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sinceileftyoublog · 1 year ago

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SILY's Top Albums of 2023

BY JORDAN MAINZER

Another year of settling into "the new normal" in the music world, for better or for worse, still brought us great records. The underground NYC hip hop scene burst with creativity. Rock and Roll Hall of Famers reinvented old songs. Stalwarts of experimental music, contemporary jazz, and modern-day blues released their career bests. Even archivists had their day. Below are 16 great albums released last year and 6 more honorable mentions no less worthy of inclusion--I just didn't have time to write about them.

Armand Hammer - We Buy Diabetic Test Strips (Fat Possum)

It's all in the title: on their sixth album, billy woods and E L U C I D navigate through a society where not only is shit that should be free, expensive, but a secondhand market encourages hustlers to make a profit. Amidst capitalist corruption and individualism, the threat of an AI takeover and close calls getting caught with drugs, both emcees face the bleakness while occasionally imagining a better world. As always, the victories are small, but mighty: good weed ("Woke Up And Asked Siri How I'm Gonna Die"), morally righteous laundromat owners ("When It Doesn't Start With A Kiss"), the freedom to bask in schadenfreude ("Niggardly (Blocked Call)"). And yes, it takes a lot for two slow lurching wordsmiths to rise above production from the likes of JPEGMAFIA, DJ Haram, and EL-P, always-inspired samples ranging from E-40 to Sun Ra and Japanese rock band Ghost, and features from Pink Siifu, Junglepussy, and Moor Mother. But they deftly connect the dots from centuries ago to now, presenting societal dysfunction as a core component of our country and world. "George Washington's heart a frozen river, boy / Opps in the backwoods, slave teeth in the mouth when he say ni**a," woods raps, as if to shock you out of complacency and make you numb to the horrors at the same time.

Arooj Aftab, Vijay Iyer, & Shahzad Ismaily - Love In Exile (Verve)

It's hard to believe that Love In Exile, the first collaboration between singer Arooj Aftab, legendary jazz pianist Vijay Iyer, and multi-instrumentalist Shahzad Ismaily, was recorded live with minimal overdubs. Then again, it's clear there's something special brewing within the trio, who first performed together in 2018. That is, the way in which each performer enters and exits and weaves within another is as natural as it is stunning. On Love In Exile, Aftab sings in Urdu--the sound of her words mattering just as much if not more than their meaning--and Iyer plays piano and electronics, Ismaily bass and Moog. The result is an interplay between beauty and dissonance, minimalism and swells of noise, intimacy and grandiosity. Iyer's piano seems like it's increasingly sure of itself on opener "To Remain/To Return" as Aftab's smoky voice resembles a soulful, mournful reed. Ismaily's bass is slow-lurching and rounded throughout, the steady presence that only so much ripples on songs like "Eye of the Endless" as Aftab and Iyer provide contrast in timbre. Love In Exile is the type of album born out of a moment; yet, it gives seemingly endless pathways in which to get lost.

Arthur Russell - Picture of Bunny Rabbit (Audika)

Throughout Picture of Bunny Rabbit, Arthur Russell’s voice is as much of an instrument as his bowed cello, fading in and out on “Not Checking Up”, “Telling No On”, and “Very Reason”. The mysterious aura of Russell comes from both not knowing what’s out there and, on the music we do know exists, being unable to tell what he’s saying or what instruments he’s using. A rubbery whooshing pervades “The Boy With a Smile” and “In The Light of a Miracle”. The 8-minute title track sees dissonant cello disintegrating in real time, unfurling like tape over feedback squalls to the point where it sounds like a MIDI version of a guitar solo. At the same time, Russell always knew when to surface. The harmonica on “The Boy With a Smile” creates a rootsy tactility, the controlled chaos of his string playing yielding free percussion. Russell’s vocals rapidly shuffle on “In The Light of a Miracle”, though they’re as clear as ever, contrasting his sticky cello, plainly borrowing rhythms from Indian classical music.

Read the rest of our review here.

billy woods & Kenny Segal - Maps (BackwoodzStudioz)

The prolific billy woods’ second album with beat mastermind Kenny Segal is centered around touring, inspired by the idea that the road–or the lack of home–is, in itself, home. On Maps, places where people reside are as constantly changing as the landscapes that pass as you’re on the highway. It’s the perfect fodder for woods’ neuroses and pessimism, the low thoughts that occur when you have too much time on your hands but still can’t make sense of your surroundings. He’s constantly searching for stimuli–weed, food, drinks–to distract himself from the human condition. Like the titular “Houdini”, Woods escapes, even if temporarily.

Read the rest of our review of Maps here.

Bob Dylan - Shadow Kingdom (Columbia)

It wasn't just Taylor Swift rerecording their own catalog in 2023. As part of the soundtrack to Alma Har'el's 2021 film Shadow Kingdom: The Early Songs of Bob Dylan, the Bard himself gave us his new versions of old tracks, mostly his Dylan's 60s heyday, save for a new instrumental. Notably, it's his Dylan's record with a band with no drums or percussion, and it's a mystery who played on it, as there are no official credits. It's also his first album of new studio recordings since 2020 opus Rough and Rowdy Ways, so naturally, he leads off with a reflective "When I Paint My Masterpiece". In general, his arrangements are more gentle, from the swirling harmonicas and trailing strums of "Queen Jane Aproximately" to the bluesy, tempo-changing "I'll Be Your Baby Tonight". "Tombstone Blues" comes across like a spooky tale, slowed down, as opposed to the ramshackle stream of consciousness of the original, while the eerie and mournful "What Was It You Wanted" is a revelatory adaptation of the late 80's classic. And "Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues" shuffles along with a calypso groove, almost as if it's a tribute to the late Jimmy Buffett. He may not be doing it to regain the rights to his own songs, but on Shadow Kingdom, Dylan asserts that there's value in revisiting old friends.

Drive-By Truckers - The Complete Dirty South (New West)

The Complete Dirty South is us an opportunity to listen with 2023 ears to a 2004 album that’s truer than ever. The rich still get away with doing illegal things (“Where the Devil Don’t Stay”), increasingly intense weather patterns still devastate the poorest of communities (“Tornadoes”), and government austerity policies still force people to work longer hours, for lower pay (the incendiary “Putting People on the Moon”.) When Patterson Hood sings, “Motherfucker in the White House said a change was comin’ round / But I’m workin’ at the Walmart, Mary Alice in the ground,” it’s the much more realistic, downtrodden version of “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss,” a sharpshooting lyricist’s analysis of the devastating consequences of incrementalism, let alone inaction.

Read our preview of two Drive-By Truckers solo shows from December.

GOLD DIME - No More Blue Skies (No-Gold)

With No More Blue Skies, Andrya Ambro, the former half of No Wave-inspired Brooklyn indie rock duo Talk Normal has delivered the most distilled statement of her artistry to date. Combining her classical training and ethnomusicological studies as a drummer with the hammering intensity of her live performance, the album is a examination of contrast, an exercise in presenting ambiguous questions and smashing them to see if any answers lie within.

Read our review of GOLD DIME's career-best.

jaimie branch - Fly or Die Fly or Die Fly or Die ((world war)) (International Anthem)

Though the late trumpeter and composer jaimie branch’s third album Fly or Die Fly or Die Fly or Die ((world war)) is a final statement, it’s even more effective as an eternal one. It begins with keyboards that sound like church organs, an eerily somber sonic manifestation of irrevocability. As Chad Taylor’s rolling drums enter, branch gives us one of her trademark trumpet blares, as if to announce, “I’m here.” She wasn’t one to spend much more time announcing her presence, though–the track segues into an Afro-Latin style jam, clacking percussion and horns in line with Lester St. Louis’ nervy bowed cello. ((world war)) from then on spends most of its runtime just the way branch liked it, in a groove, with some breaks along the way to remind us of the urgency of the moment.

