#new wave vaudeville

[lightspeedhunter]

German born Klaus Sperber aka "Klaus Nomi".

A gifted opera singer who also portrayed the New Vaudeville sub genre of the New Wave scene.

Klaus Nomi was the charismatic leader of the Expressionist Cabaret movement that emerged in the early 80s.

Sadly Klaus died of AIDS in 1983, but is remembered as the "soprano cold wave electro" ultimate icon.

[newyorkthegoldenage]

The Chelsea Hotel, 222 West 23rd Street, August 12, 1936.

[Edgar Lee] Masters proclaimed in his booming courthouse voice that there was no better home for a writer than the Hotel Chelsea. He urged [Thomas] Wolfe to sign the register and stood by as the younger man grasped the pen, observing with satisfaction Wolfe’s receding hairline and slightly drooping jowls. Wunderkind or not, the author of Look Homeward, Angel needed spectacles to read. But Masters meant what he’d said about the Chelsea. Granted, it lacked the polish of the Algonquin, with its fabled Round Table wits and bow-tied maître d’. The Chelsea had had a run of bad luck ... Still, for people with small bank accounts but big imaginations, a unique and intriguing spirit lingered in the atmosphere. Like a stately ocean liner, the enormous Victorian-era residence had withstood the battering of the district’s successive waves of vaudeville theaters and nickelodeons, oyster houses and seamen’s bars, office buildings and warehouse lofts. Inside the Chelsea, a tradition of tolerance, built into its bones, had allowed its occupants to weather these changes with equanimity. 

    --Sherill Tippins, Inside the Dream Palace: The Life & Times of New York's Legendary Chelsea Hotel (New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt 2013)

Photo: Berenice Abbott via Jackson Fine Art

[twixnmix]

Klaus Nomi backstage during the New Wave Vaudeville at the Irving Plaza in New York City, 1978.

Photos by Marcia Resnick

[jack-kellys]

notes from december performance post-previews that i somehow just wrote up last night in august 2023 whattt how did that happennn:

the way jack replies to “you’re seeing stars alright” feels way more in response to crutchie’s attitude- and when he talks abt his dad getting stomped on it’s not just a context reveal. it’s jack telling crutchie he’s self-aware, he understands his shit place in the world and his desire to change it. just that it’s nice to dream. ow

“time for dreaming’s done” isn’t said with a smile. btw. if u even care

jack stealing finch’s mirror gets me every time

katherine looks back at jack at his “im crushed!” with a little smile

i get that the only reason buttons helps with a lot of the tricks is because he’s the DC but that doesn’t make it any less sweet… he’s always with splasher lmao

jack is quite uncomfortable with the nuns, he doesn’t look at any of them

never ever over spalsher’s little head tilt after his big flip

oscar grabs race’s collar on “i guess he didn’t take care of me!”

morris goes to hit crutchie again after pushing him to the ground before jack stops him

love when race bounces on his toes when he thinks he says something funny

morris blows his cig smoke into davey’s face when he’s grabbing him the extra paper

henry imitates les with finch as his davey, hobbling up to weasel down on his knees

jack rolls his eyes after telling davey “it’s just business” after shaking les’s hand. like can u believe this guy lmao

“mine taught me not to starve” looking at davey like ‘wtf is wrong with you’ LMAO. like jack’s irked with davey actually judging for something so ingrained into jack’s life fr

“HEY!! who was that guy >:(!”

medda checks on jack’s hair and he giggles mid sentence :) like “mooom in front of my friends??”

kaths look of Disgust when jack goes “i admire smart girls” is soooo done. she’s finished w this mf

katherine stays on the set as it shifts into WWK’s scene, staring at jack’s drawing, totally absorbed. i just think it’s fun how when davey sees jack’s backdrop he’s stunned in the same way kath is at her portrait. anyway

jack goes toward finch during the “our union is hereby formed to watch each other’s backs” after leaving ike and finch sweeeeerves away from him. finch only comes on board when davey does actually

when jack’s on the wagon with the “what if the delanceys come out swinging” etc he does a small laugh when the newsies all yell their response like he’s surprised !!

katherine is positioned right above the world’s door as if she’s. inside. ofc initially we read it as her just observing from above but it’s her literal building too.

“specs, you take queens.” “thank you!”

buttons gives kath a friendly wave and race offers his water cup when katherine comes into jacobi’s. walks right past the water even as race keeps his hand out lmfao

tommy lifts elmer into his arms after kath says they’d make front page

“this is not some little vaudeville im reviewing” felt more significant

“give those kids and me the brand new century and watch what happens” is a Plea.

welliguessitdependsonhowyoulookatitifyoulookandseebrooklynthenthey’rewithushaha! then race guns toward davey to yell at him

davey is not afraid to yell when his nerves get shot —> when the scabs boutta get they shit rocked

“them? or them.” OSCAR WAVES LMFAOOO

piggyback for les from racer

fight time

-morris has it OUT for racer in the pre-cop half. literally think he gets smacked with the bat TWICE. he’s on the ground, watches splasher get smacked from the ground, and BOLTS UP and races over to him shoving past morris. insane

-jack only swings on the rope to make a clear path for davey and les actually bc that action is the only reason they get to that half of the stage

-finch and romeo teammates for LIFE. they fought like the whole thing together fr. only pair that stuck out to me for the whole length of it (and then of course they watch crutchie get taken from the audience ough)

-nah jack Is a good fighter thru this it’s just the seize the day moment w the delanceys that he’s shit at btw

-davey doesn’t fight literally at all the whole time :/ c’mon. uncanonizing this in my mind

-SPECS KICKS ASS !! he’s got a bat and everything!! fuck yeah!!

shut up jack wipes at his eye during santa fe at “guy can catch a break”

^guy who lets out a sigh of relief when the post card is still in his pocket. fuck off

act twooo

kath goes to racer abt where jack might’ve gone and he’s abt to answer before albert pipes up

race flicking davey’s hat to the side>

^also they keep chatting thru tap sequences i love it

kath holding davey’s hand while they talk in the corner during table movement

crutchie holds his side when he sings…

^the only part crutchie gets teary at is when he starts talking abt the boys/family :,)

“and a little something extra, just on account of im gonna miss you so-” sounds like medda broke off bc her voice got watery 🥲

“every newsie—who could walk—was out there selling papes” OW the rephrasing of that line

as soon as jack turns his backdrop around to show the strike painting davey walks away soooo fast to turn away

WWH reprise is such an argument. “WE’RE ALREADY WINNING!!” yell davey yell!!

^jack makes the most fuming, boiling angry face after “y’know why a snake starts to rattle 😌?”

davey initiates the spit shake when jack offers his hand

kath is Mortified watching snyder expose jack’s refuge history AND SHES SO MAD when pulitzer gets between her and jack omfg

“be glad you’re alive, kid” is spoken and cruel asf but wbk

morris’s laugh kills me everytime it’s so fucked in the head. goddamn

jack doesn’t let davey touch him when he enters the rally like he doesn’t want davey to look like he knew abt the betrayal beforehand….

scope runs RIGHT up to jack after spot pushes him and goes to yell at him LMAO… lucky has to drag her away

“is that really what it’s like in there? rats everywhere, and vermin?” is taken as judgement and not concern and jack fuckin jumps on it LMAO

the actual motion of disgust jack makes at “you just double crossed us to your father- your… father.” dead every time he literally flinches

“i just didn’t tell you everything!!” is said at the opposite side of the stage as jack and looking down and away. idk why she’s the only katherine that has ever played this line as guilty but i’m always so glad for it

“i’m not stupid.” “no-” “i know girls like you… don’t wind up with guys.. like me.” heathers voice: i will never shut up abooout this

jack seems very afraid of the word love?? during kath’s entire piece of STBI he stays away from her… and she def thinks she’s fucked up for a sec fr

wah this song is so tender :( they hold each other very softly

“hey! um… it’s good to have ya back.”

clarice’s spot also has a moment with race beside just letting the kids into the cellar together..<3 ik lillie’s has more tho

there is something so personal abt davey jacobs saying “bleeeed ‘eeeem” while looking dead into jack’s eyes

davey’s reckless hug once jack’s made the deal with pulitzer… every timeeee

FINCH CRUTCHIE HUG!! first to get to him and holds him the longest before race and jack come along :)

“new york’s got us. and we’ a family.” is said as such a statement of fact like crutchie just ends any argument right there. he just knows jack so fucking well.

:)

[zal-cryptid]

What's each of the main casts' favorite music genre?

Eleanor - classical, opera; she can play piano

Charlie - jazz, vaudeville

Dolly - ragtime, jazz, swing, musical show tunes (songs from old Betty Boop cartoons and the soundtrack to Raggedy Ann & Andy: A Musical Adventure seem to be among her favorites), as well as country music (with a particular liking to Dolly Parton)

Gabe - classic rock, punk rock, new wave, alt rock, metal, early hip-hop

Pauline - pop rock, pop music, secret love for musicals

Jen - pop music, ska, indie pop, J-Pop and J-Rock (knows all the lyrics to all her favourite anime openings). She also loves musicals

Tammy - same as Jen tbh, except for the musicals. She isn't sure if it's the result of her toy brain or not, but she has also taken a liking to synth and techno

Mel - pop music, indie music, children's songs (definitely the result of her toy brain)

Maria - oh boy, sorta a mix of everyone's on this list. Definitely into rock, pop, indie, grunge, musicals, unironically loves The Nutcracker Suite. She used to play guitar before coming to Toyland

André - pop punk, grunge, really into scene/emo. He used to play drums

[nonobadcat]

A real world AU Gothic Romance - part 1/3

Pairing: Ghost Shigaraki X Fem!Reader

Rating: Chapter one is PG-13. The other two chapters will be for readers 18+ only.

