#but then i ended up with a manuscript vinyl too for the signed

[lunar-years]

i am. wishing i had gotten The Bolter collectors cd :(

[something-fanfiction-ie]

Tips and Tricks

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Warnings: Spencer scares you for a second. And your mom is disappointed.

A/N: I know I have so many things going at once but I couldn’t help myself with this! I’m sorry. Forgive me. Like, comment, reblog, send me asks and shit. I love you! Enjoy!

___

A true book enthusiast knows that the most beautiful smell in the world can be found in the middle of a book. Whether it’s old and it’s pages are yellowed with age, or its so new that the text wipes off onto your hands when you open the cover, the smell is like a drug that gets your engine running the way no actual drug ever could.

It’s that thought that makes your pull your car into the nearly deserted parking lot of the bookstore as the rain crashes around you. You’ve seen enough ID Channel to know that waiting for the storm to pass while parked on the side of the road is about as dangerous as walking into a serial killer club meeting with a sign around your neck that reads, ‘kill me, I look like every person who has ever wronged you in life.’

Pulling your bag up over your head, you dash inside as fast as you can. The bell rings through the empty store, the smell of books hitting your senses and putting you at ease.

Even with your bag over your head, your hair is drenched and your clothes stick to your body in the most uncomfortable way possible. The store is manned by one forlorn looking teenage girl with short black hair, you can hear the gum she’s smacking behind the desk from four feet away.

Classical music filters down from the speakers, nestling among the thousands of books that take up every available space in the room. While some books fill the floor to ceiling bookshelves, the rest have been stacked on the floor like a maze of knowledge. Some stacks go up so high that even if you stand on your toes and stretch your arm as high as you could, you would still be a good ten five-hundred paged books from the top.

Every turn into the book maze reveals another secret of the store, like the collection of vinyls tucked into a corner beneath a record player that is older than your grandmother. Down a narrow path of towering novels, is a small reading nook with two red armchairs that have seen their fair share of readers.

It feels like you’ve stumbled upon the house of an immortal book-lover, the rugs that stretch across the floor feeling just as ancient as the words around you. But it’s peaceful, relaxing. You find yourself humming along to Chopin’s Nocturnes, Op. 9: No. 2, the spines of books bumping under your finger. Unsure how the books are organized, or even if they are, you’ve decided to look at the book your finger is on once the song is over.

When the last notes fade into a brief quietness, you stop on a book written by a ‘David Rossi.’ You can’t help the breathy laugh that comes from your chest in surprise that the first book you look at is a true crime novel.

Ever since you were a little girl, stealing your mom’s police badge to play ‘cops and robbers,’ and sneaking into her office to read case files you weren’t supposed to, you’d been in love with the puzzle-solving of the investigative world. You’ve always had a mind for finding clues no one thought to look for, it was the only reason you didn’t get in trouble when you left sticky notes full of observations and theories in your mother’s case files.

It was this background that made everyone around you so sure you would become a detective just like your mom. It was this same background that surprised everyone when you became an author instead. To say your mother was disappointed was an understatement, she’d been the most shocked when you showed her a four hundred page manuscript instead of an application for the police academy.

“Who gets a master’s in criminology only to write books?!”

Even still, she was the dedication in every book you published. So far, that was two, you’d been in the midst of your third book for four months now. Something about the story didn’t feel right, and no matter how many times you rewrote every page, it still didn’t click together the way the first two books had.

You don’t let the thought bug you as you flip open the hardcover, the pages falling to the side as you read the synopsis printed to the inside flap. The ringing of the bell barely registers in your mind, falling somewhere behind the book in your hands, the sound of the rain beating at the roof, and Beethoven’s Sonata No. 8. After reading the first page, you decide to give the book a chance and you tuck it beneath your arm for safe keeping.

This time, you turn your eyes up to the tops of the shelves, scanning for something that might be interesting. Each binding tells a story of its own, with spines creased from frequent readings or smooth spines begging to be cracked open. There are titles in gold and black, silver and red, the backgrounds varying in more colors than the words.

By the time you’ve wandered back to the reading nook with armchairs strategically placed to face each other at a diagonal, Beethoven is coming to a close. The notes vibrate for just a moment, and you choose the book tucked into the end with a dark purple cover and gold lettering. You can’t quite see the title but something tells you that this is something you want to read, that this books is going to be a good one.

Call it a reader’s instinct.

It’s just that, there are no step ladders to get to the top shelf and you aren’t exactly tall enough to reach it. Climbing the shelf just sounds dangerous, and you aren’t too eager to die at the hands of hundreds of books and a large bookcase. You contemplate moving one of the armchairs to assist you, but ultimately decide against it when you imagine that teenage girl coming to the back with a disappointed look on her face at the sight of you.

Instead you stretch like your life depends on it, your toes cramping a little as you push up on them as high as you can go. The tips of your fingers bump the spine when you curve your hand around the lip of the shelf. The wood digs into your wrist but maybe if you keep pushing and pulling at what you can grab, it will wiggle itself free.

That’s your plan until a warm body unintentionally brushes against you, an arm longer than yours coming up beside you and taking the book from its place up high with ease. Falling back to your feet, you’re quick to turn around and come face to face with a man you’ve never met before.

His expression is kind and gentle, crinkling his eyes and dimpling his cheeks when he offers you a shy smile and the book he grabbed for you. He’s definitely in the department of tall, tilting his head down a little to meet your gaze with eyes that you can’t quite describe as brown but you can’t quite describe as hazel either. Everything about him makes your heart stutter in your chest, from the color and shape of his lips, to the sharp cut of his jawline.

He’s curls himself down a little, his empty hand palm up and open as if he is trying to seem less threatening. It’s such a stark contrast to most of the men you meet, who invade your personal space and eyeball your breasts like they’re human bra size detectors.

You don’t realize you’ve been staring until he clear his throat, a dusty pink color rising to his cheekbones as he shuffles nervously in his spot. Blinking away the cloud of initial shock from the angelic being before you, you grab the book and mumble a ‘thank you.’

“Are you a big fan of David Rossi?” He says, shoving his hands deep into the recesses of his pockets.

“Who?” Internally, your facepalm yourself at the absolute stupidity that must be radiating off of you in waves strong enough to affect the whole population of Virginia.

“You’re holding two of his books.” Sure enough, not only is the book tucked under your arm David Rossi, but so is the book in your hands. The laugh that sputters out of you is even more surprised than the first laugh, the sheer coincidence of grabbing two random books by the same author in this whole building pulling the laughter from the pits of your stomach.

His lips flicker into a confused smile. It makes him that much more adorable.

“I was choosing books my eyes or finger landed on when the song ended. I couldn’t really figure out how everything is arranged so I thought I’d let the music decide for me.” He looks around now, his male-lead, love-interest eyes flying across the room to confirm that there really was no form of originization, his brows furrowing in thought. His bottom lips is sucked between his teeth and the vividness of the lewd fantasies that come from the small action are enough to push you back a step.

Only, you’re already pretty close to the bookcase, and when you step back to get some distance your back bumps into the wood and his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head to keep it from hitting the corner. You’re not even sure how he knew to react so fast, those eyes coming back to meet yours.

