#the tone shift as you go through the double album until it does a full circle

[thatone-highlighter]

I love you albums. I love you songs connected by similar themes. I love you listening to songs in a specific order picked by the artist. I love you reoccurring motifs throughout the same album. I love you album covers. I love you albums with extended editions. I love you songs that reference each other.

[strandedcrow]

thoughts on the glass animals album dreamland? (info dump welcome)

YES hi hello thank you

I talked like,, a lot so I’m sparing y'all with a cut

The album itself is just so well organized and executed it’s insane. The entire album just captures the feeling of taking a nostalgic trip through your own life and the way that it ends up forgotten in a way, sickly sweet and vague, subdued, and so easy to get completely lost in. And part of what makes it so well done is the pure authenticity it’s completely drenched in. The album itself didn’t exist until quarantine hit, they had been taking a break after a band member was injured and had to recover, and that isolation had that same impact on them as it did on most of us, and the result was this extremely genuine album embodying nostalgia itself.

As a band they’ve always done such an incredible job of maintaining a theme throughout their album that is consistent without becoming repetitive. The song Dreamland does such a perfect job of pulling you into the album, easing you into a subdued album, fuzzy around the edges but clear once you can hone in on the details, on what’s being said, perfectly reflective of the theme it’s introducing you to. While it’s doing that it’s also providing a smooth shift from the last song on the album before it, HTBAHB. Agnes leaves that album off on such an extremely a somber, desperate, and lost note, which Dreamland picks up, just as lost in itself, taking off so beautifully from Agnes’ “You’re gone but you’re on my mind, I’m lost but I don’t know why,” and getting into the why. But it does so by warning you first, “You see in kodachrome, you see in pink and gold.” This album is distorted, it’s not right, the colors are wrong and everything is sweeter than it should be. At the same time, it sets up for the songs to follow, like “That worst thing you said” for It’s All So Incredibly Loud and “You were ten years old, holding hands in the classroom, he had a gun on the first day of high school” for Space Ghost Coast to Coast.It’s those vague, unconnected memories that you haven't quite grasped onto yet in full, but you know you’re going to get lost in them once you do. You’re stepping back from the overload of information and action today to visit who you used to be and what made you who you are now.

Right after it, Tangerine does something that Life Itself did for HTBAHB, it smoothened the general sound’s transition between albums. Just as Life Itself, with its beat similar to the album before its own could have fit into ZABA with no issue, Tangerine could have been on HTBAHB without disrupting the album. The “retro” vibe, the themes revolving around both the nostalgia of Dreamland and those of past relationships deteriorating because of missed opportunities and growing apart fits so well into both albums, it’s such a great transition from the past album to the current. The “I’m begging, hands knees please, tangerine” is also a common expression used (often as a double entendre) by them, again like in Life Itself, with its chorus being “Come back down to my knees, gotta get back, gotta get free, come back down to my knees, lean back now, lean back and breathe,” which just sets up for a really smooth callback to previous songs and album. Something else that Tangerine establishes is something that’s been a running theme with Glass Animals since ZABA: fruit. There is a lot of fruit here. It used to be a running joke that Glass Animals wasn’t actually a band, but a cryptic pineapple worshipping cult (no amount of music made will fool me, this is definitely a pineapple cult). This album uses fruit to remind you of the sugary sweetness of nostalgia, but there’s more history and, well, fan specific nostalgia that goes with that metaphor, too.

Hot Sugar is similar to a later song, Waterfalls Coming Out Your mouth, in that it’s about someone who is so cool that they aren’t actually cool. The person isn’t genuine, the idea of them isn’t actually them, but this was someone that you still want to be anyways, because who wouldn’t want to be that cool? The song doesn’t have much deeper meaning underlying it compared to some other’s because that depth doesn’t exist here, with this person. You know they’re “faking it,” but it doesn’t really matter beyond deciding if you actually like them or if you just want to be them, and the answer is the latter. This song is also similar to another, later song, Tokyo Drifting, introducing the listener to this person that he wants to be like, referencing “Hot rubber on the tar,” and setting the stage for the later song to tell you more about what he wanted to be like. Also, once again, through a mention of watermelon, fruit continues to be a recurring theme in the earlier tracks on this album, when the trip through nostalgic memories is still more sweet than bitter.

