#like any sax solo is better than whatever she was doing about good music really good music

[larkiethings]

being an adult is realizing that yeah the manhattan transfer version of birdland is not as good as literally any big band version

[nearlynorth]

we can’t even be in the same room

The breaking of Luke Patterson and Julie Molina.

Or the fic that shows the aftermath of heartbreak.

Notes:

Now you may be thinking, Nicole, you've never been in a relationship or been broken up with, why are you writing a breakup fic? That's a good question that I don't have an answer to. This is the first of a three part series that I'm working on. The next part will be Julie.

I highly recommend listening to Same Room by JP Saxe when you are reading this. I listened to it on repeat while writing this. If anyone wants the playlist that I so creatively titled "Juke Breakup Fic" it's at this link. Link to spotify playlist

This is technically an au because the boys were never ghosts, but that isn't really something that is addressed or is needed to be known.

Also cross-posted on ao3. This is the first in a three part series that I will eventually manage to get the other two saved into a masterlist on here when I write them.

Disclaimer: I don't own any italicized lyrics or the Julie and the Phantoms characters. I'm also not the first person to write a breakup fic.

I watched a TED Talk on heartbreak

He had a smart person accent

He said, "Don't look through the photos"

Then I looked through our photos

Luke doesn't even know how he does it. How he resists looking through the camera gallery on his phone, the memories documented in photos. How when his heart is pulling itself apart he resists looking at the very things that could sew it back and then tear it apart again.

Luke does know a few things.  He knows the post-breakup rules. He's watched a TedTalk, the man speaking with an accent that he knows that she would've loved. And he's already breaking them.

One.

He knows that he isn't supposed to look at the photos. He puts his phone in the car, pretends like it is just a normal day. He lasts two hours. Two hours spent staring blankly at the wall, wondering where they went wrong. He knows, he knows. Two hours and then he breaks. He unlocks his phone and pulls up the photos, the videos, all of what they recorded. Their history was in front of the camera, well-documented and heart-breaking. He lasts two hours and he breaks his first rule.

Two.

He knows that he's not supposed to think about her, to not let himself wallow in his self-pity. But it's hard. It's hard to block her from his mind when their apartment, his apartment, feels like her. Everything reminds her of him.

He will see the wilting dahlias on the counter, their petals falling to the marble. His last-ditch effort, when words failed and he just wasn't enough. Yet he can't bring himself to get rid of them, to finally toss them into the trash. He sees the looks that his friends shoot them when they come over to make sure that he isn't dead. He lets the blossoms rot just like what was supposed to be his great love.

He will see the empty drawers on the other side of their (cross this out) his bedroom and he will remember. It will all come flooding back to him, of how she tore through like a hurricane, pulling clothes out of hidden places and taking it all. She left him nothing, in a million pieces, with nothing left to pull himself together again.

But no, that's not true. He will see a shirt that she forgot, lying alone in a closet. It still smells like her. It's from their first tour, when they were still fumbling teenagers, sneaking glances at each other and pretending like they didn't see the chemistry between them. What he would give to go back to that time, when they were still young. It becomes stained with tears.

He breaks all the rules that he put into place for himself, watching his face in the mirror when he breaks.

I'm tempted to distract myself

I'm trying not to

Cuz I'll make myself feel all of this

If it's all that I got left of you

He debates whether or not he should drown out his sorrows with noise. To fill his days with as many activities as he can, leave no time for his brain to reflect. But his pain is all that he has left of her. All that he has are his wilting memories and his rotting heart.

When the pain goes away she will be gone forever. He will only have half-concocted dreams and plans that have holes as gaping as their bond. He will only have her from the eyes of others, never through the intimate lens of knowing someone so wholly that you know them better than they know themselves.

He will never have a connection that deep, not when they both brought each other back from the brink. He will never love like that again, never be loved like that again. It breaks him.

He takes his pain and he keeps it close to him, his last bitter remnants of something so good.

You came to Portugal in 2014

Just to spend a couple days with me

You flew halfway 'round the world for me

It's a week after she left that he thinks about how they got there. How they got to the point of breaking. He skirts around the bad memories, the ones that he sees now climbing the stairs to the final plateau. He doesn't want to feel the pain but maybe happy memories will make it worse. He doesn't care.

He thinks about a time where everything felt high, long before everything dipped so low. He thinks about a time that he was in Portugal, for a reason that he can't even remember now. He knows what she was doing, shooting her first movie halfway around the world. He remembers how it felt to be apart from her that long, and he remembers how he vowed to never do it again.

She flew half-way around the world just to see him, to make good memories. He remembers the way that her eyes crinkled at the corners when she got off the plane, her smile growing and growing. He remembers the way that he rushed to her, the way that they felt like two puzzle pieces clicking back together as cameras flashed around them.

That separation was only temporary. Now they made the final cut, he broke his promise. They closed the pages of their book, snuffed out their flame. They lost the pieces of their puzzle. He remembers the times when they burned bright, feeling like they would never go down. What he would give to go back.

I swear I'm knocking out the next guy

Who says, "At least you'll get some breakup songs"

'Cause it ain't nearly been enough time

He loves all of the fans. Those that knew him from Sunset Curve and those that found him through Julie and the Phantoms. He loves them, he really does, but sometimes it gets to be too much.

They were public with their relationship, and that only made it so much harder when it came crashing down. Julie and the Phantoms broke up. There was nothing that they could do about that, when it was impossible for the two of them to be in the same place without a shouting match, words being hurled like daggers back and forth. And Reggie didn't need that.

So they had to tell the fans, a bland statement crafted by PR that they posted to Instagram. And then they went silent. They refused to say anything, and the two biggest stars in the music industry dropped off the face of the planet.

Even though he wasn't speaking, it didn't mean that he wasn't listening. He read the comments, saw the direct messages, fans flooding him with praise and support. He appreciated some of it, but some of it only hurt. The messages about songs were his least favorite.

He didn't want to write songs about her, at least not now. Not when the wounds are still bleeding fresh. Not when his heart still beats for her. Not when he hasn't moved on.

They promised each other, when they first started, that they wouldn't write sad songs about each other, at least not at first. They also promised to never leave each other. He is a man of broken promises.

He ignores everyone who says things about breakup songs, even as he listens to a playlist full of them. His Spotify knows him too well. He starts crafting lyrics in his head.

For two weeks, he is silent. No notes slip from his lips, from his fingers. No music comes out of him. He only lasts two weeks. Music comes pouring out of him, lyrics in chicken-scratch inscribed onto paper.

The music is personal, painful, not for him to sing in public. It's not for the band, not for whatever solo album his record label wants him to put out. It's been so long since he's written music just for himself, not because someone told him to. He imagines her doing the same thing, her curls hiding the paper from view. He remembers how she bit her lip while thinking about a song lyric, how she looked up through her eyes lashes when she asked him what he thought.

He remembers it all and he turns it into a song. He sings it to himself and it doesn't make him feel any better, but it's a start.

It's a start down the path of healing, the start of his wounds knitting together. It's a start as he sings himself to sleep, tears collecting in his eyes.

It's hard to summarize three years

More like four years

Depends where you start counting

It don't matter

He doesn't know when they first started. He doubts that she knew either.

If he goes from when they first met, their story starts a lot differently.

She was sixteen, he was seventeen. They were young and naive and bright and starry-eyed. They were two chemicals mixed together in the same beaker, begging to combust. They had a chemistry that they couldn't deny, that everyone could see. They were so high, floating on the clouds. They were performing and they were singing and they were friends.

If he goes from when they became something else, the story changes again.

She was seventeen, he was eighteen. They had been a band for a year, been playing and writing and singing for a year. The time flew by, each day long and full and good. They were so, so good. They finally gave in to the chemistry, let themselves combine and combust.

Their first kiss was electric, the start of something new. Something new grew and twisted between them, green and young and alive.

They lasted for three years like that. For three years, everything was happy. For three years it felt like nothing could ever pull them down from the sky. They were young and they thought that they would be together forever.

She was twenty, he was twenty-one. He could tell that they were heading down the road of breaking. And he knew that she knew and that the band knew.

It was in the glances that used to be light and were now just dark. It was in the songs that used to be perfect harmonies and were now dissonance. It was in the shows that used to be played smoothly and now were peppered with mistakes. They gave each other so many signs.

The signs were what saved them in the end. The signs were what prevented the massive blowout, instead letting them down into a field of heartbreak gently. The signs let them leave each other silently, quiet tears and half-baked apologies.

My friends are making sure I don't see you

I strategize a path to the bathroom

So I don't walk past you

He knows that they put Alex and Reggie in an awkward spot. He knows that they are still friends with her, how could they not be, when she is who she is.

He sees the texts when he takes their phones for some silly reason, feels the pang in his heart when he sees Jules 💗.

It takes seven months until the two of them are in the same place at the same time. It's some awards show, where he can check out and people watch, not up for any trophies or shiny things.

It's all going well until he hears her name be called, sees her walk up onto the stage. It's the first time that he's seen her, really seen her. Whenever she comes up on the tv or his phone he always swipes away, hiding from it. He doesn't know what she's winning (he is a liar) and he doesn't care (liar, liar).

She looks stunning and it hurts because he knows that she isn't thinking about him as much as he is thinking about her. She talks and she smiles and she laughs on stage until he can't take it anymore.

He can't take it and he feels himself spiraling. He plots his way to the restroom, making sure he doesn't pass her or any of their old friends. He knows that the paparazzi are snapping photos of his face, of the way that he flees instead of confronting his emotions. He doesn't care, in the moment, what they get. They will get him, his raw version, not the polished PR perfect version. Good. Let the world see someone in pain.

He hides in the bathroom for the rest of the show, until he can't anymore, and then he leaves. They are screaming out his name, cameras blinding him as he rushes to his car. He ignores them all. He turns his phone off, makes the driver drive in silence, the only sounds his breathing. He almost breaks down there again, not the first time that he would've cried in a car. But he pulls it together, catching the eye of the driver in the mirror.

When he is at his apartment that still feels too big and too quiet, even all these months later, he has texts from Alex and Reggie. He responds and he catches the Daily Mail already reporting on his abrupt exit. They get everything wrong and he's not sure how much more of it he can bear.

You leave before the concert is finished

It takes a year before he is ready to perform again. If he knew that their last performance together was going to be their final goodbye on the stage, he wonders if he would have done it differently. He wonders and it eats at him but he pushes through. He swims through the acid to the other side.