“Careful there, your head almost hit the shelf behind you.” Putting just a little pressure on the back of your neck to guide you out of harms way, he doesn’t let go until his back is to the case and you’re standing in his old spot. The new smile he gives you is lopsided, causing your heart to trip over itself. What you wouldn’t give in that moment to capture that smile on camera or canvas, to hold onto it forever.

You don’t even know this man, what are you thinking?!

Pulling the books to your chest like a shield for your heart, which has digressed to the same emotional maturity you had as a thirteen year old girl when you were in love with every member of New Kids On the Block, you tighten your grip around the covers to the point that your knuckles turn white.

“I’m (Y/N).” Somehow his smile brightens even more.

“I’m Spencer.”

“Are you hiding from the rain too, Spencer?” Everything about you hates small talk, you always wanted to jump straight into the nitty gritty of getting to know someone. You wanted to know what made them tick, what made them who they were. But you were willing to do the normal thing and lure him into an actual conversation, if only to keep him talking.

“Actually, I came to this bookshop with a specific purpose.” Spencer schools his features, suddenly all business. The brown blazer with elbow patches and the lavender button up certainly help to make him appear serious. You still imagine reaching for the dark purple tie around his neck and pulling his lips to yours, the severity of his expression only adding to his sexiness.

“I work in the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, I came here because I’m in the middle of an investigation that led me here,” You blink in surprise, all kinds of questions popping into your mind. “You see, I got a tip that I may find it here. I wasn’t sure, but after some looking around it appears they were right.”

You open your mouth to ask him what he’s talking about, thinking of all the local cases you’ve heard about in the last week or so. Nothing that would involve the FBI comes to mind, especially not the BAU.

Between the end of his sentence and the opening of your mouth, Spencer has time to reach out to the side of your head, his fingers brushing against a few strands of hair.

“I only want to know two things; how you got ahold of my favorite pen, and why you thought you could get away with it?” Balanced in his thumb and index finger is a black pen, the writing tip pointed toward the ceiling. He holds it between you, a silly grin stretched across his face as you reach up to touch your ear.

Of course you’ve seen the old ‘coin behind the ear’ trick before, never with a pen but it’s the same concept. It’s just so funny and out-there that you cant help being a little amazed.

“Is this how you flirt with women, Agent?”

“Actually it’s Doctor. Doctor Reid,” he smugly goes about tucking the pen back into the breast pocket of his blazer, you can briefly recall it being there before he distracted you by switching places just seconds ago, “I do work with the BAU, that wasn’t a ruse. I have my credentials if you want me to prove it.”

He isn’t boastful, he’s just trying to distract you from the answer to your question. The answer was yes, this is how he flirts with women. It was the only way he knew how to flirt with women that worked, having stuck to the method since Atlanta, Georgia. You wouldn’t be the first woman who thought it was cute, you were the first woman to call him on it though.

“As long as you don’t try to arrest me for the kidnapping of your pen, I’ll be inclined to believe you without proof.” He chuckles, the first time you’ve heard it since the both of you started talking, and you didn’t realize he could get better. The sound warmed every part of you so much that you felt like you were glowing from inside.

“I knew you were framed. I’ve had my suspicions on the girl running the store.” You nod your head, trying to keep the smile from pulling on your lips as you tuck a piece of your still wet hair behind your ear.

“I knew something hinky was happening with her.”

“My best law enforcement advice is to always trust your gut when it comes to crime, ma’am.”

With the ice broken thanks to the magical Dr. Reid, the conversation flows naturally between you. You both gravitate toward each other like opposite ends of magnets, unaware how close you are to touching until you absentmindedly kick your foot out and hit the tip of his shoe with your own. In an attempt to keep yourself rooted, you sit in the armchairs.

Anyone, FBI profiler or not, would have been able to tell what was going on when they found you both leaned against the arms of your seats, heads together as Reid explained how the serious looking man in the back of your book is actually one of his team members. He names all of his team members, affectionately describing them to you as if they were characters in a new book you were reading.

Normally he would keep all of this information reserved, but something about you made him feel so at ease.

You too, reveal more information than you normally would to a stranger you’d just met. You tell him about your books and your mother, you tell him how you aren’t sure why your newest book isn’t working and ask his advice on it all. He takes each question into careful consideration before answering.

It isn’t until you’ve been there for two hours, talking about anything that you could think of, that Spencer’s phone starts to ring. It’s a case. You want to ask, the young girl from your childhood coming out at the mention of a case you could help on, but you don’t.

“I’m really sorry, (Y/N), but I have to go.” He fluidly rises from his seat, all at once the carefree air falls around him to reveal the intelligent, elegant, crime-fighting, doctor underneath the nerdy, magic-loving young man you’d spent the last couple of hours getting to know.

“I’ll walk you to the door.” You offer, hoping to figure out a way to cheekily ask for his number before you make it there. His answering smile is infectious, reaching out and tugging your own cheeks into a smile that hurts. The books hit the wood of the desk with a thunk, Spencer standing just beside you as the girl, her name tag reads ‘RAveN,’ rings up your purchase.

“Watch out for your pens.” Spencer teases, that boy-like amusement coming out. You’ve noticed that when he tries to make a joke, he looks so nervous that you won’t get it in the seconds immediately following it. It isn’t until you laugh or crack a smile that he visibly relaxes, glad to have someone that understands his humor.

Earlier, he’d told you the joke about the existentialists and the light bulb and had been absolutely elated when you doubled over in laughter. The joke wasn’t even that funny, but he’d been making you laugh for so long that your ribs had started to hurt.

“That’ll be $12.78.” You slide your card across the desk, pulling your eyes away from Reid longer than you wanted to. When you look back, there’s a look on his face that takes you a minute to recognize. It’s just on the tip of your tongue when the smack of pen and receipt paper hit the counter.

Quickly, you sign your name on the stores copy of your receipt. You flip your copy of the receipt to the back, using the pen to scribble out your phone number.

“Call me if you ever learn any new magic tricks you want to show off.” The bell dings when you lean back against the door, your books in a bag that dangle from your left hand while your right hand comes up in a wave.

Spencer still stands at the counter, the one in a hurry being the one who still isn’t out the door. The lopsided smile is back, that look crossing his face again as you let the after-storm sun shine on your face.

“Sir, can you take your longing elsewhere? I’d like to close early. I have a thing to get to.” He pats his hand on the countertop, ignoring the buzzing of texts coming through his phone as he makes his way to the car in a bit of a daze.

[argylemikewheeler]

102 Peach Street

|| started by this ask. will and mike are married and very happy ||

On Sunday mornings, Mike always liked to spend the early sunlight hours pulling weeds out of the garden. He’d stand in the warm sunshine, feeling the morning breeze on his arms and through his hair– he refused to cut it above his shoulders in the early nineties. Will would often stand at the kitchen window, washing the dishes, and smile down at him and their full green country yard.

It was part of Will’s therapy to tend to something that would grow and thrive if loved and taken care of– just like he would. The summer they moved out of Hawkins and into a place of their own, Mike helped Will plant greenery all along the front of the house and by the porch steps. Will watered and fixed the soil frequently, but Mike always offered to do the weeding; Will’s knees had gotten bad in his early college years from a childhood of incorrectly running (for his life) and couldn’t spend the hours hunched over like he used to.

