#Live at Sin-é

[foldback]

Jeff Buckley - "Unforgiven (Last Goodbye)"

Took a random spin through my library just now and this pops up, of course. From Live at Sin-é circa 1993. How anyone or anything ever sounded this good still blows me away.

[ratgill]

there is something horrific happening inside me

[weepwhileweriot]

[anelegaicmind]

If you do anything regularly for a while, sooner or later the weirdos will start to show up.

Jeff Buckley

[mariasont]

Please, Don't Prove 'Em Right Pt 2 - A.H

a/n: im not quite sure how i feel about this i feel like im really bad with resolutions but practice makes perfect and you all really wanted a part two so here we are i hope you beautiful angels like it:)

also if you commented on the first part which can be found here, i put you on the taglist for this one!

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotcher x fem!reader

summary: is it possible to forgive the man who broke your heart the most?

warnings: angst, creepy man in a parking lot, hurt lots of hurt, idk man i still wouldn't be able to forgive him for this, CURB STOMP

wc: 1.6k

The sound of your stupid heels against the pavement only served to fuel your irritation. A rough patch of asphalt snagged the stem of the shoe, jolting your ankle sharply. With a hiss and a muttered curse, you bent down, yanking off the insufferable things, all the while attempting to block out the thought of the grime that was now undoubtedly coating your skin.

Your stupid dress now dragged against the ground, collecting dirt, and your stupid makeup, once perfect, was now smeared by the tracks of your tears.

"Hey there, pretty lady, why the long face on such a beautiful night?"

The voice came from a man who materialized as if from thin air, towering over you. His clothes were worn, his tie hanging crookedly, and a predatory grin fixed on his face.

You tried to sidestep, your mood souring further, but he mirrored your movements, blocking your path, his eyes examining you with an unsettling sense of familiarity.

"Come on, don't be like that. A girl like you shouldn't be all alone. Let me keep you company."

His words were like oil, slick and unwelcome, making your skin crawl. You clutched your heels tighter, completely prepared to use them as a weapon if necessary. "I'm fine, thanks."

But he wasn't taking the hint, stepping closer, his breath reeking of booze. "No need to be shy. I'll treat you right--,"

This was it. Instead of being known for winning a Pulitzer, you'd be known as the girl who got kidnapped in the parking lot after the ceremony. The cherry on top of the evening.

"I think you're misunderstanding the situation. She's not interested."

The man of the hour. You knight in a suit and fucking tie. The stranger's gaze shifted to him, and for a moment you saw the hesitation, the calculation of a prey assessing whether he can take on his predator. The man finally scoffed--a sound meant to be dismissive, but even he couldn't mask the defeat. With a sneer, he walked away.

You released a pent-up breath, one you hadn't realized you'd been holding.  Aaron turned to you. "Are you alright?"

"Am I alright? You know what fuck off, Aaron." Your words came out laced with a venom that shocked even you, their acrid taste lingering on your tongue. The tears you'd been staving off now flowed freely. You jabbed the certificate into his chest, the paper wrinkling under your fingers. "I won, by the way."

Your turned on your heel, not waiting to see his face. The concrete was frigid under your bare feet, but your pride swallowed any reaction.

"This isn't the place to be alone and without shoes." Aaron's voice followed you.

You came to an abrupt stop, anger bubbling through every surface of your body as you spun around to face him. "Neither is the Pulitzer ceremony where I'm supposed to have a supportive husband."

"I'm so sorry, honey. I got caught up with that case and there was—,"

"Aaron, stop," you cut him off, tears burning the corners of your eyes. "I can't hear more excuses because you know what? I give you excuses all the time, and you take advantage of it. You take advantage of me and the chances I give you. And you just... you just keep letting me down. All I wanted was for you to be here for this one thing. That's it. And you couldn't even do that."

"I messed up, I know," Aaron said, his usual eloquence failing him. "There's no case, no job, no damn good reason for me not to be there. I failed you, and it's not something I can just fix with an I'm sorry, but I am I'm so sorry."

