#just a random lp for the rent pack

[nizaberry]

The Sun and the Moon

[priceberry97]

The Top Must Do's In Long Island City

Detailed original price list, full apartment Good price from 2.85 billion, with attractive incentives - great promotions for buyers. We are committed that our basket is the new and best selling price in the market, the transfer process is transparent, clear and fast. Apartment prices vary depending on location, building, number of floors, river or city view. 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Many apartments have received the book in 2020. The list of apartments with pink book includes Central 1, Central 2, Central 3, Park 1, Landmark 1,Landmark 2, Landmark 3 The remaining courts are preparing to have the Red Book, expected at the end of 2020 and early 2021 Type of ownership: for office or for long-term stay Types of transfer notarization when buying Vinhomes Central Park apartments + Publication of purchase and sale contract + Notarization of buying and selling apartments with pink book Taxes and fees when notarizing apartments in Vinhomes + Personal income tax: 2%*Apartment selling price + Notarization fee: + Brokerage fee + Pay tax at Binh Thanh District Tax Department VINHOMES CENTRAL PARK PROJECT OVERVIEW Project name: VINHOMES CENTRAL PARK Location: 208 Nguyen Huu Canh, Ward 22, Binh Thanh District, City. Ho Chi Minh. 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Central area: 3 buildings Central 1, Central 2, Central 3 Park area: 7 Tu Park buildings 1,2,3,4,5,6,7 Landmark area: Landmark 1,2,3,4,5,6 and Landmark Plus Landmark 81: the tallest building in Vietnam with 6 commercial floors, apartments for living, offices and 6 * hotel Vinhomes Central Park Villas : 84 most luxurious villas in Ho Chi Minh City The ground plan of Vinhomes Central Park is divided into 3 main subdivisions: Landmark area, Park area and Central area. Especially, the tallest Landmark 81 building in Vietnam and the villa area right at the project make Vinhomes Central Park the most modern and luxurious urban area in Vietnam. Central area: 3 buildings Central 1, Central 2, Central 3 Park Area: 7 Towers From Park 1,2,3,4,5,6,7 Landmark area: Landmark 1,2,3,4,5,6 and Landmark Plus Landmark 81: the tallest building in Vietnam with 6 commercial floors, apartments for living, offices and 6 * hotel Vinhomes Central Park Villas : 84 most luxurious villas in Ho Chi Minh City The entire Landmark area is a collection of 8 towers from Landmark 1 (L1) to Landmark 6 (L6), Lanmark Plus (LP) and Lanmark 81, in which the basements of 7 Landmark buildings are connected from L1 to L6 and Landmark 81 and has up to 3 basements. This is the busiest and most prosperous area of ??the Vinhomes Central Park project with the presence of the heart of the tallest tower project in Southeast Asia Landmark 81 with a height of 461 m, and owns one of the commercial centers. with the largest scale in Vietnam Vincom Landmark 81 with a total commercial floor area of ??up to 59,000 m2. It was February 2000, and Employed living in Baltimore, MD at the time. I had been at an additional financial institution for about 6 weeks when I quit. We reached my breaking point. I was bored to tears with the job and didn't exactly what else to undertake. It was then that To start (with my husband's aid to!) that we needed to get back to NYC. I'm originally about the Bronx and was always lamenting about not being "at home". So Discovered a job working in Manhattan, rented out your house we had just bought the year before, and settled into a 1 bedroom with an outdoor near Central Park. She never sat lower. She only took out food. And food. But more food. She stood whole time only serving Alice and her two small guests who were busily munching down all things in sight. Out came more food. A feast! A banquet! Any weirdest thing happened. Back to the 1960s. Prince Arthur (home already on the Mazurka - cheap and delicious supper place) became home to more as well as more restaurants - Greek, Vietnamese - because the center of all types of alternative boutiques (comfortable Birkenstock sandals, used clothing, Indian imports). I returned to my job elated! In fact I was beyond elated https://tmtland.vn/du-an/vinhomes-central-park ">Vinhomes Central Park . It was an indescribable feeling to be aware what I was going to do with my career. I remember telling friends and friends asking these types of take this new interest truly. They had heard me complain many organizations and away from random ideas about work I could possibly switch on the way to. I drive through Koreatown and Little Ethiopia every one week. We head to Chinatown for eating at Yang Chow's in addition, it Vinhomes pick up stalks of lucky bamboo from street vendors. The cobble stoned Olvera Street is lined with "mama y papa restaurantes" selling comfort food-steaming tamales, enchiladas and little packs of Mexican Chiclets. NYC was built (and still runs) on its neighborhoods. You'll find that each one has its own character, you will want out and explore. People from all walks of life are quite what get this place stand out. The West 106th Street Apartments offer one-bedrooms at around $1,645 a month. This 5-story walk-up has hardwood floors and oversized windows. It's not located close park, shopping, dining and nightlife. The unit has new appliances globe granite kitchen and touchscreen marble bathroom with spa bath. There is a laundromat, deli, and supermarket within walking distance of this apartment city. It is also just blocks away from the 1, B, and C Trains. Water and heat are included in the rent.