Of course, though, Mike didn’t mind. He lovingly got his favorite pair of worn and tearing jeans and knelt in the dirt, reminding himself what it was like to actually do something with his hands– he really had something going as a kid with all those Lego projects. Those days, he really only spent time at his desk shuffling papers. Mike would willingly trade paper cuts for all that dirt under his fingernails. He didn’t dislike his job though, let that be known. Copy editing was a joy and writing in his free time reminded him of planning campaigns, but Hawkins just never had sunshine like this.

Will and Mike didn’t runaway from Hawkins necessarily, but they did give their (unwanted) family a very short notice before packing their car up and driving east. They unpacked their boxes in their small cottage, faint sounds of the ocean reminding them they were far from their childhood, but had finally come home. They eloped– in the way that they could– in ‘95. Neither spoke a word, but quietly changed the single, default name on the mailbox to both. Will painted it on with his best attempt at a flower that seemed to have a face of some kind– but maybe that was Mike’s interpretation.

Will’s middle school art students seemed to like the plant’s “face” when he drew it on their work too, understandably so: Demogorgons looked cute when they had googly eyes and smiley faces.

“Good morning, Mr. Byers.” Mike stood up and turned at the sound of a young voice behind him. A girl was standing at the end of their front walkway, holding up her bike. Her hair was in two pigtails on the top of her head, wrapped in pink fuzzy hair ties.

“Hi. What can I do for you?” He couldn’t remember her name, but he knew she lived just down the road. Her parents made them a pie when they first moved in. He was allergic to it– but he didn’t hold that against them.

“Do you know where Mr. Wheeler is?” She asked. They’d traded names so technically they weren’t noticeably married, but could still enjoy answering to the last name of the other. Mike really liked being a Byers.

“He’s just inside, I can get him if you want. What’s wrong?”

“I messed up my bike.” She sighed, holding it out to him.

“Oh! I can help with that.” Mike wiped his hands on his jeans and used his shoulder to nudge some of his curls out of his way.

“It’s not just the chain– I fixed that myself. When I fell I scratched the paint up pretty bad… and I know Mr. Wheeler has good paints in his garage.” She looked down at her accident’s handiwork– a long scrape going along the entire length of the frame.

“Oh! You need an artist’s help. I understand– I’ll be right back.” Mike grabbed the banister and swung up the front steps. He made sure not to leave any smudged fingerprints on the door as he opened it and stepped inside. He kept his dirty shoes on the doormat. “Oh, Mr. Wheeler, the girl from down the street is here to see you. She has an art emergency.”

Will ducked and emerged under the hanging cabinets in the kitchen. He’d cut his hair above his ears, almost to balance out Mike’s, and finally started letting his hair swoop back and show his forehead. He was the most handsome man Mike had ever seen, and Mike thought it every time he laid eyes on Will. He knew he was lucky just getting out of Hawkins alive, but he considered his greatest luck finding Will all those years ago.

“Sara?” Will placed his dish towel down on the counter and walked around, coming toward the door. “What happened?”

“She crashed and needs some new paint.” Mike held the door open for Will, letting him onto the porch. “Here he is, Sara.” Mike was glad someone remembered people’s names.

“Hey, sweetheart! What happened!” Will gripped Mike’s arm and braced himself as he took the stairs. Mike could practically hear Will’s joints squeaking as loudly as the wood steps.

“A car blew a stop sign and I skidded to stop so fast it went sideways and slid right out from under me!” She groaned, rolling it toward him and exposing the scrape.

“Oh, God. Are you alright?” Will asked, squeezing Mike’s arm in response.

“Yeah, I had my elbow pads and helmet on. I’m fine.” She said. “But Sandra here really got it.”

“You named her Sandra?” Will smiled and braced his knees to crouch and admire the flaking paint. His knees popped as he sank down. “I don’t think I ever named mine when I was growing up– did you, Michael?”

“Nope. Me neither.” Mike shook his head. “If I did, I completely forget by now.”

“That’s fair.” Will muttered. He adjusted his weight on his feet and ran his hand over the exposed frame. “I don’t know if I have the same color as your bike, so how about a stripe? I can give you a racing stripe right down the side!”

“Can you?”

“Of course I can.” Will laughed, nodding. “I can even do a little design for you– Michael, you know where my really nice white paint is, right? On the–”

“Top shelf of your metal cabinet, just by the garage door? Yeah. I know where.” Mike touched the top of Will’s head as he stepped past them. “I’ll get your good brushes too.”

“Thank you, Mike.” Will grinned, somewhat shyly due to their audience, and watched Mike cross the lawn.

The garage was disconnected from the house and held all of Will’s art supplies as well as Mike’s old typewriter. Will’s easel was leaned up against the model bench and Mike’s old manuscripts were still in a bit of a mess on the lid of one of Will’s toolboxes. He’d clean that later, after he found that one passage he’d written ages ago and suddenly found a way to repurpose.

It was a short paragraph, maybe three sentences, about a brief memory Mike remembered having as a kid, but knowing he’d never lived it. It was a image of this figure– this boy– passing in front of his vision and drawing him farther and farther in to him. It had been a dream Mike had, knocked out and lying on his local mall’s floor. He’d thought he was being drawn to death then, but it turned out he was brought back to consciousness by the faint tug of his heartstrings.

He wanted to find it and rework it for an upcoming anniversary. The manuscript had never seen the light or day or the desk of any publishing house, but it had stuck with Mike since he’d buried it under boxes of old bike parts and vinyl records.

Mike grabbed the paint and Will’s brushes by the door before backpedaling and going to Will and their neighbor. Will was sitting on the grass by then, legs stretched out and hands gently patting his left knee as he spoke.

“– it’s supposed to rain soon too, so my knees aren’t any better. I’m okay though, Sara. Mr. Byers and I are just old.”

“You aren’t even thirty.” Mike quipped, placing the paint beside Will and gently nudging his leg.

“I’ve got old man knees though.” Will said, rubbing them slowly. “Sara was just asking my why bones sound like popcorn.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No! No!” Will laughed, reaching over for her arm gently. “It’s alright! It’s funny. They do, they really do sound like popcorn. I got it from an old childhood accident.” He used the back of a paintbrush to pop the lid to the paint. Mike held the can still, letting his already dirty hands get covered in the flakes of dried white paint.

“Did you play a sport, Mr. Wheeler? My dad said he hurt his knee back in high school playing football.” Sara asked, gripping Sandra tightly by the handlebars.

“No, nothing like that. I just fell when I was a kid. I was running inside– which I shouldn’t have been doing, that’s never safe– and I tripped over something and took this big spill. Rolled myself up into knots and really bumped up both my knees.” Mike didn’t remember Will getting so good at telling that lie.

In reality, Will was running toward Hopper’s cabin, deep in the woods, completely barefoot. The ground was uneven and Will’s legs were flailing out in unhealthy and painful directions as he forced himself to go ahead another inch. It was pitch black and the rest of the Party was standing on the porch, waving him forward and screaming to go just a little farther. In the last stretch, and last jump over a fallen tree, Will’s ankle caught on a branch and brought him tumbling down to the ground. The growling behind him grew louder as he tumbled through the fallen leaves and into rocks and sticker bushes. Mike didn’t remember leaving the safety of the porch, but he remembered pulling Will out of the foliage and dragging him the rest of the way to the house. He remembered crying too. That’s all.

“I’m fine, Sara. Don’t worry, I’ve got Mr. Byers here to help.” Will looked over his shoulder and winked at Mike before leaning back to the bike with his dipped paintbrush.

