#found him through a springsteen cover!

[orrsoared]

SAM FENDER - THE LITERAL LOVE OF MY LIFE - IS COLLABING WITH NOAH KAHAN?

I AM NOT GOING TO BE NORMAL ABOUT THIS!!!

[venus-haze]

Love Is a Ring on the Telephone (Homelander x Reader)

Summary: When work calls you away from New York, Homelander can’t bear how much he misses you.

Note: Gender neutral reader and no descriptors are used. This fic is fluffy (and shorter than what I usually write) but still a little dark, and takes place vaguely during season 2. Inspired by Bruce Springsteen’s and Patti Smith’s versions of Because the Night (I actually got inspired for a few fics based on various lines in the song). Do not interact if you are under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: Some possessive behavior and emotional manipulation (it’s Homelander). Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Homelander stared at the calendar taped to the wall in a desperate hope that he could somehow will time to race forward, and you’d be back home. He missed you terribly, spending the past few nights in your shoebox apartment he had yet to convince you to move out of. It was too cramped and loud for his liking, between your neighbors and the street noise, but he hadn’t realized how attached he’d become to it until you were gone. 

He went as far as pulling on one of your sweatshirts to sleep in, just because it still smelled like you. It was only day two of your five day business trip to a conference in Los Angeles, but each day without you felt like a week that dragged on endlessly. He’d been on bullshit missions from Vought that went longer, ones where he couldn’t even contact you until he returned, his insides shredded to bloody mush at the lingering anxiety that maybe in his absence, you found someone else.

From the moment he stepped into the disgustingly crowded airport with you, a melancholy swept over him. He offered to fly you to your hotel in LA himself, frustrated when you decided to do things the pedestrian way. At least his presence allowed you to skip the security line that stretched all the way back to the bag check as he graciously took selfies with each TSA agent. After all, you couldn’t be a threat if you were with The Homelander of all people. 

He would’ve gone with you, if it weren’t for the ‘Dawn of the Seven’ promotions that Ashley couldn’t get him out of. She nearly threw up while breaking the bad news to him, and he could hear her heart racing even as she practically sprinted down the hallway after he dismissed her. Reluctantly, he stayed behind while you went away, gritting his teeth through every interview and guest appearance. Having been paraded around plenty of Vought conferences himself, he knew damn well plenty of people used them as an excuse to get drunk and fuck around without their significant others’ knowledge.

He huffed, turning away from the calendar and practically rolling his eyes at himself. You’d proven time and time again that he could trust you, that you were the one for him. Still, his self-assurance did nothing to abate the sourness in his stomach, and suddenly, he’d pulled out his phone, ear pressed to the screen as the dial tone rang almost mockingly. He paced the kitchen floor, glancing at the clock on the wall. A little past one in the morning on the West Coast, but you wouldn’t mind if he woke you up.

“Baby? It’s late,” you yawned, the mundane noise making Homelander’s nerves settle slightly. “Is everything okay?”

He chewed his bottom lip, feeling like a schoolgirl calling her crush for the first time, almost instinctively reaching to play with a non-existent phone cord. There was neither pride nor shame when it came to you, only the affection and devotion that he’d spent his life longing for. Your presence soothed him, but your absence made his heart wrench in his chest. 

“Missed you,” he said softly.

“I miss you too. This conference is so boring. The people are weird, and I haven’t gotten a chance to see anything in LA.”

“What’s there to see? You’ve got a hot blond at home,” he said.

Your laughter made him feel indescribably lighter, even when it became muffled by your hand covering your mouth. 

“There aren’t palm trees in New York, smarty.”

“If you wanna see palm trees, I can think of at least five places I can take you that are nicer than LA.”

“I read that some palm trees grow in the Mediterranean, like Greece and Italy.”

“We’ll have to go one day to see, huh?”

You enthusiastically agreed, and he clung to your every word as you described your dream vacations in detail. He’d bring you everywhere, wrapped tightly in his arms from the moment he took off in New York until the two of you inevitably ended up in bed somewhere beautiful and secluded, where you could truly be alone together. 

He wondered what you’d think of moving out of the city, maybe to one of the smaller beach towns out on Long Island or somewhere more secluded in the Catskills. Either way, he’d have a commute for the first time in his life, but he could deal with a quick flight to Vought Tower if it meant waking up beside and coming home to you each day. After years of clamoring for the adoration of the masses, millions of people cheering his name and going into a frenzy in his presence paled in comparison to the sincerity in your voice and steady heartbeat whenever you told him that you loved him. 

Often, he felt like no one else knew what being in love was like, otherwise they wouldn’t make him go on asinine press tours or send you away to the opposite side of the country for a conference. Something so passionate and all-consuming as what he felt for you couldn’t be ruined by distance, and though he could listen to you talk on the phone all night, it wasn’t the same as being able to see and feel you. He’d grown far too accustomed to the warmth and gentleness of your touch, the way your eyes lit up for him and nobody else. 

A loud bang and the sound of drunk chatter outside your room interrupted your voice, and though no human could have heard the commotion so clearly, he could, and his lip curled in response. You immediately apologized, ranting about the people at the conference, most of whom you found uppity and unpleasant, finding networking with them at panels and meals more of a chore than an opportunity.

He looked at your refrigerator, colorful magnets holding up your handwritten lists and reminders, but his gaze was focused on the selfie of the two of you on your second date to the Bronx Zoo just a few months prior. You’d taken the time to get the photo printed and displayed in a spot that was domestic and sentimental, somewhere you and anyone else who entered your place could easily see. His hands suddenly felt cold in your physical absence, and a lump formed in his throat as he found himself on the verge of tears.

“If it’s such a drag, you should just leave early and come home.”

“Baby, you know I can’t—“

“I’ll take care of you,” he promised softly, the ‘from now on’ was unspoken, but from the way he could hear your breath faintly hitch over the phone, he knew you understood.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Will you come get me?”

“I’ll be there before you blink.”

“I’ll keep my eyes wide open for you.”

He smiled, letting out a soft chuckle at your words. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“That’s impossible.”

You were quiet for a moment. “Can’t I try?”

“You don’t need to try. Just being mine is enough, darling.”

Everything in his life had gone to shit so fast, but not you, never you. He’d raze cities to ash before letting you go, before possibly losing the warmth that enveloped him at the thought of you and how much you loved him. Even if he could bottle the feeling, inject it into his veins whenever he pleased, he wouldn’t, not when he had you by his side. He wasn’t sure if anyone could compare. As much as he wished he’d met you sooner, he supposed later was better than never.

You ended the phone call, your voice soft and melodic as you once again professed your love to him. He did the same before hanging up, hastily grabbing one of your sweaters from your closet. You’d always get cold while flying with him. He brought the knitwear to his nose, the scent of your fabric softener and a hint of your perfume almost making him dizzy. Wasting no more time, he left your apartment to make it to Los Angeles before you could fall back asleep.

He knew which hotel you were staying at and the room number, having texted it to him before you left. Of course, he’d memorized the details, and within half an hour was hovering outside of your eighth floor hotel room window, which you gladly opened for him. You were in your pajamas, your small suitcase packed on the bed.

“My hero!” you exclaimed, throwing your arms around him and pressing a playful kiss to his cheek.

Your lips on his skin made it feel like he was on fire, and he took your face in his ungloved hands, kissing you desperately as your sweater fell to the floor. Two days had suddenly transformed into a lifetime of longing and separation, and as he slipped his tongue into your open mouth, he did so with the intention of savoring you, getting as close to devouring you as he could. 

Squeezing his hips to steady yourself only encouraged him further, a groan rumbling from deep in his chest. Sometimes, you made it so hard for him to have any self-control, and in those moments he almost lamented his powers. His strength made your being with him inherently dangerous, yet despite the risks, you willingly sought out his embrace and intimacy.

“Always yours,” he muttered huskily against your lips. 

You looked at the sweater on the floor, smiling at the gesture. “Thanks.”

“Can’t have you catching pneumonia on the way home, can I?” he said as you pulled the sweater on.

You grabbed your suitcase off the bed, and he took it from you with ease, holding it in one hand, his other arm firmly around your waist. He’d flown you plenty of places before, and though you were no longer nervous like the first time he took you flying, he loved how you clung to him anyway.

[therecordconnection]

Playlist: The Record Connection's Top Thirty Hit Songs of 1981

(Bear with me, gonna try something new here.)

Playlist Cover Border Created By: @ohmarigold, Font provided by: https://www.fontspace.com/las-enter-font-f19041

The Record Connection's Top Thirty Hit Songs of 1981

Playlist Description: "Exploring the strange year of 1981 by choosing 30 of the best representatives from Billboard's Year-End Hot 100 Singles of 1981"

Track Listing:

"(Just Like) Starting Over" - John Lennon

"I'm Coming Out" - Diana Ross

"Another One Bites the Dust" - Queen

"Sukiyaki" - A Taste of Honey

"Together" - Tierra

"(There's) No Gettin' Over Me" - Ronnie Milsap

"Queen of Hearts" - Juice Newton

"9 to 5" - Dolly Parton

"Suddenly" - Olivia Newton-John & Cliff Richard

"Guilty" - Barbra Streisand & Barry Gibb

"Just the Two of Us" - Grover Washington, Jr. & Bill Withers

"A Woman Needs Love (Just Like You Do)" - Ray Parker Jr. & Raydio

"Lady (You Bring Me Up)" - Commodores

"Celebration" - Kool & the Gang

"Don't Stand So Close to Me" - The Police

"Urgent" - Foreigner

"Take It On the Run" - REO Speedwagon

"Too Much Time on My Hands" - Styx

"Miss Sun" - Boz Scaggs

"Arthur's Theme (Best That You Can Do)" - Christopher Cross

"Hey Nineteen" - Steely Dan

"Tell It Like It Is" - Heart

"Boy From New York City" - The Manhattan Transfer

"Hungry Heart" - Bruce Springsteen

"Hold On Tight" - Electric Light Orchestra

"Kiss On My List" - Daryl Hall & John Oates

"Jessie's Girl" - Rick Springfield

"Time" - The Alan Parsons Project

"For Your Eyes Only" - Sheena Easton

"The Winner Takes It All" - ABBA

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A Few Words About 1981

Time, Electric Light Orchestra's 1981 science-fiction concept album tells the story of a man who is transported to the far distant future of 2095. The album explores his homesickness while observing the many ways the world has changed around him. During "The Way Life's Meant to Be," bandleader Jeff Lynne sings, "I wish I was back in 1981." Lynne has never explained why he chose to use the year the album was made as the year the time traveler comes from (probably just convenience), but I've always found that yearning to return to 1981 in particular to be funny, because if people had a time machine to go back to the eighties, I highly doubt anybody would pick 1981.

For a long time, I've loved looking through Billboard's Year-End Hot 100 singles list for [insert year]. I think it's really fun to look through them and often times you can really get a good idea of what was insanely popular during a given year. Lots of stuff gets big or falls through the cracks in a given year, but this one is the stuff that everybody vibed with (or got utterly annoyed with).

1981 is a weird one. 1980 is considered a much worse year (a lot of really boring, nothing ballads got super big that year) but '81 isn't the winner that the '83-'85 years are considered. When people (over)romanticize the eighties, they're mostly going crazy about that chunk of the decade and 1987. The early eighties have no idea what the hell they're going to be yet. Then again, no decade ever knows what it's gonna be right out the gate. I think people tend to have this idea that the ball dropped on December 31st, 1979 and suddenly it was THE EIGHTIES! It doesn't work that way. Often times, the first two years of a decade are strange and they serve as a transition point.

1981 is definitely a transitional year. It's one of my favorite years in music due to just being an oddball time. Lot of strange new wave stuff was slowly crossing over, arena rock bands were really ramping up and beginning their reign, early eighties R&B was starting to find its groove, and more. The Hot 100 list doesn't reflect most of what was happening. It rarely does, but it is a really good starting point when trying to figure out what some of the biggest stuff was for a good chunk of the year. If you ask me, the eighties don't become the decade everybody loves until Duran Duran releases Rio and Michael Jackson makes the video for "Thriller." You can start to see the beginnings of what the eighties will become with 1981, but it's also not quite there yet.

So, this playlist explores that Year-End singles list and attempts to give a good overview of what was going on at that time. I listened to all one-hundred songs and cut it down to the best thirty. It was originally going to be twenty, but I found that I liked too much of the list to limit it that small. These songs are not arranged from #30 to #1, rather they're arranged in a way that highlights connections between certain songs, common themes, and hopefully ends up highlighting all the different musical worlds that were enjoying success during the year.

