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deadcactuswalking · 1 year

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Top 10 Best Hit Songs of 2006

Content warning: Swearing, brief mentions of drugs, particularly unappealing-sounding sex, problematic behaviour and Chris Brown

2006 was the year Twitter was founded. Fittingly, this is the year Twitter dies. So let’s get straight into it. Shout out Montenegro, these are my favourite hit songs of 2006!

Take a look at this photograph: my favourite hit songs of 2006

You know the gist. I listened to the Billboard Hot 100’s year-end list of the 100 biggest songs of 2006. Is it an accurate list? No. Is it a good list? No. Is it a list? Even that I feel is in dispute. Unlike 2000, where I was unfamiliar with a decent amount of songs, I have some nostalgia for a few of these tracks and it was genuinely difficult to separate that sometimes, but there were many songs I had no idea about or very little memory of that ended up surprising me, and did end up on this list.

Before we get to the list, I’m going to shoot out some honourable mentions, of which there are quite a few of this time around, and a lot more that are just good but not exactly great, and won’t be mentioned here, so let’s zoom through and give a shout out to the hardest cut from this list, “Feel Good Inc.” by Gorillaz, the undeniable banger “Hung Up” by Madonna, the sweetest slow-burn of Mary J. Blige’s “Because of You”, Gnarls Barkley’s fantastic 15 minutes together with “Crazy”, Rihanna flipping a classic sample right on “SOS”, Kelly Clarkson’s best song “Walk Away”, the absolute chaos that is “Money Maker” by Ludacris featuring Pharrell Williams, the surprisingly dynamic and insane fun of “Pump It” by the Black Eyed Peas, Chamillionaire’s all-time banger “Ridin’” featuring Krayzie Bone, “Photograph” by Nickelback - shut up, YOU listen to that chorus and try not to sing along, Young Dro recruiting T.I. for the infectious and kind of pioneering trap anthem “Shoulder Lean”, Eminem’s simultaneously solemn and overblown tribute to himself and his daughter “When I’m Gone” and finally, “For You I Will (Confidence)” by Teddy Geiger. Trans rights forever, let’s get to the list.

#10

So this annual year-end throwback list thing wasn’t intended to be annual, but if it’s going to be, then I may as well lower the stakes from last year’s 2000 extravaganza, and there is no better way to do that than start with funny anecdotes about funny guys. There are two Sean Pauls on this list, and they both appear on multiple songs. One doesn’t have a Wikipedia page, and is only there through features - he’s a member of rap duo YoungBloodZ, who ironically do not appear on this list as a duo. The other Sean Paul, the Jamaican guy we all know and love, has three hits here as the lead act, and just as he pipped the inferior SP to the post with quantity, he did so also with quality. Let’s start this fun list with a fun song.

#10 - “We be Burnin’” - Sean Paul

Peak: #6 | Year-End: #81 (2006), #88 (2005)

Yeah, I didn’t expect Sean Paul to make this list. To be fair, the 10th spot was very much in contention throughout nearly all of this, and on a better day, maybe a day where I cared more about my “credibility” as a “critic”, Gorillaz would be in this spot instead. This one is impossible to not have fun to though, right? Of the three songs from THIS Sean Paul on the list, this is the one that felt the most breezy and tropical, like a complete escape from 2006, which was a hellscape in its own way. Andre Saunders and Delano Thomas mix the digital drums with a killer acoustic guitar rumble that makes the song intense but never aggressive, maintaining a dancehall bounce that of course makes some pop sacrifices but they’re implemented very well - the synth strings in the chorus are lovely inclusions, and it’s not like the chorus ever feels like it interrupts the natural flow of what Sean Paul is doing here. Hell, he returns to different parts of the first verse and the chorus as loosely and organically as possible, and honestly, he’s flowing a lot harder than most American rappers on this list. His melodic tendencies seep into the faster rap flows so seamlessly it’s impressive, and whilst much of the content is just flexing, hanging with girls, and smoking Mary J, that’s the very reason why this song hits for me in the same way it does. It’s a tropical mantra, commanding you not give a damn about what anyone else has to say. Keep burnin’ and not concernin’ what nobody wanna say. I say it’s good advice.

Is this the first best list I’ve written that includes a metal song? I’ve definitely touched on every other genre, even country and reggaetón, and now dancehall, so I may as well hit up the final genre for me to praise in this format. 2006 was a very diverse year-end list at times, and it definitely made listening to it far from a chore. So for probably the first time on this blog ever, let’s sing the praises of a metal band.

#9 - “Call Me When You’re Sober” - Evanescence

Peak: #10 | Year-End: #77

I’m not a fan of Evanescence, mostly because I haven’t looked nearly deep enough into their catalogue - I think I’d like them more than I’d expect to - to really form a full opinion. This song, like “We be Burnin’”, was a late addition to the contentious lower spots on this list, and ultimately won me over because… it’s really literal and straightforward. This is something singer Amy Lee has referenced herself - it’s not draped in metaphors about her breakup with the frontman of Seether (MASSIVE fumble on his behalf), it’s just a cathartic release wherein Lee chooses happiness for herself over continuing to maintain the lie that this relationship is working. As a result, this feels like an intensely personal song, even with the typical Amy Lee belts and the metal backing, and the bloody DJ Lethal turntables. It feels like it wants to keep an inherent distance through all of this overdramatic production, keeping on the defensive, but those lines in the chorus that start with an attack - “you” - end with “me”. All of the anger directed at Mr. Seether - name unnecessary - is rooted so heavily in her own personal frustrations, and those frustrations are heavy to the point where I kind of hate this guy too! Of course, David Campbell’s orchestral arrangement is beautiful, and it getting muddied behind all the metallic intensity spare for brief moments of piano respite in the trip hop bridge furthers that constant split between the inherent distance the song tries to place and the intimacy the song is displaying. Amy Lee’s laugh at the end melts me every time, I love this song - if you forgot about it, give it a relisten. Also, second best pre-chorus on the year-end list: we’ll get to the best in a few songs down the line.

You know, this song would probably be worth an introduction in 2006 but I question the need for it now. For a song from 17 years ago - Jesus Christ, we’re all getting old - this sounds just as fresh. No introduction needed, it’s just a timeless song.

#8 - “Me & U” - Cassie

Peak: #3 | Year-End: #14

You can’t tell me DJ Mustard wasn’t secretly producing songs as early as 2006. He must have been sending Ryan Leslie tips from high school, this has him written all over. Part of that DJ Mustard-like approach is what Cassie hated about the song, and also what made it so forward-thinking: it sounds monotone. There’s a slinky robotic feeling to the entire song, whether it be the extremely simplistic main melody or the squawking metallic synth lead, or especially Cassie’s performance, which despite all of the checks of a functioning R&B vocal performance being there - the multi-tracked harmonies, the rhythmic backing vocals and echoes, whispery cooing, belted riffing - nothing functions the way everyone in 2006 was used to. To this day, probably because it plays on the expectations of the time, it still sounds futuristic, and whilst Cassie shares the Ciara syndrome of not having any weight to her voice, it enhances the performance a lot here, especially in those stray riffs in the chorus that are mixed bizarrely and make their mark in an awkward way that doesn’t fully “mesh”. I don’t know if Ryan Leslie, who produced and wrote the song all by himself, could see into some dystopian future when he was programming that distorted bass, or that a cyborg version of DJ Mustard from the year 3092 was instructing him and Cassie on how to perfect that shrill bridge, but whatever was going on, they pulled it off in a song that is still fascinating now. Maybe when AI has taken over the world, this one won’t be as timeless, but for now, yeah, this still deserves the plays it got back then… and Cassie deserved that career as an R&B superstar that she never really got.

Fun list. Low stakes. This song is hard as bricks.

#7 - “Stay Fly” - Three 6 Mafia featuring Young Buck and 8Ball & MJG

Peak: #13 | Year-End: #92

In the back of my mind, I was waiting for this song the entire time because it’s at the tail-end and I just knew out of my initial skim reading that this was the song that went the hardest out of any on that year-end, with very little hesitation. I mean, when you start with that drawn-out DJ Paul “Yeah” before dropping into a chopped chipmunk soul sample being just murdered by the Memphis rap drums Juicy J placed over them, you just know it’s going to stay at that level of hype for the whole song. Juicy J is obviously at home over those slick guitars and trinkling hi-hats, and then DJ Paul comes in with his slower bombast that shows you exactly why these guys were counterparts for so long in the Memphis rap scene. The way Three 6 take the snares away and loop the sample to intensify the beat while keeping all the claps and snaps is an exemplar of how to mess with a beat and maintain the song’s momentum. It does help that whenever that happens, we either have DJ Paul record-scratching his own vocals or Young Buck delivering an all-time great verse, spluttered with distant yelling ad-libs that transition perfectly into Memphis’ rendition of the Ol’ Dirty Bastard, the menacing sing-songy verse from Crunchy Black. 8Ball’s verse functions as a call-and-response and MJG picks up the pace with a rapid flow for the two closing verses, and once you think they’re going to run out of steam, the song ends, never letting that happen. You’re still going to play it again, though, aren’t you? To hear the elegant string inflections, the monotone sing-a-long chorus, and verses that make the nearly four-minute song feel like it just breezes by.

There are a ton of oddities on this year-end list, from time capsules to failed experiments that still failed hard at the time. Hell, we start with “Bad Day” by Daniel Powter, we have two different Sean Pauls, Jibbs featuring Jibbs and of course, Ludacris giving you swimming lessons on the penis. This next one may be the oddest of them all.

#6 - “London Bridge” - Fergie

Peak: #1 for 3 weeks | Year-End: #22

How this got to #1 is beyond me, let alone three weeks. Maybe it was pure spectacle because this song is… something else. Of course, we start with the now-iconic yelp of “OH SHIT!” - a shout I can’t separate from how it was implemented on Girl Talk’s fantastic mashup album Feed the Animals, in which I wouldn’t be surprised to find half of the songs on the 2006 year-end are sampled in - before Polow da Don hypes the very presence of Fergie over a blaring siren that goes on for way too long and a wonky trumpet that farts under the march of Polow’s percussive cacophony. Critics at the time rendered this a rip-off of “Hollaback Girl” and I do not see it - did Gwen Stefani have every line end with a comically unfitting “OH SHIT!”? Did Mrs. Stefani-Shelton make her chorus a reference to how her panties go down like the London Bridge? Fergie is fully convinced in her incoherent “bars” that the song, which starts sounding like complete ass, doesn’t grow on you as much as it just convinces you to stop worrying about how it sounds, and rather on how you feel. If that feeling is nausea, then I’m pretty sure that’s what Polow da Don intended, considering the quick drunken interlude, and Fergie slurring incomprehensibly with additional “OH SHIT!” yelps over what should be the song’s one space of guitar-inflected peace in the bridge. Eventually, you realise that peace is overrated and you don’t want to leave this alcohol-infused nightmare of a song because if you try, Fergie’s claws will reach out and clasp you in your grip, and all of a sudden, “OH SHIT!” sounds like a pretty reasonable response to your current situation.

One thing I very rarely see this band play into successfully is their manic energy. I’m glad they pulled it off at least once, and to many great returns.

#5 - “Dance, Dance” - Fall Out Boy

Peak: #9 | Year-End: #33

Now THIS has the best pre-chorus on the list. The way that one part of the song elevates the chaos of it all is something Fall Out Boy has rarely replicated since. “Dance, Dance” revolves around a teenage infatuation and naturally, nothing about the song really works all too well apart from its jerkiness. The bassline is pretty undeniable but it’s not like Patrick Stump is sliding here, rather just slipperingly stumbling over his words before the oddly stiff guitars clumsily find their way in some other pocket that the rest of the instrumental decides to respectfully ignore until that pre-chorus compiles all the stray fumbling in one burst of energy that continues less-than-gracefully into the miserable but anthemic chorus. Stump interrupts the second pre-chorus with a distantly-mixed refrain shoved in as if the unabashed misogyny of it intrudes onto his ability to construct basic songs, or thoughts for that matter. All these little details - including the reversed chatter adding that high-school atmosphere - make the song feel like an event and narrative every single time, perfect for one of those teenage-oriented awkward sex comedies from the early 2000s. The song reaches its peak, however, when that awkward bridge is recited over the half-time dirge in place of a guitar solo, expanding upon the gross distaste and turning it into outright pathetic desperacy. By the end, all he can spit out is the word “dance”, as everything that matters to him seems to have crumbled on the dancefloor, with the listener’s added knowledge that none of this really matters, but for those three minutes, they damn right made you believe it did, didn’t they? This still holds up as one of the band’s best tracks, and if they’re going to spend the rest of their career updating that Billy Joel song and making mediocre throwbacks to this very era, at least we’ll have this to stack up on in case of extreme deprivation of any good pop-punk.

In this top 10, around four were songs that I wasn’t immediately familiar with prior to going on this venture. Two of them, specifically the first two songs on this list, I was vaguely aware of. The two songs I’d never heard in this top five, however, I immediately fell in love with, and they follow into a very black-and-white dichotomy too. This is the happy one.

#4 - “So What” - Field Mob featuring Ciara

Peak: #10 | Year-End: #55

If I were to rank these songs based on how much pure enjoyment I personally get from each one, which is like 90% of the reasoning songs are where they are but still not the deciding factor, “So What” would be #2, easily, and may even compete for #2. Hell, it’s probably why it’s this high as I mean, this is otherwise kind of standard, right? A Jazze Pha-produced Atlanta bass track with a weedy synth backing, whispery vocals from Ciara and catchy one-hit wonder raps… it’s been done. So why is it the fourth best hit song of 2006? It’s sheer unbridled joy to me. Jazze Pha’s rich “Ladies and gentlemen!” starts the song off with a surplus of character, and his dialogue introduces a fast-paced weightless hook from Ciara that is not only some of the catchiest refrains in this year’s R&B, but also just a sugar rush in how it’s performed with as much harmonic breeze as possible. Field Mob #1 Smoke replicates the melody initially in his first verse, before dipping into many others in his incredible verse, one so good that I’m surprised he didn’t find at least some success as a Ludacris type. He clings onto different sing-songy cadences but continues to switch them up, in an almost childlike way, honestly. There’s a youthful carelessness to the performances, and a perfectly-administered beat for them to lay on top of. Field Mob #2 Shawn Jay goes into a higher register than I think he can fully maintain, making little call-and-response bars with his own ad-libs and it’s just adorable. In fact, the song speaks to me because of how adorably love-struck it is overall, with both Smoke and Shawn Jay trying to convince Ciara that she shouldn’t listen to the gossip surrounding them, rendering much of it as lies, even if Shawn Jay admits that he’s been to jail but also that he’s working on self-improvement. It’s a genuine and very human song, wherein Ciara’s hook and especially her verse, which is gorgeous, reassures that she loves this guy (which one of the Field Mobsters it actually is is unknown), and that this togetherness trumps any lie or assumption people could have about him or by extension, her and their relationship. Jazze Pha and the Field Mob are there every step of the way hyping up the relationship through these cute ad-libs and chanting, too, it’s just an adorable song that I am so glad to have discovered. It puts an automatic smile on my face on every listen, and I was honestly kind of surprised a song this wholesome came out of the year that also features Yung Joc’s girl chewing on his penis like a piece of Bubble Yum.

I have my issues with Justin Timberlake. I have possibly criminal issues I’d like to raise with T.I., or at least his lawyers, regarding substantiated allegations. This is still one of the greatest #1 hits of all time.

#3 - “My Love” - Justin Timberlake featuring T.I.

Peak: #1 for 3 weeks | Year-End: #61 (2006), #26 (2007)

I’ve been wanting to talk about this one for years, and I still don’t know if I can do Timbaland’s production work any justice. The futuristic production sound he mastered alongside Danja made this inexplicably popular form of decidedly pop-unfriendly R&B, and it’s on full display here when compellingly placed against a profession of love from Justin Timberlake, where the organic meets the robotic and the real meets the fake. Timberlake undercurrents the song with beatboxing that plays off the pulsating synth bass and its warped electro lead that commands the song’s wonkiness, and contributes to the tonal disaster that is a love song from someone who sounds forced to profess any of this. Part of this is how desperate Justin is - writing her a symphony, giving constant compliments, proposing to her - just so she dates him… “on the regular”. His eerie falsetto and the stiffly-programmed beat with all its manic clicking turns these otherwise slightly-awkward confessions and promises into unwanted robotic misfires, as he depicts in the chorus a stereotypical depiction of what a loving human relationship should look like. In the chorus, Timbaland’s monotone begging that she doesn’t give away his love is contrasted with what sounds like maniacal laughter, performed by the personification of a computer virus. The ring represents his heart because there is no human way for Timberlake to make that connection to this woman, it’s kind of a profoundly sad song through that lens, so it kind of helps that it still sounds bizarre and futuristic to this day, and that even that jittery malware laugh is catchy as all hell. Amidst this narcotised ballad, that definitely made way for people like The Weeknd to launch onto the scene later on, we have T.I. prefacing his verse but wondering why Justin’s hesitating… and he goes in. Tip finds the most groove possible in this staccato dirge and plays the human threat to Timberlake’s slow, robotic love - he has the charisma and swagger that’s worth more than Justin’s shoddy idealism. He finds so many catchy pockets, and says memorable garbage like “They call me Candle Guy simply ‘cause I am on fire”, and kind of takes the song away with him to the nether like he took Justin’s girl, leaving him standing stranded repeating that same hook, without Timbo backing him this time around. This is a brilliant meshing of all styles involved, mostly from Timbaland as this kind of glassy stodge was something he leaned into around this time, and the way the drama plays out over an intricately detailed instrumental has always been compelling. Timberlake and Timbaland really were the dream team for a while, and this is one of their many hits that stands the test of time, and my personal favourite.