“Is he your helper?” Sara looked at Mike with such innocence and kindness. There was an instinct to feel guilty– like it would all go away if she only knew the truth. But Mike knew it was a false sense of guilt. Their marriage was the best thing in Mike’s life. He wasn’t ashamed.

“No, actually Michael’s my husband.” Will said, his hand moving steadily and making a clean stripe on Sara’s bike. “I’ve known him since we were kids.”

“Oh. T-That’s cool, I guess.” Sara said, obviously taken aback. She didn’t seem bothered, just wildly surprised. She’d lived next door to them for most of her life, and apparently it never occurred to her that young, happy men could be married too.

Part of Mike was pleased to be a surprise. Typically, that meant the person had never met a gay couple before. Mike was glad he and Will could be her starting example.

“I’m going to leave you two to your work, alright?” Mike said, wiping his hands on his jeans again. Sara had stopped staring at him, but had now moved on to Will. Mike was sure she had more questions. “I want to clean up the garage, Plum. I’ll be back.”

—

Mike sat down on the garage floor and started separating the loose pages and clipped manuscripts. Mike avoided reading any of his very old writing– it was still embarrassing to think he was published in his college lit mag forever with such sappy love poetry. At least he still had the work’s muse living with him. Helped him improve and write the same message again, far better: later, said embarrassing poem became Mike’s wedding vows so it wasn’t all a loss.

Before Mike could reach the bottom of his stack, the garage side door opened. Will placed his paint and brushes down on the floor and slowly approached Mike’s sporadic piles.

“What are you looking for?” He stood tall but squinted to try and read the pages below him.

“Something I wrote in college. I remembered it the other morning– remember when I stumbled out of bed for my notebook?” Mike laughed, turning to look up at his husband.

“When you tripped three times just getting across the room? Yeah. I remember. I thought we were being robbed. But it was just you having a stroke of genius?”

“If you want to call it that.” Mike held his arms out to the scattered organization with a sigh. “Did you fix Sandra up?”

“Sara’s already on her way home! Gave her a stripe and even wrote ‘Sandra’ on the side. Gave her flowers and swords, the whole nine.”

“Swords?”

“She told me she’s learning about Joan of Arc.” Will shrugged. “I thought it was pretty cool.”

“It is. And so are you.” Mike placed his unsorted pages down, frankly not needing their words anymore. His world was right there. Being absolutely adorable. Will placed his hand over Mike’s face and shoved him playfully.

“Help me inside, Mr. Byers?”

“That bad?” Mike’s tone changed in a snap, pushing off the ground and getting to his feet. “We should change out those stairs, Plum.”

“No, it’s just the barometric pressure. They’re fine.” Will took Mike’s hand. “A convenient excuse to keep you around though, have to say.”

“Don’t make me carry you again.” Mike jokingly went to sweep Will off his feet. Will yelped and jumped back with a giggle. “I’ll only hit your head on the doorway a little bit this time.”

“I love having to tell the story of ‘no the bruise I got on my wedding night was because my husband walked me into the doorway’. My mom thought we were idiots.” Will sighed, following Mike out of the garage.

“Babe, we are idiots.”

“Yeah, but she didn’t need to know that this late in the relationship. We’ve kept it a secret for quite a while, I like to think.”

"Will, for every monster we fought on a school night is another ten reasons we’re both idiots.” Mike reasoned. He stepped up onto the stairs first, letting Will pull up on his tensed arm for leverage. “You taught me that.”

Will grunted quietly as he pushed himself up the rest of the stairs. At the landing, he broke into a smile. “I know. I’m just testing you, Michael. Just testing you.”

“Shut up and get inside.” Mike laughed, swinging the front door open. “Make sure all the windows are closed before it rains, I’m going to make you some tea.”

“What? That’s not how that works.” Will laughed, shaking his head as he kicked off his shoes. “You know we didn’t open any windows last night.”

“Welp, looks like you have to sit down and let me make you tea.” Mike said, dramatically sighing and starting off toward the kitchen. Will shuffled after him, trying not to slip in his socks.

Their house was about the size of Will’s childhood home, maybe a bit smaller. They didn’t need much room, if Mike was being honest. All their childhood they’d practically lived right on top of each other, being able to do so as adults was a bonus. Between the foyer and the kitchen was only a small alcove with their round wooden dining table. It only held the two of them; they rarely had guests anyway.

Every time he passed by the table, he remembered that first month, sitting in the morning silence and staring out the window at the long stretches of trees. Will was sipping tea, careful not to slurp too loudly and get under Mike’s skin at seven in the morning. Under the table, Mike could hear Will gently rubbing his feet together: a habit of comfort Mike had learned to observe. Mike had been drinking coffee and eating a bagel, definitely getting crumbs everywhere. He’d placed his breakfast down and cleared his throat– twice– and placed his hand on Will’s. Will still made him nervous sometimes.

“Hey, Will?” Mike had said, careful to break his peaceful look.

“Yeah, Mike?”

The words were so easy to say. Mike couldn’t remember a time when they seemed so far off: “Will you marry me?”

“So, what stroke of genius did you have?” Will asked, easing himself down into his chair. Mike placed the kettle onto the stove with a furrowed look. “You said your old writing– a new idea came to you?”

“Oh! Right. I got confused when you said genius.” Mike teased.

He got out Will’s favorite mug and placed it on the counter beside his teabag. Originally, it had just been a random floral mug his mother had found at a thrift store, just trying to get enough mugs for when the entire Party– and monster hunting congregation– found its way into the Byers house. Will had been drinking out of it when they solved their last mystery; was steeping tea when he got accepted to college, and nearly spilled it diving for the phone to call Mike; and brought it to his dorm for his four years at MICA. And, obviously, it was the one he was drinking out of when Mike proposed– if you want to call it that. Mike considered it a waking up of sorts, of finally getting his shit together and asking Will the most obvious question.

“So, what’s the idea?” Will asked, placing his feet up on Mike’s seat. “You know I like hearing about them.”

“Yeah, I know. But this one’s boring.”

“Your ideas are never boring, Michael. I love them.” Will said sternly, although his smile ruined the effect. “I’m listening.”

The kettle began to whistle and Mike tried to use it as a distraction, but he could feel Will’s eyes patiently watching him.

“It’s an old something I wanted to fix up… it’s from college, but it’s about back from before we started high school.” He waved it off before pouring their water.

“You say that like it’s not any good.”

"It’s just about… this dream I had once.” Mike sighed. He rolled his eyes at his own preface. “It was when– okay, so do you remember that time in Starcourt when I was hit? I fell down and smacked my head really hard?”

“Do I rememb– yes, of course I do.” Will exclaimed. “I thought you’d shattered your skull right open in the goddamn food court while we were running for our lives.”

“Well, it’s just about that. The dream I had while I was completely knocked out for five minutes.” Mike tried to nudge it away with another shrug. He returned to the table quickly, still trying to maintain a feeling of nonchalance. Will took the mug slowly, narrowing his eyes but still thanking him. “What!”

“You’ve never told me about this before.” Will said, moving his feet up off Mike’s seat so he could slide under them. Mike always let Will rest his feet on his lap. “How is this new to me?”

Mike set his jaw, trying to defeat his growing smile. “It’s supposed to be a surprise! Don’t ask too many questions. It’s your anniversary gift, so don’t go poking around.”