The floodgates open, and you're sobbing. "I hate this. I hate that I want to forgive you. But I can't... I can't because I know you'll do this again. And every time, it chips away at me, at us, until there's nothing left."

"Oh, honey," Aaron says, reaching out, but you shrink away, the space between you filled with more than just air.

"P-Please, don't," you gasp, the tears relentless. "I can't... I just need some space. I'll get my things and stay with my sister, okay?"

You walk away, the knot in your throat growing tighter, the distance between you stretched out and you can feel his eyes on you. You slide into the driver's seat, starting the engine, and glancing in the rearview mirror. Aaron's figure lingers there. A wave of nausea hits you. Isn't it wicked when the very thing you love inflicts the greatest hurt?

The drive home was silent, the stereo left untouched. Your fingers clenched and unclenched around the steering wheel, your chest rising and falling with heavy breaths that you couldn't seem to control. The reflection of your tear-streaked face was lost in the blur of streetlights streaking past. Your mind replayed every missed anniversary, every birthday, every empty seat beside you. You were tired of being alone.

Before you knew it, you were sitting in front of your garage. Each movement was a chore--unbuckling the seatbelt, opening the car door, the garage door, and finally the front door.

You stop dead in your tracks, eyes roaming over the living room. Balloons lie strewn about the floor, streamers dangling from the mantel. Almost every surface glimmers with the soft glow from the intermittent flickering of battery-operated candles. Aaron had an insistence on fire safety, which always negated the use of actual candles.

Tears threatened to spill again as you closed the door behind you, your steps leading you down the hallway to the kitchen. A congratulations banner hung over the island, done in Aaron's chicken scratch handwriting but it made your heart give out all the same.

The scent of chrysanthemums, your favorites, wafts through the air before they come into view--large, splendid blooms of pink and yellow cradled in your largest vase. Your hands, trembling, ran over the accompanying card, fingers fumbling to unfold it.

For My Pulitzer Prize Winner,

I realize I'm writing this before the ceremony, maybe I'm jinxing it, but in my heart, I know you will win. I know this not just because of the undeniable quality of your work, but because of the sheer force of will and passion that drives you. You are the greatest thing in my life, and every day, you inspire me to be the best version of myself.

When we first met, you told me your favorite flowers were Chrysanthemums. I remember asking if it was because it was your birth flower, but you shook your head and told me about your favorite story instead. You told me about a book that showed the beauty and strength in being unique, and that sometimes, it takes a bit of time for the world to recognize the splendor of what's different.

This has been your journey—filled with moments of doubt, but ultimately, a triumph of self-belief and talent. You've blossomed in the most extraordinary ways, and tonight, the world sees what I've always seen.

Love, Aaron

Tears speckled the paper as you dabbed at them with your sleeve, trying to clear the blots. Your focus moved to the present, wrapped neatly and sitting beside the flowers. You tugged at the ribbons, unraveling the wrapper paper with deliberate gentleness.

A shaky giggle slips out as you draw out the book. Chrysanthemum by Kevin Henkes. But what really starts the tears isn't the book itself, not, it's the familiar loops and lines of your nine-year-old self's handwriting.

This is my favorite book because it's about being special. I am special too.

This was the copy you had as a little girl, the on you lost. How did he find it? Turning the page, another stifled sob breaks free. The margins are crowded with affectionate notes penned by your family, friends, colleagues, the BAU team, and Aaron.

Fuck.

The door creaked open and clicked shut, and in no time at all, he was standing behind you. He stopped, a few steps away, as if too scared to close the distance and scare you off.

"Did you do this?" Your voice was soft, book clutched to your chest.

The pause stretches on, his breath the only sign of life. "Yes."

You turn to him, searching his eyes. "Why?"

"Why?" Aaron repeats, as if it were a stupid question. "Because I love you."

He takes a cautious step forward, like he's all too aware you're getting that shaky feeling in your stomach that's telling you to run.

"I am so sorry. You have every right to be mad, to be upset with me, and I get it. But I love you, and I want to work on this. It's tearing me apart to see you like this."

"I'm scared, Aaron." You voice breaks. "Scared you're going to do this to me again."