Read our review of Fly or Die Fly or Die Fly or Die ((world war)).

Jason Isbell & the 400 Unit - Weathervanes (Southeastern/Thirty Tigers)

Over the past few years, Jason Isbell’s had a lot of time to think. Pandemic and lockdown-induced isolation made us all spend a bit more time between our ears, and for Isbell, it was his experience on set for Martin Scorsese’s Killers of the Flower Moon that yielded even more alone time. These spaces in between catalyzed the creation of Weathervanes. Like Isbell’s best records, Weathervanes tackles many areas of life, from getting older and grappling with regret and depression to existing in an increasingly fraught and vulnerable world. What makes it succeed most is the extent to which he relied on his collaborators to make it, purportedly inspired by watching none other than Scorsese seek out the opinions of others while filming Flower Moon.

Read our preview of Isbell & the 400 Unit's show in Joliet last March.

JPEGMAFIA & Danny Brown - Scaring the Hoes (AWAL)

JPEGMAFIA's called SCARING THE HOES a “practice album,” made with the SP-404–no Pro Tools–after learning it for a year. It certainly has that loose quality you’d think, alongside the exact amount of chaos you’d expect from the debut full-length join-up from him and Danny Brown. Of course, Peggy finds kinship in the deep cuts and the underground, from the underappreciated Bun B to old soul and funk, Japanese pop, and gospel. The samples and production are inspired. At the same time, Peggy knows he’s your favorite Twitter follow’s favorite rapper, so the title itself, referring to something a Very Online Man would say who thinks his taste is too esoteric for women, is tongue-in-cheek. “How the fuck we supposed to make money of this shit?” Peggy asks on the title track. “You wanna be an MC? What the fuck you think, it’s 1993?” The only thing better than effortless tempo changes, switches on a dime from maximalism to dreamy instrumentation, is self-awareness of his own idiosyncrasies. Bonus points for “God Loves You”, which juxtaposes a guttural, spirited gospel sample with the filthiest lyrics on the album.

Read our preview of Pitchfork Music Festival 2023, containing JPEGMAFIA, here.

Matana Roberts - Coin Coin Chapter Five: In The Garden... (Constellation)

On the 5th of their 12 planned Coin Coin albums, saxophone master Matana Roberts tells the story of an ancestor who died after complications from a self-inflicted abortion. Though it's a tragic story, Roberts reclaims the narrative and casts it as part of a wider tale of institutional racism, sexism, and classism. Songs with spoken word are interspersed throughout instrumental expressions of sounds as tangible as tin whistle and as abstract as synth, structures at times free and at times delving even into rock, let alone jazz bops. Each detail of story included is clearly intentional, meant to paint a picture of Roberts' ancestor while portraying their story as not unique. Roberts' spoken word--closer to voice acting, even--is incredible, as they repeat in varying levels of genuineness, "Well, they didn't know I was electric, alive, spirited, fired and free / My spirit overshadowing, my dreams to bombastic / My eyes too sparkling, my laughter too true." Their saxophone is expressive, yet mournful, providing motifs of lamentation and hope at once. On the penultimate "for they do not know", Roberts layers and repeats the album's main refrain, "My name is your name, our name is their name / We are named / We remember, they forget," as if to emphasize the prevalence of their ancestor's story throughout history. And closer "...ain't i...your mystery is our history" juxtaposes Western and African traditions, pointedly demonstrating that the evils brought upon their ancestor are rooted in colonialism and Western hegemony rather than a standalone calamity.

Robert Finley - Black Bayou (Easy Eye Sound)

Seven years into his improbable comeback, Robert Finley views his role as a singer and entertainer as twofold: meeting the audience at the heart while simultaneously giving them advice, telling them the barebones truth when other authority figures won’t. On Black Bayou, he reckons with ideas of homesickness and loneliness, lust and love, selflessness and salvation. Buoyed by longtime collaborator Dan Auerbach of The Black Keys, Finley wrote all of the songs in the studio, and his familiarity with his supporting cast of musicians resulted in songs that were both efficiently recorded and emotionally acute. Kenny Brown’s guitar winces with longing on “Livin’ Out A Suitcase” as Finley’s tired of traveling. On “Waste Of Time”, a song that sees Finley taking pride in rural living even if it means missing out on opportunities provided by cities, the buzz-saw guitars and Jeffrey Clemens’ clattering percussion yield a perfect maximalism to go along with Finley’s claims that, yes, there’s still a lot to digest right outside your doorstep.

Read our interview with Finley about Black Bayou here.

Sunny War - Anarchist Gospel (New West)

Sunny War battles self-destruction throughout Anarchist Gospel; in the lead-up to its release, she spoke about her music representing a battle between that side of herself and the one trying to make things better. On “New Day”, she uses the language of addiction to wax on love, hurt, and obsession: “Believing in magic can be tragic / I’m love’s junkie, I’m love’s addict.” One of the record’s true standouts is “I Got No Fight”, where pained guitars and screaming organs exemplify Sunny’s desire for the days to end, depression that buzzes like a fly in her ear. On the gorgeous country tune “His Love”, she sings of an unhealthy relationship, “His love fades, my love grows,” and the timbres of her voice and the instruments similarly diverge, her lurking deep vocal register contrasting the spryness of the backing vocals, guitars, and pattering drums.

Read our review of Anarchist Gospel.

Various Artists - Tell Everybody! (21st Century Juke Joint Blues From Easy Eye Sound) (Easy Eye Sound)

For the better part of the past decade, Dan Auerbach's Easy Eye Sound recording studio and record label has showcased some of the best in contemporary blues music, from various regions across the country and spanning sub-genres. Tell Everybody!, the label's latest compilation, makes the case that a current crop of songwriters, vocalists, and instrumentalists are making essential wartime-style juke joint blues numbers. It's comprised of alternate versions of songs from past Easy Eye Sound albums (Jimmy "Duck" Holmes' version of "Catfish Blues", Leo Bud Welch's glistening "Don't Let the Devil Ride"), posthumously released offerings from idiosyncratic legends like James Gang/Pacific Gas & Electric/All Saved Freak Band guitarist Glenn Schwartz, and strong statements from up and comers like Detroit Dobro-drummer duo Moonrisers, Chicago's Gabe Carter, and Kentucky picker Nat Myers. Auerbach even finds room for new songs from himself and The Black Keys, who sound better than they have in years by embracing the drippy psychedelia of their early material on "No Lovin'". And performing the title track (and baring teeth on the cover) is Robert Finley, whose daughter Christy Johnson delivers smooth gospel backing vocals to contrast Auerbach and Kenny Brown's searing guitars, the multi-generational sound of past, present, and future.

Wednesday - Rat Saw God (Dead Oceans)

“Hot Rotten Grass Smell”, the opening track to Wednesday's incredible Rat Saw God, immediately juxtaposes country guitars with shoegaze squall. Songwriter/vocalist/guitarist Karly Hartzman references Smog’s “The Well” before turning inward to a bleak vision: “Your closet froze after you left / Except the people who took your shirts / Closed off your door with yellow tape / Saw myself dead at the end of a staircase.” The song ends with a sudden cut to field recordings of peepers. Heartbreak, anxiety, life, death, both the natural environment and the concrete depression of the South. It’s all there for Hartzman’s poetry, and no moment is too small or too ordinary for worship.

Read our review of Rat Saw God.