Okay, I know I said this would be fun and low-stakes but just for a second, let’s get into darker territory. This is another song I hadn’t heard until going on this venture and God, it hit like a truck. This song was originally about a breakup, sure, but was reframed in the video to be about the singer’s mother, and if you really pay attention to the original, it’s clearly about her in the first place. I’ve never been particularly close to my mother, but this song still absolutely crushed me, just astonished me on first listen. Let’s cry to post-grunge, ladies, enbies and gentlemen.

#2 - “Hate Me” - Blue October

Peak: #31 | Year-End: #82

This song, when it first came on in the year-end list - and I listened to this in order so it was right after “We be Burnin’” of all songs - initially confused me… and then it gradually rendered me kind of astonished. This is pretty heavy, and really I think the song is up to and deserving of some interpretation, but bear with me on this. This song is a particularly self-indulgent one, wherein memories surrounding our frontman, Justin Furstenfeld, seem to surround him and never get fully absorbed, because if they did, I think it would snap him back into reality, which is far away from how this song sounds and functions. Everything here is wrapped in Furstenfeld’s head. We start with an ambient introduction, draping an otherwise innocuous, incredibly low-quality recording of girls singing Blue October’s previous hit, in mystery, as the last note loops and warps under a voicemail from Justin’s own mother sharing her concern about her son’s mental health. You might be wondering how this charted at all considering that this abstract intro takes up most of the song’s first minute but the radio edit did cut much of it out, which is a shame as there are moments within it that are really painful, like how the voicemail starts to warp and be manipulated once she ensures that he knows she loves him and that he should be taking his medication. Furstenfeld’s over-written, grotesque lyrics read like a suicide note as he questions his mother’s loyalty to him, but not necessarily based in her own actions, as she clearly loves him as we know from that voicemail. Instead, Furstenfeld’s paranoia emerges from his own struggles, making the “you” he addresses far away from the “you” he’s really referring to. There are many poetic turns of phrases in these verses that resonate, but that chorus is undeniable, as the guilt he feels because of his own perceived inability to live up to his mother’s dreams, giving this sense that he wants to erase himself and replace him with a version of himself that is actually grateful for everything his mother helped him with as described in the second verse. This man being completely unaware of how his mother feels, deluded into thinking the person who loves him most would see value in disregarding him entirely and find catharsis in despising her own son, is pretty heartbreaking, especially when what I interpreted as a suicide attempt plays out in front of her in the bridge over the crushing grunge guitars that have long-replaced the acoustic strum we started with, only for it to return amidst the delicate strings in the defeated final chorus, before those vocal samples from the intro return, now in unavoidably distorted form. You can no longer hear the words the girls are singing, and his mother’s “Hey, Justin” pitches down into a demonic “Hate Justin”, where we realise the one thing his mother could ever hate him for would be Furstenfeld taking himself away from her. It’s a great deal of melodrama, sure, but a song with this heavy and complex of a narrative is not present elsewhere on the list, and it never fails to hammer me down on every listen. It’s an excellent, difficult listen, only beaten out by a song that is completely undeniable. Before we get to that, however, let’s take a trawl through the garbage.

The worst list

There was a lot of crap on this list, for the record, definitely more so than 2000, although part of that may be my familiarity with both the songs and also the general sound of the year, so it’s easier to spot when something ends up going awry in attempting to fit in within those trends… or you know, it’s just ass. Note that there are four Chris Brown songs on this list. Let’s just briefly sift through the 10 worst songs, because I’m not all for negativity. With that said, I’ll keep it short…

#10 - “There it Go (The Whistle Song)” - Juelz Santana

How do you make a song this depressively minimal and the whistles end up clipping in the mix? How?

#9 - “Lips of an Angel” - Hinder

Somehow not the most punchable song on this list, but a dirge regardless. I was originally going to put “Move Along” by the All-American Rejects here, and it is actually much lower in my ranking of each song but I think the worst of what rock had to offer in 2006 is better represented by this rather than a song I personally dislike.

#8 - “Beep” - The Pussycat Dolls featuring will.i.am

The song is rote and shrill as is, but why THAT specific beep sound? Their other song on this list, “Buttons” with Snoop Dogg, is just about as annoying.

#7 - “Laffy Taffy” - D4L

This would teeter on comical if it was T-Pain or something but this beat - and most of the verses - are dead on arrival.

#6 - “Shake That” - Eminem featuring Nate Dogg

This song has the self-awareness of a goldfish in a strip club. That is also exactly how Eminem sounds in this song… about a strip club.

#5 - “Get Up” - Ciara featuring Chamillionaire

Was Jazze Pha drunk with this one? Like, he and Ciara work together in my top 5, what went wrong to make this ear-hurting calamity?

#4 - “You’re Beautiful” - James Blunt

And the White People Choice Award for Slowest Love Song goes to…

#3 - “Unfaithful” - Rihanna

This is a fascinating case study of a song. It’s a complete cacophony with absolutely no idea how busy it is, meaning absolutely everything sticks out like a sore thumb, to a ridiculous degree. This is probably the worst-sounding song on this entire list.

#2 - Chris Brown

This was before he committed any crimes, so I’m not putting him as a person here, rather just the fact that teeny-Breezy has four songs in this year-end - one, “Say Goodbye”, is a boring ballad and the other three are unlistenable, including the insufferable “Yo (Excuse Me Miss)”, the laugh track-deserving failure of “Run It!” with Juelz Santana - what a year for him - and finally, “Gimme That”, the ode to statutory rape featuring Lil Wayne on the remix guest verse. Sure.

#1 - “Stupid Girls” - P!nk

This is near the very bottom of the year-end - it’s one of the most hellish songs I have ever heard, failing as a commentary due to its failure as a satire which is in turn due to its failure as a functioning song. I sincerely hope and pray P!nk has grown and moved on from this immature, attention-seeking garbage. Now, speaking of seeking attention, how about we end this list with someone who’s never been fond of taking attention away from themselves?

Look, I don’t like this artist. Or band. Or whatever it counts as nowadays. I have no interest in praising him or his work, and avoid doing so in most situations. So the song just really has to be that good.

#1 - “I Write Sins Not Tragedies” - Panic! at the Disco

Peak: #7 | Year-End: #20

Okay, so the truth is I do like Panic! at the Disco. I don’t like admitting to it but there are many songs from them I love - “Nearly Witches (Ever Since We Met)” is my favourite - and I have on the vast majority of their albums pretty positive outlooks. Of course I do, theater kid magic works on me when there’s genuine groove behind it and an ego that at his worst has a level of over-written nuance that makes sub-par songs fascinating rather than just straight-up bad. So why do I say I don’t like Panic!? I don’t know, man, it just feels like I shouldn’t, especially when I’ve listened to a wide array of music that resonates with me on deeper levels. There’s something primal and cathartic therefore in firstly knowing this song exists, because to me, it needlessly justifies every qualm you could possibly have with Mr. Brendon Urie, and secondly, the chorus silences whatever complaint you could have. This song is chock full of hooks, refrains, inescapably so. And for that, I love it, with what feels like my gut rather than my brain, and I think that’s what pop music is all about, right?

Okay, well, I guess this isn’t strictly a pop song. It’s an emo song, and you could call it dark cabaret if you really wanted to I suppose, but it’s still undeniably within the boundaries of “popular music” and whilst the bridesmaid isn’t Ciara, this song is definitely a further exploration of elements of popular music that I love pop for, and as a result is avertly “pop” in how it expresses itself. Firstly, it’s catchy to an infectious extent. The sly piano is like a spider creeping up the twinkling drains of the counter-melody. I know every single word to this song and more, partly because Urie repeats the vast majority of it at least once if not nauseatingly so, but also because these refrains are so incremental to the song’s very existence that you can’t take any repeated line out - the second verse just repeats itself instead of thinking of another four lines like the first verse, but the increased desperacy in Urie’s voice as he sings lyrics already ridden with guilt and denial for the second time makes the repetition integral to not only the narrative of the song but its composition. The song is about infidelity but treated with all the irreverence that its overlapping double-tracked vocals will allow, especially with that abrupt stop in the first verse just to make way for the killer conventional rock instrumentation, which gives the song much of its irreverence in my opinion, as well as of course, its momentum. This twinkling, shrill sing-song about infidelity loses much of its impact when the looming cellos aren’t concluded by an excellent performance from Ryan Ross and ESPECIALLY Spencer Smith, whose drums are the propellent force this song takes to go from a well-written pop song to downright explosive. By the end, Urie’s distant belts are soaring at the back of the mix - he doesn’t matter any more, the song does, and especially its theatrics. That’s pop music to me: everything is secondary to the song. Oh, and I mean, you’ve heard the chorus?

I chime in with a “Haven’t you people ever heard of closing the Goddamn door?”

Any song that opens its chorus in that way is probably going to end up on a list of mine. There’s definitely some nostalgia here, definitely a preference for emo-pop on my behalf that may explain the high placement on this list, but I genuinely think this is a flawlessly written and performed song, and my personal connection with it only furthers the fact that this is definitely my favourite hit song of 2006. Thank you for reading and I’ll see you on Friday for your normal programming.

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ambassadorquark · 2 years

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I need to know everything about the crews dynamic in this au its vital

in my opinion frenchie and wee john are roommates (duh) and in order to afford their house they’re illegally subletting to most of the other guys and it’s a logistical nightmare like that insane tiktok about those random “entrepreneurs” who are splitting rent on a beautiful historic brownstone in NYC 16 ways and divided it up so badly that someone fully sleeps in a closet right in the most high traffic area (this is the swede in my mind. he got talked into this because he also doesn’t have a green card), but it’s like a slightly shabby 2 story Southern Victorian because for some reason i also imagine this being in coastal NC (one of the American regions with the most historical claim to Blackbeard’s clout)

jim just moved in w/ olu (they’re splitting the attic) and they fucking hate it but they can’t afford anything better after they had to scuttle their bartending gig for stabbing a guy. lucius does not live there bc his boss does enough white collar crime to keep him in studio apartments no problem but pete does so he gets lame ass boyfriend access. roach is the only person who knows how to cook but he’s like a line cook already so he never wants to do it at home & wee john is the guy who drives everyone around bc olu has chosen not to inform them that he also has a car. buttons also doesn’t live there because he doesn’t appear to have a house despite apparently being employed at the marina and materializing at random intervals because he’s friends with someone, probably. there are some vague threats going around about what would potentially happen to anyone who snitches to the HOA about this situation. frenchie is like, the last guy who did that VANISHED WITHOUT A TRACE. he’s lying. he’s literally the guy who brings an acoustic guitar to parties and tries to explain crypto to people

#query #anonymous #i definitely think instead of piracy it’s like corporate fraud and straight up organized crime #bc that’s how you get a regular rich guy who does real estate or something in with a gun toting weirdo who everyone is afraid of #flagposting

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cameracorey · 2 years

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the teary and blue clover ghosts of limbo

A Ghostbur story of a reader insert.

As you felt tears start to draw from your eyes your ears perked up at the sound of a train rolling into the station. Your eyes opened and you noticed a male who sat at one of the train benches. He had Carmel brown hair and brown eyes that looked like a deers pelt. He was wearing a old trench coat that went down to his legs and he had ripped jeans. You wondered what happened to him for him to be put in this horrid station.

You wanted to call out but your voice gave nothing, you couldn’t speak after all. The man who did this to us ripped our vocal cords out. As the train fully pulled into the station the man looked up in confusion, grabbing the acoustic guitar that had been next to him and walking closer and closer to the now stopped train.

When we squinted you noticed two people in the train. Or well..a ghost and a man. Then the doors fully opened.and if you could scream to warn the man of who he was about to meet you would off, the man who murdered the two of us was the male in the train. Holding a very similar man to the brown haired guy but as a ghost by his hair.

The ghost looked like he was crying a river, steam pooling from his eyes as a blue chain was wrapped around the males neck. The curly haired male had a wicked smirk on his face as he nodded to the masked smiley man and shook his hand. The smiley man chuckled and threw the ghost to the floor. Out of insinct our body ran to see if the crying ghost was alright

As we ran our eyes met the man we both despised with hatred. He took of his mask and gave us a crooked grin and waved. You felt shivers run up our spine..we wanted this man dead.and soon we would get our wish but it just wouldn’t be today. As you checked the ghost holding his face in your hands the doors to the train closed

The ghost quickly scrambled and got up running to the train doors and banged on them. Sobbing and screaming something that you couldn’t really hear. But the man who took the ghosts place just gave him an insane smile and waved goodbye as the train soon started to roll and soon the ghost had started to fall into the train track roads. You quickly stopped the ghost from falling and held him as he started to sob more.

“Tommy said..I’d be okay..”the ghost sobbed into your now wet sweater. You didn’t know who this Tommy boy was but he seemed important to the ghost. You rubbed his back trying to comfort them.

He looked up at you and asked, “what’s your name..?” You frowned at the mention of your name..you didn’t know your name, your memories were blurry and this cursed station had grabbed onto the most important memory of your mind. Which had been the memory of your name. So you shrugged.

He seemed a bit confused that you apparently had no name, the ghost frowned as he noticed a board on the side of the station. It looked like it was some memory board. Like..for the people who remembered him. And on the top it had the name ghostbur..that must of been the ghost name.

You looked over and noticed your own board..it was black no dots at all and your name had been scratched out, the only word that was visible was ‘clovers’ and you had no idea what that word meant to us.

As Ghostbur looked around the station you felt the urge to just..protect the sad ghost, you didn’t know where this sudden urge and emotion came from but you felt like this was important. So as the years,months and days grew by, you were always there for the ghost.

But soon his memory of himself and his friends were as well fading,this station was grasping its claws on another unlucky victim of this sad memory loss.soon the two of you had no memory of the old friends and people you knew..the only thing you two remembering was each other

You two were the blue clovers..two sadden ghosts cursed of no memory of their past and old friends..

#ghostbur #dream smp x reader #dreamwastaken #ranboo #requests #tommyinnit #tubbo #myct reader #wilbur soot #dreamsmp x y/n #dsmp x reader #myct #wilbur soot myct #ghostbur dsmp #wilbur x reader

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dream-a-little-bigger-x · 4 years

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Bet On It | Charlie Gillespie

Requested: I may have already requested this (or I may have dreamed it) - but I would love an imagine with Charlie and the reader having a bet. Charlie loses and has to get the readers name tattooed somewhere and his fans go INSANE. Can be either platonic or romantic, your choice.

A/N: This was too good to pass up. Hope you like it! And special thanks to @calamitykaty for helping me out again on this one! I appreciate your help and love so much! You are the best of the best! Love you! 💖

Pairing: Charlie x Reader

Warnings: Fluff, tattoos

Song(s) used: Show Me How You Burlesque - Christina Aguilera

Words: 3,880

“Wanna bet on it?” was one of the first things he had ever said to you three years ago when you met him after your dance troupe had performed at the annual showcase.

You and Meghan Gillespie had been friends since you started taking dance classes when both of you were five. However, your friendship never expanded from dance classes. Both of you were totally fine with that.

This also meant neither of you had ever met each other's siblings, but that changed when you were seventeen and Charlie tapped your shoulder when you’d come up to greet your own family after the showcase. He’d complimented you on your dancing, and told you a little flustered that you had stolen the show. You didn’t even need to ask his name to know this was Charlie. He had the same bone structure and the same eyes Meghan did. She had told you about her siblings, mostly about Charlie since he was the closest in age and, according to her, the most annoying out of all her brothers.

The two of you talked the whole night, even long after everyone had gone. Most of it was absolute nonsense, but you loved getting to know him a little more aside from the stories you’d heard from Meghan. You enjoyed his presence and the way he carried himself and told his stories. This boy just seemed like the most excitable and passionate person you had ever met in your life. A lot of similarities to his sister, you noticed.

“Can I see you again soon?” he asked when the two of you wrapped up the night when it neared twelve am.

You had raised your eyebrow at his nervosity more than his question. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

Charlie’s head snapped up at your question, his eyes wide and jaw tight. “Wha-What? Nah! I wouldn’t date my sister’s friend! Uhm, more like, uh… Like a platonic date!” he exclaimed a little too excitedly. He even added some finger guns to top it all off.

“All right, a platonic date it is,” you said as a teasing grin made its way to your features. “But you have to promise me one thing…” He nodded his head, encouraging you to go on. “You have to promise you won’t fall in love with me.”

A snicker raked through his body before he mimicked your teasing grin, “Wanna bet on it?”

Even though back then there was nothing at stake, he still lost the bet. You both did, technically. Because after that first ‘platonic’ date followed more dates that grew into non-platonic dates until he finally picked up the courage to kiss you on your doorstep.

Now three years later, you were working together on a second season of Julie and The Phantoms, both of you having been on the first season too. You as a background dancer and him as one of the leads of the show.

To say you were proud of him would be an understatement.

However, no one knew you were dating except for the closest people in your life. Meghan knew from the first ‘platonic’ date that this would be more than just a shallow friendship, and all your other friends and family were just happy you found each other. The cast of Julie and The Phantoms, however, were your biggest shippers. They loved to tease you both to the point where fans were suspicious, but you never made anything official. You kept telling them you were just best friends.

After a full day on a corona proof set, the two of you finally settle on the sofa of your shared apartment with Owen. Said third roommate still had to film a couple of scenes with Booboo, which meant the two of you had the space all to yourself.

Cuddled up on the couch, the two of you scroll through your phone, catching up on anything you’d missed on social media. You’d received a few comments on your latest Instagram story with Savannah and Tori, and even more on the ones with Charlie in them. Most of them told you they wanted you to do a live together soon.

“People are asking for a live,” you stated, showing some of the messages in your inbox.

“Then they shall receive,” Charlie replied and got up from the couch, making his way into the bedroom. You furrowed your eyebrows, wondering why he just left, but you were given answers when he returned with an acoustic in his hand. “They always love a good jam session,” he explained before handing you his phone so you could set up the live on his account since he had a lot more followers than you.

