#my entire sense of humor was born from those albums

[marsuro]

They can’t keep finding him like this

Based on this panel lol

[notafraidofredyellowandblue]

OOR 2001 - Nr 8 - Rammstein interview

Rammstein <Germans have a very good sense of humor>

Rammstein: those are boring, surly men, who take themselves too seriously and even are perhaps a little 'wrong'. You would think. But with the release of the third album Mutter, singer Till Lindemann and drummer Christoph Schneider prove that Germans do have a sense of humor. "Only... we don't laugh."

by Robert Heeg

Actually, Rammstein's entire career is a joke. Or at least a bizarre twist of fate. Born and raised in the GDR, Lindemann, Schneider, keyboardist Flake Lorenz, bassist Oliver Riedel and guitarists Paul Landers and Richard Kruspe despite state censorship managed to develop into stubborn punks with their own vision on hard music. Only in '93, long after the fall of the wall, did they convert their ideas into the total concept Rammstein. In addition to hard industrial metal with a gothic touch, this concept also includes a well-oiled show in which sweaty male bodies and stunts with fire play a leading role. Despite international aspirations, the mother tongue was retained. That did not stop the albums Herzeleid ('95) and Sehnsucht ('97) from being very successful. Even in the US, entire tribes sing along at the top of their lungs during the performances. It must be a great victory for the six 'Ossies'. Can you therefore blame Rammstein for using images from the propaganda film Triumph of the Will, by Hitler's court filmmaker Leni Riefenstahl, in a video clip.

How does Mutter differ most from its two predecessors?

Till: "We used more acoustic instruments and recorded a string orchestra 'live' for the first time. We also worked on the mix for a very long time. We even broke off a mix because the album started to sound too much like Sehnsucht. We were looking for a more modern sound"

The official biography says that no one sounds like Rammstein, but I definitely recognize that rigid sound of Die Krupps...

Christoph: "Yes, of course. And there are more bands with which we have something in common. In that bio they are probably referring to the combination of show and German-language singing."

Till: "Especially that German thing, yes. Most acts sing in English, which sounds much rounder than German. So we do offer something new internationally."

The lyrics on Mutter seem less harsh, slightly more personal. Is there a thematic shift?

Till: "You should interpret them the way you want. Use your imagination. I do believe that they are less abstract than before, they have become clearer stories. However, we try to stick to our well-known style."

If you used to express yourself in macho rhetoric such as: 'Wollt ihr das Bett in Flammen sehen', you now cry for Mutter. Back to the womb?

Christoph: "Mutter is simply the word that fits the mood of the record, you don't have to look for any special meaning behind it. Inspiration can really come from anywhere: personal experiences, magazines, a book, a good film... It makes It doesn't matter. It can also happen if you happen to get your finger stuck in the electrical socket. Anything."

Is this a democratic band or are there members who have more influence?

Christoph: "It is quite a democratic whole. And that does not always make it easy when you are in a hurry. Fortunately, there is also a producer [Jacob Hellner] who makes decisions every now and then. It is also a lot more productive that we now sometimes work in smaller teams. If there are six of us, there is always someone who disagrees with something."

Till: "It is good to learn that you occasionally have to defer to the majority opinion. After three or four weeks it often turns out that the consensus was the basis for the right decision. It is essential that you share everything as a band: equal rights, equal duties. It has been my experience that when someone feels underexposed in a band, they usually leave."

Would Rammstein be over then?

Christoph: "It's like cutting off an arm. We would continue, but it would be very different."

In interviews the band members sometimes come across as a bit rigid. You rarely allow yourself to be lured out of your tent.

Christoph: "That depends on how someone responds to us and our texts. Every journalist does that in his own way, and we respond to that. But I know that we are considered difficult. Whether it is photographers, cover designers or people at the record company, they experience us as difficult. That is because we have a very strong opinion about how things should sound and look. We don't compromise well."

This also applies to the language...

Till: "Yes, why should we? Words are free."

And you were also right, in America people sang along with complete lyrics.

Christoph: "Well, at least they tried, haha. In any case, we had a good time with their attempts. They looked like teenagers going to their first pop concert, not having fully understood the lyrics, but still trying to sing along. Very amusing."

You guys have something special with America. Did that start when David Lynch used two of your songs for his film Lost Highway?

Christoph: "That was our first contact with America. It made us a bit known and gave us the opportunity to perform there. However, it was very difficult to make the right contacts and bring Sehnsucht there. We only managed that in '98."

American record companies are traditionally skeptical of European acts. Especially when they stubbornly continue to sing in their native language.

Till: "If you hang around somewhere in the middle, that is certainly true, yes. But once you are successful, you can do just about anything there. The most idiosyncratic acts are often the most successful."

Idiosyncrasy is also often poorly understood. For example, you are often associated with the extreme right. You went one step further by using fragments of Leni Riefenstahl films in the video for the Depeche Mode cover Stripped.

Christoph: "We have never really understood that prejudice. In our opinion, it is not demonstrable. In interviews we have often said that we have nothing to do with it. We are busy discovering our own German music and creating our own German band , and we have mentioned many things that have to do with our culture. We are getting quite tired of the allegations. People simply have an opinion about us, no matter how often we contradict those prejudices through the media. The only thing we can do now all that's left is to just continue making music. If you follow us a bit, you know that we have nothing to do with the right. For the people who still need an explanation, we have included the song Links 234 on the album. Listen to that."

Is your sense of humor and sarcasm underestimated?

Till: "Oh, you either understand us or you don't. There is no in between. You either love us or you hate us. The fans understand our intentions."

Christoph: "The problem is that people are always presented with something that is ready-made. But as soon as they have to interpret something for themselves, think for themselves, they have a problem. You do have your own opinion, right? Then don't ask me what you have to think about it. I can't explain it either."

Don't you secretly cherish those different reactions a little?

Till: "If people think we are really bad, that is of course often annoying and questionable. But it is indeed better than not arousing any reactions at all."

Christoph: "It did surprise us, but it has become part of us."

You also evoke reactions with the show. For the stunt with the dildo, you were even held in an American cell for a couple of hours in '98.

Christoph: "Americans are easily shocked by things that we consider very normal here. But for those involved it was certainly not a pleasant incident, I can assure you. Perhaps Till would like to say something about that."

Till: "We don't do something like this with premeditation. We mainly do a show like that for fun and to illustrate the music. That makes it a bit more pleasant for us on stage, because at least something happens and time goes by faster, haha. And the audience is grateful that there is also something to experience visually. It is not our style to deliberately evoke such extreme reactions. It is not as if we plan it, it just happens naturally."

And yet... Does that rebelliousness have nothing to do with your GDR youth? Is the animal out of the cage now?

Christoph: "That is probably innate, yes. In the GDR, of course, nothing was allowed and the music scene was of little significance. We spent our youth and teenage years in the GDR, so it could not have been otherwise or that it left an indelible impression."

Till: "Yet we weren't really rebellious. We just did what we did, also on stage. We just lived it up, and actually we still do. Only later did we realize that it was quite bold to do that in the GDR."

Were you influenced by show bands like Kiss?

Christoph: "Of course. I wasn't that impressed with the music, but I did have the posters hanging. Musically we were more impressed by Udo Lindenberg, AC/DC, Neubauten, the Neue Deutsche Welle. Very few of them actually came to the GDR. But we didn't know any better. If a band came, it would be talked about for another five years. Those performances were incredibly inflated. haha."

Did you feel like second class citizens?

Till: "That was a big problem, yes, because we were constantly looking to the west. I think the worst thing was that we were not allowed to travel. That was really sad. Other than that, life wasn't that bad, just the traveling... ."

Once an Ossie, always an Ossie?

Till: "Certainly. We still live in East Berlin. Due to our extensive travelling, I don't know whether the term Ossie still has the same meaning for us. But it remains our homeland. You carry it with you in your heart. "

Am I wrong or are you parodying the cliché image that foreigners have of Germans?

Christoph: "You might think. Well, we know how people sometimes think about Germany. Never mind, there is little we can do about that."

Till: "We like to exaggerate and that's part of parody. Only... we don't laugh."

Do you think Dutch people understand German humor?

Christoph: "Germans have a very good sense of humor. But let's talk about you, with your Big Brother-Shit! 1)"

--

1) The Big Brother reality tv show format was originated in the Netherlands, first aired in 1999, and had spin-ofs in many other countries around the world

--

List of other Rammstein OOR interviews

[sinceileftyoublog]

The Hella Mega Tour Review: 8/15, Wrigley Field, Chicago

BY JORDAN MAINZER

The lights went out, and Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” played, followed by The Ramones’ “Blitzkrieg Bop”, as the trademark “person in a pink bunny suit” pretending to be drunk pumped up the crowd. Perhaps no two songs, nor the aforementioned image, encapsulate Green Day’s career any better. The East Bay punks eventually turned into rock opera scribes, all the while maintaining their sense of irreverence. But what separates Green Day’s live performance is a sense of togetherness, even in the face of songs about impending political revolution or the threat of debilitating apathy. As Billie Joe Armstrong and company launched into the title track of American Idiot, the first of a breakneck 21-song set, they had a sold out Wrigley Field chanting every word back to them. Each of their songs feel born from a specific time and place, but if they have anything, its generational staying power, and not just because songs about the evils of the Bush administration have proved still relevant given recent news.

At this point, Green Day can play a seamless, pitch-perfect set in their sleep. Armstrong’s voice is smooth when it needs to be on “Wake Me Up When September Ends”, delving into bratty screams for maximum impact on “Brain Stew”. Bassist Mike Dirnt’s playing is limber and heavy, introducing “Longview” with confidence and ease, while drummer Tré Cool breaks down and builds back up “Welcome to Paradise” the same way you remember when you first heard it. Their addition of touring musicians--guitarist and vocalist Jason White, long-time multi-instrumentalist Jason Freese, and newcomer Kevin Preston--gives their more rounded out songs a depth to add beneath their otherwise jagged edges. And of course, Armstrong’s a man of the people. He’s found a way to bring fans on stage in the era of COVID, making sure those who come on to help them cover Operation Ivy’s “Knowledge” stay far from their bubble and can keep the guitar afterwards. In a more subtle way, when he could have easily addressed the crowd as “Chicago,” he also included neighboring states and the entire Midwest, recognizing that this show was the tour’s only one in flyover country. (Don’t worry, Wrigley fans; he did “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” during “Minority”, correctly singing, “Root for the Cubbies.”)

Yeah, I could pick a couple bones with the set, like no “Jaded” immediately after “Brain Stew”, and the mere existence of buzzkill “21 Guns” in the setlist. For the most part, though, this is a band who knows exactly what it’s doing and is very good at it, giving the crowd only 2 songs written after 2010.

If nostalgia sells, then Weezer’s set was for you, from their Jazz cup color scheme to Rivers Cuomo’s mullet-and-mustache look. I mean, their second 2021 album is called Van Weezer, for goodness sakes. Their Halen tributes start with entering the stage to “Jump” and peak at Cuomo’s two-handed tapping riff on “The End of the Game”, but they’re referenced in performances of classics, like the riffing on the outro of “My Name is Jonas”. Like Green Day, Weezer have always balanced angst with tongue-in-cheek humor, but with little room for politics, they’re all fun and games. Recent tunes like “Hero”, “Fees Like Summer”, and “All My Favorite Songs” are catchy, appropriately thoughtless ear candy, as is their cover of Toto’s “Africa”. And Weezer, too, knows why their fans are there, to hear “El Scorcho” and “Say It Ain’t So” and be drowned in purple and turquoise confetti during “Buddy Holly”.

To me, Green Day and Weezer’s embrace of absurdity is why the inclusion of Fall Out Boy on this tour--especially sandwiched in between the other two--felt off. I’ll be the first to admit it: They’re not my cup of tea, so I might not be the best judge of their set, and a packed stadium faithfully holding up phone lights during all the slow songs probably proves me wrong. But aside from the genuine coolness of a Wilmette band getting to play once again at the ballpark they grew up going to, the whole concept of their set felt at once overcooked and over-earnest. A video intro and outro from, uh, Ron Livingston, and multiple set changes fit a narrative about as structured as something from the mind of latter-day Billy Corgan. Their blowtorch guitars and piano lasted multiple songs, dulling their effect, while Patrick Stump belted “Save Rock and Roll” and “The Least of the Real Ones”. They sounded best when their songs had little fanfare, on classics like “Sugar, We’re Going Down”, “Dance, Dance”, and the stomping “I Don’t Care”. And if they could spend on fireworks during “Centuries”, they could surely have gotten a horn section for “Irresistible” instead of relying on samples.

Speaking of horns, if you’re looking for a band that made the most of their allotted time and opportunity, that would probably be L.A. ska punk band The Interrupters, who blasted through a fun, raw 8-song set while much of the crowd was still walking in. They played pretty evenly from their three studio albums, plus a cover of Billie Eilish’s “Bad Guy”. The throaty delivery of singer Aimee Allen (aka Aimee Interrupter) was the perfect complement to the literal band of brothers, guitarist Kevin Bivona and bassist and drummer Justin and Jesse. It was a set both well-played and curated by the bookers, one that should generate some crossover fandom with the other established bands and that fit the celebratory, somewhat sardonic tone of Green Day and Weezer. I mean, if you’re gonna call it the Hella Mega Tour, you want bands that can take a joke.

[samwrights]

Elixir - Punk!AU mini-series

Hi guys! So I wanted to write something a little different. Not necessarily a “choose your own adventure” but something along those lines. This mini series will be a Punk!AU where the reader is in a band where your story depends on the person you choose! While no place is actually mentioned, I’m thinking Chicago (home sweet home) for setting. I’ve been working on this between requests and, while the requests keep coming, I’m trying to get the routes going. For now, I present to you the prologue.

Thank you quarantine, necessary drives to my Starbucks, Halestorm, Neck Deep, Pierce the Veil, and Paramore for inspiring these babies. Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: there will be swearing, smoking of cigarettes and weed, consumption of edibles and alcohol, cheating and possibly be NSFW. I haven’t decided on the last one yet. Everyone will be of legal US age for consumption of nicotine, marijuana, and alcohol in the present day (18+ in some states for tobacco, 21+ in for everything else). However, there are mentions of underage consumption/distribution of alcohol. These are genuinely mature themes! If you are unable to understand that these themes are not encouraged to be re-enacted, specifically cheating and underage consumption/distribution of nicotine, alcohol, or marijuana, please do not read for your own safety.

A complementary playlist can be found  »  here

Photocredit by @scandeniall​

Word Count: 3504

Prologue is below the cut!

You had been trying to ignore the gnawing thrum of discomfort that had worked its way into your intuition the last few weeks, but today the dull throb had transcended into an alarm blaring at the back of your consciousness. Like your body was trying to tell you something that should have been painstakingly obvious, yet when you attempted to pinpoint the cause, you fell short with an answer.

Period? Nah, too early for that.

Food poisoning? That wouldn’t last multiple weeks.

Pulled a muscle at the gym? That was a joke, considering you hadn’t gone to a gym since your senior year of college.

Anxiety? Well that was a given, considering you had a nasty gut feeling about something.

Stress? Stress was nothing new. In fact, stress was a very familiar friend to you.

What the fuck was it?

Even meditating on the thought for the last three hours, an answer had yet to come to you. Without ever finding one, you reluctantly pull the plush covers off of your queen sized bed and push yourself up to sit on the edge before checking your phone’s lock screen for the time. 1:23pm. You still had quite some time before you needed to leave for band practice, but you knew full well that laying in bed any further would encourage your current laziness. Making your way around the clothes that haphazardly littered your disheveled bedroom floor, you entered your bathroom to shower and get ready for the day.

The warmth of the water did little to quell the unsettling feeling that emanated from your gut. You even attempted to center your with old therapy tactics such as identifying all of your surroundings, such as which muscles of your body the shower was raining upon or the different notes in your voice that reverberated off the shower walls as you subconsciously sang. When that had failed, you allowed your mind to wander through the metaphorical meadow that resided in your brain.

At first, your mind focused on whatever lyrics fell from your lips, recognizing the prose as one of your band’s songs. Connecting the words that were committed to memory with people, your mind began to wander to your friends—the three boys you were thankful enough to call your best friends of a decade and members of your band, Elixir—Tetsurō Kuroo, Takahiro Hanamaki, and Yūji Terushima.

Kuroo, or Tetsu as you sometimes called him, was the guitarist of Elixir and the “mastermind” behind the name of your little group. Mastermind being a relatively loose term, as at the time, you all had felt indifferent to the name. But as nobody had come with any better alternatives, you all had stuck to it until it had grown on you. Kuroo was a year younger than you and, outside of the band, was a chemist for a small time company at the ripe age of twenty six. As you thought of him, you let out a soft snort that nobody but you could hear, thinking of his disheveled raven haired locks that framed his face; thinking of his earlobe holes that had been stretched out to nearly half an inch in diameter; thinking of the myriad of tattoos that littered his body from neck to toe. Sometimes, it did seem a little funny that this man had to wear a lab coat on the daily. You were so proud of him and of his accomplishments. He was ambitious and driven, focused on his goal of succeeding in both his field and with his band. Whether that meant recording an album and touring or just continuing to have fun was unknown, since really he would be fine with either or both.

Entertaining your analytical thoughts about Kuroo brought you to the bassist of your band, Takahiro Hanamaki, as you had met them both at your high school jobs in a local cafe. Makki, though he initially seemed profoundly reserved, had a relaxed sense of humor that typically came at the expense of others. At the time, he was a distinct contrast to Kuroo’s loud, antagonistic nature. Now, the two of them began to take bits and pieces of each other’s personalities. While Makki’s cool, composed self remained, he also was not one to avoid baiting someone just to crack a joke or tease them, an attribute he had adopted over the years of exposure to you and the guitarist. However, his laidback attitude was almost never immediately acknowledged by strangers, as his lanky build and harrowing, deep set eyes typically intimidate those who don’t know the light hearted bassist. And while he wasn’t the most “modified” member of the band, many saw the two eyebrow rings that rested above the right brow and, in conjunction with his natural features, immediately assumed the impression that Makki was unapproachable. You always had a soft spot for Makki and his slightly misunderstood ways.

Speaking of misunderstood brought your mind to the youngest member of your quartet—Yūji Terushima, or Teru as you affectionately called him. While he was only a year younger than the boys, two years in comparison to you, he was the life energy of the squad. When he had entered the cafe in which you, Kuroo, and Makki worked at for his first day, it felt that the final missing piece of the puzzle had been found, though you didn’t know it yet. It had been a year later, with you officially accepting the role of supervisor instead of trainer and Kuroo being your replacement. The two hit it off swimmingly and, while Makki didn’t necessarily match his energy, he compensated with humor. Terushima was, and still is, a wild thing. He breathes life into the rest of you by offering up crazy adventures that varied from a simple 2am Walmart trip to breaking into forest preserves at the dead of night to swim in a creek even though you had finals to attend to the following morning. In a sense, Terushima was the very reason Elixir had been born. After all, he was the one who encouraged each you to learn covers of songs until the interest had been sparked enough to learn how to properly play everyone’s respected instruments.

Backtracking your thoughts—finals. Finals meant university, and university was probably the most wild time of your life. As the friendship between the four of you continued to blossom with years passing, you all had made a pact to attend the same university. At one point, it had been tricky, trying to decide on where you were going to go and if you wanted to wait for Teru to catch up due to the age gap or if you, as the eldest, were going to pave the way for your juniors. It came as a surprise to the boys when you announced that you would wait, taking a two year gap in order to save money to lessen the blow of tuition in your bank account. Even more surprisingly, Kuroo and Makki had agreed with each other to do the same—what was the point in you staying behind and waiting for Yūji if they weren’t going to as well?

Waiting for Terushima turned out to be the absolute best idea ever. While you were initially hesitant to be rooming with three boys, friendship be damned, the four of you getting an apartment together for your university years was the best chaotic good moment you had ever been involved in. In a way, you all had gotten to celebrate many firsts together because of it. Did it bother you that you were a slightly older freshman? Sure, a little bit. Did it matter? Not at all, considering you were able to start buying liquor and beer as a sophomore in college and, as soon as your younger peers found out, you had turned it into a business to help pay rent for your shared apartment. Oddly enough, Terushima was the one who handled all of the expenses and calculated what you should be charging for your, ahem, “services”. Go figure, the youngest of you all was a math whiz. There was one unwritten rule for the apartment—no parties. Period. You could use your services to grab whatever supplies needed, whether it be alcohol, weed from a dispensary, or cigarettes, they were for your guys’ personal use only. Home was meant to home, and that was that.

Home; probably the single most important word in the entirety of your personal dictionary. While home was most often defined as a place in which a person or family resides, it meant something entirely different to you. Being home meant being with your best friends, your family. It meant being free to be yourself, unapologetically and unabashedly. And, maybe after rummaging through every single thought and analyzing each one through a metaphorical microscope, maybe that was where the disturbance in your intuition—that nasty gut feeling residing in the pit of your stomach—was coming from. There was something that you could not quite place that was disturbing your freedom, your home. Coming to the realization that your hot water had now gone cold, prompting you to shut it off and seek refuge and warmth in a fluffy towel and robe. Had it gone cold in that moment—the moment you realized why you had been on edge? Or had it been running cold out of irony that you had been in meditation for so long you hadn’t even realized it? You would never know the answer.

2:07pm. You still had plenty of time before band practice, considering both Makki and Tetsu would still be at work for another hour. To give them ample time to unwind from their work day, practice always started at five in the evening. In an attempt to kill time, you opted to make yourself a small lunch before sitting down to do your hair and makeup so as that you felt more comfortable being in public. Not that the boys cared—they lived with you for four years in university, they knew what you looked like at your absolute worst. Perhaps it became a habit to do so when you re-entered the working world as a full fledged adult three years ago.