Willie Nelson - I Don't Know A Thing About Love: The Songs of Harlan Howard (Legacy)

Part of me thinks living legend Willie Nelson would rather continue paying tribute to his forebears than do anything else. The late Harlan Howard essentially gave Nelson his first break after hearing some original tunes, signing him to the Pamper publishing imprint in the early 60's. Of course, last year, Nelson would go on to celebrate a 90th birthday and be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, while Howard, who passed away in 2002, is still mostly known behind the scenes, writing songs that would become immortalized by Buck Owens, Waylon Jennings, Ray Charles, and Brenda Lee. So leave it to Nelson to present Howard's best songs, with minimal arrangements, to emphasize the brilliance of his songwriting, the devastating simplicity of lines like "I'm about as helpless as a leaf in a gale." Nelson leads a stellar backing band through blues stomps ("Excuse Me (I Think I've Got A Heartache)", a screaming version of "Busted") and plaintive and empathetic waltzes ("Life Turned Her That Way"), exemplifying a three chords and the truth philosophy appropriate for all moods and experiences.

Honorable Mentions:

Bob Dylan - The Bootleg Series, Vol. 17: Fragments - Time Out Of Mind Sessions 1996-1997 (Columbia/Legacy)

The Clientele - I Am Not There Anymore (Merge)

Daniel Bachman - When The Roses Come Again (Three Lobed)

Danny Brown - Quaranta (Warp)

Gazelle Twin - Black Dog (Invada)

Lonnie Holley - Oh Me Oh My (Jagjaguwar)

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docholligay · 2 years ago

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The Neverending Story

The pitch: It is very much a story about stories and why do we tell them. What kind of them we tell ourselves, and what effect that can have on our own perception of others and our own self. And when we built a story in our head, how that affects how we interact with the world. How our own self perception can affect the tales we tell. It's about the kind of fantasy that is constantly changing, because don't stories change a little bit every time we tell them? It's also about escapism, the way it can help, the way it can harm. I think the best way I can put this, is that when this was adapted to cinema, they basically had to gut a lot of it to make it "child friendly" (absolute bullshit, this is a perfect story as it is).

I think I would have loved this if I had read it as a child, or if I had read it for pitches for Jewlet, but as an adult, it left me incredibly cold. I mean, you’re not wrong about the idea of stories making us lose our grip on who we are, and the dangers of escapism, and I love that Bastian remains fucking pathetic, and I LOVE that one can talk about how escapism makes you lose yourself and your ability to engage with the world.

But, basically, I read that pitch and lost my whole goddamn head and assumed I was getting a very different story, and I think THINK it was the idea that they had gutted it to make a children’s story.

And so I thought that it wasn’t going to actually be a children’s story. It is very much a children’s story.

So, love some of the concepts in here, especially about the dangers of trying to rescue people by giving them a story, but even outside of being a children’s novel holy shit is this book rushed as fuck. This should have been a Narnia-level series, we go from thought to thought to thought without pause or any real reflection, and it’s REALLY annoying amidst this garden of good ideas. It’s like I’m at an art museum, but I’m just having to run a 5k through it*. There’s no time to enjoy anything that’s being crafted here.

I do find the Atreyu stuff a little cringe, having grown up around Actual Native People and this being pretty pure European Wonderment at The Noble Stoic Brave but it was written in 1979, and while it wasn’t a particularly human way to write people, it was in fact par for the course. I’ve seen worse, I guess. So, you buy the ticket you take the ride I guess, but I can see Jewlet, who will grow up playing with Brittney Pretty On Top,* being like, ‘uh, okay?’ in much the same way that sort of shit was extremely weird to me as a child because I had the arcane knowledge that The Natives Were Still Among Us. This isn’t me saying I was woke as a child--if I had grown up in *throws dart* Indianapolis I probably would have had the same experience as everyone else, but I grew up in a state where 10% of the population is Native, 30 minutes from the reservation.

And there’s just a fair amount of that kind of thing, and I’m a bit more tolerant of some light exoticism than most people.

Anyway, truthfully, I found the execution poor of a great idea, so I don’t know what Ende is getting so flustered about with the damn movie, which is not great, but like...is this your king? I just EXPECTED more, I guess, on a narrative craft level. Even for a kid’s book! When I say this, I’m comparing it to Narnia, which I find really frustrating at times, or A Wrinkle in Time, or His Dark Materials, all of which are kid’s novels, but do, I think, a good job of pacing and general wordsmithing.

*I would absolutely do this.

**The actual last name of a girl I went to school with

#doc reads

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jianghuchild · 20 days ago

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midnight bell breaks through the guestboat - a translation

A translation of the songyu fic 夜半钟声到客船 by @chenreche

(I'm unwell)

"I haven't seen you use the record player recently." Liu Yang found a comfortable position, casually picked up the conversation, and plucked at the record needle. The record player wasn't expensive or anything, just a regular model that came from who-knew-where. Usually when he came by the record was always playing something Western, something-ovsky or Bach-whatever, Liu Yang didn't know the difference. He only relied on the sound to fill the massive mansion -- not even the wordsmith Liu Yang could fill the silence otherwise.

Put on whatever you want. A voice tossed over at him, though the person was nowhere to be seen.

Nah, what do I know about music. Liu Yang knew he'd been all doom-and-gloom these days. He drew a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and slapped it on the table. Erase a thousand worries. Want one?

Yuwen Qiushi rustled in movement, emerged from behind a large bookshelf and briskly sat down. He pinched the box, gaze flitting between the woman on the colourful package and the smartly dressed Liu Yang: You smoke this stuff?

Hey, what's that supposed to mean? Liu Yang, cross, and made to grab the box. But Yuwen Qiushi pressed his hand down and, with the smugness of one victorious, broke the seal and drew out a cigarette.

It's Miaomiao's. The kid likes this stuff. The other day he bought a bunch of hard candies, said he liked the packaging. I saw he had a box on his desk just for this kind of thing. He knew Yuwen Qiushi also liked to collect these sorts of trinkets; there were countless little tchotchkes in his house. Even his steelyard balance came with gold, silver, and copper weights, Liu Yang had seen them.

Hard candy wrappers do look nice, though they don't taste good. Yuwen Qiushi pulled out a lighter for his smoke, giving his judgment.

Liu Yang snorted, regretting he'd come alone. Then what do you think tastes good?

Yuwen Qiushi didn't answer. Instead out of nowhere he asked, What's the situtation at Changde Road?

Changde Road was just Changde Road, just like Kiessling Cafe was just a cafe. It had moved from Tianjin to Shanghai, and could move to any other city. Yuwen Qiushi was born in Beiping and raised in Beiping, and had been to Kiessling in his youth. Years later at twentysomething, he encountered it again in Shanghai.

It had sweets and cakes, and began baking breads at dawn. You could smell it as you woke up. That's how he'd introduced it.

At least, that's how he'd introduced it to Song Tianshuo.

The second time he met Song Tianshuo was backstage at the opera troupe. It was only after meeting that he managed to fish out a muddy impression of seeing him at the cafe.

Song Tianshuo asked him if he wanted to go there, take a seat.

At that time Song Tianshuo hadn't yet changed out of costume, flags on his back swaying and facepaint drawing out his fine lines when he smiled. Yuwen Qiushi often wondered how an opera singer separated their two worlds, or whether the one onstage had long forgotten his true self. He couldn't tell whether Song Tianshuo's invitation at that time came from himself, or as Wang Jianhua's nephew extending an olive branch.

The mantis stalks the cicada, and the sparrow waits behind. He made a show of warmth and agreed.

The one on Changde Road is closer, and the second floor is good for cooling off, he said.

It was not yet summer, and there were no crickets. They reached agreement with surprising alacrity and set off, talking with lazy intermittence. Though silence was the primary tune. Yet their lake of calm was cast into ripples by the noise of cars and horses. Yuwen Qiushi thought, he shouldn't have agreed so easily.

Indeed, he paid a not-small price for it. Half an hour later, Song Tianshuo flipped through the menu for a moment, then raised his star-bright eyes and said, Why don't you order. Yuwen Qiushi didn't refuse, and without hesitation rattled off a few items. If you like sweets, you can order these. Then he asked, What do you like?