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Some Words Regarding The Process Behind This Track Listing

There were three John Lennon hits that year, which is fitting, considering he was killed in December, 1980 and everybody was still shaken about it for most of '81. I picked "(Just Like) Starting Over" as the representative, since I think it's tragically ironic and also reflective of why people were so upset about Lennon's murder. (Note: For the curious, "Woman" and "Watching the Wheels" were the other two hits that got big from Double Fantasy).

After Lennon, the next four songs highlight the last of the disco refugees (Diana Ross, Queen, and A Taste of Honey) and the final whispers of the previous decade (Tierra). "I'm Coming Out," "Another One Bites the Dust," and "Sukiyaki" are the songs that are just on the cusp of being eighties funk, but they're still clinging to disco in a lot of ways. "Together" by Tierra sounds has all the sonic hallmarks of a seventies one-hit wonder... but somehow came out in 1980. That's what I mean when I say that you can hear those final whispers of the previous decade.

There was a good deal of country crossover on the list. Not a lot of it survived the cut for me, mostly because a lot of it is corny and lame in a bad way. Kenny Rogers had three soft ballads get big in 1981 and I dislike all of them. Unless names like Eddie Rabbitt, Terri Gibbs, or Rosanne Cash mean anything to you, I don't think you'll be upset. Personally, I'm a much bigger fan of country in the nineties. The very best of the country crossovers are represented here. I went with Ronnie Milsap's "(There's) No Gettin' Over Me," Juice Newton's cover of "Queen of Hearts," ("Angel of the Morning" almost beat it, but I think this one is more fun) and finally, "9 to 5" by Dolly Parton. The three country songs here are light and super fun and I think represent that the country music world was having fun during the start of the decade and finding crossover appeal with the masses beyond Nashville.

After our journey to country, we explore some of the team-ups that got big during the year. "Suddenly" (a great love song from the not-so-great movie Xanadu) sees Olivia Newton-John and Cliff Richard together, "Guilty" sees Barbra Streisand and Bee Gee Barry Gibb at their best, and Bill Withers lends his vocals to an all-time classic Grover Washington, Jr. cut ("Just the Two of Us").

Ray Parker Jr. (still with his band Raydio) shows us some early eighties R&B magic and good advice with "A Woman Needs Love (Just Like You Do)" and the Commodores and Kool & the Gang bring the funk and the party with the classics "Lady (You Bring Me Up)" and "Celebration" (the definitive party song to end all party songs). These songs are missing the disco elements that were still found with Diana, Queen, and A Taste of Honey and represent the direction funk music was heading in. Lionel Richie would pivot away from the funk as the decade went on, but the funk was just getting started for Kool & the Gang.

After the funk, we take a look at what arena rock bands were doing. In 1981, they were worried about romantic relationships. "Don't Stand So Close to Me" finds a teacher being in a secret relationship with a young student and worried about people finding out. "Urgent" finds Foreigner in panic mode. The narrator is worried that his love is being taken advantage of and only used for one night stands. REO Speedwagon enters into the frame, worried that a certain someone has been doing some cheating (though they heard this from a friend who heard it from a friend who heard it from another...) Styx lightens things up by having fun and goofing around while Tommy Shaw laments that he has "Too Much Time On My Hands." These four bands are good indicators of where rock was heading in a world where a lot of the seventies rock giants were beginning to find themselves in unknown waters.

Speaking of unknown waters, Yacht Rock was still sailing the seas in the early eighties and three representatives are found here. Cool cat Boz Scaggs sings a groovy song for "Miss Sun," Christopher Cross sings about the movie Arthur and tells you the best thing you can do when you're caught between the moon and New York City in "Arthur's Theme (Best That You Can Do)," and Steely Dan tells the tale of pathetic older dude pining for the past and finding it hard to relate to a nineteen year old girl he's trying to pick up in "Hey Nineteen." These three represent the smooth cool cats that weren't pop, but weren't rolling with the arena rock of the moment either.

Speaking of pining for the past, 1981 was a year where some bands and artists gave us some throwbacks and tried to capture that old rockabilly jukebox sound that Lennon was doing at the start of the playlist. Heart provides a wonderful cover of the 1966 Aaron Neville classic "Tell It Like It Is" and The Manhattan Transfer present a lovable and fun little cover of the 1964 Ad Libs song "Boy From New York City." Bruce Springsteen gets in on the throwback fun with the awesome "Hungry Heart," and Electric Light Orchestra lead us into the future while still writing a love letter to the past with "Hold On Tight." These songs all have the common thread of "everything old becomes new again" and are the earliest examples of the eighties bringing the sixties back to life and turning it into something brand new.

The last five songs presented have no unifying theme, they just ended up being my five favorite songs on the list. "Kiss on My List" and "Jessie's Girl" are both fan-fucking-tastic songs and show how good both Hall & Oates and Rick Springfield were as songwriters. I never get sick of those songs. "Time" by The Alan Parsons Project is my favorite ballad on the list. Vocalist Eric Woolfson had this whisper like quality to his delivery that nobody else had. The entire song is just this beautiful, melancholic, transcendent song. The whole thing feels like it's floating. It sounds the way that the bright stars at night look. Just wonderful.

The final two songs feature fantastic performances from two dynamite women. Sheena Easton's "For Your Eyes Only" is my second favorite Bond theme ("Nobody Does It Better" beats it) and "The Winner Takes It All" is the greatest song ABBA ever laid to tape. Both are these sweeping pop masterpieces and Sheena and Agnetha Fältskog deliver some of the finest performances of their careers on them. You feel every emotion and every detail is done so incredibly well. I'm hopeful that you'll find the playlist ends on a high note!

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(Thank you for indulging in this little experiment. :) Making playlists is a lot fun and I'd love to make this a semi-regular thing if there's an interest for it. So let me know your thoughts and opinions if you have them! I would love to hear from you! Thank you.)

[mrschwartz]

Alex Turner on the Arctic Monkeys' musical evolution

By Mark Savage (published on October 22 2022)

Alex Turner is out of breath.

The Arctic Monkeys frontman has just blazed through a guitar solo on Body Paint - the swaggering, Bowie-esque centrepiece of their new album, The Car - on TV institution Later with Jools Holland.

"You've parched me out there," he pants. "Could someone get me a water?"

Unusually, the Arctics are the only band in the studio. For the first time in 15 years, the show is devoting an entire episode to a single act - an honour reserved for rock legends like REM, Radiohead, Metallica and Oasis.

Turner and his band-mates appreciate the enormity of the situation. They film additional takes and switch up their setlist to ensure the new music is conveyed with appropriate punch and panache.

"Gotta make this one count," says Turner as the recording runs into its second hour. "We'll do an acoustic one, and then Born To Run."

The promised Springsteen cover never materialises. Nor does the band's hellraising 2007 hit Brianstorm, despite guitarist Jamie Cook idly bashing out the riff between takes. But, with almost twice as much Monkey business as they'd bargained for, the audience leaves on a high.

"I enjoyed it a great deal," agrees Turner, on the phone to the BBC a couple of days later. "I'm a big fan of that show and I have been for a long time, even before we put the band together."

In fact, his highlight in the run-up to the show was getting access to the Later vaults, to pick a performance that influenced him for broadcast on the show.

"I kind of lost myself in the archive back there for a minute, Mark, to be honest with you," he says. "I found myself gravitating to performances from 2002 and going, 'Oh God, yeah, I remember seeing that and getting excited about it.'"

Of course, 2002 is the year the Arctic Monkeys formed in Sheffield, where all four members were pupils of Stocksbridge High School.

Turner and guitarist Jamie Cook had only received their first guitars a year earlier, as Christmas presents from their parents. The first song they wrote was called "Matt Dave Rock Song" - named for a singer who subsequently left the band, and which they subsequently described as "junk" and "total crap".

But they progressed at speed, developing a sharp, nervy sound full of searing riffs and witty, literate lyrics. By 2005, people were eagerly swapping bootlegs, demos and gossip on dedicated message boards.

When their first album, Whatever People I Say I Am, That's What I'm Not, arrived in 2006 it became the UK's fastest-selling debut of all time, just weeks after Turner's 20th birthday.

Arctic Monkeys were suddenly the most written-about, talked-about rock band of their generation.

They responded by closing ranks.

Back-slapping events like the Brit Awards were avoided, the band accepting prizes in mailed-in videos, dressed as characters from The Wizard of Oz. When they played Radio 1's Live Lounge, they subverted their "rock saviour" image by covering Katy B's On A Mission and Girls Aloud's Love Machine.

"I can't really remember the impetus behind that decision," reflects Turner, "but it was a lot of fun".

Musically, Arctic Monkeys went from strength to strength, particularly on the hard-hitting Humbug (2009) and the leather-jacketed rock of AM (2013).

They last graced the charts in 2018 with the space-jazz concept album Tranquillity Base Hotel & Casino, which explored themes of consumerism and politics through the concept of a luxury resort on the moon.

Turner composed its languid, meandering songs on piano, declaring the guitar "had lost its ability to give me ideas".

Critics were divided. Rolling Stone called the album "indulgent", but Q Magazine thought it was "strange and wonderful". Fans sent the album to number one, but it's the only Arctic Monkeys record not to be certified platinum.

Released on Friday, The Car is tighter and more immediate than its predecessor but it spins in the same sonic universe.

Opening track There'd Better Be A Mirror Ball is all woozy keyboards and staccato string stabs, while Jet Skis On The Moat sees Turner slip on his velvet jacket for a brooding lounge-pop ballad.

"I made a big deal about the piano on the last record," says the singer, "but when I look at it now, the shift in sound between that record and the one before [AM] is more to do with the fact that my writing process [changed] around that time".

In the Arctic Monkeys' first decade, he explains, he'd take a song "into a rehearsal room and work out how it goes with the band". That's gradually become more insular, with Turner building up songs in his home studio until he feels they're ready.

"So the piano had a part in it, but being able to record myself and write to those recordings is perhaps what got us into this mess."

That's not the only thing that's changed.

"I can vaguely remember times in the past where I've been struck with the inspiration and written something quite quickly, but it feels like that happens less these days," he says. "But I'm not worried if it takes a little bit longer."

In fact, some of the musical motifs on The Car percolated for three years before he "persuaded them to be a pop song".

Among them was the instrumental refrain of Big Ideas, a gorgeous electric piano melody that "felt like it had aspirations to be a movie theme".

"It hung around for ages, that melody, and I'd play it whenever I found myself sitting at a piano [until] one of the band asked, 'Is that one of yours?'

"And that's about as excited as they get," he jokes.

Their enthusiasm encouraged him to build the passage into a song that describes a songwriter's (favourite) worst nightmare.

"I had big ideas... the kind you'd rather not share over the phone," Turner sings. "But now the orchestra's got us all surrounded and I can't for the life of me remember how they go."

It's one of many lyrics that hint at instability and dislocation.

The music, meanwhile, reflects his emotional turbulence. The band often sound like they're fighting to be heard - bursting through an orchestral swell to gasp for air, only to be dragged under the surface again.

"There was much discussion and deliberation" about those "push and pull dynamics", Turner says.

Some tracks, like Sculptures, were recorded with several different arrangements, then reconstructed in the mix.

The track was born when guitarist Jamie Cook wired a Moog synthesizer up to a drum machine, creating an ominous, industrial sound. Then it "went on its own journey", evolving into a full-band recording, before the original idea reasserted itself.

On the finished version, "it's almost like there's a button for the band and you press it and they step in for a bar, then they disappear back and you're in that synthesizer place," Turner explains.

"That, of course, is not the kind of idea that I would have had before we started. That's something that revealed itself during the process.

"So I'm thrilled that you mentioned the dynamics because that's something we attempted to explore and get a handle on this time. And yeah, I think I think we did a better job in that respect, than we did last time around."

Back on stage in Alexandra Palace, Arctic Monkeys are still figuring out how to play the new material live, taking a couple of passes at the funky, sqawkbox riffs of I Ain't Quite Where I Think I Am before they're satisfied.

Without a string section, the songs become harder, more full-blooded - giving an idea of how they'll nestle up to Fluorescent Adolescent and RU Mine on tour.

And while some bands (cough, Radiohead, cough) abandon their old hits when they settle on a new sound, Turner has no such inclination.

"There's certain numbers from the early records that I should think we would continue to keep playing. And there are other numbers we haven't played for a while that we could imagine knocking the dust off. "

"Nothing has been ruled out," he concludes. "Although Love Machine might be a stretch."

