…yeah. Sorry. Not good.”

“God, you suck at comforting people,” Gloria groans. “Where’s Ollie when you need him?”

“I don’t know. Dead, I guess?”

“Florus.”

“Sorry. I’m...” coping. He doesn’t say it.

Florus shifts uncomfortably in place and decides not to mention that his hallucination of Ollie is shaking his head no at him. He pulls Gloria closer and tensely breathes out.

“I’m sorry. Of all the people who should’ve lived, it should’ve been him,” he admits in a whisper.

“...What? And you shouldn’t have?!”

“Gloria, I’m not -- No. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Well, figure it out or shut the fuck up! You think I can handle you dying too?” Grief balloons in her chest, hot and near bursting. “God, I don’t even know how much time I have left. What the hell am I supposed to do? Where’s all this supposed to go?”

Florus swallows. It’s like his heart’s tied in a double knot and he can’t get anything out, can’t do anything right, but Gloria’s crying and he feels like crying, too. He tucks her face into the crux of his neck and presses his lips into the crown of her head.

“I don’t know, Gloria. I really don’t,” he mutters.

Gloria huffs grumpily.

“But nobody knows how much time they have left. You could get hit by a car and then, it doesn’t matter that you have some fucked up, plant cancer.”

“Great. Wow! I feel so much better.”

“Ugh, okay. Look. It’s not like you can pause life until everything is perfect. We’re living right now, so we have to live right -fucking- now, because we don’t know if we have it good or if things will get worse again.” Florus inhales deeply. “...But you’re alive. And I’m alive. And...yeah. It’s not over for us yet.”

There’s another heavy silence. Eventually, Gloria shuffles deeper into Florus’s arms and groans tiredly into his chest.

“You became such a sap while you were away, Flo.”

“You’re welcome.”

They laugh quietly. Gloria tries to fix her runny makeup, but no amount of fussing can undo tears. This is just how she looks now.

“...God, I really thought you were dead,” she mumbles.

“Me too.”

“Mm.”

And then, a dull absence. Florus and Gloria are both waiting for a third voice to chime in. The snow comes down hard; he can barely see the distant mountains now. Canyons, like scars, like rips in the landscape, in himself and in Gloria. There’s a hole where their friend should be. A hole, and a grave.

Florus wipes a streak of running mascara off of Gloria’s cheek.

“Let’s visit Ollie one day.”

[nootnoot-fantrolls]

hops on the bandwagon 

some of these arent set in stone but for the most part theyre accurate xD

[libidomechanica]

Untitled Poem # 8648

Well. Can yield. Tho Honour is good Simplicius  Gallus left hys flocke did spilt. And  unfamiliar gracioun, and that for  hire housbondes the best voice,  a gloria victim fall to  thrum, to her, I aver, since  th Hysteric or Poetic Eyes: (so  Rome, with his embracd: for  Spirits Cares the Ground. Fy, school, and  fell! The Interprets Motion spent for  Refuge, and fair!��Questioned if her  side outlet, fathomless and Mars yaf me  my store, sufficient love?) “With my tale  more free, more fair! Your mouth, and whispring Textures  in my dead: then by some stayd, and say,  she sink when our lips and  whateer so sure tale half lost in fair and  Taste, critiqud your heardst a bright! ” Swiche  many more, and leaves, and tended.

[elmartillosinmetre]

Los motetes de Bach y el espíritu de la danza

[Raphaël Pichon (París, 1984). La foto es de François Sechet]

Pygmalion, el conjunto de Raphaël Pichon, vuelve sobre Bach en Harmonia Mundi con un registro que contextualiza sus motetes con obras de una colección de principios del XVII

En 2008 un joven músico francés formado en Versalles sorprendió al aficionado a la música barroca con un disco en el sello Alpha dedicado a un par de misas luteranas de Bach que asombró por su vigor expresivo y su frescura. El joven se llamaba Raphaël Pichon (París, 1984) y el grupo que había fundado para ese empeño respondía al nombre de Pygmalion. En los años siguientes, Pygmalion remataba la integral de las misas luteranas de Bach con dos nuevos discos, el segundo de los cuales no era otra cosa que la Misa en si menor en su estado primigenio de 1733, esto es, conteniendo sólo Kyrie y Gloria.

Pichon y su conjunto llamaron enseguida la atención de festivales, programadores y productores, y Harmonia Mundi, la gran compañía francesa del clásico, lo incorporó a la nómina de sus artistas, primero (2013) con un espléndido Dardanus de Rameau en formato audiovisual (DVD y BluRay) y enseguida (2014) con un nuevo acercamiento a Bach, la reconstrucción de una cantata fúnebre conectada a la Pasión según San Mateo y la Trauerode.

Desde entonces, Pichon y su Pygmalion se han convertido en uno de los grupos punteros del Barroco europeo, y no sólo del Barroco, pues en sus trabajos discográficos se han acercado a Monteverdi, Luigi Rossi, la Florencia del XVI o el Versalles de Luis XIV, pero también a Gluck, Mozart y ¡hasta Wagner! Vuelven a Bach con este álbum en el que a los seis motetes BWV 225-230 añaden una serie de piezas extraídas de una colección coral publicada en Leipzig en dos partes (1618, 1621), el Florilegium Portense, que Bach hizo comprar hasta dos veces para la biblioteca de Santo Tomás.

La auténtica filiación de los motetes de Bach no ha dejado de generar dudas desde el gran trabajo de catalogación emprendido en el siglo XIX. De los seis que tienen la numeración correlativa y ha grabado aquí Pichon es más que dudoso el último de ellos, Lobet den Herrn, alle Heiden, mientras que hoy suele incluirse también en la nómina O Jesu Christ meins Lebens Licht, en su día considerado cantata, acaso por el acompañamiento instrumental completamente escrito, y por ello catalogado como BWV 118. Incluso se ha propuesto que Ich lasse dich nicht du segnest mich denn, obra atribuida mucho tiempo a Johann Christoph Bach (1642-1703), tío admiradísimo por Sebastian, sea en realidad una obra de la juventud del Cantor y por ello se ha incluido en apéndice como BWV Anh.159.

Al interpolar las piezas del Florilegium Portense entre los motetes de Bach, Pichon parece querer destacar el impacto que aún tenía en Bach la policoralidad de origen veneciano y mostrar las resonancias de aquellas músicas en su trabajo cotidiano en el Leipzig del siglo XVIII. Dos de las obras antiguas están a siete voces (Osculetur me de Vincenzo Bertolusi y Ecce quomodo moritur justus de Jacobus Gallus) y dos a ocho (Tolerunt Dominum de Hieronimus Praetorius y Jubilate Deo de Giovanni Gabrieli). Conviene recordar que cuatro de los seis motetes de Bach están también a ocho voces. Las excepciones son Lobet den Herrn, alle Heiden BWV 230, que está a 4 (justo una de las razones que se ha esgrimido para considerarlo espurio), y Jesu, meine Freude BWV 227, a 5.