Song Tianshuo believed it. Song Tianshuo himself liked this stuff, and was a frequent customer of Western bakeries. He often did little trips to buy something or other, as a treat for his training. The fragrance of bread was a thing of happiness itself.

Which meant Wang Jianhua probably believed it. Not long after, those coffee cream-filled cookies were sent to his house, box after box. Yuwen Qiushi's temple twitched. He didn't like sweets at all. Usually he went to the cafe with Miao Ruopeng, who could live his chic, romantic dream. He only ever ordered their German square bread, without cream, even though the cream was a signature -- Miao Ruopeng said so. So he sent all the stuff to Miao Ruopeng, along with an invitation.

If Miao Ruopeng were to be honest, he didn't really know Yuwen Qiushi. Even if playing childish could get Yuwen Qiushi to hang out, he couldn't get a read on him. Or perhaps no one would dare claim the ability to read Yuwen Qiushi. But he had utter devotion and admiration for his older cousin, so even upon seeing that gold-stamped invitation scrawled with the casual words, "Tell Liu Yang to come along," he still did so.

Miao Ruopeng had studied at a new-style school, then got into his aspired news office. And so, a young man such as him was weighed down by the pressures of drafting, to the point of grabbing Yuwen Qiushi by the leg and crying out how he could get out of working like his cousin. This was until one day he saw Yuwen Qiushi walking abreast with Liu Yang, and discovered that his cousin had a hand in torturing the new hires -- including Miao Ruopeng himself. Miao Ruopeng's irritation had nowhere to go, but Yuwen Qiushi was just the sort of person to know anyone.

And so he met Song Tianshuo in Yuwen Qiushi's home.

That day Yuwen Qiushi looked radiant, with a clean face that could be aptly described as a lily out of water. Miao Ruopeng thought he must have some gall -- to dare describe his cousin in such a way.

Yuwen Qiushi smiled at the two of them, all gentlemanlike. Want to hear an opera? Pick a song.

Liu Yang said, What do I know about opera? Let Miaomiao pick. As he spoke he rifled through the candy on the table, throwing one Miao Ruopeng's way.

What... what is there? Miao Ruopeng spoke softly, trying to catch the conversation the same way he'd caught his candy. He pinched his candy until the paper rustled. Though he didn't know what his cousin was up to, he knew for a fact that this invitation wasn't a thing of impulse.

It was then that Song Tianshuo came out. He sat at Yuwen Qiushi's side and asked, What do you want to hear? His voice was smooth and gentle, like a pastry-covered cream soup, the kind that warmed your entire body as it went down.

Yuwen Qiushi passed the opera menu into Miao Ruopeng's hand: Take a look. Then he turned to speak with Song Tianshuo with a springtime smile. Miao Ruopeng immediately felt a sense of alarm, and a jealous competitiveness began to burn. Who was this guy, he thought, stealing his cousin's attention? And so he shifted over, piled an obedient smile on his face, babied his voice and said, Ge, I'm thirsty. And then cast a triumphant glance at Song Tianshuo's reaction.

This strategy worked, as Yuwen Qiushi gave a classic northern yo, and said, Thirsty? Let me pour you some tea. He pushed Miao Ruopeng's hair out of his face, so gentle that Miao Ruopeng had a vivid memory of his cousin taking him to peel lotus seeds and Shicha Sea. It had been ten years already, and Miao Ruopeng had even followed his cousin to Shanghai like a puppy. Yuwen Qiushi put on an exaggeratedly elegant poise as he poured tea. Even the tendons on the back of his hand seemed deliberately designed. Even so, what came out of his mouth was earth-shattering. Let's hear The Case of Chen Shimei.

Song Tianshuo's face was unreadable, though the rest of the troupe stirred up a frenzy. How can we sing this opera? We shan't break the rules.

The curve of Yuwen Qiushi's mouth didn't drop, though the smile seemed oddly sinister. Sing it. What rules are there?

That... that's right! Miao Ruopeng shouted. What, will singing Chen Shimei get you beheaded? As he yelled he lost steam and trailed off, eyes glancing at Liu Yang, who actually seemed to laugh -- well, as long as he didn't scold him. So what was the problem? His cousin wasn't Chen Shimei; he decided to ask later.

Song Tianshuo understood that one didn't slap a smiling face. He broke the nearly congealed air with an easy smile and gave a way out to this kid he'd only known some fifteen minutes: We'll sing, what rules, if the misters want to hear then that's the rule.

Changde Road? Liu Yang involuntarily raised his voice. I told you already the road's been sealed, don't go looking for trouble.

I know. Yuwen Qiushi didn't hesitate in his answer. The mission was the mission, and his own motives were his own. He knew how to prioritize.

You can still go to Tianchan Theatre. Liu Yang understood him, and after a moment softened to give such a concession. If he wanted to go, then let him go, at least as a memory.

Yuwen Qiushi made an ah sound: It's too far, I get lazy in the summer.

As if you've ever been keen.

In the beginning, Song Tianshuo was always singing at Tianchan Theatre. Yuwen Qiushi didn't really care, either. Song Tianshuo and Yuwen Qiushi were like a yueqin and a Western record: two different styles of music, neither disturbing the other.

At the time Yuwen Qiushi was casually helping Liu Yang look for opera scores. He said he was making an anthology, and knowing more would make it easier. This was true, but the rumours gradually became that the big merchant's only son was interested in opera. It was at this time that Wang Jianhua invited him to a show at Tianchan Theatre. It was simple, yet not simple, so Yuwen Qiushi had no choice but to grit his teeth and acquiesce.

With all this back and forth, a story was spun out.

As Yuwen Qiushi entered the theatre's breakroom, he calmly remembered how Liu Yang took away his comic book, earnestly telling him that he needed to thoroughly play the part. Who knew, he might need to keep up an acquaintance.

He needed to sing the opera he agreed to. He understood the rules.

Yuwen Qiushi didn't really get opera, and only listened halfheartedly. He watched the colourful faces and didn't even get the chance to discern which one was Song Tianshuo, thinking instead of the plan he'd come up with when he received the invitation, along with the script for what he'd say. Wang Jianhua was a long-time target of theirs. No one could say whether the invitation was a deliberate test or a lucky coincidence. They could only move forward with caution.

He told Song Tianshuo he wanted them to come perform in his home. He performed false warmth and heaped praise with practiced skill, upturned mouth melting ice into spring water. Within that smile, how much was true, no one could say. Song Tianshuo grew up onstage, and often followed his second uncle among dinner tables, so he was practiced at reading faces and naturally understood the meaning behind Yuwen Qiushi's smile. He lowered his eyes silently, wanting to say, There's no need to do this. But he swallowed the words. He knew his second uncle had people in the troupe, that there might be ears around them. With his mind muddled, what came out of his mouth was, Have we met before?

Of course they had.

Song Tianshuo actually didn't often go onstage. The other day he'd injured his shoulder. Amidst injuries old and new, either way he needed to rest. So Wang Jianhua invited him and the troupe to stay in Shanghai for a bit. Partly to promote the industry in Shanghai, and in the process give the Inspection Bureau a bit of entertainment, while also helping out here and there. Either way, it was to give Wang Jianhua some face. So however reluctant he was to be involved with the Investigation Bureau, Song Tianshuo shuffled his way down.

Song Tianshuo's first day there, Wang Jianhua called the police force to come with them to tour the city. Well, sure, it was troubled days, and who could guarantee their own safety. Not even the Investigation Bureau captain. Your title or wealth didn't matter. Song Tianshuo gave a silent sigh and wondered where he might find a steady stage.