It's not a proper concert, more of an opening act than the main show, but it's something. It's a step in the right direction. And she just happens to be there. He wasn't warned, he wasn't given a sign. He wanted one, so he could have prepared himself to look at her. When she looks so happy, her arm slung around Flynn.

And he knows that she doesn't know that he is here, because otherwise there would be sour lemon puckered lips on what is a sweet lemonade smile. He knows because otherwise, she wouldn't be here.

He only has a few songs, classic covers chosen by his PR team. It feels like they choose everything that he does now, they monitor his every move. He wants to be raw, to be honest. He is not a perfect man.

He gets up on stage. She isn't looking at him, still hasn't glanced his way. Flynn sees him, and she gives him a bittersweet smile.

He starts singing. It feels like him but not, the backing band roaring to life. It's so different from performing with Julie and the Phantoms, as he sees her recognize his voice and turn around. He sees her smile drop and he feels his heart break again. She watches him and he feels like his body is collapsing. But he keeps going, keeps singing, just like she did, just like they did right before the end.

There's one song left when he makes his decision. What comes out of his mouth is not the pop-punk song that his PR picked out for him. It’s a song that he listened to all those months ago, in the aftermath of the tragedy. He watches her face as the lyrics pour out of him, watches her leave before he is finished.

Because they can’t even be in the same room.

[livingmybestfictionallife]

Live Wire --The Dirt--(4)

Summary: Wren Ledden, Tommy’s best friend from high school has had a rough life and she intends to keep the nitty gritty details of her suffrage to herself until the day she dies. Only Tommy has gotten her to open up about a small portion of her troubles, and it’s only Tommy who she trusts with her life. That is until her life gets turned around sneaking into a concert one night...the same night Motley Crue is born.

Previous Chapters:

Live Wire --The Dirt--

Live Wire --The Dirt-- (2)

Live Wire --The Dirt (3)

From the second Mick strummed the song’s first note, Nikki’s face was flushed with awe. This is what he’d been waiting for; this is who he’d been waiting for. The song was almost too easy for Mick and Wren noticed the older man’s eyes flicker toward poor Rick who struggled to keep up with the ever-rushing tempo that was an excited Tommy Lee hammering away at the snare and cymbals. Her eyebrows furrowed in anticipation of what would happen next, and she took in Mick’s bitter eye roll, stomped on his pedal, and jumped into his own, improvised solo. Upon hearing what Mick was truly capable, Nikki’s eyes widened to reveal the full beauty of his hazel orbs, Tommy’s jaw dropped as he became entranced in the scene unfolding before him, and Wren bit down on her lower lip while her eyes narrowed over the man standing in the center of the living room. She didn’t notice Nikki or Tommy’s faces flash her way, not so secretly seeking her judgement, she didn’t even notice Rick was still in the room, all she could focus on was the ease with which Mick Mars played and the fact that, with him, the band would be a perfect balance of sound inside the confines of organized chaos Nikki was seeking to create.

“Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold up!” Suddenly Wren’s eyes were open again, her body no longer moving along to the rhythm produced by the drums and bass, but tense and evaluating the need of fight or flight. “D’you mind turning it down a bit, old timer?” Rick sneered toward the newest face in the room. “I can’t hear myself.”

“Would that really be the worst thing?” Wren snorted as she smugly peeled herself from the wall and made her way to stand beside Tommy.

“Nobody asked for your opinion, Wren,” Rick snapped before he turned back to his guitar to practice the same series of notes Mick perfected with one glance at the sheet.

“Hey, man,” Tommy interjected, distracted enough by Rick’s comment to stop twirling his drumstick for a split second.

“Everybody asks for her opinion her every damn day,” Nikki spat as he pointed a stiff finger in Rick’s direction while his other fingers still clenched his pick.

In an acrimonious whisper, Mick turned to Nikki and said, “The fucking hippie ain’t gonna make it.” Wren’s lips curled into an obvious sneer and she raised her eyebrows sardonically. Catching a glance at the look that crossed Wren’s face when listening to Mick as well as the expression she currently wore, Nikki turned back to Mick and whispered something just out of earshot from both Tommy and Wren. Before either of the younger two knew it, Mick turned briskly on his heel and spoke in what seemed to be his signature short, dry tone. “Listen to me, there’s only room for one guitar player in this band and it’s me, so why don’t you go pack up your toys and go home.” The room froze as the words leaving Mick’s mouth hovered in the air around them. If Mick was successful in getting Rick to leave, Wren was certain they’d have their band exactly as they wanted it; Rick being gone was simply an added bonus.

“I was here first,” Rick stated, clearly aghast as to whether or not the others would allow some random man from a newspaper ad to come in off the street and start changing the band’s lineup. “Tommy, tell him.” As his name left Rick’s lips, Tommy dropped his sticks to the floor in a desperate attempt to avoid eye contact and an impending confrontation with the man he felt they had misled.

“Smooth,” Wren said so low under her breath that only Tommy had caught on.

“Nikki?” Clearly, Rick was desperate if he was about to plead to Nikki to keep him in the band. He didn’t have to look at Wren to know it was right to let Rick go, but damn he wanted to if only to see how her strong jaw was firm, her lips either pursed together or pulled into a right smirk, her eyes fiercely staring down whatever obstacle that stood in her way. “Come on.” His vice had lost the faux confidence he was trying to pass off and he quickly grew aggravated at everyone in the room. “Really? You’re going to believe this old dude over me?”

“Look, Rick,” Wren sighed as she shifted her weight from one foot to another, her hands resting gingerly on her hips. “Don’t take it personally. Mick’s got the sound we’re looking for and you—well, you’re struggling.”

“Fuck you, Wren,” Rick huffed before turning his eyes to the others, “and fuck you guys too! You’d rather have some old dude in the band to pass her around to fu—”

“Wait, what?” Wren snapped as her arms fell to her sides and her eyes narrowed in a fierce anger.

“Get the fuck out,” Nikki and Tommy snapped at the same time, each of them pointing toward the door with their eyes fixated on their now ex-guitarist. Wren’s eyes danced between the two before she shook her head and decided to pester Tommy about it whenever she wasn’t outnumbered.

“Dude’s a piece of work,” Mick murmured to himself as he turned his attention to his instrument and studied his fret as if it was the first time, he’d seen a guitar. There wasn’t a doubt in Wren’s mind he was doing this to avoid meeting the awkward gaze of the obviously temperamental eyes of any of his new band mates.

“You can say that again,” Wren muttered as she gently placed a hand on Tommy’s shoulder to give him a thumbs up as she jutted her head in Mick’s direction.

“Hey, how old are you anyway, Mick?” Tommy then asked as genuine curiosity piqued his interest. His eyes had fallen over the man and lingered, allowing him to get a better look at Mick than he had before.

“Shut the fuck up, you fucking teenager,” Mick grunted without even looking Tommy in the eye, which earned a smug laugh from Nikki and Wren Out of instinct, she rested a reassuring hand on her friend’s back and pulled him into a light hug upon seeing the look of confused shock cross over his usually jubilant face “If you really need to know though,” Mick continued as he turned to face the rest of the band, “I’m old enough to know better than to waste my time fucking around with a bunch of rug monkeys. I’m paying child support and sleeping on park benches, so I need to know that you’re not pulling dick here, because I’m looking to go the distance.” Nikki and Tommy internalized the words Mick had spoken, their eyes taking in the man’s blasé and upfront disclosure, and perhaps, for the first time they came to the realization that they could be as good as they dreamed they’d be. “If that’s not you guys, don’t waste my fucking time.” Mick’s small, icy eyes locked onto Nikki’s before turning toward Tommy.

In usual Nikki fashion, completely unintimidated by anything or anyone, his momentarily somber face flicked up into a chuckle as he sighed, “I fucking love this weird little guy.” His comment earned an agreeing laugh from Tommy, but Wren remained still and silent. She stood between Tommy and Nikki, the full weight of Mick’s words stretching over her chest as she let her own cold eyes linger over Mick’s posture. At first the older of the group had rolled his eyes, most likely coming to the conclusion that the men before him were a bunch of naïve shits when it came to the difficulty of the industry, but upon seeing the determined and focused young woman hidden behind the two terrors, his gut wretched in realization that this—whatever this group would become—would only make it if they had her.

“What is it that you do here, sweetheart?” Mick asked as his eyes continued to look past the two boys before him.

“Keep these two in check, make adjustments to their sound, odds and ends shit, you know?” Wren tried to keep her voice flat and uninterested in the conversation, because it was a question that made her uncomfortable. She wanted to be more important than she made herself out to be, and whenever Tommy spoke about her, she seemed to be important to the forming band, but she had her doubts. After all, what would happen to her when they made it big and had a real manager?

“So no instrument skills, vocals, nothing?” Mick asked, his voice still straightforward and curt, but Wren didn’t take it to be as harsh as Tommy seemed to.

“She sings,” Tommy quickly spoke in an attempt to defend Wrens worth. “She also plays saxophone, and has the most finely tuned ear for music and the scene.” To Wren’s eyes, Mick seemed convinced, but the boys were still hesitant to believe he thought of her as anything other than an early groupie.

“She recruited your ass,” Nikki’s voice sputtered as he took a swig of his freshly opened second bottle of beer.

“You sing for us?” Mick questioned, completely ignoring the remainder of Tommy’s comment as well as Nikki completely. “Rock? Metal?” Wren re-positioned her jaw by dropping it slightly and poking her chin forward all while keeping her lips sealed.

“These two fuckheads haven’t heard me sing, and you probably won’t either,” Wren stated sharply and Mick figured he’d struck a chord. With an unspoken prompting that Wren respected on Mick’s part, she continued. “I was trained in classical from the second I could talk, I taught Tommy how to play piano when we were fourteen, I’ve been playing sax for as long as I can remember, and the odds of anyone hearing anything from me musically are slim to fucking none.”

“May I ask why?” Mick questioned boldly, something Tommy had never tried to do—he figured Wren would come around one day—and something Nikki had never thought of doing—to him, if someone has baggage they don’t want to unpack, they should keep that shit zipped up.

“Because no one gives a fuck about what I do anyway; good or bad, no one fucking cares,” Wren huffed as she slipped her fingers around the neck of Nikki’s beer and twisted up her insides with the amber liquid. Tommy’s face fell at his friend’s words and he gnawed at the inside of his lips anxiously and filled with shame. Nikki could feel his heart sinking into the despair he knew as a child as he came to the same realization Wren had spoken, only he would never be bold enough to voice his fears. “But you guys have a shot,” Wren added sternly through the solemn atmosphere she’d created.