Aunque se dice con frecuencia que los motetes solían tener en el Leipzig de Bach una función fúnebre, lo cierto es que sólo BWV 226, 227 y 228 se sabe con certeza que nacieron para funerales concretos, mientras el destino de los otros tres es desconocido, aunque el tono exultante de BWV 225 y BWV 230 difícilmente puede relacionarse con una función religiosa mortuoria.

Pichon incluso enfatiza en su interpretación uno de los elementos esenciales de esta soberbia música bachiana, su conexión con la danza. El componente rítmico se impone como elemento esencial de unas versiones en las que, acaso para aproximarse a la interpretación a cappella de las piezas del XVII, se renuncia al empleo de instrumentos orquestales colla parte, como parece haber sido práctica en época bachiana y han recogido tantas grabaciones, apostando por un continuo de seis instrumentos que realza la fuerza expresiva de un soberbio conjunto coral de 28 voces.

[Diario de Sevilla. 12-10-20]

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EL CD EN SPOTIFY

[nemesisbinxartifactseries]

Artifact Series G

Gabriel, comte de Montgomery’s Lance Splinters

Gabriel Voisin's Empennage

Gaius Appuleius Diocles' Chariot

Galen of Pergamon's Scalpel

Galileo Galilei's Astrolabe *

Galla Placidia’s Gold Glass Medallion

Gallus Mag’s Suspenders

Galvarino's Knives

Ganesha's Broken Tusk

Ganges River Water

Gan Ning's Bells

Gardner Fox’s Filing Cabinets

Garrett Scott's Tie-Dye Bracelet

Garðar Svavarsson's Ship

Gary Brolsma's Glasses

Gary Busey's Motorcycle Helmet

Gary Coleman's SAG Card *

Gary Larson's Tear-Away Calander

Gaspard de Coligny's Gauntlet

Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos' Desk

Gas Station Sign from the 1973 Oil Crisis

Gavrilo Princip's FN-Model 1910 Pistol

Gazala, Horse of Baldwin I of Jerusalem's Battle Armor *

Gear Shift Knob

Geber's Battery

Geber's Glassblower

Gene Autry’s Hollywood Star

Gene Krupa's Drum Set

Gene Roddenberry’s Glasses

Gene Siskel's Popcorn Bucket

General Electric Can Opener

The General Lee

General Store from Agloe, New York

General Tso's Pet Chicken's Bones *

Ghengis Khan's Mace *

Genghis Khan's Saddlebag

Geoffrey Barkas' Collar Stud

Geoffrey Chaucer's First Poems

Geoffroi De Charny's Helmet

Geogina Winthrop's Blue Porcelain Teapot *

Georg Friedrich Treitschke's Butterfly Display

Georg Wilhelm Richmann's Metal Tongs

Georg Joachim Rheticus' Compass and other effects *

George III's Crown

George Armstrong Custer's Bugle

George Bellows’ Fight Ticket

George Bernard Shaw's Academy Award & Nobel Prize

George Boleyn's Prebendal Stall Cushion

George Bush Sr.'s Tie

George C. Parker's Deed to the Brooklyn Bridge

George Carlin's Microphone

George Catlin's Bead Necklace

George Cayley's Coat

George Dantzig's National Medal of Science Award

George Ernest's Film Reel

George Fan's Sketchbook

George Formby Sr’s Penny Dreadful

George Frideric Handel's Baton

George Green’s Dentistry Tools

George Harrison's Copy of "He's So Fine"

George Harrison's Stolen Guitar

George Herbert's Shaving Kit

George Joyce's Uniform

George the Magician's Lightning Electrodes *

George Martin's Original Studio Master of "Rain"

George Orwell's Microphone

George Patton's Grenade

George Patton's Steel Military Helmet *

George Reeves' Eyeglasses *

George Renninger's First Batch of Candy Corn

George Romero's Camera

George Romero's Director's Chair

George Romero's Flashlight

George R. R. Martin's DOS Computer

George Stokes’ Fluorite

George Takei's Blanket

George Vanderbilt's Keys to the Biltmore Estate

George Wallace’s Podium

George Washington's Colichemarde

George Washington's Jigger

George Washington's Pewter Ice Cream Pots

George Washington's Shaving Brush *

George Washington's Teeth (canon)

George Went Hensley's Bible *

George Westinghouse's Fountain Pen

Georges Cuvier's Handkerchief *

Georges de la Tour’s Candle

Georges-Louis Le Sage’s Telegraph

Georges Mochet's Pedal Car *

Georges-Pierre Seurat's "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte"

Georges Pierre Seurat's Bathers at Asnieres *

Georges Vézina’s Leg Guards

Georgia Guidestones

Georgia O'Keeffe’s Ram Skull

Georgia O'Keeffe's Watering Can

Gerald Holtom's Flags

Gerardus Mercator’s Globe

Gerolamo Cardano's Dice

Geronimo's Skull

Gertrude Jekyll's Paintbox

Gettysburg Civil War Bonesaw

GFS Cooking Spray *

Ghostbuster Proton Pack

Ghosts of Christmas History's Robes

Ghyslain Raza's Golf Ball Retriever

Giacomo Casanova's Chunk of Black Marble

Giacomo Casanova's Hair Tie

The Gibsons' Knife Block

Gil Perez's Helmet

Gilbert Bates’ American Flag

Gilbert Vernam's Paper Tape

Gilbert U-238 Atomic Energy Lab

Gilles de Rais' Key Ring

Gilles de Montmorency-Laval's Closet Key

Ginnie Wade's Bread Dough

Giotto di Bondone's Lantern

Giovanni Boccaccio’s Laurel Wreath

Giovanni Bragolin's Original "Crying Boy" and "Crying Girl"

Giovanni Caselli’s Pantelegraph

Giovanni De Ventura's Beak Mask

Giovanni Malatesta's Gloves

Giovanni Martino's Cavalry Trumpet

Girolamo Savonarola's Crucifix

Giuseppe Arcimbaldo's Fruit Basket

Giuseppe Caspar Mezzofanti’s Zucchetto

Gladys Aylward’s Lotus Shoes

Glafira Alymova's Harp

Glass Coca-Cola Bottle

Glass Eye

Glass Jar from the Donner Party *

Glass Plate

Glass Shards from Kristallnacht

Glauce's Wedding Dress

Glenn Beck's Chalkboard

Gloria Swanson's Brush *

Glowing Highlighter Pens

Glue from Victor Clairmont's

Gluttonous Cake Fork

Goblet of Severan *

Godfrey of Bouillon's Battle Helmet *

Sir Godfrey Newbold Hounsfield's Prototype EMT Scanner

Godfrid's Ladle *

Goetz Open Feather 0-10 Telephone Token

Gold Bar from Fort Knox

Gold Bond Bottle Caps

Golden Cap

Golden Easter Egg

Golden Egg

The Golden Fleece

Golden Girls Dining Set

The Golden Hind

Golden Nugget Ashtray

The Golden Rope *

Golden Scale

Gold Spike from the Trans-Continental Railroad *

The Gordian Knot

Gordon Gekko's Cellphone *

Gordon Gould's Laser Notebook

Gordon Ramsay's Chef Knives

Gottfried Mind’s Copper Plate

Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz's Arithmometer

Gotz von Berlichingen's Prosthetic Arm

The Governor's Knife

Grace Cossington Smith’s “Interior in Yellow”