Shanghai and Beiping were entirely different, with all its Western chic. Roland Hotel, Zhengyang Bookstore, Paramount, Wang Jianhua's introductions mixed with the wind and rolled along Song Tianshuo's ear. Unprompted, he thought of the tree in Beiping's four-walled house, a simpler life. He was a rootless piece of driftwood, floating in the city, unable to find a place to land.

He glanced at the silent man behind him. He was tall, with an air of justice. To think he was also on the Investigation Bureau. What was his name? He didn't remember.

I remember you like sweets, are you used to it here? Wang Jianhua's voice pulled him back to the present. He nodded, said he often bought cakes.

Wanna go in? This place's cakes are famous, you might not even be able to get them.

Song Tianshuo raised his eyes, then made an amused expression: Second uncle, there are things even you can't buy?

Don't be a smartass, Wang Jianhua chided with a laugh. He drew back a hand that was about to land on his shoulder. Probably remembered that he was injured. What do you want to eat? Second uncle will buy for you.

Their business indeed was good. Song Tianshuo wandered before the display case, occasionally closing his eyes to breathe in the smell of coffee and sweets. Happiness was this simple. Wang Jianhua's hand suddenly landed on Song Tianshuo's shoulder, subtly indicating for him to look to the right: Remember this person.

Second uncle wouldn't call him to Shanghai for no reason. He knew the true reason was about to reveal itself, and he knew nothing about the other person -- he wasn't able to avoid these muddy waters, after all. He took a few extra glances. The man was neat and pretty, obviously from a wealthy family, probably the type of man who could take Shanghai by storm. His hat was pressed low, making it nearly impossible to make out eyes from the shadows. He was sunk into a sofa, as if completely deboned, one hand lazily stirring a coffee. Someone sat across from him, unclear who as they were blocked by the chair's back.

This was Song Tianshuo's first time seeing Yuwen Qiushi. When he returned he received his mission from Wang Jianhua. Or perhaps it wasn't a mission but some expectation, some test, some ulterior motive. There were too many things that family ties couldn't stand up to. He stood on the other end of the balance, numbly allowing himself to be made into a shadow puppet.

He needed to sing the opera he agreed to. Industry rules. When he looked into Yuwen Qiushi's eyes, he thought of the pockmarked stage from childhood.

Troupe director Song. Yuwen Qiushi called Song Tianshuo in his northern carefree voice, half serious, half frivolous.

Song Tianshuo was training in the yard. In early summer, a thin sheet of sweat filmed over his forehead. He stopped and followed the voice to see Yuwen Qiushi lackadaisically leaning against the doorway. He stretched a grin at him, lifted the pastry package in his hand to indicate that he should take a break. Song Tianshuo gave an exasperated chuckle, gathered his props, and took Yuwen Qiushi's proffered treats and put them on the table: My diet's been better lately.

Chestnut cake, saw it on the way. Yuwen Qiushi shrugged, uncaring. Director Song has surely eaten all kinds of luxuries.

None as good as what you've got, Song Tianshuo returned. He didn't know where Yuwen Qiushi got off, poking fun at him. Always laced with a friendly disrespect, in one way or another trying to get him to admit something. But what was there to admit? It wasn't as if Yuwen Qiushi didn't know about Wang Jianhua. But he didn't ever express interest in the Investigation Bureau, so a bit of poking fun was harmless. Song Tianshuo asked, Where are you returning from?

A casually lobbed question, though asking it was difficult. It wasn't that he feared offending Yuwen Qiushi. Though he was a young master, he didn't have any arrogance, nor did he often go to parties. He didn't carry that air of debauchery, but was rather much more mysterious. It was common for him to tuck himself in his study for entire days, though equally common for him to not return for nights on end, and none of it was anything for Song Tianshuo to ask about. Sometimes when Song Tianshuo sought him for something, he knocked on the study door and found draft paper strewn about the floor, not at all guarded. Often when he left, the record kept playing a dee-dee-da-da melody, entirely at odds with the sort of music Song Tianshuo was used to. Living here, just the music seemed to be changing him into a man of modernism. Yuwen Qiushi was like a gentle plant, Song Tianshuo thought.

Me? Went to give Miaomiao some salted duck eggs. Yuwen Qiushi replied easily. Song Tianshuo, remembering the youth whose hair swept to his chin, who'd desperately pawed at Yuwen Qiushi to pour him tea, laughed with understanding.

It was nearly the first day of summer. The south's climate didn't follow the twenty-four solar terms. If not for the other man's reminder, Song Tianshuo wouldn't have realized he'd already been in Shanghai over a month. Yuwen Qiushi didn't speak much and seemed cold, but he treated his friends genuinely. Every few days he'd bring them a gift, and every time he went out he bought Song Tianshuo something to eat, saying he couldn't mistreat him. Song Tianshuo thought their relationship would continue in this mundane way: eating meals, singing opera, with no other interaction, until Wang Jianhua achieved his goal and he found some reason to leave.

Summer was rainy. The mornings were so damp that one could feel the dew on the brick walls. The damp penetrated into one's bones, and Song Tianshuo's injuries ached with it. Usually he could endure it until it passed, but this year had more rain. He applied sheet after sheet of salve to no effect. Rather, the pain rose to the surface, an endless flow of toxins to eliminate.

As habitual, he spent a few days every week floating around the Investigation Bureau. Every so often Wang Jianhua gave him a letter to pass to Yuwen Qiushi. He never opened any. He figured it was all some gray area profits. Well, it was the trade industry, he just needed to ship a few other things, have the Investigation Bureau turn a blind eye, and anything could be obtained. Yuwen Qiushi probably complied -- but Yuwen Qiushi wasn't that sort of person, else Wang Jianhua wouldn't gentle himself so much in front of Song Tianshuo -- Song Tianshuo had only heard tell, until he saw it for himself.

That day Yuwen Qiushi mentioned bringing Miao Ruopeng something, then complained about his cousin sticking around his home to write his drafts to avoid going to work. By way of passing he said: I'm sure you don't need to be punctual at the Investigation Bureau. Song Tianshuo said, I don't take pay, just help out my elders. Yuwen Qiushi then described how he trained up Miao Ruopeng and caused him quite some grief. Miao Ruopeng had even complained to him, until that day he accidentally ran into him at the news office. Miao Ruopeng had been mad and unable to direct it anywhere. Saying this he added, Your second uncle definitely hasn't used any of his tricks on you.

The thought became a hook, bringing out Song Tianshuo's long-buried curiosity. Though he'd heard of the Investigation Bureau's ruthlessness, he'd never seen his uncle interrogate anyone. It seemed he'd gotten some of Wang Jianhua's trust, as many of his things were not done away from him. Sometimes he even caught a whiff of blood. So that day when Wang Jianhua said he'd caught a traitor, Song Tianshuo put on a curious expression.

Yuwen Qiushi didn't see Song Tianshuo at dinner. He resisted for a quarter-hour before going to his room. The door opened to Song Tianshuo curled into the corner. His feet froze. Instinctively he wanted to quietly leave, yet concern still hung in his mind, so he ended up standing at the doorway awkwardly.

Song Tianshuo, startled by the door opening, saw that it was Yuwen Qiushi and relaxed again. He only asked if there was wine, voice hoarse.

Yes, but you can only have one cup. Yuwen Qiushi held out his hand to haul him up. You're still injured. As he approached he alertly caught that the smell of bitter salve was mixed with something stranger. His brows furrowed but he bit the question back, instead only lifting Song Tianshuo up. Seeing that he wasn't injured, he relaxed and went to the living room to grab wine. By habit he took the bottle he usually drank by himself, then thought for a moment before switching it to the lowest proof, pouring a small cup and bringing it over.

Just one cup, no more. Yuwen Qiushi sat beside Song Tianshuo, not too far and not too close. He stayed with him like this, watched him knock back the drink and cough tears into his eyes.

I'm not going out today, Yuwen Qiushi said suddenly.