[fleckcmscott]

Watch What Happens - Chapter 24

Chapter links: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23

Summary: Arthur, an aspiring comedian, has struggled to find normalcy and compassion his entire life. Y/N, a hard-working paralegal and transplant to Gotham, has just been put on a case for the Wayne Foundation. When they meet, unexpected sparks fly.

Chapter warning: Angst, Swearing

Words: 4,020

A/N: Special thanks, as always, to Karen, @ithinkimawriter,​ for beta-reading this chapter and helping me work through some of my uncertainties! 

Send me your WWH requests!

About two months after Penny moved to Endsbury Place, a nursing home in mid-town Gotham, Arthur's bank account was nearly in the negative. With Penny's disability paying for her long-term care, and his only income coming from the occasional shift at Amusement Mile or random gig Gary forwarded his way, it became clear to him that he wasn't going to be able to afford his rent. The situation wasn't a surprise, but it frustrated him all the same. He'd done the best he could to stretch his dollar. Dates were at home unless Y/N insisted on treating, which he disliked. He was skipping meals, even though he denied it when she'd asked.

And he'd only filled one of the three new prescriptions Dr. Ludlow, the psychiatrist Y/N had hooked him up with, had given him. They were prohibitively expensive - he'd been shocked when he was told the price for all of them. It was cheaper to keep up with his journal, work on his material, and try to use the new cognitive behavioral techniques he'd been learning at their sessions. He'd ended up picking the medication for insomnia, hoping his mind would be more coherent if he could at least get some rest.

Y/N thought the solution to all this was obvious. She'd been hinting that she wanted him to move in with her, but he had reservations. They saw each other nearly everyday and often spent the night together. Even so, it was hard for him to believe someone would want to be around him constantly. One night over takeout, sitting together on his living room floor, she tried her best to convince him. "You already have a toothbrush and deodorant at my place. I have tampons here. We might as well save on rent. And you'll stop getting those stupid letters from Renew Corp."

She was being kind, he thought, not bringing up how poor he was. But he wanted to live with her because he loved her, not because he was broke. It was with reluctance that he accepted a copy of her key. He frowned down at it for a little while before saying, half-to himself, "You already pay for too much. I don't want to be a burden."

He quirked a dark eyebrow at Y/N when a greasy napkin hit his face, already knowing what was coming. "Stop it," she said, then leaned closer to him. "You're my partner, not a burden. Besides, you're in my bed half the time anyways." He blushed at that, but she didn't stop there. "Be glad love bit you when it did. And you didn't get hives." When she pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, he shook his head. She always went for a sarcastic remark when she thought he was being too morose. Sometimes it annoyed him because it wasn't what he needed. More often than not, it brightened him enough to walk another step with her.

On moving day, while boxing up his belongings, he came to the realization that nearly everything in the apartment belonged to his mother. There wasn't a lot he could do with her stuff; there was limited space in her room, and he'd already sent over what he thought she needed. He decided to leave what he didn't want - the landlord, Renew Corp., the Waynes or whoever could deal with it.

The unexpected pang in his chest while packing made him nervous. The change that was coming was a rare positive; it had to be. But he was still leaving home. When his anxiety started clouding his thinking, around noon, he tried to call Y/N at work but didn't reach her. He phoned her apartment, then. What he heard when the machine picked up caught his breath. "Hi, you've reached Arthur and Y/N. We're not able to come to the phone, but if you leave your name and number and a brief message, we'll get back to you as soon as we can. Thanks!"

He hung up and called back to listen to the greeting again. Even after doing that, it took him a few seconds to speak, trying to keep his voice from trembling. "Uh... Hi. It's Arthur. You updated your message." He sniffled, then laughed lightly. "I'm almost done here. Come over whenever." He paused and braced himself against the kitchen entrance, resting his forehead on it as he sighed. "I love you. A lot"

Y/N came by with a dolly that evening, stating she'd borrowed it from the supply closet at her office. The four medium boxes, VCR, cookbooks, and LPs stacked on it easily, and it wouldn't take up much room on the train. He left a couple of paper bags and his prop bag for her to carry. After giving the apartment a quick once-over to ensure he hadn't forgotten anything, he placed his key on the counter. Then he opened the door and stepped out, rolling his belongings behind him. He stared at the doorknob and worried his bottom lip. Save for his stints in Arkham over the past ten years, he'd lived in 8J all his life. It would be strange to leave it forever.

Her light touch on his arm brought him out of his reverie. "You all right?" she asked, giving a comforting squeeze. "Are you ready?"