[starlightsearches]

Aaaaand maybe track 11, with Eddie? I’d choose a love song for him, but I really am curious as to what you’d do with this song…..eheh….ya know it, fave song is Dead Man’s Party by Oingo Boingo 😅❤️❤️❤️

All Dressed Up with Nowhere to Go

Track 11 - Hungry Heart by Bruce Springsteen: Pick a character and tell me your favorite song, and I'll write a short blurb or headcanons based on it.

Kas! Eddie x GN! Reader

thank you, irma! i'd never listened to dead man's party before, but it fucking SLAPS. i hope you like what i made for you 🥰

📼✨ mixtape milestone ✨📼 requests open through march 1st

Warnings: drinking, puking, ANGST, talk of death and mourning, making out, blood sucking for the sluts uwu, language, a very open ending

Your hand is getting cold.

You let your eyes wander down briefly, stopping when you spy the cause. There's punch spilling over the edge of your cup, trickling down your hand and leaving a sticky red stain behind.

Your mind's been on the run all night—or at least after the last four drinks—always looking for something simple to focus on but never staying long.

The sweaty condensation dripping down the windows. The thumping base traveling from the dance floor. And now the way the punch shines like blood against your skin in the spooky lights Steve spent the afternoon hanging.

"Hey, hey, hey."

A big hand covers your own, reaching for the cup, and you pull it back on instinct, trying to place the pretty brown eyes.

Steve. Of course. Speak of the devil.

He looks handsome, and very Harrison Ford-esque in the vest you found together at the costume shop. The costume fits him better than the Leia dress does you. In all the billowing white fabric, you look like a ghost every time you catch your own reflection.

So maybe that fits you fine. You hardly feel like you're here at all.

There's a crease between Steve's brows, and he reaches for the cup in your other hand. You pull back on instinct, sloshing punch in the other direction. It lands with a loud splat on the floor.

"I think you've had enough," he says softly.

Steve purses his lips, and you know he's holding back a whole slew of unhelpful phrases. You've heard them all—I know it's hard, but you have to try and enjoy yourself. Eddie wouldn't want you to be sad. He wouldn't want you to spend his favorite holiday crying into a pillow or blacked out on my couch. He'd want you to move on.

But Eddie's been dead for six months. So who gives a fuck what he would want.

You pull the cup to your lips, drink and drink and drink, letting the sweet sting burn any chance of tears from your eyes.

Steve only put this party together for your benefit. It was a nice gesture—going through the list of couple's costumes you and Eddie made together before, mashing the playlist of songs Eddie loved with ones people would actually want to dance to.

But you wish he hadn't. You wish he had let you wallow.

The empty cup crushes against Steve's waiting hand. You sway a little closer so he can hear you over the music.

"I'm gonna go dance."

There's a splash of guitar from the speakers, and you know it's one of your songs from the confused looks of everybody on the dance floor. Whatever. They get over it, swept up in the beat.

You let it take you, too, swinging around wildly, flailing with no concern how you look or who's watching. There was nobody around you wanted to impress anymore.

Eddie wouldn't care what you looked like anyway. He was a shit dancer.

Fuck.

The room is spinning. You're trying to keep with the beat, but there's the same lyrics, echoing over and over and over in your head.

dead man dead man dead man deadmandeadmandeadman. dead.

You're going to fucking puke.

Fighting through the crowd is like wading through a pool of bricks, which would still fucking suck if you were sober, and you are not. Catching on thrown back hands and angel wings, you stumble into the bathroom, just bending over in time to avoid vomiting a red stain down the front of your dress.

Your head has it's own heartbeat, pounding behind your eyes. You dip your cheek down to meet the cool porcelain.

There's no avoiding it. Hot tears spill over your face, plopping like raindrops into the basin. Fucking rock bottom, crying over your dead boyfriend on filthy toilet seat.

There's the sound of the door shutting and latching, just audible over your sobs. You lift your head, so dizzy and sad and hopeless it makes you angry.

"God," you're yelling, loud enough for it to echo off the tiles, "can't you see there's somebody fucking—"

He looks just like you remember him. And not in a good way.

The room already smells like sulfur, the way everything did down there—like sulfur and mold and fucking death. Eddie brought it with him. He brought it all. The holes in his hellfire shirt, scars peaking out of his collar, the mud and shit and blood staining his clothes.

He's got dark blue bags under his eyes, like bruises, cheeks sallow. Looking almost as tired as you feel. But he smiles, just the way he used to.

"Wow, sweetheart," —Eddie's voice is deep and gravelly as he kicks a boot up against the door, nodding back in the direction of the party— "this all for me?"

"Eddie."

That comes out as a sob, too.

He crosses the room in a few strides, a big hand at soft at your back, petting strands of hair off your sweaty forehead.

"Hey princess," he tries to smile, "long time no see."

Jesus. Your head's still spinning. You might puke again. It doesn't help that Eddie keeps going in and out of focus, like maybe you're dreaming this all up, the way his skin feels and the smell of him and the cute little curls in front of his ears.

"You were dead."

He huffs at you. "I think, technically, sweetheart, I still am."

He pulls one of your hands toward his chest, and there's nothing beneath it. No heartbeat. Just Eddie.

He doesn't expect it, the way you launch yourself at him, pulling him to floor. Eddie laughs, wraps his arms around you, his shaking lungs and the feel of his hands full of disbelief.

"I missed you."

You can tell he's missed you, too. He nods into your neck, hot breath on your skin.

"Why didn't you come back before?"

"Halloween seemed like a good time," he whispers, looking you in the eye, "wouldn't want to scare the neighbors."

His lips press tighter together. There's something he's not telling you. If you weren't so fucking high, you'd try to figure it out.

But you are fucking high—high out of your mind—and there's only one thing you want to do right now.

Eddie doesn't taste like death. He tastes like he used to, in the back of his van, in his bed or on the couch, his hands on you and his wandering lips, just bodies and kisses and nothing in between.

"Fuck, baby," he grunts, nipping at your ear, "you gotta be careful with me."

You shake your head. There's enough blood in him for the skin at his neck to turn a shade darker when you bite at it.

Eddie's hips shift against yours. He's breathing harder, although you're not sure where it goes, or what his lungs do with it once it's there.

"Can I- can I taste you, baby?"

"Mhmm."

It feels so good to be caught up in his arms again, you don't even notice the sting when his lips seal around your neck, the way his throat pulses with swallow after swallow. The groan he lets out is pained when he finally rips himself off of you.

Eddie cups your cheeks in both hands, thumbs petting at the left-over tears.

"Awww, baby. I don't think I should have done that."

You hardly hear him. Everything is fuzzy. You let your eyes fall closed, and the soft brush at your hairline could be his lips, or something you made up.

And then he's gone.

Steve's beside you when you lift your head again.

"Jesus, what the fuck happened to you? Robin found you on the floor and thought you were dead."

He's wiping at your neck with a cloth, or paper towel or something, and it hurts.

What did happen to you?

"I- I think I fell."

Steve hums, disapproving, cleaning the dripping blood from your neck, smoothing a bandage over the skin.

When you pull it off the next morning, all that's left of Eddie—or your vision of him—are two perfect little puncture wounds, and a few bruises in the shape of teeth.

[sweetdreamsjeff]

Fans, friends mourn passing of Jeff Buckley

Bradley Bambarger

From: Billboard (Vol. 109, Issue 24)

 June 14, 1997

NEW YORK - Memorial services are being planned for singer/songwriter Jeff Buckley, who drowned the evening of May 29 while swimming off Mud Island in Memphis.

Buckley went down in a dangerous section of water near the Mississippi River as an undertow was caused by passing boats, according to a friend present at the scene. His body was found June 4.

An uncommonly gifted, charismatic artist, the 30-year-old Buckley inspired a rare degree of affection from associates and fans around the world. News of his tragic end has elicited waves of laments and tributes, ranging from hundreds of Internet missives to U2 dedicating a song to him at its Giants Stadium concert May 31. A public memorial is being planned for July in New York. A private service for family and close friends will be held sooner.

Buckley had been in Memphis playing a weekly residency at the club Barristers and making preparations to record his second studio album for Columbia Records. He was set to go into Easley Studios with producer/engineer Andy Wallace at the end of June. Buckley made his recording debut in 1993 on Columbia with "Live At Sin-e," a four-song EP taped live at the club Sin-e in New York's East Village, and followed that up the next year with the striking full-length "Grace."

Buckley was born in Southern California to Mary Guibert and the late folk-singing legend Tim Buckley. He barely knew his father but was raised in a musical fashion by his mother and stepfather before leaving home at 17. After living a peripatetic existence, Buckley moved to New York's Lower East Side in the early '90s and coursed his way through the downtown music circles. He eventually hooked up with former Captain Beefheart guitarist Gary Lucas in his avant-rock band Gods & Monsters.

Buckley made demos and toured with Gods & Monsters through 199192, leaving soon after to develop his art in solo club shows. His summerlong residency in '93 at the intimate Sin-e was a sensation, displaying his affinity for troubadour and torch styles as well as a tenor voice that was strong, supple, and unusually affecting.

"When I first saw Jeffat Sin-e, I felt how Jon Landau must have felt [seeing Bruce Springsteen]," says Don Ienner, president of Columbia Records (U.S.). "And it wasn't just the future of rock'n'roll I saw in Jeff but an inspired reverence for the past. He was into so much music - from gospel to qawwali, from Nina Simone to Led Zeppelin - and he was such a remarkable guitar player and amazing singer.

"We're all so devastated that he's gone," Ienner continues. "He touched his fans so deeply, and I know that of all the artists I've signed, none has moved me from the start like Jeff. The title of his record was so appropriate: He had this amazing grace. The only consolation for us is that his music will live on."

A bold, deeply felt album, "Grace" features original music that weds such disparate influences as the Smiths and the Doors, and its insightful covers range from Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" to composer Benjamin Britten's "Corpus Christi Carol." Buckley's own songs, particularly "So Real" and "Lover, You Should've Come Over," reveal a searching, sensitive talent. And the two signature tunes reprised from Buckley's time with Lucas, "Mojo Pin" and the title track, are examples of rock at its most transcendent.

"I consider the songs I wrote with Jeff some of the best work I've done," Lucas says. "He was a brilliant collaborator, one of the most talented people I've ever known. Playing again with him at the Knitting Factory's 10th anniversary party in February gave me shivers."

Over the years, Buckley had guested in a variety of musical settings, further demonstrating his catholic enthusiasms and abilities. He sang cafe bohemia with the Jazz Passengers, improv vocalise with John Zorn's Cobra, and 17th-century ballads at Elvis Costello's Meltdown Festival in London. He also played bass on downtown songstress Rebecca Moore's debut album, as well as on tour with the prog-rock outfit Mind Science Of The Mind. And he appeared on the latest albums by Patti Smith and Brenda Kahn and on a Jack Kerouac spoken-word disc. While in Memphis, Buckley was writing songs with members of the grunge-soul band the Grifters.

According to Ienner, Buckley had recorded more than 100 songs over the past three years at home, in rehearsals, and in the studio. That unreleased material includes a batch of demos he had worked on with former Television leader Tom Verlaine as templates for a new record. Ienner says the compilation of any future releases would include the participation of Guibert and Buckley's managers, George Stein and Dave Lory.

Lucas says he has demos and tapes of live radio broadcasts with Buckley that are of a quality typical of their efforts together. "We wrote about a dozen songs, a lot of them just as good as 'Mojo Pin' or 'Grace'," he says. "Jeff had this tremendous spirit that made the work such a thrill. And he touched everyone he came into contact with. It's a tragedy he's gone. There aren't many like him that come along. It's like a light going out."

[bienmoreau]

Tagged a while ago by the lovely @rhaenys-queenofkhyrulzz

🎶✨when you get this you have to put 5 songs you actually listen to, publish, then send this ask/tag 10 of your favourite followers (non-negotiable, positivity is cool) 🎶✨

Okay it's taken me ages to get to this but! Here we go! And thank you for the tag!!

Dancing in the Dark by Bruce Springsteen because of course! Always! (but also there's this cover by Amy McDonald that I rediscovered the other day and I think is really lovely!)

Balance by Future Islands. This song 100% saw me though the shit show that was my final year at university and I've continued to listen to it in the years since.