“Let’s see,” you mumbled as you pressed the button, letting the phone rest against a large candle on the coffee table. Names started popping up at the bottom of the screen while the little number in the right-hand corner raked up quickly. “Hey guys!”

“‘Sup!” Charlie shouted excitedly, a wide smile taking over his features while he tuned his guitar. “What do you guys wanna see from us today? Send us some requests for songs I should play or questions you want us to answer.”

A laugh escaped your mouth as you noticed a lot of the questions were about whether or not you were a couple. “No, we’re not together, we’re just best buddies.” You put your head on Charlie’s shoulder, smiling a toothy smile at the camera.

“Do you pull pranks on Owen or others from the cast?” Charlie read aloud as you pulled yourself up again, nodding your head in response. “Yeah, we pull pranks on each other all the time!”

“Yeah! I love to prank this one whenever I find him somewhere napping,” you chuckled, especially when you noticed his expression on the screen. His mouth ajar as his eyes went from left to right. “I swear, this boy can sleep anywhere!”

“Don’t expose me like that!” he cried out, which made you burst out with laughter to the point where you even let out a snort. You couldn’t hold yourself anymore at how offended he was by all of this, you were practically cackling. “Okay, if we’re exposing each other, you’re always dancing. ALWAYS,” he put emphasis on the last ‘always’. His eyes widened at the word as well as his voice growing louder.

You stopped laughing at this, suddenly turning serious. “That’s my job, Char,” you deadpanned. Charlie wasn’t Charlie if he let it go so quickly.

“Yeah, on set and maybe at practice, but you dance everywhere,” he turned to the camera, “Seriously, she dances in the shower, on the toilet, at catering, in bed,...” he stopped himself upon realizing he’d said a tiny bit too much.

“People are asking how you know all that, Charlie. How do you know all of that?” you teased along, knowing he had dug himself a hole and you loved to see him squirm to get him out.

“Because I… Come on, y/n, we’re best friends, we fall asleep in the same bed all the time,” he quickly saved himself in a very nonchalant, very Charlie way. You couldn’t help the smirk tugging at one corner of your lip, thinking ‘Nice save, Gillespie’.

“But that’s still not as bad as sleeping everywhere,” you countered, your face still overtaken by that smirk. “I bet I could get a whole album of pictures of you sleeping anywhere.”

This claim made Charlie’s head snap up, a feeling of dejavu rushing through his mind. This suddenly felt very familiar since both of you had been in a situation like this before, both pulling the short straw.

“Wanna bet on it?” he declared, his eyebrows nearly reaching up to his hairline.

Your tongue glided across your turned up lips as you replied, “What’s at stake?”

“Let’s see what they think. Guys! Help us out with this bet, please! What should be at stake?”

Dozens of replies came in, but your eyes fell on one in particular. “The loser has to get the winner’s name tattooed in a place of the winner’s choice!” you read aloud, pointing at the screen where the comment used to be. “Yes! Okay! So, let’s say we have to each get ten pictures of videos by -- it’s now Tuesday, so Monday?” Charlie nodded his head in agreement. “First one to get ten wins.”

Charlie held his hand out for you to shake, which you gladly did so, sealing the bet.

“Get ready to get tatted for the first time, baby,” Charlie quipped with a smirk.

“Oh, no, Char. I’m gonna leave this a blank canvas,” you responded, gliding your hands over your ribcage and down to your sides for emphasis. “You better get ready to get ‘y/n’ tattooed in big block letters across your chest!” You patted his pecs before adding with a giggle, “No ragrets.”

He let out a chuckle at the meme reference before turning to the phone again. The two of you spent the next twenty minutes talking to the fans on Instagram live, playing them some songs and teasing one another non-stop. The fans were pretty certain you were a thing by now, but you still insisted all this was just a really close friendship.

By the next day, everyone knew about the bet and was willing to help both of you out. Though, most of them told you afterwards they were on your side all the way.

Savannah skipped over to you when you were waiting at the Hollywood Ghost Club set, getting ready for the last rehearsal before you’d start filming the scene tomorrow. You were going over the steps in your head until she spoke up. “Have you caught Charlie yet today?” she asked with a smirk. You let out a chuckle, shaking your head.

“No, haven’t really stopped today, so I haven’t seen him much either.” This made you realize you kind of missed him and were up for a cuddle right about now. “Why? Have you seen him somewhere?”

The mischievous look in her eyes spoke a thousand words. “Gimme your phone, I’ll go take a picture, so you can stay here.” You mull over the option for a second before deciding against it.

“No, that’s not very fair. I’ll just go and look for him after this rehearsal and hope he’ll still be napping.” Savannah shrugged at your response before tucking a strand of hair of yours behind your ears.

“Suit yourself, he’s in the breakroom.” You made a mental note of that. “You’re so soft for him, it’s adorable,” she uttered as a tender smile found its way to her lips. “I’ll let you get to rehearsal and I’ll make sure no one wakes Charlie before you can get to him, okay?”

You shot her a thankful smile, “Yeah, thanks, Sav.” She kissed your cheek before walking away to wherever she needed to go.

Thankfully, Charlie was indeed still asleep by the time you made it to the breakroom. He looked adorable all curled up on the small sofa with his arms wrapped around his own stomach. With an endeared smile, you grabbed your phone from the pocket of your sweater and snapped a picture before making your way over to him and squatting down in front of the couch. Softly, you brushed a strand of hair off his forehead before combing through the luscious mop of brown locks.

He stirred slightly and squeezed his eyes tighter before they fluttered open. When they met yours, a soft, sleepy smile lit up his face. With a beam mirroring his, you said to him, “You look very cuddly up here, mind if I join you?” He scooted over and turned to his side, answering your question without words. You joined him on the small couch and rested your forehead on his chest, shutting your eyes as you inhaled the familiar scent of his cologne.

“You took a picture, didn’t you?” he mumbled, pressing his lips to the crown of your head. You giggled, which was enough for him to know that you did.

“One point y/n, Charlie zero,” you said and kissed his shirt-covered chest.

“Oh, I’ll get my revenge, Bubba, I promise you!” He poked you in the ribs, making you squirm in his arms. “But let’s nap first until they need us again.”

When Charlie promised something, he stuck to it. So, during lunch that same day, you stood in line with Madison, Jadah, Savannah, Tori and some of the other dancers, chatting a bit while music played from the speakers in the spacious area where everyone was either already eating or queueing to get food.

“You really never know if you--” you cut yourself off once your ears picked up on the song that was playing in the background. “Oh my God! I know the choreo to this one. Tori, you do too, right?!”

You put the plate you were holding on top of Savannah’s while Tori and some of the other dancers gave theirs to the other girls. Tori and Sam, one of the dancers you were closest with, got up on the table. Chuckling, you watched as a few others followed their example, and you quickly give in too.

“Hit it up, get it up, won’t let you rest Hit it up, get it up, this is not a test Hit it up, get it up, gotta give me your best So get your ass up, show me how you burlesque”

You’ve loved this movie since it came out ten years ago. Your mother showed you some videos of you dancing in front of the tv, trying to imitate the dancers. It was pretty hilarious to see a ten-year-old do this dance.

Right now though, you were ready to show off in front of everyone with some of the greatest dancers on this crew. Moments like these were proof that you were born to be a dancer.

“A little bit of naughty, it's a little bit nice She’s a whole lot of glam, sweat, sugar, sex, spice Shimmy, shimmy, strut, strut Give a little what, what Up on the tables we’ll be dancing all night”

Little did you know that Charlie had walked in with Owen, Jeremy and Booboo just as you’d started to dance. He was quick enough to grab his phone from his pocket and film it. Even though he loved the fact that it was now a tie, he couldn’t help but smile proudly at the girl he’d fallen in love with three years ago.

This was his favorite side of yours. You were in your element on the dance floor -- or table in this case. He just loved how confident you were and how free you seemed. While you’d be kind of shy when around new people, nobody would notice that when you’re dancing. He found it incredibly sexy to see you up there.

You groaned as Charlie held his hand out to help you down the table when you’d finished the impromptu performance. With a smirk, he said, “1-1, Bubba,” and pressed a kiss to your flustered cheek.

“I hate you,” you mumbled, but you couldn’t withhold the smile tugging at your lips. He looked so chuffed with his victory, even if it was a small one. You wanted to grant him this one win.

The one win quickly turned into eight more, for the both of you, by Saturday.

Match point.

There was a mutual agreement to pause the bet on Sunday since the two of you had a day off and were going to sleep and dance around the apartment while cleaning up anyway, so that wouldn’t be fair. But on Monday, it was game on.

You were certain you were going to win. All you had to do is find Charlie when you knew he didn’t have to film anything and try to withhold yourself from dancing if it wasn’t a part of the filming or rehearsal progress.

By noon, you had succeeded in one department. The only thing left to do now, was find Charlie. You knew he had an hour off for lunch and that he’d spent twenty minutes of it taking a power nap somewhere on set. The only downside was, that you had no clue where he could possibly be sleeping now.

“Mads! Jer!” you exclaimed when you saw Madison and Jeremy walking up to you with sandwiches in their hands. “Have you guys seen Charlie anywhere?” The two glanced at each other before giving you a look that screamed ‘seriously, y/n?’.

“What’s the best napping spot in the entire studio and isn’t used for anything today?” Jeremy asked as a way of responding to your question.

Your eyes widened as the image of the bed popped into your head. You quickly muttered, “Thank you!” before hurrying your way to the set that holds Julie Molina’s bedroom. And there, smack in the middle of the bed, cuddled up to a pink cushion, lied your boyfriend.

Butterflies erupted in your stomach as you nervously grabbed your phone and snapped a few pictures to make sure there was at least one that wasn’t blurry. Your hands were shaking way too much from the excitement, but you couldn’t just let this one pass. You had to win. If not just to prove a point.

You rapidly scrolled through the photos and when you saw one that was in focus, you shrieked and leapt onto the bed on top of Charlie. He let out a groan at the sudden weight pressing down on his body as he shook awake.

“I won, bitch!” you screamed out, doing a happy dance as you straddled his lap.

He rubbed his eyes like a toddler whilst giggling like one too before placing his hands on your thighs and saying, “I didn’t think you’d find me here.” He started rubbing up and down your jeans-cladded legs, a pout tugging at his bottom lip.

You raised your eyebrows at him, “Seriously? This is the most infamous napping spot of the entire studio! I immediately came here when I couldn’t find you in your regular spot in the breakroom.” Now it was his turn to raise his eyebrows at you.

“Someone else told you I was here, didn’t they?”

“Yep, definitely.”

He groaned and then flipped you over, so you were lying next to him, and you let out a shriek before it turned into a giggle. “I already know where you’re gonna put my name too,” you mumbled. You pressed your forehead against his while tracing a heart on his chest, right above his heart.

His eyes fluttered shut as he kissed your forehead. Placing it back, he muttered, “Let me guess, on my left pec, so you’re forever in my heart?” You simply hummed in response, earning a chuckle from your boyfriend. “Why are you so predictable?”

“Shut up, you love me.”

Butterflies welled up in his belly as you said that. He loved the overconfident way you always said those words. They were true. Very true and he loved that you knew that. But that didn’t take away the fun into actually reminding you too.

“That’s true.”

The following day, you took Charlie to the tattoo parlor to get his tattoo. You had told him a thousand times he didn’t have to do it, that knowing you were the winner sufficed, but he just replied with a, “No, I want that tattoo.”

The tattoo artist asked if you had a design in mind, so you handed her the slip of paper on which you had perfectly written your name in cursive and told her where to put it. She simply stated, “You got great handwriting,” before showing you and Charlie to the back.

“Film this for Insta, babe, so the people know I lost,” Charlie had ordered you sweetly as he tugged his shirt over his body, handing it over to you while he sat down.

You grabbed your phone and started filming when the tattoo artist, whose name was CeCe, she’d said, started on his tattoo. Charlie looked up at you, biting his lip, and then reaching out to you. Without asking him what was wrong, you swung his shirt over your shoulder and took his hand with the one you weren’t filming with. He squeezed hard, nearly bone-crushingly hard, but you let him. After all, it was kind of your fault he was there in the first place.

When CeCe had finished and put a protective band-aid on it, Charlie grabbed his shirt from your shoulder, and kissed you on the lips sweetly. You paid for the work and time CeCe had put into this, said your goodbyes, and headed back home.

Pretty much every single one of the cast was waiting at your place, ready to see the finished product. However, Charlie wasn’t allowed to take the covering off yet. It needed to stay there for two to four hours before he could take it off.

And once he did, you were surprised to not only see your name on his chest, but also your favorite flower worked into it beautifully. Confused and surprised, you looked up at Charlie.

“When did you even tell her to do that?” you asked as everyone started to take pictures of the tattoo and of the interaction between the two of you.

“Called in beforehand,” he simply shrugged. Shaking your head, you leaned up and planted a kiss to his lips. Even though it was bat-shit crazy he even went through with tattooing your name on his chest, the fact he added an element of you made it extra special.

That night, Charlie posted the video of him getting his tattoo on his Instagram stories while you made a compilation post of all ten of the sleeping Charlie pictures you had accumulated in the last week, along with a picture of his tattoo.

@Yourinstahandle: Victory is mine! You are absolutely crazy. I can’t believe you went through with this. At least now I’m forever embedded on your heart and I’ll be yours forever. 💖 @Charles_Gillespie

And with that, you immediately went Instagram official too. Following your example, Charlie shared a picture of his brand new tattoo as well.

@Charles_Gillespie: Wanna bet on it? Forever mine 💖 @Yourinstahandle

When he joined you in bed that night, you went to lie down on his chest, only to receive a painful hiss from him, causing you to shoot up again. “GAH! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” you shouted, and looked at him in shock.

“It’s fine,” he muttered and went to pull you back but you refused to.

“No, Char, I’m not gonna hurt you for an entire night,” you grumble and crawl across his legs to lie down on his other side. “This feels weird.” You rested your head against the non-painful side of his chest. “But better than no cuddles.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn’t have won, so I wouldn’t be in pain right now,” he responded, followed by a small chuckle, letting you know he was just joking.

“You are the most ridiculous person I have ever met,” you muttered. Before closing your eyes, you quickly leaned up and pecked his cheek.

“Wanna bet on it?”

JATP Taglist: @hannahhistorian92 @marinettepotterandplagg @thequirkybookaholic @bookdealer5 @tenaciousperfectionunknown @hemmingsness @iainttakingshitfromnobody @ifilwtmfc @angryknightstatesmantrash @kiss-themoongoodbye @rudysbay @thedarkqueenofavalon @caitsymichelle13 @calamitykaty @wiselight @kcd15 @vicesvsvirtuesfanfic @stars-soph @kinda-really-lost

Charlie/Luke taglist: @parkeret @lukeys-giggle @gingerxarmy @lovesanimals @lolychu @perfectlywrongformend3s @luckylouiebug @camiladelrio98 @myfriendscallmebeans

Lemme know if you wanna be on my taglist!

#julie and the phantoms #julie and the himbos #julie and the fat ones #jatp #charlie gillespie #charlie gillespie fic #charlie gillespie x reader #charlie gillespie au #charlie gillespie one shot #charlie gillespie imagine

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cherry-interlude · 3 years

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Lana Del Rey Unreleased Ranking (3)

This is a re-ranking of Lana's unreleased songs, after making a first a few years ago. This is all my opinion, which I don't mind anyone disagreeing with but don't come for me for it - honestly, I like every song, despite any criticism, and this ranking is very vague. It's based on objective and subjective opinion.

This is the third of five posts, with the middle songs.

Dreamgirl

Purely wholesome and dreamy, Lana adds some very fifties “shoo-wops” to play a fifties starlet whispering, her vocals soothing and soft along with the looping piano that guides the song.

Jimmy Gnecco

Breathless over the brisk guitar, Lana gushes over Jimmy – mixing her adoration of her lovers with wannabe-starlet fangirling. It’s one of her best acoustic tracks as she smirks and requests a trip to the park.

Elvis

Lana’s acoustic dedication to her icon Elvis Presley is memorable despite how stripped back it is. It could have been cleaner but Lana’s sorrowful desperation to be close to this man who she is such a fan of works well in being decent output from her.

Boarding School

It’s a difficult listen, considering Lana’s nostalgia is for a “pro-ana nation” and a school where “makig love with your teachers” is revered, but it may just be a satirical look at her time in boarding school when she was younger. I don’t enjoy listening to such worrying topics being handled in an upbeat song but the song itself has well-written lyrics and a great instrumental.

Television Heaven

This song is incredibly sweet, with lovely lyrics, dreamy verses and a distinctive pop feel, but it is definitely a strange mash of instrumentals. It’s not too jarring but it does make the song fall lower in ranking. It feels indecisive as it goes from sugary pop to a slightly darker feel in the choruses, and the lyrics aren’t the most imaginative in Lana’s library of tracks.

Be My Daddy

Lana’s full on sex-kitten in this song that opens with twangy guitars and her hushed “what’s up?” as she greets her potential “daddy”. With dirtier lyrics that she’s “open like a Christmas present” and how she’ll “fuck you”, Lana avoids keeping the sex in just the vibe of the song.

Break My Fall

Another song made for another artist, Lana this time sounds like she’s doing her own track. The pop sound is still ideal for actual music charts but Lana pulls the song off well, playing a strong woman far removed from the tragic women of many of her songs. It’s strong in quality and doesn’t stray into more experimental territory where many of Lana’s unreleased songs reside.

Hit and Run

With three versions to pick from (the poppy original, the Born To Die style slower version and the demo Criminals Run The World that’s a little more overt about Lana’s violent intentions), all three of these songs have something special about them. The pop version is bouncy and chaotic, perfect for a wild spree of gun fights and car chases. The slower version is much more seductive and measured, but a little too reflective compared to the manic power of the upbeat version. Criminals Run The World ranks much lower, not as smooth compared to Hit and Run but still with that insanity that makes Hit and Run a wild ride.