Grace Hopper’s Log Book

Grace Hopper's Naval Reserve Medal

Graduation Ceremony Outfit

Graham Chapman's Bobby Cap

Graham Young’s Teapot

Grand Central Terminal Rotary Convertor

Grant Devolson Wood's "American Gothic"

The Grapes of Wrath *

Greased Lightning

Great Tent of Wola

The Green Thumb

Gregor-Bavari Perfume Bottle

Gregor Mendel's Glasses

Gregor Mendel's Magnifying Glass

Grenade from Adolf Hitler's Bunker *

Greta Garbo's Make-Up Kit

The Griffin and St. Lawrence Memorial Medallions

Grigory Vakulinchuk's Sailor Cap

Grigori Rasputin's Prayer Rope *

Grinling Gibbon's Whet Wheel

Grover Davis' Necklace

Groucho Marx's Honorary Oscar *

Guardian Scarecrow

Guglielmo Embriaco’s Siege Engine

Guglielmo Marconi's Electronic Oscillator *

Guglielmo Marconi's Ring

Guillaume Duchenne's Electrodes

Guillermo del Toro’s Notebook

Günter Schabowski’s Note

Gustaf Nordenskiöld’s Trowel

Gustav Klimt's Eugenia Primavesi *

Gustave Dore's Unpublished Engravings

Gutzon Borglum's Presidential Busts

Guru Gobind Singh's Kirpan

Guru Gobind Singh's Kangha

Guru Gobind Singh's Kara

Guru Gobind Singh's Kacchera

Guru Gobind Singh's Preserved Kesh

Guru Har Gobind's Chakrams

Gustavus Franklin Swift’s Refrigerator Car

Guy Bradley’s Skiff

Guy de La Brosse's Garden

Guy Fawkes Mask

Guy Fawkes' Gunpowder and Gun

Guy Fawkes' Day Fireworks

György Dózsa's Crown

György Dózsa's Pitchfork

Gypsy Rose Lee's Veils *

[2700fstreet]

CLASSICAL / 2018-2019

CHANTICLEER

STUDENT GUIDE

PERFORMANCE / DEMONSTRATION

School show: April 2

Teacher and Parent Guide: Chanticleer

So, What’s Going On?

They take the stage, their voices filling the auditorium with vocal sounds as rich as a symphony. But unlike a symphony, there are no instruments with them on stage…except their voices, of course. Meet Chanticleer—12 men whose choral strains have filled concert halls for 37 years, known worldwide as “an orchestra of voices.”

Chanticleer (pronounced SHAN-teh-kleer) is a choral chamber ensemble that performs almost entirely a cappella (solo or group singing with no instrumental accompaniment). For nearly four decades, the group has performed all kinds of music from early Renaissance to jazz, gospel, and modern compositions in concert halls across the globe. Its name originated from the rooster in The Nun’s Priest’s Tale in Geoffrey Chaucer’s medieval collection The Canterbury Tales. Chaucer had borrowed this character from the ancient French tale Renard the Fox. The word “chanticleer” comes from the French chanter—“to sing” and clair—“clear.”

One of the group’s goals is to encourage worldwide appreciation for the art of ensemble singing. The performers showcase their flexibility by performing not just the expected range of classical works, but music as varied as the group’s members. Watch Chanticleer perform Freddie Mercury’s “Somebody to Love” (yep, the Queen song):

Wait! What’s a Chamber Ensemble?

Chamber music might make you think of a small group of instruments, like a string quartet or woodwind quintet. In classical chamber music, each instrument typically carries a musical part on its own, unlike an orchestra where multiple instruments play a part. And like instrumental music, in a choral chamber group, the singers typically sing an individual part, as opposed to a choir, where multiple voices per part are present. Chanticleer has only 12 members, but they blend their voices into one sound, even as they sing different parts.

Speaking of parts, Chanticleer's voices from lowest to highest are:

contrabass: the deepest, or lowest, male voice, an octave below a typical bass

bass: a low male voice, singing the lowest notes in the vocal range of most males

baritone: a medium-low male voice singing in the range between tenor and bass

tenor: a high male voice, singing in the range between countertenor and baritone

countertenor: the highest male singing voice, equivalent to a female contralto or mezzo-soprano

alto: typically a female voicing, male altos sing higher than tenors and lower than sopranos

soprano: the highest female voicing, achieved by some male countertenors through the use of falsetto (a method of voice production used by male singers, especially tenors, to sing notes higher than their normal range)

Who’s Who

Chanticleer was founded in San Francisco, California, in 1978 when music student Louis Botto invited nine men to sing around his dining room table. He thought it was strange that the vocal music of the medieval and Renaissance periods wasn’t being performed and founded a group to remedy that. One of the founding baritones, Charlie Erikson, was reading Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales at the time and suggested they name the group Chanticleer after the name of the "clear-singing" rooster.

One of Botto’s goals was to provide full-time, salaried employment for its members, a challenging goal the group finally achieved in 1991. The group had gained notoriety by touring the country in a van, and eventually earned international recognition in Europe. Over time, they were able to release an album that included many original compositions written specifically for the group.

Currently, the group consists of 12 men, including two basses, one baritone, three tenors, and six countertenors.

Andy Berry, bass Zachary Burgess, bass-baritone Brian Hinman, tenor Matthew Knickman, baritone Matthew Mazzola, tenor Cortez Mitchell, countertenor Gerrod Pagenkopf, countertenor and Assistant Music Director Kory Reid, countertenor Alan Reinhardt, countertenor Logan S. Shields, countertenor (soprano) Andrew Val Allsburg, tenor Adam Ward, alto

Chanticleer has been led by Music Director William Fred Scott since 2015, following decades of successful years conducting and directing various opera houses, symphonies, and choral schools.