Right after we get introduced to this idea of who he wanted to be, we move onto what became of someone he knew closely, shared a lot with, and very suddenly lost touch with through Space Ghost Coast to Coast. The music itself is reminiscent of the music he listened to at the time. This song, being a telling of something that actually happened, is so authentic and raw in how it ends up, all still told through the layer of confusion, hurt, and again, that sweetness of nostalgia, with “You look bizarre in the apricot” establishing a deceptively sweet but confused tone over something heavy through yet another fruit metaphor. This song also manages to hit on other songs from the album when he tries to delve into why his friend did what he did, “Were you bored of gender norms,” matching with Dreamland’s “Go ask your questions like “What makes a man?”,” “… of being alone,” matching Heat Waves’ “I don’t wanna be alone, you know it hurts me too,” and “… no mama home, a bad divorce” matching pretty much the entirety of Domestic Bliss. Like Hot Sugar, this song sets up for Tokyo Drifting, with his idea of who he wants to be but isn’t, with “Remember when you stole mom’s old Geo Metro, you wore her old bathrobe, too small to see the road.” There’s also more blatant references being made to both past shooters (Black cap back with a trench coat, ay) and the arguments afterwards of what motivated them (Playing too much of that GTA, playing too much of that Dr. Dre). While he still wants to understand his old friend, and what happened for him to change so abruptly and dangerously, he does not want anything to do with him anymore. It’s a song about a loss of innocence and the understanding that sometimes you just won’t understand why someone does something. It’s just a complete banger in general.

Which then takes us to Tokyo Drifting, which absolutely slaps. The song itself revolves around what he wanted to be like, singing from a new persona rather than his own (Cane Suga from HTBAHB was done through the same persona). It breaks the pattern of referencing to fruit, instead focusing on drugs and alcohol, dropping the sickly sweet lens of nostalgia for something more fitting of the song’s specific theme. Don’t worry, though, dragonfruit was used extremely heavily in this songs promotion as a single, so the fruit is still there, just not directly, and that lack of directly referring to a fruit in the song itself fits with the way that the song breaks from nostalgia of things that have happened and people he knew into something that was never real. There is no rose colored glasses needed for something that never even happened. I don’t have much else to say on it, it just goes hard, this was my most listened to song two years in a row lmao.

Melon and the Coconut is just sheer Glass Animals. It’s weird, it’s fun, and it sounds great. It cleanly splits the album in half, splitting the POV’s straight down the middle while making a reference to its own position in the album, “Sometimes B-sides are the best songs.” Needless to say, there are some super subtle references to fruit in Melon and the Coconut, the song about two fruit.

Then, the second half of the album kicks off with Your Love (Deja Vu), a song extremely similar in theme to previous songs about missed timing, like ZABA’s Pools and HTBAHB’s Pork Soda. Instead of fruit, “juice” is mentioned in this song. It takes the turn from thinking about people you were friends with, what you wanted to be like, to people that you were with, and things that just didn’t work out.

And then there’s Waterfalls Coming Out Your Mouth. It’s such a clean parallel to looking back on things with nostalgia and seeing them through the fake sweetness that time brings, with this song being about the rose colored glasses that were present in the moment, the time when you start getting to know someone but you aren’t actually getting to know them, you’re getting to know this other, more impressive version of them instead, and they get the exact same experience of you on their own end. He’s letting this other person have their own version of him while he has his own version of them in his head, and he knows their version of him is wrong, so he also knows whatever he thinks of them is going to be wrong, too. He knows them, but at the same time he doesn’t. He’s realizing here, that this person, like the Hot Sugar person, is too cool, and they aren’t real, it’s all just talk, and it’s all fake like the “chemical warfare, red lips and television eyewear, raspberry soda hair, in the pool with a blow up gummy bear.” It’s sweet, sure, but it’s also fake. “Chat shit but where’s the real you? Never seen The Price Is Right, I’m a liar been on that shit since ’99. You make me look like a clown, clap clap, you’re a clever clever cookie now” has no right go that hard, and yet it Does.

Then, abruptly, we get to It’s All So Incredibly Loud. The song itself is subdued, it’s that point in your trip through your own memories where you remember why things went wrong. You get shaken from your train of thought and lose your place in it, because you aren’t there anymore, you’re here and you can’t go back, you can’t fix anything, all that’s left for you to do now is mourn the wrongs and accept them, even though its painful. This is remembering what Dreamland meant by “That worst thing you said,” the realization that you have to break someone else’s heart, and how much that hurts.