Heavy Hitter

With a jazzy introduction, Lana gives us a glamorous tale of a star having an overdose (somehow she makes it glitzy). However, following the suggestive chorus in which Lana asks her man to open his butterfly doors of his car (to drive her to get help, somehow delivered with seduction rather than horror), the lyrics get lost in Lana’s generic praising of herself and her wicked ways. However, it’s a staple of Lana’s unreleased music, even if I do skip after the (if you think about it) harrowing first verse and chorus.

Behind Closed Doors

The instrumental is a little bit all over the place, but it does work when Lana details her ill-received romance to her lover, then jumps right in the chorus to eagerly tell him how much she enjoys sleeping with him.

Gangsta Boy

Lana is inspired by Betty Boop as she croons and gasps her way through the track. The vibe is great, though the music falls a bit, but Gangsta Boy is playful, light-hearted fun.

You’re Gonna Love Me

Lana may be raw in her vocals and basic in her instrumentals (only a guitar) but Lana takes control, self-assured she will make the listener adore her. Her confessional whisper that she might just want to be loved gives this song a knowing edge despite the pondering questions and realism-on-the-edge-of-pessimism feel tone.

Living Legend

Lana’s Living Legend was intended for Ultraviolence, and whilst the song fits in it is definitely one of her more slumbering songs. Yet her sentiment is strong, her lyrics thoughtful and thoroughly enjoyable. All of the versions bring something a bit different but it is underlined by great song-writing.

Hey You

Lana has fun greeting a potential lover with this track and I have as much fun listening to it. The chorus is sparse and repetitive but Hey You is all about grabbing your attention rather than going to deep.

Is It Wrong?

Claustrophobic and guided by a smart riff and technological glitches, Lana pulls off the perfect unhinged groupie as she questions whether or not she is wrong for wanting the star of her dreams so much. The glitching is great for really seeing how Lana teeters on the edge of sanity for this guy she can’t resist, going from being the starlet to the foaming-at-the-mouth fangirl.

Playground

Lana becomes a rapper apparently in Playground and hits back at anyone who doubts her and her music. With a cloying chorus that compares the music industry to a playground of bitchy comments and school yard, Lana’s verses are smooth and her references overall decent. It can be a little bit clunky in places but it doesn’t take itself too seriously.

Motel 6

A cute little dance track which namedrops Jim and her sister, Chuck, Lana brings the party to her favourite motel, downplaying her glamour to throwback her ‘lore’ and her old life pre-fame. Though it’s very much just describing one night rather than anything complex, it’s harmless fun.

Dynamite

Like the explosive dynamite itself, this song is punchy, restless and powerful. Lana layers this dominating track with innocent references to ice cream and pillow fights whilst also not holding back from the sexual references.

Afraid

Neat and mournful, Lana finally breaks off from her toxic partner. Lana is either sick of being worried for the future or terrified of her partner, and its reflective sadness as she plans to go back home still leaves hope that she will be able to be happy.

Wayamaya

Rolling calmly like a beach wave, Lana takes us straight to Hawaii and paints us an image of handsome surfers and Mercurys. Wayamaya is simply a soothing, short, cute little track that keeps very much surface level.

Hawaiian Tropic

Plinky music paired with non-stressful verses and imagery of Hawaiian shirts, this is the (in my opinion) better version of Every Man Gets His Wish (which shares the same chorus). The subtlety of this track compared to Every Man Gets His Wish helps to convey the hurt feelings a lot better, with the nostalgic feel and mournful longing in the vocals.

Dum Dum

Lana plays the alcoholic star who name drops Scarlett O’Hara and Bugsy Malone as part of her identity. These lyrics are pretty witty and the song snappy but, like some of her unreleased music, is a bit too overproduced and not cohesive. The verses and choruses don’t quite gel which doesn’t make for a song that flows well but with tweaking it could be even better.

Hollywood’s Dead

Lana fits perfectly into the era of fifties with this mid-20th century driven track. It sounds perfectly in place for the decade she frequently romanticises (with a modern twist) and Lana’s crooning, tearful references to her icons drips with glamour.

Fake Diamond

For an anti-romance song, Fake Diamond is quite upbeat. Lana complains of her ‘lover’ who is one way with her, a different way with others, whilst comparing their relationship to all manner of Lana-themed aesthetics (diamonds, movie projectors, etc.). Comparing herself to a child, she practically has a tantrum in the chorus, stamping her feet lovingly as she demands he loves her. I do think this song is joyful, making fun of her inattentive lover whilst keeping one step ahead of his games.

I Must Be Stupid

Lana’s live unreleased track lets Lana enjoy her life despite the hurt that surrounds it, showing strength in the face of heartbreak and other such topics in her music. It was performed post-Lust For Life, an era in which Lana embraced the light side rather than simply the dark.

Live Or Die

The version that is a little bit more lowkey and, in some ways, mature in that it matches a lot of her early albums sound is good but it’s not my favourite. There’s the heady, ultra-pop second version that has plenty more sexy references, a little meow (iconic) and an overall vibe of just having fun on the run. The former version is a bit more serious, but the second is – though less good in terms of production – full of soul.

Velvet Crowbar

Velvet Crowbar is a song that shows the dark side of fame and bad boys, namely the way they self-destruct to the point that their adoring lovers (already addicted to these gangstas of course) are falling with them. This song is a warning to these destructive souls that they aren’t invincible, and an equal warning to the people that love them that they might just fall apart and lose them. Lana puts her emotion across so well, with her stark lyrics, anxious guitars and growling third chorus. Even her more flowery imagery doesn’t cover up the overt fear that runs through this song.

Your Band Is All The Rage

Probably one of Lana’s saddest songs (which could be a great deal many since she knows how to tug heartstrings), Lana lets go of her rock star lover despite still loving him in this acoustic track. She makes soulful promises to be there when he needs him, her love lingering until he wants her back, and utilises the country music theme to her advantage.

1949

The studio version is my favourite but the charm of the original, acoustic demo is unmatched. Despite the controversial inspiration for this track, Lana puts us straight in the world of the 1950s, with American motels and Kmart. It has a note of sadness – perhaps because of the unfortunate tale of Lolita that much of this song seems based on – but it works as one of Lana’s aesthetically pleasing and classic tracks.

Because of You

The spoken intro is a little bit cringe but the song is lovely. Lana plays an immature brat who fell in love with a good man who essentially tamed her (a little bit questionable for some in 2021). It’s got some of her most flowery imagery and it details how her relationship bought out the best of her. The casual comments she throws in throughout the song give this a real bedtime story feel, though this song is anything but sleepy.

Resistance

Frustrated but fun, Lana’s catchy and upbeat Resistance brings to mind surfers and sunny days set in the noughties. Even though she’s furious with the guy who’s causing her so much trouble it still, for a change, stays perky and pleasant. A song that needs more attention, it’s the type of song that gets people singing and dancing along to it.

Dangerous Girl

With a rock-feeling patriotic opening, Lana launches into a track about her prowess as a dangerous girl, like a deranged beauty queen with a gangsta on her arm. It’s simply fun, complete with wolf-whistles and an impression of a siren.

#lana del rey #lana del rey songs #lana del rey unreleased #cherry-interlude

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fictionallyinparadise · 2 years

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Okay theme songs let's go

Under the cut bc it's gonna be a long one 😭 I left out some of my more casual ones bc I don't have an idea :(

Satine: From Eden by Hozier!!! Like! "Babe/ there's something tragic about you"!!!! Bc both of us are tragic!!!! GAHHH,,,,

47 and Diana: There's so many!! But Shelter by FINNEAS!!!! That song hits so hard but I just. Oh my god. All of Verse Two hits me like a TRAIN!!!!! Fuck.

Movie!47: GAHHH!!! So many songs and half of them are just being absolutely hopelessly devoted. Like some Gomez and Morticia!!!!!! Skyfall by Adele!!! Bc badass couple goes brrr hehe.

Ella and Charming: Pierre by Run Weaver!!!, The vibes of the song are absolutely immaculate for them 🥺

Erik and Charles: Arms Tonite by Mother Mother. Bc we're uh™. Complicated. I think. Also the song is very good!

Arthur Morgan: This Side of Paradise by Coyote Theory!!!! Bc!!! He is lonely,,,I am lonely,,,our fingers dancing when they meet!!!!!! It's so gentle too... ughHHH.

Lucifer: hMM,,,Talk Too Much by COIN!!! He talks,,,so sometimes I just gotta shut him PSJDJSHDH. Also imagining him mumbling the words to that song and he's like an inch away from kissing me drives me insane.

Geralt and Jaskier: FUCK okay okay. You're So Creepy by Ghost Town?? Idk why. It just seems to fit us ;w;

Dana: OUGH MY BELOVED MY SWEET DARLING GIRLFRIEND. Can I Call You Tonight? By Dayglow!!! GAHHH that song is so sweet it hits my little yearning neurons.

Volga: Something Just Like This by The Chainsmokers bc. Bro,,,I just want something just like this,,,somebody I can turn to,,,somebody I can miss,,,

Gordon: WAILS LOUDLY. Die Alone by FINNEAS. It's so perfect for us you don't understand I am so feral its us it's us. The entire song. So good.

Karl: GAH THIS BASTArD <3 What A Heavenly Way To Die by Troye Sivan!!! It's a good song and just. Yes. All of Verse One!!!! There's other songs like Honeypie like JAWNY!!!

Jon and Martin: OKAY OKAY. it's a tie between Foreigner's God by Hozier and You've Got The Life by Florence + The Machine!!!!! GAHHH.

Sully: there's so many songs I could say bc of the ✨complicated love story✨ we are but. But. I Will Follow You into The Dark by Death Cab for Cutie. It's such....🥺🥺🥺😭

Alice: hMMMn,,,Yellow Hearts by Any Saunders bc it's so soft and we're so soft. Oh my god.

The Narrator/Simon: There's so many songs,,,I think Talk To Me by Cavetown!!!! Or It's Alright by Mother Mother. Maybe a mix of those two.

Jason: !!! This fucking man oh my god I want to kiss him. Anyway Creep by Radiohead and I will not expand.

Slenderman: oouughhh. Lay All Your Love On Me by ABBA!!! Esp the one with like the guitar and shit kicking in!!!! Also I Hear a Symphony by Cody Fry :>

Warren: !! Me and My Husband by Mitski!!! Gahhhh <3

Arthur Hastings: YELLS LOUDLY. As The World Caves In by Matt Maltese but specifically the acoustic one!!!!!!!!! Because fuCKKK it's him that I lie with as the atom bomb drops in!!!!!!!!!

Thomas Richardson: I think. Hmm. All of Me by John Legend and Cabo by Ricky Montgomery :0

Harvey: AAA,,,my sweet ghost man...I cannot think of a song other than the one that is our tag 😭. I might say Soulmate Song by Carson James Argenna is the first that comes to mind...second being I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire by Ink Spots!!

Nihilus: OH THIS MAN THIS FUCKING MAN. Oh my GODDDD. Obsessed With You by The Orion Experience!!! Also maybe Daisy Bell by...idk who? goddd,,,,

Luke and Din: They're still kinda new f/os tbh? But. Glad You Came by The Wanted. Something about it makes me think of them,,,,<3!!!

Phone Guy: !!!! gahhh. agaiN so many songs!!! Ugh. Boyfriend by COIN,,,also Absolutely Smitten by dodie,,,,

Miles Upshur: okay this one is gonna sound absolutely ridiculous and obvious,,,but. E.T. by Katy Perry and exclusively without K*yne's part. Also exclusively Clarity covered by Kurt Hugo Schneider.

Mirael and Fawkes: hmMMsnndj,,,,Run by Hozier but like. Also Line Without A Hook by Ricky Montgomery. Wrecking Ball by Mother Mother also makes me think of us!

Izold: yet again thinking of the song that's our theme. Anyway! Hey Lover! by Wabie,,,Walk You Home by Sir Chloe,,,so many songs. *pats Izold's shoulder* this bad boy can fit so many songs into him!!!!!

Alna: AGAIN THE FIRST SONG TO COME TO MIND IS THE ONE THAT'S OUR THEME!!! but. But. Pretend The World Has Ended by She Wants Revenge and Love Story covered by Sarah Coltrane!!! Ahhhh.

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wonderrdies · 4 years

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if love be rough with you - pt.1 (pypfc)

In which you and Harry are professors at a prestigious Art and Language university but can’t stand each other. Well, you can’t stand him.

disclaimer: I fucked up and won’t finish the thing in time for the pick your poison fic challenge (thank you and I’m sorry to @for-fucks-sake-h @oh-honey-styles @andwhenshesays) so I’ll split it into two parts. Once I post the second one, I’ll link it down here.

warnings: so far, so good. there’s gonna be fucking in the next one, though.

word-count: about 4,000 words

If love be rough with you, be rough with love.

Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.

(Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare)

Your copy of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet fell to the wooden floor of classroom 103 with a dull thud. It was not your favorite play by any means, but teachers didn’t get much of a choice when it came to the syllabus at Markham. Art and Language students there had been learning the same things for generations, walking through ancient hallways with the pretentiousness of people who know they’re special because of more than just daddy’s money.

Daddy’s money was still a big part of it, though. The fact you didn’t have it made it very obvious that, despite your mid-20s looking face, you were staff and not a student. Which, you said to yourself back when you started teaching at Markham, was fine. You made a mantra out of it in the beginning: It’s fine. I’m fine. When older professors and students didn’t take you seriously, when you were lonely, when the stone walls made you feel claustrophobia instead of wonder, when you had to begin working with Drama students instead of sticking to your comfort-zone in the Literature department. It’s fine. I’m fine. Three years later, it was true; you fit right in. You had learned to focus solely on the bright side of the school and the role you had to play, dressing and speaking and teaching like the classy and stone-faced intellectual you always wanted to be. With all your weaknesses safely tucked away, you felt like you probably were a better actress than most of your students.

Considering you were 20 minutes ahead of schedule and no one was ever this early for class, bending over in your pencil skirt to pick Romeo and Juliet up didn’t seem like a big deal. Until you heard the whistling.

“All this for me?”

You took your time standing up, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

“Don’t be gross,” you laid the book back on your desk, crossing your arms as you stared at the man by the door. “Professor Styles.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he flashed you a dry smile, but his green eyes showed amusement. “Darling.”

The eye-roll couldn’t be held back any longer. “Piss off.”

No need to say you weren’t a classy and stone-faced intellectual when it came to Harry Styles.

“Can’t piss off from my own classroom, can I?”

Seemingly not minding your frown, he walked into the room holding a worn leather case for what you could guess was an acoustic guitar. If he weren’t dressed in his usual expensive and obnoxious clothes, you’d be able to mistake him for a very handsome hobo.

“No, but you can piss off from mine,” you pointed to the metal numbers on the door. “We’re in 103, Styles. I have it for the next three hours.”

“Funny,” he said before laying his guitar on the desk. It pushed your book away until you had to grab it so it wouldn’t, once again, fall to the ground. “Because my schedule says that I have it for the next three hours.”

“Indeed,” Romeo and Juliet falls on leather harshly, the sound pretty similar to the one it made while hitting the floor. “Hilarious.”

The rumbling of what could only be a herd of students began before Harry could come up with any clever remarks, making his head turn to the door expectantly. His pearl necklace accompanied his movement, and you tried not to stare too hard at the expanse of his neck or imagine what it would look like with a couple of bruises under those pearls.

You snapped out of whatever that thought was before there was any need to overthink it. Over your colleague’s shoulder, you could see students, not all of them yours, entering the room. If it wasn’t clear before that there had been a mistake, it was now; Drama and Music students looked at each other suspiciously, whispering to their classmates like they were in primary school instead of university.

“Professor?” someone called. Both you and Harry turned to the desks arranged in a circle, all of them occupied. One of his students, standing on the corner, moved uncomfortably under your glare before speaking again: “Where should we seat? Is this a joint lesson or something?”

A joint lesson? You cringed at the idea. “No,” you said harshly. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, his voice breezy when compared to yours. “We’ll sort it out, guys. Give us a few minutes.”

He made the two of you sound like a team, which was outrageous. The collar of your sleeveless turtleneck was, all of a sudden, way too tight.

“You look constipated,” he muttered under his breath so only you could hear him. “Let’s go outside.”

“What for?” But you were already following him to the hallway. “Look, just get another classroom.”

“Why don’t you, if it’s that simple?” Harry asked while you closed the door behind you.

“Because it’s a good classroom, the best in the building!”

“Is this how you plan on making me give it up?” He raised an eyebrow, leaning on the stone wall like he didn’t have a care in the world. He probably didn’t.

“Harry,” you sighed. Your hand went to the tiny gold cross in your neck, nervously messing with it. You knew you were about to start pacing like a madwoman. “You could play that guitar anywhere on campus. Just let me have the damn room, alright?”

“Do you think that’s all my lessons are?” He sounded upset.

A brief moment of guilt didn’t stop you from snapping at him. “Do you think I care?”

“No, I don’t,” Even though his voice remained calm, Harry straightened up. “I would never have such high expectations for you, darling.”

You looked at him with a blank stare. Those green eyes without a hint of malice, the soft brown curls of his hair, the delicate pearls over a pastel blue sweater that had a fucking baby chick on it; seeing him, it was hard to believe he could be mean enough to hurt you. But he had, so you went with the most mature and eloquent answer you could muster: “Whatever,” mumbled under your breath.

Harry sighed and rolled his eyes. “Let’s just go to the administration and get this shit over with.”

His tone, finally bordering on annoyed, gave you some satisfaction. Maybe you two had more in common than you thought.