Content Warnings: Dead dog mention, cannon typical parricide

Eventual Kinks: Toys, V/oy, relations with a literal ghost

Chapter One Word Count: ~3k, Ao3 Mirror

Part 2 ---❤--- Part 3

Saturday October 15th, 2022

“So…?” gesturing like a vaudeville showman, you held out both hands towards your new house. “What do you think!? Great, right?”

Your best friend, Serenity, shoved her purple box-frame glasses up her wide, button nose and pursed her plush lips. Clicking her tongue, she curled her pointer finger into a loose coil of hair. Two tone sarcasm purred into her one word reply: “M-hmmm…”

Scratching the back of your neck, you glanced up at your new purchase just in time to watch one of the old tiles slip from the upper pitch of the dual-hipped roof. It bounced off the attic dormer, rolled past the mildew coated eaves, and slid across the mossy porch awning before tumbling a mere foot into the patchy, overgrown taxus bush. 

You forced a smile and pointed to the ancient, untamed yew. “Well, at least the roots are strong.”

Serenity pinched the bridge of her nose. "Please tell me you didn't use the realtor's home inspector."

"Oh come on Ren-Ren," you laughed, waving her off. Your eyes rolled to the side as your smile fell by one tooth. "I mean… I checked the plumbing myself, so…"

Brown eyes narrowed at you as your voice trailed off. With a deep, motherly sigh, she squeezed your shoulder. "Listen, you know I love you, right?"

You nodded.

She hooked her thumb over her shoulder. "It's a dump."

"It's a historical home!" You protested, crossing your arms. "It has good bones!"

Serenity eyed up the dingy, chipping brick and sun bleached slate tiles before shaking her head. "How many square feet?"

You fanned your hand across your chest. "3.5k with an acre of property plus a full attic and root cellar."

She blinked. "Hold up. That's like $400k+ most places! I thought you said your budget was $220,000?"

You grinned. "Yeah, and this was only $130,000 including closing costs. Crazy, right?"

Your best friend did a double take, staring at the ramshackle Second Empire with renewed interest. "Well… at least that covers the roof and siding." She thumbed her chin and cocked her head. "You're sure this thing has indoor plumbing?"

You shoved her shoulder. "Don't be a dick."

Serenity snickered into her palm. "Okay, so aside from having a friggen 'root cellar' and all the curb appeal of a haunted house, what else is wrong with it?"

You pointed to the far edge of the property where a line of grizzled pines swayed in the autumn breeze. "Busiest train tracks in the greater metropolitan area."

She whistled. "That's gonna blow."

"Literally," you agreed, massaging your temples.

She elbowed you in the ribs. "Still quieter than living with your ex."

You grinned. "No kidding!" With a wave of your hand, you beckoned her around the side of the building. "Wanna see the cool part?"

"Your definition of 'cool' is sus."

You grabbed the sleeve of her caramel colored duffle coat and tugged. "Just come on!"

Across the clover riddled lawn, Serenity trudged behind you in her knee high, slouch boots. She wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed to fight off the cool October wind. You pulled to a stop beside a massive old swamp oak and opened your purse. A wax coated paper sack appeared from the depths of your handbag. Scrawled in inky cursive were two words: "Doggone Delish".

You squatted low, and reached between tumbling roots. Gently brushing the leaf litter aside, you unveiled a carved piece of lichen encrusted soapstone. Time had worn the words smooth, but they were still legible.

"Mon: 1885?" Serenity murmured the text out loud before her eyes fanned wide. "Don't tell me that's a—"

You laid the oatmeal biscuit on the gravemarker and patted it fondly. "He was a Corgi. I found an old picture in one of the drawers." Rising to your feet, you brushed your hands on your jeans and grinned at her. "I always wanted a pet Corgi, and now I've got one."

Serenity eyed the long, dark branches of the towering giant above you. Their bare, grasping fingers crawled at the breeze. "Yeah well, hate to tell you this but your new dog is up the stump and fattening the squirrels by now." 

You scoffed and flashed her a playful smile. "So? Ghost dogs are cheaper than live ones."

"Freak," she teased, kicking your heel.

You stuck out your tongue and wiggled your fingers at her.

A low rumble tumbled in on the wind. The train's whistle shrieked out in the distance. Serenity covered her ears and grimaced. You shrugged and pointed to the house. She nodded, trailing behind you.

When they spotted the biscuit upon the gravemarker, the pair of crimson eyes in the upstairs window wrinkled with delight.

After a brief climb up the sagging porch steps and a short war with the new latchkey, your party arrived in the entryway. Pastel grey and tar black tiles arranged in geometric patterns lay just before the lanky old staircase. To the right, sunlight streamed through the bay windows of the empty, blandly colored front parlor. As Serenity handed you her coat, she examined the silk rose print wallpaper of the foyer. 

"The previous owners have all tried to renovate, but all of them had to stop the repairs before completion for some reason." You patted the yellowing flowers. "So a lot of it is still the original turn of the 20th century decor."

"Okay…" A puff of dust fluttered through the air as your companion tapped one of the old gas landliers in the entryway. With a grin, she turned to face you. "This place is kinda old-timey cool."

"Keep your shoes on," you told her, shuffling her coat onto the hanger. Tucking it into the cedar-lined hall closet, you toed the chipped porcelain tiles. "I haven't finished sweeping yet."

Serenity rolled her eyes. "Nobody’s got time to clean this much house by themselves!" She huffed and crossed her arms. "Why do you think my trunk looks like I scrubbed Mr. Clean’s bubbles?"

With a squeal of happiness, you flung your arms around her shoulders and crushed her against your chest. "Marry me, Ren-Ren."

"Keep that talk up and Marcus's paranoid self is gonna blow my phone up with his 'Baby, where you at?’-s," she laughed.

You released your friend and toed her boots. "You sure keep that boy under your heels."

"Mistress Ser knows what he likes,” she agreed, using the sleeve of her hubbie's hoodie to wipe the dust off the flecked glass of an old, gilded mirror. Tracing the ornate brass with the pad of her finger, she turned to you. “I’m loving this. Where’d you get it?”

“Came with the house.” You nodded to a cabriole legged, mahogany console just below the looking glass. Though the deep auburn shellac had silvered with sun damage, crystal knobs and burled wood spoke to its posh pedigree. A square shaped water ring in the dead center hinted at the old flower vase which must have once graced the hall. “Anything fabric was mouse eaten, but I saved the bedroom set.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You’re gonna sleep in some dead person’s bed? Gross.”

“Don’t make that face, Ren. I’m changing out the mattress.” You sighed. “Besides, this is legit heirloom stuff. When will I ever be able to afford fancy antiques on a my salary?” 

Serenity patted your shoulder. “Long as you don’t go banging a ghost or something.”

You shoved her down the hall. “You're really gonna go putting those thoughts in my head?!”

“You love it,” she teased back, running her hand over the dusty glass shades of the wall bracket lamps. “Are these oil?”

You shook your head. “Natural gas with an open flame. The seller said they capped the lines years ago though. Apparently, they caused a huge house fire back in the day and killed everybody except the little boy who lived here. After that they switched to kerosene and candles.”

“Open flame?” Serenity pulled away from the light as if it had teeth. “Small wonder the place went up.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, cupping your elbows. “Sounds like the people who owned it in the forties tried to repair the damage to the gas when they added the electricity. Supposedly the lines were sound, but the gas never worked right. The flame was always going out, leaving the gas running unchecked. They think it was low pressure or something. It made them annoyed so they sold it.”

As you walked, your companion eyed the soaring twelve foot ceilings and ornate transoms above the massive box doorways. “Well duh. If you make your walls friggin fifty foot tall, of course you’re gonna have pressure problems!”

“Yeah, but the water pipes work fine,” you pointed out, grabbing the round brass handle to the empty parlor. Chantilly parquet floors creaked below your feet as you strolled to the old coal burning fireplace and rested a hand on the chipped marble mantle. In the center of the elaborate plaster medallion, a dusty teardrop crystal chandelier hung above your heads. You flipped the wall switch. The light flickered to life with a painful click, illuminating faded scarlet walls. “The electrician says the wiring is safe, but it still sounds sketch to me.”

“Like it’s grinding or something.” She pressed her ear to the peeling, geometric patterned paper before shaking her head. “Well, at least I don’t hear any bees. Marcus’s mom had them in her walls one summer and Memorial Day turned into a horror movie real fast.”