He steps closer, close enough to share the same breath. "I'm scared too," he admits. "But I'm more scared of losing you. I'll prove it. Today and every day after."

The room is still, the only sound the ticking of the clock. You're standing at a crossroads, the kind you read in books and see in moves, the power to forgive or walk away. You watch him, the man who is the love of your life and also the bane of existence, and you see it in his eyes. Something you haven't seen in a long time—fear. Not the fear of consequence, but the fear of loss.

It's a humanly glimpse into the man you fell in love with, the man who you know is still there beneath his layers of work.

"I'll be waiting."

Maybe you could be considered stupid, naive, with no self-respect. Maybe one day you'll curse yourself for not walking away. But maybe, just maybe the man you love will make his way back to you and prove the rest wrong.

regular taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf @sarcasm-and-stiles @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @freyy253

comment taglist: @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @simpingformiddleagedmen @222hwilsss @michasia24 @vsplanet @himboelover @dangerousprincessharleyinhawaii @gibson-g1rl @gghostwriter @lilozg-123 @uranometrias @miley1442111 @welcometothemaraudersspam @ladycaramelswirl @callmekanytime @maxiismp @delusional-4-fake-people

[eternacrueldad]

⠀⠀日✦⠀⠀ೄ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Maybe⠀⠀I'm⠀⠀too⠀⠀young⠀⠀. . .

[liriostigre]

Jeff Buckley's poem, “New Year's Eve Prayer,” performed at Sin-é, Manhattan, NYC, 1994.

You, my love, are allowed to forget about the Christmas you just spent stressed out in your parents' house.

You, my love, are allowed to shed the weight of all the years before, like bad disco clothes. Save them for a night of dancing stoned with your lover.

You, my love, are allowed to let yourself drown, every night, in bottomless, wild and naked symbolic dreams.

You, my love, in sleep can unlock your youth and your most terrifying magic; and dreaming is for the courageous.

You, my love, are allowed to grab my guitar and sing me idiot love songs if you've lost your ability to speak. Keep it down to two minutes.

You, my love, are allowed to rot and to die and to live again, more alive and incandescent than before.

You, my love, are allowed to beat the shit out of your television, choke its thoughts and corrupt its mind. Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill the motherfucker! Before the song of zombified pain and panic and malaise and it's narrow right-winged vision and it's cheap commercial gang rape becomes the white noise of the world, turn about is fair play.

You, my love, are allowed to forgive and love your television.

You, my love, are allowed to speak in kisses to those around you and those up in heaven.

You, my love, are allowed to show your babies how to dance full bodied, starry eyed, audacious, supernatural and glorified.

You, my love, are allowed to suck in every single endeavor.

You, my love, are allowed to be soaked like a lovers' blanket, in the New York summertime, with the wonder of your own special gift.

You, my love, are allowed to receive praise.

You, my love, are allowed to have time.

You, my love, are allowed to understand.

You, my love, are allowed to love.

Woman, disobey, when little men believe.

You, my love, are Rebellion.

[latinotiktok]

Propaganda:

Percy

-Percy Jackson porque yo lo digo idc (no hay explicación blanca para ese muchacho ese mae es latino)

-Percy Jackson from the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series. Has mad silver teeth energy.

-Percy Jackson. He's an outsider. He works hard to get where he wants to be. He's cool. He's funny. He's an icon. He's from New York. Must I say more.

-percy jackson pq ele é rato de praia e só se fode se isso não é a experiência unificadora da América Latina não sei o que é

-Percy Jackson. Eu sei que tem pessoas com argumentos legítimos para isso, mas estou indo apenas pela ~vibe~

-Percy Jackson porque es de nueva york yo digo que es puertoriqueño 🫡

-percy jackson. he has to be latino he lives in nyc and is coded to be a minority. personally think he's argentino but i've seen hcs for venezuela, brasil, and puerto rico. shoutout to tumblr user latinopercy btw

Percy Jackson, por que ele claramente é latino. Ele deveria ser especificamente brasileiro e carioca. Filho do DEUS DO MAR !!!!! bebendo um mate na praia!!!!! 