—

Things between you and Harry hadn’t always been this hard. Back in university, among mutual friends and copious amounts of alcohol, he had been nicer. So had you. But Markham made the differences that seemed meaningless at 19 years old feel like deal breakers for any sort of healthy work relationship; his laid backness, so charming all those years ago, drove you insane now. He was a brilliant musician, of course, but was that really all it took? While you searched for the perfect balance between serious faculty member, approachable but slightly intimidating mentor, cultured academic, reliable friend and well-rounded human being, Harry simply seemed to always be a little late for everything that didn’t involve robbing you of your preferred classroom. Also, he flirted way too much, dressed like a sexy grandmother and never submitted grades when he was supposed to.

“Hey,” he said, then called your name softly. “I think that’s enough.”

For a second, you thought he meant enough reasons to dislike him. Then you looked down at your overflowing cup of water and the puddle forming on the teacher’s lounge counter.

“Fuck,” you hissed, putting the glass jar back in its place.

“That sounds familiar,” Harry sipped his coffee like he hadn’t just said that in a room filled with ancient Markham professors.

You were torn between giving him a death glare or ignoring him altogether, so you just settled for a death glare directed at no one in particular while you wiped your wet hand on the side of your black skirt.

“Professors,” greeted one of the Plastic Arts teachers, a sweet-looking old lady. She walked up to the counter so she could pour her coffee, standing between you and Harry in the process. “I take it the 103 debacle hasn’t gone smoothly.”

“Yeah, Mrs. Thomas,” Harry said, a playful smile suddenly on his lips. “Someone here doesn’t know when to give up.”

“Don’t talk about yourself in the third person, Professor Styles. It’s not cute.”

Mrs. Thomas laughed like the two of you were performing a stand-up comedy show. “God, you two are adorable.”

You frowned while she walked away, and even though Harry’s smile stayed plastered on his face, you could see the furrow between his brows. “Adorable?” he asked, voice low. “You?”

“Piss off,” you said for the second time that day.

The 103 debacle, as your elder colleague so eloquently put, hadn’t gone smoothly. At all. Administration admitted to making a mistake and offered, oh so kindly, to relocate one of you to an empty classroom upstairs. Both Harry and you just stood there, looking at each other as if saying “Well, there you go” and waiting for the other to eagerly take room 214. Dark, humid, cold and small 214. After a couple of minutes of painfully awkward silence, the secretary responsible for room assignment suggested a sort of alternation: since the conflicting lessons were taught twice a week, Harry could get 103 on Mondays and you could have it on Thursdays. Neither of you liked the idea, but no amount of “But Sophie…” would change her mind once she came up with a supposedly perfect solution.

“She’s only saying that because she hasn’t seen your eye twitching while you try to refrain from having a mental breakdown over a classroom,” he said, ignoring the fact you had just told him off. Harry leaned in, annoying smirk on his lips, so only you would hear him when he said: “You can be adorable when you’re whining for more, though.”

He was too close, and you could smell the cologne on the collar of the shirt he wore under his sweater. It was vanilla, sweet and strong like he had been before he turned out to be the kind of guy who insulted you and bragged about having fucked you, all in the same breath.

“Classy, Styles,” you drank the rest of your water in one gulp so you could get rid of the cup and put some distance between the two of you. He just smelled too good. “You shouldn’t be so quick to make fun of my eye twitch, though. I wasn’t the one using “the humidity in 214 is bad for my hair” as an argument.”

“I hate that room,” Harry muttered as you walked away.

Well, that made two of you.

—

“So here’s what we’re going to do,” you announced to your students. Sunshine flooded the room, casting light on their focused expressions. “You’re going to go through act one again and select a snippet of text so that we can discuss it, and you have to make it so your point —” A determined knock on the door interrupted you. Before you could say anything at all, about a dozen people entered room 103 as if it were expected from them to do so. Strangely, it took you a second too long to realize where you knew most of those faces from: three days ago, they were among your own students as they waited for their professor. One by one, they sat in rows on the floor just like they would in actual desks. None of them made a sound. “Make it so your point about the chosen quote is character-driven,” you continued, choosing to simply not acknowledge any disturbance for a moment.

Still, there were twelve too many sets of eyes looking up at you. It was unsettling. For the next few minutes, there was a silent agreement between you and the Drama students; the lesson proceeded as they exchanged puzzled looks while pretending to skim the first act of Romeo and Juliet and you anxiously played with your cross necklace. What kind of sick mind game was Harry trying to play here? You wish you knew what reaction he was expecting, only so you could deliver the exact opposite of it.

“You have ten more minutes,” you said, reminding your students. A few of them nodded as they took notes, but the people sitting on the floor remained quiet and still, eyes on you. “What do you want?” you blurted out.

“What do you mean?” a girl asked, and you could tell they were expecting you to continue pretending they weren’t there until the lesson was over. Bingo.

“I mean, what is your goal? Did your professor send you here just to spite me? Is he wasting your time as well as mine? Or are you supposed to learn something by attending my class without my previous consent?”

By then, your own students had dropped their books and were waiting for one of the Music kids to speak up.

“Today’s lesson is about civil disobedience and other forms of rebellion and how they relate to the cultural and/or artistic aspects of music,” the same girl said. You couldn’t help but admire the way she took the lead, just as you couldn’t help but question Harry’s methodology.

“What’s your name?”

“Kate.”

“Kate, don’t you think this exercise fails to convey the gravity of civil disobedience? The environment seems a little low-stakes, to be honest.”

“Having low stakes is what makes it an experiment, though,” someone else muttered from behind Kate.

“You can speak up”, you said. “And yes, it’s an experiment, but it still feels too far-fetched, not even close to a parallel. Once you’re done with the lesson, you should let me know how Professor Styles managed to turn this into a Thoreau analogy. Maybe he should have just taught you how to play Another Brick In The Wall and called it a day.”

Some of the Drama students snickered from their desks, but Harry’s class didn’t seem to find you amusing at all. Oh, well. You couldn’t please everyone.

“Since you’re already here, you’re going to learn something. It’s unrelated to civil disobedience but that’s not really my fault, is it? Find a partner that’s actually enrolled in the class about narrative elements in Drama; work on the passage together, from a character-focused perspective, and see if you can relate any of it to your knowledge about art and culture in general. I’m certain someone has taught you about that, even if Professor Styles couldn’t.”

There was a beat of silence, all twenty-four of them staring at you hesitantly.

“Well? Get to work.”

And so they did.

—

You zipped up your bag, mind already drifting to the bottle of wine and comfortable blankets waiting for you back home, when someone’s knuckles tapped the door to the classroom. It was neither 103, with its smooth stone walls onto which you could project any material necessary with perfect lighting, or 214, with its moldy smell, but a perfectly decent middle-ground. You had just taught your last lesson of the first week of the semester to a group of eager Literature first-years and even though you were much better at it now than when you first began, it wasn’t an easy job by any means. Shoulders aching with tension, you turned to the door.

“No,” you said before Madeline could utter a single word. She was your sweetest colleague, and also technically your boss. Madeline was the head of the Literature department and the person who recommended you to the head of Drama when they needed someone to teach a couple of classes on the narrative aspects of plays the students would later perform. Even when you hesitated to take the job and said you weren’t experienced enough to do it, she wouldn’t take no for an answer; Madeline was the closest thing you had to a mother in Markham, always toeing the line between authority and encouragement.

But she would have to take no for an answer now, because you knew that face. And contrary to her motherly status, she wanted you to go out for happy hour. “Just one drink,” she didn’t even bother denying it. “Everyone’s coming.”

“Everyone who?”

“Everyone!”

Everyone almost certainly didn’t involve faculty over 65, so that left you with less than ten people total. You decided not to bring it up since Madeline could get sensitive about age talk. She was 58 and absolutely outraged by people over 60 that started “acting like they had already dropped dead”. Her words.

“Professor Styles will be there,” and then she wiggled her eyebrows. Oh my God.

“What is that supposed to mean?” you said, offended, grabbing your purse. You turned off the lights and closed the door, all while she played dumb.

“Nothing, really,” Madeline said with a shrug. “Thought it might be nice to hang out with a fellow young intellectual, ‘s all.”

“Oh, spare me.”

“You could also figure your shit out before HR needs to get involved,” she paused to see your reaction. There was none. “Just a thought.”

“HR? Are you for real?”

“No,” she said, honestly. “But the two of you can’t keep this up forever, honey. It’s entertaining to watch, but it looks exhausting. You should put an end to whatever this is, if only so you can have a little more peace of mind. You’re both smart people trying to get their job done, that’s all.”

You didn’t say a word. You didn’t want to fight Madeline on this. Harry was… complicated. You hadn’t seen him at all since yesterday’s class and even though you were proud of how you handled the situation at first, you couldn’t help but second guess every move you made while his students were in your classroom. Maybe you should have just made them leave. Maybe you shouldn’t have questioned Harry’s authority so explicitly by saying it was a bad exercise.Maybe you should have just pretended they weren’t there at all. Maybe you should have walked up to Harry himself and thrown a fit because he disturbed your lesson.

But there was no use dwelling on what should have been. In the end, the lesson was actually productive. Fun, if you might say so yourself. His students proved themselves to be very reasonable people, and the contrast between their perspectives as musicians and those of your students, as actors or future playwrights, contributed to multiple interesting discussions.

“Just one drink,” you found yourself saying to Madeline, not that it mattered. You were already walking together towards the parking lot, where her car was, instead of your usual route.

“That’s my girl.”

You rolled your eyes as you walked by her side, your black heels making it hard for you to walk on the gravel of the parking lot. The uncomfortable shoes, unfortunately, played a big part in your whole “fake it ‘till you make it” brand of confidence.

—

The whole table shifted as you and Madeline walked into the pub. You could see Harry from the corner of your eye, fuzzy cream sweater and lilac pants, the shadow of laughter still on his lips from whatever joke was being told before you walked in.

Two more chairs were placed at random spots, and before you could say anything you were squeezed in between Harry and another professor from the Music department, with Madeline four seats away. This had been a terrible idea. Your thighs were pressed together, the rough fabric of his pants rubbing against your skin; there was no move you could make without somehow touching him.

��Hey,” Harry said quietly, turning to you. You could feel his warm breath on your cheek. “Did you have a nice class yesterday?”

Despite all the imaginary fights you had with him on the last 30 hours, you smiled. Harry Styles had some nerve. “Which one? I teach a few classes everyday, Professor.”

He laughed under his breath even though you both knew you weren’t a particularly funny person. “You know what? You are adorable.”

You could feel your cheeks flaming instantly. He rendered you speechless for a couple seconds, each one making his smirk grow. You licked your lips and then, with less confidence than you’d like, you said: “I know. Still not as adorable as your little backfiring prank, though.”

“First of all,” he started, still with that damn smirk. “It wasn’t a prank, it was an exercise.”

You raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“It was! And it absolutely did not backfire. Shouldn’t you know what backfiring means? Aren’t you a book expert or whatever?”

“Very cute, Styles.”

He murmured a ‘thank you’, choosing to ignore your dripping sarcasm. It drove you crazy.

Someone cleared their throat, and you realized as soon as you looked up that the whole table was waiting for your order and most definitely paying attention to yours and Harry’s conversation. Your face burned even hotter while you stuttered out the name of your cocktail.

Your first cocktail, that is. As a storm started outside, one drink turned into two, then three.

“I should get going,” Madeline said at some point, half the table already gone. Even with all the extra space, you and Harry had shown no intention of moving. “Do you need a ride, honey?”

You thought of your empty kitchenette, a few miles south of Markham, and all the time it would take her to drive you home and back to her house, and her family, under such a downpour. A quick “No, thank you” and she was gone. You turned to the nearest window, your arm brushing Harry’s in the process, to watch the storm outside and figure out if the weather would make it impossible for you to leave, which meant you had made a terrible decision by declining the ride. Sure enough, it was pitch black and the rain was as violent as ever. Oh, well.

“You have goosebumps.”

“Huh?”

“You have goosebumps,” Harry repeated himself, laughing a little. As opposed to you, he hadn’t had a single drink to slow his thinking. “Are you cold?”

“Yeah,” but you weren’t. Through your protests, he took the beige coat hanging on his chair and draped it across your shoulders. Once you shivered at the touch of his fingertips, there was no lying anymore.

Harry raised an eyebrow, and you didn’t know what was more infuriating: his smirk, the amazing smell on his absurdly fashionable coat or your uncalled-for horniness, so you decided to ignore all of them. “There’s really no need, Styles,” you said quietly, already reaching to give him back his coat. “I need to get home.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not driving.”

“Well,” he scoffed. “Obviously.”

You furrowed your brows, suddenly very glad you couldn’t see the drunk pout that had just formed in your lips. “Bye, then.”

He grabbed your hand before you could take off his jacket. “No. Let me take you.”

“No fucking way,” you protested. Realizing the three or four remaining coworkers at the table were paying attention to your conversation, you continued much more calmly: “Thank you, though.”

“Come on, Professor,” he teased. “I owe you this one, I guess.”

The gin made him sound so reasonable. He did owe you one, for being such a jerk at all times through the don’t-give-a-shit attitude and how he often brought up that stupid fucking night. Not to mention the 103 debacle and the disruptive prank. He owed you many, actually.

“I guess?” It sounded more aggressive in your head, but that would do.

So you both said your goodbyes and left, his expensive coat hanging off your back while you walked to his expensive car, as if whatever was his were meant to be shared with you simply because you looked good in it.

part 2 !

#pick your poison fic challenge #for-fucks-sake-h #oh-honey-styles #andwhenshesays #pypfc #mine #harry styles #harry styles fic #enemies to lovers

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im-a-gay-frog · 3 years

Text

I Hear A Symphony

Ships: Pannacotta Fugo x Guido Mista, Pannacotta Fugo & Guido Mista (could be taken as both)

Tag list: @phosphophyllite-halo @dead-kids-bride @muboo (to be added or taken off the tag list, send me an ask)

Tws/Cws: mentions of child abandonment, mention of nightmares (nothing specific though), Everyone Survives AU

Summary: Fugo finds Mista on the balcony playing his guitar. It was strange because Fugo didn’t even know he had one. Turns out, Mista even came up with a song and wants to show it to Fugo

Notes: This is so cute to me! I wrote it late last night (but not into the AMs again) so sorry about any misspellings. I had fun with this one. I haven’t written fluff in a while so it was a nice break from al the angst that I usually write. There’s no prompt for this so that won’t be at the end like last time. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy!

Obviously, Fugo wasn’t sleeping tonight. So much had happened that, it felt like sleeping was impossible. Horrible images flashed across the screens that were his eyelids every time he tried so he just decided to get up and walk around the house Buccellati had decided to buy. It was in the style of a house in the Victorian Era so there were uninhabited hallways everywhere.

As his feet slapped the cold tile, he made him way across the estate. There was old wallpaper with bright yellow sunflowers, which seemed so strange for a house of this size. After a while or walking, he saw light coming from where the balcony was supposed to be. More importantly, he heard music. Who even played music in this household? He approached the balcony and the music stopped abruptly before he could see who was there.

“Did I interrupt your walk, Fugo?” Mista asked softly, smiling a bit. His face seemed nervous, from what Fugo could see in the limited moonlight. He wasn’t wearing his hat, meaning he thought he was alone. He almost never took off so it was strange to him without it. He also didn’t see to grab for it either.

“Would you like to join me? I’m practicing my guitar, if you’d like to listen to it.” Mista said, pointing at a chair beside him. Only now did Fugo realize that Mista was holding the instrument. It appeared to be beat up, the body itself scratched all to shit. It seemed to be an acoustic guitar but where did it come from? He’d never seen Mista with it before.

“Sure.” Fugo sat down. “Where did you get your guitar?”

“My father left it, so I took it. Haven’t seen him since I was young so I figured he didn’t need it.” Mista said, his usual carefree tone replacing the panicked tone he’d used earlier.

“Ah.” Was all Fugo could think of how to respond. He felt kinda bad that Mista’s father just left him but to be honest, it was kind of expected. Everyone seemed to have some sort of issues related to their parents.

“I’ve been practicing this song I came up with. Do you wanna hear it?” Mista asked. Fugo nodded. It seemed to make Mista happy so why spoil his fun? Plus, he’d hadn’t much time to spend with Mista since everything had ended. With a grin, Mista prepared his figures along the fretboard and began to pluck the strings gently. His fingers moved quickly and soon, music began pouring out of the guitar. It was beautiful.

“I used to hear a simple song,” Mista began to sing. His voice was silvery, flowing through the air as smooth as butter. “That was until you came along. Now in its place is something new. I hear it when I look at you.” His voice turned fruity at the end, deep and strong in an appealing way. Fugo began to lightly bop his head. The music was simply delightful.

“With simple songs, I wanted more. Perfection is so quick to bore.” He began after a small silence of his voice, letting the music truly take over the night. “You are my beautiful, by far. Our flaws make us who we are.”

“I used to hear a simple song. That was until you came along. You took my broken melody, and now I hear a symphony,” Mista murmured sotto voce by the end as he smiled a bit to himself. He sang the last lyrics so softly, Fugo barely heard it.

“And now, I hear a symphony.” Mista brushed his finger gently against the strings of his guitar before laying the instrument down to rest. “So, what’d ya think?”

“It sounded good, Mista. Where did you learn to play guitar?” Fugo asked.

“Just kinda taught myself, ya know?” Mista said with a laugh. “By the way, it was almost perfect that you caught me practicing. I wrote the song for you, and I’m glad you liked it.”

“Me? You wrote it for me?” Fugo pointed at his own chest. There was no way that Mista wrote that for him. The song was just too good to be about him.

“Yep! Thought it’d be fun to write a song about my feelings. Plus, you did suggest I write down how I felt so it was almost perfect.” Mista said, his usual goofy grin presented proudly on his face.

“What’s the song mean?” Fugo asked.

“Well, uh, I kind of like you. Like, a lot.” Mista said. Everything he said sounded so blunt, it was insane what came out of his mouth sometimes. It left Fugo astonishes. That was the last thing he’d expect Mista to feel towards him. Hatred was what he expected, not that.