2:29pm. After having your lunch, even taking the time to do all the dishes before moving into your next task—getting ready. While you didn’t feel the need to go overboard on your appearance, since it was just practice after all, you still had a solid hour and a half before Elixir was supposed to meet. Having plenty of time to kill allowed you to take your time to forego some self-care as well; maybe giving your locks a little extra tender love and care if you felt you needed it; plucking stray eyebrow hairs that had grown just a bit further outside of your desired shape. You checked the time on your phone again after you felt your look was complete, hair, makeup, and all. How the fuck had only an hour gone by? That was way more effort than you normally put in, or so you claim, yet time seemed to be mocking you.

3:36pm. If you could magically waste time picking out an outfit to wear to practice, you were doing so now. One part of you almost wanted to chuck on the leather pants you would potentially be sporting for tomorrow evening so as to give them a slight stretch and make them more comfortable while you performed. Another said to just keep it simple, and stick to leggings and a nice loose tee to keep you at ease. The last option that your mind entertained was wearing shorts and a tank because it always got so hot in Terushima’s basement during practice. You even went so far as to try on multiple shirts and tops that were essentially the same, swapping out different preferred accessories to see if you liked the look, if only to make the minutes tick by. Hell, you even tried multiple pairs of shoes, lacing each foot individually before the clock had passed four in the afternoon. Eventually, you tied on your typical, everyday combat boots despite the wasted minutes trying to do a wardrobe check. Now that there was only an hour left for Elixir to begin arriving the at the drummer’s family home, you decide to give yourself ample time to stop by and grab coffee for everyone.

4:13pm. You send a text message out to your mates, waiting for them to reply with what you knew would be their typical orders. Well, as typical as it could be considering Terushima was always trying out crazy concoctions. One by one they responded and of course, your assumptions were correct when Teru sent in his drink that took up four rows of text. “What in the actual fuck?” You grumbled out, squinting at your phone while simultaneously trying to enter your car. Following your typical routine of turning on whatever guilty pleasure playlist you were feeling in that moment and lighting a cigarette, you glanced at your friends order one more time before ultimately deciding to place the order online. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself ordering Yūji’s stupid drink. After placing the order, you made your way to a Starbucks closest to the aforementioned boy’s family home.

The drive to Terushima’s wasn’t a particularly long, even with the coffee run. Traveling between two suburban towns typically only took about twenty minutes regardless of the direction you were coming from, though you hadn’t taken into account the long line wrapping around the Starbucks Drive-thru. Not that it mattered—you were still on time for practice. Even if it seemed all of your friends were already here. Cautiously exiting your car with the tray of drinks in one hand while you let yourself into the Terushima residence.

His parents greeted you warmly as you always did before you made your way down to the basement. “Ayeeee, there’s momma.” Makki greets, taking the tray from your hands and distributing everyone’s respective drinks. Small talk place between band members, distracting you from the other three people in the basement—your bandmates’ girlfriends. When you did finally acknowledge their presence, you gave them a tight lipped smile, so as not to be rude, though they only gave a blank stare before bringing their attention back to the phones in their hands. You gave a roll of your eyes. It wasn’t that you didn’t like them, per se. It was more along the lines of you were the only female in the band and they automatically assumed that you were out to steal their mans. Not the case, especially considering you all formed the band before any of them were even in the picture, but go off.

Having already finished your beverage from earlier, you began plugging in the microphone into the amplifier and tuning the guitar you used for a small number of songs. Everyone else seemed to be ready to go except for you, who was strapping on the aforementioned guitar to prepare for the insanity of an opening that is Kuroo’s masterpiece. Besitos, he called it. Spanish for little kisses, you often wondered where the romantic title had come from considering the narrative was less than pleasant, even foreshadowing murder in the final verse. When you asked him about the inspiration for the lyrics and the title, Kuroo did nothing but laugh, adding in, “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

The second song was a project curated by your drummer, Terushima. Brick by Boring Brick was a song that he claimed was inspired by his girlfriend, which was an endearing gesture if that were the truth. But from what you and the rest of Elixir had known of his girlfriend, she didn’t come off as a person plagued with baggage. Not that you could base it solely off of appearance, but with her and Yūji’s short lived relationship, it was a bit unbelievable that he had unlocked her tragic backstory in a matter of three months. Then again, what did you know? You didn’t even remember her name.

The title of the third song, Growing Pains, always made you laugh at the irony considering that Makki’s tall ass wrote the song. While a romantic, upbeat love song from Teru didn’t strike you as a shock, it certainly did coming from the bassist. Emotions that danced in the “love” category didn’t really sway him often. Maybe his girlfriend was just that special to him? You weren’t sure, because once again, you knew none of their names. But you knew for a fact that the song seemed to call for something more stable, endearing growth together and support for each other, which had you questioning how long had you been apart from your friends.

After the third song, you were winded and uncomfortable and no amount of water you chugged was helping you with sweat and dehydration. “I’m gonna die tomorrow.” You joked after setting your water bottle down by your microphone stand.

“We’re only a third of the way through the set, headass.” Terushima joked, pulling down his lower left eyelid and sticking his tongue out to you.

“For real, it’s only been like twenty minutes since we started practice.” Kuroo chided.

“Yeah, but can we smoke instead? I think there were a few things we should tune up before moving onto the next third of the set.” You looked to your guitarist with pleading eyes, holding a cigarette and lighter between your fingers. Makki, without saying anything else, pulled out a small bowl and packed it. He knew that any form of pleading made Kuroo a weak man, which inevitably meant a smoke break was up next rather than continuing on with work.

“Fine.” Despite the mock defeat in his tone, Kuroo is already gliding up the stairs, taking two steps at a time with you in tow. More steps could be heard, but they were lighter than the boys you had come know so well, meaning the three stooges were most likely following suit, despite them not being smokers themselves.

You and Kuroo were currently seated on a stone barricade as you lit your cigarettes, the rest of the crew picking at sporadic seats along the wall. Teru and Makki were next to each other to share their bowl while their girlfriends sat on the outside of them, just to your right. Kuroo’s girlfriend had taken up occupying the space between you and your guitarist and, maybe for a moment, you were wondering they were deliberately arranged this way.

The worst part of the girlfriends accompanying practice, in your eyes, was not their presence, but rather the fact that you felt like you couldn’t even talk to your best friends, your bandmates at band practice, because they were too busy comforting them so that they “didn’t feel out of place”. Regardless, you respected your friends enough to not make the situation more difficult for them—if you needed to say something, you could say it in the basement where spectator talk was not welcome. Out of the corner of your eye while you were internally monologuing, you see the lanky arm of Makki offering you the bowl, a few cinders of his hot still lit. With poor timing, he grabbed your attention while you were exhaling the smoke in your lungs, unintentionally doing so onto his girlfriend. “Shit, I’m sorry.” She rolled her eyes, though you know you didn’t do it on purpose. Whatever, she had her truths. You held up your hand that squeezed the filter of your cigarette between your index and ring finger. “I’ll get it on the next turn,” making Makki shrug and pass the small glass bowl back to the drummer.

A couple more drags of your cigarette soothes your craving for nicotine and when the paper had finally burned all the way to the end of the filter, you tossed the butt into the dead fire pit that acted as the center for your gathering. Terushima stands up real quick to hand you the bowl that had been nearing its end—giving you the last couple hits before it was cashed. When it came to marijuana, you didn’t smoke very often, but today you were grateful for the offering. Maybe the high would take the edge off of your...anxiety? No, that wasn’t it. Irritation seemed to be a better fit.

The seven of you shuffle back into the basement, rearranging yourselves, and knocking back a beer. “Okay, so before we move on, is there any song that you guys think we should work on before moving to the next third of the set?” You asked, your back towards your audience while you looked at your bandmates in earnest. They looked at each other, before locking eyes with you.

“Is there anything you want to work on? You’re the one who’s switching around with instruments and you’re the one who runs around on stage so we’ll leave it up to you.” Kuroo says evenly. You pursed your lips in uncertainty, think back to how each song sounded.

“Ya know what, let’s work on...........”

[ Besitos ] » Kuroo’s Route

[ Brick By Boring Brick ] » Terushima’s Route

[ Growing Pains ] » Makki’s Route.

BONUS: Terushima’s Starbucks order.

[fmdjaewonarchive]

► agree.

date(s): july 2020 - february 2021 mentions of: champion members, unity members (samsoo, yul & sunghee mentioned by name but like... blink and you’ll miss it)  word count: +/- 2.3k words (870w lyrics/660 words composition/740 words production) warnings: mentions of anxiety, panic attacks and car accidents details: full lyrics and full composition verification for agree, 3/3 verifications for jaewon’s upcoming album escapism. jaewon doesn’t only know how to write sad boi music, he also writes angry boi music, the only two emotions he’s ever experienced rlly. (a/n: i lost my braincells within the first 100 words and still haven’t retrieved them, read at your own discretion)

the song is born out of frustration, anger blocking up his throat to the point it feels hard to breathe.

it’s the kick-off point of champion’s world tour, a concept that has jaewon disgruntled enough as it is, snatching him away from unity and dropping him in the states like he is supposed to care about this group, like he doesn’t have better things to worry about.

but alas that’s beside his point, as much as he detests the idea behind champion, it’s not his main source of frustration.

traveling out to the states, that part is hell. now jaewon has never been a huge fan of traveling, suffering from a crippling fear of flying ever since predebut that somehow has not gotten any less severe with the sheer amount of flying all over the place unity has been doing. jaewon also absolutely hates airports, they’re too crowded, too hectic and far too stressful to not immediately put him in a godawful mood.

the cameras shoved right into his face both prior to departure and directly after arrival definitely didn't help.

comparatively, champion’s trip to the states this time hadn’t been that bad. jaewon just happens to be in an extra foul mood today but rationally, he has to admit that he’s seen far worse throughout the years.

but maybe that’s exactly the problem, how common these things have become, that getting pushed and pulled at while trying to get on flight was considered to be mild.

jaewon’s frustration isn’t solely aimed at an isolated instance, it’s at the ridiculous standard that’s been set for idols, the things they have to accept like they are normal.

normally he would call soo to complain about whatever was bothering him but with the time difference, jaewon knew his boyfriend was ought to be asleep at this hour and he definitely wasn’t waking him up for something this minor.

he even humors the thought of perhaps finding sunghee or yul to complain to but with most of champion out for the night doing whatever (admittedly, jaewon didn’t listen when they were making plans, he wasn’t gonna tag along anyway) that isn’t really in the cards either. perhaps that’s for the best, jaewon isn’t the biggest fan of actually talking to the younger unity members about what was on his mind.

either way, jaewon is stuck in a hotelroom by himself, no one around to really vent his frustration too so instead, he might just as well write it all down.

and that’s exactly what he does, settling down at the desk in his hotelroom, scribbling on a notepad randomly found laying around.

on the plane the person in the seat next to me that’s not my fan apparently buying info off the airplane company

it’s not entirely relevant to what happened at the airport earlier but jaewon feels angry all over just thinking about it. unity has had it’s fair share of experiences with saesangs, seemingly only increasing the more popular they keep getting. sure, that makes sense but it doesn’t mean it’s okay, contrary to what dimensions seem to believe with how easily the company brushes it off under the pretense of it just being another part of the job.

at the airplane lounge there’s a war between the 200 mm guns privacy, panic disorder, they barter with one another...

in the first place, jaewon’s main concern is unity, it always is. he’s willing to put up with a lot if it means the younger members are left off the hook. but he has to admit, since the panic attacks have started to become more prevalent, it’s a lot harder to take that stance. it’s hard to take care of others when he fails to take care of himself.

jaewon tries not to think about what that means for his position as a leader.

from early morning put on a mask and fight on in short, call it being a puppet...

jaewon knows he’s not an ideal idol, he’s never been and he never will be. maybe in retrospect, he would have done things differently but there is no use in considering those what-ifs now. there is, however, no denying that all of it is just a bigger struggle with him, it will never go as easily as with people who were made to stand in front of the camera’s. why shouldn’t he get to be open and honest about that? he’s not the perfect idol they want him to be, he will never fit that mold.

i know, that’s right that’s right that’s right that’s right that’s right that’s right i know that’s right that’s right that’s right

written out, the chorus feels a bit silly, but jaewon feels justified in his creative choices. not that the song is ever going to be used for anything, it’s just an attest to his frustration. jaewon knows he’s ought to sit down and silently accept whatever is expected of him.

it’s been years since he’s been his own person. these days, he’s dimensions’ property first and that of the general public second, there is no use in fighting that, no space for his voice.

so sure, whatever, he agrees, what else can he do?

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

jaewon forgets about the lyrics he’s written down after that.

in the moment there had been no intention to turn them into a full-fledged song, a haphazard combination of lyrics that in their raw form, probably held very little meaning, too much filler between the few parts that he did properly think through.

so jaewon forgets all about it before he even sets foot back in korea again. unity is busy enough, the release of neo zone lurking around the corner and with multiple schedules of his own, jaewon can’t even think about the song if he wants to.

it only comes drifting back into his consciousness at least a month of two having passed since champion’s american tour dates.

the day in itself isn’t anything special, if there is anything remarkable about it it’s the fact jaewon isn’t working for once. he’s just hanging around his and samsoo’s apartment, scrolling through whatever app on his phone keeps his attention for long enough.

until an article pops up.

it’s a news post about a rookie group he’s never heard of from a company he doesn’t know the name of, it has nothing to do with him, but he finds himself reading through it anyway. apparently, they got into an accident on their way home from schedules as they were being followed by saesangs. no one got injured and truly, it’s not the first time jaewon has read news like this but it does fill him with the same sense of anger as what he had experienced that first day in the states with champion.

because this type of news shouldn’t be common, for how long are people gonna pretend it is?

maybe he should finish that damn song.

wait does he even still have the lyrics?

jaewon vaguely remembers at the very least putting the sheet of paper in his backpack after the concert as he had been packing up to move to the next city of their tour but after that, he can’t say he recalls having seen it lay around.

he’s really ought to get more orderly with his drafts.

luckily for him, jaewon does find the sheet of paper, not in his bag but shoved in between the pages of a notebook and with the draft of his lyrics obtained he makes a beeline for his home studio. normally he’d do this stuff at the company headquarters but truly, that sounds like far too much work in the moment.

obviously, the song is meant to have an angry undertone to it, supposed to convey the same anger and frustration that swallowed jaewon whole as he had written the lyrics.

the deep, resonating boom of low brass sounds for the opening of the song are a no brainer, the sound gives a bombastic, ominous vibe, immediately setting the song off on the right note. it’s supposed to sound grande and honestly a little bit intimidating, a dark feeling creeping around the corners.

of course, the sound is far too theatrical to be underlaying to the entire song so jaewon alternates it with a deep, booming bassline, the brass only reappearing right before the chorus other than in the opening section as if to give off a warning. to fill up the verses and the parts in between, jaewon adds rumbling, deep drums in the background, making them feel less empty.

what really makes the song however is the rapidly-cycling electronic stuttering a rhythmic pattern across almost all parts of the song. it feels a little distracting at first before jaewon decides that really, that’s exactly what he’s going for. the melody feels just a little too fast, uncomfortably so and in a song reflecting so much stress and strain, that only feels fair, reflectives of the way his chest tightens up when he can’t breathe, when his hands tremble and his heart beats so fast it might as well make him sick.

jaewon thinks it conveys his frustrations pretty damn well.

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

it doesn’t seem in the books for the song to ever be released until the process of selecting songs for escapism comes along. while jaewon regains some of his creative freedom, most of it had been under dimensions terms, leaving it up to them to shape the album in a way they prefer over his creative vision.

until somewhere near the end of completing the track list, the head producer asks jaewon if he has any songs laying around that could fit in with the rest of the album.

‘agree’ is the first thing to come to mind.

the head producer seems to like the songs, enough to approve it at least and jaewon can’t help but feel a flare of pride. the producer seems intent on leaving the creative process in his hands, letting him handle the production.

it makes ‘agree’ the first song ever that’s entirely his own that he gets to release, it feels like a milestone to jaewon.

he does get a little list of suggestions, mainly pertaining to the lyrics. the producer leaves a few remarks here and there about where lines could be stronger, what he would do differently but all of it are very loose recommendations, jaewon isn’t actually under an obligation to do anything with them.

in the end, he does anyway, shuffles some lyrics around, dares to be a bit more assertive in his wording, right onto the border of what he would consider too gloat-y for himself. but the producer is right, it gets to pack a punch, it gets to be a little bit self-important. somehow having the external confirmation makes it easier to write those lyrics without feeling like a fraud. it’s still his, his writing, his song.

with the last tweaks done they’re quick to get to recording. they’re still on a time crunch as jaewon’s manager reminds him (jaewon likes the man well enough but dear lord would he never let him forget). it's one of the last songs on the album to be recorded after all and at this point, they are cutting it close.

with everything else he needs done, all jaewon has left to do is fine tune the song, the last tweaks and sounds to be added like missing puzzle pieces now he has the bigger picture pretty much laid out in front of him, polishing and detailing it to elevate the song worth of something to be released on an album.

the instrumental is already pretty hectic, fully intentional of course, but with a proper, clear recording it’s easier to spot the empty gaps, spaces to add the last finishing touches. he adds more brass, less grande and dramatic than the ones in the pre-chorus, curling around the edges of the chorus to round them up neatly and as if to scale down again for the verses, still fast paced but somewhat a breath of fresh air between one chorus and the other.

he delays the part at the opening before the brass and bass kick in, a silence before the storm feels even if the hyperactive stuttering beat is already there, he considers taking that out at first too but the point kind of is that it is more or less omnipresent, it’s always there even when there is nothing else much, like the anxiety that feels permanently stuck to his head.

there is also the addition of an extra melodic line, lingering behind that main, slightly headache inducing electronic synth. it doesn’t really stand out, especially not compared to it’s main competitor but it does remain prevalent in the few parts the main instrumental motif is nowhere to be found, giving it small moments to shine. it serves a clear function, or to jaewon listening ear at least (maybe he’s overanalyzing at this point). the little bounces of the electronic beat all over the place keep up the pace of the song, making sure its explosive nature prevails over the dark dreary undertones of the bassline and brass sections, giving it an overall dynamic feel.

it takes some fiddling, jaewon pulls something close to an all-nighter to finish up the song with the sheer amount of detail he ends up focussing on but by the time he sends it in, he has a good feeling about it at least.

when he presents the final product to the head producer, there are no more suggestions. it’s good, and it’s all his own work.

[kitchmbrs]

hello      ,      babies         !         my   names   peach         &         this   is   my   baby   kit.      i’m  super   excited   for   this   group   bc   i   love   lil   oc   celeb   things   so   i’m   happy   to   be   here         !         below   you   can   read   a   little   about   kit         &         give   this   a   like     for  me   to   come   bother   you   for   some   plots         !

oh   my   god   !   @kitchmbrs   just   liked   my   tweet   !   you   know   ,   they’re   the   singer   with   7.5m   followers   ?   i   can’t   believe   they   noticed   me   .      seriously   ?   you’ve   never   heard   of   them   ?   what   …   are   you   living   under   a   rock   ?   they’re   christopher   ‘kit’   chambers   ,   and   they’re   twenty-three   .   i’ve   never   met   them   ,   but   the   tabloids   all   say   that   they’re   charming   and   outspoken   .   it’s   kind   of   sad   ,   though   .   ever   since   they   moved   to   downtown   los   angeles   from   australia   ,   they’ve   become   really   devious   and   crass   .   some   say   that   lust   has   become   them   .   i’m   not   sure   if   i   believe   that   .   there’s   more   than   what   meets   the   eye   ,   right   ?   they’re   more   than   just   leaving   the   club   with   a   new   person   every   weekend   ,   late   nights   writing   songs   ,   &   flashy   instagram   posts   ,   i   know   it   !

𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙨.

full name  :  christopher  joseph  chambers

nicknames  :  kit  ,  cj   (   family   )

age  :  twenty  -  three

birthday  :  august  9th  (   leo   )

orientation  :  band  member  -  lead  singer   /   rhythm  guitarist.

hometown  :  sydney  ,  australia

orientation  :  bisexual  ,  biromatic

vice  :  lust

𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚.

height  : 6′4″

hair color  :  blonde

eye color  :  blue

tattoos :  left  sleeve  rose  piece  (  reference   )

piercings  :  previous  snakebites  ,  removed

𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙. triggers include  :  death  /  car accident  ,  drug use  ,  divorce  ,  abandonment. 

solely goes by kit chambers.  is one of those celebs that you don’t realize go by a nickname.  but definitely will not answer to christopher  &  doesn’t introduce himself as such.  really only ones that can call him christopher are his band mates.  also occasionally gets called cj but isn’t a big fan of the name.  so.  just kit  ! 

hails from sydney  ,  australia.  born to a small family that didn’t have a lot.  dad worked during the day and mom worked at night so kit never really saw much of either of them until the weekend.  spent most of his time with his older sister. she was 100% his best friend.  was a relatively well behaved child.  got along with most people. didn’t get into too much trouble  ,  though there were a few detentions here and there. 

trigger   ///   high school is when things got a little rough for kit.  his parents were going through a hard time  &  when he was a freshman  ,  they filed for divorce.  he leaned a lot on his older sister who had just started college.  his family wasn’t exactly the closest knit system  ,  but as he began to go between mom  &  dads house it got a little difficult for him.  

trigger heavy   ///   when he felt like he finally had a good system  ,  he got a phone call one night that his sister had been in a car accident  &  within the next 24 hours she had passed away. sixteen year old kit had his word rocked because his sister was his biggest support system.  he had a super hard time coping  &  relied heavily on the support of his three childhood best friends.

within the next two years  ,  they formed a band because music was the one thing that made kit feel better.  his sister had taught him guitar  ,  keyboard  ,  and they would always sing together  &  diving into music made him feel closer to her again.  together  ,  the band decided that they actually wanted to try to do this professionally.  started off making little youtube videos on their own  &  eventually decided that they needed to make a big decision if they were going to get big.  

together  ,  the four boys moved out to la.  it was definitely on a whim  ,  but with the traction that they already had  ,  they quickly made a name for themselves.  they’re definitely still growing  ,  especially with the recent release of their new album.

with fame came a lot of changes in kits personality.  it happened pretty fast for him  &  he definitely is enjoying the luxuries that he has with being famous.  his band mates are really the only ones that know the real him  ,  not that he’s changed that horrifically  ,  but he’s definitely letting fame get to him without really knowing.

𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮. triggers include  :  none.

comes off as an asshole initially.  isn’t one  ,  is just blunt and isn’t afraid to speak up.  managers try to keep his image clean so he usually lets his bandmates speak up before he does to avoid painting himself as a jerk. 

a bit of a trouble maker  !  loves to get into things he shouldn’t be into.  loves to make messes.  loves to get into any kind of trouble that he can without being caught by cameras.  has definitely had to pay off some people to cover up things like bar fights and so forth.

has a pretty decent sense of humor and loves anyone he can laugh with. isn’t exactly the class clown of the group  ,  but will always slip in a little joke here or there if it comes to his head.

a cuddly boy  !  but only once you get to know him. takes a while for him to open up but once he does  ,  you’ll have this entire 6′4 body sprawled over top of you and he will just sleep there.  loves body contact and feels more comfortable sleeping next to someone than he does alone.

doesn’t not trust easily.  takes a lot of digging to really get to the real him.  is pretty trustworthy himself  ,  but doesn’t consider himself to be the confidant type because he doesn’t hold a lot of people very highly in his life.  if it doesn’t benefit him to speak up about your business  ,  he won’t. not much of a gossip but he’s not one to shit to about anyone he cares about. 

definitely sleeps around a bit.  tries to keep it hushed but it’s definitely hard to hush something that’s so obvious.  takes pleasure in getting what he wants  ,  not just related to sleeping around  ,  and isn’t one to hide that part of him. 

loves posting on social media and interacts with his fans a lot.  sometimes he’ll get his account taken away for a bit at a time because he’s sometimes a little too vocal about things he probably shouldn’t be. 

𝙚𝙭𝙩𝙧𝙖.

wanted connections. 

pinterest.

you can ask me for my discord if you’d rather plot there ! 

[jackshithere]

How would you describe each of the Rammstein members to someone who knew nothing about them?

Oh man… If we’re being honest, you don’t really start with the juicy bits (that keep making people come for more) if it’s someone who really doesn’t know anything about them. But I will try to make this as newbie-friendly as possible, and add enough simple details to maybe explain the level of fanatic adoration for them. (But I must admit that 1- this will be loooong as fuck and 2- I fangirl about them for their professionalism, so it won’t be as humorous as one might hope)

I’ll do a collection of posts later throughout the week tagged “Rammstein glossary” about each member, maybe get other blogs on board, but I’ll keep this exclusively newbie friendly, if a tad bit too long 

Ok, so, first things first. Facts you can gleam from any wikipedia, with a little introduction on the side.

There are 6 members of the band:

Till Lindemann - the singer, the poet and a professional pyromaniac

He’s an intimidating man, with tall frame and a build of a panzer tank. Till commands the stage with incredibly rich baritone voice and penchant for being set on fire, or carrying big ass flame throwers.

Matter of fact is he’s shy, introverted, doesn’t like being stared at (hence the fire, to distract from his form) and is a soft spoken, polite man - also, his speaking voice is much much softer and gentler. People generally find him fascinating for this paradoxical character.

Richard Z. Kruspe - the guitarist and founder of Rammstein

He is..how do I put this? The typical artist. Diva and control freak, plagued by doubt and striving for perfection, which all make for one hard man to work with. Richard is somewhat of a Tumblr’s sweetheart. He’s aware of those traits, and the most talkative of the group - especially about his mental health, and the problems he faced. Which means people often relate to him, and he’s genuinely a kind and engaging conversationalist, so there are a lot of his interviews to be found online.

Also, it helps that he’s easy on the eyes, let’s be real. Also, he’s a natural meme inducer. Everything that man does and say is meme-able as shit.

Paul Landers - the other guitarist

Always smiling and extraordinarily exuberant, he’s seen as the most approachable and somewhat of a goofball of the group, always up to some antics in the background. He’s the shortest and openly the silliest of the group, so Paul does sometimes get a bit.. infantilized by some fans.

He’s got an unexpectedly rich singing voice, and he’s probably a bit of a control freak himself. For a guy that talks a lot, he doesn’t share personal details as often as Richard, so he’s also somewhat of an unexplored entity. He used to be in a previously successful punk band “Feeling B” with Flake

Christian “Flake” (fla-keh) Lorenz - the keyboardist

This is all you need to know about him. Joking. He’s extremely tall, lanky and born with a soul of a cranky old man. He was with Paul in the previously mentioned band.

He’s.. how do I describe him.. I think he’s the only member you have to go anecdotal to explain him. When they play live, he has a treadmill that he paces on during the entire concert because he gets bored easily. Flake has this sort of… interpretive giraffe-being-tazed-by-electric-fence dance that he does. He’s …somehow he’s the craziest of the group, I really have no vanilla explanation for him. If you get into Rammstein, you’ll get it.

Oliver Riedel - bassist

True to the stereotype about bassists, he’s tall as fuck, quiet and people forget he exists most of the time. Ollie is the youngest of them all, extremely private, and generally a sweetheart. There really isn’t a lot to be said about him - he’s the outdoors-y, athletic type and he also joins in on Paul and Schneider’s antics.

That’s how you do proper crowd surfing

Christoph “Doom” Schneider - the drummer

The sassiest of the bunch. I would categorize him as an extrovert, but a very well contained one. He prefers being called by his last name, though the Doom nickname came from the time he needed a name for the German copyright agency (Christoph Schneider is like John Smith of Germany), and he was suggested by Paul to use Doom, because they like the game. Incredibly confident, but also quite silly man.

In one video, he was dressed as a woman - often referred to as Frau Schneider - and he did it so well (uptight mannerisms, pursed lips, sitting posture that would bring Petunia Dudley to tears all packed in a shockingly beautiful face - I mean, look at him!) that it’s now a part of the live show for him to appear with make up and a wig.

Now, the band, Rammstein.Let’s skip the things you’ll find out from a quick read through of wikipedia, like the name, when they were founded, and all that, instead let’s go for:

What genre are they even?

What songs would you recommend a first time listener?

Why are they so well liked?

What’s so special about them?

The debate about the genre is still on going. You have people claiming they are metal band, you got the German Neue Deutsche Härte genre, you got… tons. Best way to describe, if you want to go for a solid genre label, is Alternative Hard Rock - because they are not really a metal band. But if you’re aiming for the heart of it, it’s Industrial. It’s “abrasive and aggressive fusion of rock and electronic music, with a side dash of punk”. More on their style later.

For a newbie, you got different types:

Not a fan of metal or hard rock at all - If you want to go for easier sounds, where Till’s vocal’s are more prominent, and the instruments are not as aggressively in your face, I recommend Amour for an easy introduction to his vocal style, Ohne Dich, Rosenrot and then Seemann and Mutter

Preferes rock to metal - Amerika, Mein Land, Ich Will

Fine with metal, but generally sticks to upbeat songs - Ich Tu Dir Weh, Weisses Fleisch, Haifisch and Du Riechst So Gut

Open to metal, but prefers the gothic or more alternative genres - Mein Herz Brennt, Engel, Rammstein 

Metal (take it with a grain of salt, not everyone would call it metal, but the sound is hardest in these) - Mann Gegen Mann, Mein Teil and …Benzin? hesitant on the last one

Of course, this is purely my suggestion, and some won’t agree with this classification, but I think it’s a solid introduction to them. Also if you can convince a friend not to watch the video until they hear the song first, I think that would make it somewhat easier to get them into it (because hey, you made them listen to it twice, and they are watching a video so not as focused and they’ll get int— is it obvious that I forced 3 friends to do exactly that and that’s how I got them all into Rammstein?)

This is getting so long at this point, I am putting more effort into this than into my college essays..Why are they so well liked? In short: Fire, Professionalism, Democracy, Music and Controversy1) Fire. “Other bands play, Rammstein burns!“

 Ok, not just fire. Though it’s pretty cool.

2) The ultimate professionalism. I am not kidding when I say that giant, well planned Broadway Musicals pale in comparison to the sheer perfection and amount of panache they put in their live gigs.

It’s considered that it should be on everyone’s bucket list to see Rammstein live at least once. 

I don’t want to stereotype Germans and working like machines, but what makes Rammstein so good, is that they really stick to that stereotype where everything is a perfectly executed machine with no space for fucking around. 

3) Democracy. This influences the professionalism part in the sense that, since all the members of the band have an equal amount of vote over what gets done and how, it means that they all criticize each other’s ideas until they find the middle ground. That middle ground is how they kept their specific genre, while managing to churn out wonderful after wonderful album (I am being very biased here, I just really like every single album, all for different reasons), all with a firm idea of what Rammstein is for all of them

4) Lyrics

First of all, about the lyrics - they are all written by Till. Yet on all songs, credits go to all the members, because everyone gets an input. It really cannot be understated how much of a group project this is. It’s a democratic band where everyone holds the same weight. 

My personal favourite ones are Dalai Lama and Klavier. I am sucker for story telling songs and the words he uses are so perfectly chosen! The first one is a twist on Goethe’s poem while the second one is a very dark love song.

5) Controversy

Since this has gotten embarrassingly long, let me say this in shortest way possible: Some people like provocative, others abhor it and together when they argue they market Rammstein like no other. Rammstein has been blamed like any other metal band for school shootings, Nazi imagery, promoting physically abusive relationships, inciting youths to unlawful/harmful behavior etc. while doing none of that.

But in general, Rammstein has a wonderful attitude of “Interpret out lyrics anyway you want to, we just draw the line at being called Nazis.” and they usually make a point of just telling a story/ presenting a song whose lyrics and/or video are but an element to the entire thing.

Oh my god, I finally scrolled up to check if I answered everything, and you didn’t even ask for all the rest, I just kept spewing on and on D:Sorry!Once I start about Rammstein, I keep going on and on and on. I hope that at least was a good enough introduction, I’ll do those little glossaries with in jokes and fun facts later, as I promised all the way at the beginning

[challengerbmxmag]

Sam Waller Interview

Sam Waller co-runs, the UK based Central Library, “a shop in the North West of England that sells zines, DVDs and other interesting bits and pieces.” He’s also part of the current resurgence of quality independent BMX media with his Red Steps magazine. In addition to that he finds the time to contribute to Challenger with his quarterly column, ‘Notes From A Fancy Island’ and of course, ride. And, when you talk to Sam, you can tell that riding reigns supreme.

Sam and I email back and forth fairly often because of the column but also about other random stuff like old spots, concrete skateparks, music, etc. It’s fun to email with Sam so I figured it would also be fun to ask Sam some more in-depth questions. Hit the link below for the full interview.

All photos by Gaz Hunt. Thanks, Gaz!

I know you live in Manchester, England now but where did you grow up and what is your BMX origin story? I grew up in the complete middle of nowhere in a place called Colton in the south of the Lake District. Whilst the countryside in film and television is often shown as a tranquil, quaint place, the reality is a fair bit different, and Colton in particular seemed like a hotbed for strange stuff going on. Only recently a large farmhouse was burned down by a wild woman who owned loads of pigs. She was exiled from the county, but the pigs remained to cause havoc.

Anyway, my older brother has played guitar since he was six or seven, but as I was a useless at it and couldn’t get my hands to move properly, I felt obliged to find a similar all-encompassing past-time.

I was mad on Formula 1 racing for a while (thoughts go out to the Schumacher family), and I went to a karate lesson once (a hobby quickly scrapped after the whole hour was spent being taught how to bow honourably), but up until the age of 12 or 13 it just felt like I was dawdling about.

All of this changed when, for some reason I’m not entirely sure of, me and my friends decided to make some jumps and drops and stuff to ride on our mountain bikes in some woods near a dual carriageway.

One of my friends knew some older lads from nearby who had proper bikes and Little Devil hoodies, so I think they must have planted the seed of raditude with him, but I think at that time I was just happy to be out the house and not playing Tekken 2. We later found out that the woodland we’d chosen was a popular dogging site frequented by truck drivers (I'm not sure if 'dogging' exists in America - maybe look it up), and quickly moved our spades and everything into another forest. By that point the damage was done and my mind was snagged.

After a bit of bouncing about on a mountain bike, I then splashed out on a second hand Standard that someone had painted post-box red, affixed some stunt nubs and never looked back (or lookbacked, for that matter).

The nearby town of Ulverston had a pretty big riding and skating scene, but thinking now about us lot trying to lay down ‘street style’ in this small historic market town, we may as well have been the Jamaican bobsleigh team — the rough ledges were strictly for stalls, and the closest thing to a flatbank was a grass verge round the back of a Texaco garage.

What were some of your biggest inspirations as a kid and what about now? I always think about how the 16 year old me would probably make fun of some of the things I'm into now. Is that the case with you at all? Apart from the receding hairline and the slight increase in responsibilities, I think I’ve stayed pretty much exactly the same since I was 16. Back then I think my favourite film was probably Natural Born Killers, and my favourite album was maybe something like Bad Moon Rising by Sonic Youth. Whilst I’ve maybe expanded my interests a little, I’ve pretty much been in a rut since then.

I’m not into memes or internet humour in the slightest, but I remember someone once showing me a video of a wrestling fan in America crying and shouting, “It’s still real to me, dammit.” That’s how I feel about a lot of things I was into back then. A lot of people who I went to school with moved on from being into music and films and pissing around on bikes, whilst I’m still snagged on it all, listening to The Minutemen and wearing check shirts. It’s pretty stupid really.

What's The Fancy Island? Good question. Just next to Strangeways prison and only a mere stone’s throw from Manchester’s slick centre, lies a true rat-pit of questionable activity. I’ve seen loads of stuff happen here, such as an aggressive man chase a prostitute with a two-by-four and a creep lying in an alley trying to lure small boys into his lair.

In amongst all this, there’s loads of naff wholesale shops that sell everything from low-end Halloween costumes to fake Air Jordans made out of cardboard and fuzzy felt. All these shops have mad names like EEZZEE and Vibe Centre.

Getting to the point now, coming up with titles for things is pretty difficult, so a few years ago when I was cobbling together a zine, I nicked the name Urban Mist from one of these shops, and then, when I went to set up a Tumblr during the carefree pre-Instragram era, I nabbed ‘Fancy Island’ from a similar establishment.

I think Fancy Island has closed down now, but it’s no doubt been replaced with yet another shop with a daft name selling cheap batteries and t-shirts with swear words on the front.

Whilst I’m explaining names, I’ll state that Red Steps is a classic spot in Manchester that I ride past on my way to work every day. It boasts a rusty, needle-thin flatrail, a few small stair-sets (that are indeed red) and a large flow of gormless students to crash into. I’m not too sure why I named a magazine after it, but it just struck me as a funny name for a spot and I was struggling to think of anything else.

One thing I struggle with is balancing how to take BMX seriously while balancing a sense of humor about it as well; i.e. it's pretty goofy but is also this amazing vehicle for new experiences, ideas, and a pretty incredible community. Do you ever think about this? Like with most things in life (except crucial necessities like eating and breathing), riding bikes is pretty stupid and abstract if you try and think about it too hard. That said, I don’t see why bike riding should look goofy (apart from actual goofy-footed grinding - as a self-confessed goofy grinder myself I’ve got a lot of time for George D, Ralph and Dave McDermott) — riding is loads better than pretty much all other activities, but it’s constantly being made to look daft, when it could so easily look dope.

I think to stay juiced and not turn sour, you’ve got to completely ignore most things going on with riding and stick firmly to the bits that you like. I treat riding like music or films or anything else. In the same way I don’t go to the cinema to watch big summer blockbusters, I don’t spend my free time watching Corey Martinez edits or endless hours of footage from some zany mega-comp.

I’m a simple man. As far as riding is concerned, I like smith grinds, bottles of Heineken, Galaxy chocolate, black and white photos, sitting on benches and talking complete nonsense. The rest of it is irrelevant to me.

I constantly hear/read people complain about the lack of BMX magazines but there's so much cool stuff being printed right now. We've discussed this in email a bit but it seems weird that people are complaining. It's almost like people just have an idea of what they think a magazine should be and if it doesn't have look or read a certain way they are just confused. How do you feel about all of this? A solid group of people do buy things and support these independent projects and whatnot, but I think it’ll take a while for the loud-mouthed Instagram warlords to come to terms with the fact that the new magazines around might have different names to the ones they used to subscribe to 15 years ago. I suppose it’s maybe easier to talk about the lack of magazines out there than actually go to the effort of seeking them out, but having said that, it’s not exactly hard to find stuff these days.

I remember years ago hunting down anything beyond Dig or Ride was an absolute hassle involving a lot of e-mail mither and blind faith - but now with yourself, Berks St. and 90East stocking interesting stuff in America, me and Clarky doing Central Library over here and the newly formulated Wiretap down under, it’s easier than ever for anyone to get their hands on zines and DVDs and all that.

The new stuff that’s coming out now is ten times better than Dig or Ride ever were anyway. Endless contest reports and dull bike checks have fallen by the wayside, and I haven’t seen a photo of Jimmy Levan’s zebra-print leggings in years. Things are really looking up.

What do you do for work? Thoughts on pursuing money via BMX and also what's the best job you've ever had? By day I work in an office writing stuff for a clothes shop. As you can imagine, trying to come up with an interesting way to talk about the 659th blue shirt you’ve seen this week can get a bit tough, but I can’t complain too much really. The office is fairly warm and there’s a kettle in the kitchen.

As for pursuing ‘serious wonga’ via riding, I’m one step ahead of you. Central Library has just received big investment from Duncan Bannatyne and Deborah Meaden (of Dragon’s Den fame), meaning we’re finally able to stock all those bizarre Caramac-coloured tyres that real bike shops seem to stock. We’re also expanding our print line to offer crime fiction and the Goosebumps novels. My main aim in life is to become one of those creepy industry characters who spends their time sniffing around young and naïve talent in the hopes of flogging a few ‘dad caps’.

My finest job was probably working for my dad in the family trade of dry stone walling (which explains my surname). I’m not sure if dry stone walls exist in America, but they’re those fairly humble looking stone walls you see dividing up the fields and forests around the English countryside.

Anyway, building them isn’t too bad as far as manual labour goes. When it’s raining and you’re miles up some hill wallowing in the mud lugging big stones around with nothing more for lunch than a chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle and a Penguin biscuit, then it’s a little miserable – but on a good day when the sun is shining and you’re working with ‘good stone’, it’s hard to beat.

The best days were when my dad would fall asleep just a few minutes before the end of the lunch hour, basically extending the break for at least another 45 minutes. Thinking about this job now, I’m not sure why I ever gave it up.

Do you have any other hobbies besides riding? Yeah, but I’d say the lines were pretty blurred. This is maybe a pretty boring answer, but I suppose riding lends itself to other hobbies pretty well. I might be wrong, but I don’t think keen swimmers or budding javelin-throwers get into photography or making videos in quite the same way. It’s sort of like the ‘pillars of hip-hop’ or something – riding, taking pictures, messing round with video stuff and generally snooping around all fits together nicely (or at least it does in my peppered mind).

It’s not like I’m slipping on my Etnies t-shirt for my weekly two hour power sesh and then the next night I’m wearing some short-shorts down at the climbing wall. Even when I’m on holiday with my wife, I’m still just snooping around the same way - we’re not buying tickets for some naff rollercoaster or dining out at exclusive restaurants with Abe Froman.

Are you able to take time off of riding and not feel like you're missing out or feel guilty? I have one friend who really goes in on the guilt tripping if I don't ride. Related: You said you like sitting on benches. Can you do that on a nice day? At the age of 28, I’d like to feel like I can just about deal with a few missed sessions. Obviously I still need a comprehensive run down of spots seshed and feats accomplished when I’m away, but it’d be mad if I was out all the time. The human body can’t handle that much raditude.

Fear of things going un-photographed does creep in sometimes, but Clarky will have filmed it anyway, and Gaz and Wozzy are better photographers than me, so if they’re about then hopefully someone caught the action.

Moving onto the subject of benches, these babies really come into play during my dinner break at work. I get on fine with everyone there, but when the clock strikes twelve I’m not going to be sat in the office spilling reheated chilli over my keyboard… I’m straight out into the city centre on full sit-off mode – hopefully getting into some daft conversation with one of Manchester’s many vagabonds.

A few months ago I was sat in town when I was approached by a fairly scruffy gentleman who was bleeding loads from his forehead after someone kneed him in the skull. The rest of my lunch break was spent trying to sort him out a bit. One meal deal, some wet wipes and a pack of king-skins later, he seemed alright. You don’t get these hijinks sat inside all day.  

I was just thumbing through the new Red Steps (nice job) and I just realized how much I enjoy your interviews -- what is it that you like about interviews? Not trying to stroke the ego here but you are really good at it... Cheers. Any ego strokes are much appreciated. This maybe sounds a bit daft, but I want to know everything. This is probably evident to the people who know me, but I’m a complete mither, completely hassling everyone with questions all the time.