You strolled to the old pocket doors on the far wall and pushed them wide. Beyond the thick walls, worn stain and gouged wainscot welcomed guests to the formal dining room. Ready for eight, the solid mahogany table stool proudly on hand carved, reeded legs. Beside the bay windows, a matching buffet complete with a wide, oval mirror and rosewood inlays awaited crystal bottles filled with port and brandy. Between twin hall doors, the empty hutch cried out for platinum-edged bone china and silver candlesticks to fill the empty shelves encased in its diamond mutins.

“I had to strip the cushions from the chairs,” you explained, resting your hand on the glossy table. “But the wood cleaned up nice with some mineral spirits and paste wax.”

Serenity shot you an incredulous look. “You've been watching too much ‘This Old House’.”

“It’s only $10 a quart at the hardware store. Way cheaper than a new table.”

Your companion rolled her wrist and beconked you to her. “Show me your hands.”

You cringed, holding out dry, peeling fingers.

Her eye twitched. “That’s it. After we finish this tour, I’m gonna drag your scaley self to Sally's Beauty.” She ripped her phone out of her pocket, furiously thumbing the keyboard. When the signal lit up with one bar, she snarled. “If there even is one in this podunk town.” 

You shrugged. “It’s a well water and septic world out here.”

Gripping her head, Serenity groaned. “I’m buying you a Brita filter. Asap.”

Heading down the long foyer, you made a sharp turn onto a narrow, walnut trimmed staircase. The dark, hand carved banister wobbled in your grip. You frowned at the loose fourth baluster. Not another one! Stupid Victorian hide glue! The original carpenter did some beautiful dovetail joinings but that stuff could not handle the humid summers in this area. More and more, the only dates you seemed to go on were with Norm Abram, Titebond and wood clamps. Now… the question was should you Amazon Prime some of the original stuff for authenticity’s sake or go with the stronger, cheaper wood glue you could get at Milton’s Hardware?

Cheaper probably. Considering the cost of Mansard roof repairs, cheaper was about what you could afford.

Leading her to the creaky upper hall, you bypassed the largest of four bedrooms on the south side of the house. Serenity paused, peaking through the crack in the old, tilted door frame. You shook your head and jerked your thumb down the landing.

“I got stuck in there last week. The house shifted so much over the years that it jams on humid days. I have to sand and rehang it before next summer.”

“Stuck? With cell service this bad?” She glanced out the far window at the long, overgrown expanse of forest which blocked any sight of your neighbors. A shiver rippled down her body. “Creepy.”

You paused, shaking hand rattling the old brass knob to the northern bedroom. “Tell me about it. I’ve left a crowbar and one of those fire escape ladders in there ever since.

Past the solid, double hip door sat a time capsule to the late nineteenth century. The original oak floors had yellowed with age but even the home inspector was impressed by their lack of seam gaps. Overlooking the front of the property, late 2000s double hung bay windows (a testament to the seller’s half-finished remodeling) encircled a small sitting area near the original coal burning fireplace. After hours of fighting with cast iron grating and a stubborn chimney flue, you’d managed to seal out the worst of the draft. The elegant brass chandelier surrendered its tarnish after two hours of polishing, leaving it capped with a luxurious glow every time the sun peeked through the gauzey Walmart curtains. Unlike the worn examples downstairs, dark wallpaper with golden peony blooms looked untouched by the years. 

You flopped onto your new, plastic wrapped mattress and stretched your hands wide. “Behold! Antiquey expensive stuff!”

Serenity’s jaw dropped as she took in the six part, solid mahogany bedroom set. As lovely a red as the day it was made, each piece of satin smooth craftsmanship testified to its owner's fortune. Capped in gothic embellishments and trimmed with burr wood inlays, the queen sized bed looked more like a cathedral than a sleeping space. A marble topped, tiered dressing table with dangling pewter drawer pulls stood ready for silver backed, boar bristle hair brushes and ambergris scented perfumes. You could hide four bodies in the massive armoire. Deep dresser drawers would hold six full skirted walking costumes with ease. Loveliest of all, the free standing, body length mirror reflected your companion’s flabbergasted gawking.

She pointed to the tall, narrow door. “Ho-how’d they even get this stuff in this room?!” 

You snickered, rising to your feet. “That era was all knockdown furniture,” you explained, turning the dressing table around. Tracing the dovetail seam between top and bottom, you tapped your temple. “Not like they wanted to haul all this stuff up the stairs anymore than we would.”

Serenity whistled. “Smart.”

“Oh! I almost forgot!” You dashed across the room to the six foot tall secretary desk and pulled down the writing table. In the center cubby, a luscious painting of olde English foxglove, Narcissus, and Lily of the Valley graced the Purpleheart inlays. You turned the small brass key in the latch and extracted a yellowed, black and white photograph of two children and a pudgy Pembroke Welsh Corgi. “Meet Mon, Tenko, and Hana Shimura.”

Your friend studied the picture. Hana, decked in high pigtails, stood solemnly in her dark pinafore and pristine, lacey apron. Tiny lips smashed in a thin line hinted at her efforts to control her smile. Under a messy flop of black hair, Tenko’s bright eyes gleamed with delight as he forced the Victorian portrait frown while clutching his new puppy. 

“Hold up,” Serenity demanded, tapping the picture with her long, lavender nail. “Aren’t those Japanese names?”

You nodded, returning the old photo to its hiding spot. “I think so.”

She crossed her arms. “Japan had its borders forced open by Perry in 1854. We’re supposed to believe some super rich Japanese family just packed it up, moved to Gilded-Age America, learned the language, and built a mansion in the middle of Podunk, USA just a few decades later?” Jabbing an annoyed figure at the elaborate plasterwork around the chandelier, she added: “Possible, but unlikely much?”

You shrugged. “Deus ex machina?”  

Serenity clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes. “I guess, but it’s a terrible one, even for a smutty fanfic.”

“Eh… it’s Halloween. Gotta get our fix somewhere,” you replied, kicking the cotton batting. “Help me get this on the bed?”

Bustling to your side, your companion tore through the thin plastic. “So… which one of the Shimuras burnt the house down?”

“I think it was the dad,” you explained, hefting the edge of the mattress above the bed frame. “Might have been rich, but rumor has it he was a perfectionist and family beater. According to the librarian, local gossip was that, after he killed the kid’s dog, the wife tried to take them and leave.”

Serenity grunted as she swung her side up and over. The mattress flopped into place with a woosh before sinking down into the platform base. “Yeah, bet a man like that doesn’t take too kindly to his favorite punching bags up and walking away.”

You scoffed. “Anyone who hurt Mon-chan deserves to burn.”

All at once, your hackles rose. Pricked ears caught the tail end of a distant cackle. You whipped around scanning the room.

“What’s up?”

Rubbing the back of your neck, you shook off the feeling like a wet dog. “N-nothing. Just swore I heard a…” Your voice trailed off as you fixed your gaze on the old looking glass before glancing to the window. “Weird…”

“Hey!” Serenity grabbed your shoulder. “Don’t be pulling that ‘I thought I saw something’ nonsense when I’ve gotta sleep here tonight!”

You laughed and threw up your hands in apology. “Sorry, sorry. Just caught a glint of sunlight in the mirror. That’s all.”

Inside the glass, body shaking with laughter, Tomura’s pale hand clamped tight over a skeletal grin.

Part II coming Saturday October 22nd, 2022

Taglist:

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[tea-ddie]

Something that may or may not be clear about my book, Ballyhoo, on a surface level, is for how long it's been in the works. People who've known me for several years will remember the very first draft of the comic from 2018/2019. That version was specifically made for Webtoon and has been more-or-less scraped for the current version of the story. Because of that, all of Ballyhoo's characters have gone through pretty big changes—not just in their design/my art style evolution/etc, but also in their occupation, some elements of their backstory, and more. I've started working on Book 2 and have been making some new concept art. I realized as I looked to the future of the project, it was a good time to look back. This post will go through three of the main characters: Evelyn, Marjorie, and Oretta, and explain how we got to where we are in Ballyhoo.

Evelyn Golubev

2018: Evelyn was one of the very first characters I ever created for this story. She was originally the femme-fatale-type—her girlfriend had just mysteriously gone missing. She worked at a vaudeville-type club as a dancer and, besides being somewhat hot, ominous and foreboding in the way that a femme-fatale must be, that was about it. I was still definitely trying to understand my art style and struggled a lot with making the hair look as "natural" as I wanted. Her outfits all leaned pretty heavily femme and her makeup was heavy... but uncanny as I didn't fully understand how to color makeup on a face then.

2024: Evelyn Golubev, or better known by her stage name, "Evelyn Gold," still works at a vaudeville club, but beyond dancing, also sings and performs at other bars and clubs across the city of Portapolis. She is the frontwoman of her Baby Blue Band, which is the house-band at local lesbian bar, the Lilac. Although she still holds some of her femme-fatale vibes, I wouldn't necessarily describe her as a "femme" in the queer spaces she occupies. She wears custom blue suits at the club and brings a swagger that would make any girl blush to her performances. In both versions of her character, she holds a few secrets that she protects fiercely, but in the currently version of the story, the consequences of these secrets coming out feels more intense. Overall, I think her character has become more refined and deliberate in the story.