Of course, Fugo never really knew how people felt about him. He was always confused on how people perceived him. He did like Mista back, but he still didn’t expect this.

“I like you too, Mista.” Fugo said. There was no need to beat around the bush when all the cards were laid out on the table.

“Cool!” Mista smiled widely. Fugo smiled back. It was nice seeing Mista happy.

#JoJo fan fic #fumis #fumis fic #fluff #pannacotta fugo #guido mista #everyone survives au #Spotify

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yeeharley · 4 years

Text

day one: next to me by sleeping at last / childhood friends / musicians au

⭒

The inside of the bar is musty and overcrowded, filled to the brim with customers far beyond its capacity. There are people perched on the arms of couches, atop the bar itself, sitting right on top of each other’s laps- which definitely looks far too uncomfortable to Harry, but hey. None of his business, really.

If he’s being totally honest, he’s uncomfortable with this for so many reasons other than lap-sitting. He hadn’t even really wanted to go, but when Flash and Betty had asked him and pushed every time he’d said no, he simply hadn’t had the strength to refuse.

Betty was wonderfully persuasive when she wanted to be, and Flash’s argument had been so convincing: it’s your twenty-first birthday, Osborn, and your pop’s in jail, and you’re fuckin’ CEO of your own billion-dollar company. What else is gonna get you in a celebratin’ mood?

Hm. Not this, definitely. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever felt less interested in celebrating.

God, you’re such an idiot. Shouldn’t have ever let them convince you.

Flash and Betty have, by this point, all but abandoned him; they’re over at the bar joking with some long-legged blond guy that Harry’s never met, and he’s managed to shove himself into a cramped, humid corner so that they can’t change that and introduce him. The glass in his hand (he has no idea what it is and definitely isn’t interested in putting it in his mouth) has long since warmed to room temperature.

Harry watches from the shadows for a few minutes, eyes fixed on Flash and Betty as the former jokingly shoves the blond man into a nearby barstool and knocks it over. The resulting crash is enough to turn a few heads and dim the noise, but nobody seems to care very much and conversation picks up again before Harry can help pick up the fallen chair.

He’s never really been into places like this. His entire life, Harry had been reminded that he was built for corner offices and board meetings and marble mansions.

This place is all strobing lights and loud laughter and happy people. Carefree.

Sometimes, he wishes he could loosen up enough to actually enjoy his life.

Harry’s just about to tell Flash and Betty that he’s taking himself home instead of playing designated driver when the overhead lights shut off and a flickering white beam fixes itself on the raised platform a few feet to his right- a stage, equipped with curtains on the sides and everything.

What kind of music do people even play in hole-in-the-wall places like this? Country? If Harry has to listen to country music, the police will never find Flash and Betty’s bodies. It’ll be a Buzzfeed Unsolved case in twenty years. He’s going to drain their bank accounts and move back to France.

Harry takes a sip of his lukewarm, barely-identifiable drink (beer, watered down beyond measure and proof that Flash doesn’t have taste buds) as the bartender shouts out a band name that he doesn’t recognize and can barely hear over the roar of the crowd. He watches, silent and tucked away in his little nook, as a microphone is set out and a girl with coily hair drags a drumset out of the wings. The blond man from earlier follows, climbing up onto the stage and flashing a Colgate-white smile out at the crowd before strapping a guitar over his shoulders.

Acoustic, Harry thinks. He doesn’t really know, though- when he had asked his father if he could learn to play something or take voice lessons, Norman had given him a concrete no and that had been that.

Dream down the drain.

Just like that.

Harry looks back to the stage, eyes half-lidded. The warm air of the room has him yawning and leaning up against the wall- honestly, he could probably fall asleep right here, right now, and not have any trouble.

That problem dissolves when the lead singer steps out from behind the curtain and into the spotlight. Harry spits his mouthful of lukewarm beer into his cup, eyes wide, suddenly very much awake, because he knows this man.

Dark curls, honey-and-coffee eyes, an ear-to-ear, genuine smile that puts a little dimple into his left cheek- yeah, they’ve both grown, but Harry would recognize Peter Parker no matter how much time passed.

His smile hasn’t changed a bit.

The rest of him has, a traitorous little voice in the back of his mind whispers. He pushes it down with a little squeak (nobody hears). Tries to ignore the buzzing heat in the basin of his stomach.

It’s kind of difficult to ignore the voice when it’s right, though. Even if he probably shouldn’t be checking out a guy he hasn’t seen since high school.

Peter is taller, now, probably about Harry’s height- he had always been three or four inches shorter, when they were younger. The black tank top he’s wearing doesn’t leave anything to the imagination, either- the amount of muscle cording his arms and shoulders is a far cry from the thin, wiry ones that he had wrapped around Harry’s waist before he’d been sent off to France in eleventh grade.

Peter secures the strap of a bass guitar (he plays bass, God, that’s so hot) around his neck before leaning into the microphone, wrapping his hands around the stand. He tilts it towards full, pink lips, smiles at the crowd, winks at the bartender.

Harry thinks he might actually faint.

“Evening, New York,” Peter croons, lips so close to the mic that he’s practically kissing it.

His Queens accent has thickened considerably in the past four or five years, and normally Harry doesn’t think of Queens accents as attractive, but on Peter? Whoa.

Maybe he wants Peter to be kissing him instead of that microphone.

Whoa, okay, little voice. Calm the fuck down.

The crowd shouts back a greeting, voices commingled to the point where it can’t be made out, and Harry finds himself shouting out a half-hearted “Hey” that gets lost in the roar.

Peter smiles again, this time bigger, like he’s feeding off of the enthusiasm of his audience. He strums a single chord on his guitar, mellow and soft, and that sets everyone off again. Harry claps. Tells himself it’s because everyone else is clapping.

There isn’t any more fanfare- no speeches, introductions, nothing. Peter steps back, bracing his fingers against the frets at the top of the neck of his guitar, and plucks out a few short notes; Harry nearly falls over with his surpise.

Seven Nation Army. He and Peter had loved that song. Played it on Harry’s car radio when he first learned how to drive, flying through backroads in the New York countryside, Peter whooping away in the passenger seat, Harry pulling hairpin turns with all the flair of a professional racecar driver.

The blond man joins in a few measures later, and Harry’s never thought of acoustic guitar as an instrument that you could play rock on, but he seems to make it work- with Peter’s bass guitar and the girl in the back on the drums, his gentle strumming seems to work perfectly. He starts humming out the tune into his own mic, and Harry watches, dumbfounded, as Peter (he can sing, he can sing) belts out the first line with that soft, careful voice.

It’s perfect. Buttery and mellow, blending together with the guitars and drums in a way that Harry finds unnecessarily attractive. Peter’s voice is beautiful, perfectly in tune, like sunshine and fields of daisies and wow, he’s so gone.

He finds himself pushing through the crowd from his spot in the corner, making his way to the front so that he’s just in front of the stage- in front of him- staring up, up, up at gently-closed eyes and frizzy curls. Elbows hit his sides, people sway against him, but for the first time in a long time, Harry doesn’t care.

He sees the minute Peter notices him, staring up at him from the crowd. It’s a quick realization- his friend’s eyes flicker down, widen, and suddenly he’s smiling, missing a beat, just a little bit behind.

Peter gets back on top of it pretty quickly.

His eyes never leave Harry, though. They stare straight into his soul, accompanied with that toothy little grin of his. Peter’s voice seems different, now, invigorated. Brighter and louder.

Harry leans forward, elbows propped up on the stage, and stares.

And Peter stares back.

And it feels like he’s singing for him.

Harry listens, enraptured, as Peter and his little band play their way through a little discography of their own, then Hozier, then some songs he doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t once take his eyes off of the boy at the microphone. The boy at the microphone doesn’t once take his eyes off of him.

The concert ends too quickly, and Peter, the blond man, and the drummer all bid the crowd a good night before slipping off of the stage and into the wings. Harry waits, dejected, as nobody re-enters the stage. He knows Peter saw him- does he not want to come out an say hi?

Does he not want to be Harry’s friend any more?

You want to be more than friends.

Harry turns and pushes his way through the throng of people, trying to ignore the tears stinging in his eyes. That rush of happiness from earlier has long since faded into some kind of bitter sadness- is he not good enough for Peter Parker? Well, apparently so.

He’s halfway to the door when a heavy hand lands on his shoulder and stops him in his tracks. Expecting to see Flash or Betty, Harry whirls around, ready to chew his captors out for dragging him somewhere he regrets having ever agreed to.

But it’s not Flash, and it’s not Betty.

Peter grins at him, eyes sparkling in the low light of the bar, and lifts the hand not on Harry’s shoulder to wiggle his fingers in a little wave.

“Hey, Har,” he murmurs, winking his left eye like the absolute dork that he’s always been.

Harry wordlessly raises his own hand and nods. He can feel his jaw working, a fish out of water, making an idiot out of himself in front of this insanely attractive boy.

“Wanna go get a drink?” Peter asks. He’s smiling- doesn’t look weirded out by Harry’s lack of a response at all.

Harry nods, smiling a bit as Peter reaches down to take his hand and leads him over to the bar, offering to pay for both of their drinks.

Maybe this wasn’t so much of a mistake after all.

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gayenerd · 4 years

Text

Green Day Deals with the "Rock Star" Dookie

by Tom Lanham

(First appeared in BAM Magazine, March 10, 1995)

Young, loud, and snotty equals beaucoup bucks? What pencil-pushing, graph-charting trend spotter could've predicted it? But the facts speak for themselves: As of late February, Dookie--the brattish, snap 'n' snarl Reprise salvo from Berkeley's sloppy punk trio, Green Day--has sold six million copies. Six million. Chances are, somebody on your block is jumping up and down in his living room at this very moment to the scrap-metal power chords and ardent apathy of "Longview," "Burnout," "Basket Case," or "When I Come Around" and getting lost in the teen abandon of these testy 22-year-olds--weasel-voiced, Montgomery-Clift-like charismatic singer/guitarist Billie Joe; tom-tom tribal percussionist Tre Cool (of the ever-morphing hair-color fame); and bassist Mike Dirnt (who survived Green Day's appearance at Woodstock '94, although several of his teeth did not).

Yes, punk rock is a marketable phenomenon these days, leaving many involved with the music's initial late-'70s, early-'80s wave scratching their heads, wondering why it didn't take the first time around. Public reaction started as curiosity ("Hey, honey, c'mere and lookit these goofy, green-haired little whippersnappers in an insane asylum on MTV!"), but spiraled up to rock-diet necessity (Green Day just won Grammy and they're nominated for quite a few Bammies as well, including such categories as Outstanding Group, Outstanding Album, and Outstanding Song--"Longview" and "Basket Case"). The fact that they've been nominated at all probably sends a shiver up the old dinosaur backbones of Eddie Money, Huey Lewis, and Boz Scaggs, a time-creepy feeling of "Gee, what the hell do we do now?" Because this isn't just some flash-in-the-pan punk movement, folks--this is a youth movement; Green Day are, as they hiply term it, "bored in the 'burbs," and reaching out, through TV and radio, like some prodigal preachers to other American kids who sense the same slacker ennui. Obviously, we're talking truckloads of kids.

Ironically, the more fame edges into the Green Day ruffians' lives, the more mature they seem to become. They've turned down all interview requests as of late, even People magazine, preferring to lay low until this tide of interest recedes. Billie Joe got married last autumn, and spent his honeymoon--not in any exotic, expensive locale--but in Berkeley's grand old Claremont Hotel. Cool recently became a father, and Billie Joe's child is due any day now. It's a responsibility they've both eagerly undertaken. Rob Cavallo, the boys' coproducer and A&R man at Reprise, swears they're "old souls, the smartest young kids I've ever met." It rings true.

The first time I spoke with Green Day, in January of '94, Cool, Dirnt, and Billie Joe were lazing around their dingy basement apartment in Berkeley, sitting on chairs and couches with potentially painful springs poking through. Rock 'n' roll bubblegum cards were scattered across a coffee table, along with several bongs of various sizes, plus a four-and-a-half foot red plastic pipe dubbed "Bongzilla" leaned against a doorway. The only wall decoration, besides a Ren & Stimpy poster, was a Twister game mat nailed up in its entirety, presumably for high-schoolish humor's sake.

When I'd met Billie Joe a few months earlier at a campus concert, his hair was dyed lime-green and featured squidlike tufts. Now it was dark brown, with only two tufts remaining, and both his ears and nose had piercings. Periodically during the interview, he'd ram a finger into that pierced nostril, rummage around, then stare idly at the resultant booger before flicking it on to the carpet. Cool wandered out of the rec room for several minutes, but returned, red-eyed, to proudly proclaim, "Lookit me! I'm stoned, dude!" Dirnt--when he wasn't strumming an acoustic guitar--kept watching their windowsill Sea Monkey tank, finally noting, "Hey, these Sea Monkeys look just like sperm!"

Despite all these schoolboy, poo-poo wit trappings (dookie, after all, is kiddie slang for excrement), there was a sense of seasoned wisdom about them, a feeling that they were, as Cavallo postulated, truly old souls. Like the class clown who frustrates all of his teachers by also maintaining a 4.0 grade average, Green Day can afford to play because their work--brilliantly skewed three-minute pop songs, delivered with such vehemence and vitriol you don't dare doubt them--certainly speaks for itself. But, sooner or later, of course, the band has to speak for itself, too, so what follows is a set of excerpts from that first ratty-digs meeting, as well as a later chat with Billie Joe, sans sidekicks. How did Green Day take over the rock world in less than a year? That's the six-million-copy question, and hopefully we'll provide a few answers.

* * *

So punk is back, whether America likes it or not?

BILLIE JOE: It's always been around, and everyone has their own interpretation of it. It's weird to actually call it "punk" again, when it's been there all the time.

MIKE DIRNT: It's been springing up in little suburban areas, where people grab it and express themselves.

TRE COOL: It's people who make a point of setting aside all responsibilities and just playing music. And doing fat joint after fat joint--you have to let go of things like paying rent, going to school, having a job.

BJ: And, if you can't tell by my house, we don't have a very high standard of living.

How does today's punk rock differ from its late-'70s cousin?

BJ: I think it was all about art and fashion back then, really, because everyone who was a punk in England was in art school. I read an early interview with Dee Dee Ramone, where he said he wished the Ramones had more of a glamorous appeal, too, instead of playing in jeans and leather jackets. But it was definitely about fashion, until the Clash really brought out the political side. Our music came from being bored in the 'burbs. You get put in this high school situation, where you're learning someone else's rules in a room with 30 other people that you don't really like. There's nothing interesting about it whatsoever, so you pick up a guitar instead.

But you all tried college, at least for awhile, right?

MD: And then we started touring. Constantly.

TC: So most of our reading now comes from highway signs.

MD: It's the old grasshopper and the ant story. The thought of actually working is just so...

TC: Sickening!

MD: Yeah. So we put everything we had into not working. This is what I do best, and I was always told, "If you're gonna do something, do it the best you can." So why not do the best thing you can, too?

You guys--at least Mike and Billie Joe--have known each other since you were 10?

BJ: And the first conversation we ever had was about writing songs. And then we just started playing music.

A lot of the stuff on your early Lookout! records shows what was on your mind at the time--namely, girls.

BJ: That was pretty much the viewpoint of a 16-year-old kid. I don't write stuff like that anymore. The new songs are more about coming of age and being apathetic and neurotic.

Where were your parents when you were touring [at age 16]?

MD: At work, doing their own thing.

BJ: My mom's worked a waitress job for like the past 40 years or something, and whatever I was doing was OK with her.

MD: I moved out when I was 15, and I worked all the way through high school.

BJ: And me, I've never held a job longer than two weeks. I tried to flip pizzas--it didn't work. I tried cleaning toilets in the Red Onion in El Sobrante. Me and TrŽ, we used to work for the SF Chronicle, selling papers. I sold three the first day, and the next day we just smoked pot, and we smoked pot the next day after that. So we had hella extra papers lying around. Our ultimate goal wasn't to get rich or famous or anything like that. It was to not have a regular job and not be miserable.

MD: And I've lived in every city around here, except for Albany. Literally. And one thing we want to establish about ourselves is that we're just a bunch of geeks from the suburbs.

Well, one of the first times I saw you, you guys were closing your set with Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger." That's pretty geeky.

MD: I grew up on radio--that's all I had. When I was a little kid, I couldn't afford records. I'll tell you, I've been down to a dollar in my pocket a lot of times. I've even lived in my truck. I can remember shooting rats with a BB gun in the flat we used to live in, before they'd make it to our food.

BJ: I've always been really good about saving. If I got some money, I'd put it away instead of spending it, and I'd buy ramen.

Why name your disc Dookie?

TC: Warner's said we could do anything we want, as long as we didn't say "Cop Killer."

BJ: Somebody told our manager that the ad for it was the most tasteless thing they'd ever seen in Billboard magazine.

What exactly do you mean on Dookie by "Welcome to Paradise"?

BJ, MD, TC [in unison]: West Oakland!

MD: Living in West Oakland, and going out to parties every night.

So it cost, what, around $100,000 to make Dookie?

MD: Yeah. We kept the advances low, because you gotta pay all that shit back. Everyone knows you can't become an instant millionaire just by signing, because there are so many people that want a piece of you.

BJ: We hang out with mostly punks though, and they don't want anything we have. They could care less. And a lot of our friends don't even agree with us being on a major label.

Is Green Day angry?

BJ: No, I'm not angry, like, walking around all the time with a frown on my face. But the way my music is interpreted is very angry.

MD: When you feel really strongly about something, you want to let it out in the most powerful way possible.

Like the way you baited your old high school principal from the Warfield stage recently?