This pesky nature extends into everything, meaning that I spend a lot of time reading a lot of interviews about the things that I’m into. I buy a lot of old copies of magazines like Wire, Ray Gun and Sidewalk on eBay, and even though the interviews contained within those pages might have been conducted in the corner of a pub maybe 25 years ago, they’re still worth reading today.

A proper interview with a little intro and some photos laid out nicely on a page… it’s mint – it’s a finished thing – sort of like a well-edited video or something. I know a lot of people are into ‘podcasts’ these days, and that’s fair enough, but to me – they’re not complete enough. I don’t want to hear people say ‘um’ and ‘err’ all the time, and I want something sick to look at (and by that, I don’t mean a load of pundits sat around a table with headphones on).  

I’m going to rattle on here whilst I’ve got the chance. Anyone reading this who gets the opportunity to answer questions for an interview, a ‘bike check’ or anything else…don’t just write a lazy sentence for each answer – go mad. Tell some funny stories. Or if you’ve got nothing to say, just make something up. No one cares about how responsive your headtube angle is or how you ‘usually just cut the bars down’. This could be your only chance to air your thoughts into the wider world, and you’re going on about what PSI you put in your tyres? COME ON PLEASE TRY HARDER YOU BORING GIMPS.

(above) Spread from Sam’s zine, Latvia Photos. (below) Cover of Sam’s zine, Around Town.

You also make photo zines/books not related to riding. Do you have any high art aspirations with this stuff? No real aspirations I’m afraid. Wine gives me bad heartburn, so I generally try and swerve anything resembling a gallery opening schmooze-off. As I was sort of saying before, making photo zines is just an extension of everything else. I like taking photographs, so it makes sense to put them together. It’s all pretty small-time really – it’s not like I’m getting thousands printed.

To be honest, it’s all a complete faff that I could easily avoid by not bothering and just sitting around watching American power-dramas, but it’s good to have stuff to look back on – even if it’s just a 40 page zine that nine people will see.

Crouching under a tattered old curtain processing rolls of film every night whilst being mithered by my cat isn’t particularly glamorous and I’d imagine there are probably easier ways to get cosy with the artistic elite.

What's your favorite slang word? Going back to my walling days, my dad uses some pretty intriguing slang terms. Unlike inner-city slang, which will usually be documented in music or useless BBC3 comedies, these more rustic words don’t get much recognition. I don't use these terms myself, but I certainly respect them. Here’s a few choice cuts…

“A few skins on the job” – a large workforce “Keitel” – a fairly humble work-jacket “Bait” – lunch “Bray it – hit it “Kessen” – when an unclipped sheep falls over onto its back and can’t get up due to its weight. This happens more often than you’d think.

You can buy scoop up a copy of Sam’s magazine, Red Steps, in the Challenger web shop here, look at the online shop, The Central Library, that Sam runs with Clarky here, and check out some of his other photo zines/books here.

[daggerzine]

The Dot comes before the Dash- the Danny Ingram interview.

You would see their names on the back of records, many for Washington’s DC’s Dischord label and you might see a photo every now and again, but don’t know much about them unless you were part of that scene (ie; see my previous interview with Chris Bald from a few years ago). Danny Ingram was another one of those names. I knew he’d been in some of the early Dischord bands (Youth Brigade, etc.) and knew he’d done a lot of other stuff but wasn’t exactly sure where, when or in what context (‘cept that I knew he’s a drummer). Fast forward to nearly a decade ago when I saw his name as drummer of a new Washington, DC combo named Dot Dash. Their guitarist/vocalist Terry Banks had been in some of my favorite indie pop combos, namely Tree Fort Angst and The Saturday People, so I knew I was gonna like this one (Hunter Bennett rounds out the trio on bass)! I’ve enjoyed all of their records, but this latest one, Proto Retro (released earlier this year on The Beautiful Music label) is really a special thing of beauty. Well-written rock-pop songs that are both heartfelt and fun (and catchy as hell). Back to Ingram though, he was one of the older punks on the DC scene and thus saw and heard a lot so grab your favorite beverage, your reading glasses and bathrobe and take a stroll both down memory lane and up ‘til the current day.

A man and his drums, 

 Were you born and raised in Washington, DC?

Yes – DC born and raised. Lived in SE DC until I was 12, then moved to Palisades (NW DC) where I met my life-long friend and future bandmate, Nathan Strejcek.

 At what age did you take up the drums?

I had a fascination with drums from an early age. I’d had a crush on my baby sitter, Irene, and her brother had a drum set. To impress her, I tried playing along with his Beatles records and such, even though my feet didn’t reach the pedal. It was a lost cause. But a dear family friend and neighbor in SE, Richard Spencer, nurtured my interest. I think he bought me my first drums. He played in Otis Redding’s band and achieved quite a bit of success with his own band the Winstons (he wrote the Grammy-winning song ‘color him father).  I was about 19 when I took up the drums in earnest – with the intention of being in a band. At the risk of repeating an oft-told story…I had gone to see the Clash at the Ontario theater and was hanging out in the narrow, upstairs ‘dressing room’ with the band and several other people. I was sharing a spliff and talking with Joe, Mick and (to a lesser extent because I had trouble understanding him) Paul. Joe asked if I played in a band – I told him I didn’t – but that my best friend did. He admonished me to get off the sidelines – to ‘do something – create something’ – and when Joe Strummer tells you to do something��well…you do it. Shortly thereafter I volunteered to join the Untouchables (their drummer, Richard, left for college). A few weeks after that we played our first show. This was probably in the fall of 1980.

 How did you come into contact with the Dischord Records folks? Were you a Wilson HS student as well? Yeah. I went to Wilson (briefly) and knew all the Dischord people before there was a record label (or a Teen Idles). Nathan and I were best friends and he, along with Ian and Jeff, started the label. We all grew up together and have been friends since early days.

 Do you remember the first person you ever met in the DC punk scene? What was your first punk show?

I was there at the outset and knew most-if not all-of the people before there was a scene, per se. I guess the first people I met who weren’t in our group of friends were Xyra and Cathy – they had a punk radio show at WGTB (Georgetown University radio) called Revolt into Style. Nathan and I used to sneak out of our houses and go down for their shows after our parents went to sleep. As for the first concert? Hard to say. I saw so many bands in those early days –one of the first was probably the Ramones in the fall of ’77. I worked at the Atlantis and at the 9:30 club when it first opened up – so I saw almost every show that came through the DC area for many years. Also, I was a smidge older…so coupled with my fake ID I was able to get into places like the Bayou as well.

Youth Brigade (Danny is 2nd from left)

 From what I know you’re a bit older than some of the other DC punks, were you there early enough to go to places like Madam’s Organ and the Hard Art Gallery?  (places I only know about from pictures, usually of the Bad Brains).

Tell me about how/when The Untouchables formed? Was that your first band?

…and please tell us about the origins of Youth Brigade?

I was born in 1961 – so it makes me a about a year older than Ian and Jeff and six months older than Nathan. I never really considered myself older. Now, Boyd and the guys in Black Market Baby were fucking old! Most of em born in the 50’s! J Seriously though – we were all roughly in the same age group – though I think Xyra (who was a bit older) referred to that initial scene (affectionately – not anatomically) as teeny punks or baby punks.  My first band was the Untouchables. As noted above, Richard had split and moved off to college. I was sitting at the Roy Rogers with Eddie, Alec and (I think) Bert as they lamented the loss of their drummer and the prospect of breaking up. I jokingly volunteered to take his place. They immediately said ‘yes’ despite my warnings that I’d never really played the drums. A few weeks later we played our first show. We hung together for almost a year before splitting up. After that was Youth Brigade. Nathan had been the singer of the Teen Idles – but when the band split, it seemed only natural that Nathan and I should start a band together. We’d been best friends for years and had very similar life arcs and musical tastes. We tried out a few guitarists (including Jason of 9353) and one other bassist (Greg) before finally settling on the line-up that most people know with Tom on Guitar and my old friend and former Untouchable mate, Bert on bass.  As for Madam’s Organ or Hard Art? I played at Madam’s Organ – and I was at the infamous Bad Brains show at Hard Art. I can’t remember if I ever played there…but it’s entirely possible. You would have to consult with Bert or Alec or someone whose memory isn’t a shambles.

 Madhouse backstage

Was Madhouse next? They were a bit different right? A darker sound.

I was in a few bands before Madhouse. I played in a band with Dave Byers and Toni Young (from Red C) called Peer Pressure. Tom Berard (scenester) also sang with the band for a while. We recorded a demo up in NY with the bad brains at 171A. We played a handful of shows but, like so many other bands of that era, split up and moved on to other projects.  I also played in a band called Social Suicide – great guys and a fun band (featured Joey A who went on to Holy Rollers). Also short lived – but we did record some songs for a local compilation ‘mixed nuts don’t crack’.  OH – I also briefly tried my hand at singing in a VERY short-lived band called black watch. This featured future members of madhouse (Brad Gladstone on bass and the mega-talented Norman van der Sluys on drums). The less said about this the better. Not because of the band – but because my singing can curdle milk at twenty paces.

I was starting to get a bit antsy with the way the DC scene was evolving – so my then girlfriend (Monica Richards) and I decided to start a band that was more rooted in post punk bands like killing joke, magazine and the monochrome set. That was how madhouse started. But unsurprisingly enough, there was no scene for this band, so we still played mostly punk and hardcore shows – but the direction we tried to take didn’t really sit well with a lot of new, burgeoning scene.  It seems, at least from afar, that you were willing to go in other directions musically (goth, etc.) whereas maybe some of your DC co-horts stuck to the punk rock thing. Would this be accurate? Did you get flack for it?

Yeah – I guess it was a bit gothy. Certainly, that was Monica’s m.o. I’ve always considered myself a punk – no matter what kind of band I played in. But this was definitely the beginning of stretching musical wings. And, yeah, we caught flack for it. But it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. Monica caught the most grief – and that is exactly why we both were getting put off by what the scene was turning into. I’ll just leave it at that. That said – my friends, the ones I’d known from the outset, were all cool. Otherwise I wouldn’t have spent some time drumming for Iron Cross with another life-long friend, Sab.

Strange Boutique (not ready to dine and (dot) dash) 

 Was Strange Boutique next? If so how/when did that band form and what was its history?

Yes – Strange Boutique (a name I copped from the Monochrome Set song/album) was next up. It was still Monica and me – but while Madhouse tried to straddle the punk scene with whatever it was we were trying to do – Strange Boutique basically said ‘fuck it’ and dove headfirst into what was certainly a more goth-punk-pop sound. The Chameleons, Siouxsie, Cure and bands of that ilk were really influencing us a lot and the quality of the band grew exponentially with the addition of Fred Smith and Steve Willett. -- I should pause here to note that I’ve lost a few friends and bandmates along the way – like Toni Young. But two hit particularly hard: Fred Smith – who was a true original. A crazy fucker. Much loved and much missed no matter how much trouble he got me into! And John Stabb – My brother in every sense of the word. Someone I loved until the end and who was a never-ending source of insanity, humor and energy. John and Fred were both unique spirits…and it’s just not the same without them.

Swervedriver- not huffin’ and puffin’ 

radioblue in black and white 

 Pardon my ignorance (I know it was some years) but was there anything between Strange Boutique and Dot Dash?

There were a few bands after Strange Boutique. I played in radioblue who, like strange boutique, were a band on the outside of the dc hardcore scene. They were more 60s-influenced indie pop (byrds, beatles, beach boys, buzzcocks). It led to drumming in a Mark Helm (a singer/guitarist in the band) project called Super 8 and playing on his solo album (on not lame records). I also started a band called King Mixer AGES ago with Steven Engel and James Lee (the bassist and singer/guitarist from radioblue). We still get together to this day, but it’s more like the monthly poker game: play some music, have dinner, hang out and catch up with old friends. We did put out a self-released CD years ago, but Dot Dash came along, and that has monopolized my time for the last seven years. I also played in Swervedriver for about a year, relocating to London for about ten months. It was an amazing experience. Adam Franklin (the singer / song writer) is the greatest musician I’ve ever played with. And as far as I am concerned Adam is in the pantheon of great song-writers of the last 40 years. Glad to still call him and my old swervie bandmates friends. A lifetime of memories crammed into a short period of time! When I moved back to DC from London at the end of 1992 I played in two more bands. The first was the criminally obscure UltraCherry Violet. They were definitely in the mold of swervedriver and some other favorites from that era. The band was Dugan Broadhurst and Dan Marx (who later played in king mixer). We played a handful of shows before I imploded. We got together a year after we split to record some songs for posterity – and those were ultimately released on Bedazzled records (a label I started while in strange boutique – but by now taken over by Steve Willett). There are a few songs on that CD that are among the things I’m most proud of as a musician.  I also played with my old running mates and brothers-in-arms John Stabb and Steve Hansgen (and Rob Frankel) in a band called Emma Peel. THAT was fun! We really clicked together musically – and we recorded a single on our good friend John Lisa’s label Tragic Life. The Avenging Punk Rock Godfathers! This web of connections is what led Steve to joining Dot Dash further down the road.  The last thing I did before Dot Dash was drumming in the legendary local mod band Modest Proposal, with old friends Neal Augenstein and Bill Crandall (who shortly thereafter was part of the original Dot Dash line-up). Steve Hansgen had played with Neal and Bill during an early incarnation – and he and I comprised the rhythm section for and MP reunion show.

Emma Peel (Danny is far right and that is the late, great John Stabb, 2nd from left) 

Do tell us about your current band Dot Dash? I think the records have been terrific. How did you meet Terry and Hunter?

Thanks for the kind words about the DD records. Right now, the band is a three-piece: me on drums, Terry Banks on vocals and guitar and Hunter Bennett on bass. Terry has been in almost as many bands as me – playing in a lot of indie-pop bands like Saturday People, Glo-Worm and Tree Fort Angst. Hunter was a veteran of the Stabb band among others.  I didn’t really know either of them before we started the band…but I knew of them from their previous band Julie Ocean (the band also had Jim Spellman of Velocity Girl on guitar/vocals and Alex Daniels from Swiz on drums). Julie Ocean released a great record on Transit of Venus – and they should have been huge. JO had planned to go on tour with a band called Magnetic Morning (that was my old friend Adam Franklin and Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino’s side-project), but drummer-Alex, bailed on the tour. So, that night at the Rock n Roll Hotel, Terry asked if I wanted to play drums in a new project with him and Hunter. I said yes – after consulting with my wife, Sally – but it actually took another six months or so to get rolling (I had already promised to do the Modest Proposal reunion). As it turned out, Jim was planning on leaving JO as well (taking a job in Colorado) – but when he came back he played briefly in Dot Dash (between Bill and Steve).  Dot Dash has been the most prolific band I’ve ever played with and the longest running active band. We’ve put out six CD’s on the Canadian label, The Beautiful Music. It’s run by an amazing guy – Wally Salem. I’m not sure that we would still be going without his love and support! Truthfully – I also do it for my kids (Noah 12 and Sam 16). I think it’s good to show them that you can do fun and creative things at any age. Sam has really taken it to heart. He’s been playing guitar since he was 10 and is already a better musician than I ever will be! He’s already formed and broken up his first band – and he filled in for Hunter (on bass) at one of our shows…picking up the songs with relative ease and aplomb. 

Almost forgot the Social Suicide pic (Danny’s the UK Subs fan)

What’s next for Dot Dash? Another record in the works? Maybe a tour?  I don’t know about touring. I think we would all love to do it – but because we all have demanding jobs, families and such – it makes it difficult to pick up and run off. That said, if the right opportunity presented itself (like going on a tour with a band we love) I think we would certainly consider it. We’ve been REALLY fortunate to play with some bands that have long been heroes/favorites: the Chameleons, Ash, Hugh Cornwell (of the Stranglers), the Monochrome Set, Stiff Little Fingers, the Dickies, DOA and so on – I think if any of them said ‘let’s do it’ we’d be packing our bags! As for another record? Well – we just released our sixth. And it is definitely the record I’m most proud of. Geoff Sanoff did an amazing job producing it – he also produces the Julie Ocean album – and it’s probably the best batch of songs Terry has written to-date.  We are always cranking out new songs – and already have a few in hand – but I think we want to enjoy the last release, Proto Retro, for a bit. 

Dot Dash with Sam on bass. 

What’s happening in Washington, DC these days musically? Any new bands we need to hear about? The great thing about DC is that it is like the Hydra of Lerna – every time a band breaks up, two new ones start up again! The scene has been regenerating for ages. And there are a lot of great bands still plugging away – The Messthetics with my old friend and Brendan Canty, Miss Lonelyhearts, Foxhall Stacks (with Jim Spellman), Nathan’s band the Delarcos, any band with Chris Moore (an epic drummer) such as the Rememberables or Coke Bust, Anna Connolly’s new project or the new project with Ian, Joe Lally and Amy Farina. Old or young – the scene here is still vibrant and vital.

 Any final thought? Closing comments? Anything you wanted to mention that I didn’t ask?

Obviously, most people know DC for the great music (bad brains, minor threat, fugazi, 9353, government issue, fire party, faith, rites of spring, tommy keene) – but to me, the best thing about it has been the friendships…which for me have been practically life-sustaining. You can’t have a great scene without great people – and to me the people I’ve known along the way simply are the best.

 BONUS QUESTION:  What are your top 10 desert island discs (I know some people don’t like when I ask this questions so I decided to put it as a bonus) Wow. Tough one. My top ten has about ten thousand records in it. So, it really is dependent on my mood at the time. I’ll try to throw it together…but if you ask on another day it might be a different batch. Because I’m old – I’m going to take the liberty of picking a baker’s dozen.  Adam and the Ants – Dirk Wears White Sox (original on Do It records) Art Ensemble of Chicago – Les Stances a Sophie J.S. Bach – Air on the G String Buzzcocks – Spiral Scratch ep (rip Pete Shelley) Chameleons – Script of the Bridge (or Strange Times) Miles Davis – ‘Round About Midnight Al Green – Greatest Hits Kinks – Something Else The La’s – The La’s  Punishment of Luxury – Laughing Academy Red Cross – Posh Boy ep Swervedriver – 99th Dream Zombies – Odyssey and Oracle

 www.dotdashdc.bandcamp.com

www.thebeautifulmusic.com 

(**all photos posted with permission from the Danny Ingram collection- if you took one of these please do let us know so we can credit. Thank you). 

Thank you very much Danny Ingram (from publisher/editor Tim)!

Dot Dash tearin’ down the house. 

[shireness-says]

Nobody’s Business

Summary: Life's a dream, but when it's time for the Lost Girls to put out a new album, everyone's got an opinion. Try as she might to ignore the interference, some days, Emma just can't deal with it. Rated T. ~2.3K. Also on AO3.

A/N: I’m back, with another installment of Maybe I Won’t Die Alone! Previous installments can be found here, here, and here (in order), or on AO3, and I definitely recommend you read those first. 

This one is beta’d, for the first time in this series, so huge thanks to @snidgetsafan! Thanks, babe!

Rated T for just a bit of mild language.

Tagging @kmomof4 and @shady-swan-jones since i know they’re particular fans of this verse. If folks ever want to be tagged in my stuff, let me know!

Without further ado, enjoy!

Killian is in the living room, keeping an eye on Wiley and trying to keep up with the boy’s active imagination when he hears the side door slam closed. He assumes it’s Emma; she’s been gone all day, and though it’s a bit earlier than she had anticipated returning, Killian is confident only his wife would enter the house with such a trademark lack of subtlety. She’d been out for a magazine interview today; with the upcoming release of the Lost Girls’ latest album, publicity was slowly ramping up, resulting in more and more engagements of this sort. Emma has never been wild about the publicity aspect of her job, far too private to enjoy talking to strangers about things that are none of their business. She had been more hopeful about the prospects of this interview - surely a respected music industry magazine would stick to the relevant content - but if the force of that door-slam is anything to go by, things didn’t go nearly as well as they both hoped.

“In here, love!” he calls, before turning back to their suddenly-excited toddler, who’s anxiously watching the doorway. “That’s right, lad, Mama’s home,” he says, before whispering conspiratorially, “Why don’t you go make her something?”

The previous week, Killian had ducked into a thrift store with Wiley after seeing a box of records through the window, and the little boy had discovered a plastic kitchen set that he immediately fell in love with. Killian hadn’t ended up leaving with any records - the box had been full of mostly amateur worship songs - but the play kitchen had wound up being purchased and loaded into the back to the car, immediately followed by a stop at the nearest toy store to purchase more plastic foods. Wiley had been enthusiastically “feeding” everyone ever since. No one particularly cares; it’s adorable, and besides, Killian’s read about how good imaginative play is for young minds. Hopefully, if Emma’s in a foul mood, one of Wiley’s pretend concoctions will cheer her up.

The woman herself appears moments later, stockinged toes on display after already removing her boots and face still covered in the thick makeup needed for the dramatic interview photographs. She looks exhausted, with more than just that bone-deep fatigue associated with raising a toddler; there’s an emotional fatigue as well that wasn’t present when she left the house that morning.

“Mama!” Wiley excitedly chirps, rushing her legs and managing to bring a smile to Emma’s face.

“Hey, little man,” she murmurs, bending down to drop a kiss on his chestnut curls. “I missed you.”

Wiley holds on for a moment longer, letting his mother love on him, before breaking his grip to rush back to his play set. “I made you something!”

As their son plates his latest creation - what appears to be the mound of peas, a disproportionate banana, and an egg - Killian catches his wife’s eye. “How’d it go?” he asks, only to receive a shake of the head in response. She may not want to talk about it right now, but Emma ought to know after all this time that he’ll coax it out of her, one way or another. Before he can begin, however, Wiley’s back with the plate for his mother’s inspection and appreciation, effectively allowing her to avoid the conversation.