Marjorie Miller

2018: Oh, Marjorie. Her role in the story has shifted pretty significantly from the first drafts of the story—in this earliest drawing, she's pictured singing at what was a lesbian house party. She was always a bit desperate—trying to fit into a space that wasn't really for her. I knew she had grown up outside the city, probably in a more rural area, and was trying hard to fit into more classy and elegant circles. She mostly functioned as a background character in the lesbian scene who held a secret that would help solve the mystery (because of course this story was always a mystery).

2021: This was about at the time I was re-developing the story and laying out the groundwork for a new version of the comic. Despite scrapping the house parties, I wanted to redraw that specific scene... mostly because I liked her dress. Marjorie's hair, similar to Evelyn, was something I became more comfortable drawing with time. In 2021, you can see me trying to separate the way her somewhat messy waves and curls fell. Like I said, at this point I knew the house party scene with Marjorie wasn't going to happen, but I wasn't sure what her exact role would be. Was she a hopeful performer? Someone who performed alongside Evelyn in the Vaudeville club? Something else entirely? What was her life like when she wasn't singing? Well...

2024: Marjorie Miller is a married woman, living her perfect, heterosexual, suburban housewife life with her dearest husband George. This might seem like a hard pivot—it also feels like a hard pivot to her old friends Oretta and Evelyn, both of whom she's mostly fallen out of touch with. Despite the changes in her life, she is content with how it's worked out for her, or at least pretends to be. Still, beneath the picture-perfect surface is a woman who was, in every version of the story, desperate to fit-in and who is living a life that feels out of her depth.

Oretta Adams

2018/19: I don't have a drawing for this, but my earliest ideas for Oretta included her arriving in Portapolis on a train. This was always her introduction and it's how she arrives to the city in Ballyhoo, too. Back then, I knew she was an old friend of Marjorie's and Evelyn's who would open up an aspect of the mystery and story that both of them wanted to keep hidden for whatever reasons. I'm sure this sounds woefully underdeveloped—and that's because at that time, it really was. However, this was around the time where I started to have an inkling that maybe the trio's shared past was in the circus.

2021: Because her introduction was so vivid in my mind, a lot of Oretta's early concept art is her at the train station. Pictured in 2021 is a more relaxed version of Oretta: she smokes, she's dressed very casually and comfortably, and, of course, she has her suitcase. It was important to me that she always dressed for comfort and for herself first and foremost. This is part of why Oretta's outfits in the current story consist of a lot of 40s work-pants and sweaters.

2024: As I started writing the comic in 2021/22, it became shockingly apparently that Oretta was the main character of the story. Her being the factor that opens up secrets multiple people wanted to keep hidden put her in a prime place to act as both outsider and instigator. Oretta, Marjorie, and Evelyn share a background in circus performance and it started to make sense that she would be a writer/playwright, taking her experience in showbiz to a backstage role. And it is her play—possibly inspired by past events—that triggers the main events of the story. Her play is a catalyst for too many things coming out, and everyone seems to have a good reason for wanting to make sure the show will not go on.

In Conclusion...

Ballyhoo has been a long time in the works! I hope this is interesting, or maybe even inspiring for those starting longer stories? Things will take time, but it will be worth it. I'm really happy that Ballyhoo: Book One is out there in the world, and I'm honestly so excited to get to keep working on this project. I might do more posts like this about other characters or other aspects of the story—again, it's been in development for what seems like a pretty long time and I have a lot of thoughts about how different aspects of the story have played out.

[pawooonie]

hai!! i kinda miss using this blog so i've decided to just rebrand!!

for now on, i will post mostly talking heads stuff, maybe other new wave bands i get into that don't fit my active side blog ( @tragic-vaudeville ), some nonband interests, and my art. i probably wont talk or post about oingo boingo much anymore regardless of the outcome of Danny's allegations. i may talk about the other band members and the songs/albums but that's it.

so yea, i hope everyone's cool with that!! <3

[super-duper-stupor]

5) ramble about a song, 6) a song for which you like a cover more than the original, 14) an unpopular music opinion

5. Ramble about a song

*takes a deep breath* Hoo boy so...

This song, this song is in my opinion is the most beautiful song in the world. It's sung with the upmost love and vulnerability in Klaus' beautiful German accented countertenor that i can't help but tear up everytime I listen to it. Part of what makes it perfect to me is that it's the perfect conclusion to this album (which was Klaus' debut album). It's been pointed out that Klaus' is not actually singing in any particular language and that it's all just gibberish, however it makes sense tho! Since Klaus is supposed to be an alien from outer space and assuming he didn't known any human languages before coming to earth and just admired the sound of the music here, then of course he'd only sing in gibberish. Sadly tho he didn't spend enough time here on earth to learn any languages anyhow as you could hear at the end of the song his space craft starts up and to the sound of beautiful chaos (if youve listened to it youll know what i mean) it gets ready for lift off before descending into the skies until the sound fades away into nothing. Not since 'Rock n roll suicide' from 'The rise and fall of Ziggy Stardust and the spiders from mars' has there been such a perfect way to end an album. Unfortunately life ended up imitating art in a way in that Klaus Nomi himself would end up leaving this world just over 2 years after the release of 'Klaus Nomi'. Knowing that fact it adds a real sadness to the song that makes you wonder what Klaus would've gone on to become and the music he would have created down the line and also what movies he would've done since Klaus had mentioned in an interview that he wanted to be in many movies, which he shouldve and couldve, the 80s were practically made for him. He was so ahead of his time and by all accounts he was a very sweet, shy and kind man that was taken back to his home planet far too soon💔

There's this quote from his best friend Joey Arias that said about Klaus' performance of this song on The New Wave vaudeville show

"I still get goose pimples when I think about it ... It was like he was from a different planet and his parents were calling him home. When the smoke cleared, he was gone."

6. A song for which you like a cover more than the original

Ewan McGregor's rendition of 'Your song' in Moulin rouge🥺❤️❤️❤️ legit makes my heart skip a beat

14. An unpopular music opinion

Opera is freakin beautiful and I feel sorry for those who think otherwise

[squideo]

Squideo’s Favourites: Gertie the Dinosaur

Released in 1914, this short film was created by Winsor McCay – a vaudeville actor who started producing cartoons in 1911. As one of McCay’s best preserved works, Gertie the Dinosaur has gone down in animation history for its innovative techniques and for a time was counted as the earliest animated film until other records were found.

Despite its short running time of twelve minutes, the piece has inspired countless successive animators from Walt Disney to Max Fleischer. It was chosen for this series by Creative Director Hannah Bales who credits Gertie the Dinosaur with introducing animation techniques still used to this day.

We’re diving into the production behind this animated film, exploring the style and techniques which came together to create this compelling story.

Creating a Story

Winsor McCay started working as an artist before becoming an illustrator and cartoonist for numerous Chicagoan newspapers. In 1911, McCay came to work at the New York American, owned by the infamous William Randolph Hurst. That same year, McCay self-financed and released his first animated film Little Nemo in Slumberland.

It was released in cinemas and McCay used the piece in his vaudeville act – a profession he maintained alongside his newspaper career for several years until Hurst convinced him to prioritise his illustrations. Little Nemo in Slumberland used characters McCay had created for a comic strip at the New York Herald, his former employer, a series McCay used to develop his use of colour and fine hatching. Little Nemo was already popular with audiences, first debuting in 1905 and receiving a stage adaptation in 1907.

Audiences were entranced by the 1911 short film, which became popular enough for McCay to colourise the frames. Sadly, like many of McCay’s early works – including How a Mosquito Operates (1912),  Flip’s Circus (1918) and The Centaurs (1921) – only fragments of the film have survived. Which led to the later Gertie the Dinosaur (1914) becoming McCay’s signature film.

As Gertie the Dinosaur was created for McCay’s vaudeville act, the film is timed to create the illusion that McCay – standing beside the screen – is controlling Gertie. To end the film, McCay walked toward the screen and was replaced with an animated equivalent that Gertie carried away. This use of animation showed audiences what potential this developing medium had, and inspired a wave of new animators to follow in McCay’s footsteps.

William Fox, founder of the Fox Film Corporation, paid McCay to extend the film to include a live-action introduction so Gertie the Dinosaur could be shown in cinemas without McCay’s presence. Despite this success, McCay’s own employer William Randolph Hurst banned their newspaper from mentioning Gertie the Dinosaur. Comic strips were very popular in newspapers and, as one of his most popular illustrators whom he had bought away from the New York Herald, Hurst wanted McCay’s attention at the New York American rather than his own side-projects.

McCay would make ten films in total, an impressive achievement considering he almost entirely worked alone. His post-war release, The Sinking of the Lusitania, in 1917 garnered him additional critical acclaim and cemented McCay as an animation pioneer.

“McCay distinguished his work from that of his contemporaries in the field by the sophistication of his elaborate graphics, the fluid movement of his characters, the attempts to inject personality traits into those characters, and the use of strong narrative continuity.” John Canemaker

In an episode of Walt Disney’s Disneyland in 1955, Disney paid homage to Winsor McCay and Gertie the Dinosaur – inviting McCay’s son Robert to act as a consultant. The influence of Gertie the Dinosaur still lives on at Disney, spanning from its first reference in 1940’s Fantasia, to their animatronic dinosaurs for New York’s World Fair in 1964, and now Gertie’s ice cream stand opened in Disney’s Hollywood Studios at Walt Disney World in 1989.