MD: I think he was an asshole. He treated me with no respect. And for high school initiation, we got our heads shaved--that's the kind of small-town shit we had to deal with! Sometimes they made you push a penny up the street with your nose. But that's life, and anywhere you go, you're gonna hate a lot of shit in your life. You'll be handed

Dookie?

MD: Yeah. Yeah, you'll be handed dookie through all parts of your life. And see, what you need to do is just deal with the dookie, build upon what you have, and make something out of the dookie, you know? Like an adobe dookie building!

* * *

Several months later, and Dookie is oozing its gooey way into the public consciousness big time. The fading summer heat sticks crackling to the Berkeley sidewalks as punks--many sporting monstrous green or fuchsia mohawks--zing by on skateboards by day, and huddle in Telegraph Avenue doorways by night, conserving feral body heat the whole time. It feels like another world here, a throwback to the Bay Area's DIY/hardcore scene of the early '80s, when squatters reigned supreme and burlesque Broadway--fueled by all-ages shows at the Mabuhay Gardens, On Broadway, and even an occasional GBH or UK Subs booking at the Stone--made weekend conversions to "Punk Playground, USA." It was the best of times; it was the worst of times--despite relentless touring, most of these bands sold bupkus in the way of records, and few, save Metallica, ever held pen in shaky hand over a major-label contract.

Billie Joe saunters into the Berkeley coffeehouse in rumpled jeans and a grease-spattered flannel shirt; his once-green-and-tufty tresses have grown out into Wally Cleaver waves and been dyed a Rod Stewarty blond. He looks like one of those feisty punks of yore; like he could hold his own through sheer physical endurance in the wildest of thrash pits. There's a new authority about him, the way he strides confidently to the counter, orders a pint-size glass of coffee, then swims through a sea of late-lunching yuppies to grab a table. The singer doesn't seem to notice them at all. Or maybe he's just too tired from nonstop touring to really give a shit. He smiles a goofy grin, revealing a set of generally crooked or chipped choppers, with an entire half of one front tooth missing. But there's such charisma behind it, the same kind of "Who, me?" innocence that little kids use. Billie Joe, you might say, has quickly become the Bart Simpson of the alternative set.

How else could you explain his uncensored performance at a certain outdoor arena where--in a hyperspeed set lasting only 30 minutes before management threatened to pull the plug--he a) unzipped his fly and paraded his privates around for all to see; b) handed a stunned fan his beat-up, sticker-plastered guitar and urged him to play it; c) destroyed a $600 microphone by smashing it into the stage, then destroyed a second mike he was handed as well; and d) encouraged half the venue to chant, "Rock 'n' roll!" and the other half to respond with, "Shut the fuck up!" He then closed the show with a proposition--"They'll be really angry with us, but what we could do is rip out the seats!" he told the audience, which promptly gave Green Day a standing ovation. Billie Joe not only shrugs off such shenanigans as artistic license, he gets away with them! He's even encouraged to continue by fans who empathize with his uppity "fuck authority" attitude.

But the facts were all on the table as Billie Joe sipped his house blend that afternoon, and it didn't take a fortune teller to read 'em. Green Day was hitting big time. Fast. And the sheer enormity of the undertaking, the weight of all its accordant responsibility, was just beginning to hit him. He looked older, wiser, and spoke in more grownup tones about his future, which then included a pending marriage to longtime girlfriend Adrienne. You could practically feel this new maturity encircling him like some protective aura.

* * *

=Where do all these punks on Telegraph come from? They can't all be local and homeless.

I think Telegraph has just become this cultural mecca for punk rockers, because most of 'em who are on the Avenue aren't even from here. They're from Arizona, Minneapolis, New York, Florida. They just come out and end up squatting in houses in Berkeley. Why here? It's the climate, and the scene itself--Gilman Street and Maximum Rock 'n' Roll are in this area, and have a link to each other. But at the same time, it's separated, because there are so many different factions of punk now. There are the squatters, the pop-cores, the mods, the crusties. And all these types of people come out just to check it out. Plus, there's the best coffee in Berkeley, and a lot of 'em are real super coffee-drinkers, just pounding cup after cup all the time. It's pretty rare to come across a punk who doesn't drink coffee. I can't drink too much coffee myself--it gives me the shakes at night, so I just have a little bit during the day. Then I can smoke dope and go to bed.

=What's the attraction in squatting or homelessness for these kids?

For a lot of 'em, it's the first sense of freedom that they've had. It's like, "You mean I don't have to be home by midnight?" They've pretty much told their families and schools to go fuck themselves, so they go off and do their own thing. When I was 17, I did the same thing. And I had this total sense of freedom, where no one's telling you what to do, you don't have a clock to punch in on, you don't have people breathing down your neck; you don't have any deadlines to meet. You have this endless schedule where you can stay up all night drinking with your friends, or do anything you want.

=But isn't "Coming Clean" about leaving behind your wilder ways?

It's also about coming to grips with your sexuality. There's one line, "Skeletons come to life in my closet." And it's like, "Am I homosexual or heterosexual?" You go through this adolescent stage in your life where you don't really know what you are, and one side is taboo because your parents brought you up to think being gay was wrong. And if you come to grips with yourself, that you happen to be gay or bi or whatever, well, that was one thing about punk that was so accepting--all creeds were welcome, all sexualities, everything.

=Was this something you went through personally?

Yeah, to a certain extent. But I don't want to go around waving a gay flag or anything.

=Well, you had a beautiful girl on your arm backstage at the last Green Day show.

That's Adrienne. She's cool. Actually, we're engaged. That's why it took me so long getting here today--I had to get this! [Rolls sleeve up on tattooed arm, points to a bandaged-on cotton swab] Blood test, dude! We're getting married next week!

=Has anybody tried to tell you you're too young for such a serious move?

Of course. There are a lot of people who've said stuff. My parents have been a little more understanding than her parents. I just called my mom yesterday and said, "Mom, I'm gettin' married," and she said, "That's fine, son. Have fun!" I can hardly surprise my mother nowadays. But [this relationship] has been a recurring thing for the past four years, and we just decided to get serious about it. She's coming out here, and we're moving in together, so it's like, "Why not?" I don't really have any wild oats to sow, or anything like that. I'm not into the "Gettin' chicks all the time" thing.

=I know a lot of girls who'll be really bummed that you're gittin' hitched. They all seem to have developed a crush on you...

Me?! It must be the teeth [grins again].

=OK, so maybe you didn't brush often enough when you were young. But you were busy developing a direction...

I wouldn't necessarily say I had a direction or anything. I just knew I wanted to write songs. It comes from...uh...I don't know. I have no idea. It wasn't any kind of cosmic force or anything like that; it was just a matter of having a guitar around and wanting to play it all the time. I've had the same guitar since I was 11--I bought it off this guy at a guitar store. And I still play it--you know, the blue one with stickers all over it? That's my blue guitar, and, for some reason, things come to life, and everyone calls it "Blue" now--"Where's Blue? Can I pick up Blue and play it?"

=And you let just anybody touch it?

Oh yeah! Blue's not prejudiced.

=It's interesting to note that the general public seems to think Dookie is your debut.

Yeah, but that's just the general public. There are people who've been with us since the beginning, who know how long we've been around, since our first 7-inch came out back in '89.

=And now you can afford to trash pricey microphones.

Actually, Warner Brothers paid for those. It was pretty nice of 'em. They looked really nice--I remember looking at 'em and thinking, "Nice microphones!" They gave me one mike and I took it and threw it down, and they gave me another, and at the end of the set I creamed it pretty hard, I guess. We toured Europe with this band Die Toten Hosen--we played nine dates with 'em--and we got charged for a microphone every night. I dunno, for some reason we just started smashing shit. We'd start throwing equipment around at the end of each set, and these kids would start grabbing Tre's drum set and throwing it, and then they started smashing the microphones too. And the bouncers just couldn't do anything about it.

=And you actually yanked your dick out onstage too?

I did. Totally. It was the real thing. I dunno. The bands that we were playing with were just boring. It was more like making a mockery of the whole thing. The big arena rock thing is just so dated now, like Journey or Queen. Which is why I think punk rock started to begin with--it was this reaction to all the dinosaur bands. So for me, that show was, "How can we make a complete mockery of this but at the same time have fun with it?" I like to leave people guessing, "Did he hate that or did he like that?" It's not that I don't care--it's more that I'm careless. I try to be as happy-go-lucky as I can, but you can become apathetic at the same time.

=Do you feel like Green Day is a part of, or represents, the so-called "slacker generation"?

There's one side of me that doesn't mind it, because it's a generational thing, and another side of me that says, "Fuck that!" The reason I wrote the songs is, I ended up going back to Rodeo, where I'm from, for a week. And then I said, "Fuck it," and left. But I managed to get several good songs out of it. A lot of my friends had just turned into complete burnouts. And these are kids I've known since kindergarten, because it's a small town and you know everybody. And it was all fixing cars, staying up all night on methamphetamines, smoking dope, and finding out all these rumors about people I haven't heard of in 10 years. Like, "Oh, did you hear about so-and-so, who got married, had three kids, and ended up shooting everybody in his family?" And it happened! It was a true story! You're there for one week, and you get caught up in it. You get so bored, all you wanna do is watch television. And there are no record stores, nothing around, so you end up hanging out with all these delinquents who aren't punkers at all, just cultural idiots. So I was watching all these people rot and rotting with them until I realized, "Shit! I gotta get the fuck outta here!"

=As they say, you can never go home again.

Oh yeah, definitely. Unless you get pregnant, like my sister did. Then you have to go. But I quit school my senior year--I just wasn't getting anything out of it. I was taking nine periods a day, plus night classes, which left me no time to smoke dope whatsoever. And my mom even suggested I drop out, because she was a dropout, too. I come from a long line of dropouts. I still have nightmares about being late with my homework assignments. When I finally went in to sign out of high school, the teacher went, "Now, who are you again?"

=And if that teacher could see you now!

A lot of people think you get this big connection with a corporate label, and you make millions of dollars, but they don't understand that you just don't make that much money. And when you do, it's easy to piss it away. I mean, every cent that I've made, I've pissed away. I'm not gonna say how I did it, but I don't have it But I don't think you necessarily have to be a punk to decide to say, "Fuck it." You don't even have to have a direction. It's just a matter of getting the fuck out and exploring things for yourself.

=But didn't you feel abject terror when you first set out on your own?

Nah, I didn't. Because, for some reason, I knew things were gonna be all right. You can create your own future as long as karma's on your side. And I'm a strong believer in karma. I think things can come back to you if you're just willing to give.

* * *

True enough. At least six million times over!

1995 Tom Lanham

#article #interview #articles #billie joe armstrong

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sleekervae · 4 years

Text

Young God [0.3]

Despite the obvious connection she felt with Andy, the way they clicked, Taylor had told herself not to get attached to him, that they were strangers passing and that this week was probably the only time they would ever meet. But when she watched him on stage, when she observed him in his element, she forgot about all of that.

Even in his lanky nature, Andy was an explosion on stage, like a paint bomb going off in a white room. There was something about the way he hyped the crowd all the way through the set, his smile when he heard them singing back to him loud enough so that he didn't have to, the infectious joy she felt watching the band play -- according to their setlist -- Fallen Angels.

There was so much to explore in the spunk, the charisma, the effortlessness of his performance that accentuated his raw talent, his long hair in his face and eyes, his nose resting on the microphone as he sang into it, the way he leaned well over the stage, how he bent down in a passion-fueled growl, how he seemed to get lost in the moment and it was hard to believe she'd only known him a couple of hours because she felt so intrigued and interested by him, his mind, drawn to his presence.

When Black Veil Brides' show had come to an end, Taylor was jolted forward when Danny suddenly slapped her on the back. He held a grin like a proud parent watching his kids perform on stage, beaming with the energy that had just been expelled from the last forty-five minutes.

"Oi! What were that for?" Taylor scolded him, rubbing at her sore shoulder blade.

"Well, what'd ya' think?" he asked, completely ignoring her irritation at his actions.

Taylor grinned then as she stole another glance at the sweaty boys coming off their stage, "... Very loud," she chuckled, "Very impressive, though,"

Later on in the day Taylor found herself sitting under a white pop-up tent, guitar sat in her lap as young kids, probably ranging between the ages of 12 to 19 came funnelling in. They sat either on the grass or in folding chairs. Taylor's rhythm guitarist and best friend, Maxeen, was sat next to her. Her own nervous tension bounced off of Taylor's and reverberated around the small square space.

The heat radiating off the sun certainly was no comfort to them.

A close but discreet enough distance away were Danny and Ben, promptly joined by Andy and Ashley who they invited to come and watch Taylor's set. With a fresh cigarette in his fingers Andy watched with intrigue as Taylor balanced her scratched and sticker-covered acoustic guitar in her lap, strumming it a few times to tune it just to her liking. She inhaled deeply a few times as she watched the crowd grow to the size of the average school classroom. Her blue hair fell over her face just to be quickly tucked behind her ears. He could tell she was terrified.

Their mediator came to address the crowd, a taller, scruffier man with sleeve tattoos and a Hawaiian shirt. Taylor took another deep breath.

"Thanks so much guys for coming out to Warped Tour this year!" he announced, earning a few faded claps and whoops, "We brought out a very special guest for you all today. She's the newest budding rock act in England right now, and she was gracious enough to find time in her schedule to come and hang out with us this week!"

He then turned to Taylor and winked. She smiled politely.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm Warped welcome -- trying saying that ten times fast -- to Taylor Wray!" the mediator stepped away to another round of echoing applause.

Taylor took another deep breath as the clapping died down, "Yeh're all doin' alreyht, yeah?" she spoke softly, "Please forgive the accent," the unique zang of her Geordie accent brought a merry giggle to the audience. That was a small comfort at least. She looked to Maxeen, who nodded encouragingly and Taylor counted them in.

"Okay, one, two, three, four..."

The soft, haunting twang of her guitar floated through the airs, wafted pleasantly through Andy's ears as she started to sing. From the moment she opened her mouth her voice was golden, flowing like rich velvet with a raspiness that he found incredibly sexy. Her fingers plucked delicately at the string, and her brown eyes were focused on the worn out wood so as not to face the reality that she was really performing here. He noted how Taylor's knee trembled as she tried not to bounce from the nervous energy, or how she was glancing at her partner now and then for reassurance. She had to clear her throat once or twice before the next verse, but regardless she was unlike any specimen Andy had ever laid eyes on.

Yet as she sang, there was an underlying darkness to her. Perhaps it was the solemn emotion, or how her heartbroken poetry struck a chord within him. She had key phrases in her songs that had chills running down his spine. The crowd seemed just as taken with her as he was, sitting quietly yet their attention appeared undividing from Taylor's music.

"She's pretty good," Ashley mused, "Is she doing any stage shows?" he asked Ben.

"No," he huffed, "But you guys gotta' see her on the electric guitar. She goes insane!"

"Yeah!" Danny piped in, "She's even better then Ben!"

Andy snickered as the taller boy glared at his bandmate, but he shrugged nonetheless, "I'm not even gonna' argue with that one, actually. You're right," he chuckled.

Andy took another drag of his cigarette, "So how long is she here for?" he asked them.

"Rest of the week," Danny replied.

He and Ashley was surprised at that, "That's it? She's not doing the circuit?"

"We was lucky enough to get her out for a week," Ben said, "If we can get her signed to a label here, she could stay for longer next time,"

"So, where does she go to get signed?" Andy asked.

"Whoever wants her," Danny said, "Unfortunately, we haven't met a lot of labels who're interested in taking on a rocker bird like her. We just managed to talk our boss into signing her,"

"Fuck. They're loss, dude," Ashley scoffed bitterly.

From just behind the clouds the sun was able to come through, spotlighting a glow just behind the Englishwoman's head. The light made her hair appear platinum, shifting from dark and light wash blues with every little move that she made. When her song came to an end she finally opened her eyes, and her gaze fell on Andy himself. Near immediately her knee stopped trembling, and instead a soft smile wormed its way to her face.

Andy took another quick drag.

A sum of hours had passed. The night was beginning to christen the sky with hues of vibrant oranges that would soon fade out into encompassing purples and indigos. The last of the acts were going on stage and soon the festival would be cleaned up and packed off for the next destination.

In that time frame -- that of which Taylor hadn't kept track of -- she was sitting in the middle of Danny's flat and was refolding and packing her clothes for the venture tomorrow. Beside her was an ashtray with a sizzling joint. She felt calmer now then she had earlier, her first performance in America now checked off her list. Well, perhaps maybe half a check mark would've sufficed? An acoustic only show was blatantly boring to Taylor.

The front door suddenly swung open and Danny came jogging in, being the sole epitome of giddiness and stimulus. He was a little less put together from when she'd last seen him -- with greasy, messy hair and sweat-filmed skin; not to mention the brash odour of overworked body that followed him through the door.

"I've walked this road for hours

To the white hills, and the oceans I search for solace in this toxic land of sin Just let me in! Just let me in!"

Taylor smirked at his off-key, top-of-lungs singing, "I take it you had a good time," she said.

"It was great," he huffed, "We missed you afterwards,"

"Well, they didn't need me anymore," Taylor shrugged back, "Thought I'd come back and catch a few winks. Maxeen and Robin went out shopping,"

Danny ran a hand through his soggy hair and flopped down on the couch, "Well, you could've slept on the bus," he said.

Taylor scrunched her nose at the notion, "No offence, Dan, but I ain't putting me head on any of them surfaces in that bus of yours. I don't know what's touched the cushions,"

Danny started to laugh, "Tay, what do you think we do? Have a good wank before the show?"

"There have been stranger pre-show rituals," Taylor replied, "You gonna' shower? You smell like sweaty-dude-in-a-cheap-gym,"

"Yeah, I'm gonna' shower," Danny said, "What're you doing with your clothes?"

"Packing," she shrugged, "Where are we going tomorrow?"