Caption: Musical Director, William Fred Scott

Check This Out…

During the performance and demonstration, Chanticleer will perform a varied repertoire stretching from early Renaissance music to arrangements of jazz and spirituals. The performance list includes:

“Gaude gloriosa” by Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina (jaw-VAH-nee pyer-loo-EE-jee dah pal-uh-STREE-nuh) (c. 1525–1594) is a motet (pronounced MOH-tet; a sacred choral composition) honoring The Virgin Mary.

Read this translation of the Latin lyrics of the motet. Notice how the words profess adoration for Mary.

Gaude gloriosa,

Rejoice, glorious one,

super omnes speciosa,

surpassing all others in beauty,

Vale, valde decora,

Fare you well, fair Lady,

et pro nobis semper Christum exora.

and intercede for us to Christ.

Palestrina was known for his perfection of counterpoint, a musical technique where different melodic lines are combined to create harmony using strict rules. Listen for the intricate way the voices simultaneously sing individual melodies and interact with one another to form harmonies.

Get a glimpse into the life of Chanticleer while listening to Gaude gloriosa:

"Duo Serarphim” is a motet written by Jacob Händl (1550–1591), a Slovenian composer and monk who was also known as Jacobus Gallus. He wrote both sacred and secular works including musical settings of the mass, passions, and motets. (The Catholic mass was often set by composers into major compositions with sections like the Kyrie and the Gloria.)

Read the translation of the Latin lyrics of the motet.

Duo seraphim clamabant alter ad alterum:

Two seraphim cried to one another,

Sanctus Dominus Deus Sabaoth.

Holy is the Lord God of Sabbath.

Plena est omnis terra gloria ejus.

The whole earth is full of His glory.

“Duo Seraphim” is a polychoral piece, meaning it utilizes two different choruses that alternate singing. This type of composition is a hallmark of the Venetian school in the late Renaissance period. See if you can hear where the two choruses answer one another throughout the music.

Händl (pronounced HAHN-del) was criticized in his time for music that was too complex, both for their large number of voice parts (some of his pieces included up to 24 individual parts), and for the intricate counterpoint of his music. Hear "Duo Seraphim":

“Nude Descending a Staircase” by Allen Shearer (b. 1943) utilizes a poem by X.J. Kennedy and is based on a painting by Marcel Duchamp (DOO-shawn; 1887–1968). About the song, Shearer writes, “Because I am a singer myself, writing vocal music is a particular pleasure for me. Setting this whimsical poem provides a diversion.”

Nude Descending a Staircase, No.2 (1912) is a Modernist painting that depicts an abstract human figure walking down a flight of stairs. The original reception of the painting was not favorable, and it was largely regarded with jokes and ridicule. View the painting:

Image Source

Now listen to this description of the painting:

If the painting represents overlapped images of a person walking down steps, how does the musical interpretation do the same? Listen for complex rhythms, humorous asides, and thick musical texture (there's a lot going on at once here!). Hear Chanticleer sing "Nude Descending a Staircase":

DID YOU KNOW…Some info on Cubism and Futurism

In Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2, Shearer combined Cubist and Futurist artistic styles. Cubism was an early 20th-century art movement using geometric shapes and interlocking planes. Futurism was an early 20th-century Italian art movement emphasizing speed, technology, industrial objects, youth, and velocity. Both art movements extended their influences to the period’s music, dance, literature, and film.

Quatre petites prières de Saint François d'Assise (Four small prayers of Saint Francis of Assisi) by Francis Poulenc (1899–1963) is a group of four motets based on the prayers of Saint Francis of Assisi, a Catholic friar who is considered the patron saint of animals.

Image Source

The piece was written by Poulenc (poo-LINGK) in 1948 for an a cappella men’s chorus and premiered by Franciscan monks. It alternates moments of chant, similar to Gregorian chant (a single melody of unaccompanied singing as a form of prayer), with more complex harmonies. Poulenc’s harmonic passages uses homophony—a musical texture where a strong melody is supported by harmonies.

Hear Chanticleer perform the piece:

“Fröhlich im Maien” from Drei Männerchöre, Op. 45 by Richard Strauss (REE-card strauss) was written for a male singing-society in Germany in the 1930s. Best known for his operas, tone poems (orchestral music that illustrates the text of a poem) and Lieder (poetry set to polyphonic music with several simultaneous melodies), Strauss (1864–1949) wrote several little-known works for such singing societies. This piece is set to the text of Friedrich Rückert (FREED-rik REUK-ehrt; 1788–1866), a German Romantic poet.

“Fröhlich im Maien” (“Joyous in May”) is the third männerchöre (or men’s chorus) in Drei Männerchöre, a song that encourages everyone to dance joyously in May. Listen for surprising harmonies, a hallmark of Romantic music.

The piece alternates verses with a chorus. See if you can follow along with the sheet music in this video as Chanticleer performs the piece:

“Dúlamán” arranged by Michael McGlynn (b. 1964) is set to a traditional Irish folk text. McGlynn uses classical and medieval music as inspiration and is best known for founding the vocal ensemble Anúna (Ah-NOO-nah).

The text of “Dúlamán” (DOO-lah-mahn) tells of a marriage involving the king of seaweed and was traditionally sung by people gathering seaweed from the unfertile coast of Ireland. The seaweed was laid on the land, and the land was eventually used for planting crops.

McGlynn’s musical setting combines traditional Irish folk music with his own musical ideas. Listen especially for the song’s alternating rhythms. Watch “Dúlamán” performed by McGlynn’s musical group Anúna:

“Creole Love Call” is frequently attributed to Duke Ellington (1899–1974), an American jazz composer and pianist who made the song famous. It was actually written, however, years before Ellington first performed it and given to him by saxophonist Rudy Jackson, who claimed it was his own composition. After Ellington performed it with jazz singer Adelaide Hall in 1927, both musicians skyrocketed to international fame. Ellington was granted publishing rights in 1928, but jazz musician Joe “King” Oliver quickly sued Ellington for plagiarism after noting that the song was eerily similar to “Camp Meeting Blues,” which Oliver had first recorded in 1923. Even though Oliver lost the suit over a paperwork error, Rudy Jackson was fired.

This arrangement of “Creole Love Call” was performed by the pre-World War II German jazz-influenced vocal ensemble the Comedian Harmonists, led by an unemployed actor named Harry Frommerman, who wrote the arrangement. This group of five male singers and a pianist was known for the ability to blend their voices. Listen to see if the members of Chanticleer are able to do the same.

The arrangement treats all of the voices as if they are instruments. Try to pick out what the individual instruments might be. (Hint! Think big band instruments like trumpet, trombone, clarinet, piano, and even a Hawaiian ukulele!)

“I Want to Die Easy” is a traditional spiritual arranged by Alice Parker and Robert Shaw with a beautiful solo tenor melody, full harmonies, and counterpoint between voices. The text describes the thoughts of a slave who has toiled in the fields and is ready to see heaven. Read the moving words:

I want to die easy when I die Shout salvation as I fly I want to die easy when I die.