Animation Style

Created from over 10,000 drawings, Gertie the Dinosaur was a tremendous undertaking almost entirely created by Winsor McCay with his neighbour John A. Fitzsimmons acting as an assistant. Since the film would form part of his vaudeville act, McCay needed a showstopper – and he wanted to indisputably show the world that his animation skills were unrivalled.

When his 1912 film, How a Mosquito Operates, had debuted some audience members thought the mosquito was operated on wires. That same year, McCay announced his intention to create a film about dinosaurs.

Despite the short time frame between both films, Gertie the Dinosaur shows significant progress which left audiences with no doubt that they were watching animation. More details were added to the characters and, importantly, backgrounds were added to the frames.

McCay used fine hatching to add shadows and depth to Gertie’s movement. He established the use of now standard animation techniques, including “key drawings, effective registration of images to prevent “jitters”, and the concept of “cycling” action that reused drawings.”

Using a constructed dinosaur skeleton on display at the New York Museum of History for reference, McCay worked in painstaking detail to make Gertie as realistic as possible. It worked. According to McCay:

“When the great dinosaur first came into the picture, the audience said it was a papier-mâché animal with men inside of it and with a scenic background. As the production progressed they noticed that the leaves on the trees were blowing in the breeze, and that there were rippling waves on the surface of the water, and when the elephant was thrown into the lake the water was seen to splash. This convinced them that they were seeing something new – that the presentation was actually from a set of drawings.” Winsor McCay

McCay’s work continues to have an influence over modern animators, and since 1972 the Winsor McCay Award has been given in recognition of individuals whose work shows outstanding contributions to excellence in animation. Famous recipients include Bill Hanna, Joseph Barbera, Mel Blanc, Otto Messmer, Roy E. Disney, Tim Burton, John Lasseter, Nick Park, Brad Bird and Matt Groening.

Get Started With Your Video

Inspired to create a unique animated video of your own? Watch the video below to get a better understanding of how Squideo can help promote your business, then get in touch with us to find out more!

[oraclelitmag]

they sing the majesty of the circle, loving mother of life and its blood filmy symmetry, an aphrodisiac to the weeping widow, it sells her thin solace and ounces of sunshine balance, it boasts, when waves of moonlight lap against her door, and sends milky chatters over her teeth when she finds her lover’s eyes in the new growth under her rose bush.

this life of mine, however,has followed the jagged temper of the square, silent little renegade a path of straight vein and baobab trunk, this little life ran

and then, the sudden convulsion of turning the first corner

now, under our leathered skin, under the angel statuettes of our mothers across the sea, these little squares sleep

until on a June day, with air akin to clotted blood, we again turn the corner, shiver, wipe  the red trails of dust dripping from our eyes to the east, and continue to sip this red, white, and blue concoctionwe begged for eight years ago

this little child, if asked, will draw her vaudeville of a life as a profound, little square with eight corners, hung with suitcases and Spanish moss.

— Tayla Robinson

[sheetmusiclibrarypdf]

Irving Berlin - White Christmas (from the film Holiday Inn) lyrics and piano

Irving Berlin - White Christmas (from the film Holiday Inn) lyrics and piano (sheet music)

https://dai.ly/x8g6gw1

JAZZ

Irving Berlin

Irving Berlin's Jewish family immigrated from Russia to the United States in 1891. His father was a rabbi who got a job certifying meat under Kosher Law. After the death of his father in 1896, Irving had to find work to survive; he was employed as a newsboy and also performed on the street to get money. The harsh reality of having to work even menial jobs to avoid starvation left a deep mark on Berlin's valuation of money. When he was working as a singing waiter at Pelham's Café in Chinatown, Berlin was asked by the owner to write an original song for the café, because a rival business had its own song published. «Marie from Sunny Italy» was the result, being released soon. Although he only earned 37 cents, it opened the doors to a new career and a new name: Israel Baline was mistakenly printed as "I. Berlin" in the score. Many of her early songs, including "Sadie Salome (Go Home)," "That Mesmerizing Mendelssohn Tune," and "Oh How That German Could Love," achieved modest success both in sheet music, on recording, and on the vaudeville stage. , or as interpolations in various shows; but it was "Alexander's Ragtime Band," written in 1911, that catapulted him into one of Tin Pan Alley's biggest stars. Following the success of "Alexander's", Berlin was rumored to be writing a ragtime opera, yet he produced his first full-length work for the musical stage, "Watch Your Step" (1914), starring Irene and Vernon Castle, the first musical comedy in making penetrating use of syncopated rhythms. A similar show titled "Stop! Look! Listen!» followed that in 1915. In 1917, during World War II, he entered the US Army and staged a musical revue entitled Yip Yip Yaphank while at Camp Upton in Yaphank, New York. Billed as "a military mess cooked up by the boys from Camp Upton", the cast of the show was made up of 350 members of the armed forces. The revue was a patriotic tribute to the US military, and Berlin composed a song titled "God Bless America" ​​for the show, though he ultimately made no use of it. When it was performed years later, it became so popular that it was suggested that it could become the National Anthem, that is, a kind of national song. It has remained until today as one of the most successful songs and one of the best known throughout the United States. Particularly remembered is the interpretation that it was made after the terrorist attack of September 11, 2001, when members of Congress sang it on the steps of the Capitol. Some songs from Yaphank's magazine were later included in the 1943 film "This Is the Army" which also featured other Berlin songs, both the film's title song and a cover of "God Bless America" ​​by Kater Smith. After the war, Berlin built his own theater, the Music Box, as a venue for annual revues featuring his latest songs; the first such magazine was "The Music Box Revue of 1921". The theater is still in use, occasionally. Although most of his works for the Broadway stage took the form of revues — collections of songs with no common theme — he wrote a few book shows. The Cocoanuts (1925) was a comedy, with a cast that included, among others, the Marx Brothers. Face the Music (1932) was a political satire to a book by Moss Hart, and Louisiana Purchase (1940) was a satire of a southern politician, obviously based on the exploits of Huey Long. The show featured a succession of hit songs, including "Easter Parade," "Heat Wave" (presented as the weather forecast), "Harlem on My Mind," and what is perhaps their most powerful ballad, "Supper Time," a tormented song about racial bigotry, with an unusual weight in a musical revue and which was sung by Ethel Waters, a magnificent singer of color, in a heartbreaking interpretation. During World War II, after receiving permission from General George Marshall, Berlin organized a magazine made up of soldiers in the spirit of Yip Yip Yaphank. The result, This Is the Army, opened on July 4, 1942, with a cast of over 300 soldiers, and remained on the stage for three years, first on Broadway, then on a tour of the United States, and then on the Foreign. Irving Berlin's most successful Broadway musical was: Annie Get Your Gun (1946), produced by Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II. Loosely based on the life of shooter Annie Oakley, the music and lyrics were written by Berlin, with a book by Herbert Fields and his sister Dorothy Fields. Berlin had been hired after the death of Jerome Kern. At first, he turned down the offer, stating that he knew nothing about hillbilly music, but the show ended up running 1,147 performances. Annie Get Your Gun is considered the best musical in Berlin, not only because of the number of musical hits it contains, but also because its songs successfully combine the description of the characters with the help of the development of the story. In 1927, one of Berlin's songs, "Blue Skies", a hit since 1926, was performed in the first talking picture in cinema history: The Jazz Singer, sung by Al Jolson. Top Hat (1935) was the first in a series of Berlin-sponsored film musicals to star popular and attractive performers (such as Bing Crosby, Fred Astaire, Judy Garland, and Ginger Rogers), with romantic storylines and a soundtrack to base of his new and old songs. Irving Berlin did not compose in a traditional way; he used mainly the black keys of a piano. He was a composer of the music for such films as Mark Sandrich's Top Hat (1935), Stuart Heisler's Blue Sky (1946), and Easter Parade (1948). Among his best-known songs are "Everybody's Doin 'It", "There's No Business Like Show Business", "White Christmas" and "Easter Parade". In 1968, he received the Grammy for a life dedicated to music. He was the author of more than fifteen hundred songs, becoming one of the most important composers in the United States. Although he never learned to read music beyond an elementary level, he wrote over 3,000 songs, many of which left an indelible mark on American music and culture. He produced 17 films and 21 Broadway shows, in addition to his individual songs.

List of songs written by Irving Berlin

Read the full article

[mindfulcuppa]

Dipped in Foreign Lands; An Exercise in Image Storytelling

The beginning of an offering of consolidated thoughts, photos, slices of life in between rocks, more photos, and general going.

Preface.

With an elongated farewell, a month passed before I departed the country. This time wasn’t spent finding accomodation, or sorting bank cards as it probably should have been. No, instead there was lots of relaxing, music, surfing, watching the NBA playoffs and organising of the hoards gathering dust in my parents cupboards. It wasn't until the final 2 days that the urgency of packing life into a bag for the foreseeable future became a priority. 