Percy Jackson. Mírenme a los ojos y díganme que no. Trauma con su papá ausente. Mamá adolescente. Un padrastro de mierda al que su mamá asesina. Un medio hermano al que al principio no quiere pero después adora. Le dan una espada y procede a desafiar dioses. Eso es muy de niño latino peleando con las autoridades del colegio. 

-Percy Jackson, not only he lives in the harlem (wich im told is v latino heavy in the us) just look at him!! the attitude, the sarcasm the underdogism the jokes the flavour the disrespect to autority cmonnn, meu filho brasileiro eu sinto desde os 13 essa verdade! me diz se a sally n tem mó cara de tia mãe do seu amigo da escola, bota ai um sandra nela e fechou. (pros brarg ainda podiamos vencer por percabeth aka percy brasileiro/annabeth argentina abram seus olhos!!) enfim façamos o que rick não teve coragem!!

-Percy Jackson. He just has the vibes. After all the bullshit my boy went through, he just deserves it, as a treat.

- percy jackson bc seeing a demi god kid have adhd AND be latino would be epic especially bc he's the main character of the series also when i first read the book i kinda did read him as latino bc of certain thing described in the book

-Percy Jackson. en el libro dicen que su madre y poseidon cojieron durante un verano pero su cumpleaños es en agosto, lo que significa que tuvieron que cojer alrededor de diciembre. eso solo tiene sentido si es del hemisferio sur así que en mi corazón es latino

Peter Parker

-Spiderman. ya sabés

-Spiderman (Peter Parker). Por vibes y porque en cada maldita esquina de Latinoamérica hay un tipo vestido de spiderman. Qué sería de nosotres sin él

-El hombre araña, literal no hay trencito de la alegría o pelotero donde no aparezca, no importa la edad si le preguntas a alguien por un superhéroe te lo van mencionar. Es básicamente como Goku pero de cómics, hay publicidades y graffitis de él por todos lados, vas a una parrilla y lo tenés ahí pintado al spiderman en un pared preparando unos choris. Tenemos canónicamente? nuestro propio hombre araña (Julián 💙) y tengo fotos de un hombre araña con la camiseta de la selección festejando sobre un camión. (Disclaimer soy argentina 😅)

-Peter parker de Ultimate Spiderman 2012 por que NO DEJO DE VER UNA PROPAGANDA DE BELDENT CON SU ACTOR DE VOZ. TODO EL CAST DE DOBLAJE DE USM ES ARGENTINO Y ME ATORMENTA.

-homem-aranha, tem forte presença no carnaval de rua brasilero e claramente sabe dançar funk

[crushofdoves]

who else up thinking about ‘lover, you should’ve come over’ specifically the live at sin-é, new york ny july/august 1993 version?

[1vidapoeticando]

Temos vários sonhos e objetivos na vida, e um deles é ter significado na vida, não só para as pessoas, mas pra provar para si mesmo que somos capazes...Que somos importantes...Passamos a vida toda, tentando fazer valer nossa existência nesse mundo, alguma pessoas só vivem, sem se importar... Eu travo todos os dias uma batalha comigo mesmo, e só vou parar quando não mais existir aqui nesse mundo..."Quem olha para fora sonha... E quem olha para dentro desperta"...

Tenemos varios sueños y metas en la vida, y uno de ellos es tener sentido en la vida, no solo para las personas, sino para demostrarnos a ti mismo que somos capaces ... Que somos importantes... Pasamos toda nuestra vida, tratando de afirmar nuestra existencia en este mundo, algunas personas simplemente viven, sin importarnos... Peleo una batalla conmigo mismo todos los días, y solo me detendré cuando ya no exista aquí en este mundo ... "Quien mira sueña ... Y el que mira hacia adentro despierta"...

We have several dreams and goals in life, and one of them is to have meaning in life, not only for people, but to prove to yourself that we are capable... That we are important... We spend our whole lives, trying to assert our existence in this world, some people just live, without caring... I fight a battle with myself every day, and I will only stop when I no longer exist here in this world..."Whoever looks out dreams... And whoever looks inward awakens"...