"Ventura," he huffed, "Maybe see some talking animals? Perhaps we'll run into a particualr skillful animal detective?" he wiggled his eyebrows at her. Taylor shook her head with a chuckle.

"I've heard funnier, Danny," she said.

He gave a small hmph before snatching the joint out of the ashtray and taking his own drag, "Very well. You up for a night out?" he asked her then.

Taylor couldn't help but groan, her head was pounding at the thought, "Again, eh? Last night weren't enough for you?" she replied, hoping that he was just joking.

"Come on, we won't go crazy tonight. We're going to just drink beer and bullshit on the bus," he said, "If you want, you don't even have to do anything rough,"

Taylor stopped and stared up at him. Danny stared back too, right until they caught onto the same page and chuckled merrily, "That's what she said," they said in unison.

With that, Taylor stood up from the floor and did a quick stretch, throwing her hands over her head to pull out the knick that that formed in her lower back. Fuck, when did the floor get so hard?

"The guys from Black Veil are coming," Danny suddenly piped in.

With that mention, Taylor started to smile. Her exhaustion then was repleted with a small burst of energy, "Oh, yeah?"

Danny nodded happily, "Yeah! They liked your set. I mean -- Andy and Ashley did, anyway. I don't know where the other three were,"

"I didn't meet Ashley," she said.

"Well, now you can," Danny put the joint back down and went for his bedroom to freshen up, "What did you think of their show, love?" he called.

"You already asked me that!" Taylor replied.

"Yeah, but you weren't smiling the way you are now, you cheeky shit," she could just imagine the shit-eating smirk on Danny's face now.

"Oh, fuck off, Danny," she scolded back.

"I'm only teasing ya', Tay," Danny suddenly popped back out of his room, only donned in a pair of track pants, "I told him if he dares lay a hand on ya', I'll kill him,"

Taylor scoffed back, gawking at him up and down, "Danny, you're about as threatening as a beach ball," she told him.

"I have muscles though!" he replied, "Biersack's a twig,"

"What's your point?" she asked.

"You can fuck a beach ball," he replied, "A twig I reckon is unsavory,"

Taylor stared at him in near disbelief at his words, then she started to laugh, "Mate, what the fuck?" she exclaimed, "Tell me you haven't actually... like you didn't... like... wait, Danny," she stopped laughing then when she wondered if he was being dead serious in his analogy.

"I haven't, if that's what you're wondering," he said, "I wouldn't put it past Cam though. He might be small enough to fit it in the air hole,"

With teasing disappointment, Taylor grabbed one of her shirts and threw it at him. It missed him by a few inches, "You're sick!"

"I love you!"

Andy glanced through the top of his beer bottle, peering at what was left before he quickly down the rest and set the glassware aside with a few of the other empty bottles. Not solely all of his, to be clear. He was only half listening to Ben's drunken story which involved James, alcohol, nudity and a very pretty fan from one of their European shows. His fingers drummed on the armrest of the couch, glancing out the window now and again to see if he could spot Danny and Taylor somewhere in the night.

There was a new and unfamiliar excitement that coursed through him with every thought of Taylor. Never before had he been so taken by a woman like her; somebody who at first glance appeared so shy and quiet like a little church mouse, yet within her held a great and unequivocal power that hypnotized those who paid close enough attention to her.

He took another beer from the six pack and started to listen in.

"... and then I just look at this sad sack o' shit and go 'mate, I was just going to ask if you wanted to eat'," Ben's story had the other boys in stitches, apart from James who scowled and blushed profusely as that particular disdainful memory.

"I didn't think it was funny," he grumbled.

"You're just upset 'cause she didn't call you back the next day," Sam awed at him.

Cameron just shrugged nonchalantly with a swig of his own beer, "I didn't think she were that pretty. She were like one of 'em trashy Essex girls," he said.

"Well mate," Ben leaned over and patted James' shoulder reassuringly," when you've had as much to drink as James did that night, anybody's beautiful," The bus cracked up in drunken laughter again, the only being that seemed lit and raucous on a rather quiet night in the bus parking lot.

Meanwhile, Taylor squeaked and scampered off to the side to narrowly avoid being hit by Danny's mud splash, "Fuck off, Danny!" she cried, quickly checking to see if he'd stained her outfit. Not that she put much effort into it; only a pair of ripped skinny jeans and a white t-shirt with a pair of tits drawn on the front.

"Oi, simmer down, Tay. I'm only teasing with ya'," Danny wrapped his larger arm around her and proceeded to ruffle her teal blue hair, much to Taylor's chagrin.

"Yeah, you're just teasing with me," she wriggled out of his grasp, "Wanker,"

"My deepest apologies,"

They trudged through the field, reaching a park lot that was crammed to the brim with vehicles. Tour buses, equipment vans, jeeps and SUVs. They passed a larger bus decked out in black, with tinted window and a bright red stripe on its side. It loomed over and cast an imposing shadow over the three musicians, swallowing the gravel and grass beneath them in a pool of black. The ultra bright stadium lights set up around the park were the only stark contrast to the shadows, guiding them to their destination.

They finally approached the desired bus, jet black and donning the band's logo on the side in crisp Times New Roman. Danny knocked while Taylor waited anxiously behind. They waited only for a mere matter of seconds before a subtle click echoed through the air and the door swung open. Taylor was taken aback to see an older man standing before them, donning longer hair and an open denim vest. His arms were near-full sleeve tattoos, and he had a face that held this brooding, yet cute quality to it -- kind of like a grizzly bear.

"Ashley, mate!" Danny raised his hand and full-on bro-hugged the older lad, "Handsome at ever, man,"

"Back at you, dude," Ashley replied, his eyes then landed on Taylor and his smile grew.

"And it's nice to finally meet you, Taylor," he said, "I'm Ashley,"

Taylor smiled shyly and shook his hand, "Pleasure," she said, "Areyainthebandthen?"

Ashley's smile then faltered. He bent his head down as though he couldn't hear her, but in actuality he didn't think it was humanly possible for people to speak so fast and still hear them.

"Come again?" he said.

"She asked if it's your band," Danny said, "Tay's a Geordie, they have their own funny accent,"

"It ain't funny!" Taylor cried, "It's jus' unique,"

Ashely then nodded, "Okay... well, do you drink back in Geordie? Or whatever part of England you're from?" he then chuckled.

"Sure," Taylor replied, "In fact, I can drink Danny here under the table still do a perfect cartwheel,"

"Bullshit you could," Danny scoffed.

"We'll put it to the test inside," With that, Ashley stood back again, "Welcome to Warped Tour, Taylor,"

Taylor followed Danny inside with Ashley taking up the rear. The first thing that hit Taylor was the distinct smell of charred nicotine and hops. The next was department store aftershave, the good shit though; not the cheap bottles her dad used to buy. Coming into the atmosphere of an actual tour bus felt somewhat claustrophobic and confining to Taylor, yet at the same time, she felt quite safe inside. Glancing out the tinted windshield she could see the world, yet they had no inkling of whether she was inside or not.

Aimless chatter and laughter struck her ears, some men and women. Taylor nervously pushed some of her hair behind her ear, forcing herself to put on a smile to engage new strangers. The bus was clean enough, just some pillows were awry on the couch and the countertop was littered with cans, bottles, and red cups. The Asking boys were sat around in company with a few other strangers she had yet to meet.

"Fellas!" Ben suddenly called when he spotted his friends, "The party has now begun!" he raised his arms to the side as though he were giving a church sermon. The three young strangers stood and greeted Danny, whilst Taylor hung back, looking aimlessly at her sneakers as the old friends got reacquainted. She then noted the rips in her jeans, showing off the several week-old bruises that freckled her knees. That was an occupational hazard, she always tried to look badass and slammed down on her knees during her guitar solos, effectively yet unintentionally harming herself. The crowd however seemed to love it.

"I'd like you guys to meet somebody," Danny interjected then, stepping back to let Taylor have the hot seat, "Meet the hottest new act in Britain,"

"Danny!" she scolded, abashed as red tinted her olive cheeks.

"What?" he shrugged, "Was I wrong?"

"He most certainly is not!" a lankier young man approached, with a long face and smudged makeup beneath his eyes that just seemed to burst with enthusiasm, "I'm CC,"

"Nice to meet ya'," she shook his head.

CC then turned to his friends, "And over here we got Jake and Jinxx," he pointed to two young men, dressed similarly to himself with floppy hair and old makeup stains, but they were brawnier, "And this bean dick on the couch is Andy,"

"Take a look in the mirror, dude," Andy scolded.

Taylor bit the inside of her lip when she saw him again, and she averted her eyes back to CC to avoid her cheeks growing any redder, "We've actually already met," she said.

"In that case," he then turned to the Asking boys, "Over here, we got Sam, Cameron and James --"

"Oh, shut up and have another drink, CC!" James exclaimed.

Taylor snickered quietly, "I think he's had plenty already," she said, noting the way this boy wavered slightly on his feet.

A few hours had passed into the night, mostly filled with alcohol-fuelled interactions and wild stories from early band days. Once having a few beers, Taylor found herself beginning to settle down around this metal band. They weren't as scary and wicked as her first impressions had told her, if anything they were complete nutters. It helped having Danny and Ben around, just so Taylor didn't feel so lost and out of place amongst them.

Taylor found herself snuggled between Danny and Ben, just listening as oppose to partaking in conversation. She was still so tired beyond anything she'd ever felt, and Taylor quickly regretted coming out tonight. She wondered what Maxeen was up to back in the motel room she'd rented, probably conked out to be well rested for the trip tomorrow.

From across the couch where she sat, Andy was perched on a beanbag, only semi-paying attention to Ben's story about a recent scuffle he had back in York as his eyes kept panning back to Taylor. There was an air of fatigue that floated over her head, her deep brown eyes slipping shut before popping open again at the slightest raise in volume. If she had just come from across the Pond, Andy didn't blame her for being so sleepy. Her teal-blue hair fell delicately around her shoulders, raising gently with every shallow breath she took. His eyes averted then to the holes in her jeans where her bruises were just peaking out. Subconsciously, he pressed down on the rib brace underneath his shirt.

Her glance suddenly shifted and her eyes locked with his, and she blushed when she noticed Andy watching her. She wiggled her eyebrows a few times and suppressed a giggle, a warmth flooded through her when he smiled back. His lips turned into a cocky smirk. Taylor was utterly perplexed by Andy; the cockiness he exuded was undeniable, but she couldn't help but think he was contrastingly soft at the same time, each consuming feature of him seemingly met with a delicate counterpart.

"Tay, you're falling asleep on me," Danny's voice suddenly wafted through her ears and she sat up at the sudden mention of her name. She blushed profusely when the others giggled at her shock.

"Sorry, babe," she mumbled, yawning into her fist. Andy raised his eyebrows and suppressed the snigger that was fighting to make its way out at the way she drawled her words, her accent unlike anything he had heard before.

"That's some accent you got there," Ashley said, near-reading Andy's mind.

"Got it from me ma, dear," Taylor drawled back.

CC then started to laugh to himself, clearly at a well-off point of intoxication, "Deea," he slurred, trying to mock Taylor's accent, "I like the way she says words," he said.

Taylor glanced at him with uncertainty, but she shook her head as she sat up and did al little stretch, "I assume that's a compliment," she said.

"It is," Jake confirmed with an apologetic nod, "So, where are you from in England, Taylor?"

"A little coastal town called Newcastle," she then averted her eyes to the sozzled CC, "We all speak funny there," she grinned.

"But she lives in London with me" Danny said.

"For now," Taylor pointed out, "Until I can afford to get my own flat,"

Cameron snickered, "It's gotta' be fucking awkward when his bird's over," he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Taylor looked over at Danny, "Well, it would be nice if the walls were sound proof," she then looked to Ben, "Though it's nothing compared to when Ben comes over,"

"Aye, poor kid," Ben looped an arm around her, "She has to sleep with earbuds in the entire night," he smirked.

"We appreciate your support though, Tay," Danny smirked back.

Taylor refrained from rolling her eyes at their bromance, instead decided to fish her lighter from her pocket and stood up, "I'm gonna' nip out for a cig,"

Andy's mouth moved faster than his brain did, "Care for some company, darlin'?" he asked. Taylor raised an eyebrow at him. She suddenly realized that all of the boys were staring at her expectantly, and felt herself go flush again.

"Why not," she replied. Andy took that as an invitation and hopped to his feet, wavering a little as he struggled to find his balance. From there he grabbed a packet of cigarettes off the countertop and followed her to the bus door. Danny suddenly shouted after them.

"Have her back in ten minutes, Biersack!" he called in a threatening manner.

"Yeah!" Ben piped in, "Or we'll come find ya!"

Andy smirked at them, "I'm quaking," he mocked. Taylor rolled her eyes as they stepped outside. Much to her relief, the night air was warmer than what she'd come prepared for. She regretted wearing her thicker denim jacket. Andy blew strands of hair out of his face and shook his head, acclimatizing himself to the warmer air. The two of them sat on the grass, leaning against the side-trunk of the bus. Andy produced the cigarettes and Taylor pulled out the lighter.

"So," Andy exhaled, handing Taylor a cigarette, "Taylor Wray,"

Taylor grinned, "Andy... w-what's your last name again?" she asked as she placed the bud between her lips.

"Biersack," he replied.

"Oh," Taylor clicked the flame and lit the end of her cig, then handed the lighter to the long-haired rocker, "Is that European?"

"German," he replied, "Where does 'Wray' come from?"

"Scotland,"

"... But you're from England,"

Taylor gave him a wayside glance, "Their two parts of a whole, babe," she held up two fingers just to make her point.

Andy smiled sheepishly and took another drag, "... I knew that," he said.

Taylor giggled to herself. Her captivating smile and the tiny creases around her eyes as she laughed drew Andy in instantly. He wasn't sure if she was laughing from his meek comeback or it was just the alcohol doing it for her. But by God, the noise bubbling from between her lips was melodic and addictive from the first note.

"Have you ever been to England, Andy?" she asked.

"I was there about a month ago for the Download Fest," he replied.

"You went to Leicestershire?"

Again, Andy paused, grinning like a fool at her accent as he puffed away on his cigarette, "Yeah, we went to Leisheshire,"

"Leicestershire," Taylor corrected, "Le-shy-steh-shire,"

"Leshestasirw," Andy drawled, "Leshesham. Lesbian. Who gives a fuck?"

"People from Leicestershire, I'd imagine," to both Andy and Taylor's surprise, she started laughing again. She didn't know what had gotten into her suddenly, but she couldn't seem to help herself. Why was she so fucking giggly all of the sudden? It may have been the way Andy was looking at her; transfixed by his crystalline eyes that seemed to bore a hole right into her soul. Despite the hair covering his face, those eyes of his were so crisp and clear.

"Are you already plastered?" Andy asked, reigning his own grin of amusement.

"No!" she exclaimed just a tad too quickly for her own liking, "Look, I -- right. I have been drinking. That being said, I am also so fucking exhausted from this jet lag. So, please forgive me if I act like a fucking nutter,"

"A fookin' nuttah?" Andy mocked back, making Taylor giggle some more, "You're pretty cute, Taylor,"

"Well, you're not so bad, neither," she admitted shyly, "It's nice to see what that face looks like without the makeup,"

Andy took a drag and exhaled slowly. He held this electric charisma about him, seemingly so that it wouldn't matter how many times he'd verbally tear himself down, he was a cocky, confident young man.

"Did I freak you out today?" he asked.

"Hardly," she replied, her gaze dropping to the ink on his arms, "You have a lot of tattoos, eh?"

"Why, yes I do," he replied.

"You got a favourite one?"

He didn't reply. Instead, Andy raised his right arm, proudly showing off the Batman tattoo on his forearm, "Is now a good time to mention I'm a huge Batman nerd?"

"You could've fooled me," Taylor replied, shedding her jacket to reveal her bare arms, "I'm more of a Poison Ivy fan myself," she held her forearm out to proudly show off the dark green inking of an ivy vine, the inside filled with a dulled red.

"It's cute," he brushed his fingers over the delicate lines, only noting then how Taylor suddenly winced when he touched her. He pulled back, "Are you okay?"

"Your hands are freezing, mate," she chuckled.

Andy relaxed again, "I just naturally have cold hands, can't explain it," he grinned sheepishly.

Taylor brought her own cigarette to her lips, and out came three rings of silky grey smoke; an old trick she had picked up back home. Andy just watched, his own breath nearly getting caught in his throat when her lily perfume intermingled with the smell of charred nicotine.

"You showing off now?" he asked.

"Maybe," she shrugged back, leaning in closer so her nose just barely touched his. She was unsure just what had made her so brazen suddenly; perhaps the deadly combination of alcohol and fatigue had something to do with it. Whatever it was, Taylor found it undeniably exciting, "You got any secret talents of your own, Andy?"

Andy swallowed back whatever qualms he was holding on to, slowly memorizing every delicate detail of Taylor's face as though he was afraid to loose one mere second of her. However, before he could reply, they heard a shout come from above.

"Oi! You two!" they both looked up, and lo and behold, Danny and Ben had stuck their heads out of the bus window, "Get your arses back in here!" Danny exclaimed.

"You said we had ten minutes!" Andy replied, "Besides, you're no one's parent!"

"Yeah!" Taylor cried defiantly.

Ben tutted at them, "But we're morally responsible for Taylor. Ain't that right, honey?" he smirked.

"Oh, suck my dick, Ben!" Taylor replied, loud enough so that the others would hear her. With that, Andy burst into a fit of laughter, and more could be heard from inside the bus.

Danny shook his head, "How unbecoming of a lovely lady," he mocked.

Taylor looked to Andy, who was caught in the throes of hysterical amusement. She chuckled herself and took another quick drag before crushing the end into the grass, trying not to stare at him as he calmed down. But fuck, from the way he threw his head back to the curl of his lips when he smiled, Taylor felt herself falling into a rabbit hole she feared she wasn't going to crawl out from any time soon.

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