Emma makes all the prerequisite munching noises as she pretends to eat their son’s hellish plastic concoction, causing the little boy to beam. “Very tasty, kiddo, thank you so much,” she replies, handing all the remains back.

Killian intervenes before Emma can find any more excuses to avoid whatever’s bothering her. “Hey buddy, why don’t you make a feast for all of your stuffed animals? Mama and I will just be in the other room.” Wiley barely hears him, already invested in whatever his brain is dreaming up next, but nods in that absent-minded way Killian could swear he picked up from Emma.

Emma rolls her eyes, but doesn’t resist when he leads them to the adjoining office. Killian isn’t quite sure why they both insist on keeping an office; it’s never used, more of just a place to keep a desk with a printer and some files. Killian strongly suspects that they have an office just because it feels like the thing to do - the kind of thing every picture-perfect family has in their picket-fence house with 1.8 kids and a dog. Emma’s been known to occasionally camp out in there to write, but its main appeal right now is the draw of a private, child-free space and a comfy chair.

“What’s wrong, love?” he asks, again, settling into the armchair as Emma remains standing, pacing with leftover energy and irritation. When she doesn’t answer immediately, he resorts to jokes, attempting to cheer her up. “Are we getting divorced again?” he asks, mock-seriously.  Every so often, a tabloid tries to claim that their marriage is disintegrating - a claim which amuses Killian and irritates Emma to no end. Usually, when he makes jokes about the situation and how ridiculous the very idea is, it can draw a reluctant smile out of Emma, but she seems beyond that point today, his attempt at humor only deepening the furrows in her brow.

“Hey, hey, darling, it was a joke. An awful one at that,” he soothes. Her pacing is starting to make him a little dizzy, so he pats his lap in an invitation to come sit. “Tell me, what happened? I know something has, or you wouldn’t be this upset.”

Huffing a sigh, Emma collapses into the chair next to him, leaning into his side and shoulder with her legs thrown perpendicularly across his. “I just want to help, love,” he murmurs into her hair, pressing a kiss into the blonde curls, only slightly put off by the unnatural hairspray scent and dry, plastered texture.

“I know,” she admits. “It’s just…” Sitting up straighter to better look him in the eye, she circles her arms around his neck before continuing. “It was just a bad day. One of those interviews where all the questions are awful, and then Mary Margaret called right afterwards, which didn’t help. I know, I’m probably overreacting, but… it just gets to me.”

“I know, Swan,” he murmurs, rocking her gently in the same way he does with Wiley. “I’m not blaming you. If you want to vent, I’m a willing ear, you know that.”

There’s silence for a long moment, only broken by Wiley chattering away to himself in the next room, before his love finally breaks and opens up. “I was looking forward to this, you know? I thought I’d get some good questions about the songwriting process or how we’ve evolved as a group or things like that. It’s a music magazine, for God’s sake, not some gossip rag. You expect the questions to be a little more in-depth.”

“Makes sense to me.”

“Yeah, well, clearly, it didn’t make sense to her. It just devolved into this whole conversation about being a working mother. You know I’m happy to talk about our kid, but that was the entire conversation. How did I feel now about  having such a demanding career that would take me away from my son? She said it like that too, like she was trying to guilt me. Not to mention, does she understand what I do? Arguably, I’ve got more flexibility in my career than most women! I write from home, I can bring him to the recording studio if I want, everything’s based out of London now so I don’t have to travel halfway around the world just to create a new record… For God’s sake, I can bring him with me on tour!” she explodes, pitch progressively rising, tossing her hands in the air in outrage. “We’ve already planned on it, both you and Wiley coming with me! I don’t have to be separated from my kid any more than millions of other women across the world, and in fact, probably less! But because I’m a ‘public figure’ —” Emma mimes air quotes around the last words, a sure sign of her irritation — “we’ve got to make it a whole big thing. And from a woman, at that! She, of all people, ought to know that I didn’t stop being my own person when we had Wiley! But no, she’s some brash young thing who thinks she’s an Insightful Reporter, all while asking the most cliched and overdone questions she could. What, am I going to have to specifically ask to be interviewed by mothers from here on out in hopes that they’ll know I don’t want to talk about my kid 24/7? That it’s fine - heck, encouraged to ask me other questions? I probably should have expected this, going into major interviews and publicity for the first time since Wiley was born, but trust me, that does not make it any less frustrating,” she finishes, finger stabbing the air in emphasis.

“I know, love,” Killian attempts to soothe, rubbing a hand along her spine. It must work, because he feels her tension lessen, Emma once again slumping against his side with her arms around his neck instead of the wild gesticulating she’d been engaging in earlier.

“She did start asking about the writing eventually, but I think I was too pissed off to really be grateful for that. Not to mention, she was still asking questions that assumed being a mom would automatically change the meaning of all the songs I write going forward. Which sometimes it does, yeah, but… can’t I just write a song because it’s fun? Guys do, all the time. A lot of my stuff isn’t personal in the least. There doesn’t need to be some big ‘deeper meaning’.” The air quotes make a second appearance, but they’re less forceful than previously, which Killian takes as a good sign. Huffing a put-upon sigh, Emma continues. “And then, of course, Mary Margaret calls, and —” she stops abruptly. “You know I love them, right, her and David? And that I’m happy for them?”

“I do know that.” Even if he hadn’t Killian would have said it anyways, recognizing that they’ve entered the part of the conversation where he’s just expected to agree. Thankfully, it’s true - Killian knows very well how much she adores her brother and his wife.

“I love Mary Margaret so much, but she is driving me crazy with this baby talk! If it was just about her own upcoming kid, fine. She’s pregnant, she’s excited, it’s to be expected. But she keeps trying to convince me that we should have another! Even if she is my sister, how is that any of her business?” Emma pauses, looking at Killian expectantly, and he hurries to respond.

“It’s really not.”

“Exactly! It’s none of her business. I mean, Wiley isn’t even three - there’s still people out there who try to count his age in months!”

“People you rather hate,” Killian points out reasonably, only to receive an impatient look from his wife.

“I do, because it’s more of a pain to say 32 months than two and a half, and I shouldn’t have to do math, but that’s not the point. The point is - what’s the rush? Why is everyone pressuring us to have another? Why do they think they have the right to do that? Not to mention, I’m so happy we have Wiley, but honestly? Those last few months before he was born were kind of miserable. Mary Margaret’s still at the point where the bump is cute and everyone talks about how she glows and she doesn’t always need help getting out of chairs. Let her come pester me about having another when she feels like she’s the size of a house and her shoes don’t fit and people keep asking if she’s sure she isn’t having twins, because it’s a lot less fun then.”

Killian remembers that stage, remembers how grouchy Emma was, and he can’t blame her for her reluctance to be subjected to that discomfort again. Mostly, he just wants to tell his sister-in-law to mind her own damn business, but that would probably be frowned upon. Still, he hears Emma’s point loud and clear, and agrees wholeheartedly; they should be the only ones making decisions about their family.

Emma must take his silence as dissent or concern rather than an introspective moment, however, as she moves a hand to his face, gently rubbing his cheek with her thumb. “Hey, I’m not saying I never want another kid. I’m just saying —”

“— not now. I know, love, I agree. Let’s try and get out of the terrible twos before we even start contemplating adding to our little crew.”

Emma smiles softly, her thumb still stroking the apple of his cheek. “Thanks.” They spend a moment just staring into one another’s eyes - just as sappy as they ever were - before Emma leans up to press a gentle kiss on his lips. “I really do love you, Jones.”

“I love you too, Swan,” he replies just as gently, a small smile gracing his face.

After a another moment to themselves, Emma stands and stretches, groaning dramatically. “I suppose we should go make sure the kid we already have hasn’t torn the place apart.”

“If you insist,” he teases, accepting the hand she offers to help haul him up. Upon regaining his footing, Killian dramatically kisses Emma’s hand, resulting in a eye roll from the lady (but one he’s sure is disguising a smile). Before she reaches the door, he pulls her back for one last word, hands still entwined.

“I’m sorry you had such a rough day, love.”

Emma just shrugs in response. “Me too. I feel better after venting to you, though. And hey, we’ll deal with it together, right?”

“Of course, Swan.”

(They always do.)

[concerthopperblog]

20 Standout Roots and Americana Albums of 2020: 10-1

Last week, I brought you the first half of my list of standout roots music albums of 2020. In a normal year (aka a year when the entire music world wasn't stuck at home with nothing to do but make albums), a lot of those would have made it into the Top 10. But this was a stacked year for roots albums, with some of the biggest names in Americana releasing and some the genre's young rising stars truly emerging. So here are my favorite 10 standout roots albums of 2020. Where I reviewed the album, I have provided a link to the full review. Where I didn't, I have linked a YouTube video of one of the album's songs.

A note on my methodology, just to curb the outrage. My list has always excluded live albums, re-records, cover albums, and compilations, just to keep the number manageable. So that's why you won't see Sturgill Simpson's excellent Cuttin' Grass or Margo Price's Perfectly Imperfect listed here. I broke that rule twice this year, but have endeavored to explain why in the individual comments.

10. Will Kimbrough- Spring Break Being isolated from studios, with session players, producers, and engineers has been a hurdle for many roots music artists when making new albums. Not for Will Kimbrough, who has been all of those things during his career. Kimbrough's aptly titled Spring Break is a spare but well-produced mix of co-writes with friends and observations on isolation, wanderlust, and how political divisions change friendships.

9. Margo Price- That's How Rumors Get Started It's a rare year that a superstar like Margo Price releases a new album and it doesn't get mass press all year long. Aside from the obvious reasons for that, it was the release of her stellar live album Perfectly Imperfect- Live From the Ryman that really got all of the attention. But don't sleep on That's How Rumors Get Started. While Price maintains all of the hallmarks that made her past two albums a success, she also tapped into the rock and roll thunder of a post Sound & Fury Sturgill Simpson, who produced the album. Album standout “Twinkle Twinkle” rocks as hard as any rock song released in 2020.

8. Corb Lund- Agricultural Tragic It only takes one listen to Corb Lund's music to know that, unlike countless other be-hatted country artists crooning about tractors on commercial radio, he grew up farming and ranching. Lund's music often centers around rural life, but never the romanticized “made-for-TV” rural stereotype peddled by the Jason Aldeans of the world. Lund's new album, Agricultural Tragic, is more of what fans have come to expect from Lund. His affable personality and Canadian-dry sense of humor perfectly embodies the unflappable mix of optimism and fatalism of unprofitable horse ranchers and men with regrettable drunken tattoos.

7. Jill Andrews- Thirties Jill Andrews is at her best when she lays herself completely, often uncomfortably, bare. She does it throughout Thirties. The album is a chronicle of a decade filled with falling in and out of love, single parenting, and struggling with voices from the past. There are raw moments on Thirties that are beautiful in their intimacy, and others aching in their honesty. But all are full of the brilliant songwriting that has marked Andrews' career.

6. The War and Treaty- Hearts Town 2019 Americana Emerging Artist winners The War and Treaty's debut album was an intimate affair, a couple's love on display in all its glory and pain. With their Rounder debut Hearts Town, the duo of Michael and Tanya Trotter take inspiration from a divided world to spread that love to their fellow man. There is still that core of intimacy, moments where Michael and Tanya seem to be singing only to each other, the audience voyeurs. But those glimpses also bring songs like “5 More Minutes”, Tanya's plea to a near suicidal Michael to give her just “five more minutes to love you.” This is where The War and Treaty thrive, wrapping serious moments in boogie-worthy James Brown soul.

5. Jake Blount- Spider Tales Did you ever have that one teacher who excelled in making his subject so entertaining and engaging that you didn't even know you were learning until it was over. Jake Blount is one of those teachers. His Spider Tales is a remarkably researched dive into the deep, and tragically forgotten, history of black string music and how many of the traditional songs by white men were inspired (if not outright written) by black artists. If that sounds dry to you, then you're going to be surprised by Spider Tales. Blount's instrumental finesse and world-weary voice let the album be enjoyed strictly as a musical entity, though the detailed liner notes about each song are worth the read. Blount has emerged as black string music's most valuable historian since Dom Flemons.

4. Emily Barker- A Dark Murmuration of Words America has slept for far too long on the talents of Emily Barker. The Australian-born British resident has always been more popular “across the pond” than here, and that's a real loss for all of us. I wish I could say A Dark Murmuration of Words was the album that changed that, but it isn't likely in a nation always on the lookout for the next bubblegum distraction. Instead, Barker channels Joni Mitchell, singing scathing protest songs about environmental devastation and racial white washing in a voice so tremulous and sweet that the message sneaks up on you. For those willing to face uncomfortable truths with Barker, the reward is a stunningly beautiful album in every way.

3. Tami Neilson- Chickaboom! To call New Zealander Tami Neilson a force of nature would be to vastly overstate the power of a hurricane. Gifted with a personality and swagger even bigger than her trademark bouffant, Neilson's Chickaboom! is a celebration of pure unabashed musical pleasure. If the confident swagger of Joan Jett met the pure charisma of Dolly Parton and melded the rockabilly fury of Wanda Jackson, you'd have Tami Neilson. But songs like “Queenie Queenie” and “Call Your Mama” hide some serious messaging, from the brush off of a cheating lover to the longing for another one to the fact that “they won't play a lady-o on country radio.”

2. Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit- Reunions/Reunions Live at Brooklyn Bowl Nashville I mentioned I was going to break my “no live albums” rule in this list and this is where I do it, albeit paired with a studio release. It's pretty much a given at this point that any release by Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit is going to be brilliant. It's not hyperbole to say he's Americana's best songwriter since John Prine and his longtime backing band is so tight it's impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. Reunions mixes the intensely personal songs of Southeastern the social observation so often found on his Twitter page. From the “we need a battle cry” of “Be Afraid” to equating the physical distance of he and wife Amanda Shires touring separately to a couple experiencing a marital separation. So why the live album add-on? Because one complaint by some who weren't as impressed by Reunions was a feeling it was “overproduced” but who still want Isbell's powerful lyrics will want Live at Brooklyn Bowl Nashville, which is Reunions played in its entirety in stripped down renditions featuring just Isbell and Shires.

1. Sarah Jarosz- World on the Ground This is the first time since Southeastern that Jason Isbell hasn't released my favorite album of a given year. That's not a knock on Isbell so much as a testament to just how strong World on the Ground is. There is no artist in root music today more reliable than Sarah Jarosz. At this point, the question is only will the album be amazing or transcendent. World on the Ground is transcendent, Jarosz's best work since 2011's Follow Me Down. Jarosz's pairing with producer John Leventhal is perfect. Leventhal draws out every ounce of the lyrical and instrumental brilliance Jarosz has to offer. The result is an album full of gentle but powerful songs that will stay with you long after your first (or in my case, thousandth) listen.

[myprincecandy]

[ENG] ZTAO on SuperELLE Winter issue 2017

*scans credit to lunchbox0502

Text under the cut  

“I was very mischievous as a kid. When I was 7 years old, I insisted on racing an uncle. He said no, but I didn’t care and started running. In the end I fell to the ground, and the back of my head hit on a sharp edge. There was no bleeding, but you can see bruises. At about 12 midnight, I suddenly started vomiting, and so my parents sent me to the hospital. Afterwards my doctor said that the injury on my head had began to put pressure on the nerves and if they had come 2-3 minutes later, I would have died or become a vegetable.”

Even though his head hurt, Huang Zitao was still smiling when he went on the operation table. And then he fell asleep. He had craniotomy (surgical operation) done, got dozens of stitches, and till now, there’s still a scar on the back of his head.

It was 8 at night, in a dressing room in Beijing. Dressed in a simple white tee and pale blue denim jeans, he sat in front of the makeup mirror, talking about that childhood story of his, all the while looking a tad tired. As he spoke he leaned towards the mirror, examining his eyes, which were bloodshot as he had been working for 10 hours straight.

However, according to what we’ve heard, despite the dangerous situation, he fell asleep on the operation table smiling.

Huang Zitao also had high fever. He was just 9 days old, and had to stay a total of 15 days in the hospital. And towards the end of 2016, he suddenly fainted at the airport. That rigorous and relentless schedule had taken its toll on his heath.

“I’ve been through a lot, including moments like these where I’m close to death. But I’ve made it through, “he said, summing it all up.

“So do you have the feeling like good fortune is bound to follow after surviving all those difficulties & hardship?” “Yes”

24-year-old Huang Zitao shows his talents unabashedly and doesn’t compromise/settle with perceived norms. His weibo id is “SwaggyTao” (note: it’s  CPOPKing-SwaggyT now) and the number of people he follows is zero. Swaggy (in slang) means cool. He likes to show his right profile, cares about his hairstyle, loves to have eyeliner makeup for stage performances, but doesn’t like always being asked questions about this or that. That is the part he is stubborn about.

He has grown and changed much in various areas too. Such as acting. “When I first came back, I didn’t want to act. But later on I found out that that couldn’t work. Being purely a singer, means that others might not necessarily know who you are. “

“Railroad Tigers” was his first proper movie. While filming in the bitter coldness of North-eastern China, he was down with chicken pox. There was a scene which was shot on top of the train, and there were a few dangerous moves that required the actor to be tied up. Each time the cloth/rope tightened or pulled on him, the sound of the chicken pox bursting could be heard. Because he couldn’t do anything to ease the itch, he cried as he was filming.

Acting helped him to truly know himself. In “The Game Changer”, he played Fang Jie, a frank, hot-blooded, sometimes brash and impulsive young man who also really valued friendship and ties. “I feel that there are certain similarities in Fang Jie and my character.”

But that sort of character also put him at a disadvantage. 2 years ago, the smear attacks on him were widespread and vicious.

The way Huang Zitao dealt with it is truly remarkable. “All those who said I wasn’t good, I didn’t respond to them directly. I wrote it all in my rap. So please, those of you who likes to vilify me, criticize me or quote me out of context, please do continue to attack me. That way I can write even better stuff for my rap.”

Since his return in 2015, Huang Zitao has released in total, 1 physical album, 1 mini EP, and dozens of original singles. He’s been recognised as the leader of C-POP. C-POP is Chinese pop, popular music that belongs to China. Huang Zitao wants to let the whole world listen to China’s music. “I’m willing to hold the flag of C-POP.”

The staff says that he’s a typical Taurus when it comes to work. He’s more stubborn, and will stand firm when it comes to things that he wants to persist on/continue with, such as making music, or maintaining his figure. For about 2 years, he essentially didn’t eat dinner so that he could slim down and look better on screen.

Compared to his hardwork and stubbornness, Huang Zitao wins over his fans more by his unpredictability. There’s such a comment on him from Zhihu (a Chinese Q&A website) :” forthright, with a natural sense of humor, ability to poke fun at himself, and is a very attractive/charming person.”

He’s very wiling to talk about the little elf videos he’s been posting on Weibo story, and is proud that he has managed to make so many people laugh. His staff revealed that sometimes when they are chatting, Huang Zitao will suddenly pat someone at the back to scare them. If he sees that everyone’s mood is somewhat down and gloomy, he’ll sing to liven things up. Because of this, when on set, all the crew likes him.

He’s also very down to earth. He’s super good at bargaining. Recently during at trip to a theme park, a staff member spent 20 bucks on rabbit ears. He said that he’ll be able to get in just 5 bucks. When fans gave him a small toy duck, he asked fans how much that cost. He then took a look and said that the price they’ve gotten it at was too high.

He carries a bit of a “idol burden” when he has no makeup on in private, but is astonishingly candid. Once when he was in the States, fans wanted to take a photo with him. His reply was “I can’t but I can go on the roller coaster ride with you once.” Another incident was in China where someone wanted to take a photo of him. He said, “Sorry you can’t, but you can secretly take one.” It’s not hard to understand why fans lovingly call him “the silly, sweet boy”.

But the 24-year-old idol already understands the price of fame. He says “Dreams are wonderful, but they are also cruel. “He himself feels that he been through more things than say a 34 year old, but his staff’s own critique of him is that, “There’s two sides to him, the three year old and the thirty year old. Right now, there’s more of the thirty-year-old present.”

He’s also very conscious/aware and feels that “there’s no need to care too much about things like popularity. In the long run, what’s going to be passed down are your works. When you have solid work, popularity will naturally follow.” That brings to mind a phrase from his book “Iteration 2.4”. “I may have had my spirits dampened by reality once, but I’m still as passionate as ever before.”

Q&A : Tearing down labels that don’t belong to me

 Q: Why do you not follow anyone on Weibo? 

ZTAO: I don’t use weibo much. Lately I haven’t been posting much of anything except on Instagram. Because Instagram is quite popular overseas, I have used it to share many music videos. I feel that hip hop culture belongs to foreigners. C-POP has not really happened in China. Right now, what I’m doing, is a good start. Many overseas folks do follow me, I have this ability.

 Q: What are the differences in the requirements for tune/lyrics, in making music for everyone versus making music solely for China? 

ZTAO: I don’t think about that that much. I just feel that if I wrote it in English, then it wouldn’t be C-POP. I’ll sing it in Chinese, and it’s ok if the overseas folks can’t understand it. Just listen to the melody. Let me tell you what is Chinese rock. I feel that it’s no longer an age whereby people looks solely at lyrics. That age has already passed.   

Q: Then what do you care about? 

ZTAO: The simplest things are the best. I don’t write about others. The things I write about are all my personal experiences, using the simplest way to express all of it. That’s my song. It’s alright that some people prefer listening to the type of songs in the past. There are also people who like me. And I feel that the songs I write, will get the attention of those born in 2000s, and possibly even the folks 20, 30 years later. I want to conquer the youth market. The new era will come. China’s music industry has been down for so long, it’s time for it to come back. 

Q: So are you a person full of positive energy in private? 