It was done though, thanks to my loving housemates who provided a ‘jacpac’ for its potential to be filled. 2 jackets, 6 t-shirts, 2 brother-made garments, 2 shirts, 2.5 pairs of shoes, 2 cameras, a recording kit (regrettable now…), synthesiser (also marginal…), 400 leaves of paper, and a whole lot of other possessions that I probably didn’t need to pack. I felt sad to think of time apart from some things, but their absence will drift like the main themes of Toy Story (1998). 

I write this now sitting at a glass dining table enclosed in a small house-in-progress situated on a piece of land in Almagreira. There are dogs barking next door, and many flies darting around the area. It has been 2 weeks since leaving Aotearoa, so I would like to tell you how I have been, and how it’s being seen. Through the lens of a digital camera (and the occasional iPhone pic).

1 Melbourne

As early birds get worms, I had an early flight to Naarm on 01/06/2023. Melbourne waited a bounty of friends, sandwiches, musical sharing, long walks, and pizza. A social extension on a Friday saw our Mouthfull ‘Live at Capers’ residence with a jovial group of deejays providing a space for listening, dancing - and a great meeting point for people to come together over some Mastika & Moussaka worthy of a trophy made of pure 1 million carat gold.

Tyler and I would also have so much fun playing songs on the radio for breakfast over 2 days (links below for listening). For breakfast we ate toast with avocado and tomato, and for breakfast radio we listened to a mixture of jazz, folk, new wave, ambient, worldly music with a sprinkling of a few classic ballads of course.

Sleeping on the sofa was comfortable after some cushion amendments and some wine. We would spend our days walking and talking in Carlton North, relaxing and imagining. Our best meal together was from the Sri Lankan spot, Citrus, where you can find a banquet of vegan smorgasbord for $15.

Once the event was said and done, a recovery in the mornings light was aided with a walk to the felafel shop to meet again with Olive. Hearing of her news in between bites brought great happiness and love.

The following day, I met with Poppy. We were to find a place in Brunswick for a coffee; opting for some breakfast too at Kines. While we were there, I would think of Denzel for his obsession with the cafe. His voice would riddle through echoes from the past. After our breakfast, we walked up and down, crossing Sydney road 3 times, turning corners, and entering discount food stores to browse the obscure flavours of pringles and chocolate. The day was hot and the walk long. Navigating our bodies to Ceres we rummaged through bike parts and found entertainment in a cat in the chicken coup. It was a pleasant walk, except the moderate panic when I left my jacket on a park bench with all money and devices embezzled in the pockets.

After all the catching up, walking, wandering; I caught a train down to Torquay to visit an old friend, Isabelle. It was strange down there considering last time was around 5 years ago staying in a resort not dissimilar to vaudeville. However, we would go for a long walk to discover an amazing mosaic sundial (designed by artist Claire Gittings - whom I have no known lineage to - but am probably related somehow). 

With conversations over a cafe breakfast of my conviction against mining, we would enjoy each others' company in a true taurus manner. I would stay in her house near Marshall and meet her love, and we would have a Spanish soup next to a brazen colour changing fire in a brazier. A casket of red wine was ordered for $10 and delivered promptly, while it wasn't exactly even middle of the road it was a fine drink.

Finally, a pizza evening at Leonado's with Harrison & Andre. Some of the best pizza you will try, the Italian community in Carlton is a reliable source. Twas a welcome carbohydrate to carry forward into the nights digestion on what was to be my last night in Naarm. I bought Tyler a Toblerone to thank him for my stay, and the constant trickling of happy travel wishes would soon be finished with a final embrace.

And so it was, as it was, an extended layover in a city being taken over by sandwich shops and wine bars. It was to be the takeoff point to the north, an expansion to signify the changing of place from previous programming. The world outside was luminous and the air filled with a freshness known to mother nature so much more well than ceiling fans.

o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

[cannibalslut]

they're just splitting the rent.

words: 2182

content warnings: none

etc: quick establishing piece for this group who i love so dearly. it mainly centers silke/cyane, with some background adelheidis/crux.

tags: @halsdaisy @sennamybeloved

They straightened their tie. Smoothed down their shirt. Applied two quick swipes of sparkly gold lipstick, stopping in a store’s window to check if it was on right. Somebody inside stared at them, and they smiled, giving a wave. 

Under it all, Silke Chau was terrified. They straightened their top hat, which immediately slid to the side again, as usual. The jeweled bee affixed to it glinted back at them before they turned and kept walking.

Going out with a close friend was normal. They tried to repeat this to themself. They’d known her for years, since before she was Dr. Balaji. She was still Anny in their mind, even as they’d both aged, Silke drifting into performance while Cyane drilled herself into engineering. But Silke still didn’t feel like they’d grown apart. They still moved alike when they were together. Something about the way Anny made the same hand gestures like Silke’s, something like the way Silke had taken to fidgeting with their sleeves like Anny did.

Butterflies fluttered in their stomach. The silver ring in their pocket grew heavier than it should have been. Silke had no idea why they were so anxious about this. It was just… taking Cyane to a new place, maybe giving her a little gift. What was so stressful about that? 

They’d seen the little angel-wing band in a store, and it reminded them so much of Cyane that they’d bought it on the spot with money they didn’t have. Silke was wondering if they’d have to get another side gig. They’d quit their job once again and slunk off to the underground of vaudeville, searching for something that didn’t make them feel so lonely, even with the warmth of Anny’s body next to them at night. Splitting the rent wasn’t going to offset this purchase, though.

An awning cast a shadow over them, and Silke turned to scan the posters behind shiny glass. It was dark outside, cobbled roads lit only by dimmed yellow streetlights, and yet the city was just beginning to awaken. They squared their shoulders and pushed open the door. 

“What’s this place?” Cyane had asked, pushing her crescent-moon glasses up her nose. Silke’s eye was immediately drawn to her deep blue nails. 

“Just another club.” Silke shrugged, indifferent. “But I heard they’ve got a Landa lady there. It’s this elite performing-arts family,” they found themself explaining. “The women are all wonderful. I’d love to see this show.” 

Cyane raised her eyebrows, putting down her paper with light annoyance. “You know, I’m not a fan of the arts, but you don’t need to explain the Landas to me. Everybody knows them.”

Silke winced. Blunt as ever. 

“Anyways, if you want to, sure, I’ll come.”

“Lovely,” said Silke, already thinking of what lipstick they would wear. “Meet you there tonight?”

“Why not?” 

The interior of the Velvet Hood cabaret was dim, the only light a few amber-toned lanterns sparsely on the walls. It was dusty, Silke thought. Not in a literal way, but it felt old, despite the building being fairly new. Silke had heard whispers that it’d been built for this Landa lady. 

Who was she, anyway? The lighting was almost too dim to make out details on their crumpled flyer. Silke smoothed it out on their lap, under the red tablecloth. 

On the flyer, a tall, beak-masked figure embraced a ballet dancer in a skull-shaped mask. Rat and Reaper. Thursday nights, at the Velvet Hood. That was it. Either of these people could be the performer everybody was whispering about. Everybody in Silke’s circles, at least. Cyane hadn’t heard a damn thing about this club before Silke brought it up.

“Velvet Hood sounds like something from a penny dreadful,” she’d said, with a derisive sniff. 

They weren’t quite listening to what the other patrons were saying, but they did hear somebody murmur the name “Landa”. It was someone behind them, so Silke snuck a peek—a tall person with a fringed scarf, eyes jumping back and forth as they chattered on to their friend. Silke was feeling increasingly alone. 

They looked around, hoping to spot Cyane hurrying in. Across the room, an older woman with her hair in long braids reached into her handbag, the rings on her fingers reflecting the dim light. A girl sat in the lap of someone much shorter than her, twirling her hair and giggling at whatever they were saying. From Silke’s perspective, her sizable bust was obscuring their face.

They spotted her only seconds before she sat down. “Sorry I’m late,” Cyane whispered, because whispering felt like the only way to talk in this dark room. Her dark hair curled perfectly around her face, brown eyes locking on Silke’s. They had to look away. She had such an intense stare. 

Silke took in her dress, the blue velvet one with all those embroidered constellations on it. “You look good. As usual.”

“Thank you.” It was kind of stilted. Cyane cleared her throat, and then they lapsed into silence.

“Is something on your mind?” They had hardly gotten the sentence out when Cyane started speaking again. “So there’s this bitch at work—“

Silke smiled. There was their Anny, going on about the bitch from work until the lights dimmed even more, and a hush fell over the room. “It’s about to start,” she whispered. 

“You know, I love the arts, so you don’t need to explain that to me,” Silke teased. 

“Oh, shut up.” 

On the side of the stage, Silke spotted two figures. One tall and one short, like on the poster, but they weren’t wearing masks. Which was fair enough. Their own artist friends always loved to embellish whatever act they were advertising. 

The shorter one came on first, wearing a tutu and pointe shoes, stepping silently across the stage to sit at the piano. The taller one entered next, stepping up to the microphone, his long fingers dancing over the stand. “Good evening,” he said, voice low and husky. The stage lighting easily caught his sparkling eyeshadow and his rings, and the shine of his tall leather boots. Silke admitted he was attractive, maybe in a scruffy way. 