“Michael, you don’t have to do anything for me!” Will reached over and grabbed both of Mike’s hands. “I don’t want you to.”

“You married me and let me buy you a house.” Mike said, like it was the simplest rebuttal. “I have to thank you every year. Afraid my luck will run out.”

“How many times have I told you,” Will said, pulling Mike’s hand up to his lips, kissing it quickly. “It’s not luck. That’s not why we’re together. It’s–”

“I know, I know.” Mike sighed, smiling. “It’s fate.”

Will grinned, his face lighting up; it was what Will had said in his own wedding vows. The moment Mike heard it, unprepared and already wonderfully weak at the altar, he started weeping. Before then, he’d never thought that everything in his life had all been for something. All of his past suffering could stop hurting, even for a moment. It wasn’t going to come back and haunt him; he had finally reached his own, permanent happiness. The one his family never said he’d have, the one he started to believe he was never meant to experience– only write about, growing envious of his characters.

But Mike’s happiness was there, sitting across from him and all around. It was 102 Peach Street, house of Mr. Michael Byers and Mr. William Wheeler. It was waking up to the same faint sound of even and slow breathing– the reassurance he’d still get to live his best dream another day. On the hardest days, it was the paint-smudged young man that would come through the front door, smiling from ear to ear, already somehow knowing that Mike needed extra love– and an overly dramatic mwah of a hello kiss. On Mike’s best days, it was just Will.

No matter what, it was always Will. Mike had found his happiness, run headstrong into his fated future, and nothing was ever going to take it away.

Mike blinked, tears suddenly welling in his eyes, and thought of his dream. The floating figure was one he had always assumed as an angel– a sign that death was closer than it had ever been– and it was an angel. It was just that this one looked a whole lot like his childhood friend. Looked like his husband.

“Why are you crying?” Will moved his legs off Mike’s lap in order to pull his chair in closer. Will cradled Mike’s face, his thumbs moving over his cheeks slowly, waiting for a tear to fall. “Michael, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Mike laughed, sniffling. “I just forget how kind fate was to me… I got the perfect house, the most beautiful husband with the most extraordinary heart, neighbors that bake us pies for fuck’s sake… Did you ever think we’d get all this?”

“No.” Will said, shaking his head. “But I always knew I’d have you. And that was always enough.”

Mike hiccuped a short but loud sob, laughing wetly. “God, you’re making me cry more. I love you. So so much.”

Will didn’t speak– he often never did when Mike was in his moods of disbelief. He just pushed Mike’s hair back from his eyes, looking at him with a sense of wonder, before leaning forward to kiss him.

When Mike closed his eyes, he knew the vision was no longer a memory and it definitely wasn’t a dream. No, it was a feeling. It was this feeling. One of comfort and relief, of letting Mike’s whole body relax into the warm touch of another person– another man. Laying on the floor of the mall, in danger and unconscious, Mike had been given a glimpse into his own future– and it was gloriously simple, safe, and sweet. It was Will.

ao3

[cherryfloyd-blog]

Jimmy Page - Behind Closed Doors

There are so many cookie crumbs to this story and I truly put as much research into this as my brain could handle. What started as a fun idea, soon turned into a late night adventure of notes sprawled across my bed, snacks to keep the energy going, glasses on; with a pen sticking of my mouth as I thumbed through as many pages of literature that I could get my hands on. There are several parts of this but for the sake of remaining unbiased I will keep it as straightforward and simple as I can. There has been a rumour floating around for fifty odd years, that Led Zeppelin; more specifically Jimmy Page, had made a deal with the devil. In this article, I will break down the events that have lead people to believe such things. In the end, it will remain impartial and will be open to interpretation which we can discuss further.

 To begin, let’s talk about Jimmy’s growing idolisation and obsession with Aleister Crowley, famous for being an occult leader and magician. For more back story, Crowley was a British occultist who became known for pioneering the practice of black magic (or magick as he would call it). Aleister called himself Beast 666 and wrote literature on black magic and the occult, making him a major cult figure. He joined a few popular organizations to begin with, but ventured off into his own self created philosophy. Crowley believed himself to be the prophet entrusted with guiding humanity into  the Eon of Horus, thus founding the Religion of Thelema. 

(Below is the logo of Thelema)

Pictures of Crowley have since been discreetly used in pop culture, as if a small tribute. For example; The Beatles featured Crowley on their album cover art for Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club, he can be seen in the back row, if I’m correct. Building off of Page’s affinity for Crowley, which began to noticeably build by the mid to late 60’s, Page financed to own a bookstore in Britain which specialized in selling publishings of the occult and black magik. Needless to say, Jimmy was in deep at this point but still only scratching the surface of infatuation. The bookstore was named “The Equinox” which was also the name of a book that Crowley himself had written on the occult and magic. To this day, Jimmy Page has the second largest collection of Crowley memorabilia and literature, which is no small expense. His bookstore is now closed, but back in the day had been in stock of some very pricey and hard to come by black magik publications.

Another thing I found interesting, was Page being heavily influenced by very iconic blues artists, such as Robert Leroy Johnson (okay, maybe not that interesting, everyone in rock cites him as being the backbone of rock n roll today) nonetheless, Johnson died at the age of 27 from unsolved and suspicious causes. He never became famous while he was alive, but rumour has it that Johnson had also sold his soul to the devil in return for fame, at a crossroads, which Robert mentions in a few songs. A very small, unrelated tidbit of information, but it makes you wonder if our rock star idols gave up more than a normal life, to become internationally loved and recognized.

Around the year 1970, Jimmy had supposedly asked the band to perform a ritual with him, one that would bring them power and something along the lines of everlasting life? I know right, no biggie, just dabbling with some dark forces. Anyone that knows black magik, can tell you that spells like this are not something to be taken lightly or messed with. John Paul Jones was allegedly the only one to not take part in this pact, which you’ll later realize why that makes all of this so much more strange than it already is. If you think about it, had they made such a pact it would make sense. Robert Plant has made it to the list of top 100 best singers of all time in Rock history, not only that but made it to number one (1). Jimmy Page? Well he’s seen as a god and legend by almost every guitar player in the modern world, and has been ranked number two, only one spot behind Jimi Hendrix. John Bonham has been recognized as one of the best double kick drummers in history, quite literally, every drummer looks up to him as also an almost god like figure. As for John Paul Jones? There is no doubt the man is wicked talented, but not nearly as talked about or famed. We can all acknowledge the man has serious talent, and yet seems to be left in the shadows of his peers.

The first evidence of this pact can be seen with the album Led Zeppelin III, between the end of the last song and the paper label is the outro groove written into the vinyl was “So mote it be” on one side and “Do what thou wilt” on the other. The are basic phrases that are the core of Crowley’s belief system. By this point people were determined that Jimmy had become a member of O.T.O , and organization and cult who’s most influential and iconic member was none other than Crowley. More about the organization can be read about in a link below, but it should be noted that they have four pillar rules; one of which is to not speak of the organization to others or discuss the practices of which they studied. A rule, that Jimmy Page is believed to have broken at one point.