((home movie: rockets)) is the longest home movie audio in the album, and creates a smooth transition back into childhood, journeying back through a sound similar to that of their first album, ZABA, on the way there for the album to transition into Domestic Bliss. This time, with someone else entirely’s perspective falling back onto knees, but this time under an entirely different tone, “Fight for me. We can leave I’m begging, please, on my on my knees.” These two songs back to back continue the downward spiral that too much nostalgia can leave you falling into, the wrongs, the regrets, this trip down memory lane has lasted too long, now.

Which drops us off at Heat Waves, which returns back to his own perspective after Domestic Bliss focused on a friend of his. It fits the bittersweet feeling in nostalgia, the understanding and acceptance that you can’t go back, you just have to keep going forward and separate instead for everyone’s sake, a followup less to the tangent in thought that is Domestic Bliss, and more to It’s All So Incredibly Loud. It also wraps up those previous album’s songs, Pools and Pork Soda in a way, bringing a sense of closure to the nostalgic feelings, as well as to the entire album.

And finally Helium, the bookend opposite to Dreamland. This song flawlessly embodies that feeling of when you realize you’ve just been sitting and staring at a photo album for an hour now, and you finally take a look around you, feeling the air conditioning on your skin, hearing the sounds of the world around you, snapping back out of your train of thought and into real life again. Things didn’t work the way that you used to think they would, but that’s a good thing. It is such a perfect ending to the nostalgic journey that is this entire album. Fading back into the melody that started this journey of sickly sweet memories of people you looked up to, when you learned for the first time that people can change and you might not ever understand why, ideas of who you once wanted to be, finding something light that you can laugh about, realizing how similar so many things in your life have been to each other, the realization that the people you used to look up to might not have actually been that impressive the whole time, your regrets, times you wish you could have done more, and the understanding that sometimes you shouldn’t have done so much.

I love this album so much man

[dustedmagazine]

Dusted Mid-Year Round-Up: Part 2, Dr. Pete Larson to  Young Slo-Be

James Brandon Lewis

The mid-year exchange continues with the second half of the alphabet and another round of Dusted writers reviewing other people’s favorite records.  Today’s selection runs the gamut from Afro-beat to hip hop to experimental music and includes some of this year’s best jazz records.  Check out part one if you missed it yesterday.  

Dr. Pete Larson and His Cytotoxic Nyatiti Band — Damballah (Dagoretti Records)

Damballah by Dr. Pete Larson and his Cytotoxic Nyatiti Band

Who Picked it? Mason Jones

Did we review it? No, but Jennifer Kelly said about his previous record, “It’s authentic not to some musicological conception of what nyatiti music should sound like, but to the instincts and proclivities of the musicians involved.”

Bryon Hayes’ take:

Judging from Jenny’s review, Dr. Pete Larson hasn’t really changed his modus operandi much since last year’s self-titled release. Well, he has appeared to have dropped vocalist Kat Steih and drummer Tom Hohman, who aren’t credited with an appearance on Damballah. Sonically, this album feels more polished than its predecessor. There’s a richness that was lacking before, a sense of clarity that Larson seems to have added here. He still hypnotizes with his nyatiti but doesn’t lose himself behind the other players. That sense of mesmerizing repetition of short passages on the resonant lute-like instrument is what sets the music of the Cytotoxic Nyatiti Band apart from other rock groups who play in the psychedelic vein. It’s easy to get lost in the intricate plucking patterns as the guitars and synths swirl about. The rhythms bounce cleverly against those created by the percussion, anchoring the songs to solid ground. Balancing the airy and the earthy, Dr. Peter Larson and His Cytotoxic Nyatiti Band create a cosmic commotion perfect for contemplation. 

 James Brandon Lewis / Red Lily Quintet — Jesup Wagon (TAO Forms)

Jesup Wagon by James Brandon Lewis / Red Lily Quintet

Who recommended it? Derek Taylor

Did we review it? Yes, Derek said, “’Fallen Flowers’ and ‘Seer’ contain sections of almost telepathic convergence, the former and the closing ‘Chemurgy’ culminating in Lewis’ spoken words inculcating the import of his subject.” 