His reply came slowly. "Yeah?" Seeking reassurance, he looked at her. There was no doubt in her eyes, only affection and kindness. The same as when she'd saved his ass on the subway and his life had changed forever. Smoothing his palm over his hair, he nodded and shut the door. "Yes. I am."

~~~~~

Those early days after moving in felt as if Arthur was on his first vacation. He'd spent a lot of time in Y/N’s apartment, but he'd never stayed over more than one night in a row. The sensation faded quickly, though. Y/N kept correcting him whenever he referred to her building, her bedroom, or her refrigerator, insisting everything was theirs now. When they were in the kitchen together, she'd ask him to get needed items from the cabinets, in an attempt to get him used to treating the place as his own. And she made sure their possessions were intermingled, telling him she wanted him to feel at home.

"I know," he said softly as they sat on the couch, having put away the last of his records. "It's just... I think it'll take awhile."

She pulled him to lay with his head on her lap. The gentle glide of her touch over his jaw, then the side of his neck relaxed him. "That's normal," she said, massaging his shoulder. At the use of that word, he closed his eyes and nuzzled at her thigh. "If you need anything, tell me."

He allowed himself to enjoy her for awhile before asking, "What do you get when you cross a mentally ill loner with a paralegal from Missouri?"

"Uh, limited culpability?"

He chuckled and squeezed her knee. "A really abnormal couple."

She laughed, sliding her palm to his sternum. "I prefer to call us novel.” Whatever they were, he cherished it. He took her hand as she leaned to press her lips to his cheek, more at ease than he had in weeks.

But living with Y/N wasn't the panacea he had naively imagined. He hated to admit it - he loved being with her - but Arthur found it difficult to build a life with someone who wasn't oblivious to him. When he had lived with Penny, he had developed his own rhythms, routines, and, he knew, odd habits. He often talked to and danced with himself.  And he could smoke the entire time, wherever he wanted. With Y/N, some of that went out the window. Smoking on the fire escape had been expected, but it was forcing him to cut down, since he didn't want to stand outside the whole day. And the talking and the dancing didn't seem to bother her. In fact, she claimed to like it.  

Though, he thought, maybe she liked it a little too much. Some days after the move, when he was shaving after a shower, he put the radio on. He swiveled his hips with the music, holding his electric razor, singing along quietly. He didn't detect her sneaking in. When the towel disappeared from his waist, he grabbed the edge of the sink and froze. He opened his eyes to find her behind him in the mirror. “If you're going to dance like that," she said. "You better get in the habit of locking the door."

But then she appeared to notice his discomfort. Holding the blue terrycloth back around him, she apologized for startling him. And berated herself for not knowing he wouldn’t react well. Once his nerves were quieted, he patted her hand. “I’m okay,” he rasped. But he could see the regret in her eyes when he turned to her. Putting his arm around her back, he willed his voice to be soft. “Knock next time you want to jump me.” The peck he planted on her cheek made her giggle and lean into him.

Another change was having to decide on meals together. Back on Anderson Avenue, he could eat when he preferred, if he preferred to. Y/N insisted on grocery lists, whereas he'd always bought whatever was on sale or in the clearance bin that week. And she often asked for them to cook together; he loved that and it made his heart swell each time. But she wanted them to try preparing dishes with ingredients such as bay leaves or cooking sherry, items he hadn’t heard of or stayed away from because he hadn't had the money to experiment or buy more than the basics. The prices made him cringe and wonder how few dollars he would have left after shopping.

And it wasn't only food that prompted that reaction. He didn't know if he could ever get over worrying about money, even though she'd shown him her account and said they had enough. If he'd ever wanted to do anything special before, he'd had to plan days or weeks in advance in order to afford it. Habits borne of poverty died hard. And Y/N was getting mildly frustrated with him for second-guessing their finances whenever she suggested they do something special.

One weekend early on, she told him they should go to the disco. She wasn't a big fan of them, she said, but she'd wanted to go with him after he'd bragged about his dancing skills on their first date. And, she reminded him, he'd admitted he used to fantasize about going to one. Before he could finish his question about the cost, she stopped him and told him it didn't matter. He tried to believe her. But when he heard the price of the cover charges, he gently asked if they could go.

It was apparent from the redness of her cheeks and serious face that she was irritated. Grasping his wrist, she led him under the velvet rope, to a secluded area about twenty feet from the entrance. "Arthur." She took a deep breath. "I need you to believe I can calculate the price of covers, drinks, and food." He looked at the ground, unmoving. When her hand cupped his cheek, his eyes fluttered shut. "I know you're used to constant struggle," she continued in a softer tone. "But you don't have to be now."

"I'm- I'm sorry," he said meekly, shaking his head.

"Don't be sorry." She smiled and kissed him, bumping her nose to his. "Just have a good time."

The evening had been interesting. The style of dancing hadn't been what he was used to, given that it was modern music and not the older tunes he favored. It was loud, too - he didn't want to have to raise his voice for her to hear him. They spent most of the time at their table, sipping on cocktails. When slower songs played, however, he was always able to entice her into a slow dance, even though she stepped on his feet. While they walked to the nearest subway station, she asked him how he'd liked it. "I wouldn't go back," he answered, then turned and gazed down at her. "But you made it nice."

Most of their concerns were easily resolved with a little time, a conversation or two, and compromise from both sides. Unexpectedly, that pattern continued when Y/N asked, a couple months later, if he would mind her dropping the occasional letter to Penny. She made it clear she wasn't expecting him to keep in contact. But she wanted Penny to know how well he was doing, that they were living together now, and how overjoyed she was to be with him.

He didn't respond at first. But some minutes later he said, "I gave the nursing home the new address." After finishing washing dishes and drying off, he spoke lowly. "She didn't give a damn before. She's not going to care now." Then he locked himself in their bedroom with his journal, brooding over what to do. And he continued to mull it over that night, listening to Y/N's slow breathing while sleep eluded him.

As they drank coffee in silence the next morning, her question still hung between them. She was watching his every move, and he knew she'd soon prod him for an answer. "Fine. Let her know I'm fucking up less," he said, exhaling sharply as he picked up his cigarettes and headed outside. "And found someone who thinks I’m funny."

Even with her reassurances, what was harder on him was his inability to find steady work. He'd been the breadwinner in his household since he was a teenager. It had been difficult, but he'd been proud of the job he'd done. It pained him not to be able to provide for Y/N in the way he believed he should. She always told him that doing whatever he could, pursuing his stand-up, and helping her take care of the apartment was enough. That him being there was what she needed, and she was happy to have such a wonderful partner. Still, whenever he had an income, he'd give her something towards rent, the electric, or whatever. But she'd always try to give it back. Occasionally, he secretly paid a bill out of his checking account.

Gradually, as their lives blended together, he gave her more details about what he’d referred to on Murray. That he’d been in Arkham a number of times, because he’d been deemed a danger to himself. And he'd only been out about eight months when they'd started dating. That the treatment he’d been getting through the Department of Health had been court mandated. That he sometimes still struggled with hallucinations and disassociating. And that his main motivation for going to his current appointments and trying different medication was wanting a decent future with her, not necessarily being healthy.

He was smoking on the fire escape, sitting on a metal step, when he told her. "You think I should be reason enough." He scoffed, then flicked ash off his cigarette. "I've hated myself all my life, Y/N." Pressing his lips together, he looked out at the lights of the Gotham skyline and shook his head. "When I’m with you, it’s not so bad."

It took her awhile to react. But she eventually sat next to him. "There's so much love in you. I hope someday you can spare some of it for yourself." Then she hugged him, so tightly he could barely breathe. “You’re never getting rid of me, Mr. Fleck." At that, he leaned his head against the top of hers and closed his eyes, hoping to gain her confidence and belief in him by osmosis.