“Well then, if you refuse to do it, does someone mind telling me who does the singing in this band?” Mick asked as Nikki and Tommy made their way to the tattered old couch Wren always assumed Nikki had taken from the side of some road. Mick leaned against his amplifier, his eyes looking from the boys to Wren and back, and Wren lowered herself into the seat behind Tommy’s trap set.

“We need someone who looks like David Lee Roth with the vibe of fucking Bowie,” Nikki commented as he popped the top off another beer since Wren had finished off the one he’d opened for himself moments earlier. “And I’m not about to settle for some regular looking, random fucking asshole.” She thought on his comment for a long moment and realized that Nikki had a pretty good idea of what he wanted this band to be. She figured, on his own judgement, they could survive without her and that sinking feeling of never being good enough settled in the pit of her stomach. Wren swallowed hard and then jumped to grab herself another beer, holding high hopes it would help wash away her feelings of inadequacy.

“So,” Mick sighed as he took a sip from his beer, “we’re looking for a skinny blonde fucker with moves.” Wren already had a few potential candidates in mind and had been weighing their Roth, Bowie factor when Mick so eloquently narrowed down the search for her.

“Tommy,” she called out upon reentering the living room, her voice full of an excitement she didn’t expect to revisit today. There was a danger in how involved she had become with this band. It gave her joy and a sense of accomplishment to help form this crew of misfits, and she loved every moment spent with them with her whole being. It killed her to think that one day, she would be obsolete to them, that no one she’d helped bring together would feel they had any use for her anymore and drop her after using her to get a head in the game…as if she were just some early groupie.

“Wren,” he mimicked in the same tone she’d used.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Am I?” he questioned as Wren’s long strides finally made it to the couch and she wedged herself beside Tommy with almost no regards to Nikki’s presence other than the fact that she was practically sitting on his lap until he moved over.

“They’re talking about drawing a crowd—appealing to every demographic. Anyone with half a sense of rhythm will come for the music, you’ve got dark brooding talent over there to appeal to a slightly older age group,” Wren specified as she jutted a finger toward Mick, “angst, aggression, and anger over here for the anarchist,” she again said then pointed over her shoulder at Nikki, “and a kid drummer to pull in the younger crowd. Now think about it, what demographic is missing?”

“Fuck, chicks!” Tommy huffed.

“And as good looking of a bunch as you are, Nikki and Mick aren’t ones for friendly faces and you’re hiding in the back; so, what blonde fucker do we both know who pulls chicks like no one we’ve ever met?” Not even a second ticked past before Tommy’s face lit up in realization.

“Do you think he’ll do it?” Tommy questioned as both he and Wren zoned out and focused solely on their conversation, subsequently forgetting everyone else in the room.

“Who?” Nikki’s question was a muffled puff of air over Wren’s shoulder as her attention remained fixated on her best friend.

“He’s got big dreams and I’m pretty sure Rock Candy isn’t going anywhere; per Mick’s astute observation, shitty name, shitty band.” Wren continued.

“Are you okay with it?” Tommy’s next question confused Wren and he immediately recognized her muddled expression. “I mean, there’s always been competition between you two.”

“Even if I sang publicly, do you really think I’d bring in as huge of a female following as him?”

“I can think of a couple ways you might be able to,” Nikki said under his breath as he assumed they would continue to tune him out.

“Kinky, Sixx, but I’ll stick with my current type,” Wren said as she turned her face to where only Nikki would see the short wink she flashed him. Suddenly she was all too aware of their proximity to one another on the couch. She had her body positioned so that her shoulders were squared with Tommy’s, her hips were resting sideways on the couch with her legs stretched out across the floor. She tried not to think about the fact that her ass was pressed up against Nikki’s leg, but upon this realization, she couldn’t ignore even the slightest movement of his legs against her rear. “Well, if we’re thinking about the same person and you’re cool with it,” Tommy clarifies once again with Wren, “then I think I know our guy, dudes.”

Continue Reading: Next Chapter

[thesinglesjukebox]

CARLY RAE JEPSEN - WANT YOU IN MY ROOM

[7.80]

Give a [10]! or a [4]! We don't care! Anymore! (actually we clearly do care)

Josh Winters: The sound of the heart set aflame. [10]

Tobi Tella: Oh my god. The synths, the sultriness, that goddamn HOOK. Dedicated had a lot of great and fun, pop music, but this comes out of left field in the best possible way. It's one of the most direct and sexy things, she'd ever done. Is this what gay heaven feels like? [10]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: Big "looks-up-grinning-like-the-devil" energy: when CRJ sings, "I wanna do bad things to you," the mischief is both inexplicably sweet and dirty. [8]

Michael Hong: "Want You In My Room" might be Carly Rae Jepsen at her horniest, but it's also Jack Antonoff at his least restrained, together making something that's thrillingly giddy. Carly Rae Jepsen drops some of those thinly disguised hints for more straight-forward temptations, coming across as intense where Dedicated erred more towards tepid. There's still room for coyness, with the distorted "want you in my room" bashfully buried in the mix and the way Jepsen's voice brazenly glides across the instrumental on the line "slide on through my window." But most importantly, "Want You In My Room" feels completely uninhibited and absolutely freeing as Carly Rae Jepsen delivers any line with as much of a wink as she desires. [9]

Kayla Beardslee: Pure joy. [9]

Edward Okulicz: Every song that goes by, I find myself enraged by how average I find the average Carly Rae Jepsen to be, and I'm not entirely sure that I'm not jealous of the euphoria she inspires in others. But honestly, she's no Vengaboys, let alone a Paul Lekakis; I believe Jepsen, but I don't buy her abandon. [4]

Alfred Soto: With Dedicated proving an ephemeral listen, "Want You in My Room" does a professional job as any discrete track at isolating her strengths: finding a hook for any title and singing as if any doggerel were Heidegger. The outro sax wipes the smear of the redundant vocoder, suggesting other paths that the arrangement avoids. [4]

Kylo Nocom: Given the runtime and production choices, one would think somebody had went out and decided to parody the style of Emotion with its Wikipedia article and five hours to complete the task. "Want You in My Room" slightly lacks sophistication in both songwriting and in aesthetic: it feels like half of the song is missing by the time the track decides to fade out, and the wonky percussion/clean guitars/fucking SAX are rather ungraceful signifiers of '80s kitschiness, as if hints were taken from Carly's turn with the Fuller House theme song. These tiny grievances immediately disappear once those robot-voices and shouts burst out, an exercise between restraint and shamelessness that's completely undeniable. I didn't register that the vocoded voices were actually saying anything the first few times I heard this, let alone the title, but it's quite sly how that turned out: the most explicit demand of the hook is obscured, leaving "I wanna do bad things to you!" which beats around the bush a tiny bit (thankfully, less embarrassingly than Camila) and additionally gleeful cheers before that lovely inquiry of "baby, don't you want me too?". I'm still frustrated this ends so quickly, but even this doesn't matter when it's the Carly song I've been using to soundtrack the crush-anxiety interludes of my life. Really, this could cut off after the first chorus and still be more exciting than nearly every other song on Dedicated. [8]

Joshua Lu: It's tempting to draw connections between Emotion and everything Carly Rae Jepsen has done since Emotion -- thematically, her work hasn't evolved much since 2015, with her primary concern being PG-13 depictions of love and heartbreak. But Emotion's portrayal of affection was grandiose and imposing, fit for blasting out the windows of your car as you get lost in the streets of LA, while Dedicated's take feels distinctly slighter and more intimate. "Want You In My Room" takes more of its cues from Kiss, if anything -- even overlooking the disco tinges and how that was the first time she worked with Jack Antonoff, Kiss employed intimate lyricism that could verge at times on the diaristic, with songs like "Turn Me Up" and "Curiosity." The song's title, conveyed through Antonoff's phalanx of robots, renders that closeness literally, but that intimacy comes through metaphorically as well, especially with that quintessentially Carly-esque grotesque lyric of "press you to the pages of my heart" and that absolutely filthy request to "slide on through my window." I'll always prefer this mode of Carly, whose depictions of carnal affection feel more genuine and evocative when she's cooing them in your ear instead of bellowing them to the world. Even the outro works for me; the music video helps to explicate that her lover has finally made it to her room, and the bleating saxophone becomes an aural metaphor of whatever the two of them are doing, now that the song has accomplished its purpose. [10]

Will Adams: The discourse around Jack Antonoff and his status as the supposed ingenue behind female pop stars' critical reappraisal is exhausting, mostly because it ignores my biggest gripe with it: the production is bad. As we've seen before, his penchant for vocoders sinks the songs and, in this case, the entire chorus. The rest is his typical beige, vaguely '80s, vaguely '90s, vaguely everything feel, as if those "Dreams" guitars haven't been done better elsewhere. Carly's not off the hook either, with lyrics as empty as "press you to the pages of my heart." The sax riffing at the end would have been nice had it not resulted in a fade-out, which only serves to let you know that no one involved bothered to write a bridge. [4]

Joshua Copperman: That post-chorus is peak Carly - her songs are best when they're anxious but sensual, innocent but winking. But that's the problem with this song, content to be an E*MO*TION throwback when the best cuts on Dedicated ("I'll Be Your Girl," "Everything He Needs") push her sound forward in ways that still remain consistent with her past. Antonoff's on autopilot, lifting his own Tom Petty rip from "Don't Take The Money" for his usual mix of 80s and non-80s signifiers. Singles Jukebox editor and writer Katherine St. Asaph's issue with Dedicated was that Carly didn't play to her fanbase enough. This goes too much in the other direction giving the gays exactly what they want but nothing more. That doesn't mean it's bad, but it's too slight when Carly's beloved for her maximalism. [6]

Andy Hutchins: Fun, frivolous, brisk, and brief in the way so many great pop songs are, and a better spiritual successor to "Africa" in 2019 than Weezer actually covering it. But I will admit that listening to the potential [3] or [15] that would have been CRJ riffing on Rye Rye's spin on Vengaboys was deeply distracting. [7]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: "Want You In My Room" is the worst kind of song to write about: so self-evidently joyful and skilled in every aspect (those synths!! that sax solo!!) that it's hard to point at any one thing to analyze. Is it enough to just say that the song is the best execution of crush pop in the catalog of an artist who is the queen of crush pop? Is it enough to say that I listen to the song in the shower and my morning walk to class? Is it enough to say that this song (and really, the whole starting run of Dedicated) is an excellent soundtrack to a roadtrip with the one you love? I don't know, and I don't quite know how to express how good it is that Carly Rae Jepsen is around and making music like this, but I hope this helps. [10]