I want to see my Jesus when I die Shout salvation as I fly I want to see my Jesus when I die.

I want to go to heaven when I die Shout salvation as I fly I want go to heaven when I die.

Listen for the slow, easy tempo; the emotion the tenor’s melody conveys; and the swing rhythm (a rhythm that, instead of using “straight” eighth notes counted one-and-two-and, etc., uses a triplet subdivision). It’s hard to explain but easy to feel in the music. Watch for a few quick examples of straight v. swing rhythm:

Hear Chanticleer perform “I Want to Die Easy”:

“Straight Street” is a traditional gospel song arranged by Joseph Jennings and has become one of Chanticleer’s most-often performed pieces. The song was originally written by J.W. Alexander and Jesse Whitaker from the traveling gospel ensemble the Pilgrim Travelers, whose energy and percussive foot tapping was legendary. Music from the Pilgrim Travels influenced singers like Ray Charles and Lou Rawls.

Introduced to the group by its arranger in 1980s, “Straight Street” was debuted by Chanticleer just as they began to explore repertoire outside of their traditional early music sets. Listen for the differences in vocal techniques used by the group in this song as compared to when they sing Renaissance music.

Follow the words as you watch Chanticleer perform “Straight Street”:

Well, I used to live up on Broadway Right next to the liar’s house My number was self-righteousness Had very little guide of mouth So I moved, I had to move And I’m living on Straight Street now.

One day my heart got troubled All about my dwelling place I saw the Lord ‘round my settlement And He told me to leave that place So I moved, I had to move And I’m living on Straight Street now.

Oh since I moved, I’m really living I got peace within. I thank the Lord for ev’ry blessing I’m glad I found new friends.

Before I moved over here Let me tell you how it was with me Old Satan had me bound up And I had no liberty So I moved, I had to move And I’m living on Straight Street now.

Think About This…

One unique feature of Chanticleer is the mix of voices, from soprano down to contrabass. How do the voices intermingle to create one sound? When a soloist takes center stage, how do the other voices blend to support him?

How is music influenced by art, and vice versa? Think of Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2. How does the musical interpretation of the poem and the painting expand your understanding of its meaning? What other examples can you think of to exemplify music and art working together?

How do you compare Chanticleer’s group performances with the type of music you usually hear performed—from classical to popular? You may not listen to a lot of early music or even jazz and spirituals, but are there aspects of Chanticleer’s performance that seem familiar? What sets Chanticleer apart from other live music you’ve experienced?

Take Action: Transforming Art

Many of the pieces Chanticleer performs are music set to art or poetry. “Fröhlich im Maien” is music set to a poem, while “Nude Descending a Staircase” represents music set to both a poem and visual art. Throughout history, composers and performers have been inspired by existing art, transforming that inspiration into song.

Think of a piece of art (poetry, painting, sculpture, dance, etc.) that inspires you. Choose a way to use that inspiration to create your own piece of art—whether that’s composing a song to represent a poem, or creating a dance to accompany an existing piece of music. Consider the elements of the art you're representing, and how they'll come through in your new creation. Share your innovation (and the artwork you transformed!) with a friend or trusted adult.

EXPLORE MORE

Go even deeper with the Chanticleer Extras.

-

All Chanticleer photos by Lisa Kohler

Writer: Tori Friedrich

Content Editor: Lisa Resnick

Logistics Coordination: Katherine Huseman

Producer and Program Manager: Tiffany A. Bryant

-

David M. Rubenstein Chairman

Deborah F. Rutter President

Mario R. Rossero Senior Vice President Education

Gianandrea Noseda Music Director National Symphony Orchestra

The Fortas Chamber Music Concerts are supported by generous contributors to the Abe Fortas Memorial Fund, and by a major gift to the fund from the late Carolyn E. Agger, widow of Abe Fortas.

Major support for educational programs at the Kennedy Center is provided by David M. Rubenstein through the Rubenstein Arts Access Program.

Kennedy Center education and related artistic programming is made possible through the generosity of the National Committee for the Performing Arts.

© 2019 The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts

[endangered-liaison]

Towerfall

[clockwork-sparrow]

(( Gloria in the present day, and also Oliver!!! :D ))

(( I’m in pain ))

[clockwork-sparrow]

Specula Imperatoris

A tower comes falling down. Parts: [1] 2 3

1 - Smoke Break

Set during events of Stormblood - CW: Strong language, war, loss

The cloudless skies stretch on, near-infinite over Gyr Abania’s natural splendor. Specula Imperatoris mars it.

The monstrous watchtower spindles over the skyline and casts a constant shadow over the land, as black as the metal it’s made out of, and today, a pair of slackers goof off at its peak. Only specially authorized employees are allowed to be up this high, but Oliver Jen Luti has his ways. With the outside breeze blowing strongly against their cheeks, he and his guest enjoy the view while idiotically trying to get a cigarette to catch in the wind.

Flick. “Fuck.” Flick. “Fuck.” Flick. “Fuck! Ollieee, it keeps getting blown out!” His visitor wails. It also doesn’t help that the wind keeps tossing her ginger hair into her face, blinding her for seconds at a time between attempts.

“Here. Let me just --” Oliver first tries to guard the lighter’s flickering flame against the wind. Another powerful gust tosses her hair right into the fire, so he decides to grab onto her ponytail instead. “Try now, Gloria!”

“Oww, you’re hurting me. My head isn’t a turnip, you dumbass!” She whines loudly.

“Yeah, cause you’re not a turnip, you’re a goddamn carrot. Now stop complaining and get on with it!” Oliver claps back with a laugh.

Gloria mumbles swears under her breath as she gets her cigarette to light. Then, the two of them stare vaguely over the landscape, gazes eventually drawn towards Baelsar’s Wall in the east. Oliver breaks the silence.

“The Alliance broke through. So...this place is next,” he says. Somehow, the exhaustion in his voice prevails over fear, and Gloria squints in irritation.

“What? Noo,” Gloria replies. She’s heard differently (assuaging nothings from management), but Ollie tends to have his ear closer to the ground. She takes half a second to reconsider. “...Oh shit. You think we should run?”

“And desert the XIIth?” Oliver says, glancing at Gloria. She grimaces as he continues. “Look, we’re noncombatants, so other people get to fight. And even if we do lose this skirmish, I think we’ll be fine. You ever heard of the Ironworks?”

“Shut it, Ollie! We’re not supposed to talk about them!” Gloria hisses. She bumps her shoulder against his and he laughs with his cigarette still balanced between his lips.

“Yeah, I know.” He taps ash into the drop below, smiling. “I know.”

The conversation dies down again, although the silence is comfortable and meandering in the way it tends to be between old friends. Gloria leans her head against Oliver’s arm and decides to look in the other direction instead, and the sight of Castrum Abania comes as a much needed comfort.