~~~~~

When Arthur did get gigs for stand-up, they were mostly non-paying, open-mic nights he'd signed up for. Once in awhile he'd get a spot in which he could get a small percentage of the night's cover charges. Y/N hated those, stating he was being treated as a novelty act. He was aware but he didn't care. He merely wanted to be seen and tell his jokes. If luck struck and he got a break, that'd be great. He worked on his comedy diligently, with the goal to write at least one new joke every day. His delivery slowly became easier. And though his laugh attacks never went away completely, they became less frequent with the more stage experience he got.

And Y/N was always there in the audience, supporting him even though comedy wasn't her thing. Afterward, she'd go over the show and give him pointers on what she thought might improve his material. He almost never took her advice. But he always listened; her speaking thoughtfully about it made him feel valued, like he mattered. Sometimes it pleased him so much, he’d interrupt to give her a quick kiss and hug her. She’d pat his back when that happened and say, “I’m going to have to be more critical if this is the reward I get.”

To Arthur's chagrin, one night Y/N told him she wouldn't be able to see him perform. Her excuse had been flimsy, but he’d accepted it. He'd gotten through everything all right, but he'd missed knowing her eyes were on him while he was in the spotlight.

When he got home, around ten, Y/N was sitting at the kitchen table, wearing only a robe and engrossed in a newspaper. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched her, wondering what had actually prevented her from coming to the show, until she turned around.  

To his confusion, she sprung from her chair, saying, "Close your eyes. I have a surprise for you."

Smirking slightly, he did as she asked. She grabbed his hand and guided him along. He did his best to follow her, but bumped into the coffee table with his shin. Laughing, she slowed their pace, and they stopped a couple steps later. "Okay, you can open them."

Doing so, he saw they'd moved to the back corner of the living room. A well-worn writing desk was in front of him, against the wall, a small lamp on the corner. To the right of the desk, a folding room divider was extended, creating a private space. It took him aback. "What's this for?"

She nudged him in the side with her elbow. "It's for you, silly."

Bewildered, he looked down at her. She was already too generous with him, always giving him a new notebook, sweater she thought he’d like, or other small item when he could barely buy her a bouquet. "Why?"

Sitting on the desk and drawing him to her with her foot, she smiled. "Do you know what today is?"

The correct answer eluded him, despite the effort he put into finding it. Lifting his eyebrows, his tone apologetic, he said, "Thursday?"

Y/N gave him a soft kiss and squeezed his sides. "Six months ago we went out for pie." Her fingers started working the buttons of his vest. "This is why I couldn't come to your show."

Arthur winced. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. I wouldn’t have signed-up for tonight if-" Then he cocked his head, his voice low. "I thought anniversaries were yearly."

"They are. But I needed an excuse," she said. "I've seen you close your journal when I've walked in the room. It's been hard for you, not having any privacy." As she spoke, she untucked his shirt. "Now you have your own writing nook. And the desk drawers lock." Her fingers traveling along the v-line of his abdomen made concentrating on her words difficult. "You can hide your journals, or a ring-" his eyes momentarily widened at that, cheeks burning, "- or anything else."