Jackie Powell: Carly Rae Jepsen knows her base just as well as she knows herself. All of the elements of "Want You in My Room" confirm that."...And I'll press you to the pages of my heart" in the pre-chorus proves how Jepsen simultaneously views love and her music. She loves fantasy and probably adores fanfiction (Does anyone have confirmation on this?) "I think I like when people look at music from a way that's this childlike magical thing that happens to us," she said at Electric Lady Studios recording her Spotify singles session. She has made it her brand for the nerds who love love--but struggle to capture it-- feel at home with the awkwardness and desire that they feel inside. Jack Antonoff knows how to extrapolate Jepsen's inner feelings and give them a sound; the track begins with three different percussive loops which symbolize the racing heartbeat of sexual and romantic excitement. The aforementioned Spotify session version of the cut further echoes the idea that this song is an orgy that would take place at a campfire for young adults. (I guess I just described Woodstock. Imagine Woodstock in 2019...oh wait.) She proves once again that both fantasy and desire are natural and shouldn't be a source of any shame. [8]

Vikram Joseph: There's probably not much that my 11-year-old self has in common with me right now. But I remember getting up an hour before school to listen to the radio, and the way that I would lose myself in pop music and it would carry me through the day, painting the cyclical banalities of breaktime and double chemistry in weird, vivid colours that I didn't fully understand back then. And it's not so different to the way that I respond to it now; the way that caffeine and Dedicated made my commute shimmer and glow on sticky mornings this summer. For me, "Want You In My Room" has been the album's febrile, halcyon peak from the start - a high-camp maximalist fantasia of love and lust, the rare ecstasy of uncomplicated desire played out in a technicolour dreamscape of synths, vocoders and sax solos. It took four months for it to acquire a music video, but there must have already been a million existing in our imaginations, us as the stars, cameras panning as we walk down streets as flamboyantly as our queer little hearts dare to. It's garish, sugary and barely sounds real, and that's fine - because great pop is escapist, always has been and always will be, and "Want You In My Room" makes me believe I can have it all (even if it's fake). [10]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[baritonetcc]

Talent

I can’t believe where I am, I look like a protagonist of a cliche anime scene. Allergy-inducing blossoms and buds rain down around me, in a slow breeze, so more like a caramel rain. My only ride is running late, so I’m forced to remain on school grounds past my scheduled time of death. The school courtyard is empty, since school has been out for long enough for the buses to leave, and athletes were changing for sports practice. I’m sitting under a tree, finishing up a book that I stole from my English teacher’s shelf (thanks, Mr. Bradner). Oh hey, speaking of Mr. Bradner, I should go hang out in his room. The breeze is blowing majestic fronds into my not-so-majestic hair and mouth, so an empty classroom would be a nice chance of pace. I’m sure Savannah has stopped annoying him by now and pissed off to whatever hellhole she crawled out of.

I’m walking up to the building where Mr. Bradner’s room is, and Andrew Pratt bursts out of the doors, clearly late for track practice. 

“Where have you been, Tommie? I’ve been looking for you forever! I’ve been wanting to ask you something.”

Oh boy, here we go with his questions. If he asks me for answers for the math review again I swear-

“So some of the band members have been wanting to perform in an ensemble for the talent show, a big band. We wanted to play ‘Feel The Love Go’ by Franz Ferdinand, and we need someone to play the alto solo...?”

He knows that I’m going to say yes, doesn’t he. He couldn’t have asked any other alto sax player? He couldn’t have had another instrument play it? I think it would be really cool on piano. 

Thinking that I wasn’t getting the hint he continued, “So would you be interested in it? We really wanted to give it to you...”

I finally open my mouth, knowing that Andrew’s coach is going to murder him. “Sure. Text me when you can, now go to practice.”

Andrew is so good at life. He gets along with his family, he has an amazing dog, he’s a great trombone player, and he’s a track star. I wish he was better at managing his time.

I sink into a desk in Mr. Bradner’s room, where he’s correcting papers. He likes to work until he’s done with whatever task he assigns himself before going home, so I don’t say much. I go through the tasks I have written in my planner, and it’s quite bare, more than usual. I occasionally look up to see Mr. Bradner scowling at someone’s chicken scratch, or whoever’s in the hallway. Hey. Mr. Heser’s walking by. Eventually, my phone buzzes with a text. 

Andrew P(rat)t: Kyre has all the music for the group, u should go take a look ok?

What a slacker, I hope he trips because he was texting me instead of tying his shoes. I gather my things and head down to the band hall, where Mrs. Kyre resides. I get to thinking about the important questions. Who else is in the group? Why can’t I just NOT be in the talent show? I was hoping I could spend the rest of the year taking it easy, without having to worry about the talent show in June. I find myself in the band room, where Mrs. Kyre conveniently remembers to hand me the music upon seeing me. Andrew set me up for this. I whip up my hair and bust out my saxophone. I stay in the actual band room, since it’s not being used and I’d rather not lock myself in a practice room. I glance at the clock while wrestling the ligature onto the mouthpiece. I can’t believe it’s already almost four, I should’ve just walked home. I warm up quickly, look through the music, and begin trying it. Whoever wrote this isn’t half bad at transcribing, and they thankfully took mercy on the alto saxes. It was probably one of Andrew’s nerdy friends. Wait. I’m one of his nerdy friends. 

I dig into the piece, and I get into the solo part. I honk my soul out with the epicness that Adolf Sax couldn’t even begin to imagine, when I see someone walk in out of the corner of my eye. I’ve never sightread this well in my entire life before. Hell yeah, check out this badassery, Mrs. Kyre! And then I realize it’s not Mrs. Kyre. It’s Miss Avery. In that moment, I forget what key signature I’m in. I don’t know what measure I’m on. I forget how to finger any of these notes. What’s a note? I hopelessly squeak a half-assed attempt at the rhythm written on the page, then stop because I think my ears have actually fallen off.

Miss Avery smiles at me. Of course she does. She doesn’t know half of the effect she has on me. I try to talk to her, but all the words stick to my throat on the way up. Oh, and my saxophone is still in my mouth.

“Wow, that’s some real nice stuff there. You’re so into your whole band thing. I love it.”

I know she’s lying. That was the worst sound I’ve heard since hearing someone MacGyver a thick layer of aluminum foil in between the rollers of a Polaroid camera, then threw it at a running band saw when the shop teacher walked by. I didn’t even know my instrument could make such racket.

“Thanks, Miss. Are you looking for Mrs. Kyre?”

“Yeah, actually. Oh, there she is.”

Miss Avery and Mrs. Kyre set to getting completely distracted with whatever they talk about, and I get through the rest of the song.

I can’t believe I’m in Andrew’s living room with my saxophone. Honestly, it’s kind of cozy though. All of us practicing together, on these nice pillows and not in the band room. The entire way here, I complained to my friends via text about going to Andrew’s house, but I’m enjoying myself more than I made it seem. It’s a nice tone overall, and it’s a nice change since our drummer isn’t here. It’s a calm and quiet evening, and some jazzy tunes makes it powerful. His mom also makes otherworldly cupcakes. They don’t even have frosting or anything, but they taste like a sweet, buttery blanket of the warmth of innocence. It’s a week before the final show, and we’re really just working on dynamics and expression to really nail the song. Since it’s so close to the show, there’s been a lot of hype. Miss Avery asked me if I was going to see the talent show. I really wanted to surprise her, so I told her I was going, rather than informing her that I was in it, like the good child I usually am.

It’s the night of the show. I’m standing offstage in my snazzy tux (thanks, Andrew’s mom) and holding my saxophone. I usually don’t wear anything like this, which is why I’m borrowing something that Andrew’s mom pulled out of his closet from a couple years ago. He’s tall and skinny, so I didn’t have to steal anything recent from him. Last minute, we figured the stage would be blazing by the time we got on, so we ditched our jackets. The sleeves of my stark white shirt are neatly rolled up, and it’s not a bad look for me. This shirt fits surprisingly well, with the buttons over my chest doing their job, even if Andrew is a stick compared to me. Apparently, one of the trumpet players had a problem with the fact that she wore her nice diamond earrings, and I wore purple gauges. I can’t wait until she finds out that they glow in the dark. They match the album cover of the song we’re playing, so I think I win here.

I peek around the curtain, since nobody really cares at this point. The theatre’s seats are filling in with equal amounts of snickering teenagers and parents with genuine concern for our generation. I silently thank them as my eyes wander. Our theatre has planetarium-style lighting, along with the typical lights lining the wall. It’s calming to see all the bustling shadows of people finding a place to sit. I look up towards the back, and see Miss Avery coming in. She seems like she’s in a rush, and she’s looking around frantically. I dismiss the idea that she’s looking for me...but, is she? She spots a group of other teachers and they wave her over. Probably not, then. 

A couple kids eventually take the stage to thank everyone for coming, and begin intoducing the acts. I suck on my reed absentmindedly.

There’s a few dance groups, which were definitely all entertaining. Someone did a backflip off of a chair. There’s a lot of people who sing, including Savannah, who sang some basic, repetitive pop song. The musical acts are impressive, but maybe I’m just biased. Finally, the curtains close, to open for one last time. A bored looking junior steps on with a microphone, telling the theatre, “The last, but not least act we have is a band ensemble. They will be performing ‘Feeling Love Go’ by Fronz Ferdindand.” Whatever, close enough. “The group consists of various members of our school’s band, and features a saxophone solo, played by Tommie Byers.” That’s me. 

We hurry to get all of our equipment on stage. The most terrifying part was Talon’s fancy Moog keyboard setup, and making sure we were all in the right place. As we’re setting up, ‘Paper Cages’ plays. I’m wondering who’s responsible for shoving Franz Ferdinand down everybody’s throats. It’s probably the drummer. Our bari saxes conveniently bump their stands together, knocking over their music. I stand in my assigned spot perfectly, and the curtain opens. I haven’t even thought about Miss Avery again until now. Did she enjoy the rest of the show? Has she already gotten up to leave early? Once my sight adjusts to the dark sea of humans, I find her, with her eyes trained on the stage. 

