#yaloo | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

groovesnjams · 1 year ago

Text

youtube

33 / 50

"Ah!" by Jaloo

MG:

This year, I learned about Mr. Beast. But before I learned about Mr. Beast, I learned that I am no longer experiencing pop culture or society or the information drip in the same untranslated, mainstream way I was a few years ago. There are a lot of factors, it’s not simply aging, and I’m intensely satisfied by the way I just do not know about shit like Mr. Beast or the bird test or rizz until it filters down to my chosen sliver of reality. Mr. Beast was already all around me but I was unaware. I use YouTube daily but he’s never suggested to me. I go to the grocery store almost daily but I’m conditioned to ~shop the perimeter!! And tune his cookies or energy drinks or whatever out of my perceived existence. Anyway, all this to say, Mr. Beast is someone who decoded and subsequently gamed the YouTube algorithm to become a ubiquitous presence, a cultural force, a mirror to our monkey brains. There’s a lot that went into making Mr. Beast that I don’t really want to think about or engage with, but one seemingly small but frankly huge and insidious piece is sound effects. Whistles, hands clapping, kazoos buzzing, doorbells, explosions, anything in the Apple ringtone arsenal, etc. Mr. Beast did not invent plunking these sounds every, I don’t know, 15 seconds of “content” (Mr. Beast did not invent anything) but he is responsible, inadvertently, for my own raised consciousness. Once you become aware of sound effects you become aware of how constantly, how pervasively, how insidiously your awareness is being remotely manipulated. Sound effects (I think even more than blue light or screens or whatever) are responsible for our profoundly broken attention spans because while we may be addicted to clicking our phones on and off, we have no fucking say in how often a little noise demands “look!” and it is ALWAYS.

So, the sound effects aren’t going away. Good luck muting literally everything. I am, instead, choosing to learn to love the bomb. If I must be surrounded by the sound of tiny plinks and rocks hitting the ground, I want it to be in the context of a Jaloo song. Every element of “Ah!” is an attention directive, not just the production, but Jaloo’s voice and his cadence, too. It’s the passive aggressive counterpart to nihilist screaming and industrial noise. It’s irritating your brain but if you can prefer that irritation then your DNA can mutate and your children can better survive.

DV:

Not having had a phone that makes alert noises for at least a decade now, I still hear "Ah!" as built out of silliness and irritants. But while I'm not totally confident about the lyric's nuance based on reading translated Portuguese, "Ah!" is definitely a song about a drunk guy trying (and failing, because he's too drunk?) to pick someone up because he's bored and doesn't have anything better to do. The song sounds like cell phones because the singer is making a call; it sounds persistently annoying because like any drunk dialer, he is annoying. It's instrumentation as punctuation, as context, as theme. The guy isn't calling us, after all, and bad hookup attempts don't sting when they're experienced secondhand. "Ah!" is an annoying story, well told, its production funky and bouncy enough to ingratiate and its punchline difficult to resist.

#gnjsoty2k23 #yaloo #ah!#music #mr beast :(

2 notes · View notes

starffledust · 4 years ago

Text

Ether’s Calming Fumes (Bunny/North)

[originally posted on AO3]

Original Summary: Nicholas St. North was many things: a warrior, an inventor, a bandit of riches unknown. But he always came bearing gifts.

He stopped walking when his boot hit a bucket of water, its contents turned brown from months of dyes and overuse. Across the ground lay bundles of paint brushes and sponges, colored water and reeds. North did not pick up the mess, but he did smile.

A rabbit was near.

There was life here.

In the greenery and the blooms, it pulsed with an ancient heartbeat. It thrummed through the ground, in the brittled bark shed from trees. There was even life in the rocks, hardened by years of wind and rain but nonetheless alive.

Green spoiled the senses, invading the air and the ground, everything washed in fresh soil and moss. Across color pools and shrubbery, stone statues sat, their engravings moss covered and bleached. Their rounded shapes rooted into the ground with a mighty weight—indeed, they were buried within it—just as alive and green as the land around them.

The stubborn rocks rose and turned their tops sharply, stone grinding against weathered stone as an intruder dressed in red stepped through a canopy of vines, out from the tunnels. Over his shoulder slung a beaten burlap sack.

He nodded at the sentinels with a merry smile upon his face. “At ease, my friends!” he chorused softly, like the whisper of wood in a gentle breeze. “There’s no danger.”

The statues shared a glance, and their faces ground around, turning into sharp smiles.

“Yes,” the friendly-intruder reached into his sack, “is good day. Must not waste it with battles.” His face skewed in concentration as he reached further down the sack, his ear placed against the burlap swallowing his shoulder. “And with” —he huffed and peered into the sack, his arm still reaching— “the circumstances… Oh, where is it?”