Song Tianshuo was still curled in. He turned his head at the sound of Yuwen Qiushi's voice. At the same moment Yuwen Qiushi turned his gaze upon him and their eyes met. His eyes were clean, no questioning in them, even his concern was precisely the right degree.

If you want, I can listen, Yuwen Qiushi added by way of explanation, then immediately amended, But you only get that one cup of wine.

Song Tianshuo gave his first smile of the night. I'm not that greedy. Just needed a bit to calm down.

Song Tianshuo set down his cup and said, When I was young, I thought that being able to sing opera my whole life would be the greatest fortune. Paused, then continued, I still think so.

Yuwen Qiushi watched him, and slowly straightened.

Song Tianshuo often felt his childhood had nothing worth spending the time or energy talking about. His father was strict. He spent his days training, then when he was older he went onstage. Half his life was spent onstage, the other half spent playing like a normal child. When the lights dimmed and the red curtain lifted, he was a different person, and so his life was mixed with stage characters' lives and deaths that he didn't understand, along with an abstraction he'd learned out of necessity.

And so he grew up in his family's troupe, going to neither traditional nor new-style schools. He learned to read from his language teacher mother. Mother often said that in this age, being alive was most important, who knew if one day -- and then she'd say it was inauspicious, and refuse to finish.

His mother had taught many students, and he often watched her mark their homework. She'd knock on his forehead and say, What are you looking at, have you finished your homework? And he'd tuck his hands behind him, sway his head, and begin reciting the classics, looking like a little monkey. As he got older he became the same age as his mother's students. They'd often visit, bringing news and hearsay, that the students were protesting, how many were injured, who needed to be bailed out. Or that so and so had promised to study abroad together, but had been stood up.

Happy things were scarce, while sad things could fill a basket. As he listened he often thought of a line from opera. The wind folds ripples into the water. He couldn't wonder what that person felt as they boarded the ferry alone, for closer to home was the sound of police rapping on doors at night, the cacophany of shouted slogans, and his mother bailing people again and again and returning exhausted.

This was why his mother sent him to Shanghai, to receive Wang Jianhua's protection. He'd always been obedient. Probably because the only thing he'd ever needed to protect was his little square of stage, and so everything else was easier to take up and let go. His mother wanted only peace for him. Any parent in the world, if they loved their children, probably felt the same.

Being alive was indeed important. If he wasn't alive, how could he sing, how could he do anything.

He often thought so.

Yuwen Qiushi interrupted him with a smile. I've also heard a story about being stood up. Good thing none of us are the one who waited.

Song Tianshuo said, It isn't you, is it? Yuwen Qiushi side-eyed him. Do I seem like the type? Without waiting for Song Tianshuo's reaction, he stroked his chin and asked, What's that line again? Fold ripples across the water, is that it?

You want to learn?

Does Director Song think I can? I haven't any childhood training.

You, huh-- Song Tianshuo dragged out his voice, lifting his eyelid as if seriously considering. He appraised Yuwen Qiushi from brow to jaw, eyes raking over every detail, and said, I think you'd be suited to female roles.

Well, that's new, Yuwen Qiushi grinned: That mean's I've got mouldable potential. As he spoke he leaned over to regard himself in the tabletop mirror: Next time I'll dress up, see if I can blend in.

If you were to sing, I'd have to make you the star. Song Tianshuo put on an affect and saluted him.

Ala, I want to be the next Cheng Yanqiu lei. Yuwen Qiushi suddenly put on a Shanghainese accent and imitated Song Tianshuo's way of dragging out his words. Halfway through he broke, eyes curving into crescents.

Song Tianshuo burst into a snort. Where'd you learn that accent, what the hell?

That night Song Tianshuo never got to the second half of his story. When he was about to mention Wang Jianhua, Yuwen Qiushi cut him off with a conversation about nothing, and gradually smoothed out his anxious mood.

He lay in bed and blearily thought back on the day. The death-cold jail, the visceral wounds, and Wang Jianhua's razor-sharp bearing. The days wouldn't be easy, but here he had a place of peace. He had someone to bring him wine, whom he could talk to without guarding against. To his surprise, his stomach no longer turned from the fear of the day, and the pain in his shoulder went back to sleep.

And so it was a dreamless night.

Before Yuwen Qiushi left he said he could ask him if he wanted to study. Then he leaned against the doorway and said with a smile, It's quid pro quo.

During that time Yuwen Qiushi did indeed seem very idle; even his mailbox emptied, so he spent his days messing about with Song Tianshuo. This was what Liu Yang told Miao Ruopeng, in those exact words. Each time, Miao Ruopeng felt the need to emphasize this. Yuwen Qiushi would laugh and correct him, How shameless. I'm messing about at the opera troupe.

Song Tianshuo didn't actually teach him -- what was there to truly teach, it was just for fun. Besides, he couldn't make Yuwen Qiushi actually suffer through exercise and voice training. But Song Tianshuo did indeed go to Yuwen Qiushi's study more frequently.

Yuwen Qiushi liked to play something random on his record, something Western that Song Tianshuo didn't get. He'd absently rifle through his bookshelf while asking, Do you know any instruments? Song Tianshuo had a talent for fiddling about, and it only became more apparent around Yuwen Qiushi. Yuwen Qiushi said, Of course, learned a bit in school. Then picked up another thread, Do you want to record a disc? We can make you one. Song Tianshuo said I'm unworthy. Who am I, a Shanghai star? while flipping open a book.

How are you unworthy? We'll burn two copies, one for you and one for me. Yuwen Qiushi didn't even lift his head, just grabbed a letter sheet and began writing.

As a keepsake? Song Tianshuo joked, closing his book. Yuwen Qiushi faced him and gave a noncommital laugh. He couldn't tell if he'd heard him or was pretending not to. So Song Tianshuo fell silent and went back to his book.

To think that Yuwen Qiushi acted so quickly, that very day he wrote to someone to arrange the recording. Song Tianshuo said Do rich people like to burn money? Yet he couldn't bury his excitement, as if it truly was a keepsake. Yuwen Qiushi, among all his Western records, would have his first opera -- his own voice. It was a secret mark, one others wouldn't notice but would stay there forever. When he thought of it at night, it was the kind of sweet that made him smile into his pillow.

Yuwen Qiushi would break into a smile when he came, stand up to change the music: Play a record? Yours. Sometimes he'd even hum along, like singing a lullaby, amusing himself. Song Tianshuo would laugh and say, Now you like opera? And Yuwen Qiushi would say, Oh hush, who is it that designated me the female role?

Song Tianshuo made a yo sound: You really want to try?

Liu Siwei saw Yuwen Qiushi at Roland Hotel.

When he wasn't arrived, he wasn't sure who his handler was. Zhu Meiji's voice was drowned in the fog horn. He only remembered her retreating silhouette, and the bullet he'd dodged. He was wandering with the briefcase, exhausted and aimless, when a hand grabbed his arm.

East wind brings green to the riverbank. A low voice at his ear. On instinct he returned, The bell invites the guest boat. Even before he finished, his blood ran cold. This was his signal with Song Tianshuo -- how had it showed up here?

The other man had a hat pressed low, eyes caged in shadow, only a tight, sharp jaw visible. The vise grip on his elbow told him he had no choice but to follow the man into a dining room.

I've seen you before.

Song Tianshuo's subordinate.

Two sentences lightly turned over an unreadable hand of cards. Liu Siwei gritted his teeth and nodded. The other man didn't speak, only dipped his head, as if to use his unending silent patience to force Liu Siwei into confession.

I'm here on Miss Zhu's behalf, he said.

And where is she?

She left on a boat. Otherwise... she would have been taken by the Investigation Bureau.