The song kicks in, starting with just the rhythm section. The winds then pick up on the melody, and the guitarist strums out funky chords. Talon and his brother work magic on the keyboards. The brass delivers a bright punch, lead by Andrew. I swell with anticipation as I feel my solo come up. For some reason, I look right at Miss Avery, who has no idea what’s going to hit her. I wink. God, that was probably so cringe-worthy. I bust into my solo, starting small at first. Then I’m out there, jumping the octave, and tonguing some banging rhythms. The winds start doing this siren sounding pattern to fill in. Am I dancing? Oh God, I’m dancing. I kick out my legs and do that weird swinging squat swing like every dramatic sax player does. The brass kicks out, except for one trumpet, which follows the siren action. My solo ends after some dizzying sixteenth notes, and I’m still swayed by the music. The rhythm section continues the ride with the winds, until the song ends on a kind of questioning note, almost as if we are prompting the audience to react with whatever they were holding in the whole time.

Everybody loses it, maybe because it’s just the last show and they want to go home. All the show’s participants rejoin on the stage for pictures and such. Some kids were getting flowers from friends and family. I run down into the rapidly emptying theatre, still huffing, still red from the lights, and still holding my saxophone. My neck strap digs into my skin, as I chase after Miss Avery. We make eye contact, and she grins at me. 

“So, what did you think?” “What did I think? Well, I didn’t! That was awesome, kid! When you stepped up with that solo, my mind was blown. You did great up there, and I’m sure every person in this room enjoyed it!”

“Oh, thanks! I...I worked really hard on it, and it was really fun, actually.” “You don’t have to say that, I think we alllll knew how much fun you were having up there,” at this point, Talon’s younger brother came to retrieve my awkwardly dangling saxophone, “and I had no idea! How come you never told me that you guys were getting together to do this?”

I chuckled, “Well, I didn’t know I was supposed to.”

“That was amazing, and I’ve never seen you like that before. Come here!”

Before I know it, her arms are around me. I can’t imagine that it’s pleasant to hug a musician so passionately right after their performance, but my endorphins don’t care. Miss Avery gets a parent to take a picture of us together, and my new lock screen is Miss Avery with her arm around me in front of the stage. I’m still wearing my neck strap.

[jimlingss]

Brass & Strings [10]

Episode 9 - Episode 10 - Episode 10.5 OR Episode 11 Words: 5.2k Genre: Fluff, Humour (?), Slice of Life, Music!Au, College!Au Summary: Have you ever wondered what happens to the mean girl after high school? Where do they go, where do they end up? More importantly, what happens when they get mixed up with the classic nerd that's always too nervous to answer 'no'? Things become a lot more complicated when Kim Namjoon encounters you. They dub you as 'bat-shit insane' and you're not ashamed.

Cr.

Taehyung runs up to the pair, startling Jimin who has no idea who he is. “Namjoon! Namjoon!”

The harpist takes the saxophonist’s hands. “Are you okay?”

“No!” He sobs out, “the euphoniums really left! They’re refusing to play at the competition until they get better treatment but the conductor isn’t budging. I don’t know what to do! It’s in three weeks!”

Jimin stares back between the musicians, a little amused by the situation that’s growing at hand. “I’m Jimin.” He shakes the delirious boy’s hand. “Namjoon’s roommate.”

Taehyung wipes his tears. “I’m Taehyung, I-I play saxophone. Or at least I used to! At this rate it’s all going to fall apart!” Jimin makes an ‘o’ shape with his lips and slowly nods. “The scholarships! The opportunities! If we can’t play...it’s all gone! What do I do, Namjoon?”

The boy in question doesn’t say anything in spite of Taehyung’s cracking voice. Jimin turns his head and waves his hand in front of Namjoon’s blank face. “Uh….hello?”

Jimin and Taehyung follow his line of sight, across the courtyard...darted onto you.

A light bulb sparks inside his brain. “I have an idea of what to do.” Namjoon runs off, leaving the two university students in the dust to watch his backside disappear with yours.

“Isn’t that Namjoon’s girlfriend?”

The saxophonists become startled. “What? Y/N? No way. She’s super scary. Oh god….I hope he’s not doing what I think he’s doing. There’s no way in hell Y/N would agree.”

Jimin hums. “Whelp. Good luck.”

Taehyung tearfully whimpers in response.

//

You laugh. You laugh and laugh until it hurts your stomach, squeezing onto your internal organs. Saltwater droplets have filled your eyes and you brush them away, standing straight again after having bended over in hysterics. “That’s a really funny joke, Nams. You got me. Nice one.”

“I’m not kidding.”

Your face erases. Like a light switch, the emotions wash away and is replaced with complete seriousness and disdain.

“No.”

He matches your quick steps, trying to plead with you. “Why not? This would be a great opportunity and it would be a lot of fun. Aren’t you always looking for more chances to play? You told me yourself that tuba doesn’t get the spotlight but this is it!”

Your feet stop at your tiny locker and you grab your textbooks, snickering under your breath. “You must not understand something since you’re new here…” The locker door slams louder than necessary and you spin on your heel, poking your fingernail at his chest. “Orchestra kids and band kids,” you enunciate each title sharply, “don’t go together. Never have and never will. It’s like oil and water. Fire and ice or whatever shitty metaphor you want to use.”

In the institute you attended, there was the university orchestra, the symphonic band, the university chorus and chamber choir. Of all the groups, the orchestra and band were sworn mortal enemies in the same way the chorus and choir were rivals. If you had to use a comparison, it was much like Gryffindor versus Slytherin and Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff.

In simpler terms, the symphonic band could suck your invisible dic-

“Why does it matter?” The boy sighs, trying to comprehend you as he picks up his strides to equal yours.

“It’s simple. The orchestra is better than the band. Playing with them would downgrade my own skills.”

“They’re not that bad, Y/N.” Namjoon stares at the profile of your face, attempting to penetrate through the concrete facade.

“They march.”

“Not always. They’re sitting for this competition.”

“They play things like pop music and jazz which is terrible. Jazz is interpretation. Essentially, they’re making up shit on the spot and no one even listens to that kind of outdated music anymore. It’s bland and boring. Don’t even get me started on mainstream pop.”

“You just opened up a whole new can of worms.” He smiles and shakes his head, “they say the same thing about classical being outdated when you know it’s not true. And for this event, they’ll be playing plenty of classical pieces too. Isn’t it good to become versatile in the types of style and genres you can play in, Y/N?”

“They’re noisy and loud.”

“You and I both know that that is just a stereotype.”

As you begin stomping up the stairs, you know you’re running out of things to argue. Namjoon keeps retorting back and it seems like he won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.

“Look.” You twist around on the last step, almost causing him to bump into you and tumble down the steps. You’re looking down at the boy, the fluorescent light hitting your backside and making you glow like an angel (ironically enough). “I’m treading on very thin ice as it is. I screamed at the concertmistress in front of all our peers. If they find out I’m playing with the band, even if it’s just for one occasion, it’ll be a complete fucking witch hunt.”

The dimpled man in his bright yellow hoodie smiles up at you, pushing his glasses to the bridge of his nose. “I’ll protect you.”

You pause, breath hitching. Then a scoff leaves your mouth and you flick his forehead. Namjoon lets out an ‘ow’ and a pout, following as you continue treading up the stairs to the second floor.

When you look at Namjoon, he gives you the saddest and biggest puppy dog eyes in the world. You know it’s already making your heart weak. The innocent boy says nothing, trailing after you and dragging his legs in dejection. After a full minute of utter silence, you let out a groan and a whine.

“Y/N?”

“Fine!”

You have no idea what in hell you’re doing. It kind of amazes you that the harpist is able to convince you of anything. If he told you the sky was really lavender, maybe you'd believe him too.

“Only because it’s you. You helped me out with all that science stuff and I feel guilty, got it? So stop looking at me like that-!” A yelp leaves your mouth as Namjoon suddenly wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you up in the air and swinging you around in a circle. “Nams!”

He sets you down and his grin is infectious. “Thank you.”

//

It’s a bad idea. A very bad idea. If anyone sees you, they’d without a doubt make a huge scene.

“They don’t bite.” Namjoon teases and you glare at him sharply, ready to knock on the door but fist still hovering in the air. “Don’t worry. I’m going to be at the back of the room working on your science paper. If you need me, I’ll be there.”

“Uh-huh.”

There’s no turning back. This could become the worst mistake of your life. You might get scratched, kicked or your instrument might become dented if they decide to attack you.

Dammit. You should’ve brought pepper spray or something.

You look towards Namjoon, your only companion and somehow it’s enough to muster up the courage to finally knock on the door.

It swings open.

“Namjoon! Y/N!” A massive boxy grin greets you and the harpist acknowledges him back. “Come in, come in!”

You’re dragged into the small practice room packed with kids your age. Rather than the seventy students that you typically rehearse with, there are only forty people, tightly knitted together. There’s an astounding number of clarinetists and flutists, holding their instruments and staring at you. The saxophone players that you’ve never encountered before have stopped mid-step and their own brass instruments are slung around their necks like Taehyung’s. There aren’t any violin players or strings for that matter.

No one moves.

For one skipped heartbeat, you’re afraid of being attacked. But you feel relieved that Namjoon’s with you. The clumsy harpist seems like he could body slam a few folks and give you enough time to make your escape.

“This is Y/N!” Taehyung introduces you to his apprehensive classmates. They look at you like you’re a foreign, wild animal that’s wandered its way into the room. “Y/N plays tuba and she’s here to help us, everyone! Don’t be afraid!”

Some of them exchange glances and others swallow hard but everyone continues nonetheless, warming up and preparing for practice. Namjoon smiles, settling himself down in the back of the room. Taehyung brings you over to become acquainted with the others, despite your protests that you don’t care nor want to meet new people.

“Kelly! Y/N, this is Kelly. She plays baritone sax.” The girl in the sweater nods to you with tight lips and you mimic the gesture awkwardly. You can tell Taehyung’s trying his best to make you comfortable and you can appreciate his efforts. “Oh! In case you didn’t know, I play the tenor saxophone which is like the medium size. The alto sax is the smallest-”

“Yes.” You quietly interject. In the university orchestra, there aren’t any saxophone players but you at least know what the instrument is. “I’m aware.”

“Good. And Kelly, this is Y/N. She plays the-”

“You just announced it to everyone, Tae.” Kelly rolls her eyes and laughs lightly. “Plays the tuba. Hi, nice to meet you.” You shake her hand and it’s only then that you realize how many people are eavesdropping in on the conversation. They’re supposed to be warming up for the session but not one note is in the air. “You’re part of the orchestra here at school?”

“Yes. I’m the solo tubist.”

“Cool. You agreed to help us?”