ZTAO: I have a lot of principles, which I actually rarely talk about with others. Once you’ve been through and survived a lot of setbacks, you’ll find that you’ve grown again. Now I’m 24 years old. All that I have and own, might be more than say, a 34-year-old. Hence, when a person has so much, why don’t/shouldn’t they treat others better? 

Q: What’s your attitude towards being attacked/having labels thrust upon you? 

ZTAO: Basically, I never responded to those attacks. I just used my works to slowly prove myself. I have not done anything bad, harmful or illegal. It’s all labels and things that others pin onto me. I have used at least 2 years, to tear down those labels. I believe time will prove everything. 

Q: Back when you weren’t so strong, have you had moments when you were close to breaking down? 

ZTAO: It’s never one single incident or matter that causes a major breakdown. It’s the accumulated stress, repression and all that negativity. Things that never happened somehow became a big deal, but I had not done anything wrong. That really made me feel very unhappy. 

Q: Before the airing of “A Chinese Odyssey: Love of eternity”, you seemed pretty rueful, and wrote down some reflections on life in Weibo. 

ZTAO: Actually I didn’t quite want to take on the project in the beginning. I feel that there was no need to play something that’s such a classic. I’m not really a good fit for the image of a monkey. Later on I took it on because eI felt that, regardless of how classic Stephen Chow’s take on the character is, I could make one that’s entirely my own. 

Q: We’ve heard that all that monkey fur and makeup took 4 hours when you were filming in Yinchuan? 

ZTAO: It was 4-5 hours in the beginning and gradually reduced to 2-3 hours. Had to wake up at 5 to do the makeup. It was the happiest set I had been on. The atmosphere was good. 

Q: The Monkey King has superpowers. And this is usually realized through technology in the modern society. Amongst those futuristic/technological movies, which do you like?

ZTAO: I pretty much like all of Marvel’s series, such as X-Men, Wolverine etc. The degeneration of humans begin as technology becomes more and more advanced. I feel that AI will triumph over the human brain. 

Q: That’s rather pessimistic of you. Humans have no superpowers, but as an artist, you need some, what’s your view of that? 

ZTAO: Actually I can focus on doing one thing, it’s just that my endurance’s not that great. I can’t stay on set every day for 3 months. I can’t. I need to take a break. It could be just a trip out to another event and I’ll be fine when I get back. 

Q: In the new drama “The brightest star in the sky”, you’re the lead role, producer and music producer. Why make this drama? 

ZTAO: I play a singer in this drama, and it’s similar to my own story. After I’ve made the decision to do a drama related to music, I looked over many scripts before making changes to one, forming a team etc. It feels custom made. Later on when I got set, we changed almost every scene, a lot of what’s so dead on the script came alive. 

Q: On the inside, you need to steadily build up the layers to your identity and energy. For your appearance, your makeup each time is always so attention grabbing. What are your views on make up?

 ZTAO: Makeup gives me more creativity, it also helps to refine a man’s looks, and make me more confident in myself. Each time I make the decision with my makeup artist, depending on the needs of the different events.

[justanothercinemaniac]

Epic Movie (Re)Watch #189 - Spy

Spoilers Below

Have I seen it before: Yes

Did I like it then: Yes.

Do I remember it: Yes.

Did I see it in theaters: Yes.

Was it a movie I saw since August 22nd, 2009: Yes. #358

Format: Blu-ray

1) So the movie starts by introducing us to a sort of typical white guy spy. A James Bond type, but without the British accent (for some reason). It starts with the familiar, the usual tropes, before really fucking them over when Jude Law (who for some reason is trying to do an American accent and he’s not doing it well) sneezes and accidentally kills a guy.

Which is an excellent joke to introduce is into the film’s wonderfully strong sense of humor. If you think you know how a trope is going to play out, you’re probably wrong. In fact, the entire opening sequence is a strong representative of how the film blends quality action with quality humor which will be consistent throughout the film.

2) Melissa McCarthy as Susan Cooper.

McCarthy is the foundation on which the rest of the film is built. From the very first minute we spend with her character she is established as not only good at her job but incredible at it. It is easy in spy spoofs for the main spy to be a bumbling idiot, but Susan’s continued competence is in fact one of the key factors which makes this film as incredible as it is. Especially considering the fact she does have some insecurities at the beginning, insecurities which are largely unfounded because she is fucking good at her job. McCarthy is able to have incredible warmth, heart, and vulnerability as Susan which she doesn’t always show in her film roles. But also when the script calls for it she can have this amazing brashness and humorous loudmouth/angry quality. Susan goes through an incredible transformation from the moment we meet her to the moment we leave her and McCarthy is able to play that absolutely perfectly. It’s HER story, it’s HER movie, and we are just along for the ride in an amazing way.

3) “Who Else Can You Trust?” is abbreviated in the film’s opening credits (I own the full version found on the album) but feels like a real Bond song with the opening credits feeling like a real Bond opening credits. This is part of the reason Spy is able to differentiate itself from other spy comedies like Austin Powers. It takes the genre, action, and stakes seriously throughout. This is real danger and true villains who are trying to get their hands on a nuke. It’s not like “oh, it’s funny because the spy is stupid and the bad guy’s want to kill all cats” or something like that. This sort of silly comedies can and have worked in the past, but Spy’s comedy is born out of its strong sense of characters and performances from the actor. Not by making fun of the genre, but embracing it in a wonderfully fun and funny way.

4) Jude Law’s Bradley Fine often times steps over the line which divides nice guy from Nice Guy™.

Susan: “Could you imagine me as a spy?”

[Fine, who has seen how badass she was in training, laughs at the idea.]

He’s an idiot and kind of a jackass. He may not actively be trying to belittle her but that’s what he does in pretty much 99% of their conversations. He’ll talk about how great she is but he gives her chores which she is overqualified for like picking up his laundry. It’s frustrating but then it’s supposed to be. It’s one of the key conflicts in the film that Susan is underestimated and belittled by all those around her because she’s not what a spy is “supposed” to be like.

5) This film is pretty freaking great, but it could’ve used a little more Morena Baccarin.

Honestly, everything could use a little more Morena Baccarin.

6) What the fuck is this bullshit? He’s secretly SLEEPING with this bad guy and yet…

Fine [upon being caught by villainess Rayna with a gun]: “An awfully big gun for such a little girl.”

7) Allison Janney is someone who I love in literally everything I’ve seen her in. Even when she’s pretty much the straight man in this, the CIA director, I am just drawn to her. I just really fucking love Allison Janney.

8) Jason Statham as Ford.

Holy fucking shit. Somehow Jason Statham is in a movie with modern day comedic legend Melissa McCarthy and ends up being the funniest person in the film. He is totally committed to Ford’s arrogance, jackass qualities, intensity, and hyper masculinity in a way which is 100% hysterical! It’s a tricky business because Ford doesn’t think he’s funny. Ford doesn’t think he’s weird or an idiot, and Statham plays it like that knowing it will derive the most laughs. Ford is basically the super testosterone filled action hero in every movie ever and Statham doubles that while stealing every single fucking scene he’s in. And his chemistry with McCarthy is off the charts funny! Melissa McCarthy is the bedrock this film rests upon but Jason Statham is the fucking cherry on top (I think I’m mixing my metaphors but whatever), he is absolutely amazing.

9) I love this because it makes me angry.

CIA Director Elaine Crocker [about why Fine pressured Susan to stay out of the field]: “Yeah, he sniped you.”

THIS IS REAL! THIS IS FUCKING REAL! MEN IN CHARGE KEEPING WOMEN DOWN BECAUSE THEY’RE WOMEN, WHETHER THEY KNOW THAT’S WHAT THEY’RE DOING OR NOT! GAH! I mean, the film including it is fucking awesome and handled really fucking well but holy shit it pisses me off that this is even a thing.

10) I find it endlessly frustrating (and I think I’m supposed to) that all of Susan’s aliases and spy gear are not the “sexy” stuff but things which could be considered “frumpy”. Why can’t she be a gorgeous baroness with a super slick ride and men on her shoulders? Have you seen Melissa McCarthy? She’s fucking gorgeous.

11) Melissa McCarthy has a very strong chemistry with Miranda Hart, who plays Susan’s best friend Chummy in the film. Their relationship in many ways is much more important than the ones Susan has with any other character in the film, including Fine. And you understand how good friends they are with each other as the movie continues. It’s really great.

12) Ugh.

Ford [after McCarthy points out he didn’t even like Fine]: “It’s called the rivalry of men!”

As a man I can say, “The rivalry of men,” is the equivalent of, “who’s dick is bigger,” because society has convinced us that we’re not a “real man” unless we’re the “biggest” man in the room. It’s fucking stupid.

13) One of the key things that makes Susan as strong a character as she is are her motivations. You understand what is driving her VERY clearly: her memory of Fine. It evolves into more than that as the film goes, it evolves into her just doing her job, but you understand why she does things which are outside of her norm. It’s because she is in pain over Fine’s (supposed) death and needs to make right by him. It’s clear and powerful and helps make the film as good as it is.

14) Aldo - as portrayed by Peter Serafinowicz (legendary character actor who can be found in Shaun of the Dead, Guardians of the Galaxy, the voice of Darth Maul in Star Wars: Episode I, and most recently “The Tick” on Amazon) is incredibly funny. Every overly sexualized moment with him & just his general chemistry with McCarthy makes him a worthy addition to the already stellar ensemble cast.

15) As I mentioned in note #10, I don’t understand why McCarthy is given all the frumpy gadgets and covers when she can pull this off:

She’s fucking gorgeous.

16) I’ve mentioned this with a few pairings before, but McCarthy and Statham have this intense/incredible comedic chemistry which is born out of their strong bickering. This is most plainly seen when they're both at the hotel/casino arguing and I think the fact I’ve mentioned it so often is just a sign of how well put together this fucking cast is.

17) There is an incredible sense of tension that plays through most scenes (for example: when Chummy is trying to kill power to the casino) which ties into what I mentioned in note #3: it helps elevate the film over silly spy spoof into this engaging and riveting action comedy.

18) Rose Byrne as Rayna.

Rayna was apparently originally written as a 19 year old girl (this according to IMDb’s trivia section), which makes a LOT of sense considering how much of a BRAT she is. Don’t get me wrong, Byrne is absolutely excellent at giving of the appearance of this elegant and sophisticated socialite. But that’s where the humor is from. The juxtaposition between what you expect from her (a refined Bond villainess) and what she actually is: a moronic spoiled brat. Byrne plays the humor and juxtaposition perfectly. The key part is that - like Statham - she’s not actively going for laughs. She’s not hyping up the stupidity or the silliness, acting like Rayna knows she’s stupid, but instead trusting the script and playing it in a way where Rayna takes herself seriously. And THAT’S the gag! And it’s great!

19) At this point Rayna has called Susan a child multiple times, compared her to a depress homeless clown, and insulted her ability to address herself.

Susan [to Rayna]: “Why are you being so nice to me?”

20) I’m starting to sound like a broken record but McCarthy’s ability to hold her own against how Byrne plays Rayna’s horridness is a testament to her talents as an actress and the chemistry between the pair. God, this movie is just so fucking funny.

21) I mentioned earlier that McCarthy gets the chance to play Susan as both more reserved and brash. It is when McCarthy is acting like “Amber Valentine” (the cover Susan uses to make Rayna trust her) that she gets to show off this aggression WONDERFULLY. It’s also wildly cathartic because a lot of people - including Rayna - have just been consistently putting Susan down for the ENTIRE film. Now she gets to go off on them and it’s amazing.

22) I’d like to point out that very few women die or get “fridged” in this film, not when compared to the men. I think during the entire movie only one woman dies but that’s a nice proportion swap to most male dominated action films. (How many women have died on Bond movies versus the men?)

(GIF source unknown [if this is your GIF please let me know].)

23) The Budapest car chase scene is one of the strongest action set pieces in the film. It’s filled with this intense and enjoyable action, sprinkled with just enough jokes to make it hysterical, it’s well choreographed, and just altogether a fun ride.

24) But even the Budapest car chase can’t compare with the kitchen fight.

The action is INCREDIBLY well done. The fight choreography and energy throughout is just truly kinetic and it just grabs your attention and NEVER lets go. It’s just insanely well done and by far the best scene of the film.

25) I would like to point out - similarly as I did in note #4 - that Fine is kind of a jerk to Susan. He attributes her continued success to Rayna’s inexperience just casually, like it’s no big deal, not realizing he just undermined all the amazing things she just did in this film. Meanwhile the creepy sexpot of Aldo supports Susan and reminds her she’s been doing an incredible job in this film.

26) When Susan learns that Fine is alive, her entire initial motivation for going the distance of being a spy is gone. But that doesn’t matter because she’s not doing this for any man anymore. She’s doing this because it’s the right thing to do and because she knows she CAN do it. I love that. And when Susan embraces this and kicks some serious ass, Fine sees her for who she is.

27) Wait…I just realized that Ford didn’t actually DO anything in this film. He just kept getting caught and screwing up.

I love that! It’s so much funnier for me that way! :D

28) I love that it’s Chummy who saves Susan in the end. Not Fine, not Ford, but her best gal pal. Friendship over romance/sexual attraction is something I really appreciate.

29) And by the time the film ends, all three of the main guys - Aldo, Fine, and Ford - want Susan now. But she doesn’t chose a guy, she choses Chummy. She choses a night out with her girls instead of even Fine, the guy she’s been pining over FOREVER. I love that.

Spy is an incredibly funny and heartfelt film with a powerful message about competence/self worth. Melissa McCarthy gives an absolutely stellar performance and is surrounded by a just as strong supporting cast, with Jason Statham being a particular stand out. The action is crazy, the humor is spot on, the characters are well developed, and the relationships are pure. All in all, it’s just a really freaking good movie I think everyone should see.

[pengychan]

[Coco] Mind the Gap, Pt. 15

Title: Mind the Gap Summary: Modern Day AU. Tired of Ernesto’s snide remarks, Imelda decides to put him in his place and her husband is more than happy to help. It was supposed to be a one-night deal. Things quickly get out of hand. [OT3, mostly porn and humor. Plenty of instances of Ernesto being Dramatic, Imelda getting Sick Of His Shit, and Héctor trying to be the peacekeeper. Don’t expect anything serious.] Pairings: Ernesto/Héctor/Imelda Rating: Explicit.

Art by Dara.

[All chapters are tagged as ‘mind the gap’ on my blog.]

A/N: You know that thing little kids do, where they throw a tantrum, break a toy, and then cry because they realize that now they're one toy short and got no one else to blame? That's it, that's Ernesto here. 

***

“Car seat.”

“Mmmh?”

“We’ll need a baby car seat. I mean, a car seat for the baby.”

A yawn, and Imelda shifts on her side, eyes still shut. “Yes,” she mumbles. “We’ll need a car seat.”

“We can go buy it tomorrow,” Héctor suggests, eyes wide open and fixed on the ceiling.

“The baby is not due for another six months, Héctor.”

“Well-- sometimes babies are born early! Months early.”

“If that happens, I suspect the car seat would be the least of our problems.”

“If something goes wrong--”

“Héctor.”

“Sí?”

“Don’t even say that. All is going well.”

Ah, right - right. No need to fear nightmare scenarios, is there? Imelda sailed through the first trimester without a hitch, after all, but bringing up things that can possibly go wrong is not something she needs. Not something either of them needs.

“Right. All is well,” Héctor sighs, and turns to kiss the bridge of her nose. Imelda’s eyes stay shut, but the slight frown smooths into a sleepy half-smile. “Our baby is well. Got the best mamá,” he adds, only to mentally kick himself a moment later. 

Was that something he was supposed to say? What if something does go wrong, and Imelda thinks of what he’s just muttered now and thinks that she isn’t the best mamá after all and-- no, he can’t think like that, it’ll drive him loco. What was he talking about in the first place?

“... The car seat. Right. I’ll write it down,” he mutters, bolting off the bed and stumbling over his discarded trousers to get to the desk and jot that down. Imelda groans.

“It’s three in the morning, Héctor.”

“I know, I know, just making sure I don’t forget. Oh! Speaking of forgetting, it needs to be the kind with the alarm.”

“The alarm?”

“So that it sounds if we forget the baby in the car!”

“Why would we forget our baby in the--”

“It can happen, I read about it, and small children can die of heat exposure if left in the car too long. This guy in Guadalajara did just last summer, and the baby--” he trails off, too anguished to finish. Imelda notices, and sits up as well, holding out an arm in a silent invitation. Héctor is back in bed with her the next moment with a sigh and he leans down, arms around her and face tucked against her throat. Imelda hums, brushing back his hair.

“No such thing will happen,” she says. “But if it helps you relax, we’ll get the car seat with the alarm. All right?”

He smiles against her skin, a little sheepishly. “All right. Sorry, I’m just-- worried. Ernesto always says I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t firmly screwed to my neck. Said I’d probably forget the baby at the park or something.”

“Oh, is that what he says?” Imelda asks, her voice a little colder and frame stiffening, as always when Ernesto is brought up. 

Ever since they ended the arrangement, he and Imelda have hardly met. At first Héctor found it normal; he was angry and hurt. For a time, Ernesto didn’t really want to see him either. Now they met regularly for gigs or to discuss new songs or the upcoming launch of their album over a drink with their manager - so… mostly for work, really. 

It’s not like before, of course, but Héctor is fairly sure it is only a matter of time before they’re friends as always. Even though Ernesto’s jabs and jokes are a little heavier than before, his smile just a little more like sneers, and he hasn’t so much mentioned Imelda or the baby in his presence - let alone asked how they’re doing. 

He never asks. Like it doesn’t matter. Like neither exists. But surely, it’s only a matter of time. When he asks him to be his child’s godfather he’ll be delighted, just as Óscar and Felipe were excited beyond words at the prospect of being, in their own words, the cool uncles.

“We’ll teach the baby everything we know,” they told them, causing… some concern. 

Unaware of his thoughts, Imelda speaks again. “You shouldn’t let him talk to you like that,” she mutters, and Héctor sighs, pulling back a little. 

“He doesn’t mean anything by it, mi amor,” he says, although he’s… not entirely sure of that. And judging from the look she gives him in the dim light, Imelda isn’t either.

“You are a wonderful husband,” she tells him, brushing back his hair again. “And you’ll be a wonderful papá. Don’t let him or anyone tell you otherwise.”

“He doesn’t mean--” he begins, then he pauses, and nods. “... I won’t. Next time, I’ll tell him to shut up,” he promises with a small smile, and leans back against her, shutting his eyes.

Except that doesn’t. Never in his life was he ever able to really tell off Ernesto. They have been friends since Héctor can remember, and after hurting him so much he really sees no point in making a scene over… over what? Jokes, that’s all they are. 

He only means to joke, as they progress to going out together every once in a while for a drink. He certainly doesn’t mean to be heavy-handed as it feels like, commenting on how he can hardly imagine him ready to be a father, he’d probably fuck up all that he can possibly fuck up as a parent, and Imelda will probably be impossible to deal with after the birth, what a mess he got himself in, huh? The end of his life as a free man, he mutters, and laughs. 

It’s only friendly teasing. They go way back. Ernesto knows him like the back of his hand, knows his doubts and insecurities and fear better than anyone, and he certainly wouldn’t purposely hit him where it hurts. He wouldn’t purposely tear apart his confidence, fuel the doubts Héctor can barely keep off his mind. He… he wouldn’t.

… Or would he? Little by little, snide remark after snide remark, the doubt grows and something thins out, ready to snap.

*** 

When he gets to the cantina and spots Héctor sitting at one of the tables outside, Ernesto groans inwardly: he can tell, from the big dumb grin on his stupid face, that he’s going to be absolutely insufferable. 

Look at him, acting like he hasn’t just ruined his entire life by knocking up the bruja he decided to marry. Is he doing it only to piss him off? If that’s the case, Ernesto may as well knock him down a peg or two. He walks up to the table and sits, a lopsided grin on his face. 

“Sorry I’m late, my date for the night didn’t want me to--” he begins, only to trail off when Héctor shoves something in front of his face - his phone. On the screen there is… a mass of gray static. It takes a moment for Ernesto to realize what he’s looking at, and Héctor almost sings it out the next moment, absolutely ecstatic. It hurts, how can Héctor not see it hurts?

“It’s a girl! We’re having a little girl!”

Ernesto grimaces, pushing the phone away from his face. “My condolences,” he says dryly. His obvious lack of enthusiasm does nothing to dampen Héctor’s mood. 

“All is going well, and we’re thinking up names! We both like Socorro, but I also would like Emilia, after my mamá. Maybe it can be her middle name. Imelda suggested--”

“When?”

“Oh, we just found out this morn--”

“I mean, when did I ask?”

Finally, that sours Héctor’s good mood. The smile fades, and while it brings no relief to the painful knot that seems to have taken residence in Ernesto’s chest, at least it gives him some measure of satisfaction. If he expects him to care about the brat Imelda is carrying - what a convenient way to get him out of the picture - then he’s in for a long wait. 

“I believe you had mentioned a new song,” Ernesto says, waving to catch the attention of a waiter, and Héctor hesitates a moment before he sighs. 

“... Right. I wrote it last night and it needs some work, let me show you…”

The song isn’t Héctor’s best work - clearly, the upcoming brat is distracting him from music - but it’s not bad, either, and it could work with a few changes. They discuss it, their drinks arrive, and Ernesto feels a little better. This is a lot more productive than watching gray blobs and trying to guess which part of it is supposed to be a baby. Yes, Ernesto thinks, he can make this song a success if Héctor follows his advice and adapts it to his voice. 

Of course, Héctor just has to ruin the mood by bringing up his family again.