The second piece of evidence was apparent with the release of Led Zeppelin IV, when symbolism became a driving force. Inside the album is a painting of the hermit (a powerful tarot symbol), later in life Jimmy would refer to himself as being something of a hermit despite being a major public figure. The album provides no title, and shows no band name on the cover, but on the inside are four brightly printed logos across the sleeve. From left to right, these symbols represent Page, Jones, Bonham and Plant. Page has said in interviews that the symbols (for the most part) were taken from Rudolf Koch’s 1955 Book of Signs. Plant’s symbol is probably the easiest to decipher - as it is the feather of truth and courage, from the origins of Egyptian goddess Ma’at. John Bonham’s is believed to be either a drum kit, or the symbol of trinity of a family unit (meaning father, mother, child). John Paul Jones, which was likely picked by Jimmy, was the a celtic sigil for confidence and competence. However, Jimmy’s logo has always been the hardest to breakdown and figure out. While most people believe his logo represents saturn (which controls the Capricorn sign, Jimmy is a Capricorn so it would make sense), there is a certain level of mystery behind it. Page has famously said he will never tell anyone what it means. Thought Plant has once said that Page revealed the full meaning of all four signs, including a detailed discussion of what Zoso meant. Admittedly, Plant expressed he was too drunk to remember by the next morning, and when he had asked Page about it again, page replied with saying he couldn’t/wouldn’t discuss it. Now this could very well be Jimmy’s antics, or just general mysterious persona, or perhaps he simply cannot discuss or reveal information. Perhaps, this is the one of the four pillar rules of O.T.O that Page had broken. Jimmy is an all around very private person, who very rarely, if at all, talks about his religious or spiritual beliefs or practices.

It is worth noting that Sandy Denny (pictured below) of Fairport Convention, the voice on The Battle of Evermore track, was given her own sigil. The logo is translated to Godhead or the power of female.

According to Pamela Des Barres, Pages girlfriend of this era, has said that at this point Jimmy got very deep into the studying of Crowley, and had even asked her to search San Francisco and Los Angles for Crowley memorabilia. She had not fallen short on this task, and managed to dig up some very impressive artifacts, manuscripts, and even “magical” robes that Crowley has worn. In 1970, around the time of the ritual, Page had dropped a large chunk of cash to acquire Crowley’s mansion, Boleskine, located on Loch Ness. The home, once owned by Crowley, had a large history of suicides and an even bigger turnover rate of employees as they found the home to be no doubt inhabited by dark entities. Regardless of what one may believe, the house holds a sinister vibe. Page later sold the home in 1992, and had actually been very wary of ever living there and had left the estate in a caregivers possession. Of the 22 years that he had owned the house, he only spent 6 weeks in total living there. In 2016, the house unexplainably burned down. (pictured below is Jimmy at the mansion) 

 Now this next part is where shit gets bonkers, so to speak, the rest so far has been rumours and back stories and alleged encounters. Just a man with an obsession, and depending on your personal beliefs, you may find that he took his practices too far. Perhaps his intentions were pure, but looking at his life in general, what did Jimmy have to sacrifice to become quite literally a noteable person in history. Well let’s see.

Introducing Kenneth Anger; a fellow Crowley disciple and filmmaker, drug taker and subversive. He spent most of his time drawing magic circles, burning incense and chanting spells in Enochian - trying to do a real ritual exorcism. Plans for his film Lucifer Rising began to fall apart when Bobby Beausoleil (lead actor) - had to quit. Bobby, who later stole rough cuts and cameras from Anger would soon regret this. To take revenge, Anger supposedly made a talisman to curse Bobby. Within a year, Beausoleil had ended up convicted of murder with a life sentence for the murder of Sharon Tate as part of the Manson family murders. Wild, I know. Possibly just a coincidence, or even just a tall tale.

Cue Jimmy Page, who had agreed to do the soundtrack for Angers film, and the music Jimmy had produced is exactly what you’d expect. Dark, eerie, and perfect for a film of satanic proportions. Some of which can actually be heard in the intro for “In The Out Door”, his melancholy and devilish sound coming through in the song “In The Evening”. Kenneth and Jimmy had a love/hate relationship, and what started as a mutual appreciation and dedication to Crowley’s practice and image, soon turned to ugly turmoil just as quickly. Anger moved into Boleskine, where him and Page shared a love for Crowley memorabilia. However, as their friendship deteriorated, Anger was asked to leave the Crowley mansion. At the height of Led Zeppelin’s career, Jimmy had pulled out of the film project in 1975. Allegedly, Anger soon stated that he had cursed Page and Zepp with a major spell, a spell so big that it took all of Crowley’s teachings he could muster up, to cast upon them.

 Almost immediately, the band started to experience turbulence and the eventual downfall of their career as one tragedy after another struck them to the core. Robert Plant was in a car crash, plunging off a cliff in Greece in 1975, nearly killing himself, his wife and his son Karac. Which meant cancelling the Physical Graffiti tour and having to record in a wheelchair. The make up tour was littered with negative events starting with Plant getting Laryngitis. Followed by ticketless fans in Cincinnati rioting and storming the gates. In San Francisco, manager Peter Grant and John Boham had gotten into a fight with Bill Graham, and nearly beating a Bill Graham employee to death. Both Grant and Bonham narrowly escaping serious charges and incarceration. Karac eventually fell ill, and no amount of money would make him better, as doctors had no idea what was wrong, by 1977 Karac had passed away and the tour was cancelled. At this point, Plant had quit the band and music in general in response to Page and Jones not showing up to his sons funeral.

Around this time, Page was nearly comatose on a daily basis due to a crippling Heroine addiction, and Bonhams alcoholism was raging out of control, becoming increasingly violent and unpredictable. In 1978, Sandy Denny, the goddess of the Battle of Evermore, drunkenly plunged down a flight of stairs; breaking her neck and died. The tip of the iceberg was the incident that occurred in September of 1980. Handlers had tucked Bonzo into bed after a band rehearsal, following a night of heavy drinking; assuming he would be okay, he’s done it a million times before, right? But as well know, John tragically died in his sleep from asphyxiation. It’s worth mentioning, that in the middle of all of this mayhem, John Paul Jones had remained completely untouched. While the loss of Karac and Bonham had affected John, being as they were family, he was never really directly affected. Could this be because he stayed as far away from the pact as possible? Could these events be natures way of taking something, in return for giving something such as power? Is this all the work of Angers alleged curse?

Robert Plant once addressed these very claims, as some people point fingers at Jimmy being the cosmic reasoning behind the passing of Karac and Bonham. Though, he says it’s a cheap shot. This is what Plant had to say about the matter - “The comments about how it was all connected with Jimmy’s dalliance with the dark side or whatever, that was cheap. I’ve never shared the preoccupations with him and I don’t really know anything about it. Fate is already written”. I suppose it has less to do with whether Page “sold his soul” and more to do with the possible repercussions of playing against nature, and whether such practices have a domino affect. The piling strange circumstances does make one wonder how involved Page really was, and how much the involvement took a toll on the band. Just how much of it can account for Led Zeppelin’s massive success, to the point of making history in music forever (everlasting life?). At the end it could all very well just be a bunch of mumbo jumbo non-sense. I am curious as to what you all think, feel free to leave comments or shoot me a message!

*Note; Do not take this too seriously, it’s all speculation and open for interpretation. Below are some interesting sites that I used in my search!