You hum, “Taehyung’s a friend of an important friend so….I don’t mind.”

“Cool.” She coughs tensely, realizing how she’s overusing the same word out of nervousness. “I mean that’s...awesome. I never thought you orchestral people would want to help us. Sinceyouguysalwaysactlikeyou’rebetterthanus.” The girl says the last part in a rush and laughs it off but you catch every single word.

Taehyung intercepts before something can happen. “Why won’t you meet Hana? She plays flute!”

You resist contorting your face after hearing that particular instrument which reminds you of someone unpleasant. But when the petite girl turns around, her kind face surprisingly wipes away any bad, personal connotations. “Hello.”

“Hi.”

She speaks placidly, “you’re going to be playing for the euphoniums?”

“The tuba and euphonium aren’t the same but they’re fairly similar.”

Taehyung grins and he pulls out some paper from his folder that’s sandwiched in his armpit. “I’ve already got the sheet music for it. You think you’ll be okay?”

You take it from him, giving it a quick glance to see if you’ll be able to sight-read. “I’ll give it my best shot.”

“Let’s get started then!”

The mischievous and playful boy introduces you to a few more people until your brain throbs with the amount of names. He finally lets you go and while you’re preparing, out of the corner of your eye, you can catch a handful marvelling at the shiny brass in your lap.

In a way, there’s not many differences between the orchestra and band. The trombonists beside you don’t speak a word and are on constant edge. Most of the people around fear you and you’re isolated at the back of the room. The only true comfort you feel is Kim Namjoon. The boy in glasses holds his calculator, scribbling onto his notebook in his lap. Each and every time you look back, he always grins and shoots you an encouraging thumbs up.

“Idiot.”

The mutter leaves your lips and he looks at you in confusion, unable to hear. He makes a motion for you to repeat yourself. You shake your head with a tiny smile, “nevermind.”

You begin to play with the group to the best of your abilities, reading the notes and interpreting the score as it comes. You’re startled at how fun it is. It’s spontaneous. You don’t have to fret over every single detail and flaw. The music also has modern twists, unlike the ancient classical that you’re used to. At first, your ears catch a few murmurs, suspicions that you’re here to sabotage them but when they realize that you’re legitimately trying, the pressure alleviates from the room.

It also helps that the symphonic band students are quite kind. They’re nice people when the orchestral kids aren’t being condescending towards them. They give you a round of applause after a solo, impressed with your abilities and techniques considering that you’re looking at this music for the first time. In between pieces, some turn around to chat with you and they even joke around freely with each other.

It’s a nice atmosphere, not serious or full of strain. It’s a stark contrast to the orchestra. The band conductor is friendly as well, cracking jokes and bantering with his students.

You feel like you’ve transported into another world.

“How was it? You played really well. It sounded pretty good.”

“It was surprisingly fun.” Your irises flicker to catch a glimpse of the clumsy boy pushing up his spectacles. “They’re good people.”

He smiles proudly, “I told you so.”

“Maybe I should listen to you more often.”

From your teasing tone, he lowers himself to meet your height and to lock your eyes with his while cutely tipping his head to one side. “You should.”

“I only said maybe.” Your stomach growls and in your chipper mood, you lightly bump into him with a giggle. “Wanna go eat some crab?”

The harpist thinks about the science lecture that he really shouldn’t miss. That professor is scary enough and Namjoon suspects that he’s wary of the whole ‘Namjoon-takes-your-classes-for-you’ scheme. But then again….

Would he really want to miss an opportunity to go out and share a meal with you? “Okay. Let’s go!”

//

“Is it true?”

Two weeks have passed and you should be exhausted. In between practicing with the orchestra, you’re off to rehearsals with the band and honing your skills on your own time. You’re playing twice as much as usual, ten hours a day and whenever you’re not resting, you’re out with a suitor or two, trying to make conversation on dates. You should be tried.

Should - because you’re not.

The only reason or rather, person, you can credit that to is Namjoon. He keeps you energized, along every step of the way, by your side whenever you look to your left or right. He waits for you outside your apartment in the mornings, works on the science projects and homework in the back of the practice room. He still keeps up with his own music, studying and plucking the harp’s strings and at night, you meet up again. After shared dinner, you would both take the bus back, occasionally to his apartment to sleepover at.

If your mind were in the gutter, you would think that it’s almost like the two of you are a married couple.

“What are you talking about? I don’t have time nor the patience for your bullshit.”

“You’re playing with the symphonic band.”

Everyone stops and when people ask what’s going on, the words are reiterated in a ripple effect.

“What?”, “What did Rose just say?”, “Did she-”, “YN’s playing for the band?”, “What the hell?”, “She’s really gone crazy.”, “What the actual fuck?”.

“I am.” You stand up amongst your peers and your sharp eyes glare back at them. “So what?”

“What is wrong with you?” The flutist spits out. “We have to compete with them at the regional competition! Don’t you want to go to Nationals? You’re a traitor.”

“Stop being dramatic. I’m helping them for this occasion and it’s not even applicable to you. In fact, I don’t see how my actions matter to any of you!”

The murmuring quiets down and Rose snickers in disbelief. “Why don’t you join them then?”

“Excuse me?”

“Leave.” She twists. “No one wants you here anyways. You’ve done more bad than good anyways. Do you even know the amount of problems you’ve caused us? No one likes your bitchy attitude. We can easily find another…” The girl makes a wild gesture to your bulky brass instrument. “...tuba.”

“You guys!” Jennie stands up, interfering as the concertmistress. “Stop it right this instant. Rose, you’re acting immaturely. What Y/N does outside of this room is none of our business.”

You cross your arms. “She’s right.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever agreed with the first chair violinist. You’d usually spite her, tell her to fuck off and back out of your argument but you finally realized it. This entire time, Jennie has been trying harder than anyone. She’s pissed you off in the past, being a timid goodie two shoes like every annoying heroine character that believes in the good of people. But her goal as the concertmistress has always been to unite the orchestra.

She wants to create a friendly atmosphere like that of the band’s. It’s impossible.

The air here is too suffocating. It’s too serious with the over looming pressure to do well in order to build a career in the music industry for the future. You can understand why Yoongi left.

“Rose. Sit down.” Jennie’s eyes glisten but you recognize the underlying gleam, an appreciative nod that translates to how thankful she is for you taking her side.

“You think you’re all that special?” The flutist ignores her friend, smirks and shoves your shoulder. “No one cares about your instrument.”

You grasp at her oncoming hand before she can slap you. The discomfort of the entire room elevates and a few watch in amusement, others in horror and a handful sneering. “If you think a few insults will make me leave then you’re wrong. I’m going nowhere.”

The girl lets out a screech and Namjoon pulls you back before she can swing.

The gentle hands on the dips of your waist startle you but there’s no change in your expression. Namjoon would never intercept, not when he hated to draw attention and was too timid to be aggressive like you but he’s made a promise to support you.

He was the reason why you were aiding the band anyways.

“Is there something the matter?”

His timbre is low and with the two of you challenging back at her, in addition to the rest of the class. Rose is helpless. No one steps up, not when they’re intimidated by your aura and Namjoon’s height and large build. The pair of you could belong to a gang for all they knew.

“Ugh! You’re a bitch. A traitorous bitch!”

Jennie tugs her back. Namjoon lets you go. You cross your arms again with a smirk.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

//

“You know what? You’re right, Namjoon. I think I’ve judged Y/N falsely.”

“How so?”

Taehyung shrugs, “she really isn’t that bad. If you aren’t mean to her, she isn’t mean to you. I can see why you like her. But I’ll admit Y/N’s still a bit scary.”

“Yeah.” Then Namjoon’s mind reels. “Wait. What? What did you say about me liking her?”

There’s radio silence on the other end of the phone call and the saxophonist quickly switches the subject, rambling about something else.

The harpist replays the same conversation over and over again in his head but he still can’t quite wrap his mind around it. If Taehyung was suggesting that he harbored a crush for you, then his friend is wrong. Sure, Namjoon likes you but not in the romantic aspect. It’s platonic.

You’re overbearing. You’re spoiled. You have to get your way and you always do, either through manipulation or threats. You are the absolute epitome of the mean girls within the movie or the villain in fairytales but those are all surface level things. You’re sensitive, passionate and driven, funny and witty….cute.

It’s platonic. He simply sees you for who you are. There’s nothing more.

Right?

//

This is the best day of his life. Hands down.

As Kim Seokjin hauls the art supplies he stole from school, he is bustling with excitement. However, the poster paper, markers and paints, rolling brushes and crayons are a bit much. He tottles from one side of the sidewalk to the other, apologizing to the people he bumps into, cursing his meager strength and short height.

“Jin?”

The middle schooler peeks his head out and gasps. “Predator!”

“It’s Namjoon!” He protests with a shrill voice, appalled to be even called such a name. “What are you doing?”

“None of your business- Hey!” The kid protests when the much taller man takes his paints and maker packs. It doesn’t occur to him that he can see forward now. “Give it back!”

“Where are you going? I can help you.”

“I-” Jin grumbles, sporting the same yellow backpack on his shoulders. He seems to debate with himself before he concedes the honest truth to Namjoon. “I’m going to the park to make a poster. A sign.”

“For?”

“Y/N.” The short boy grins. “She’s performing this evening, right?”

Namjoon had dropped you off of the venue an hour ago. There were last minute tweaks and preparations to be done. He, on the other hand, had to go submit a biochemistry paper and was planning to go right back - until he bumped into Jin. “How did you know about that?”

Jin is bubbling with pride as he walks alongside Namjoon, proud that he’s in the loop with everyone else. “It’s on your university website!”

“You’re very informative.”

“Of course! It’s Y/N after all and she’s my idol.”

They make it to the park, setting down the items on the picnic table. “Is it okay if I work with you? Two hands are faster than one.”

The middle schooler takes off his backpack and blinks upwards, contemplating for a long second. “Okay. I already have an outline! There are stickers that I got too and only use neon colours! Y/N’s name is going right at the center of the poster.”

Namjoon giggles, sitting down across from the boy and the two of them begin on the artwork masterpiece, surprisingly having an enjoyable time. Jin loosens up and banters back and forth with the harpist, teasing the poor and timid college student.

“Hey, you! Suck-jin.” A horde of taller middle schooler delinquents begins to approach, popping gum in their mouth and kicking rocks on the ground. “What are you doing, dork? Are you doing an elementary kid’s work? They bullied you into it or did the teachers finally hold you back because of your height?”