Leaning into her, a lump formed in his throat. He ran a palm along the edge of the desk before taking a deep breath. "Thank you," he whispered, pulling her robe open, then settling his hands on her bare hips.

“But there’s one thing you need to do first,” she said as she slipped his pants and briefs down his thighs.

His gaze dropped to watch as she pressed him to her entrance. Groaning, he pushed against her. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” he chuckled before devouring her mouth.

After she left for work the next day, he went to a pawn shop he’d dealt with before in Otisburg and put a small, simple ring on layaway, making three payments upfront. The receipts were hidden in his journal, between two pages he’d obsessively filled with the words “Y/N Fleck” before he’d moved in with her.

The private area she’d put together was the space he hadn’t realized he needed. He’d gotten in the habit of locking himself in the bathroom or bedroom to have privacy to write. But now, without the underlying fear that she’d see some of the darker notions he put down, he journaled more. Sometimes for a couple hours. Y/N left him alone when he did that, apart from the occasional peppering of kisses along his shoulders or ruffling of his hair when she’d bring him something to drink. (Which, he figured out, was her way of checking on him.)

When the negative thoughts became too heavy, or if he was disassociating and wasn’t sure if what he was seeing was real, he’d go there and sit. The feel of the wood beneath his hands, the heat of the lampshade, the framed photograph of the two of them together he kept on the right corner, grounded him and let him know he really was in a safe place. And that he was loved.

Most days, he knew where he was and who he was. And, for the first time he could remember, there were periods in which he felt content. Over the years, he’d dreamed of many things he’d assumed would fill the hole inside him. Meeting his father, being a famous stand-up, having a friend. While he still had those desires, he never would have thought settling down with a woman he didn’t have a lot in common with would be so fulfilling.

Tonight, while they were watching the news on the couch, he couldn’t stop looking at her. It had been five months since she’d dropped off her envelope at NCB studios. And he knew she pined for a report on it everyday, even after all this time. She always looked disappointed when nothing was mentioned. Instead, there was a story about the mayoral election. Thomas Wayne was leading in the polls.

Y/N groaned. “If that asshole wins...”

Arthur grabbed the remote and flicked off the television, then went to the record player and put on an LP. It was one of the “mood music” records he loved but she found corny. He knew it would cheer her up, though. He’d learned how to do that; she was a much easier case than he was. He held out a hand to her.

Gazing up at him, a sly smile came across her face as she took it. “What?”

“Come on,” he said, pulling at her gently. “Dance with me.”

She stood and winced. “I’ll never be good at this. You’re lucky you still have your toes.”

The arm that went around her waist held her tightly. “You’ve taught me a lot,” he said softly, a grin on his face as he dared to pat her bottom, prompting a chuckle from her. “It’s my turn to teach you.”

After a few moments, she put her head on his shoulder. Arthur stroked Y/N’s hair as he closed his eyes. Breathing in her scent, feeling the warmth of her body against him as they gently swayed, he became acutely aware that a positive vision he’d had for himself had actually happened. A soft hiccup escaped him.

“Are you all right?” she asked against his neck.

Nodding quickly, he swallowed, continuing to lead. “Yeah,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I feel good.”

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​ @clowndaddyfleck​ @sweet-nothings04​ @stephieraptorr​ @rommies​@invisiblewispofwhimsey @let-the-stars-fall-in-the-abyss​ @gruffle1​ @octopus-plasma​

[dentalrecordsmusic]

A Brief History of BRASS

July 2016

It was a typically gorgeous Vancouver morning and I'd skateboarded over to meet up with Devon Motz, the acerbic lead singer of the East Van punk band-BRASS. I'd been with him less than sixteen hours ago as we dropped off the rental van that the band had used for the ten-day tour to Edmonton and Calgary that preceded us. Devon and I met up at the CannaClinic Dispensary in the Hastings Sunrise neighborhood of East Van before stomping down past industrial meat processing warehouses and breweries to Rain City Recorders. The band's drummer, the mohawked and mustachioed Rory Traughton, was already waiting for us, rubbing his temples while slouching into a deck chair next to a glass table top adorned with ashtrays and empty beer cans. Devon passed me the grass and I went to work twisting up whatever heady indica he had purchased as Tristan Milne, the lead guitarist, appeared with a Pall Mall clenched between his grinning teeth while he toted two guitar hard cases, one shaped like a casket, in either hand. We fired up the joint and before long the bohemian bad boy bassist Eric Campbell appeared his single hanging ear piercing swaying around his frizzing out of place hair. We all smoked, got into some morning beers and enjoyed some sludgy memories and howl inducing stories of the past week of tour which, for the sake of everyone's reputation, I frankly can't tell you anything about.