He pulled his hand out and switched to his left. His lips pursed as his left arm was thus also swallowed by the bag.

Immediately, his face lit again, blue eyes twinkling as he pulled out two bundles of dark green fabric.

“Move down a bit, please. Must throw present on you.”

One of the stones leaned forward upon the request, and the man threw the fabric onto its head. Then the other, and he did the same.

“There! Is bad chill in Warren during winter, even for rock.” He smiled and lifted his bag from the ground, slinging it over his shoulder once more. He looked next to the large expanse of fields and trees, and the vines which reached their tendrils up to the dirt ceiling.

One of the statues, now clad in a pine green and pink scarf (a large length of fabric, specifically designed for the statue; Warrior Eggs were taller than most humans who normally wore the things), stood and turned its top. Its lips quirked into a stagnant, worried warble, and the eye engravings turned into that of a fish. With a large thump, it sat looking down a different tunnel.

The other statue followed, and they both turned back to their new friend in unison.

“Is Bunny that way?” he asked them, still quiet.

The second wobbled a bit in a nod, and both of their smiles returned with scrapes of stone.

The man smiled and readjusted the bag on his shoulder. “Thank you, friends!” He patted one of the statues on the side and then started forward with a jovial skip, making sure not to jostle the bag too terribly in his excitement.

Nicholas St. North was many things: a warrior, an inventor, a bandit of riches unknown. But he always came bearing gifts. It would not be by his carelessness that they were ruined.

North hummed quietly, a long overtold classical piece with sharp notes and cheerful verses. It had lived with him since his days of banditry, throughout his days of battles and plundering, and here into the present of pop and electronic synths.

He stopped when his boot hit a bucket of water, its contents turned brown from months of dyes and overuse. Across the ground lay bundles of paint brushes and sponges, colored water and reeds. North did not pick up the mess, but he did smile.

A rabbit was near.

Despite his heavy boots, North toed around the river, crouched low to the grass. His coat, lined with white fluff and shining a deep red, was a shadow under the lush trees.

Then someone lobbed a paintbrush at his head.

“Thought to sneak up on me? I’m not a bloody sprog,” came a deep voice of chocolate, the tone as ancient as the Earth was round—and even more so, for it had been with its own paws the voice had molded the land, those same paws which were now outstretched in the aftermath of a throw.

North jumped and turned around, eyes and smile wide. “Bunny! My friend, comrade, brother-in-arms.” He stepped forward, reaching for touch and embrace. “Good to see you.”

E. Aster Bunnymund, Pooka and Guardian of Hope, the nurturer of Earth, flinched away like a startled cat. “What’re you doin, mate?” He gazed at North with big green eyes and a scowl upon his grey muzzle.

“Bunny,” North laughed, “is Christmas.”

“So?”

“So, have presents!” North placed his sack on the grass, right before Bunnymund.

“Yeah, okay.” Bunnymund smiled wryly. “Stoked to have you, mate. You don’t need to bribe me for Warren privileges.” He glanced at the art tools strewn across the ground.

“Ah, no. It’s not bribe.” North’s smile faded into worry, his lips held up with a fishing line of sincerity.

Bunnymund squinted at him, arms crossed over his bandolier. “What d’ya want, then, cobber?” His ears twitched, then perked in realization. The scowl darkened, but his eyes sparkled with a familiar fire of the soul. “Come for another round of Easter vs. Christmas? Mate, Chrissie got nothin’ on me googies, and you know it.”

“No, Bunny. Is time of giving, and I have come to give you Christmas present!” North reached into his sack once more and quickly produced a small, wrapped box the size of his hand. He held it out to Bunnymund. A smile scrubbed the worry from his face, but the tension remained in his eyes. “Is, um, Christmas gift. I had help from others.”

Bunnymund glanced down at the present, at the teal wrapping paper which glistened, and the string tied in a bow. His paws twitched under his arms, longing to touch. But he clamped his wrists harder against his chest and looked North in the eye. “What is it?” he asked stiffly.

North’s smile faded. “Uh. Well, not so fun to know before opening, no?”

“Look, mate.” Bunnymund sighed and bent over to grab a handful of the abandoned art supplies from the ground. He hopped around and away from North.“I don't have time for this. Easter is heaps o’ hard yakka on a good year. I’ve only just begun to clean the destruction from the Nightmares, and then there’s the normal mess that’s left by the dyes and holiday googies. Not to mention your bloody elf.”

“Yes, Yaloo has expressed concern for that one.” North chuckled nervously and shrugged as he turned to keep pace with Bunnymund. “We just don’t know how he gets into Warren. No snow globes, no tunnels. It’s a mystery!”