They childishly laugh together, coming closer and closer. A girl simpers, “where’s your milk?” Another demands for their lunch money and one of the guys grabs onto the sunny backpack.

Jin stops ignoring them and stands up from his spot. “Hey! Give that back!”

The boy holds his arm high in the air. “Try to take it away from me, shortie.”

The bag that is as bright as the sunshine itself is suddenly ripped away from the ruffian’s grasps. He inhales and looks up, the light piercing the looming man’s backside. Namjoon grins, one that mimics the Chester’s cat and is as intimidating as the Grim Reaper himself. “That’s not very nice.”

The children scramble back and Jin grins. Namjoon steps forward. “Don’t you know this kid has an older sister who is really psychotic? If she catches you doing things like this to him, I’m not sure you'll live to tell the tale.”

“Oh my god.” The girl mutters out. “Is he talking about that girl? The one who beat us up?”

They screech at the top of their lungs, dispersing. Namjoon sets down the backpack and Jin sits back on the bench, continuing to scribble away. “Thanks….for that.”

The harpist wonders why they ran so quickly. “No problem.”

“I miss Y/N.” Jin confesses with full sincerity. “I haven’t seen her in awhile.”

“Yeah.” Namjoon’s not sure why since it’s only been two hours but- “I miss Y/N too.”

//

He’s arranged it very well. In the dark auditorium, Seokjin has reserved the front seat on top of the balcony, dressed in bright pink and a flashing headband. The kid is clearly visible in the entire concert hall. He holds the massive sign with your name and a picture of you in the corner, unsympathetic to how he’s obstructing the view of the people behind him. “Woo! Y/N! LET’S GO!”

Jin chants your name like the true fan he is but the stage is empty and after five minutes, he sits back to reserve energy. “You’re very dedicated.”

“Only to the best.” Jin snaps his fingers and does finger guns. “Because I am the best.”

“Namjoon?” The two of them turn around, met with a different pair in casual clothes. “So, it is you!”

“Jennie! Yoongi!” He smiles and they take their seats next to him.

“I came here to support Y/N.” The concertmistress smooths out her floral skirt. “And of course the band. I think it’s very kind of Y/N to help them out. I heard about the problems they were having.”

“I came with her.” Yoongi coughs and when Jennie side-eyes him, he sighs. “Oh, and to see my dear cousin as well. My very dear, blood relative that loves to ask me for cash and terrorizes my coworkers.”

Jennie seems somewhat satisfied with the answer and leans over, amused with Jin and his colourful attire and poster. “This is…?”

“I’m Y/N’s boyfriend!”

“You are?” She smiles and her brows furrow, pupils redirected to the harpist. “But I thought you were, Namjoon.”

“N-no. I’m not. We’re both here to show our support. Y/N’s not really dating him...or me! She’s dating no one...well...not really...I- uh...He’s Jin, by the way. They met on another occasion.” Namjoon doesn’t know why he’s flustered by the mere thought of dating you.

Dating which means holding hands...hugging...kissing...becoming intimate-

Stop thinking about it! He slaps his cheek to snap out of it and Jennie is taken back. A second later, she laughs to herself.

Yoongi stares at Jin without an expression. “You did a whole poster, kid?”

“I sure did and don’t call me kid! I’m a man.”

“Sure, kid.” Yoongi smiles softly. “Wow. It seems like Y/N has some serious admirers.”

For a plain moment, your cousin’s eyes flicker to Namjoon’s face which is still reddened and steaming. Yoongi smirks.

There’s a bit of a mutual silence as all four listen to the introduction by one of the judges and one rather good band performance. It’s only until they hear a shallow exhale that they all turn to their left by the staircase. “Jin?!”

“Hoseok!” He giggles nervously. “What a coincidence!”

The trumpet player marches, unfazed by the staring eyes of the people around. “Are you skipping class?”

The middle-schooler struggles to find an answer and copies the one that Namjoon and Jennie said earlier. “I came to show my support for you!”

“That’s a poster with Y/N’s name.”

“I can explain.”

Hoseok exhales again but dramatically this time, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t try to. And you again? Namjoon?”

“It’s not his fault.” Jin rushes to defend and his older brother answers with ‘yeah, yeah, I know’. Namjoon is too timid and kind to be the type to corrupt Jin, drag him into a cult or kidnap him. At least Hoseok feels comforted that his younger brother isn’t running around with total strangers.

Namjoon smiles as the trumpet player collapses into the chair. “You’re competing?”

“Yep. I’m part of both the orchestra and band in my university.” A smirk reaches up his lips and he pretends to whip back his non-existent long hair. “Impressive. I know.”

Jin puts a hand to his mouth, leaning over to Namjoon and whispering, “he doesn’t have a life outside of music. Not a social one and not a girlfriend. It’s sad.”

“You’re the one to speak, twerp!” He hits the younger man’s head, making Jin let out a whimper and a cry. The rows of people behind them are no longer eavesdropping or paying attention, waiting as the judges finish up with their decision. Meanwhile, Hoseok’s eyes land three chairs down. “Oh my god. Is that who I think it is?!”

“Hoseok.” Yoongi waves and smiles. “Hey. It’s been awhile.”

The middle schooler is absolutely bewildered. “You know each other? What the heck?! How do you know these people and I don’t?!”

“Band camp.” Hoseok reminisces with his eyes glossed over. “Yoongi was in senior year and he snuck in fireworks. They caught the entire grounds on fire. Everyone knows him.”

Yoongi chuckles, “good times.’

Jennie nudges him, “I’ve never heard of that story.”

Hoseok notices her immediately and takes interest. “Who is this beautiful lady?”

“Jennie.” They awkwardly shake hands and she smiles. “I play violin, concertmistress of the university orchestra with Y/N.”

“Impressive...smart. And pretty.”

Yoongi’s pupils sharpen. “Uh-huh.”

“Well I’ve got to get backstage but it was nice seeing all of you...” Hoseok grits his teeth at his brother who only sheepishly smiles. “....even if you’re not here to support me specifically.

Namjoon wishes him luck. “Break a leg!”

“Thanks.”

The performance continues with intermediate breaks, judges discussing the credentials and techniques of each band. Hoseok’s plays rather decently, causing all four to be astounded. Jennie takes mental notes while Namjoon makes comments, the both of them critiquing the groups and guessing what the panelists will comment on. When they’re unable to decide what is excellent or merely acceptable, Yoongi interjects and he always brings a brighter perspective with obvious points. Jin just claps.

Taehyung hollers as he steps out on stage.

“Y/N! Y/N! Y/N!” Jin chants your name, holding up the poster. When they find you humiliated, everyone’s eyes suddenly on you, Yoongi joins in with the fun and screams along. Jennie laughs, clapping her hands and Namjoon smiles, calling your name out softly - “Y/N.”

Before the four of them can be thrown out, they settle down.

The playing is impeccable, a high standard to back up the university's name. Jennie is able to discern why despite the arrogant nature of her peers, they still find the symphonic band a threat. Yoongi nods along and Namjoon listens, spending his entire time gazing at you.

“It’s part of the top ten so far.” Your cousin murmurs, following the flute and baseline’s melting harmonics. “They’ll at least win second place and maybe a supreme award.”

The performance ends with a roar, thunderous applause and everyone stands and bows. Jin screams your name, waving his poster. Yoongi grins and claps with Jennie who smiles brightly.

The corner of Namjoon’s mouth draws up high into his cheeks and as he leans over the ledge with Jin, shouting your name and being completely noisy, his glasses slide down his nose. The spectacles nearly drop from fifty feet from the balcony but the clumsy boy manages to catch it with both his hands. He sighs out in relief and smiles embarrassingly to you.

As you stare up at him, that’s enough to make you laugh and feel content.

[houseofvans]

QUICK JAMS | THE DRUMS

“Life is a challenge, but it makes great art.”

Jonny Pierce is one of the greatest indie artists of our time as he’s spent the last 8 years cultivating The Drums into the magical musical unicorn it is today. With hits such as “Let’s Go Surfing” and “Money” under his belt, this one-of-a-kind artist is ready to release his latest album, “Absymal Thoughts,” absolutely solo— and he couldn’t be happier. It’s been a wild ride following the progression of The Drums over the years, so we were eager to chat with Jonny about his thoughts on changing the course of the band, as well as the events that really steered and molded his new album. Read more after the jump...

Tell us a little bit about The Drums. How did it all begin, and what got you into music in the first place?

Oh god, I mean it’s been 8 years since I started the band. We’ve put out 3 albums and one mini-album. The band started as a four piece, and with each album we have seen at least one member depart— leaving only me as the sole member for the new album, Abysmal Thoughts. Eight years ago I was writing songs that were almost purely whimsical and escapist and now the songs will still make you dance, but have a very heavy subject matter based on my own personal reality.

  With your new album Absymal Thoughts dropping, how do you feel your sound has changed since releasing Summertime?

I don’t really think much has changed musically. I still write and record pretty much everything you hear. I think where the real change is happening is in the content. Lyrics are totally vulnerable and honest now. The artwork is exactly what I want, and the live show is not compromised any longer. With the departure of Jacob after Encyclopedia, I was given total freedom (by default) to do exactly what I wanted. Historically, I’ve always done the lion’s share of songwriting and recording, so songs still sound like The Drums, but I always felt like I had more people to represent than just me. I had to consider their various artistic visions, which meant sometimes compromised product. I don’t have to consider anyone anymore. I only consider myself. Don’t get me wrong, I feel grateful for contributions of past members but am nothing but thrilled to have The Drums be my baby again.

 Which is your favorite song from the album and why?

I really like “Are U Fucked?.” I introduced a few new elements to the world of The Drums in the form of percussion and brass which continue in other songs on the album, like “Your Tenderness” and the title track and album closer, “Abysmal Thoughts.” This track sort of embodies my new found freedom. Cussing in a song, using bongos and woodblocks, and a muted sax. I don’t think these things would have flown if Jacob was around and I had been sitting on these ideas for literally years. It might be a small change for most people, but for me, It’s a true rebirth.

  When you first began writing this album, was there a particular emotion or thought process you wanted your fans to experience?

When I recorded this album, all of the writing was coming from a very lonely and confused headspace. I had just gone through the most significant breakup of my life and I was living in an unfamiliar city and feeling like total garbage. I felt used and worthless, and I guess I wanted my fans to feel that with the new record. So I made a decision to be fully open about where I was in my life emotionally. It’s an exciting album to listen to because it was really like going to a therapist every time I went to record a new song. I just vomit out all my thoughts and the songs would just form around them very organically. In that sense it was an easy album to make. Good art demands to exist.