Tim Clarke’s take:

Tenor saxophonist and composer James Brandon Lewis demonstrates his control of the instrument in the opening moments of Jesup Wagon’s title track. Before his Red Lily Quintet bandmates join the fray, he alternates between hushed ululations and full-blooded honks, inviting the listener to lean in conspiratorially. Once the rest of the band fire up, cornet player Kirk Knuffke, bassist William Parker, cellist Chris Hoffman and drummer Chad Taylor lock into a loose, muscular shuffle. Their collective chemistry is immediately evident, and each player has the opportunity to shine across this diverse set’s 50-minute runtime. I’m particularly drawn to the rapid-fire rhythmic runs on “Lowlands of Sorrow,” the gorgeous cello on “Arachis,” and the spacious, mbira-laced “Seer.” There’s something about the mournful horn melody of the final piece, “Chemurgy,” that sends me back to first hearing Ornette Coleman’s “Lonely Woman” — and, just like that, I’m excited about the prospect of exploring jazz again, for the first time in a long time. Great pick, Derek.

 Roscoe Mitchell & Mike Reed — The Ritual And The Dance (Astral Spirits) 

the Ritual and the Dance by Roscoe Mitchell & Mike Reed

Who recommended it? Derek Taylor

Did we review it? Yes, Derek wrote, “Roscoe Mitchell remains an improvisational force to be reckoned with.”

Andrew Forell’s take:

For 17-plus minutes, Roscoe Mitchell solos on his soprano with barely a pause, the rush of notes powered by circular breathing, as drummer Mike Reed’s controlled clatter counterpoints Mitchell’s exploration of his instrument’s range and tonal qualities in what sounds like a summation of his long career at the outer edge of jazz. It‘s an extraordinary beginning to this performance, recorded live in 2015. On first listen it sounds chaotic, but shapes emerge in Mitchell’s sound, and Reed’s combination of density and silence complements, punctuates and supports in equal measure. After an incisive solo workout from Reed combining clanging metal and rolling toms, Mitchell swaps to tenor and the pace changes. Longer, slower notes, a rougher, reed heavy tone and a lighter touch from Reed. Having not closely followed Mitchell’s work since his days in The Art Ensemble Of Chicago, this performance was a revelation and will have me searching back through his catalog.     

The Notwist — Vertigo Days (Morr Music)

Vertigo Days by The Notwist

Who recommended it? Tim Clarke

Did we review it?  Yes, Tim said, “The Notwist really know how to structure a front-to-back listening experience, and this is emphatically a work of art best appreciated as a whole.”

Arthur Krumins’ take: 

In his review of Vertigo Days, Tim Clarke highlights the “multiple layers of drifting, shifting instrumentation.” It is an album that seems unbound by adherence to a set instrument lineup, and it moves quickly between moods both frenetic and contemplative. However, due to a careful mixing and an unforced approach to genre expectations, it is a surprising and varied listen that bears repeated scrutiny. The touchstones of the sound are at times the motorik beat of krautrock, at others the ethereal indie pop of their melodies and the quality of their singing. It feels like the perfect quirky coffee shop album, just out there enough to create a vibe, but tactful enough to take you along for the ride.

  Dorothea Paas — Anything Can’t Happen (Telephone Explosion)

Anything Can't Happen by Dorothea Paas

Who picked it? Arthur Krumins.

Did we review it? No. 

Eric McDowell’s take:

In one sense, it’s fair to say that Dorothea Paas’s debut album opens with a false start: A single note sounded and then retreated from, fingers sliding up and down the fretboard with the diffidence of a throat clearing. Yet what gesture could more perfectly introduce an album so marked by uncertainty, vulnerability, and naked self-assessment? 

If Anything Can’t Happen is an open wound, it’s a wound Paas willingly opens: “I’m not lonely now / Doing all the things I want to and working on my mind / Sorting through old thoughts.” That doesn’t make the pain any less real — though it does make it more complex. “It’s so hard to trust again / When you can’t even trust yourself,” Paas sings on the utterly compelling title track, her gaze aiming both inward and outward. Elsewhere she admits: “I long for a body closer to mine / But I don’t want to seek, I just want to find.” Instrumentally, Paas and her bandmates manage to temper an inclination toward static brooding with propulsive forward motion, a balance that suits the difficult truth — or better yet, difficult truce — the album arrives at in the climactic “Frozen Window”: “How can I open to love again, like a plant searches for light through a frozen window? / Can I be loved, or is it all about control? / I will never know until I start again.” In the spirit of starting again, Anything Can’t Happen ends with a doubling down on the opening prelude, reprising and extending it — no false start to be found. 