“So, uh, about the baby-- of course there will be the christening and all that. We want to do it in Santa Cecilia - I mean, Imelda’s family is there, it makes sense - and I know that’s not ideal for you, but, er… Would it be too much or a problem? To come to Santa Cecilia?”

… Is he an idiot or what? Not only he expects him to be there for the christening of some little monster who straight-up replaced him, patting him and Imelda in the back - he also wants him to come back to the one town he’s sworn to never set foot in again? Ernesto looks at him, arching an eyebrow. “Come to Santa Cecilia?” he asks, his voice even. 

Héctor knows him well enough to tell that when he speaks like that, he’s nowhere as calm as he sounds. He shifts.  “Well… we would like you to be her godfather.”

All right, this has got to be a joke. Ernesto would laugh, if not for the fact the ache in his chest is there again, worse than ever. What the hell do they think they’re doing? Are they trying to mock him? To throw a bone his way so that he’ll wag his tail and be happy with what they’re willing to share with him? He wants to laugh, he wants to yell, he wants to hit him - but he does none of those things. In the end, he sneers. 

“We,” he repeats. “I don’t believe for a second that this was her idea.”

“Well, it was mine, but-- I always said that if we had kids, you’d be the godfather of at least one, no? We talked about it again, and Imelda agrees--”

“Oh, of course she agrees,” Ernesto snaps, slamming the glass back down on the table hard enough to make some of the beer splash out, and Héctor wince. “She can’t wait to rub her latest creation in my face.”

That gains him a confused look. “What? No, we both really think you should be her--”

"She must be having a laugh," Ernesto mutters, glaring down at his glass and entirely missing the way Héctor shakes his head.

"Of course she isn't laughing," he protests. "You should know her better than that."

"Pfft, as if. She saw her chance to--" the words 'hurt me' almost make it past his lips, but he'll curl up and die before he lets them out; that is more than he's willing to admit. "To get back to me, and she ran with it. She always hated me, hell knows why."

Héctor frowns. "That's not--"

"She probably started this whole thing so that she could kick me out of it when I had started to--" again, the words refuse to leave his mouth. 

He just scowls, and takes another swig from his drink as Héctor shakes his head and reaches across the table to put a hand on his arm. "That's not true, Ernesto. Not a single word. You don't really believe that," he says, and lifts his hands at Ernesto's glare over the glass. "Listen, I know you're hurt and--"

"I am not hurt," Ernesto snaps, slamming the glass down on the table hard enough to make the beer splash over his hand, again. At this point, the glass is almost empty. "I'm just angry as fuck with the puta you went and married and got yourself shackled to."

The first hint of anger shows in Héctor's gaze, but Ernesto is too furious to notice it. "Don't call her that ever again."

Ernesto scoffs. "Call her what? A puta?"

"Stop that," Héctor bristles and oh, look at that, he's angry now. He won't side with him, but look at him rushing to her defense. "You're being unreasonable. She didn't say we can't-- you still have me.”

“I don’t want you,” Ernesto snaps, and it’s only partly a lie. He does want him - he wanted him before Imelda was even really in the picture - but not now, not just him. It would only remind him of what they had, the three of them, and he can’t have again. 

Héctor recoils a little at the viciousness of his tone - does he really have the guts to look hurt now? - but doesn’t back down. “She only called herself out of it. She just thought that this... us... wouldn't work. Not all three of us. Not with our baby on the way."

Oh, sure. The baby. A cluster of cells without a working brain that is already so much more important than him, and he hates it more than anything. "Your baby, yes," he mutters, and finishes his beer. "If you're so sure."

That causes Héctor's eyes to narrow. "What do you mean by that?" he asks, his voice suddenly cold, and that's good. Ernesto wants nothing more than hit him where it hurts, so maybe he'll see where he's coming from. 

"How do you know she didn't screw someone else? Maybe right now, while you're here with me? I mean, why would someone like her settle for you?"

Héctor recoils as though physically struck - must have hit a nerve, of course, because that was the intention. Isn’t that what Héctor has always been afraid of? Never being enough?

"She wouldn't go behind my back and you know--"

"Never let me in her because she hates my guts, but I bet she let half the neighborhood between her legs," Ernesto says, and grins at the fury crossing Héctor's features. "She's got you on such a tight leash, why let you hang with me? If you want my guess--"

"Shut up. You don't know what you're--"

"My guess," Ernesto repeats more forcefully, leaning forward with gleeful spite, "is that lets you hang with me because it keeps you out of the way while she keeps being the neighborhood puta. I'm ready to bet you're not even the father. I'm ready to bet--"

Héctor moves faster than his eyes can follow, his fist a blur of motion, his cry of anger sounding so very far away. There is a blow and he’s on the ground, pain blooming on his face and a coppery taste in his mouth, his vision swimming. He tries to speak and something warm drips down his chin; somewhere in the distance he can hear yells and voices, but he’s aware of nothing but Héctor, towering over him, holding his right fist in his left hand and features twisted with fury. He’s the only thing he can see clearly, and the sight causes his breath to catch in his throat. 

He’s never seen Héctor so angry, and realization - too far, I have gone too far - seizes his heart like a cold hand.  “Héctor,” he tries, but he’s met with a scoff.

“Imelda was right about you, right at the start,” he mutters. “You only care about yourself. You don’t give a damn about anyone else’s reasons. She was right to bring the arrangement to an end. It could have never worked because you’d put your own wants before a baby’s needs, you always did. What you want you get, and if you don’t get it then you push me around until you do! Well, no more!”

“I-- I--” Ernesto stammers, but Héctor silences him with an angry wave of his hand.

“Save your breath. I’m not your little brother anymore. I grew up, you did not, and I’m done putting up with you. Stay away from me, Imelda, and our baby. Stay away from my family.”

No. No, no, no, no, no.

Ernesto tries to speak, tries to reach out for him, but Héctor is already marching away, ignoring the several people who have approached, asking what the hell that was about. Ernesto lets his hand drop, lets his head drop, and closes his eyes. Somewhere above a man is asking how he is, telling someone else to call an ambulance, telling him that he should stay awake, might have a concussion there, amigo, stay awake and talk to me. 

He stays awake, but talks to no one. Things go badly when he opens his mouth and talks, and now he’s lost Héctor, too. He pushed him, he always pushed him, but now he’s pushed him too far and something snapped and he doesn’t know what to do. 

He fucked up, and he has no idea how he can even begin to put the pieces back together.

*** 

When Héctor returns home he’s stiff, silent, and close to tears.

Imelda almost asks him what happened, but she does not, because she knows her husband - she knows that’s how he gets when he’s devastated and angry at the same time - and she also knows who was it he went to meet that day. Ernesto happened, clearly. 

So much for hoping he’d move on as time passed.

“What did he do?” she asks quietly when Héctor sits on the couch, stroking Dante’s head absently. Dante may not be a smart dog by any stretch of imagination, but he seems very attuned to their moods - and lately he won’t start the day without giving her belly a gentle boop with his nose - and now he whines, leaning his head on Héctor’s knee. 

“... He’s an idiot,” Héctor mutters, his voice tight. “He said things-- Enough. We’re through.”

Imelda is silent for a few moments, trying not to speculate what he may have said, then she slowly sits by him, puts an arm around his shoulders. Héctor leans into her touch, and lets out a long, heavy sigh. She kisses his cheek, trying to ignore the ache in her chest. She’d hoped things would get better once Ernesto got over the initial disappointment, not worse. 

With how he’s been treating her husband lately, he probably deserved to be told off; some time on his own, without faithful Héctor there for him, will clear his head. But it hurts to see him so anguished; even more so knowing it is her, in the end, that Ernesto takes issue with. 

A child throwing a tantrum. Of course he wouldn’t be any better than that, isn’t that why I knew it couldn’t work? I should have known he wouldn’t make peace with being denied. The entire thing was a mistake. My mistake. I shouldn’t have given an inch, stopped it long ago.

“Lo siento,” she finally says, and he shakes his head. 

“Not your fault,” he murmurs, and his hand rests on her belly. He manages a weak smile, and speaks again. “Socorro is a really nice name.”

She puts her hand over his own. “It is,” she agrees, and that is the end of it. For the following days, they don’t so much mention Ernesto; the wound is still too raw. So they wait, hoping he’ll reach out - apologize to Héctor, at least, for whatever it is he told him.

But, in the following days, they hear nothing back.

***

“So, you just decided to move into my apartment with your dogs? Not that I mind - at least your dogs are cute - but if you don’t plan on going home, we should probably consider splitting rent.”

Still catching his breath and face pressed against Sofía’s shoulder - why won’t she ever shut up, wasn’t a decent fuck enough for her to keep her mouth shut ten minutes? - Ernesto lets out a hum, and hopes she’ll leave it at that.

She doesn’t. 

“Why did you have to leave your place in such a hurry, anyway? Angry lover?”

It’s a lighthearted guess, but of course she just had to nearly hit the nail on the head. Ernesto shuts his eyes tighter, resolving to pretend he’s already asleep so that she won’t prod for more information. It’s been three days - three days without a word - and it still hurts. 

Except that he finds himself talking the next moment. “They hate my guts.”

A pause, and he feels her shift. “They? Did you date two women at the same time and they found out about each other? Again?”

Ernesto looks up, blinking. “Wha-- no!”

“Did you date two men at the same time and they found out about each other?” A pause. “... Again?”

“No. I--”

“Did you date a man and a woman at the same ti--”

“No! They knew about each other, all right? They were together in the first place, and then-- I mean, we were all-- I thought we were, but-- It’s complicated,” Ernesto says with a frustrated sigh. Sofía’s fingers are running through his hair, and he leans into the touch, trying to focus on that over the throbbing ache in his chest, the hammering thought that he fucked up, he fucked up, he fucked up. Sex with an old fuck buddy wasn’t enough to get rid of that.

“I was just the third wheel," he finally says, and it feels like the most difficult thing he's ever had to utter. "And they didn’t need me anymore.”

“Oh,” Sofía says, and adds nothing more. He could stop talking now, but he cannot. It feels like something is stuck in his throat and it aches, and he fears it will get worse if he stops. 

“There weren’t supposed to be any strings attached. You know, I always said--”

“No strings but those of my guitar?”

“Yes, that. But then there were. Strings, I mean,” he says, and pauses. “... Not guitar strings.”

“I’d worked out that much,” Sofía says, and the hand goes down to rub the back of his neck. “And you thought it was mutual.”

“Sí. But I was wrong, or… or maybe not, but then she got pregnant--”

“Wait, did you--?”

“No, not me, she never let me-- er. It was Héctor.”

The hand on the back of his neck stills. “... Wait. Are you talking about your best friend and his wife?”

Oh. Right. He hadn’t meant to say that, but now it’s out and there is no point denying it. “Yes.”

She tilts her head. “... And to think you told me she’s a complete stick in the mud.”

“Well, she is now,” Ernesto says sourly. “They’ve got a baby on the way and suddenly she’s got to be the perfect wife and mother. I can still fuck Héctor, she says, like that’s all that there was to it, but God forbid it’s under her roof or if I so much look at her. No more fooling around, because clearly that’s--” Ernesto trails off, and he doesn’t like the tightness in his throat, doesn’t like it at all. He turns on his stomach, draping an arm around her and pressing his face against her stomach, and he feels Sofía sighing before she resumes rubbing his back.

“And being his fuck buddy isn’t enough anymore, huh?”

He shakes his head, saying nothing.

“Ah, damn. Didn’t think I’d see the day, but you’ve fallen hard. And for two people, no le-- are you sniffling?”

“No,” Ernesto sniffles.

“... Of course you’re not.”

“They just-- discarded me.”

“Well… if it helps at all, it sounds like it wasn’t about you. It’s about the baby.”

Ernesto scoffs, face still pressed against her skin. “Yes, that was her excuse. Said it would be too difficult to explain their brat what’s going on.”

“To be fair, it’d be a complication,” she says, but Ernesto ignores her. Can’t she just let him vent without bringing common sense in it? Fine, so maybe Imelda had reasons, but what about him?

“And he sided with her. He always sides with her.”

“Well. She’s his wife.”

“And I was his best friend.”

“I’m picking up a past tense.”

Stay away from me, from Imelda, from our baby. Stay away from my family.

“... Ernesto?”

He tries to answer, he really does, but he finds he cannot force his voice out. His throat hurts, his chest hurts, and eventually all he can let out is a low keening sound. He doesn’t fully register that he’s weeping at first, and when it hits him the shame is even worse than the ache.

This is ridiculous, a voice in the back of his head, the one that sounds an awful lot like his father’s, chides him. You’re a grown man. Act like it.

“I fucked up,” he chokes out. “I didn’t know when to shut up and I fucked up and I can’t fix it.”

Her fingers comb through his hair again, the other hand rubbing his back. “Can’t you call to apologize? I know Héctor. Unless you skinned his cat, an apology will be enough.”

That’s what he’d have believed until a few days ago; until Héctor had struck him and he’d seen the fury on his face as he towered over him. Suddenly, he knew he went too far.

What you want you get, and if you don’t get it then you push me around until you do! Well, no more!

Ernesto shuts his eyes, and shakes his head. Sofía sighs, and strokes his hair again, but says nothing. He lets him have a cry, and promptly pretends to have forgotten about it the next morning - something Ernesto is… rather grateful about. Crying himself to sleep is not a good look on him. Christ, he probably looks awful, with puffy eyes and whatnot. 

He doesn’t really want to look into a mirror, so he lets Sofía go into the bathroom first instead of hogging it, and starts getting dressed. The trousers are a big tight, did he gain weight? He sure hopes not, it would be the cherry on top of a pile of shit.  Maybe it’s just been too long; last time he wore them was months ago. 

Ernesto makes a face, sticks his hands in the back pockets… and pauses when he realizes there is something on the left pocket. He blinks, pulls it out, and finds himself staring at an envelope with his name on it, written in his mother’s handwriting. The letter Héctor had brought him from Santa Cecilia. 

“Oh,” he mutters, still standing in the middle of Sofía’s bedroom, belt unbuckled and four chihuahuas running in circles around him, waiting for their breakfast. He entirely forgot about the letter; he took the envelope, stuck it in his pocket, and… maybe he wanted to throw it out. Surely he wanted to throw it out, and then he just... forgot about it.

Well, he can do it now. He will do it now. He has no intention to read a single word that woman said or wrote. 

I bet she turned on the waterworks, he’d said. Go figure. Easy to think I’m the ungrateful bastard, making my poor mamá cry.

Well, she can cry as much as she wants. She can cry enough to put la Llorona to shame, he doesn’t care. No amount of weeping changes the fact that he begged her to say nothing and yet she ratted him out - got him beaten up by that animal she’s chosen to marry, standing in a corner and turning on the waterworks while it happened, useless as always. 

Ernesto snorts and glances down at his dogs, who stopped running in circles and are staring up at him, heads tilted. “I don’t care what this says,” he informs them. “She fucked up.”

I fucked up.

“I-- I don’t have to give her a moment’s thought. Let alone another chance. If she’d kept her mouth shut--”

I didn’t know when to shut up and I fucked up and I can’t fix it.

His eyes prickle, and it’s too much. Ernesto snarls and tears the envelope in half, then in half again, throwing the four pieces to scatter on the floor. “There. Now it’s gone,” he snaps. “Come, I’ll feed-- what--?”

Before his confused gaze, his dogs don’t bolt as usual at the mention of food. Suddenly each of them picks up a piece of the envelope, the letter still tucked within. Normally they would bound away with their prize, leading him to a merry chase, but this time they don’t; they only stand there, tails wagging, staring at him, waiting. It’s unlike… anything they’ve done before. It’s surreal. Ernesto stares, blinks, and the chihuahuas just stare back, unmoving. 

And finally, slowly, he kneels to take the pieces out of their mouths.

*** 

Mijo,

I hope this letter finds you, and that it finds you well. 

I know you’re making a name for yourself, a lot of people here talk about you and Héctor and what you’re doing in Mexico City. I was sure you would make it, you have so much talent. Everyone could tell, since you were in the church choir. Or in the Nativity play. I was so, so proud of you, and I don’t feel like I have told you that enough. 

We bought a computer - please, don’t laugh - and I got Mirela’s daughter to show me how to make it work. The poor girl almost tore her hair out, but now I can see your videos and your photos. It’s nice to see you smile, mijo. I have that photo of you after a concert framed and I show it to anyone who comes to see us. My handsome boy.

Your papá won’t say that aloud, but he likes your music. I caught him listening behind the door when I played your videos, so I always play them a little louder for him. He’s doing better now, a lot has changed since you were here last time. He began going to meetings to stop drinking, and he’ll celebrate three years dry soon. He has also been seeing someone for his anger, a therapist. He doesn’t want people to know that part, but you of all people know how bad I am at keeping secrets, no?

I know we both did wrong, your papá and I. You trusted me and I betrayed you - I thought I knew better than you how to deal with it, and I was wrong. And your papá should have never reacted as he did. He knows that now. He’s sorry. We are both so sorry and so proud. We miss you so very much.

You don’t have to write back if you don’t want to. I only wanted you to know this - that we’re sorry and we love you and we hope you’re happy. 

With all my love,

Mamá. 

*** 

Once she’s done showering and walks out, towelling her hair, Sofía is rather taken aback to realize Ernesto has left without even a shower. The dogs are still there, yapping and clearly hungry; all that she finds is a scribbled note, asking her to look after them until he’s back, promising her he’ll pay back for their food and whatever they may chew up when he returns.

With a sigh, Sofía lets the note drop and looks down at the dogs.

“You better not chew up anything,” she mutters, and makes her way to the kitchen to make herself some breakfast and to see if she has something suitable to feed those four little demons.

***

[Back to Part 14]

[On to Part 16]

[back-and-totheleft]

Rider on the Storm

Oliver Stone--Hollywood outlaw, cinematic high priest of the lost generation, America’s reigning Angry Young Man--has dismissed the haplessly out-of-touch: those within earshot as well as those not in sync with his favorite decade.

“Get out there! Take a chance! That’s what the ‘60s were--the cutting edge! Ride the snake! Now! Now ! Remember that? Go to the limits! Challenge authority! Challenge your parents! See for yourself! Get in touch with your senses!”

That fusillade is being delivered by arguably Hollywood’s most successful protester. Yale dropout, drug-taking, decorated Vietnam vet turned auteur , Stone has delivered take after take on the ‘60s and their children--"Salvador,” “Platoon,” “Wall Street,” “Talk Radio,” “Born on the Fourth of July"--coming at his theme every which way. Drugs! War! Money! Politics! Stone has made movies to exorcise his and his generation’s demons, annoying the industry with his excesses, filmic and personal, earning a round of grudging respect for ballyhooing a 20-year-old Zeitgeist all the way to the bank. He is even a producer these days, taking home a nice percentage of the gross. The Outsider has become Establishment. Hey, Oliver, what’s that sound, everything going round and round?

After nearly two decades in the business--writing or directing about a dozen films, earning five Oscar nominations, including two awards for Best Director--Stone has mastered the art of turning the counterculture into a mainstream, bankable product. Today he is Hollywood’s most consistent practitioner of point-of-view filmmaking, yet one who just as consistently falls on his own sword.

His films, lofty in their intent to capture the New Left values of the ‘60s, frequently come up short with undistinguished if competent craftsmanship and an in-your-face moralizing. Critics regularly fault his work. The New Yorker’s Pauline Kael wondered in a review of “Platoon” whether Stone was “using filmmaking as a substitute for drugs. . . . There are too many scenes,” she went on to write, “where you think, It’s a bit much. The movie crowds you; it doesn’t give you room to have an honest emotion.” If Stone disdains such caviling as aesthetic elitism--"Critics say that; audiences don’t. I won’t ever make boring movies, ever!"--he nonetheless has his sharpshooter’s eye trained on his place in American film history. Stone still hungers for the imprimatur of artist.

“We don’t practice repression in this country, we practice triviality,” the director says, standing in a Hollywood sound stage on an early winter afternoon. “I try to make films that are bold and on the cutting edge, with ideas that are greater than me--and I try to serve those ideas.”

Now, Stone is set to unveil his latest homage to his generation--"The Doors,” the much-anticipated movie about the legendary ‘60s band, starring Val Kilmer as Jim Morrison, the band’s charismatic lead singer and lyricist. It is Stone’s first film since “Born on the Fourth of July” won him his third Oscar three years ago, and at $30 million it’s his most expensive production to date. It is also his least overtly political--something of a first for this filmmaker who is regularly accused of being anti-American--but one that is not without risks.

With few exceptions--such as “The Buddy Holly Story"--movies about the music industry are notoriously poor box office. And with “The Doors,” Stone is bringing to market a glossy tale of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll come round again in a new age of conservatism. It is a film for the ‘90s, with a controversial protagonist who practiced a particularly lethal brand of hedonistic nihilism; Morrison died of an apparent heart attack in Paris 20 years ago at the age of 27. Stone has taken a calculated risk in opening “The Doors” in today’s sexually nervous and unexpectedly jingoistic climate--the AIDS crisis and the country embroiled in its first real war since Vietnam. “I think we all feel on the edge of imminent disaster,” says Stone about his film’s upcoming release. “One always has that feeling.”

Even by the ‘60s’ break-the-mold musical standards, the Doors were considered sui generis--a home-grown Los Angeles band whose organ-rich, Eastern-sounding melodies, combined with Morrison’s vicious but poetic lyrics and undeniable stage presence, captured the growing alienation of an entire generation. From their first album--"The Doors” in 1967--to their last--"L.A. Woman” four years later--the band’s raspy mysticism and intellectual lyricism embodied the dark side of the ‘60s.