BRASS was there that day to begin recording the follow up to their 2015 punk rock party primer cord: No Soap Radio. Over the following year and a bit, they'd seen their original bass player depart and had picked up their friend and contemporary Eric Campbell after he'd filled in during a couple of tight pinches. Now after nearly a year of playing and writing together, the band was ready to lay down tracks with the same engineer who'd helped the sonically economic quartet package their first disc, Jesse Gander. In Vancouver, Jesse is something of a legend having produced hundreds of albums in his over fifteen years of experience including Anciients, Baptists, Dead Quiet, Japandroids, The Jolts, Bison, The Pack AD and many many more. Given BRASS’ reputation in those days for starting sets rowdy and ending bloody when they had gone into the studio in 2015 for No Soap Radio, Jesse had been surprised at their polished and 'get r done’ approach to recording. Aside from regularly crushing volcano bags of weed and the standard amount of whiskey and beer BRASS had done the work pumping out their debut LP which would eventually be named by Canadian publication Beatroute: Vancouver Album of the Year. From here a cross-Canada tour was planned and started but the band didn't make it halfway before their van decided to light on fire a couple of times, before the band was badly hustled by a mechanic in the sinkhole known as Vagerville, Alberta. This ended any dreams of success out East. In the chaos that followed this disaster, the band lost their original bass player in a truncated crash and burn scenario before they picked up Eric who happened to be touring in tandem with his psyche rock corps Eric Campbell and the Dirt. Over a year later the band was going back into the studio with a whole new bag of tricks and tracks, even if some of them weren't completed.

Jesse arrived, hauled a few hard drives out of a safe and let us into the studio where each of the musicians took turns setting up their individual rigs to be separately microphoned for the bed tracks. These initial recordings would provide the rough sketch of the album used to write the thing as a whole. While Rory set up his drums, the longest job, Devon and I took refuge in the living room perch above that had a glass window that looked down on the recording floor. Devon's pretty good at playing Tony Hawk Pro Skater 2 on an old PlayStation 2. Since Calgary Devon had been remarking that he hadn't completed lyrics for several of their new songs and now almost a week later he didn't seem any more concerned by the prospect of going up to the mic and winging it. Almost two days later when I pressed him on his approach to lyrics he'd said "My lyrics don't mean anything man. They don't have to, that's not how I do it." At this, I rolled my eyes because whether Devon knew it or not at the time his lyrics are a cacophony of metaphors for wonton self-annihilation or distaste for the establishment presented through a shit-eating grin or displayed on a tasteful summer dress. It appeared that the band's approach to recording the new album was to play it fast and loose, rolling the dice on some of those new tracks to see what'd come up on the day of. A gutsy move considering how much the recording and mastering had cost them. The majority of that first day was spent working Rory like he was a mule you rented on someone else's dime. In the days that would follow the rest of the band would take their shots at putting down the masters for their individual portions of the record, but first, they needed the hardest tightest drum tracks to follow along to. After the first 25 takes Rory, who has to try really hard to take it slow, was starting to get gassed out but the whole band soldiered on.

Don’t wake up Rory ya doof doof.

During a smoke break, we gathered once more on the patio and that unique flavor of East Vancouver, the warm air carrying the scent of chicken and fish rendering, barley mash, and hot garbage cut through the air causing us all to choke and laugh. Someone remarked that it was a true East Van Musk and so the throat kicking banger from the new album, formerly titled Something Heavy, was renamed EVM. That first day the band hammered out the beds on ten songs, at least 3 of which they didn't have completed before they went into the studio. Devon, in daring fashion, had whipped up some lyrics when we weren't looking and filled the voids in the tracks. I couldn't imagine so instinctively writing something which would instantly become so indelible. Despite knowing a number of the songs, I could only hear pieces of the album. It was like a puzzle where only a few varied blurry shapes are visible, but no distinct image. Tired, kinda drunk and ready for bed we all agreed to meet up the next day, same BRASS time same BRASS channel.

Eric Campbell, Aka Local Creature, Aka Vampire Twink

When I got to the studio the next day Rory, Devon and Eric were already there. They told me that Jesse had been biking to the studio and was hit by a car and had broken his shoulder blade and his wrist. The band's consideration for Jesse was number one, but there was still the choke of frustration for the situation itself, a nagging reminder of the random cursed disaster they'd incurred in the form of their tour ending van fire. The vibe was fucking grim. The assistant engineer Mark Mckitrick had been instructed to let the band do as they needed to without Jesse. Years ago Devon and Tristan had earned degrees in audio engineering from now-defunct Pacific Audio Visual Arts Institute and all members having been through the process of putting down a record said fuck it and stepped up to the plate. The microphones in the room were already set up to their specifics, so Jesse or no Jesse it was time to do the work.

They trudged through the remainder of the bed tracks before Devon and Eric stuck on the floor going through some piano overdubs for songs I didn't know yet. Not long after that local gun for hire violinist Emily Bach appeared and put down some time and sound for the gang. I was starting to see this jigsaw puzzle taking shape. I had seen and heard many of these songs in the past, whether at shows or when hanging out with my friends in their jam space, but I had never seen the true assembly of art such as this. This was, aside from musical talent, an artistic production. A construction and curation of all of the best juicy bits and ideas that the team had been working on for the past year. Watching the different layers of overdubs come together was like realizing an idea for the very first time. It wasn't just some patently repetitive follow up to their succinct debut punch to the sun. This was becoming something that stood aside from what the identity the band had carved out for themselves musically and personally Their reputations aside, their character was starting to show. Rory and Tristan were the last people at the studio that night and I left them with a full deck of smokes and a bottle of whiskey.