“Why don’t you switch departments and come work with me and Florus? There’s endless shit to do when it comes to the cannon,” she suggests. The idea of any of these strongholds falling is difficult to believe for Gloria, but then again, Baelsar’s Wall apparently fell. Better to play it safe.

“Are internal transfers still happening? I thought there was a freeze.” Oliver blows out smoke and gives Castrum Abania a considering stare. That’s where Gloria and Florus were stationed and, if Florus’s stories were to be believed, management made working there a living hell. Still, some distance between him and danger would probably be wise.

“Oh fuck, yeah. I’m not sure...But I can ask when I go back. Put in good word. You know, all that jazz,” Gloria promises with a smirk. 

Even in wartime, the technology department had its benefits. That’s why she’s visiting Oliver during her downtime and why she’s sheltered from the reality of how bad things are. Anything to keep calm and carry on, so what’s a little more censorship on a population that’s already bombarded with propaganda? Oliver finishes his cigarette and crumbles it into his pocket with a sigh.

“Yeah, thanks. Let me know,” he mutters. 

Gloria pouts and tugs down on his jacket.

“Hey, meathead! I’m going out on a limb here, and the least you could do is not look so down!” Gloria exclaims. Oliver sends her a pained look, then glances away, pissing her off even more. She tugs harder. “Out with it, Ollie. OUT. What’s bothering you?”

He fixes his hat and lets out another sigh, but Gloria doesn’t take the hint. She tends not to. 

“...I don’t know. I guess I’m tired,” Oliver eventually says. These aren’t the right words for the mess that’s spiraling around in his head, but still, he has to try. Otherwise Gloria’s going to be on his ass 24/7. “It’s just...enough is enough. Something has to change. I don’t know what, but just. Something.”

Gloria frowns, expecting another drawn out rant about the wonderful Populares and the terrible injustices within Garlemald, but for once he doesn’t deliver. Instead of filling the air with hot takes and salty calls for action, Oliver is silent. He’s squinting at something beneath them with a puzzled expression on his face.

“Hey, are people rioting?”

[clockwork-sparrow]

Specula Imperatoris

A tower comes falling down.  Parts: 1 2 [3]

3 - Speed

Set during events of Stormblood - CW: Strong language, war, loss

The airship jostles from turbulence, jerking Gloria’s neck against the bench. She numbly stares at the vehicle’s ceiling and continues counting sheep. Seven hundred and forty one, seven hundred and forty two, seven hundred and forty three...

“After Castrum Abania fell, so too did Ala Mhigo, and the fate of our exalted prince remains unknown. All of the XIIth are to report back to the Capital immediately.”

The radio drones on and several others lucky enough to catch this last flight out of Gyr Abania huddle around it. The fucking idiots. They’re clinging onto nonsense hope for bullshit news. Gloria jogs her leg up and down restlessly.

“The dread Warrior of Light is to blame for this, but do not despair. For above all else, we Garleans know how to survive no matter the odds and no matter the injustice. We’ll stick together and overcome this like we always have.”

The cannon she helped build nearly killed her. Her research in ceruleum and fuel, distilling into this. Did the Alliance really infiltrate Castrum Abania, or was it the Empire? How could this happen? How could the Empire...let this happen? To her and to everyone? The bottom of her heel taps irritably against the metal floor of the airship.

“Nos sumus manus, Nos sumus deus. Long live the Emperor, and long live the Empire!”

Gloria gets up and tries to punt the radio. Other passengers shy away in horror while another takes charge, and she’s yanked up by the arms, kicking and screaming. She doesn’t care anymore, she doesn’t care! Why should she, when all of this is a fucking lie?! When the only thing she can do is pathetically drag herself back to a home she doesn’t want? Because for fuck’s sake, once was enough! Once was fucking enough!

“In these trying times, we must remain strong because good /will/ prevail. I know it will. /We/ know it will. Thank you.”

The hands holding her down. The airship landing. A police station, a squeeze on her shoulder, and a bus ride back to her apartment. Nothing’s in focus and everything’s a blur. She looks at the keyring in her hand, every breath raw, heaving, and struggling, and the sight of Florus and Oliver’s keys is the final nail in the coffin.

She doesn’t want anyone else. She found them and they found her and doesn’t that make them family enough? More so than her ‘real’ family, with their fake ass plans, their fake ass hopes, and their fake ass Gloria?! The keys jingle, then choke into silence as she clenches so hard that they cut into her palm. Blood trickles down her hand.

She can’t think about this right now. She just can’t.

[clockwork-sparrow]

Specula Imperatoris

A tower comes falling down.  Parts: 1 [2] 3

2 - Floor 36

Set during events of Stormblood - CW: Strong language, war, loss

“Oh fuck,” Oliver says.

The elevator’s blocked. Troops have priority, and they’re packing down.

“Oh fuck,” he repeats.

Papers are scattered everywhere. A spilled cup of coffee rolls across the floor, staining the rug brown.

“Oh-fuck-oh-fuck-oh-fuck.”

Oliver looks left, then right. He’s got Gloria’s hand clenched in his and he’s looking for the room that civilians are supposed to hide in until the conflict blows over. A soldier yells at him to get out of the way, so he presses himself and Gloria against a cubicle wall to let armored men march past. She shakes like a leaf beneath him and her palm is cold with sweat. Oliver pulls back and grabs Gloria firmly by the shoulders.

“Gloria. Gloria!” Oliver calls out. “Gloria, stay with me, okay? We’ll get through this. We just gotta keep going.”

Gloria dry swallows between hyperventilating. “T-this isn’t happening. This isn’t...”

Oliver grits his teeth. Mentally, she’s gone, but he refuses to leave her behind. He gives her a quick hug before tugging her onwards, weaving through fallen chairs and whiteboards to make their way towards the fire escape. With how much the floor is shaking from this conflict, the thought of hunkering down and waiting for salvation doesn’t sit right with him. He needs to do something, keep moving, stay alive. He doesn’t want to wait to be rescued.

He charges into the fire escape door and slams it open, and the sound of echoing footsteps down the near endless stairwell tells him that he’s not alone. Fuck, he just had to take Gloria up to see the sights today, didn’t he? They’ve got the longest way possible to run down, but for some reason, he still wants to go for it. Until his feet are on solid ground, he won’t rest easy.

So floor 50. Gloria’s stumbling behind him. What a day to wear platform boots.

Floor 40. He feels like his lungs are burning from the inside out, and Gloria’s faring even worse.

A terrible sound deafens them by floor 36. The entire building goes on a tilt, steel moaning as it leans.

“What was that?!” Gloria shrieks. 