Resources:

https://forums.ledzeppelin.com/topic/15027-jimmy-and-crowley/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aleister_Crowley

https://carwreckdebangs.wordpress.com/2015/06/09/aleister-crowley-jimmy-page-and-the-curse-of-led-zeppelin-when-myth-magick-and-weird-facts-collide/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ordo_Templi_Orientis

https://zososymbol.com/

[stephenjaymorrisblog]

6/9/2017

30th Anniversary of My Album

“Loud Whispers & Silent Screams”

By Stephen Jay Morris

©Scientific Morality

           30 years ago, I was ambitious.  I was a self-promoting artist and made a few dings in the landscape of history.  Oh, I had help and I have undying gratitude to all those who helped me.  So without further ado, here is brief history of my 33-rpm, vinyl album, “Loud Whispers and Silent Screams.”  

           Since 1964, I’d had a fantasy of being recorded on vinyl.  A 45 single or an L.P.—It didn’t matter.  It was a dream of mine.  (Now, I fantasize about having a book published.)  My desire to release an album intensified when the Beatles put out the great “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” 50 years ago.  I used to record myself on cassette tapes; I’d create homemade covers and insert them in the plastic cases.  I remember how, late at night, I would develop a mental picture of how the album would look and what songs I would include on it. Twenty years after “Sergeant Pepper,” my dream came true.  

           Thanks to the punk rock ethic, “Do It Yourself (D.I.Y.),” I put out my own recordings on vinyl.  I knew, damn well, that no record company was going to sign me!  I used to laugh at certain artists I knew, who were in bands and tried to play what they thought record companies wanted to hear.  Not me, man!  I played what the fuck I wanted to, and if nobody liked it, it was “tough shit in the slamming pit!”  You couldn’t buy that sort of artistic freedom!  So I laid out the cash and produced this album.

           The sound of the album was retro, because this was the sound I loved from my youth.  I purposefully opposed the popular sounds of the 80’s which, in them days, were overproduced 64-track recordings.  They were comprised mostly of synthesizer music, with the putz playing that commercial garbage dressed up in gaudy outfits!  The only true artists of the time were Hard Core Punks and Neo-Hippies.  Even Country and Western artists were into plastic imagery, with their Urban Cowboy puke.  My album was created from bare bones recording, with my voice doing the vocals, and my instruments producing the music.  Isn’t that the essence of music, after all?

           My album sounded as if it had been recorded in 1967 and that was intentional.  I cherish the sounds of the 60’s and, since I was too young to be a part of it, I went on to recreate it in the 80’s.  Matter of fact, I tried to format the work like that on Sergeant Pepper’s; however, the result was much different than I’d planned.  Its title came about because of my plan to have acoustic music on one side, and electronic on the other.  Side A, or “Silent Screams” would be the acoustic side; Side B, “Loud Whispers,” the rock and roll side.  In the end, I decided to mix up the tracks instead.

           I had Pamela paint an oil portrait of me. It was based on a Polaroid photo.

           The mixing of the album was haphazard, which was my fault.  At the time, I didn’t know anything about mixing.  A couple of years before this, I bought an 8-track recording machine and housed in the garage of my former band’s drummer, in North Pasadena—we called it “Studio EEE.”  I bought the machine to save money; recording at a professional studio got to be really expensive for us.  Said drummer, Tim Konspiracy, became our unofficial recording engineer.  He was self-taught.  Under that arrangement, I could record anytime I wanted.  I recall how recording studios charged more than psychiatrists and how many bands would book recording time in the wee hours of the morning for cheaper rates.  When my band recorded “No More Hero’s Or Gods,” we recorded it at three in the morning.

           I promoted my LP the best way I could:  I sent free copies to music magazines and radio stations via U.S Mail.  It got minimal airplay and reviews in some local music publications.

           One very fond memory of my album dates back to November 1987.  Pamela and I were living in a spacious, 2-bedroom apartment in the Los Angeles Miracle Mile.  It quite early in the morning, before dawn.  It was pouring rain—a rare occurrence for L.A.  I couldn’t sleep, so I very quietly got out of bed, careful not to wake Pamela, and went into the living room.  Raindrops were pitter-pattering on the windowpane.  I turned on the radio receiver ever so quietly, which happened to be tuned to the local college rock station, KXLU.FM.  To my great surprise and delight, one of my songs was being played! I wanted to wake Pamela to have her listen, but I was too considerate to do so, and opted to let her sleep.  I’ll never forget that dark, rainy morning!

           I did write about this album in my future manuscripts.  There is much more there than meets the ears and eyes.  This would be the only album I would ever release.  Maybe someday I will change that reality.  I liken it to the work of actor, George Lazenby.  He made just one James Bond movie, “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”  Yeah, but he’s got more recognition than I do!

Happy 30th Anniversary to my album, “Loud Whispers and Silent Screams!”

 Listen to the song I heard on that rainy morning. Click on link:

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x6euad_bronson-caves_music

[raggywaltz1954]

In addition to being infatuated with Latin music, Cal Tjader was a tasty straight-ahead jazz musician and one of the more famous jazz musicians to come from the West Coast.  A native of San Francisco, Cal’s group was a frequent denizen of the jazz clubs in the Bay Area, and called one club in particular home.  During the club’s relatively long existence, the Blackhawk was the home base of Tjader’s different groups, and in 1957 became the spot where Fantasy decided to make Tjader’s first live record.  Enter this track.

The Music

Tune:  ‘I’ll Remember April’

Recorded 20 January, 1957 in San Francisco, California

Cal Tjader:  Vibraphone

Vince Guaraldi:  Piano

Eugene Wright:  Bass

Al Torre:  Drums

From 1956-57, Tjader led one of his best bands, one that was well-versed in both Latin music and modern jazz.  On this album, Cal wanted to show that he and his group could swing as well as they could make Latin music.  The band certainly had the pedigree.  Vince Guaraldi was described by some as the West Coast version of Red Garland, and Vince constantly challenged the stereotype of West Coast musicians not swinging like the cats out of the Eastern United States.  Vince of course went on to greater fame as musical mind behind the Charlie Brown TV specials.  Eugene Wright was a solid bass player who had been with Count Basie, Sonny Stitt, and even led his own big band called the Dukes of Swing, all prior to his work with Cal Tjader.  The man was no joke.  On paper it doesn’t seem like he would fit with a Latin/cool jazz band like Tjader’s, but it worked.  At the beginning of 1958, Wright left Tjader’s group and joined Dave Brubeck’s group, where he stayed until 1967.  Compared to Guaraldi and Wright, the drummer Al Torre was pretty obscure, and outside Tjader’s band didn’t do much.

Tjader’s cool vibes start the song off, with Guaraldi adding some counterpoint.  Tjader often said that Milt Jackson was one of his favorite vibraphone players and an influence on his own playing, and that influence is evident on this track.  Cal plays with a quiet fire, simmering along but never coming to a complete boil.  His solo is the epitome of tasty, not overplaying, delivering individualistic and interesting lines.  Guaraldi’s ensuing solo is another study in the simmer.  Cal and Vince trade fours with the drummer and then bring things to a close.  All in all, this track and the album as a whole is a great example of the better sounds that came from the West Coast during the 1950’s.