That third major day in the studio Tristan sat in a chair, tuned up his guitar and laid down his parts for each and every one of the songs. In the background, Devon was already sipping whiskey, Alberta Premium: Dark Horse, and getting ready to rip his throat apart with his far-ranging, high-frequency feral singing. Devon screamed into his mic, standing behind a partition so he didn't have to look at our stupid faces while he yelled his guts out. I still managed a picture of him. By the time Devon was done with all his vocals, his voice didn't seem too bad but the bottle of whiskey he'd been drinking from however was just 'bout 'bliterated. Jesse had made it out of the hospital and damn trooper that he is, he arrived at the studio. He was gassed on X amount of high-quality painkillers and I'm sure he remembers very little about that day, but he was there goddammit. It was Jesse that presided over the board while Devon proceeded to take his pants off and direct the assembly of friends who had arrived to provide gang vocals for several of the album's tracks. It wasn't long before every member of BRASS was sans pantaloons, the weight of the past two weeks of touring, playing and recording catching up with them at all at once.  As they stood directing the East Van Brass Choir it was clear that all four of them were gooned on life. Devon being a prick on purpose catalyzed all of their attitudes as they liberally indulged their sense of trouble-making tomfuckery. Tristan, no pants had his eyes closed grinning while his hands conducted us. No one really cared. It was to be expected after enduring this far on such little sleep, fuelled only by the misting remnants of that pure golden tour energy and about a whole ounce of weed a heck of a lot of beers. What else could you expect from those who have just extracted the power of the gods out of the ether? Remain composed? What would you have them do? Aside from some mastering and tinkering the overdubbing the album was finished. Due to Jesse's injury, it would be a couple of months before the masters would be ready.

I was lucky enough to be passed a copy of the initial masters not long after the band received them and it became my unofficial skateboard anthem and stoke machine for the entire next year. I felt that it was a triumph, a total package that showcased the group's artistic diversity, emotions, opinions, and hunger. It meant a lot to me, it impacted me and changed how I felt about not just their music but that of the community around me as well as my own art. I couldn't wait for the world to listen to it.

April 2018

Rory, Tristan and I stood around behind the Cobalt Motor Hotel leaning on Rory's truck smoking cigarettes with a few friends waiting to see if it was going to rain. Devon was on his way there. Claire was on her way from work. That night was the release of the album that the band had recorded almost two years earlier. A lot of things had changed.

Since BRASS had finished recording the album that would come to be known as: For Everyone, things had changed. Summer 2016 had become autumn and our world had shifted out of the golden crispy Vancouver summer into the black-lit, high precipitation Blade Runner metropolis that Vancouver is known as. Over the past few years our scene, as it were, had largely orbited around a street level promotions group called Art Signified who had developed their reputations as tastemakers and animals. After enough basement shows, haggling with the sparse difficult Vancouver venues and throwing some of the best all day hardcore and punk parties Vancouver has ever seen, Art Signified had managed to secure a location in Vancouver's Chinatown to be used as an all-purpose arts and culture space. They named Studio Vostok, after Vostok 1 the first manned space vessel. Operating as a legal space Art Signified soon discovered just how crushingly expensive the antiquated Vancouver permitting systems are as well as the City's oppressive by-laws which make it nearly impossible to run an independent space that presents loud live music. Despite the fact that the mentally ill and addicted of Vancouver's infamous Downtown East Side were dying of fentanyl laced overdoses by the truckload, the Vancouver Police Department came down harder enforcing Studio Vostok's, and other space’s, bylaw infractions than they did on any peddler of hard street drugs. If you live in Vancouver it's clear, the only art and culture that our City wants is the kind that tows the right line of appropriateness and doesn't make a mess. Vancouver likes to proclaim itself to be an artistic City but the arts that thrive here often are either backed by some big dick money or appeal to our obnoxiously flaccid and bland brand of nationalism. Still, months of loud music, underground shows, literary events, movie screenings, public games nights, roundtable forums on social issues, music video shoots and greasy all-night chain smoking beer crushathons in the fight club basement led to the inevitable closure of Studio Vostok in February of 2017. The closure of the now mythic space, which had been our temple of Sodom for a time, precipitated a momentous shift in our scene. The godhead gone other avenues would need to be pursued. One of the most important changes for BRASS was that Eric Campbell had decided to take his leave, packing his bags and heading east to Montreal in search of a folk singer cage match in the artistic mecca of Montreal.