 Dominic Pifarely Quartet — Nocturnes (Clean Feed) 

Nocturnes by Dominique Pifarély Quartet

Who recommended it? Jason Bivins

Did we review it? No 

Derek Taylor’s take: 

Pifarely and I actually go way back in my listening life, specifically to Acoustic Quartet, an album the French violinist made for ECM as a co-leader with countryman clarinetist Louis Sclavis in 1994. Thirty-something at the time, his vehicle for that venture was an improvising chamber ensemble merging classical instrumentation and extended techniques with jazz and folk derived influences. The results, playful and often exhilaratingly acrobatic, benefited greatly from austere ECM house acoustics. Nearly three decades distant, Nocturnes is a different creature, delicate and darker hued in plumage and less enamored of melody, harmony and rhythm, at least along conventional measures. Drones and other textures are regular elements of the interplay between the leader’s strings, the piano of Antonin Rayon and the sparse braiding and shadings of bassist Bruno Chevillon and drummer Francois Merville. Duos also determine direction, particular on the series of titular miniatures that are as much about space as they are centered in sound. It’s delightful to get reacquainted after so much time apart.  

The Reds Pinks & Purples — Uncommon Weather (Slumberland/Tough Love)

Uncommon Weather by The Reds, Pinks & Purples

Who picked it? Jennifer Kelly

Did we review it? Yes, Jennifer said, “Uncommon Weather is undoubtedly the best of the Reds, Pinks & Purples discs so far, an album that is damned near perfect without seeming to try very hard.”   

Bill Meyer’s take:

Sometimes a record hits you where you live. Glenn Donaldson’s too polite to do you any harm, but he not only knows where you live, he knows your twin homes away from home, the record store and the club where you measure your night by how many bands’ sets separate you from last call. He knows the gushing merch-table mooches and the old crushes that casually bring the regulars down, and he also knows how to make records just like the ones that these folks have been listening to since they started making dubious choices. Uncommon Weather sounds like a deeply skilled recreation of early, less chops-heavy Bats, and if that description makes sense to you, so will this record.

 claire rousay — A Softer Focus (American Dreams Records)

a softer focus by Claire Rousay

Who picked it? Bryon Hayes  

Did we review it? Yes, Bryon Hayes wrote, “These field recordings of the mundane, when coupled with the radiance of the musical elements, are magical.”  

Ian Mathers’ take:  

In a weird way (because they are very different works from very different artists), A Softer Focus reminds me a bit of Robert Ashley’s Private Parts (The Album). Both feel like the products of deep focus and concentration but wear their rigor loosely, and both feel like beautifully futile attempts to capture or convey the rich messiness of human experience. But although there is a musicality to Private Parts, Ashley is almost obsessed by language and language acts, and even though the human voice is more present than ever in rousay’s work (not just sampled or field recorded, but outright albeit technologically smeared singing on a few tracks) it feels like it reaches to a place in that experience beyond words. The first few times I played it I had moments where I was no longer sure exactly what part of what I was hearing were coming from my speakers versus from outside my apartment, and as beautiful as the more conventional ambient/drone aspects of A Softer Focus are (including the cello and violin heard throughout), it’s that kind of intoxicating disorientation, of almost feeling like I’m experiencing someone else’s memory, that’s going to stay with me the longest. 

 M. Sage — The Wind Of Things (Geographic North)

The Wind of Things by M. Sage

Who recommended it? Bryon Hayes

Did we review it? No

Bill Meyer’s take:

Matthew Sage’s hybrid music gets labeled as ambient by default. Sure, it’s gentle enough to be ignorable, but Sage’s combination of ruminative acoustic playing (mostly piano and guitar, with occasional seasoning from reeds, violin, banjo, and percussion) and memory-laden field recordings feels so personal that it’s hard to believe he’d really be satisfied with anyone treating this stuff as background music. But that combination of the placid and the personal may also be The Wind of Things’ undoing since it’s a bit too airy and undemonstrative to make an impression.