At the center of the band’s appeal was Morrison, the pouty, drug-ingesting “Lizard King” who became something of the Prince of Darkness in an era that did not lack for antiheroes--a figure extolling themes of undeniable attraction for Stone. “Look, I’m in my 40s,” the director says. “So I suppose this film is about the formation of our generation--the values we shared. People were out there, experiencing things, changing things. There were no limits, no laws. . . .”

Brian Grazer, an executive producer of “The Doors,” perceived two outlaws well-matched. “Oliver was my first choice as the director,” Grazer says. “He does what nobody else does--he takes dark, difficult subjects and turns them into hits.”

But hit making, as Stone likes to maintain, is not his goal. Rather, he single-mindedly goes after what he thinks of as the truths of his generation, wherever that search takes him: Vietnam, Wall Street, rock ‘n’ roll, even the Kennedy assassination. He describes the J.F.K. murder, the subject of his next film, which he will begin shooting this spring, as “the most covered-up crime of our era.” Although risk-taking and possibly radical in their intent, Stone’s films are increasingly mainstream, made with ever-larger budgets and more prestigious producers--Hemdale, Carolco and now, with the Kennedy film, Warner Bros. Success, for Stone, is a double-edged sword.

“Success?” asks the director, slightly startled. “That didn’t become popular as a concept until the ‘70s. Yeah, I have much more freedom to make the subjects that I want, but I don’t see myself as Darryl Zanuck. I would feel bad if I got indulgent. All good films come from people with an independent spirit, those who push. But the power of perception in the world is such that fringe ideas, when they are accepted, become mainstream--that because of their success they become a cliche.

“ ‘Platoon’ was a major innovation in our perception of what that war was. I thought ‘Born’ was a fairly radical statement; it took 10 years to make that picture--everybody passed on it. Once it was made and got eight Oscar nominations, it became a successful Hollywood movie. If it had not been successful, it would have been considered an outlaw film. Now, with the Kennedy film--why haven’t they made that already? Because people were fearful that it was uncommercial. I hope I was destined to make that picture.”

Those who know him suggest that Stone is indeed struggling to reconcile his renegade past with his current role as emerging power broker. “Oliver is conflicted about his success,” says one industry executive. “He hasn’t allowed his political sensibilities to get in the way of taking large amounts of money, and he struggles with that.”

“It isn’t about getting successful and having a career,” Stone says. “Going against success as a formula and embracing failure, like Morrison, where death becomes the last limit. . . . You mustn’t let money or power corrupt. I don’t feel in any way that I have compromised. I want to stay truthful to my era.”

STANDING HERE IN THE CAVERNOUS SOUND STAGE, Stone is putting the finishing touches on “The Doors.” While ostensibly another ‘60s film, “The Doors,” colleagues say, is actually a further cinematic echo of the director’s own persona as self-exiled prodigal son. As one actor puts it, “Although Oliver’s films seem to be about social issues, they are really about him.”

In conversation, Stone is by turns boyish, combative, thoughtful and overheated, one who seems to delight in spewing hyperbole as much in person as he does in his films. A husband and a father, he insists that his one regret is, “I didn’t sleep with all the women I could have.” A former drug user once busted in Mexico, he now calls cocaine “the biggest killer I know” but still salutes hallucinogenics as “fascinating.” A relentless advocate of the ‘60s, he disparages Woodstock as “a bunch of Boy Scouts getting together.” A most famous veteran, he is nonetheless disdained by some members of his old unit as a self-righteous blowhard with little sense of humor and a skewed perspective. (“He is very opinionated, over-generalizes the facts and bad-mouths people who have different points of view,” says Monte Newcombe, who served with Stone in Vietnam.)

As is well known, Stone made his mark as a movie maker five years ago when he turned his own life into film--"Platoon,” the 1986 Oscar-winning Vietnam War film that chronicled the director’s 1967-68 tour of duty. The movie won Best Picture and Best Director and grossed more than $160 million. Stone has made similar connections in his other less overtly biographical films. James Woods in “Salvador,” Charlie Sheen in “Wall Street,” Eric Bogosian in “Talk Radio,” Tom Cruise in “Born on the Fourth of July,” all played characters close to the director’s “male, Type-A personality,” says Bogosian. “Oliver makes movies about men under pressure.”

In “The Doors,” Stone evinces a similar fealty to Morrison, a contemporary of the director’s and a man also known for not tempering his excesses. “Jim had a thing where he went to the limits--women, drugs, alcohol, the law,” says Stone, who plays down some of Morrison’s excesses and recut parts of the film to make Kilmer’s character more likable. “His lyrics were earthy--snakes, fire, earth, death, fear, eros, sexuality. But he was also close to the French symbolist poets--Apollinaire, Rimbaud and a little Dylan Thomas. That combination--the high end and low end, black and white, vulgar and refined--I liked that contrast.”

It is a marriage of opposites that also fits Stone, who is described by those who know him as intense, passionate and smart, a prodigious director and writer whose early reputation for womanizing and drug taking never hindered an equally relentless work ethic. “He has the curiosity of a child and an incredible drive,” says Kenneth Lipper, an investment banker, author and consultant on “Wall Street.” “Oliver uses his films as an excuse to search out the facts--the truth--of a situation.”

Others who have worked for him say Stone is a masterful taskmaster who will manipulate, taunt and pressure cast and crew into sharing his commitment to the subject at hand. “He likes to do a lot of sparring to challenge you,” says actor Willem Dafoe, who starred in “Platoon” and “Born on the Fourth of July.” Adds Bogosian: “He expects you to be a self-starter and thick-skinned when it comes to criticism. And if he senses you can’t take it, he will move away from you fast. Being on a set with him can be very punishing. But at the end of the day, everyone wants to be around him.” Kyle MacLachlan, an actor best known as FBI man Dale Cooper in television’s “Twin Peaks,” who co-stars in “The Doors,” says simply, “I miss working with Oliver.”

With so many of the director’s oft-related demons so readily on the surface, so out there, it is a challenge to sift through the rhetoric. Ask Stone what he is looking for in his self-inflicted Sturm und Drang , and he scorns the question as “so obvious. OK, the 49ers to win.” But in the next breath he turns philosophical, cribbing from Milan Kundera, the celebrated Czech novelist: “the ‘Lightness of Being.’ We’re all looking for equanimity of our souls.”

HE IS TALL, ABOUT 6 FEET AND JUST SHORT OF formidable, with an arresting collision of cultures--French-American, Jewish-Roman Catholic--etched into a face that is all but haggard from years of hard living and late hours. Bleary-eyed, dressed totally in black, Stone is sandwiching in an interview in the midst of back-to-back editing sessions for Friday’s release of “The Doors.”

Surrounded by his editing crew, he holds court in a room that seems the extension of himself as both polemical filmmaker and erstwhile Peck’s Bad Boy--everything state-of-the-art and bigger-than-life. Extra-large leather sofas, screen the size of a football field, giant neon clock ticking off the frames. The sequence being edited this day is quintessential Stone. On screen, Morrison, played by Kilmer, heaves a television set at the head of Doors’ keyboardist Ray Manzarek: MacLachlan in flowing locks. The result--exploding glass and screamed epithets.

Stone flashes his signature gap-toothed grin. “There was a sound vacuum, and it’s making me crazy,” he says about the morning spent laying down extra decibels of breaking glass. “Sound abuse. I’m accused of that all the time,” he says. “But this is the noisiest film I’ve ever made. I have to gauge how much the audience can take after two hours and 15 minutes.” In Stone’s hands, “The Doors” is less an illustrated history of the band’s genesis or Morrison’s peculiarly tortured life than a visceral recreation of the world of ‘60s music. The approach is similar to the sensuous verisimilitude the director achieved in “Platoon,” the first Vietnam War film made by someone who had served. “I don’t want to reduce the ‘60s to a formula or say this is all-inclusive,” Stone says, “but it is about the texture of the ‘60s . . . how music was the big common denominator.”

Producer Grazer says the film is less linear and narrative than “a film made from a real rock-music point of view. Oliver has made a movie that shows that world as dangerous and erotic. It has a real feel for the period.”

Much of that feel comes from the director’s personal affinity for The Doors’ music, which he first encountered in Vietnam. He found the band “visceral and mystical,” Stone says. “The Doors were not a mainstream band like the Beatles or the Rolling Stones. Jim hated that whole teeny-bopper thing. There were decency rallies held against him.”

That Morrison’s grave site in Paris still has the faithful trekking to touch the headstone has only burnished the mystique of the tortured songwriter with the Kennedyesque jaw and the black leather pants that would, on occasion, not stay zipped. A well-known abuser of alcohol, drugs and women, Morrison was arrested in 1969 on obscenity charges after exposing himself during a Miami concert. “He was a pirate, a free soul, an anarchist,” Stone says. “I loved his spirit--a combination of James Dean and Brando, sexiness combined with sensitivity and rawness.”

Morrison’s persona transcended not only his performances but also his death in 1971, which Stone recalls as “like the day Kennedy died.” The revival of so-called Doorsmania, as Rolling Stone magazine referred to it, began 12 years ago when director Francis Ford Coppola used the band’s Oedipal song, “The End,” in his 1979 Vietnam film, “Apocalypse Now.” In 1981, the lurid, controversial Morrison biography, “No One Here Gets Out Alive” by Jerry Hopkins and Danny Sugerman, the singer’s manager, was published. That same year, “The Doors’ Greatest Hits” was released and made it into Billboard’s Top 10. By 1981, Rolling Stone had Morrison on its cover with the headline, “He’s Hot, He’s Sexy . . . He’s Dead.”

Hollywood chased the Morrison story for nearly a decade while the Morrison estate and the surviving members of the band battled over the movie rights. Eventually, Grazer’s Imagine Productions held all the cards--a hefty $2-million development package--largely through the assistance of veteran rock producer Bill Graham, who shares production credit on the film. Grazer took the project to Stone--who had just passed on the on-again, off-again “Evita"--and Mario Kossar’s Carolco Productions, which had signed the director to a two-picture deal.

For Stone, directing “The Doors” brought several new challenges. “It was a very complicated screenplay to write,” says Stone, who shares screenwriting credit with J. Randal Johnson, who had done an earlier draft. Using his usual reporter’s approach, Stone plowed through “250 transcripts from people who had known Jim. It was like ‘Citizen Kane’ in a way--everyone had a different point of view.” Stone shot the film last spring with 30,000 extras for concert scenes in San Francisco, New York, Paris and Los Angeles, including the L. A. clubs Whisky a Go-Go and The Central, which doubled as the old London Fog.

Recreating The Doors’ sound on film proved more difficult. Kilmer, a baritone like Morrison, was cast after Stone interviewed hundreds of actors. Perhaps best known as Ice Man, Tom Cruise’s nemesis in the film “Top Gun,” Kilmer had been so eager to land the role that he recorded an entire Doors album, substituting his own vocals for Morrison’s. In a similar move, Stone decided to obtain the rights to The Doors’ master tapes minus Morrison’s lead vocals. He then spliced the original soundtracks with performances by the actors--Kilmer, MacLachlan, Kevin Dillon and Frank Whaley, who learned to play instruments for the film. The film’s final cut contains 25 Doors songs, including such classic hits as “L. A. Woman,” “Crystal Ship,” “Light My Fire” and “The End.” The music was recorded with “a little bit of Jim Morrison’s vocals--and in the concert scenes I have mixed in the actors’ voices, and I defy you to find the difference,” Stone says.

Kilmer describes Stone as “a person of vision and integrity. He has lived triumph and horrors. And I can tell you his life does not pass unexamined. Look at his body of work. It pulls from his introspection, knowledge and vast intuition.”

Indeed, ask Stone what he hopes the reception for his film will be, and he launches into another paternalistic eulogy for the ‘60s. “A lot of people will want to see this the way they wanted to see Tom Cruise in ‘Born,’ so they can be given an alternative way of looking at things,” he says. “These kids have grown up with Travolta and disco, the high-tech world of the ‘80s, and maybe they have never even seen that there is a different, an alternative, lifestyle, a world we’ve lost touch with.”

“WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE BAND OF THE ‘60s?”

Stone is asking this over lunch of Thai soup--hot as napalm--set out for him and his guest in an upstairs conference room. With Stone, that isn’t an idle question; it’s a password, a test of character, sort of like the soup he’s ordered--beyond an ordinary mortal’s standards. “Come on, it’s good for you,” he says laughing at his guest’s discomfort. “It puts hair on your chest.”

Shying away from risks is the ultimate sin with Stone, the only child of a privileged Manhattan couple, a stockbroker father and socialite mother. Stone wore a coat and tie every day to prep school, wrote weekly essays for his father--who paid him 25 cents each--and embarked on his well-documented fall from grace as soon as he was able. Says one old friend: “Oliver grew up with a lot of contradictions in his life--Jewish father, French Roman Catholic mother who was this semi-Regine-type character. Oliver led this sort of Eurotrash jet-setter’s life--even after his parents were divorced--where nothing was normal.”

“My mother was never in bed before 3 in the morning,” Stone recalls. “She used to take me to France in the summers, and she was a great fan of movies, took me out of school to go to double and triple features. She was this kind of Auntie Mame person. ‘Evita’ would have been my homage to her.”

His parents’ divorce when he was 16 years old, Stone says, “was like parting the curtains of a stage play and seeing what was really there. I found out about a whole lot of things--affairs--I had been blind to. After that, I felt I was really on my own.”

The divorce also coincided with a larger rupture--Kennedy’s assassination in 1963, the de facto starting gun of the ‘60s. “I had no faith in my parents’ generation after that,” Stone says. “By 1965, I was in Vietnam"--first as a teacher and a merchant marine, later as an Army enlistee.

He briefly attended Yale University, his father’s alma mater, which he says he “hated, especially since it was before women were admitted.” Stone dropped out and headed for Vietnam.

He was wounded twice and earned a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart in a tour of duty that was later chronicled in “Platoon.” “He was never a regular GI Joe,” recalls Crutcher Patterson, a former member of Stone’s platoon. “He was pretty green, a loner and moody, always writing things. Whenever we got a break, he would stop and write a little descriptive story about it.”

During his brief Army career, Stone abandoned the idea of being a writer--he had written a novel at 18--to become a filmmaker. “Being there was a very sensual experience, and I started thinking in visual terms,” Stone says. “In Vietnam, all your senses were awakened. You had to see better, smell better, hear better. It was very sensual, with the jungle six inches in front of your face. You couldn’t think along abstract lines--you had to become more animalistic or you wouldn’t survive.”

He bought a still camera and started taking pictures even before he left for home. Once Stone returned to New York, “I got a super-8 right away and started making home movies.” He enrolled at New York University’s film school, where he studied under director Martin Scorsese, drove a cab, married Najwa Sarkis--an official at the Moroccan mission to the United Nations--and made “short, crude 16-millimeter films that were really screwed up,” Stone says. “They were arty, kind of abstract poems with a touch of Orson Welles and the French New Wave filmmakers--Goddard, Resnais, Bunuel. I was trying to get away from a normal narrative line.”

He was also pursuing a similar line in his personal life. Arrested for marijuana possession in Mexico 10 days after his return from Vietnam, Stone became well known for using drugs, an experience that later informed his screenplay for Brian DePalma’s “Scarface.”

“I started smoking cigarettes on the plane going over to Vietnam,” says Stone. “Once I got there, the guys I liked best had been around drugs for ages, and I started doing acid and marijuana. I also got into the music. I had never heard Motown before then. Jefferson Airplane and the Doors. Jim was the acid king. It was all part of the Zeitgeist. “

It was a taste for substance abuse, topped off with an appetite for pursuing women, that Stone, newly divorced, took with him to Los Angeles in the mid-1970s as an aspiring screenwriter. He soon had a reputation notable even by Hollywood’s standards. “He always had a million women in his life,” says one female former friend. “I don’t think he missed too many.”

In Hollywood, Stone wrote “Platoon,” and although it would be more than 10 years before he would get it made, the script earned him attention as a writer of unusual force.

“I was looking for a writer for ‘Conan’ ” recalls Ed Pressman, an independent film producer who worked with Stone on “Conan the Barbarian” and several films since, including “Born.” “His agent showed me ‘Platoon,’ and I was very taken with it. His script for ‘Conan’ was a great screenplay. Like Dante’s ‘Inferno.’ ”

The success of that film led to other screenwriting assignments--"Midnight Express,” “Scarface,” “Year of the Dragon” among others--all white-hot, unsubtle stories, the type that increasingly became Stone’s signature. He won his first Oscar for “Midnight Express,” which led to his first directing opportunity--"The Hand,” a marginal thriller starring Michael Caine that failed at the box office and temporarily stalled Stone’s directing career. Eventually, he was able to make the low-budget “Salvador” through Hemdale Productions, followed by “Platoon,” a $6-million film that Orion picked up from Hemdale and that saw grosses in the hundreds of millions. After that, Stone was admitted to the big leagues--directing Michael Douglas in “Wall Street” and Tom Cruise in “Born on the Fourth of July.” The latter film, based on Vietnam veteran Ron Kovic’s life story, won Stone his second Best Director award but lost out for Best Picture to the crowd pleaser “Driving Miss Daisy"--a loss that Stone took particularly hard. “We made over $60 million with that film--an incredible success. I guess it was just not meant to be.”

Today, Stone has remarried and divides his time among homes in Santa Monica, Montecito and Colorado with his wife, Elizabeth, a former nurse, and their 6-year-old son, Sean, who plays young Morrison in “The Doors.” Stone hasn’t lost his concern for current events: “I’m praying for our soldiers, who are making the ultimate sacrifice in the Gulf War, but I don’t think Bush ever intended to negotiate. There was a military-industrial complex that pushed us into this.” Friends add that the director’s only real interest these days, in addition to making films, “is trying to set up other films.”

Have Stone’s demons finally gone AWOL? “I didn’t say I didn’t miss my old life,” he says with a half-smile. “I love the concept of suburbia, but I also love going to New York and Europe and Asia, meeting new people. My wife and I are different that way. I have a restlessness that never stops.”

Indeed, as soon as “The Doors” opens, Stone is off to Dallas to begin shooting his version of the Kennedy assassination, a film that Stone describes as “the untold story of a murder that occurred at the dawn of our adulthood. It’s a bit like ‘Hamlet.’ You know, the real king was killed, and a fake king put on the throne.” Suggest to Stone that some of Camelot’s luster has tarnished since 1963, and the director says quietly, “There has been an incredible disinformation campaign put out about him. A lot of misinformation. I am using everything I have to get this film made.”

Ask Stone if he likes where he is positioned now in the industry and he laughs. “Oh, this is the part where you’re going to quote me, right? The outlaw director.”

If Stone is cagey about self-definition these days, friends seem equally divided. Some, such as Pressman, who produced “Blue Steel” and “Reversal of Fortune” with Stone, say the director “is at the top of his game. I was always mesmerized and excited by his personality, but now he is much more comfortable with himself and a lot easier to work with.”

But another Hollywood executive suggests that “Oliver has not changed much. He really hasn’t mellowed. He is conflicted about his ‘financial’ success. But that’s how Hollywood respects you--they pay for what they respect, and his movies now make money.”

Stone does seem to be a man with his eye fixed perpetually over his shoulder, one who keeps a daily diary and who describes the art of filmmaking as giving vent to “that other person that is in you. The shadow self, the one that is always walking behind you. The real you, the deeper you.

“I’m not going to say I’m a lone soul here, wandering through my own soundtrack,” he says. “I enjoy the community of people who love movies. And I like using the power that I have to make things happen. But will I be doing this forever? Maybe I’ll be working in Eritrea or the Sudan, or maybe I’ll become a journalist for Rolling Stone.”

Stone has spent several hours over lunch, repeatedly waving off his crew, but now his impatience is tangible. “I still don’t like the answer I gave you about the ‘60s, how this film relates to this current generation. I felt stupid. I was doing a lot of ‘ums’ and ‘ahs,’ ” he says, suddenly obsessed with his image.

“I don’t want to believe in generation conflict, but it’s there. I feel distant from my own generation, out of step with the people my age who went to college. I always identified more with the Charlie Sheen generation, that younger group who came up, because it gave me new life. I was able to act out my own history through them, skip a generation and go back to it again. Believe me, that’s exciting, and I’m grateful for that chance because our tribal rituals are the same. It doesn’t have to be Jim Morrison or Vietnam; it’s about going out there and finding yourself.”

-Hilary de Vries, “RIDER ON THE STORM : With ‘The Doors,’ Director Oliver Stone Exhumes the ‘60s in All Their Lurid Excess,” Los Angeles Times, Feb 24 1991 [x]

[fopperyy]

Born and raised in the deeep south, the “framed obituaries” stands out to me. I have a distant relation that keeps an entire wall of their house with framed photos of long dead friends and family members, with their own framed obituaries directly below their photo.

Furthermore, old, three-story, Victorian-style Alabama homes are extremely likely from my experience to have atleast one of the following:

-An elegant but creaking and liable to get stuck china cabinet filled with decades-old porcelain dolls.

-A photo book of dead relatives with either a.) newspaper clippings detailing violent deaths, or b.) death photos of the corpses’ faces. (That this used to be a common thing still freaks me out!!)

-trinkets and ‘humorous’ paintings depicting black people as slaves, which is of course horror in a different and more real sense.

Finally, all those old rich families have centuries of secrets tucked back from the albums and the recorded history; secrets that remain only in the members of the family. I’ve mostly interacted with those old houses and the people in them by way of working for them, but sitting with an Alzheimer-burdened old woman and listening to her tales of the things that happen in those homes is its own southern gothic.

I feel torn about tumblr’s love of southern gothic.  There’s a lot of cool stuff in that genre to be admired, but I feel like sometimes those posts (especially when made by people who don’t live in the south- and hey, neither do I) come across as “aren’t poor people spooooky?”