Photo courtesy of Alex Slavin

Enter Claire. Claire "Twitchy-Twitch" Carreras had been a mainstay in our circle of miscreants over the years, in fact, her badass track record pre-dated all of us by at least five years. Before they ever met her Devon and Tristan had been obsessed with her corroded battery acid female punk group Joyce Collingwood, in which Claire played lead guitar. Joyce Collingwood had since disbanded and Claire had joined forces with local pain in the ass and idiot savant Taya Fraser to form the head-butting hardcore duo HEDKS. Claire fucks. She fucks harder than you any day of the fucking week. When it was clear that BRASS was going to need a new bass player she was at the top of the list. After a couple of months of practice, learning the reasonably large catalog of songs, it was like she'd been in the band the whole time. Claire's logical head and lack of capacity to endure time-wasting bullshit is mirrored by a desire for mayhem that has the potential to eclipse just about anyone else's in the band.

The album had been done for a while, BRASS performing almost all the new songs spread out across the gigs of the past twelve months. There had been talk of going to SXSW in Austin, Texas to attempt getting signed to a label, but due to visa arrangements and general finances, it just wasn't in the cards for BRASS. Distribution for the album seemed a conversation that none of the band members wanted to have, at least not initially. What BRASS does first and foremost is put on a show. Some of that show is for you, the audience, but most of that show is for them. When they get buck they are getting buck. You feel it and you know it's real and you wanna let your shit go off. When they play it's like, uh actual art dude. They hadn't always been there though, they had evolved over time. Gone were the juvenile sneering bloody-faced affectations of a bunch of angry young men smashing through each other while spitting beer in your face and stealing your girlfriend. Through some dense alchemy they had melted and transmuted their form three times and each time it settled it was miraculously cast with a renewed energy, accented with the distinctions and elements of their own maturing character, but also with a refined punk sensibility that always pisses some people off: intelligence. In the past year and a half, they had been trying to figure out what they were really worth and how much they were willing to give up to get what they thought they wanted. I think for a good while there they just decided to say fuck it, ignore chasing labels and keep doing what they do best, which is perform and make new work. The things that most artists should be preoccupied with.

Photo courtesy of Taya Fraser

With no plans to release their album, nowhere higher to go without serious financial support and good-natured itch for adventure BRASS made plans to conqueror Europe. They went. The details of this trip I don't have because I wasn't there. But much like any other tour, even if I did have that information I'd probably never tell you. In their time as a band BRASS, as previously stated, had gained a reputation for pushing the envelope and fucking shit up, so upon returning from Europe friends and fans badgered them for tales of their exploits in the old world. As I'd come to understand it, almost everything that happens on tour is a ‘you had to be there’ situation, so why bother trying to explain that joyous madness to someone who was not going to, or even didn't deserve to, understand it. Maybe they'd tell you about it, but I wouldn't ask.

Photo courtesy of Asia Fairbanks

We'd finished smoking our cigarettes and dragged Rory and Tristan's gear inside just as the grey early spring sky started to spit at us. Inside the venue, I was so damned pleased to see Eric Campbell, having only days earlier returned from Montreal where he'd been for the better part of a year. The band began to arrange their stuff for sound-check and I made chit chat with Emily Bach, the gun for hire violinist, before Tristan and I went for some chicken sandwiches up the street. When we returned to the venue Devon was there setting up the merch table with CD's of For Everyone, the clear with pink swirl vinyl for No Soap Radio, buttons, stickers and a menagerie of their most recent run of tank tops and t-shirts. While Tristan and I sat in the green room eating our sandwiches before intermittently glugging from a bottle of absinthe I thought about how many different shirts the band had made over the years. The past few years had seen the slow dissolution of aspects of our scene's foundation, the closure of venues and the troubling derivative or exploitive environment of Vancouver music, the process of getting older and growing up yet BRASS is still standing. 2013, when the band had formed, was a long way off. Had we gotten old? It was during this time waiting for the show to begin that I watched each of them in passing, seeing a pause of consideration on their faces. For five years, after however many gigs, festivals, tours, bass players, fist fights, stupid decisions, all-nighters, torn dresses, trauma, heartbreak, black eyes, broken guitars, bottles of wine, cases of beers, broken glasses, packs of burnt darts, laughs, arguments, meltdowns, snapped strings and lost tempers, they had survived without becoming cliche rock and roll suicides. Their desire for recognition and achievement had never diminished but in all that time I'd never seen them compromise their integrity or artistic choices for the sake of getting another rung up the ladder, and had, in fact, witnessed them go the other way; expressing disdain for star fuckers and sleazy opportunists. I'd watched them through times of plight and been lucky enough to bask in their successes. No part of their repertoire, no matter how intense or foolhard, felt dishonest to me. No part of it felt contrived. Their moments of artistic sensationalism or provocation were not simply indulgent wankery, it had all come from a place of individual intentions and style that when re-forged through musical metallurgy created the unique alloy of performance that is honest and righteous in its provocation.

After nearly two years BRASS, with the prodigal Eric Campbell and the gunslinger Emily Bach, stepped out onto the stage to finally released their intelligent, caustic and heart-wrenching sophomore album, a gift from them For Everyone.

Listen to For Everyone and No Soap Radio.

You can follow the band on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.

Watch the hard-hitting two-song music video for "Disco" and "EVM" from For Everyone here.

Axel Matfin wrote this. You can visit his website and follow him on Instagram.

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