Fonte: 1Vidapoeticando 🌺 🍃

[hella1975]

and what’s stopping me from getting in a car and blasting lover you should’ve come over by jeff buckley 9 minute version live at sin-é new york NY july/august 1993 and driving 80mph into a tree killing me instantly

[rhapsodynew]

The mysterious Jeff Buckley with his guitar, 1994

He recorded one of the best albums in history — and accidentally drowned at the age of 30. Jeff Buckley and his unforgettable "Hallelujah"

Jeff Buckley was born in Orange County, California on November 17, 1966. In childhood and adolescence, he often moved around the country with his mother, who was seized with a passion for travel.

Buckley had a famous father, author—performer Tim Buckley, who died of an overdose at the age of 28 in 1975. Speaking about his father, Jeff told:

 "I've known him for nine days. I met him for the first time at Easter, when I was eight years old, and two months later he died. He left my mother when I was six months old. So I never knew him at all."

But the genes made themselves felt. Jeff Buckley grew up listening to music. His mother was a pianist and cellist with a classical education, and his stepfather introduced him to Led Zeppelin, Queen and Pink Floyd at an early age. Buckley started playing guitar at the age of five after discovering the instrument in his grandmother's closet.

In 1991, Jeff Buckley decided to move to New York, planning to become an actor. He worked in a hotel and played guitar in bands in various styles from jazz and reggae to heavy metal. That same year, Buckley made his public debut at a concert in honor of his father, performing "I Never Asked To Be Your Mountain", a song Tim Buckley once wrote about a tiny son and his mother.

Jeff Buckley's first commercial recording, the mini—album "Live At Sin-é" (1993), was made in a tiny coffee shop in the East Village in New York, where the musician performed on Mondays. His repertoire consisted of covers of folk, rock, blues and jazz hits. Thom Yorke admitted that Radiohead's album "The Bends" was a bad reaction to Buckley's concerts.

Jeff Buckley's full-length debut album Grace was released in the United States in August 1994. In addition to the seven original songs, the album includes three covers. And among them is the amazing "Hallelujah" Leonard Cohen.

The record was praised by many respected musicians, including members of Led Zeppelin. The album opened Jeff Buckley to the world. For three years he toured the USA, Canada, Europe, Japan and Australia, gaining new fans wherever he played.

On May 29, 1997, the night before his band was supposed to go into the studio, Jeff Buckley spontaneously decided to swim in the Mississippi River. He entered the water dressed and shod, singing the chorus of "Whole Lotta Love", and disappeared. A few days later, local residents found his body in the water. Buckley was 30 years old. The autopsy revealed no signs of drug or alcohol use.

In the years since Jeff Buckley's death, his legacy has continued to grow through reissues and found recordings. But the debut album "Grace" he remained the only completed work of the artist. The first and the last. His fans include rock legends and devoted followers from new generations of music lovers. If the 1990s spawned rock classics, then this is it.

Sadly....a talented father and son and such an early departure of both

#Everything you need to know about Rock📌

[valstarsandgalaxies]

’I can't tell him the truth. I can't tell him how i feel. It'd ruin everything and it wouldn't even matter at the end.’ He's getting married. He's getting married and it's not John, who will be standing opposite him. It hurts him just to think about it. It won't be John. And in his most desperate moment, he said: "I even thought you could be my best man." It wasn't a question, but it was. Basically what he was trying to say was 'Bucky, even if you're not the one I'm marrying, i need you there. I need you with me, so i could at least imagine it's you.' He's not sure, if that meaning is clear though. He feels sick. Sick from the cowardly decisions he made earlier. He loved John more than anything and still it wasn't enough for him to actually choose him. When that clicks in his head, he can't even look at himself. His body hurts, his heart hurts and he did it all to himself. But he'd rather have this pain and John as his best friend than not having John at all as if he confessed and John didn't feel the same way. It's weird, maybe he'll even find comfort in all of it.