Virginia Beach by Kevin Morby and Hamilton Leithauser. Me and my department colleague used to listen to SO MUCH Kevin at work and then when this song came out I discovered Hamilton through it and I really like it. One of my favourites in both of their discographies

How To Be Me by Ren and Chinchilla. It was a toss up between a couple different Ren songs but I think this or Genesis are my most listened to by him. Certainly they were when I first found his music

Silverfish by The Felice Brothers idk I just keep returning to this one out of the whole album that I love. (Warning for loads of bugs in this video!)

And tagging only a couple people but if you see this want to play feel free to take that as me tagging you! @linacies @cecilyacat @wesawbears @faintlyglow @eohachu @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx

[sparklyslug]

There ain’t no words for the beauty, the splendor, the wonder HELLO A HAIR REFERENCE!! GREAT NAME!! i would love to see a snipet of this one!

YESSSS YOU GOT IT ABSOLUTELY! It’s a lil something I wrote for @greenlikethesea and the title came from my INITIAL plan to channel a lot of my curly haircare feelings into a fic, but I got distracted and it ended up being mostly about shower sex. Anyway.

Name a wip and I’ll share a snip!

Steve’s curled up on his side on the couch, knocked right the fuck out, one hand thrown over the side of the couch, knuckles brushing the floor.

Eddie takes the sight in for a second, savors the low growl of Springsteen’s voice, the lingering smell of the stew Steve had thrown into his beloved crock pot warming the air. Drops his keys gently in the bowl by the door, says I’m home quietly to himself. Then has to grin all goofy at it all, because. Holy shit.

He doesn’t really feel Bruce in his bones the way Steve did, the release of Born in the USA (or maybe just that album cover) doing something to his 18-year-old brain that Steve had never fully recovered from. Eddie gets it, because: the album cover. But between Powerslave and Ride the Lightning his own 18-year-old brain had had enough on its hands that year, and though he would never say as much to Steve, he had found Springsteen kind of…boring.

Just at the time, though. Now it’s part of the music that reminds him of Steve doing the dishes, singing along at a bar, nodding appreciatively with his arms folded across his chest when one of the guys covers Bruce at the Electric Cafe. Now Eddie hums along a little as he toes off his work boots and crosses the floor to the couch, kneeling down next to Steve and gently taking the hand that’s fallen to the floor.

I don’t wanna fade away, I don’t wanna fade away, tell me what can I do, what can I say, Bruce laments, as Eddie lifts Steve’s hand to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to the warm, freckled back of it. And tucks it back against Steve’s chest.

Steve curls his hand in, catching Eddie’s hand in his before he can pull back and pressing it against the soft weave of his sweater. Still takes a second to blink himself awake though.

“Hey,” Steve manages.

“Hey,” Eddie says, laughing softly. “Don’t wake up, baby, you look good like this.”

“No,” Steve says grouchily, though his thumb is now rubbing back and forth against the inside of Eddie’s wrist. “We got work to do.”

“Thought I saw some tell-tale red envelopes on the kitchen counter,” Eddie says. It’s pretty serious work. They’ve been working through some shlocky classic horror this month, and making impressive progress given how their speed is kind of hampered by having to wait a couple of days between Netflix DVDs getting mailed back and forth. “I’m gonna hop in the shower, okay? See how you feel when I get out.”

Steve makes a bitchy little noise that has absolutely no English translation, but he lets Eddie’s hand go, and resettles himself on the couch.

[thirst2]

I’ve always said I don’t like country music but that’s probably more flattened than the truth (like much of life). “I don’t like country music” almost always had modern, commercial, popular country music in mind; maybe that’s the result of being someone who definitely didn’t grow up listening to country music – and I’ve always been cognizant of the fact that my knowledge of country music is probably far less than someone who, well, grew up with and in it; and I always planned to get around to actually exploring the genre, so I can speak competently about it when I claim I don’t like it. But there was always a gut certainty about the affair so I haven’t stopped the habit.

But I like the blues (well, that’s a tremendous understatement; it’s probably my favorite genre…); I like folk; I often like bluegrass. And any extended conversation of about music with me regarding certain songs would definitely bring to light songs that regularly get slotted as country (“Will the Circle Be Unbroken?” is an easy example) that I very much enjoy; and they all tend to be songs that often are at the crossroads of country emerging as a genre, where the line between blues or folk can be hard to separate out. And that’s not a hard rule (“Country Roads” and “Jolene” are fantastic); so I always assumed there was an alienation from the culture of modern, commercial country music (eternally…) which, in some tangible way, crossed over into the audio of the music.

There was a year (Void know how far back) where I was revisiting the entire discography of Bruce Springsteen once again to see if there were any new dimensions I’d missed from previous playthroughs (I’ll remind I’ve been listening to him since before I was 10) and I’d been playing through various renditions he’d done of “Johnny 99”. I dunno if it’s as true, – for me – anymore, but I was finding all sorts of live renditions I found I preferred over the studio releases and I’d been cycling through different versions of “Johnny 99” I found interesting; not being able to remember enough to compare with the studio rendition, I decided to relisten to it.

It’s taken way too many years for me to finally appreciate just what the Nebraska album is doing but I think “Johnny 99” captures exactly everything I find important about that album. The track starts out with a absolute silence for a full three seconds before a prolonged, almost yearning, whooping sets in and builds before petering out. The bulk of the song is about a worker edged out of being able to provide for his family until he attempts to hold up a place and then immediately being arrested before the heist is over; he is later sentenced to life before attempting to convince the judge to consider capital punishment, instead.

And yet, for a fairly energetic song, it manages to capture a feeling of harrowing isolation and painful severance from those around your in a way that doesn’t come off as…fun? And it’s not like it isn’t fairly close (or probably shares heritage with) what’s often classified as rockabilly – like, it’s readily recognizable from the main riff throughout the song; but every Bluegrass or country cover I’ve ever heard of it always seems like it sliced all of that entirely off (in a song about how poverty destroys communities).

I was reading an article about black artists and their navigation and negotiation with and in county music and Rhiannon Giddens says, in regards to why black people aren’t (broadly speaking) into country, that, “It’s wrapped up in our culture, which is forward-looking, while country is a music of nostalgia.” And it clicked.

Not that I’m not a creature of nostalgia; I love nostalgia. But, probably impacted by my depression, the nostalgia I tend to visit is that of isolation, bittersweet; that’s my bread and butter.

And the nostalgia that tends to run throughout so much of modern country music is one of fond contentment and reassurance or pleasure-seeking, to the exile of nearly any other competing emotion. And that’s it, I think; that’s why I can perfectly fine connect with “Jolene” but Hank Williams’s “Rootie Tootie” feels like a hate crime. Why Leadbelly can record a song like this and Patti Page end up with this. Considering Ralph Peer’s marketing strategy for the talent he scouted, perhaps there’s a deeper reading of Accustomed Whiteness to be had, here…

And it’s just so…robbing. It literally feels like there’s nothing of nourishment, there; storytelling, characters to become invested in…nothing. Just a catchy tune that had lyrics slapped on it; and it’s not separate from the alienation I feel from it all, culturally (and all the history that impacts that formation), but, even if we were to ignore the racial history of the south, that’s probably still be enough for me to not gather any interest in it, at all.

[briamichellewrites]

39

Brian got his first tattoo. He talked with the artist about the idea he had in his head. What was his idea? He wanted a memorial tattoo for his parents, who died in a drunk driving accident. After pulling out the news report he found online, they looked over it together while coming up with a sketch. An angel wing that would start at his shoulder and go down to his elbow with a multicolored butterfly underneath. The artist would then finish with their names underneath.

It hurt like hell and it took hours to do because he took a couple breaks to keep his arm from getting numb. But it was worth it in the end because it looked so cool! He never met his parents? No, his mother was pregnant with him at the time. The accident caused her to go into labor. She died shortly thereafter from her injuries. His father died almost immediately.

Brad and Mike thought it was a great memorial to his parents. How was his arm? It was still sore. Brad gave him a couple Advil from the medicine cabinet. He took them with a glass of water.

“Don’t sleep on that side. It will cause it to hurt more.”

“I’ll try not to.”

Mike wasn’t interested in tattoos. He liked to look at them but he would never get them himself. Chester and Dave were covered in them and they had different meanings to them. Would he get more? Hell yeah but not for a while. He thought blackout tattoos were cool and he almost got one on his finger but the artist advised him against it because it was his first tattoo and he didn’t want him to regret it later. Maybe in the future.

Since breaking up, Mike and Brad were getting along great! They were putting their son first and he felt like they were a family again. Maybe Mike would move out in the future but for now, he was happy with the arrangement he had with Brad. He and Dave were dating, though they were taking their relationship slowly.

They were not calling each other their boyfriend quite yet because they weren’t ready for that. Brad was going to stay single for a while until he was ready to start dating again. He wanted to be there for Brian and work on his career. They were helping him find a house with the money he got from his inheritance and from the restitution paid to him by the driver who caused the accident.

It was a couple of million dollars. He didn’t want anything too expensive. Just something simple. That worked for them. The legal age to buy a house was eighteen, though he may need a co-singer because it was his first home. The following day, he was going into the studio with Mike. He and the band were going to be taking turns recording their songs. Brian wanted to be an alternative country artist. Why country? He wanted to tell stories like Bruce Springsteen and Johnny Cash.

There was a new country artist he was interested in. Her name was Taylor Swift. He heard her song, Tim McGraw on the radio and he liked her sound. For the past couple of years, he had been working on his album with Mike and Brad. Though progress was slow since he was going through his transition. That was fine. Country music was part of the American Top 40 charts.

He didn’t want to make music about riding in trucks and drinking beer. Instead, he wanted to make music about life and everything going on around him. Whether that was falling in love, finding out who he was and having fun. Typical themes for teenagers.

The band wanted to see his tattoo when he showed up with Mike. It looked so cool! Did it hurt? Fuck yeah! They laughed before he explained it. The butterfly represented heaven, even though he wasn’t religious. Thomas Mathews and Maggie Johnson. Was that where he got his middle name? Yeah. He named himself after his father. It was very well done. How long did it take? It took about eight hours just for the tattooing, with a couple of breaks.

He was at the shop though for about ten hours. They had a break for lunch. Then, he had another break to use the bathroom and to give his arm a rest. He went by himself, but he was keeping his father and Mike informed of where he was. While the artist was setting up, he texted them to let them know it would literally take all day.

“My next tattoo, I’m going to get something small for my wrist to complete the sleeve. Maybe an infinity symbol or something.”

“You have more patience than I do. How the hell did you sit still for that long”, Rob asked.

“I had my iPod and headphones, so I was listening to music.”

“Congratulations. You have proven you can sit still for hours at a time”, Brad joked.

“I was decaffeinated.”

They laughed. As they worked, he was his usual energetic self. Dave could see genuine happiness in him. He heard how upset he had been because of the fighting going on in the house. Mike told him that he had given them an ultimatum – stop fighting or he would be done with them forever. He then clarified that he meant until they got their shit together. Dave thought that was fair. They both agreed that he was more important than being angry at each other.

Selfishly, they didn’t notice how it was affecting him. Despite him telling them over and over to stop putting him in the middle. They thought he was just angry. What they didn’t know was how angry he was. Until they gave him the chance to speak. Yes, he was an adult but it still affected him. It also made them realize what they were teaching him. It was okay to cheat. No, it wasn’t.

They didn’t want him to cheat or be cheated on. Because of him, they apologized to each other for their behavior. He was their son and they were the only parents he knew. Mike had been in his life for about six years. That was long enough to form a father-son relationship. He wanted to have that relationship for the rest of his life. Someday, he would get married and his partner would be his stepparent. He hoped they would love him as much as he did.

“Jack Nicholson is a cool guy. He is one of those guys who can flip a switch and become fucking terrifying. It’s like he goes from a friendly ‘Hi, I’m Jack Nicholson’ to a terrifying ‘I’m going to fucking kill you and make it look like an accident.’”

“What happened between you and Mark Wahlberg”, Mike asked.

They laughed. He told them about playing basketball with him and how they were trash talking each other. It was a lot of fun. Mark was a lot better than he was. He had zero athletic ability. They laughed. Were they done shooting? No, his father was flying to Boston for a few months while he stayed with Mike.

He decided not to go with him because he wanted to work on his album. That was fine with them. Chester asked him if he wanted to hang out. Hell yeah! After working all day, he made plans with Mike before leaving with him. Mike and Dave got back to the house and started making dinner together. Dave was being his usual goofy self to make him laugh. It worked. He told him how adorable he was before they shared a kiss.