“He’s so gorgeous,” somebody next to Silke tittered. Cyane rolled her eyes, her fingers going to the interlocked Venus symbols on a chain around her neck. 

“For all who do not know us, allow us to introduce ourselves. I am Crux raven Landa—“ he continued, undeterred, even as an excited whisper went up at the name Landa—“and my lovely companion is Adelheidis Melchior.”

“That’s… who is that?” Cyane murmured. 

“Not one of the prolific Landa ladies. It’s Crux, the only man who’s inherited the name,” Silke realized. “I mean, I don’t think it’s his anymore—“

“Tell me later!” Cyane hissed. 

Adelheidis pushed their glasses up their nose, scowling, and played a chord, as if to tell Crux, Get on with it. He smiled, stepping backwards easily and putting his hand on their shoulder, sliding up so his thumb was on their lips—then jerking back as if he’d been bitten, Adelheidis offering another snarl. “Don’t worry, she only bites me,” Crux said, with a chuckle. Even without the microphone, his voice was still impressively loud.  

Adelheidis turned, allowing Silke a clear glimpse of their face. Their hair was black and curly, and the stage lighting refused to let anybody see what was under their round glasses. They used their ankle to drag Crux in closer to them, grabbing his collar and yanking him down. The two of them looked beautiful. Decadent, with the amount of different fabrics and textures on Adelheidis’ costume, and the sleek shiny feathers on Crux’s shrug. Untouchable. 

“I wish that was me,” another patron sighed. This time, Cyane was too entranced by the stage to pay them any mind. 

“So, you’re all here for a show, huh?” Adelheidis’ smile was a wicked slash. “Let’s give you a show.” They played the same chord, once, twice, and then launched into a rich piece as Crux hurried back to the microphone to sing. 

His voice was a smooth baritone, obviously quite trained. But maybe not in a classical sense. Silke knew the Landas were an eccentric sort, eschewing proper training in favor of passing the skill down through the family, mother to daughter. To son, in this case. 

They knew very little about playing the piano, but from what they did know from their musician friends, they could see that Adelheidis was classically trained. Their posture made it evident, as did the pure skill they were pouring into the keyboard. 

Crux’s singing had imperfections in it. But Silke found themself drawn to it, and they thought they would be even not knowing his family name. The volume dropped as he backed away from the microphone once again, sitting down with Adelheidis at the piano bench, playing alongside them so it was seamless when Adelheidis rose, dropping their glasses on top of the sheet music stand. The marked shift in the way they carried their body was even visible to Silke, who knew nothing about ballet, as they picked up a tambourine from the top of the piano and moved to center stage, lifting their leg high as Crux transitioned into playing a more classical piece. The audience around them whispered murmurs of awe. 

“Look at her calves,” Cyane sighed. Silke flicked her arm. 

Adelheidis hit each position on-beat with the music, punctuated with the impact of the tambourine—on their foot, on their shoulder, on their hip. They leaned over their leg, extended front, suspended for a second, before stepping through and performing a turn. Crux hesitated when they did, continuing on when they started moving again—but quickly backtracked. Clearly, Adelheidis repeating this turn wasn’t in the original sheet music, but they executed such a perfect double that Silke doubted the audience, murmuring approval, noticed or cared. Silke certainly didn’t.

They could see that the two performers harmonized perfectly, listening and watching for each other’s cues. Silke couldn’t tell which parts of this choreography were rehearsed, and which were improvised. 

Crux’s playing dwindled down to a single note as Adelheidis fluttered to the back of the stage, throwing their arms back with a ferocious smile, before they launched into a leap so powerful that the audience gasped. Into a series of turns, Crux’s coda speeding up accordingly, and finishing exactly when they did. Adelheidis finished close to the edge of the stage, and Silke could see that their face was red from exertion. 

Applause went up from the audience as Adelheidis picked up their glasses and sat down again at the piano, turned away from the keys. Crux picked up a guitar, and started picking a lone melody, as Adelheidis took a deep breath and sang. 

It was impressive. An intense variation like that straight into using your lung capacity in a totally different way. Silke reached in their wallet to look for a tip, hitting their fingernail on the silver angel wing ring. They froze. They needed to give that to Cyane before they forgot. 

Crux’s booming voice soared above, almost overtaking Adelheidis’ gentle and soft one, but pulling back after he took a glance at their face. Adelheidis smiled at them—and it wasn’t the vicious smile they’d hurled at the audience earlier. It looked like how their voice sounded. 

The conclusion of their song, backed only by a guitar melody, felt natural, and the audience applauded once again. Little cabaret acts like this never got the same roars as the same act staged in an opulent opera house. Silke crossed their ankles. With his family name, surely it would be easy for Crux to work someplace more prestigious? Why here? 

“Thank you,” Adelheidis said quietly, their cold tone returning, yet not as frigid as before as their eyes strayed to Crux’s face. They accepted Crux’s hand and let him lead them offstage as the hall coalesced into brief silence before the next act. 

“Some opening,” Cyane said from next to Silke.

“In a good way?” 

She flipped her hair back. “It was okay.”

“I liked it.”

“Are you just saying that because the guy was attractive?”

“Oh, rubbish, don’t act like you’re any better.” 

“Shut up!” That was the second one of the night. Satisfied with how much they’d irritated her, Silke smiled, reaching into their pocket. 

“Sorry. I know I’m annoying. So, to make up for it…” They took Cyane’s hand and heard her breath hitch gently, sliding the ring onto her finger. 

“What is this?” she whispered, harsh. “How much was it?”

“Shh. Don’t worry about it.” Silke patted her hand. “It’s angelic, just like you, Anny.”

Cyane hesitated, her eyes locking onto Silke’s again. They only held her gaze for a moment before dropping it, hearing her scoff as they did. 

“I can’t accept this.”

“Well, I already bought it. You’d better, or else it’d just be a waste.”

“…Thank you,” Cyane murmured, taking Silke’s hand in both of hers. They felt their neck flush as the warm light glinted off the silver. “I really do appreciate it, Cece.” 

[kylo-wrecked]

@graysistance ://

— ☾ —

He doesn't know what he's doing at an annual Foster Care and Adoption Conference, only that Dad warns him, 'Your mother will kill us both' if Ben doesn't attend, and he for one would prefer 'to be alive and well backstage—supporting'. And so Ben waits in the designated Ben area with whoever can still tolerate him. It's a short list: the interns and their head-sized smartphones, Ian the IT guy, Mr. Pryde (who only darts his ugly mug inside now and again to ensure Ben's ongoing presence), and Miss Rugy. 

Miss Rugy was initially hired to give each member of the Organa-Solo family a pass with a makeup brush and a blotting sheet for such functions as the adoption conference and has, over time, become Ben's PR department. Tonight, his sage advice? 

"Do not piss off your mother, you hear? This is her moment, okay? Nobody leaves or shits until she does. Now, if you sweat off my Bobbi Brown, come to the left vomitory, and I will do you up again and douse your inners with a little lemon water. I am your personal spa. We are going to get you through the night."

"Now," Miss Rugy says again, affecting Bela Lugosi, wetting his matte red lips and squeezing a dollop of concealer onto a sponge, "Do not move."

"I am not moving," says Ben, whose face takes on the structural moroseness of the neo-Gothic friezes facing the North, East, South, and West of their indeterminate ceiling. 

The foam wedge oozes with makeup. It's green, and that is the point, Miss Rugy tells him as he blots the sanguine swells beneath Ben's eyes.

"Now, look up," he demands, pressing the heel of his palm into Ben's jaw.  

"Please don't touch me there," Ben says. 

"Quiet. I am rehabilitating you. You look like fifty shades of shit."

"I think that gets the point across." 

"You—" Miss Rugy says, going in with an angled sponge the wet color of Ben's skin, dabbing and dabbing. "—are playing mama's child tonight. You are going to look the part." 

"I've never looked like my mother's child. I think she found me under a bridge and took pity on me. Tonight might be the night she gives me back." 

Miss Rugy snorts and scolds, "Ben! Do not make me mess up!" 

What's meant to be gentle daubing motions feel like Miss Rugy replacing his skin with octinoxate and titanium dioxide. Two more dabs, and done. 

"Remember, the lemon water refresher later. Now go." 

So, Ben goes the route of a thousand print-out arrows. On his way, he discovers a corridor mirror and, repulsed by his new laudatory reflection, glossed and airbrushed as a magazine ad but more orange, indicating tonight's company of Nikon cameras, Ben tears at his under-eyes with his thumbs until Miss Rugy's blended magic is undone. He wipes the makeup on the inner lining of his suit cuffs and straggles on, idling behind the deco ingress of an ilk that once dominated lower Manhattan, until they open upon an 'I've very much bloody had it' Mr. Pryde, who may well have pulled Ben in by vaudeville hook.  

The belly of the assembly hall is like an Anabaptist church, holy in its ugliness, its staunch rows of oak flip-down seats arranged in an inelegant continental and bolted down into stale blue carpet. The curtains obstructing the dearth of the stage are the same blue, flanked by pillars of lilies on either side. Their scent gives grandma's musty sunroom sarcophagus or school play from the Sloth Ring of Hell. Whatever it is, it's cloying. It's confining. It's inescapable. 