"I'll be your best man." John said and hadn't really realised what that actually meant. It meant standing at the altar with Gale, but he won't be the one Gale's marrying. It meant that he'll have to watch Gale marry someone else and that John will only become secondary to him. It meant that whatever he thought they had before wasn't there and it's ending. He thinks back to the time when they lay together in John's bunk at the stalag, cause it was incredibly cold. They weren't the only ones, that's why it felt so safe somehow. It almost felt like a start of something more. At least that was what John thought. A few days later, Gale revealed to him this truth of him getting married and he realised that that situation was merely a composition to deal with the cold. Gale never joins him in his bunk again.

It was weird. Telling John while he was lying in his bunk. It almost felt like they were lying there together. Like John's arms were around Gale and Gale's arm around John. Like every part of their body is touching and things were different. But they weren't. John felt so far away and he felt himself backing up, going further from him. He was slowly going the other way and for the first time John wasn't chasing him. That was also new. John wasn't chasing him. Why? Why did he not run towards Gale like always? He supposes one gets tired of chasing after somebody who is only going further away from them. Your legs start to hurt after a while and you see no result. He understands that John gave up. He understands, but he wishes he didn't. Maybe someday that'd give him the courage. But he couldn't ask that from John.

John wants nothing more than to go back to the way things used to be with Gale. Them being close all the time, no one thinking anything suspicious about them. He wants to go back before all the terrible things have happened. He wishes more than anything that Gale would have come to London with him. He can't stop himself, but thinks how different things would have been. Maybe they wouldn't even be here, in the stalag. Maybe they'd still be in England, at Thorpe Abbotts. Or maybe they'd be dead. It's hard not to think about the time they could've had in London though. It'd only add to the amazing memories he had with Gale. It never happened though. But he still tries to cling to all he has. All the precious memories with Buck. His Buck. He's not sure Buck is his anymore though. And that thought hurts.

[mused-amused]

I’m so in my feelings about Jeff Buckley right now. With uncanny prescience, I unwittingly spent many quiet nights with his ghost, and with his memory, as if leading up to the anniversary of his death tomorrow.

Mostly, I mourned that so many years have passed since his death. I imagined what his reaction would have been to the key moments in our world, culture, and society. And I mourned that he never got to experience the wisdom and contentment that come with old age.

So much has happened in the last 27 years. A whole other Jeff Buckley has probably been born, but could someone like that touch the world now? Could today’s  audiences honor the presence of sound, put their phones down long enough to be truly present as a powerful voice unites them in song?

In 1997, we lived in a much more innocent world. I was 17 years old, and I dreamed of attending art school, even though I knew my parents could never afford to send me. I was crazy about playing guitar, and alternative rock.

I had a college-age pen pal who I met through a music listserv, and it was thrilling to correspond regularly with someone who was attending a liberal arts school on the east coast. She was living the life I dreamed about, where academics and art mattered.

One day the letters stopped coming. I had thought it was merely because I lived on Guam and the mail was slow. But she eventually wrote to me, and said she was despondent that Jeff Buckley had just passed away, and she hadn’t been able to write. She was attending a memorial service in Boston later that week.

My pen pal and I lost touch soon thereafter, but my curiosity was piqued: who was this artist that could inspire so much sorrow and sadness with his passing? He wasn’t a big name, like Kurt Cobain who had infamously taken his own life 3 years earlier. I felt that one. I lived that one, along with millions of other fans all over the world.

Who was Jeff Buckley?

Music was still hard to come by on island those days—I couldn’t go to record store and find CDs easily, and Napster hadn’t made a splash yet. Those factors meant that finding amazing music just outside the mainstream was rough--local buyers had to have impeccable taste, and they just… didn’t. Eventually, I found a compilation CD that had a single Jeff Buckley song: "Last Goodbye." (That same compilation also had “Gang of $” by Shudder to Think, one of Jeff’s favorite bands. A good mix!)

“Last Goodbye” was unlike anything else I had heard at the time. It was wistful, yearning. If I had to group it with anything, the emotions it evoked are similar to the ballads in U2s Joshua Tree album: where love is so massive, it absorbs you, it forces you to feel, it makes you believe in soul connections and engulfs you in the simultaneous warmth of romance and the chilling prospect of losing it. Epic, if you will.