@zoeykaytesmom @feelingsofaithless @alina-dixon @fiickle-nia @boricuacherry-blog

[brn1029]

I promise I will not bore the shit outta ya with my Tiny Tim Story….

On date in music history….

November 30th

2012 - Glen Campbell

Glen Campbell played the very last live performance of his lifetime when he appeared at Uptown Theatre in Napa, California. Campbell revealed his Alzheimer's diagnosis to the public in 2011, and had set out on his Goodbye Tour as a way to say farewell to his fans.

2007 - Christies Rock & Roll Auction

During a Christies Rock & Roll auction held the Rockefeller Plaza, New York City a collection of 276 ticket stubs compiled by a rock journalist who covered many rock concerts at New York City venues sold for $2,000. The tickets included concerts by: Jimi Hendrix, The Who, Rolling Stones, Frank Zappa, The Beach Boys, Pink Floyd, The Allman Brothers Band, Led Zeppelin, Neil Young, Fleetwood Mac, Grateful Dead and Bruce Springsteen.

2002 - George Harrison

High Court probate records showed that George Harrison left his fortune of £99m in a trust to his wife Olivia and his son Dhani, depriving the taxman of £40m. His English mansion near Henley-on-Thames was said to be worth £15m.

2000 - Loverboy

Scott Smith bassist for the Canadian rock band Loverboy died age 45. He was sailing his boat with two friends off the coast of San Francisco near the Golden Gate Bridge, when a large wave swept him overboard. Loverboy were best known for their hit singles ‘Working for the Weekend’ and ‘Turn Me Loose’, although their US Top Ten hits were ‘Lovin' Every Minute of It’ in 1985 and ‘This Could Be the Night’. Loverboy sold over 23 million records and in 1986 the band won six Juno Awards in 1982. He also later worked as a late-night radio DJ at CFOX.

1999 - Elton John

Elton John was blasted by the Boy Scout Association after he appeared on stage at London's Albert Hall performing 'It's A Sin' with six male dancers dressed as Boy Scouts. The dancers had peeled of their uniforms during the performance.

1999 - Don Harris

Don 'Sugarcane' Harris was found dead in his Los Angeles apartment at the age of 61. The American guitarist and violinist was part of the 50s duo Don & Dewey. He also worked with Little Richard, John Mayall, Frank Zappa, John Lee Hooker and Johnny Otis.

1996 - Tiny Tim

American singer and ukulele player Tiny Tim (Herbert Khaury) died from a heart attack on stage while playing his hit ‘Tiptoe Through the Tulips’ at a club in Minneapolis. On 17 December 1969, he married Victoria Mae Budinger on The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson, a publicity stunt that attracted over 40 million viewers. (they had a daughter, Tulip Victoria). He performed at the 1970 Isle Of Wight Festival in front of a crowd of 600,000 people.

1971 - Sly and the Family Stone

Sly And The Family Stone were at No.1 on the US singles chart with 'Family Affair', their fourth and final No.1. Rolling Stone magazine later ranked the song No.138 on their list of the 500 Greatest Songs of All Time.

1969 - Monkees

The Monkees made what would be their last live appearance for 15 years when they played at The Oakland Coliseum, California.

[phroyd]

Charlie Watts, whose strong but unflashy drumming powered the Rolling Stones for over 50 years, died on Tuesday in London. He was 80.

His death, in a hospital, was announced by his publicist, Bernard Doherty. No other details were immediately provided.

The Rolling Stones announced earlier this month that Mr. Watts would not be a part of the band’s forthcoming “No Filter” tour of the United States after he had undergone an unspecified emergency medical procedure, which the band’s representatives said had been successful.

Reserved, dignified and dapper, Mr. Watts was never as flamboyant, either onstage or off, as most of his rock-star peers, let alone the Stones’ lead singer, Mick Jagger; he was content to be one of the finest rock drummers of his generation, playing with a jazz-inflected swing that made the band’s titanic success possible. As the Stones guitarist Keith Richards said in his 2010 autobiography, “Life,” “Charlie Watts has always been the bed that I lie on musically.”

While some rock drummers chased after volume and bombast, Mr. Watts defined his playing with subtlety, swing and a solid groove.“As much as Mick’s voice and Keith’s guitar, Charlie Watts’s snare sound is the Rolling Stones,” Bruce Springsteen wrote in an introduction to the 1991 edition of the drummer Max Weinberg’s book “The Big Beat.” “When Mick sings, ‘It’s only rock ’n’ roll but I like it,’ Charlie’s in back showing you why!”Charles Robert Watts was born in London on June 2, 1941. His mother, the former Lillian Charlotte Eaves, was a homemaker; his father, Charles Richard Watts, was in the Royal Air Force and, after World War II, became a truck driver for British Railways.Charlie’s first instrument was a banjo, but, baffled by the fingerings required to play it, he removed the neck and converted its body into a snare drum. He discovered jazz when he was 12 and soon became a fan of Miles Davis, Duke Ellington and Charles Mingus.By 1960, Mr. Watts had graduated from the Harrow School of Art and found work as a graphic artist for a London advertising agency. He wrote and illustrated “Ode to a Highflying Bird,” a children’s book about the jazz saxophonist Charlie Parker (although it was not published until 1965). In the evenings, he played drums with a variety of groups.

Most of them were jazz combos, but he was also invited to join Alexis Korner’s raucous rhythm-and-blues collective, Blues Incorporated. Mr. Watts declined the invitation because he was leaving England to work as a graphic designer in Scandinavia, but he joined the group when he returned a few months later.

The newly formed Rolling Stones (then called the Rollin’ Stones) knew they needed a good drummer but could not afford Mr. Watts, who was already drawing a regular salary from his various gigs. “We starved ourselves to pay for him!” Mr. Richards wrote. “Literally. We went shoplifting to get Charlie Watts.”In early 1963, when they could finally guarantee five pounds a week, Mr. Watts joined the band, completing the canonical lineup of Mr. Richards, Mr. Jagger, the guitarist Brian Jones, the bassist Bill Wyman and the pianist Ian Stewart. He moved in with his bandmates and immersed himself in Chicago blues records.In the wake of the Beatles’ success, the Rolling Stones quickly climbed from being an electric-blues specialty act to one of the biggest bands in the British Invasion of the 1960s. While Mr. Richards’s guitar riff defined the band’s most famous single, the 1965 chart-topper “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction,” Mr. Watts’s drum pattern was just as essential. He was relentless on “Paint It Black” (No. 1 in 1966), supple on “Ruby Tuesday” (No. 1 in 1967) and the master of a funky cowbell groove on “Honky Tonk Women” (No. 1 in 1969).

Mr. Watts was ambivalent about the fame that he achieved as a member of the group that has often been called “the world’s greatest rock ’n’ roll band.” As he said in the 2003 book “According to the Rolling Stones”: “I loved playing with Keith and the band — I still do — but I wasn’t interested in being a pop idol sitting there with girls screaming. It’s not the world I come from. It’s not what I wanted to be, and I still think it’s silly.”

As the Stones rolled through the years, Mr. Watts drew on his graphic-arts background to contribute to the design of the band’s stage sets, merchandise and album covers — he even contributed a comic strip to the back cover of their 1967 album “Between the Buttons.” While the Stones cultivated bad-boy images and indulged a collective appetite for debauchery, Mr. Watts mostly eschewed the sex and drugs. He clandestinely married Shirley Anne Shepherd, an art-school student and sculptor, in 1964.

On tour, he would go back to his hotel room alone; every night, he sketched his lodgings. “I’ve drawn every bed I’ve slept in on tour since 1967,” he told Rolling Stone magazine in 1996. “It’s a fantastic nonbook.”Similarly, while other members of the Stones battled for control of the band, Mr. Watts largely stayed out of the internal politics. As he told The Weekend Australian in 2014, “I’m usually mumbling in the background.”Mr. Jones, who considered himself the leader, was fired from the Stones in 1969 (and found dead in his swimming pool soon after). Mr. Jagger and Mr. Richards spent decades at loggerheads, sometimes making albums without being in the studio at the same time. Mr. Watts was happy to work with either, or both.

“Never call me your drummer again,” he told Mr. Jagger, before grabbing him by the lapel and delivering a right hook. Mr. Richards said he narrowly saved Mr. Jagger from falling out a window into an Amsterdam canal.“It’s not something I’m proud of doing, and if I hadn’t been drinking I would never have done it,” Mr. Watts said in 2003. “The bottom line is, don’t annoy me.”At the time, Mr. Watts was in the early stages of a midlife crisis that manifested itself as a two-year bender. Just as the other Stones were settling into moderation in their 40s, he got hooked on amphetamines and heroin, nearly destroying his marriage. After passing out in a recording studio and breaking his ankle when he fell down a staircase, he quit, cold turkey.Mr. Watts and his wife had a daughter, Seraphina, in 1968 and, after spending some time in France as tax exiles, relocated to a farm in southwestern England. There they bred prizewinning Arabian horses, gradually expanding their stud farm to over 250 horses on 700 acres of land. Information on his survivors was not immediately available. Mr. Doherty, the publicist, said Mr. Watts had “passed away peacefully” in the hospital “surrounded by his family.”

Eventually the Stones settled into a cycle of releasing an album every four years, followed by an extremely lucrative world tour. (They grossed over a half-billion dollars between 2005 and 2007 on their “Bigger Bang” tour.)But Mr. Watts’s true love remained jazz, and he would fill the time between those tours with jazz groups of various sizes — the Charlie Watts Quintet, the Charlie Watts Tentet, the Charlie Watts Orchestra. Soon enough, though, he would be back on the road with the Stones, playing in sold-out arenas and sketching beds in empty hotel rooms.He was not slowed down by old age, or by a bout with throat cancer in 2004. In 2016, the drummer Lars Ulrich of Metallica told Billboard that since he wanted to keep playing into his 70s, he looked to Mr. Watts as his role model. “The only road map is Charlie Watts,” he said.Through it all, Mr. Watts kept on keeping time on a simple four-piece drum kit, anchoring the spectacle of the Rolling Stones.“I’ve always wanted to be a drummer,” he told Rolling Stone in 1996, adding that during arena rock shows, he imagined a more intimate setting. “I’ve always had this illusion of being in the Blue Note or Birdland with Charlie Parker in front of me. It didn’t sound like that, but that was the illusion I had.”

Phroyd

[howdon-aldi-death-queue]

NEW SAM FENDER INTERVIEW FOR NME

THE BIG READ

Sam Fender: “This album is probably the best thing I’ve done in my life”

The hometown hero has distanced himself from the ‘Geordie Springsteen’ tag, but there’s no shortage of rites-of-passage yarns and colossal tunes on the upcoming ‘Seventeen Going Under’

“You can see the ghost of Thatcherism over there…” says Sam Fender, pointing across the water to a vacant shipyard, where once the shipbuilding industry was so healthy that vessels towered higher than the rows of houses on the shore. We’re on the waterfront in North Shields, just outside Newcastle, and our photographer is snapping away for Sam’s first NME cover shoot.

The singer-songwriter stares stonily into the lens as wafts of seaweed and fishing trawlers are carried by the northern coastal breeze. He’s already been stopped for a few pictures with fans, but remains eager to point out the impact that Tory leadership has had on his working-class town over the last few decades. “It’s been closed since the ’80s, from the ghost wasteland of the shipyards. You’ve got all the scars of Thatcherism from The Tyne all over to the pit villages in Durham.”

It’s as good an introduction as any to the outspoken musician, whose 2019 debut album ‘Hypersonic Missiles’ was a record for his sleepy hometown to be proud of – tackling themes that range from male suicide (the heartbreaking ‘Dead Boys’) to world tensions (and the “kids in Gaza” he eulogised on its soaring title track). He set weighty topics against blisteringly well-executed Americana with the fist-in-the-air euphoria of Bruce Springsteen’s colossal choruses and sax solos. Much like his hero, Sam smartly weaves his own political standpoint and personal circumstance into gripping anthems of a generation, which earned him the ‘Geordie Springsteen’ tag.

“I can’t exactly bat off those comparisons, can I?” he says back in his cosy recording studio nearby. “At the same time, I don’t feel worthy of that tag. The first time I heard it, I was like, ‘That’s fucking sick’, but you don’t want to be riding off the coattails of The Boss for the rest of your life. I can write my own songs, they’re different and my voice doesn’t sound anything like Springsteen’s. I don’t have his growl; I’m a little fairy when I sing.”