Already manic with fear and now, exhausted from the descent, Gloria stumbles as Specula Imperatoris begins to collapse. Oliver picks her up and rushes out of the fire escape, sees that everything is set on an angle, narrowly dodges an office chair wheeling past. Worrisome plumes of smoke cloud the windows and, for the millisecond that it parts, they both see the great cannon of Castrum Abania pointed straight. At. Them.

“O-Ollie, they couldn’t have...No. The Alliance! They must’ve snuck in, did this to us,” Gloria rambles.

“That doesn’t matter right now,” Oliver forces himself to say. If it weren’t for Gloria he might’ve lost his marbles, but he’s driven by a need to be there for her. “We just have to get out of here.”

Every second tilts the world more and more. Floor 36. There’s a launchpad for drones on this level. Smaller, weedier ones meant for communication, but -- it might be a safer bet than trying to run down the stairs of a collapsing building. He slides down the floor and lands next to the workshop with a grunt. 

The launch bay door is already open. Fuck, someone had the same bright idea.

The room is nearly empty save for a single, pathetic drone that was deemed too scrawny to be used in the escape attempts of whoever came before them. Seeing that is both horrible and relieving to Oliver because he just so happens to a passenger to match. He dumps Gloria on top of it and squeezes her hand.

“Okay, I know this is crazy, but if the tower tilts so much that you end up falling out, use this,” he says quickly. Gloria furrows her brows at him.

“What the fuck? Ollie, this is /real life/ and you’re not making any sense,” she says.

“I know. I --” Specula Imperatoris writhes and nearly throws them out. Oliver, with one hand holding onto a pipe and the other onto Gloria, wheezes with effort. “--oh-my-fucking-god.”

“FUCK. Okay, okay. Okayokayokay.” Gloria uses her free hand to flip the shitty drone on and looks up with broken determination. “Come on, you meathead! This place is about to explode!”

An awful cacophony of rending metal and splitting circuits sings out and Oliver doesn’t know what to do. What to say. How to resolve the desperate urge to live with the unbelievable circumstances he’s in. He looks at the drone that’s just barely carrying Gloria’s weight and lets out a sound he can’t quite identify. It falls between relief and despair.

These aren’t the right words for the mess that’s spiraling around in his head, but still, he has to try.

“I’ll catch up with you later, but tell everyone I love them, okay?” Oliver’s voice cracks. Everything’s falling apart but he’s holding on. “Now get out of here!”

He shakes her off like the limp spaghetti that she is and doesn’t look away as she falls, her eyes wide with horror as the drone struggles to slow her descent. She disappears backwards into the smoke, and seconds later, so does he. 

Specula Imperatoris clings on for as long as it could until, just like that, it couldn’t. The tower splits into two and lays down with a great sigh, resting its carcass of ceruleum and cermet atop a bed of blood and bone. The Alliance and Empire bleeds below, pulverized and made one again, death indistinct.

Something had to change. Something did.

[clockwork-sparrow]

Folly

CW: Swearing

Oliver’s car is an eighty miles-per-hour iron deathtrap of barely contained bubblegum pop and takeout. Even through closed windows, others can hear (feel) sound rattle every inch of his car on tempo, and it’s immeasurably worse inside. The music’s loud enough to drown out a plane, the smell of fast food is heart-attack inducing, and Oliver drives like he’s shaking off cops. He jovially sings along without a care in the world as Florus, riding shotgun, struggles to balance a jenga tower of packaged food and drinks on his lap.

“OLLIE!” Florus yells as he frantically catches a soda from spilling. “TURN DOWN THE FUCKING MUSIC, OLLIE! AH -- SHIT?!”

A box of takeout slips free from the tower and flips over at Florus’s feet. Oliver doesn’t notice.

“SO COMFORTABLE WE’RE LIVIN’ IN A BUBBLE, A BUBBLE! SO COMFORTABLE WE CANNOT SEE THE TROUBLE, THE TROUBLE!” Oliver screams, because he can’t hear himself over the music otherwise.

Florus makes a desperate sound between laughing and crying. With his hands full, Florus bites a straw from the top of the Leaning Tower of Takeout, yanks it out of the soda cup it’s stabbed into, and then spits it at the side of Oliver’s face right as he presses on the gas. The car swerves violently, and it’s a miracle that Florus doesn’t end up slathered in spilled food.

“Yo, what the--” Oliver stops. If he can’t hear himself then neither can Florus. He turns down the music. “What the shit! Are you trying to get us killed?”

“Maybe,” Florus dryly responds. “Because this is worse than death.”

Oliver laughs. “My car, my rules, bitch. Deal with it.”

Oliver attempts to dial the volume back up, causing Florus to reach over and stop him. The left half of the takeout tower collapses as Florus slaps Oliver’s hand away.

“HEY. You had one job!” Oliver says as a chicken tender bounces off the stick shift, shedding puddles of grease.

“I swear, if you turn up the music again, I’m gonna open the door and throw all of this shit out,” Florus rants. “And then myself.”

“You wouldn’t,” Oliver says.

Oliver really should be paying attention to the road, but. He chances a quick glance at Florus and finds him staring at him.

“You wouldn’t,” Oliver says again.

He steals several more glances and continues to see the same thing. Florus, still staring, still silent. Oliver nods to himself and looks straight ahead thinking: Yeah, everything’s fine. Everything’s cool. Just keep driving.

Oliver slams his hand on the child locks right as Florus yanks on the door. More food topples over.

“Suck-my-dick-you-fucking-giant---” Florus tries the car window instead.

“FLORUS, PLEASE! I’M DRIVING!” Oliver screams. He looks away from the road towards Florus again, sees the window rolling down, and counters by pressing a finger on the master window controls. The glass jerks up and down.

“OLLIE!” Florus shouts.

“FLORUS, SOMETIMES I HATE YOU SO MUCH,” Oliver yells through a manic grin, going insane.

“THAT’S--” Florus pauses. That’s fair. Wait. “NO, OLLIE, THE ROAD!”

Oliver sees a turn a second too late and slams on the brakes. All the food flies forward and slaps wetly against the inside of the windshield, then squeaks down as the car sputters to a blind stop.

“.......” Oliver, with his hands deathgripped on the steering wheel, turns to look at Florus. There’s a fry in his hair. Oliver returns to staring forward.

“Can--” Florus coughs. His throat has gone bone dry and he’s crying from adrenaline. “Can the car start?”

“Uh. Let me check.” Oliver presses on the gas and a whimpering gurgle wheezes out of the jalopy.

“The ignition?” Florus suggests as ketchup drips down and stings his eye. He drags a hand over to wipe it away.

“Yeah. Good idea,” Oliver says. He shifts the car back into neutral, turns it off, then turns it back on. The same sad sound shudders out of the tortured car. No dice.

“Jumper cables?” Florus tries.

“In the back,” Oliver says. 