Liu Siwei only learned later that Yuwen Qiushi and Zhu Meiji had been schoolmates, and so he understood why he had personally waited at the restaurant -- as a friend, he'd planned to welcome Zhu Meiji home. And Yuwen Qiushi had long known about Liu Siwei, because Zhu Meiji had often talked about her heartbreak. When Yuwen Qiushi mentioned this to Liu Siwei, he said lightly, Good thing neither of us are the one who waited. Yet as he said this, his expression held a note of unreadable wisfulness.

Later, Liu Siwei began to work for Yuwen Qiushi. He said he was waiting for Zhu Meiji to return.

Yuwen Qiushi asked how he got here. As he answered, Liu Siwei saw how, despite the smile in his eyes, Yuwen Qiushi's voice was cold: What a deep love. His slightly upturned tone was tinged with mockery.

No choice, nobody had any choice. If there was anything to cling to in this precarious era, it was that within a web of lives there might be a heart of truth. Not much, like the flickering cherry of a cigarette. Would anyone throw themselves like moths toward those seconds of flame? Nobody had an answer, but they had all made their choice.

It was also later that Liu Siwei learned that Yuwen Qiushi and Song Tianshuo had been closer than he'd imaged. Of course he heard all this from Miao Ruopeng. Miao Ruopeng was more than happy to finally have someone to commiserate with. He often went to Liu Siwei to complain about how Yuwen Qiushi used to treat him. Liu Yang told me to finish in half a day, God!! he'd whine at Liu Siwei.

And so through Miao Ruopeng's fragmented storytelling, Liu Siwei slowly put together an image of a man completely different from the one he knew. He used to be quiet, and joining the Investigative Bureau had always carried a note of being forced up Mount Liang. He'd lost his chance to study abroad, while also being forced to work under others and betray his conscience. In front of Wang Jianhua, Song Tianshuo was always carefree with the right degree of obedient, but with Liu Siwei he never spoke clearly, often not even giving enough information about a mission. Liu Siwei would roll his eyes and ask how he'd gotten his position, and Song Tianshuo would say, My uncle's the captain! and shamelessly admit to nepotism.

It turned out, this was the most blatant rebellion, hidden under a skin of frivolity, put together to become an opera he sang from start to finish.

When Song Tianshuo pointed his gun at Wang Jianhua, he saw in his mind's eye Yuwen Qiushi's painted face.

That man held a water lily's face, his eye corners flicking up thousands of flirtations, his rouged cheeks like a meadow filled with azaleas. It burned into Song Tianshuo's eyes. He clumsily lifted his pinkie and struck an opening pose.

How did the song go again? See the wind blow ripples into water / Shocked by how the years flow like rivers / Who remembers all this time? / I can only pluck my instrument to erase my worries.

In those countless nights where conscience and blood relations made it difficult to sleep, he'd thought about how these days would end. It was no more than Wang Jianhua finally locking down his partnership with Yuwen Qiushi, and if his mother asked, he would get a position at the Investigation Bureau.

Yet the day he finished recording his disc, Yuwen Qiushi suddenly said, Do you want to work for me.

Yuwen Qiushi rarely talked about himself. He used to think it was because his status was so highkey, like his second uncle, that there wasn't anything to say. At most he could tell a few interesting stories about studying abroad. But his question was strange; wasn't he already singing under Yuwen Qiushi's patronage?

At his confused expression, Yuwen Qiushi laid his hand on Song Tianshuo's shoulder. Asked, What do you think my identity is? He had an amused expression, and did not say it clearly, but everything was in the unspoken.

Turns out, there was a second option. And so he was since filled with hope.

He'd once found a book on Yuwen Qiushi's shelf, The Something Brothers, its name as complicated as all his Western composers. In it, Ivan asked Alyosha, imagine you are the architect for a building containing everyone's destiny. You can make everyone happy, but only by causing pain to one little life. In exchange for a little girl's tears, for which she could never be compensated, would you agree to be this architect?

It was a dilemma. Yuwen Qiushi said it wasn't like that, you couldn't think of it like that. If you had a place with a thousand rooms then it would be fine.

Just moments ago he'd mocked Liu Siwei for his heart, yet as he raised his gun he came to an understanding. He knew he wasn't the architect, but he could become the building's cornerstone.

Wang Jianhua pointed his gun at the girl. Song Tianshuo pointed his gun at Wang Jianhua.

Wang Jianhua was dead. This was incredible news. But Yuwen Qiushi hadn't thought the mission would end in all this chaos. He'd asked Song Tianshuo if he wanted to work for him. He hadn't revealed his identity just for Song Tianshuo to sacrifice himself.

The moment he saw Liu Siwei at Roland, he'd guessed the gist of it. He crushed his voice low and calmly interrogated the events. He didn't need all the details. Didn't need it. Didn't dare. The fact that Song Tianshuo didn't return that night was itself an answer. He listened to Liu Siwei tell him his and Zhu Meiji's story, his thoughts scrambled from the relief from the past and fear for the future. He thought back on his life, his moments with Song Tianshuo magnified, so that even his laugh was louder. He thought of himself -- life and death, past and present. Thought of the day he met Song Tianshuo. Even though there was nothing. Even though it was tangled with manipulations and lies. Yet he had still sprouted a sliver of selfishness. His life wasn't entirely unhappy: from the moment he chose this path, he'd known there would be troubles, was determined to grit his teeth and bear it, for there were those who walked with him. He'd wanted to take Song Tianshuo's hand and run toward the sunrise they might never see. But he'd forgotten that the word forerunner had a second meaning.

His hands still clenched around his cigarette, expression frozen, mouth upturned and he said to Liu Siwei, What a deep love.

Are you done packing? You're leaving tomorrow, don't procrastinate. Liu Yang still couldn't help fretting after him.

Yuwen Qiushi nodded, indicated the leather case to one side: Just about.

Come back safely, Liu Yang said.

I will.

They both knew it was only for piece of mind. No need to be a downer while faring well.

Yuwen Qiushi changed the subject, gaze on the display case piled with record labels, voice light as a leaf of cloud in the sky: Song Tianshuo said I'm suited to female roles. His words turned around in his mouth, moulded into Shanghainese, pulled themselves up in pitch: And ala said, ala want to be the next Cheng Yanqiu lei.

Liu Yang shuddered: What the hell, where'd you learn your Shanghainese?

Yuwen Qiushi pressed his cigarette into the ashtray, watched the cherry flicker and die, then reached for another. Liu Yang shot up and took the pack into his arms. Ge, ge, ge, this pack is expensive, be nice to me.

I'll buy you another pack some time, any brand you want.

He said if I really went onstage, he'd promote me into a star. Yuwen Qiushi's voice elongated.

Director Song is quite formidable, hey? A star. He chewed on the word, almost as if he wanted to crush it into a paste. A breath of smoke accompanied a cold laugh, blown out absently. In the serpentine cloud, he closed in eyes: Next life, then.

Wang Jianhua was dead. Guangdong had a breakout of dysentery.

He took Miao Ruopeng aboard a southbound ferry. A new mission had come; the relief society needed him, so he couldn't stop for even a moment. From Beiping to Nanyang to Shanghai, no matter his own ending, that bullet had ended two people's stories.

Those like them needed to contain a larger love. The people -- he'd encountered the phrase in school, knew that it was something to sacrifice oneself for, knew his life might end at any time. He was certain they'd loved each other, loved to the point that it was the same as loving any other. This era didn't have through sickness and health -- it had memories, crystallized in fragments then melted into stains, so faded it became eternity.

At dawn the ferry departed, fog horn spewing hot air. In silence he startled awake, then returned to sleep. In the dampness of dreams he swam among the darkness. Distantly he heard a voice, like vocal training, an ee-ee-ah-ah that stirred his dreams into a spongy pool of musical notes.

And as he stepped over it, destiny sang its off-key ending.