He may have toned down the Springsteen vibes slightly on his highly anticipated second album ‘Seventeen Going Under’, due later this year, but there are still plenty of chest-pounding anthems capable of making your hairs stand on end: “I much prefer Americana to the music we have in our country at the moment. I love the leftfield indie stuff like Fontaines D.C, Squid and Black Midi, but I love a chorus and melodic songs. I think the American alternative scene has that down with Pinegrove, Big Thief, The War On Drugs.”

‘Hypersonic Missiles’ thrummed with a small town frustration almost that every suburban teenager could surely relate to. This was most notable on ‘Leave Fast’, where he sang about the “boarded up windows on the promenade / The shells of old nightclubs” and “intoxicated people battling on the regular in a lazy Low Lights bar”, a reference to his beloved local. But album two sees him fully embrace North Shields, an ever-present backdrop to cherished memories and harrowing life events of his youth and surroundings.

It’s no coincidence that the 27-year-old has turned inwards and penned a record about his hometown while being stuck at home like the rest of the country: “I didn’t have anything to point at and I didn’t want to talk about the pandemic because nobody wants that – I never want to hear about it again. It was such a stagnant time that I had to go inwards and find something, because I was so uninspired by the lifetime we we’re living in.

“I’ve made my coming-of-age record and that was important for me – as I get older, these stories keep appearing; I’ve got so much to talk about. I wrote about growing up here. It’s about mental health and how things that happen as a child impact your self-esteem in later life. On the first record, I was pointing at stuff angrily, but the further I’ve gotten into my 20s, the more I’ve realised how little I know about anything. When you hit 25, you’re like: ‘I’m fucking clueless! I know nothing about the world.’ It was a humbling experience, growing up.”

Early last year, before the pandemic hit, Sam was set to jet off to New York pre-pandemic to record in the city’s infamous Electric Lady studios founded by Jimi Hendrix. “Looking back, I’m thankful that it happened,” he says. “If I went off to New York and did my second album there… it wouldn’t have been the same record. I will go and do the third one in NYC, come hell or high water – I’m fucking out of here!

“The forced return home really informed the direction [of the record]. I was on the crest of this insane wave; we’d sold out 84,000 tickets for the [‘Hypersonic Missiles] arena tour that we still haven’t played yet. I’m still waiting to hear when it’s going to be rescheduled. It’s incredibly frustrating; I’ve got loads of frustrated fans. That was all cancelled on the day of the lockdown. I thought it was only going to be a couple of months and that it would be another swine flu thing, but fool me – I was stuck in the house like everybody else.”

It’s not the first setback that Sam has dealt with in his career. In the summer of 2019, he was ready to make his Glastonbury Festival debut with a Friday afternoon set on the legendary John Peel Stage, a rite of passage for any emerging artist, but had to pull out due to a serious health issue with his vocal chords. The mood in the room shifts dramatically at the mention of this devastating period: “I don’t want to focus on that, to be honest, because it’s just negative news and it’s in the past.”

“The further I’ve gotten into my 20s, the more I’ve realised how little I know”

Looking back now, he says, it was a tough decision, but ultimately the right thing to do: “We were doing so much at the time and I just burnt out. If you damage your vocal cords, you can’t take it lightly. If something happens like that and you keep going, you’ll fucking lose your career forever. I never want to end up behind the knife; I just refuse to put myself in that situation.”

The fact that his 2019 breakthrough ground to a halt again in COVID-decimated 2020 “was frustrating as fuck”, he says, “but I took solace in the fact that everyone was stopped in their tracks that time; it wasn’t just me.” This was in stark contrast to the singer’s experience of pulling the biggest moment of his music career in order to rest his vocal cords: “I didn’t talk for three weeks; I had to be silent and just watch Glastonbury on the TV, going, ‘This is completely dogshit’. But you can’t even say that out loud – you’re just saying it over in your head like a psycho. I’d take a pandemic over that any day.”

There was a brief flash of light when he headlined the opening night at the world’s first socially distanced arena, Newcastle’s Virgin Money Unity venue, to an audience of 2,500. Yet Sam’s not in the mood to wax lyrical about that, either. “It was amazing,” he says, “but it didn’t happen again.” A local lockdown in the North East brought the following shows – which would have featured Kaiser Chiefs and Declan McKenna – to a premature end in September: “It was another false start. We thought everything was going to get moving again but then we were just sat around [again].”

As for this reaction to the Government’s handling of the pandemic? It perhaps says it all that he’s selling face masks emblazoned with the words ‘2020 Shit Show’ and ‘Dystopian Nightmare Festival’ on his website. “I think everyone has said enough haven’t they?” Sam suggests. “I never want to see Boris Johnson’s or Matt Hancock’s face ever again. As soon as they come on the TV, I just turn it off.”

Political tension bubbles through ‘Seventeen Going Under’. Its second half boasts tracks such as ‘Long Way Off’, a brooding but colossal festival anthem brimming with angst and unease. “Standing on the side I never was the silent type,” Fender roars, “I heard a hundred million voices / sound the same both left and right / we’re still alone we are.” It’s gripping stuff; a Gallagher-level anthem ripe for pyro and pints held aloft.

Sam says the song is about feeling stranded amid political divisiveness here and in the US, epitomised when Donald Trump supporters stormed the Capitol in Washington back in January: “You’ve either got right-wing, racist idiots or you’ve got this elitist, upper-middle-class section of the left-wing, which completely alienates people like myself and people from my hometown.”

“The polarity between the left and the right has me feeling like I have no identity”

Closer to home, the last UK election, in 2019, saw the so-called ‘Red Wall’ crumble as working-class voters in the north defected from Labour to Tory. “The polarity between the left and the right has me feeling like I have no identity,” Sam says. “I’m obviously left-wing, but you lose hope don’t you? Left-wing politics has lost its main votership; it doesn’t look after working-class people the way that it used to. Blyth Valley voted Tory just north of here. Now, that is saying something! We’re in dire straits when a fucking shipbuilding town is voting for the Tories – it’s like foxes voting for the hunter.”

He’s even seen his own working-class friends peel to the blue side: “I’m like, ‘What the fuck is going on?’ I understand it, though. I’d never vote for the bastards because I fucking hate them and I know what they’re up to, but I get why people don’t feel any alliegiance to left-wing politics when they’re working-class.”

As ever though, Sam isn’t masquerading as an expert: “I’m not fucking Noam Chomsky, you know what I mean? I’m not going to dissect the whole political agenda of the Tories and figure it all out because I can’t. All I see is a big fucking shit sandwich – every day through my news feed – and it’s just, ‘Well: that’s what your dealing with.”

The singer is fond of describing North Shields as “a drinking town with a fishing problem”. Today he adds: “That’s been the backdrop of my life: all of these displaced working-class people. It’s a town that’s resilient that still has a strong sense of community. In a lot of big cities that’s dead. In London everything changes from postcode to postcode, but everything is quite uniform up here.”

When NME was awaiting Sam’s arrival outside the studio before the interview, a passerby clocked our photographer’s gear and asked, “Oh aye – are you waiting for Sam? We all know Sam – a good lad; very accommodating with nae airs or graces about him.” Another pointed to The Low Lights Tavern down the road, where Fender used to pull pints on the weekends: “He was a terrible barman, and he’ll be the first to tell you that. I think he got sacked about six times during his time there.”

Sam (who confesses of his bartending know-how: “He’s totally right!”) hit the local to celebrate when ‘Hypersonic Missiles’ won him a Critics’ Choice gong at the BRIT Awards in 2019, placing the trophy on the bar. “I owed The Low Lights one for being such a shit barman,” he says. “I wanted them to be proud of us because they fucking certainly wasn’t proud of us when I was around working there!”

“Celebrity stuff freaks me out. I’d rather just live my life”

He’s clearly a key member of the local community, then. How did he see the pandemic impact on his family and friends – especially when the North East faced the toughest Tier Four lockdown restrictions last December? Sam pauses before bluntly saying: “I lost more mates; there was suicides again. Mental health was the biggest thing. We lost friends who had drunk too much.”

A track on the new record, ‘The Dying Light‘, is an epic sequel to ‘Dead Boys’, with the poignant last line of the album ringing out “for all the ones who didn’t make the night”. Sam, unable to truly distance himself from The Boss after all, explains: “It’s very Springsteen. It’s my ‘Jungleland’ or ‘Thunder Road’ – it’s got that ‘Born To Run’ feel; there’s strings and brass [and] it’s fucking massive. It’s a celebration. It’s a triumph over adversity.”

He stresses that it was vital for him to be in regular contact with his friendship circle through that traumatic time: “It becomes important when you lose friends to suicide… You realise it’s always the unlikely folks. We lost a friend to suicide at the beginning of last year and it was someone you’d never expect. It really hits home; it’s important to check in on your mates.”

Sam has alluded in previous interviews to a health condition that he’s not yet ready to fully disclose, and tells NME that he spent three months shielding at the beginning of the pandemic: “I was alone for three months and that was very tough… When you’re completely alone and isolated, it’s impossible. I spent a lot of time drinking and not really looking after myself and eating shit food, but I wrote a lot of good lyrics.”

There’s a certain resulting bleakness to some of his new songs, but Sam also wanted light to shine through. “It’s a darker record, but it’s a celebration of surviving and coming out the other end,” he explains. “It’s upbeat but the lyrics can be quite honest. It’s the most honest thing I’ve done.”

You might expect a young hometown hero to rail at having been denied the chance to capitalise on his burgeoning fame in the last year or so, but Sam insists, “I still have imposter syndrome,” adding: “I don’t feel like it’s happened… I’m walking around the street and people ask for photos and it just feels bizarre. I’m like, really? I feel like I haven’t come out of my shell yet.”

Sam has rarely been one to court celebrity, and revealed in 2019 that he’d turned down the chance to appear in an Ariana Grande video. “It was an honour but I would have just been known as that guy in the video,” he tells NME. “All of my mates would have been flipping their heads off, but I don’t think she would really want an out-of-shape, pale Geordie. I’d rather just live my life, because all of this celebrity stuff freaks [me] out, you know?”

He might have to get used to it: things can only get bigger with the arrival of the new album. “As a record I think this one is leagues ahead [of ‘Hypersonic Missiles’],” he says, “I’m more proud of this than anything I’ve ever done. It’s probably the best thing I’ve done in my life. I just hope people love it as much as I do. With the first album, a lot of those songs were written when I was 19, so I was over half of it [by the time it was released]. Whereas this one is where I’m at now.”

“This is a dark record, but it’s a celebration of surviving and coming out the other end”

Still, he adds: “At the same time, this record is probably going to piss a lot of people off.” He’s referring to a line in one of the more political tracks, ‘Aye’, where he returns to his most enduring bugbear, divisiveness, and claims that “the woke kids are just dickheads”. Sam’s no less forthcoming in person: “They fucking are, though! Some 22-year-old kid from Goldsmiths University sitting on his fucking high horse arguing with some working-class person on some comments section calling them an ‘idiot’ and a ‘bigot’? Nobody engages each other in a normal discussion [online] without calling each other a ‘thick cunt’.”

He’s eager to make this statement, though, come what may: “I don’t fucking care any more. I’m not really sure how the reaction is going to be. People used to say things online about me and I used to get quite hurt about it, but now I’m like, ‘Well, they’re not coming to my house’… [But] I get so angry. In Newcastle we say ‘pet’ and someone was trying to tell me that was fucking offensive towards women. You’re not going to delete my fucking colloquial identity. It’s not even gender-specific; we say it to men and women. My Grandma calls me ‘pet’! That brand of liberalism is fucking destroying the country. We could be getting Boris Johnson and all them pricks out of office if we stopped sweating over shit like that”.

Sam might be outspoken, but he’s self-aware, too. When we were talking politics earlier, he said: “I didn’t want to start on ‘cancel culture’ because I don’t want to sound like Piers Morgan [and] I fucking hate that cunt. But there is a degree of it which lacks redemption; people fuck up. Everyone is a flawed character. If you’re not admitting that you have flaws, then you’re a fucking psychopath. The left-wing seem to be that way and the right-wing are fucking worse than they’ve ever been. Politically I have just lost my shit.”

In all of this uncertainty, though, it seems a sure thing that Sam Fender will take his rightful crown – as soon as the world lets him – with the colossal ‘Seventeen Going Under’. “It’s going to be a hell of a return,” he insists. “I know the fans are still there, you know? So I’m not really worried – I’m ready to go out there and do my thing. Finally!”