Bunnymund’s eye twitched as he continued along the riverbank. “The mongrel would bail if he knew what’s comin’ to him. Givin’ me a bloody headache, keepin’ track of the colors and the tools and the googies. Even the human ankle biters are more reliable than that thing.”

“Now, Bunny—” North began softly.

Bunnymund sighed and stopped moving, eyes closed.

North stopped as well and glanced down at the gift in his hand, then back to Bunnymund. “You don’t want Christmas present, then?”

“Nah, mate, that’s not right.” Bunnymund dropped the art tools onto the grass, where a flurry of walking eggs came up to roll and push the paintbrushes away. One tumbled onto its side. “But I don’t think today is a time to accept such a thing.” Bunnymund held a gentle paw against the fallen egg, lifting it slowly like a mother caring for a chick.

When it stood upright, the egg bowed and ran off to join its siblings, who slowly carried the mess away.

Bunnymund stood to full height, watching the eggs go with a fond smile, eyes nostalgic.

North’s boots rooted into the Earth, and he did not move his feet. As if he himself were one with the lively grass and trees, a gentle pulse touched his feet, a comforting presence of life under the Earth, keeping him grounded as his mind searched for the next step. His eyes alighted again on the gift, and he thumbed the paper sadly. “We’re a team, Bunny,” he said softly.

Bunnymund stiffened and slowly turned to look at North, who still gazed down at the sparkling teal of the present. “I know that,” he returned just as sincerely, his voice rich as the darkest chocolate, rippling with curdled milk. “Gave the same speech to Frostbite not eight months ago. I’m older than the planet, cobber. Eight months passes fast enough.”

“I don’t mean as Guardians,” said North.

Ears went up, their grey fluff swaying lightly in the Warren breeze. His eyes—the same color as the grass and leaves surrounded them and so, so full of life now that he allowed himself access to feelings—landed back on the wrapped gift. “This isn’t about Chrissie, is it?” He took a slow step toward North. “And it’s not about Easter either.”

“No.” North smiled and held out the box once more. “Is about us. Not Guardians, not centers. Us.”

Bunnymund stood frozen, green eyes locked in blue, before finally reaching toward the gift. He stopped just shy of touching the surface, glancing up again.

North nodded and pushed the box into his grip.

Immediately, Bunnymund took the gift into his paws and fiddled the string away. With precise movements, he folded and ripped away the wrapping paper, throwing it to the ground when he was done. More eggs appeared on their tiny legs to push away the waste, and the string snagged on one, who thus wore a small bow on its surface as it ran away with the others.

A hitched breath caught the humid air, and even the light breeze quieted as Bunnymund turned his face up to North, paws wrapped possessively around the wooden music box in his palms.

It was of Pookan design, etchings of flowers and eggs and galaxies beyond human imagination. On the underside, there was a list of song names, all written in forgotten script with unskilled hand. But Bunnymund knew whose work it was and did not mind in the slightest.

He opened the lid gingerly, as if it could dissolve into his memories like everything else from his home planet.

A jingle rang out without bells or chimes, a chorus of lost instruments painting the air with melodies sung under Bunnymund’s breath for centuries. They were light, airy things which fleeted from existence the moment they landed. It was a song of hope.

“This—it’s, but how?” His words all stuttered.

But North only smiled and pressed a finger to his lips. “Magician never reveals secrets,” he said, that familiar twinkle in his eyes.

Bunnymund closed the lid and breathed deeply. Satisfaction and reparations quirked up his lips; although the song had stopped, he could revive it later, when he was ready.

And he knew he would be, now more than ever before.

“Bunny?” North leaned closer as Bunnymund’s eyes glistened.

Bunnymund wiped at his face. “Shuddup.” A smile brushed his lips, and his nose twitched minutely. He moved forward. “Just shuddup, you bogan. Hundreds of years, shoulda known you’d never grow past the hopeless romantic.”

“Perfect for hope rabbit,” North pronounced triumphantly.

Bunnymund rolled his eyes, and a faint pink shown through his grey coat. “Never change, North.” He reached a paw out to grab North’s face and bring him closer; his whiskers brushed the man’s cheek, and he let their foreheads drift together.

North smiled and pressed a soft kiss to the base of Bunnymund’s ears before connecting their heads again. “Never,” he breathed, pulling the other closer. He only held tighter as Bunnymund’s arms wrapped around his own frame. “Merry Christmas, Bunny.”

“Merry Christmas, ya dag.”

And if a sliver of moonlight somehow found itself underground, then it just meant that somewhere, high above the children and spirits of the Earth, a solitary man smiled for his Guardians.

#fanfiction #rotg #rotg fanfiction #rise of the guardians #christmas presents #rarepair #e aster bunnymund #nicholas st. north #there is a significant lack of north in this fandom #christmas #yes i know it's january

2 notes · View notes