Ben is the only conversation piece in Belphegor's auditorium not to take the stage at a time when all the movers and shakers therein have long since been introduced, once upon Senator Organa's successful reelection. The day Ben died. Again. 

Many are already seated. Just as many gather in small annular cliques, buzzing at low volumes. Theirs is the conversation written thousands of years ago by Beelzebub, and Ben pretends not to pick up on the contours of their words. The guests, in turn, pretend not to see him. Nobody waves or raises their paper cups and straws in welcome, as was writ. 

Snoke's absence is notable, but his senior associate, Armitage, stands beside an equally steely tripod. As Ben makes his way toward the front rows, he tries to treat his fixture there like any other camera by ignoring his existence completely. 

By the time he sits, he has already sweated through his shirt underarms and is sure he'll die tonight, too. He soaks up the measly space closest to the emergency exit in case he needs to throw up beforehand.

This is why Ben wears black. He's never sought to make a statement with the custom threads that detain his frame's jumbo bones and musculature or the color of his perspiration. He's trying not to do anything except shield himself from the added heat of the relentless stage lights when his mother approaches the lectern. 

She seems piqued while she adjusts the mic, but not at Ben—because she looks at him. Because when she looks at him, the corners of her eyes crinkle, and she eases her death grip on the bezel. He thinks while sweating buckets: it's a wonder his presence could ever mollify anyone, let alone his mother. 

She taps the mic and begins; Ben goes far away somewhere. Until he's jolted back by the sudden incline of her voice, introducing the next speaker, and he realizes he's missed the entirety of his mother's address. Every word of it goes into the ether or on a camera for later, where they will be hacked to pieces. 

Feeling chilled and disoriented, he looks around. Everyone else is still seated—thank God—but in this gap of mild laughter and riveted applause, Ben registers someone, a woman, sitting just one seat away from him. She's pert, either much younger or less miserable than him. Perhaps both. He has never seen her before. She is the one, the only stranger to him at this event. 

Twisting toward her, Ben's lips form the word 'who' before knotting themselves into a confounded lump. Left without words, he lodges his ill-fitted frame into the seat again and wills himself into... one of those wooden statues of the Three Kings. Whatever they're called. Where are the words? He wants to scream through the knot on his face, his soft and fleshy apparatus called a 'mouth.' 

The materialization of this perfect stranger dislodges the other knot, the clump of ice-cold dread he'd tried all the previous afternoon to chisel loose. And in its place, heat rises, and there's that feeling again. Now might be a good time to take Miss Rugy up on his lemon water, only, despite every protracted moment, he's just got here. So exactly when did she show up?

Call the feeling bad nerves, bad vibes, or poor human mechanism; it always feels like a rush of anger; and is always a loosening agent for speech. 

Finally, Ben turns to the woman and whispers, "Excuse me, are you lost?" Winces and yet adds, "I have literally never seen your face. I have no idea who you are. I wish I had seen you before."

The next speaker takes the stage, more clapping, Ben whispering fiercely: "Tell me you're not in politics. Lie if you have to. I will—" 

And if she did? If she responded to his maelstrom of verbal vomit at all? Ben would what? He starts undoing his tie, the stupid Armani noose that strangles him. 

"I will stay all night."

These are the ramblings of a certifiable thirty-year-old man hissing under the ovations of a Green Party delegate who once called Ben a ticking time bomb. 

[moochilatv]

Eve Essex presents: The Lieutenant Nun

Brooklyn Eve Essex criss-crosses disparate genres across her upcoming album The Fabulous Truth out next Friday 6/21 via Soap Library— electronics, jazz, theater, vaudeville, avant-garde classical, etc — for a sweeping journey with some real ebbs and flows. 

Legendary Arthur Russell-collaborator Peter Zummo guests on album closer “Honeypot” as well. 

The Tom Waits-esque single “The Lieutenant Nun” is out next Tuesday ahead of the album as well; an open invite to Eve's musical theater. Her music sets jewel-like portraits of rebellion against a velvet-black background of stormy electronics and uneasy minimalism.

BIO:

The Fabulous Truth is an homage to the anti-hero — an eight song suite that explores moral ambiguities, life in the shadows, and the possibility of escape from social expectations. The second full-length album by composer and multi-instrumentalist Eve Essex, The Fabulous Truth is both an ecstatic paean to liberty and an intense look at the psychological prices paid for seeking independence in an unforgiving world.

Drawing on influences as diverse as trip-hop, outlaw country, kosmische, spiritual jazz, avant-garde classical, and—yes—musical theater, Essex sets jewel-like portraits of rebellion against a velvet-black background of stormy electronics and uneasy minimalism. Intimate lyrics—confessional in tone, literary, striking in their bold mutations of classic songwriting genres—are contrasted with brooding compositions that evoke long journeys across vast landscapes and continents; wagon trains and ship voyages taken in pursuit of a new life, the view from a satellite orbiting the Earth at high speed. The Fabulous Truth is an album about freedom and boundaries, intimacy and security, raising questions about who you let into your life and why. 

Title track “The Fabulous Truth,” featuring guitarist jenghis, opens the door with threatening deep bass drones underpinned by heartbeat-like kicks. Essex’s soulful and controlled vocals glide above the low-end menace, singing of disappearance, hinting at a difficult choice between needing security and wanting freedom. “Disturbing Absence” holds the listener in the same sonic space of programmed drums and synthetic textures, punctuated with bursts of percussive melody from kalimba and saxophone. For the ambient instrumental “Soft Cage,” featuring guitarist Luke Moldof, Essex places her melodically-inventive approach to saxophone front and center, taking the listener deeper into zones of anxiety, tumbling and rolling across waves of organ reminiscent of an all-night-flight by Terry Riley.

“Virginia Reed” is the first of the album’s three biographical vignettes. From the moody, nocturnal electronica of the opening tracks emerges a piece of impeccably scored chamber pop, featuring woodwinds, strings, bass, drums, piano and intricate backing vocals. Essex sings from the perspective of Virginia Reed, who, aged 13, survived the ill-fated Donner Party. Traumatized by her gruesome experiences traveling west, she writes a letter to her cousin warning of the grave dangers she faces on the trip to California. Here, Essex’s voice swoops and soars, channeling a vivid sense of trouble and pain. “Room With a View” returns the listener, briefly, to the electronic space of the opening suite of songs, as a shimmering, slowly-evolving organ and bass refrain gradually gives way to a tense and urgent piccolo. The song expresses a desire for privacy and independence, but it also evokes a state of paranoia — the feeling of being physically and digitally surveilled, and an ambiguous pleasure taken in the collapse of real, electronic, and mental space.

The second portrait, “The Lieutenant Nun,” is written in the style of a classic outlaw country ballad. In the only track accompanied by a live backing band, Essex tells the real-life story of Antonio de Erauso, a renegade nun who escaped convent life and became a fugitive and a soldier, living for years disguised as a man, until being arrested and forced back into the religious order. Where the title and lyrics of “Room with a View” subtly allude to Virginia Woolf’s classic essay A Room of One’s Own, the third song in the album’s biographical gallery is adapted from Woolf’s novel Orlando. A gentle waltz for autumnal strings and plaintive woodwinds, embellished with delicate cascades of pedal steel, the song fluctuates between sweet melody and jarring dissonances—one foot in 1920s England, the other in 1970s America—an oblique formal nod to the novel’s time-traveling, gender-fluid protagonist. 

Closing the album is the stately torch song “Honeypot,” featuring downtown New York music legend Peter Zummo on trombone and euphonium. “Honeypot” is the ballad of a ransomware hacker, sensual, jazzy, and shot through with a sense of threat. “I’ll make my terms clear,” Essex sings, “let you know how I’ll waste you to rubble.” The elusive ‘fabulous truth’ this album searches for is liberating and disquieting in equal measure. 

Eve Essex is a composer and multi-instrumentalist based in Brooklyn, NY. She performs with woodwinds and voice, accompanied by instrumental ensembles, and by arrangements that use synthesizers, drum machines, live processing, and other sounds. Her work slides easily from structured electronic pop to open-ended melodic improvisation and big-band arrangements. She has scored film soundtracks, written music for installation and performance art, and explored prog, jazz, and electroacoustic ideas with groups including The Fabulous Truth, Das Audit, and a host of other collaborations. Essex’s debut solo album, Here Appear, was jointly released by Soap Library (cassette) and Sky Walking (LP) in 2018. In the summer of 2024, she will be Composer In Residence at Crosstown Arts in Memphis, TN. As a featured instrumentalist, she has contributed to works by The God In Hackney, Peter Gordon & Love of Life Orchestra, James K, Kevin Kenkel, Liturgy, Colin Self, Mike Shiflet, UCC Harlo, and Peter Zummo, among others.

The Fabulous Truth releases on June 20, 2024 via Soap Library in digital, cassette, and LP formats — a first for the label. Cassettes are accompanied by an embroidered patch that mirrors James JA Mercer’s cover artwork.

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