Once I got to college in the US mainland, I finally scored myself a copy of Grace. My musical life changed, and Jeff Buckley would forever be a part of my lyrical and musical lexicon. I began consuming what was readily available: Live at Sin-é and Sketches for My Sweetheart the Drunk.

Yet, I had never explored Jeff Buckley: the person. Lore didn’t interest me. He was a remarkable artist, influencing my musical journey, whose life ended tragically—nothing more.

And by all accounts, he wouldn’t want us to think of him outside of his musical legacy. Nevertheless, over the last few weeks, I dove deep into interviews, books, and live shows. I have glimpsed a portrait of an artist who was just beginning. Who at 30 years old, was still just a kid, trying to figure out who he wanted to be in the world, bravely taking on the mantle of being a beacon for positivity, joy, and love.

And to see that snuffed out was heartbreaking.

Here was a man who cared about art. Who believed that all of us have the ability to create and engage with art, if we recognize that power within ourselves. Here was a man who was tapped into the mystery of life, of the power of the moment, of NOW, and used every bit of his energy to seize joy.

Here was a man known for his singular voice, yet whose talents were heightened by collaborating with others. A man who freely admitted that he didn’t understand songwriting, and relied on the gifts of others to ignite his spark of genius.

Here was a man who was equally deep and goofy, who gave all that he had to the people he loved and lashed out with vitriol when he was pushed. He wasn’t a saint. He was a just a human, a skillful connector of words, sounds, and souls.

A person we would have loved to watch grow up and come into his own as an artist.

But the Wolf River had other plans. I have spent too many hours thinking about what he must have felt as the water took him. But in the best scenarios, I think of him reaching a moment of clarity and peace as he resigned himself to his fate: he was suspended in time, leaving us to our imaginations, giving us the freedom to wonder what could have been.

Rest easy, JB.

[duine-aiteach]

D’fhéach mé ar clár télifís go hálainn anocht! Tá sé documentary ar an amhrán N17 le The Saw Doctors. Aistear An Amhráin is ainm do agus bhí sé ar an RTÉ 1. Is é an clár seo as Gaeilge ach tá subtitles as Béarla freisin.

Is é The Saw Doctors an banna ceol is fearr liom agus is maith liom an amhráin seo! Tá mé i mo chónaí i Londain anois agus, cheap mé ar an líne ‘when the auld fella left me to Shannon, was the last time I travelled that road” ó am go t-am mar, tá sé fíor! Chuaigh mé ar an bóthar sin 33 bliain ina dhiaidh sin nuair a d’fhág mé Éireann. (Agus chuaigh mé suas agus síos an bóthar seo nuair a chuaigh mé go dtí ar ais ar ollscoil gach mí.) Is é an N17 bóthar ó slán agus beannacht.

[why-not-movies]

Twilight Secret Gift Exchange 2023!

this is my entry for the @twilight-secret-gift-exchange for @jasperhaleobsessed !! here’s a playlist of a you and jasper love story🩷 i don’t use spotify but here’s the youtube music link and the songs listed below in playlist order!!!! (as well as a little moodboard because i couldn’t help myself) im really into the whole new age americana modern cowboy type vibe so this was SO fun to make!! i tried to keep the country music to a minimum because it didn’t seem like ur vibe but i couldn’t help myself since it’s jasper😭 trust that i only listen to good country and have a very merry swiftmas!!

Track List:

style- taylor swift

lacy- olivia rodrigo

(can we be friends?)- conan gray

roses are falling- orville peck

the last one- maisie peters

how you get the girl- taylor swift

paris- taylor swift

i’m only me when i’m with you- taylor swift

be your husband (live at sin-é, new york 1993)- jeff buckley

butterflies- kacey musgraves

paper rings- taylor swift

she calls me back- noah kahan

hey stephen- taylor swift

love is a wild thing- kacey musgraves

the wedding song- reneé rapp

cowboy take me away- the chicks

our song- taylor swift

cowgirl for christmas- drake milligan