[midnightswithdearkatytspb]

I Hear A Symphony (Bucky Barnes x Mutant!Reader)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Mutant!Reader

Rating: PG - Pure Fluff & Making Out

Word Count: 907 

Synopsis: Reader plays an important song to her for Bucky. 

Info: Anon thanks for requesting this, sorry it took so long to get back to you. You guys can now make request based around Bucky x Mutant!Reader! Thank you @literate-lamb for beta-reading this and @bbonkyy​ for giving this a title! Divider is by @firefly-graphics​ ✨

“Come cuddle with us!” Y/N looked up from where she sat on the floor of her bedroom, Bucky laying on her bed with her dog Hera. She had been putting away the vinyls she bought that afternoon while out with Bucky, along with the ones her father had shipped earlier in the week, trying to make them look aesthetically pleasing and less messy as possible.

Getting up on her knees she pulled a vinyl from the left stack and placed it on the turntable. Turning it on, she placed the needle, letting the sound of Fleetwood Mac’s harmony fill the room. Bucky smiled as his girlfriend started crawling towards him and up on the bed, with a smile on her face. Hera pulled away from Bucky’s side, jumping off the bed before going over to her own smaller version, knowing the couple was about to cuddle.

Y/N threw her body into Bucky’s side, throwing him off guard. 

“Umph.” Bucky exaggerated with a smirk, as Y/N giggled placing her head on his bicep. He brushed the bangs out of her eyes and stared at her adoringly as the music continued to play softly, her foot tapping to the beat. 

“What are we listening to today?” He pulled her closer to his body if that was even possible. Y/N grabbed Bucky’s flesh hand in her left, intertwining their fingers together.

“Fleetwood Mac’s self titled album. I didn’t start it at the beginning though, because I wanted to play my favorite song for you.” For the last year, since Bucky and Y/N had started dating, she had been introducing her music taste to him along with her vinyl collection. They tried to listen to a vinyl or two a week while winding down together. Whether it was reading, cooking, or just laying beside each other. 

Bucky found he especially liked the 70’s, 80’s and 90's more than the newer music that was out there so far. When they had gone out to thrift stores or to record stores in the city, he found himself gravitating towards the artists from those eras more than the rest. Bruce Springsteen and Nat King Cole had been his favorite so far. After Y/N’s parents had gifted him a record player for Christmas, he started creating his own collection. One that could almost rival Y/N’s.

“Is that the band with the Tusk album?” His face scrunched up in recollection of Y/N’s extensive CD collection as well. Humming in confirmation, she smiled. It meant a lot to her that Bucky was paying attention to something that brought her joy. 

“This next song is the song my parents danced to in front of my dad’s parents the night they eloped. They were in this small apartment that my Dad was renting, he looked at my Mom and said the next song that comes on is our wedding song. When it came on, Dad said Mom had the biggest smile on her face. My grandparents the next day went into town, got them the record and a record player. From that day forward this was their song.” Y/N tilted her head to look up at Bucky who was smiling down at her. His metal hand gently rubbed the bare skin of her bicep, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“When they are sad, they dance to this song. When they are happy, they dance to this song. When they just want to be in each other’s arms, they dance to this song. When I came along, my parents sort of just added me into the dancing, I just associate this song with love.” 

Kissing her on the temple, Bucky, couldn’t help but smile as he pictured Y/N’s parents through the years, dancing in their living room with little Y/N/N. 

“I took my love, took it down, I climbed a mountain, and I turned around. And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills, till the landslide brought me down.” Y/N was singing along to Stevie Nicks while looking at Bucky, shivers going down his spine.

“Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love? Can the child within my heart rise above? Can I sail through the changing ocean tides? Can I handle the seasons of my life? Hmmmm…” Closing his eyes Bucky couldn’t help but picture his life with Y/N, the life her parents had. A house, a family, where together they would dance to this song, in their living room before bed.

“But time makes you bolder, even children get older. And I'm getting older too. Oh, I'm getting older too.” Bucky leaned in and brushed his lips against Y/N who deepened it, their legs entangling with one another as they continued to embrace.

“I take my love, take it down. Oh, climb a mountain and turn around, and If you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills. Well, the landslide will bring you down. And If you see my reflection in the snow covered hills. Well, the landslide will bring you down. Oh, the landslide will bring it down.” They pulled apart to catch their breath, foreheads touching as the song came to a close. Y/N’s eyes closed with a smile on her face.

“I think this could be my favorite song too.” Bucky confided, making butterflies fill his significant others stomach.

[sadaboutniall]

happy halloween! 👻 here’s a quickie little yn x niall fic to celebrate my fave holiday! this song is the vibe, if you want some listening to go along with.

the moon laughs and whispers, ‘tis near Halloween

Unsurprisingly, Halloween is perfectly at home in Edinburgh. The night is dark and damp, a pervasive chill hanging in the air as you and your friends rush  drunkenly along the cobblestone street, rain hitting the backs of your necks, and  warm, golden lamplight from flats above trickling out onto the dark stone. The city is as alive as it always is—alive in a way that feels like a million different lives, like it somehow knows both the past and the future, like it’s holding you close but also hurtling you forward. It feels like tonight is a special night—and, although you have no real reason to think this Halloween will be different from any other Halloween, you let that feeling in, let it settle into your bones and carry you forward toward the party. 

It had been Fiona’s idea, going to the football squad’s Halloween party. Your other friends had championed a pub crawl or a scary movie night at the flat, but Fiona’d heard about the football party and, knowing the keeper she’s been crushing on would surely be there, insisted. And now you’re here, drunk in a witch costume on a dark October eve, your pointed hat barely keeping the rain off your face, orange and brown leaves crunching under the heel of your boots  as you pick up the pace and run toward the party, giggling into the night.

The football house is packed even fuller than you’d imagined it would be, the air thick with the smell of beer and weed and Fiona, dressed as Posh Spice, spots the keeper just milliseconds after your group ducks into the party, disappearing in a flurry of rhinestones. It leaves just three of you—Fleur, Amina, and yourself—standing in the middle of a heaving party, first years entirely out of their element. 

“Drinks?” Fleur, dressed as a zombie bride, asks. 

“Drinks.” Echoes Amina, the antennas on her alien costume bobbing as she nods her head. 

The three of you clasp hands so as not to lose each other and Fleur leads the way, zig zagging through the crowd of goblins and ghouls and strangely sexual Boris Johnson costumes until she finds the kitchen, a dark, damp little room with one, singular coffin shaped window above the sink and no furniture save for a wooden table in the middle of the room, without a single chair. Atop the table sits a literal cauldron, cast iron and all, with a pink liquid gently swaying inside. 

“Ick,” says Amina, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth. “Boys.”

“It doesn’t look like anyone’s been in here for a hundred years,” you say, voice low. Something about the room makes you feel like you’ve travelled a million miles away from the party, just on the other side of the door. You can’t hear a thing in here—just the pitter patter of the rain against the window, and the creaking of the floorboards as Fleur steps forward.

“That’s probably true,” she laughs, peering into the cauldron. “I bet none of these lads can cook. They must order Nando’s every night.”

“Probably,” Amina agrees, stepping forward to peer over Fleur’s shoulder. “At least they went through the effort of making a mixed drink, though. I’m far too bloated for a beer.”

“Aye,” Fleur’s Scottish accent thickens when she’s drunk, but it sounds even thicker all of a sudden. “Commitment to the theme as well.”

“It smells lovely,” says Amina, shutting her eyes as she smiles. “Like roses.”

“Really?” Fleur says, as you step deeper into the kitchen and join them around the cauldron. “I reckon it smells like chocolate.”

You lean forward, too, despite yourself. The scent of the drink is intoxicating—neither roses nor chocolate but, you think, the distinct smell of a chilly day by the sea: salt air and a rising tide and it’s more like a memory than a scent, a moment in time, the most peculiar sense of deja vu. Whatever it is, it’s not the kind of smell that should be coming from a mixed drink at a house party. Whatever it is, you don’t want to step away from it.

The three of you—the witch, the bride, and the alien—stand over the cauldron for a long moment, breathing it in. There is no sound beyond the rain outside, no semblance of the party raging beyond the kitchen door. It’s just the three of you, this cold, quiet room, and the strangely comforting feeling that you are, after all, not alone. 

“Are there any cups?” Amina speaks first, glancing up at you, across the table from her. Her brown eyes are glassy, her gaze faraway. 

“Cups,” you echo, a little floaty, your mind still by the seaside. “Right. Let me find some.”

The room’s only cabinets flank the sink and the single window, one on each side. You find the first cabinet empty except for a shimmery spider web and an old looking candle, but the second holds exactly what you’re looking for: three cocktail glasses, set on the shelf in a pretty row, glinting despite the dingy light. Perfect.

“Bingo!” You say, turning back toward your friends. “And only three left anyw—guys?”

The room is empty. 

The cauldron still sits atop the table, its intoxicating smell strong as ever, but your friends are not where you left them, twenty seconds ago, when you turned toward the cabinets. Your friends are not anywhere in sight. 

“Guys?” You call out again, taking one step forward. “You’re so not funny. I found cups.”

Silence.

“Fleur? Amina?” You step forward again, toward the center of the room, toward the drink. “You want a drink, or no?” 

Still, silence—somehow more silent than before. Even the rain sounds like it’s whispering. 

“This is fucking freaky,” you say, one last shot, trying to keep the tremble out of your voice. “You guys win, I’m fully freaked out, Happy Halloween.”

Silence. Stillness. A sudden, oppressive need to get out of this room. 

Quick as a cat, you do. 

-- 

When you step back through the door and out into the party, alone, it’s like you were never gone. In fact, it’s a bit like time has stopped—the party is just as packed as it was when you arrived, and you’re pretty sure the same song is still blasting through the speakers. Confused but ignoring it, you start to push your way through the crowd, in search of your friends.

A few steps deeper into the crowd and you spot a sliding back door. It makes perfect sense to you, the idea of Fleur and Amina slipping out into the backyard for some air, so you head straight for it, stepping out into the chilly, dark night. 

The rain has mostly stopped, though the leafy  ground is still damp beneath your feet and the air feels wet, like it could begin again at any moment. Although it’s dark, you can see well enough—the yard is illuminated by a group of jack o’lanterns lined up along the back brick wall, and fairy lights strung between trees, casting a warm, flickering aura—and it’s immediately clear that Amina and Fleur are not out here. In fact, no one is. 

You turn around to head back inside, pulling your phone out of your pocket as you do. And that’s when you walk right into him. 

“Lads, are you—oof. Deo, you eejit—shit, you’re not, I’m so sorry, are you okay?” 

“I—” you step back to collect yourself for a moment, eyes trailing up the hard chest you just stumbled straight into. It’s just a guy—blonde hair, bright blue eyes, thick Irish accent—but there’s something about him that keeps you rooted to your spot. Something about him that feels safer than going back inside. 

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He rushes, when you don’t answer. I should’ve been looking, I’m so sorry.” 

“No, no,” you manage. “I’m fine. It was my fault anyway, was looking at my phone. Are you okay? You sounded, like, worried?” You don’t know this man, you have no idea what his worried sounds like. But you can’t stop yourself from saying it. 

“Can’t find my mates anywhere,” the stranger says, eyes sweeping the backyard over your head. “It’s like they fucking vanished.”

“I lost my friends too,” you echo, turning to look with him, though you know you’ll only find an empty yard. “I thought they might be out here, but nothing.”

“Two lost souls,” says the stranger, a smile in his voice. When you turn back around he’s pulling at his phone, saying, “I’m just going to text them and tell them I’m out here. They can come find me.”

“I was about to do the same,” you tell him, glancing down at your phone in your hands to shoot off the text. “There are way too many people in there.” 

“Wanna wait it out together?” He looks up from his phone, a smile on his face. It brings out one tiny dimple, and sets your heart moving a little faster. “I’m Niall.” 

“I’m a witch,” you smile back at him and he laughs, blue eyes trailing down your body once. It sends a jolt of something through you, makes you hope the flush creeping up your face isn’t visible in the flickering light. 

“Have you got any powers?” Asks Niall, his eyes moving back up to meet yours. The blue is stunningly bright, even in the darkness. 

“That’s for me to know,” you say, more smoothly than you ever imagined. “And you to find out. What’s your costume?”

“You can’t tell?” He glances down at himself, dressed in double denim with an American flag bandana tied around his neck. “Bruce Springsteen.”

“Right,” you nod, though it wasn’t obvious to you at all. “Course. You need to work on that accent, though.” 