Oliver clambers out of the car and forgets to release the child locks, so Florus crawls after him and exits out of the driver’s side like a worm. They end up waiting outside with a cable each, standing stiffly while reeking of burgers, awkwardly hoping that a kind stranger will pull over and help them jumpstart the car. After a minute, Oliver leans over and eats the fry that’s poking out of Florus’s hair.

“.......” Florus looks pained at first, but eventually, he turns. Sure enough, there’s another fry embedded on the other side of his hair. Oliver eats that one too, and after sharing a disbelieving silence, the two of them crack and start laughing.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING,” Florus yells through laughter. “IS THIS A NIGHTMARE?!”

“M-MAYBE?!” Oliver hacks on the fry. “Wait, your nightmare or mine?”

“What? Why does that matter?” Florus asks.

“Quick, make Ulala from the Songbirds appear!” Oliver commands, already deciding that it’s Florus’s nightmare.

“Piss off, Ulala sucks,” Florus laughs. 

“You take that back!” Oliver says as he half-heartedly whips Florus on the arm with his jumper cable.

“Ulala sucks!” Florus repeats, and he earns another smack from Oliver in response. Giggling, he stumble-runs away from Oliver.

“Then I shall defend my lady’s honor! Where are you running off to, you fiend?! Hhehhhyhhahhh--” Oliver spins his jumper cable over his head and accidentally lets go, tossing it past Florus and into the snow. “Shit!”

Florus’s laughter continues as Oliver gives chase. Just two idiots dicking around on the pullout of a highway, covered in fast food, slapping each other with jumper cables. Nothing unusual.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Gloria slips off her noise canceling headphones, closes her laptop, and lets out a tired sigh. There’s more cramming to be done, but at least she managed to hyperfocus and make a lot of progress. She looks around herself from the backseat of the car and finds herself alone, childlocked in and confused. 

“Florus?” She presses her face against the car window. “Ollie?”

[clockwork-sparrow]

(( So...I have this huge collection of secret art that I’ve just. Sat on for months. Gonna try to post some, grouped by topic! ))

(( The gamer trio! Florus, Oliver, and Gloria. A pic of them as kids, too! I love them ))

[clockwork-sparrow]

Happy Drunk

CW: Swearing, drinking

Three Garleans walk into a bar. The first one orders a scotch on the rocks and takes his drink to a corner booth. The second gets a mai tai and joins her friend. The last one doesn’t order at all. He argues with another customer, which escalates (somehow) into shots, several worrisome games of darts, more reckless drinking, and shitfaced shenanigans. People keep picking each other up, someone’s doing sit-ups on the pool table, somebody’s lost their shoes and, holy shit, it’s chaos.

Florus squeezes out of the crowd and wobbles towards his friends with a crooked grin. Oliver smiles back while Gloria gives him an peeved glare.

“Are you having fun? Yeeaah? Had your fill?” Gloria says bitterly.

“What?” Florus dumbly answers.

“Did you forget? Gloria’s presenting her big project tomorrow, so she can’t go ham tonight. I thought it’d sink in after she complained about it the hundredth time,” Oliver replies, though that’s not stopping him from getting slammed. He downs his drink and gets up to order another. Gloria tugs him back down.

“HEY! I don’t want to be the only sober person in the room!” Gloria whines while holding onto the corner of Oliver’s jacket. “Solidarity! Solidarity, Ollie!”

“Hhhghhmnhhg--” Oliver stares longingly at the drunken situation™. “Wait! What about Florus?”

“Well, it’s already too late for Florus, isn’t it?! Just look at him! Look at that stupid smile!” Gloria jabs a finger in Florus’s direction.

“Wow, you’re not happy that I’m happy? Fuck y--” Florus attempts to take a seat in the booth and misses. He hits the floor with a grunt. Neither Oliver or Gloria move to help; they’re too busy laughing to care.

“Ow, shit. I think I broke my ass,” Florus groans as he pulls himself into the actual seat.

Gloria scoffs. “You know what? That might be good for you.”

“Excuse me?” Florus manages to drum up enough energy to appear shocked, though sloppy remains his primary expression. Gloria crosses her arms smugly.

“No, you’re not excused, you rude motherfucker. Excuse you? Fuck you is more accurate, cause you know what? I’m saying it! I’m just gonna say it!” Gloria raises both hands in the air as Oliver looks like he’s dying internally (oh god, not this again). “You’re a goddamn kitchen sink when it comes to--”

“HEY. Is she calling me easy?” Florus looks at Oliver. “Is Gloria calling me easy?”

“Please-give-me-a-drink-Florus,” Oliver begs.

Florus happens to be holding a shot from earlier, and he tries to slide it over to Oliver. Gloria puts her hand in between theirs.

“Come on, Gloria. You should just drink too,” Florus says. “Don’t worry about your presentation or whatever the shit...”

“What about my presentation?!” Gloria snaps.

“I found this hangover cure that works. Just take that after,” Florus says with a smirk.

“Does it work, or does it actually work?” Gloria asks through clenched teeth.

“Yeah,” Florus lies.

Gloria frowns in disbelief. She knows that Florus has no cure-all for her today because he didn’t have one the last time, or the time before that, or the time before that. Still, she always ends up folding to impulse, although at least she can pin the blame on him. Gloria grabs the shot that Florus was trying to give to Oliver and downs it.

“HEY, that’s mine!” Oliver exclaims.

“Another!” Gloria commands, ignoring Oliver.

“Haha, okay.” Florus gets up and staggers off. Hopefully he’ll remember his mission long enough to come back.

“Hey, what about my drink? Hey! Hey?” Oliver, trapped on his side of the booth by Gloria, sends her a pleading look that asks her to move. When she doesn’t, instead of using words like a sane person, he bends down and tries to escape from beneath the table.

“Are you a crazy person?! OLLIE?” Gloria grabs him for the second time and attempts to pull him back up, but he’s significantly stronger than her. She ends up being dragged beneath the table as well. “OH MY GOD, OLLIE?!”

By some miracle, Florus manages to come back to the booth with an armful of drinks, though at first he thinks nobody’s there. Instead of asking around or looking for his friends, he blankly slips back into his seat and ends up stepping on the disaster unfolding beneath the table.

Gloria grabs Florus’s ankle with her icy cold hands.

“FUCK!” Florus jerks his knee up into the table in shock, and he doubles over in mute pain.

“Hahaha, I gotcha good,” Gloria taunts.

Florus remains silent.

“You alright? Florus? Flo-flo? Flobro? Florry? Oh god, he’s not responding to the names, Ollie. He might actually be dead,” Gloria laughs again.

“Great. Here lies Florus, a salty smartass to the end,” Oliver says curtly. “Now let me go, I wanna drink!”

“Solidarity, Ollie,” Gloria teases. “Solidarity!”