#m's translation shenanigans #chenreche #一年一度喜剧大赛 #喜人奇妙夜 #松天硕 #宇文秋实 #writing this translation properly killed me. how do people do it

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writer59january13 · 5 months ago

Text

Present wedded bliss ain't no touchstone...

double negative meaning golden years joie de vivre of married life unknown

during our sputtering rancorous courtship when skirting within danger zone witnessed countless ruptures courtesy selfish wordsmith, who authored these words. Circa ~ late spring/ early summer 1978 twas at behest of Harriet Harris, thus due credit mother dearest who tried, to bribe, coax, exhort... (protracted effort not all in vain), cuz her second of three progeny, and sole son i.e. (me) to commingle, frolic, immerse myself quintessentially ushering yawping zeal, cuz general disposition courtesy yours truly heavily trended toward solitude, limiting interpersonal opportunities minus those crafted,

videre licet overactive imagination (mine). I took immediate affinity (think duck adapting to water) to milieu of contra dancing and soon became popular with the gals, surprising myself how enjoyable untrammeled pinteresting linkedin hoopla delivered je ne sais quois joie de vivre, (the most fun one could experience without taking off their clothes), me no exhibitionist by a far cry! How fitting and proper to state we (thyself and spouse) met (for reel) and jiggered mine johnson

at Thursday night contra dance Summit Presbyterian Church 6757 Greene Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19119 (initially held at Church of Saint Martin-in-the-Fields, Saint Martins Lane, Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia, PA 19118 scads of years past (actually more'n deux times deuce score earth's orbitz around

or quattuor decades ago), whereby the missus claims, she espied (yours truly then as) young lad (bookworm type fella) with boyish good looks and golden locks emblematic of Samson, who would be envious (ha). At four foot eleven Delilah, the petite prospective missus (plus her waist length brunette tresses) ball of fire stood out amidst madding crowd drew attention (mine), yet she vociferously, vigorously, and vehemently still claims initial awkward overtures ascribed to Zison assertiveness. Yours truly, he blatantly admits pranced as novitiate devoid of interpersonal finesse and polish to whit, a mere neophyte in a nutshell hankering to sow wild oats that's zit. Whereby our relationship got off to (how shoal I say) rocky start gallivanting with thee lass, who would eventually take me (grudgingly - ha) as her respective lifelong sweetheart. Unbeknownst to yours truly, pent up unleashed testosterone experienced disquieting alarm adequately adept equipped with strong arm, I tapped into secrete Lucky charm, (albeit surreal environment cavorting amidst madding crowd) helped cultivate feral latent impotent animal husbandry to farm long fallow fresh unadulterated field

jabbering innocent blather, brazenness embarrassingly proliferated, but provocative behavior smote ego (mine) not with irrecoverable harm, analogous to angry bees didst adequately buzzfeeding naiveté beehive ving like metaphorical swarm (smartly stinging me) think freshly cooked cockles and muscles clammy and warm. I eventually acquired figurative ropes regarding dating game basic primal version (at that time apps unnecessary) nevertheless, call of the wild thee woke former slumbering beastie boy needed receptive body to tame, he thus availed himself as lame crash test dummy feebly acquired social skills bungled how to romance a capricious dame readied himself to aim. Aye celebrate thy life partner

with balance and swing proffering courtesy turn exhibiting gratitude occasionally while with linkedin elbows turn a circle punctuating spontaneity with do-si-do. July 25th marks wedding anniversary

delineating, demarcating, denoting, where the missus supposedly

filched mine bachelorhood, whereby justice of the peace Judge Henry Schireson, (who still maintains an office 925 Montgomery Avenue, Suite 100 Narberth, Pennsylvania 19072-1913) accommodated us as we became newlyweds pledging our troth that hot July twenty fifth, I try to recollect any vestige constituting distinguishing, under_scoring outstanding details sifting thru hazy memories of past.

Today references when more' n force gore

and seven years ago tha youngest daughter of William and Sylvia Zison

found her lifetime beau (zoe)

pea ping over a paperback (at present aye got nada clue of the title), unbeknownst to him, he would be

doing lifetime penance as a husband and father, no longer

able to keep his head underground like an ostrich or emu foisted into marriage when flagellated cell didst ova whelm, and subsequently flue max, a panic prone pencil necked geek soon to learn goo goo gaga, and brushing up on Horton Hears a Hoo

learning to swaddle airtight as an igloo though a devout atheist gentile, he attests genealogical lineage linkedin many a Jew but unfortunately only scant details this groom knew,

hence he fabricated

while flushing in the loo,

which sketchy family tree

did include roomy, loony,

goofy, and cookey

offshoots, (essentially deadwood

pruning hooks never took down), hence weak human DNA stock freely germinating cow wards less bright than cloven hoofed bovines moo ching and sometimes tasting virgin Semitic brew, especially espying bear naked lady even yours truly

hollered yabba dabba doo tasting verboten fruit predestined to sire daughters after enjoying despacito while playing flugelhorn spitting sputtering semantic glue whereby biological totally tubular fates loosed full bore obligatory, yet paternal loving chore foisting dada track detour invoking fatherly delight

as fate found me to explore the joys and sorrows engaging das mister Harris chieftain, sans family of four attending, diapering, and pampering galore which necessary task aye could, nor would be able to ignore from which pier rill us infant sea bay bee launched jarring

insightful growing pains attendant 'pon requisite summer re: autotomy offspring, when tears streamed down cheeks as more declarations of independence meant nudging flight while pouring heartfelt love shorering, and anchoring, viz Harris blackstrap - molasses survival skills,

thence giving progeny Thor row lee - wharf fare levying my best damned gluten and MSG free emotional bulwark whar renting channeling concurrently bolstering your preponderent swell alcove

harboring shipshape bon voyage.

Expediting distilled when in the quarts of hue man ovens this neptune salad days steps outside summit Presbyterian Church - and Westview Streets

near Weavers Way,

where yarn not gonna believe,

our traditional Jewish

wedding vows as merely imagined

courtesy fictitious Norwegian Jewish

bachelor farmer wannabe

so please pardon perfectly praiseworthy

precise preferential prevarication page turning suspense filled vaulted sepulchral air ushering the veiled spouse to be while afar off trumpets did blare (arranged by well known matchmaker Harriet Kuritsky) creating the ambiance analogous to a renaissance faire yet contrasted in that this bachelor

and other men related to me segregated with females and males

at a set distance away

i.e. not physically near

dictated by mandates of Hebrew coda stemming from Moses biological tree

which, separate quarters

ample enough to spare

until the proper toll of the bell would peal accompanied by unified yippee!

After Rabbi Boyce officiated

for the groom and bride,

the crowd exalted with cheers

of L’Chaim with chutzpah

oompah sizzling and hot.

Klezmer musicians played schmaltz

which accompanied hoopla as couples did waltz.

All the while family, friends and relatives

blessed the new groom and bride although highly orthodox, the men removed respective skullcap more commonly known as yarmulke some plain others dyed women and children broke out in traditional dance and song while other did clap exemplifying Yahweh to deliver mazal tov and shalom as spiritual guide to the pronounced husband and wife who pledged their troth in a snap.

Toward conclusion

of typical Jewish wedding, a full goblet of kosher red wine got tossed in the air this (in conjunction with crush of emptied wine glass sacred apex rite of passage communicated a sign and marshaled the crowd to begin a local Jerusalem exodus symbolic and clear.

As the newlyweds blissfully

and radiantly strolled arm in arm and exited the Synagogue, the euphoric and excited crowd did house tossed handfuls of uncle Ben’s unconverted libertarian rice grown from norwegian bachelor farmers on nearby organic whole foods farm a chauffeur waited to shuttle newlyweds to honeymoon location passersby waved and bowed and local fire department rang a false alarm.

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