Curiously, although this is a live album (you do hear the band talking to each other here and there on this track and throughout the album), the engineer decided to fade out each tune instead of including the applause.  With the virtually nonexistent audience and the almost studio-like acoustics of the club, is this really a live album?  Speaking of that club…

The Blackhawk is (not was) my favorite jazz club.  No, I’ve never been there.  Yes, I missed it by 30 years.  But that’s not important.  For a good run in the 1950’s and early 60’s, it was arguably the most important jazz club west of the Mississippi River.  Opened in 1949 and closed in 1963 on the corner of Turke and Hyde in San Francisco, the Blackhawk was where Dave Brubeck honed his craft, where Billie Holiday and Lester Young played their last West Coast club dates, and numerous jazz groups made sure to appear during their stay on The Coast.  Countless albums were recorded in the acoustically-blessed club, including Miles Davis, Shelly Manne (who made a whopping five albums from one of his engagements), Thelonious Monk, and Ahmad Jamal.  The club’s more mainstream claim to fame is that it was the site where Johnny Mathis first sang and grabbed people’s attention.  The owners famously kept the little club as dark and dank as possible, stating that ” “I’ve worked and slaved to keep this place a sewer.”  The cramped quarters didn’t deter people, and in the 1950’s the club put in a special area in the corner of the club for patrons below drinking age, barricaded from everyone else by chicken wire.   Truly innovative they were.  In the mid-50’s up until the literal end of the club’s run, Cal Tjader was almost headquartered at the Blackhawk and appeared there frequently and for extended engagements.  Fantasy recorded hours of material during his many appearances there and devoted quite a few albums completely to this material.  I say completely, because Fantasy liked to grab material from different dates and sources and stick them onto an album, and they did this frequently with Tjader’s live material from the club.  I’d sure love to hear some of those complete sets…As if these pictures weren’t retro enough for you, dig those parking prices on the far right.  50 cents for 2 hours?!  Unbelievable.  Based off of the cars and the days mentioned on the marquee, this and the other exterior shot could’ve been taken during Tjader’s 1957 appearance that made up this record.  Another piece of trivia.  Is the club’s name one word or two?  It’s appeared in print, album liner notes, and books both as ‘Black Hawk’ and ‘Blackhawk’.  Fantasy has naturally helped confuse things.  On this album, Ralph Gleason’s liner notes, as does the album’s title, say ‘Blackhawk’.  In 1959, Fantasy released another Tjader album recorded live at the Blackhawk, and the liner notes were pretty contradicting.  The title had it spelled one word; the main section of the liner notes, written by a mysterious ‘B. Rose’, had it spelled in two words.  Further down, though, in a blurb about the club, it’s back to one word.  Confusing yet?  Well, in 1961, Fantasy released yet another album recorded at the same spot.  Ralph Gleason is back in the writer’s chair, and apparently he was sick and tired of the confusion, too:

The Black Hawk… is two words; Black and Hawk.  This has caused a lot of trouble with the Mayor, because the sign outside the club, its advertisements, the table tents and other stationery all give different style.  Some say Black Hawk, some say Blackhawk.  We are hereby permanentizing (sic) it as Black Hawk, two words.

What a reversal from his own original usage of the one-word spelling.  I suppose a lot can happen in four years.  This should be the end of the story, right? Nope.  In 1996, in a book on Dave Brubeck entitled ‘It’s About Time’, Fred Hall tells about how his usage of ‘Blackhawk’ in his manuscript was hotly contested among historians and writers, one going as far to show him a picture of the old marquee (there was a space and a martini glass between ‘Black’ and ‘Hawk’).  He then gives what apparently is the gospel truth:

The conflict was resolved in talking with the club’s original owners.  Both John Noga… and Guido Cacianti… laughed, laughed some more, and then said, “It was one word!”  How about the sign in front of the club?  “Who knows?” said Noga; “It doesn’t make any difference.  It’s one word.”  And Cacianti commented, “The guy who made the sign goofed.  That’s just the way he made it.”

Kind of makes you wonder who the ‘we’ is that Gleason authoritatively throws around.  Surely not the original owners.  Then again, the owners were close friends and business partners with the Fantasy Records people… .  Anyhow, that’s the Blackhawk for you.  Bet you didn’t think you’d get a history lesson on semantics, did you?

The Cover

College Jazz Collector Rating:  A

Don Draper would approve.  It’s simple, but significant.  The picture tells you everything you need to know.  It’s four men making music, and Cal Tjader must be the guy holding the mallets.  It’s aesthetically pleasing, the colors are nice, and in the racially-charged year of 1957, it’s nice to see Eugene Wright standing side by side with the rest of the guys.  Seeing Vince Guaraldi, at the end on the left, minus his signature mustache is pretty wild (you can find a picture of him with his famous ‘stache here).  The cover itself is in great condition, made with the glossy laminate popular in the 1950’s.

The Back

The late Ralph Gleason was a frequent denizen of Fantasy album’s liner notes, particularly of Tjader’s and Guaraldi’s albums.  Bucking tradition, the liner notes for this album are surprisingly complete, including not only the tracks and their timings, but personnel AND a date with the location!  I haven’t seen any other Fantasy album with information this complete.  That red ‘1961’ stamp indicates that this is a later pressing, but still an original pressing.  It’s always cool when an album still has its original inner sleeve and any other original items inside, and this record had both- a sleeve with full-color advertising and a catalog insert.  The fact that Fantasy’s entire record catalog fits on a single small piece of paper is telling of how young the record company was in 1961.Looking at the roster and the quantity of albums, you get the impression that Fantasy was Brubeck’s and Tjader’s, and they just let others use the studio.

The Vinyl

An original mono pressing on red translucent plastic, with a late deep groove.  Fantasy made deep-groove records up through 1965 and probably later.  The lighter hued and lighter in weight red plastic album showed up around 1958; older Fantasy 12-inch records were pressed on thicker, heavier red plastic with a deeper hue.  Fantasy albums pressed on colorful plastic tend to sound pretty good, and this album is no exception.  It was listed as NM, but about 20 seconds into the first track there’s a quick skip that’s almost unnoticable unless you know what to listen for.  It breaks my heart each time, but other than that, the record sounds great.  More like a VG+ great.  There’s a little bit of surface noise throughout the record, as you can hear in the track above, but then again, it’s vinyl.  That’s part of the experience.

The Place of Acquisition

Normally, eBay is a pleasant experience.  Other times, it’s disappointing.  This time, it was pretty disappointing.  I found this record listed for under $15, which was a miracle since this record normally goes for over $20 without shipping.  It was listed as New Mint, which I couldn’t believe, and excitedly hit the ‘Buy Now’ option.  Two weeks later, as I said above, my heart was wrenched out by that skip.  The ocasional crackles added insult to injury.  New Mint.  Nope.  “Why didn’t you return it?” Well, for $12.50, I figured I had it at a bargain.  I am a college student after all.  I figured I could hold onto it until I found a better copy.  Plus, I liked the vintage album catalog insert and original inner sleeve, and the cover is in great condition.  When you’re poor, you learn to put up with more.  But I’m not a pushover.  I sent an album back before.  It was a hassle, but it was worth it when I found the same album in better condition at the local record store for a better price.

Wow.  A lengthy post, but a fun one.  Happy record hunting!

Jazz At The Blackhawk // Cal Tjader (Fantasy 3241) In addition to being infatuated with Latin music, Cal Tjader was a tasty straight-ahead jazz musician and one of the more famous jazz musicians to come from the West Coast.