  What (or who) were some key influences in the album’s sound?

I really just try to shut everything out when I am recording a new album. I mean, I think the only music I listened to that whole time was top 40 Radio, and that was just because I heard it in every Uber I got into in LA. I really just listen to nothing or sometimes I’ll listen to my own work from the past. It’s too easy to care what other people are doing once you start to care. So, I’d rather never start caring in the first place. I’m an artist, not a phone app. I don’t need to be constantly updating.

 What is something most people don’t know about this album?

That I barely remember making it. At the time, I was punishing myself for letting an important relationship fall apart, so I was doing lots of bad drugs and getting into a lot of trouble. I was seeing a shrink, but I think I was hungover almost every time I went in to see her, so I didn’t really learn much. I missed a lot of sessions and I cried all the time... and suddenly the album was finished and I was like whoa that album really wanted to be made because I had to do the whole thing myself. 

 Did you encounter any challenges as things progressed when writing Absymal Thoughts? If so, what were they?  

My whole life is a challenge, but it makes for great art. I think I’ve always welcomed whatever came my way because it makes life more colorful and I live for art, so to not honor everything that happens would be to not be a good artist.

  Is there anyone making music these days that you’re particularly excited about?

Whenever I get asked this question, I automatically start making a list of all the bands and artists that I loathe, but that isn’t the question that you asked! I’m enjoying Snail Mail’s new EP. She has a voice that you shouldn’t and wouldn’t ignore, and then there’s this African-percussive-dance stuff by a group called Xanga. My favorite track from them right now is called “This Is How It Starts” or “This is How It Begins.” It’s really incredible. My favorite track right now.

  What’s your free time like when you’re not writing or touring the globe?

 I spend time pretty much staying in my apartment in the LES, New York trying to pretend I’m a real person— or else I’m up at my lake cabin gardening, trying to pretend I’m a real person. Both activities almost always include my boyfriend, Keon. He calms me and makes me want to do everything to the best of my ability. He’s helped change me into a better person, I think. I have this other friend, Bob. Bob is in his 70’s and he’s my mother and father, sister and brother, grandparent and mentor, and son and daughter. He is quite literally everything to me. He is part of my chosen family.

  Got any good tour stories?

Uh yeah—  for the first time in my life, no one is on tour with me who doesn’t want to be there! How’s that for refreshing?!

  With Absymal Thoughts releasing, what do you want to get out of this album? Who do you want to tour with, and where?

I just want people to be touched by the vulnerable nature of the album. I get emails and messages every day from people who cling to my music because they find comfort in it. Lots of them tell me they are extremely lonely. Some of them are suicidal. Some of them are considering coming out. This is what matters to me most. Who I tour with and all that is very secondary. I want to keep making more music, and beyond that who cares really.

 So what’s next for The Drums?

A giant (and I mean giant) world tour.

Follow The Drums: Tour // Instagram // Twitter 

 Photos: Jonathan Mehring 

Words: Brittany Wood

[kohakuneko]

The Best Anime You’re Not Watching: Princess Principal

If you follow me over on my main blog, you’ve probably seen me gushing/screaming/crying about this show for the past month or so (you’re probably tired of it by now and I’m not sorry). I knew from the premise that I was going to like this anime at least a little bit, but I really wasn’t expecting the huge emotional reaction I ended up having towards it and from what I can tell a lot of other people who watched this show feel the same way. Anyways, I love this show to death and more people need to watch it, which is exactly what the point of this blog is. And I really want to post more often here, so this seems like the perfect opportunity to talk about Princess Principal. (also I have a lot of thoughts about this show and absolutely nobody to talk about it with because none of my friends have seen it yet WHICH IS REALLY FRUSTRATING DAMMIT)

Princess Principal is set in Albion, an alternate steampunk version of late-19th/early-20th century England. Ten years following a civil war known as the “London Revolution”, a great wall separates the country into two opposing nations: the Commonwealth and the Kingdom. Though officially at peace, conflict is still high between both factions as each side sends spies to duke it out in the shadows. Our story follows a team of five undercover Commonwealth agents: Ange, a pathological liar and self-proclaimed alien, Dorothy, the team’s leader, getaway driver, and token sex appeal, Beatrice, a sweet sweet cinnamon roll with the ability to mimic people’s voices, Chise, a skilled samurai experiencing massive amounts of culture shock, and Princess Charlotte, a member of the Kingdom’s royal family who is totally Ange’s girlfriend. Every night for these spies is girl’s night out as they crash parties, take names, and navigate the mysterious underworld of espionage.

First thing we have to get on the same page about is the opening. Because it’s absolutely EPIC.

(i thought tumblr let you embed videos but i guess not? or maybe i screwed up? anyways there’s a link up there go watch it)

Moving on, let’s start praising Princess Principal (holy wow ALLITERATION) by talking about the setting. This show has literally everything I could ever want to see: steampunk, action, spies, and a kickass all-female lead cast… and lesbians, but more on that later. Probably my favorite things about the universe of Princess Principal are all the little gadgets the characters use, most notably Ange’s C-Ball that lets her float.

There’s also other things like the huge machinery we see in an underground scene, the cars that the team drives, the Kingdom’s airships… whatever the heck Beatrice made in episode 8…

(seriously we never get any kind of explanation for this thing and it never comes back again but this one little part is so frickin funny)

There’s also concept art/blueprints somewhere of some of the different vehicles and mechanical devices seen in the show. I can’t find them now (I wanna say they’re on twitter?), but I remember they were pretty detailed and it’s clear a lot of thought was put into the inner workings of everything no matter how big or small. And yes, there’s blueprints for Beatrice’s thingamajig too. 

On the subject of detail and thought, a lot of that definitely went into the writing as well. There are a lot of mysteries and plot twists to unravel throughout the series that are very well executed. Most of it is based around sprinkling in little hints throughout an episode that come together within the final minutes and though they’re not completely obvious at first, they’re always right there in front of you in plain sight; you just have to pay close attention. Being able to pick up on all these things kind of makes you feel like a spy yourself, in a way.

The music for Princess Principal was done by Yuki Kajiura, which automatically gives pretty much every anime fan very high expectations going in. I think Kajiura really delivers in this series; in fact, this might be one of my favorite soundtracks of hers to date. There’s a lot of her signature style that we all know and love, complete with the epic vocals in the background, but in this OST she also adds a lot of jazzy pieces into the mix as well. It kinda gives it a bit of a “James Bond” type of feel, perfect for spies running around in jolly old England Albion, especially when the saxophone kicks in. Even the opening, while not composed by her, still gives off the same sort of vibe with the bass around the middle of the track along with, of course, some awesome sax. (oh boy don’t read that bit out loud haha if you know what I mean)

And now, finally, we get to the bit I’ve been most itching to talk about. The thing that is, in my opinion, the biggest strength of Princess Principal: its characters.

At first glance, we have a very typical action team setup. You’ve got the leader (Dorothy), the cool prodigious main character (Ange), the muscle (Chise), the sweet smart one (Princess), and of course, the lil’ cute one who supplies the moe (Beatrice). But as you watch the show, you find out very quickly that all five of them are developed much much further than those basic concepts and that none of them are what they seem to be on the surface, which is pretty fitting since they’re all spies. (yeah, I know I called Dorothy the “token sex appeal” earlier, but that was just for comedic purposes; don’t get mad at me plz XD) And as you just saw in the above image, they’ve all got really cool designs, too. (where can i get me Ange’s hat and cape i really want them)

Of course, this is a show about a team of spies, so it wouldn’t matter how cool they all were individually if they didn’t work together well as a cast. And they do.  Ange, as the main character, is not surprisingly exceptionally skilled all around and in any other show she’d probably just be soloing every mission. But as good as she is, she isn’t at all invincible or OP; she needs the specialized abilities that all her teammates possess. Each of them has a very important role to play and none of them are at any point just dead weight. The other four team members don’t just exist to support Ange either; all five of them support each other as a single unit. 

They also play off one another very well outside of missions and their team dynamic has clear development over the course of the show. And that development is not derived from the overdone “You’re getting a partner” “But I don’t want a partner” “Actually come to think of it you’re not so bad partner” schtick you see in all the buddy cop movies; they don’t do that at all THANK GOD. Instead, it’s a bit more on the internal and subtle side. At the start, while everyone clearly works together well and missions go very smoothly for the most part, you still get the sense that they have a very thin layer of trust towards one another and they may not all be on the same side, which, again, is very befitting of spies. Sure they’re teammates and they all work for the same people, but individually they each have their own goals and motivations, some more obvious than others. Because of that, they each occasionally withhold information from each other and sometimes even the audience (again, some more than others). But as time goes on and they figure out more about each other, they start to bond and form a genuine friendship. They begin to channel their individual goals into their work as a team and either open up about or put to rest whatever secrets they’re keeping. And again, all of this is very subtle, which is as it should be; we don’t need all this stated, we can clearly see their chemistry.

And SPEAKING of clearly seeing chemistry…. Ange and Princess are gay. Like, REALLY FUCKIN GAY. Like, I have no idea how they’re so good at stealth missions cuz they’re setting off ALL the gaydar alarms with how gay they are.

If you’ve been on either of my blogs for a while, you probably know that the only anime I watch have lesbians or at the very least a ton of yuri subtext. (okay that’s a lie I watch other things too… kind of…) So yeah, it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise that most of the reason I kept watching this show was because I ship these two XD. But in all seriousness, they are perfect together; their relationship is very well-developed both casually and romantically and easily one of the show’s highlights.

And what makes this pairing even better is that IT’S BASICALLY CONFIRMED TO BE CANON IN EVERY DAMN CAPACITY. I won’t spoil the show here of course, but they make it pretty clear that the two of them are in love. Also, if you’ve watched some of the livestream events with the main voice actors because you’re running away from responsibilities and don’t want to sleep (help me), then you’ll see that they all pretty much ship them too (especially Ange’s and Princess’s VAs). They’re all such cute lovable dorks and it’s clear they care about the show as much as the rest of us do, which is always great.

And lastly, good god, have you SEEN the promo art???

yep. das pretty gay.

So what have we learned today from this long-ass post? Princess Principal is a marvelous anime with an intriguing setting, awesome music, brilliant characters, and adorable lesbian spies. What more could you possibly need in a show? Please go give this anime the love it deserves; you won’t regret it.