“Do I?” He raises an eyebrow, and adopts a surprisingly good—if over exaggerated—New Jersey accent. “I’m pretty proud of it, honestly. Been convincing people that it’s real all night.”

It’s not all that difficult for you to believe, actually, a bunch of drunk Brits buying into a fake, over the top, American accent without a single question. Instead, you ask him, “is there a tragic backstory, then? To go along with the tragic attempt at an accent?”

Niall laughs, bold and loud into the dark night, and suddenly you realize how entirely unafraid you feel with him—how you’d been on edge since the moment you stepped into the party but now that’s gone, evaporated, replaced, with a warm feeling in your belly and Niall’s infectious laughter. You bring your drink up to your lips and take a sip before you realize yet another thing: you have no memory of filling up your cup before leaving the kitchen. 

Across from you, Niall’s clutching what looks like a pint of Guinness, which is a drink that makes very little sense at a house party. The more you think about it, the less of the night makes sense. You shake your head to push it away, not quite ready to give this up just yet. 

Under the golden, flickering light from the jack o'lanterns,  you study Niall: the way his freckles sprinkle across his thick neck, how his roots are so much darker than the blonde at his tips, the tuft of chest hair peeking out from where his denim shirt is unbuttoned—everything about him leaves you breathless, desperate, longing, attracted to him in a way you’ve never experienced before. You feel, distinctly, that you are both supposed to be here, tonight, alone, together. 

You feel, distinctly, that something went out if its way to make sure this would happen. 

And maybe it’s the drink—the mysterious thing that smells like sea salt to you and roses to Amina—but here, with the wind rising around you and the night settling in, you have the distinct feeling that Niall is on the exact same page. 

“I have the strangest feeling,” Niall says, voice dropping to something like a whisper. Behind him, leaves rustle as the wind blows a strong, measured gust though the garden. “We haven’t met before, have we?”

“I don’t think so,” you can’t look anywhere other than Niall’s eyes. “But I know what you mean.”

Niall nods, taking one step forward to lessen the gap between you. He’s so close you can smell him: warm and musky and soft and something else, too—something that reminds you of salt air and days by the sea. “I just feel like,” he says, and you nod. 

“Me too.”

Far, far away someone calls your name, but you can’t stop looking at Niall, stepping closer and closer to him with every distant shout of your name. The shouting grows louder and louder until it’s impossible to ignore, although Niall doesn’t seem to acknowledge it at all. You open your mouth to ask him if he can hear it too, but before you get the chance something shakes your shoulder, calls your name one more time, and you open your eyes. 

“Jesus,” says Amina, a mixture of relief and concern clouding her features. “You are impossible to wake up.”

“I’m—what?” You sit up in bed, head foggy, limbs heavy. “Fuck, what time is it?”

“Noon,” Amina pulls out her phone to check. “We’re gonna be late for our brunch reservations, that’s why I came to wake you up.”

“Oh,” you rub your eyes, shaking your head to try to bring yourself back down to Earth. “I was having such a vivid dream, sorry.”

“It’s cool, just hurry up.” Amina makes her way to your bedroom door, but pauses before she steps back out into the hallway. “Oh, by the way, Fiona said there’s a Halloween party at the football house tonight and she’s fucking desperate to go since she fancies the keeper. Could be fun, no?” 

-- 

On Halloween night, dressed as a witch, you stand in the backyard of the football house with your friends. The yard is illuminated by jack o’lanterns and fairy lights and Fiona is off snogging the keeper upstairs and you feel warm and safe and happy, despite the autumnal chill in the air. As Fleur tells your small group a story about the weird couple sitting across from you at brunch today, you drop your head back to stare up at the night sky, sprinkled with stars, and the full moon peeking out over the clouds. It feels like you are supposed to be here tonight. You exhale, watching your breath fog with the cold and curl in the air above you. 

“I’m going to refill my drink,” you say, smiling at the small group you’ve been standing with. You can feel something budding between Fleur and the pretty girl she’s been chatting to, dressed as Britney Spears, and you want to give them a moment alone. Fleur flashes you a grateful smile as you walk away.

Back inside, you locate the entirely normal kitchen, bright and airy and crowded, with a coffin-shaped window above the sink, and pull open the fridge to grab a beer from the stock inside. When you shut the door, there’s someone standing on the other side. 

He’s dressed as Bruce Springsteen, double denim and an American flag bandana around his neck. He’s blonde hair with dark roots, and bright blue eyes. He’s staring right at you, with an unmistakable look of recognition on his face. 

“Hi,” he says, stepping forward to lessen the gap between you and him. He smells warm and musky and safe—with a whiff of something like salt air.  “Sorry if this is a bit weird, but I’m Niall. Have we—have we met before?”

####

sources for images: 1, 2, 3

[1962dude420-blog]

Today we remember the passing of Joey Ramone who Died: April 15, 2001 in Manhattan, New York

Jeffrey Ross Hyman, known professionally as Joey Ramone, was an American musician, singer, composer, and lead vocalist of the punk rock band the Ramones. Joey Ramone's image, voice, and tenure as frontman of the Ramones made him a countercultural icon.

Jeffrey Ross Hyman was born on May 19, 1951, in Queens, New York City, New York to a Jewish family. His parents were Charlotte (née Mandell) and Noel Hyman. He was born with a parasitic twin growing out of his back, which was incompletely formed and surgically removed. The family resided in Forest Hills, Queens, where Hyman and his future Ramones bandmates attended Forest Hills High School. He grew up with his brother Mickey Leigh. Though happy, Hyman was something of an outcast, diagnosed at 18 with obsessive–compulsive disorder alongside being diagnosed with schizophrenia. His mother, Charlotte Lesher, divorced her first husband, Noel Hyman. She married a second time but was widowed by a car accident while she was on vacation.

Hyman was a fan of the Beatles, the Who, David Bowie, and the Stooges among other bands, particularly oldies and the Phil Spector-produced "girl groups". His idol was Pete Townshend of the Who, with whom he shared a birthday. Hyman took up the drums at 13, and played them throughout his teen years before picking up an acoustic guitar at age 17.

In 1974, Jeffrey Hyman co-founded the punk rock band the Ramones with friends John Cummings and Douglas Colvin. Colvin was already using the pseudonym "Dee Dee Ramone" and the others also adopted stage names using "Ramone" as their surname: Cummings became Johnny Ramone and Hyman became Joey Ramone. The name "Ramone" stems from Paul McCartney: he briefly used the stage name "Paul Ramon" during 1960/1961, when the Beatles, still an unknown five-piece band called the Silver Beetles, did a tour of Scotland and all took up pseudonyms; and again on the 1969 Steve Miller album Brave New World, where he played the drums on one song using that name.

Joey initially served as the group's drummer while Dee Dee Ramone was the original vocalist. However, when Dee Dee's vocal cords proved unable to sustain the demands of consistent live performances, Ramones manager Thomas Erdelyi suggested Joey switch to vocals. Mickey Leigh: "I was shocked when the band came out. Joey was the lead singer and I couldn't believe how good he was. Because he'd been sitting in my house with my acoustic guitar, writing these songs like 'I Don't Care', fucking up my guitar, and suddenly he's this guy on stage who you can't take your eyes off of." After a series of unsuccessful auditions in search of a new drummer, Erdelyi took over on drums, assuming the name Tommy Ramone.

The Ramones were a major influence on the punk rock movement in the United States, though they achieved only minor commercial success. Their only record with enough U.S. sales to be certified gold in Joey's lifetime was the compilation album Ramones Mania. Recognition of the band's importance built over the years, and they are now regularly represented in many assessments of all-time great rock music, such as the Rolling Stone lists of the 50 Greatest Artists of All Time and 25 Greatest Live Albums of All Time, VH1's 100 Greatest Artists of Hard Rock, and Mojo's 100 Greatest Albums. In 2002, the Ramones were voted the second greatest rock and roll band ever in Spin, behind the Beatles.

In 1996, after a tour with the Lollapalooza music festival, the band played their final show and then disbanded.

Ramone's signature cracks, hiccups, snarls, crooning, and youthful voice made him one of punk rock's most recognizable voices. Allmusic.com wrote that "Joey Ramone's signature bleat was the voice of punk rock in America." As his vocals matured and deepened through his career, so did the Ramones' songwriting, leaving a notable difference from his initial melodic and callow style—two notable tracks serving as examples are "Somebody Put Something in My Drink" and "Mama's Boy". Dee Dee Ramone was quoted as saying "All the other singers in New York were copying David Johansen (New York Dolls), who was copying Mick Jagger... But Joey was unique, totally unique."

In 1985, Ramone joined Steven Van Zandt's music industry activist group Artists United Against Apartheid, which campaigned against the Sun City resort in South Africa. Ramone and 49 other recording artists – including Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Keith Richards, Lou Reed and Run DMC — collaborated on the song "Sun City", in which they pledged they would never perform at the resort.

In 1994, Ramone appeared on the Helen Love album Love and Glitter, Hot Days and Music, singing the track "Punk Boy". Helen Love returned the favor, singing on Ramone's song "Mr. Punchy".

In October 1996, Ramone headlined the "Rock the Reservation" alternative rock festival in Tuba City, Arizona. 'Joey Ramone & the Resistance' debuted Ramone's interpretation of Louis Armstrong's "Wonderful World' live, as well as Ramone's choice of Ramones classics and some of his other favorite songs; The Dave Clark Five's "Any Way You Want It", The Who's "The Kids are Alright" and The Stooges' "No Fun."

Ramone co-wrote and recorded the song "Meatball Sandwich" with Youth Gone Mad. For a short time before his death, he took the role of manager and producer for the punk rock band the Independents.

His last recording as a vocalist was backup vocals on the CD One Nation Under by the Dine Navajo rock group Blackfire. He appeared on two tracks, "What Do You See" and "Lying to Myself". The 2002 CD won "Best Pop/Rock Album of the Year" at the 2002 Native American Music Awards.

Ramone produced the Ronnie Spector album She Talks to Rainbows in 1999. It was critically acclaimed but was not very commercially successful. The title track was previously on the Ramones' final studio album, ¡Adios Amigos!.

Joey Ramone died at the age of 49 following a seven-year battle with lymphoma at New York-Presbyterian Hospital on April 15, 2001, a month before he would have turned 50. He was reportedly listening to the song "In a Little While" by U2 when he died. In an interview in 2014 for Radio 538, U2 lead singer Bono confirmed that Joey Ramone's family told him that Ramone listened to the song before he died, which Andy Shernoff (The Dictators) also confirmed.

His solo album Don't Worry About Me was released posthumously in 2002, and features the single "What a Wonderful World", a cover of the Louis Armstrong standard. MTV News claimed: "With his trademark rose-colored shades, black leather jacket, shoulder-length hair, ripped jeans and alternately snarling and crooning vocals, Joey was the iconic godfather of punk."

On November 30, 2003, a block of East 2nd Street in New York City was officially renamed Joey Ramone Place. It is the block where Hyman once lived with bandmate Dee Dee Ramone and is near the former site of the music club CBGB, where the Ramones began their career. Hyman's birthday is celebrated annually by rock 'n' roll nightclubs, hosted in New York City by his brother and, until 2007, his mother, Charlotte. Joey Ramone is interred at Hillside Cemetery in Lyndhurst, New Jersey.

The Ramones were named as inductees to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as part of the class of 2002.

Several songs have been written in tribute to Joey Ramone. Tommy, CJ and Marky Ramone and Daniel Rey came together in 2002 to record Jed Davis' Joey Ramone tribute album, The Bowery Electric. Other tributes include "Hello Joe" by Blondie from the album The Curse of Blondie, "Drunken Angel" by Lucinda Williams, "You Can't Kill Joey Ramone" by Sloppy Seconds, Joey by Raimundos, "I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone" by Sleater-Kinney, "Red and White Stripes" by Moler and "Joey" by the Corin Tucker Band, "I Heard Ramona Sing" by Frank Black, Amy Rigby's "Dancin' With Joey Ramone" and "The Miracle (of Joey Ramone)" by U2.

In September 2010, the Associated Press reported that "Joey Ramone Place," a sign at the corner of Bowery and East Second Street, was New York City's most stolen sign. Later, the sign was moved to 20 ft (6.1 m) above ground level. Drummer Marky Ramone thought Joey would appreciate that his sign would be the most stolen, adding "Now you have to be an NBA player to see it."

After several years in development, Ramone's second posthumous album was released on May 22, 2012. Titled ...Ya Know?, it was preceded on Record Store Day by a 7" single re-release of "Blitzkrieg Bop"/"Havana Affair"