 Skee Mask — Pool (Ilian Tape)

ITLP09 Skee Mask - Pool by Skee Mask

Who picked it? Patrick Masterson

Did we review it? No 

Robert Ham’s take:

Pool is an appropriate title for the new album by Munich electronic artist Bryan Müller. The record is huge and deep, with its 18 tracks clocking in at around 103 minutes. And Müller has pointedly only released the digital version of Pool through Bandcamp, adding it a little hurdle to fans who just want to pick and choose from its wares for their playlists. Dipping one’s toes in is an option, but the only way to truly appreciate the full effect is to dive on in. 

Though Müller filled Pool up with around five years’ worth of material, the album plays like the result of great deliberation. It flows with the thoughtfulness and intention of an adventurous DJ set, with furious breakbeat explosions like “Breathing Method” making way for the languorous ambient track “Ozone” and the unbound “Rio Dub.” Then, without warning, the drum ‘n’ bass breaks kick in for a while. 

The full album delights in those quick shifts into new genres or wild seemingly disparate sonic connections happening within the span of a single song. But again, these decisions don’t sound like they were made carelessly. Müller took some time with this one to get the track list just right. But if there is one thread that runs along the entirety of Pool, it is the air of joy that cuts through even its downcast moments. The splashing playfulness is refreshing and inviting.

 Speaker Music — Soul-Making Theodicy (Planet Mu)

Soul-Making Theodicy by Speaker Music

Who picked it? Mason Jones

Did we review it? No 

Robert Ham’s take:

The process by which DeForrest Brown Jr., the artist known as Speaker Music, created his latest EP sounds almost as exciting as the finished music. If I understand it correctly — and I’m not entirely sure that I do — he created rhythm tracks using haptic synths, a Push sequencer, and a MIDI keyboard, that he sent through Ableton and performed essentially a live set of abstract beats informed by free jazz, trap and marching band. Or as Brown calls them “stereophonic paintings.” 

Whatever term you care to apply to these tracks and however they were made, the experience of listening to them is a dizzying one. A cosmic high that takes over the synapses and vibrates them until your vision becomes blurry and your word starts to smear together like fog on a windshield. Listening to this EP on headphones makes the experience more vertiginous if, like I did, you try to unearth the details and sounds buried within the centerpiece track “Rhythmatic Music For Speakers,” a 33-minute symphony of footwork stuttering and polyrhythms. Is that the sound of an audience responding to this sensory overload that I hear underneath it all? Or is that wishful imaginings coming from a mind hungry for the live music experience? 

 The Telescopes — Songs of Love And Revolution (Tapete) 

Songs Of Love And Revolution by the telescopes

Who recommended it? Robert Ham

Did we review it? No. 

Andrew Forell’s take:

Songs Of Love And Revolution glides along on murky subterranean rhythms that evoke Mo Tucker’s heartbeat toms backed with thick bowel-shaking bass lines. Somewhere in the murk Stephen Lawrie’s murmured vocals barely surface as he wrings squalls of noise from his guitar to create a dissonant turmoil to contrast the familiarity of what lies beneath. The effect is at once hypnotic and joltingly thrilling, similar to hearing Jesus And Mary Chain for the first time but played a at pace closer to Bedhead. A kind of slowcore shoegaze, its mystery enhanced by what seems deliberately monochrome production that forces and rewards close attention. When they really let go on “We See Magic And We Are Neutral, Unnecessary” it hits like The Birthday Party wrestling The Stooges. So yeah, pretty damn good.

 Leon Vynehall — Rare, Forever (Ninja Tune)

Rare, Forever by LEON VYNEHALL

Who recommended it? Patrick Masterson

Did we review it? No. 

Jason Bivins’ take: 

I was amused to see Leon Vynehall’s album tucked into the expansive “Unknown genre” non-category. This is, as is often the case with these mid-year exchanges, a bit far afield from the kind of music I usually spin. Much of it is, I suppose, rooted in house music. Throughout these tracks, there are indeed some slinky beats that’ll get you nodding your head while prepping the dinner or while studying in earnest. There’s plenty to appreciate on the level of grooves and patterns, but he closer you listen, the more subversive, sneaky details you notice. The opening “Ecce! Ego!” isn’t quite as brash as the title would suggest, featuring some playfully morphed voices, old school synth patches and snatches of instrumentalism. But after just a couple minutes, vast cosmic sounds start careening around your brainpan while a metal bar drops somewhere in the audial space. Did that just happen? you wonder as the groove continues. Moments of curiosity and even discomfort are plopped down, sometimes as transitions (like the closing vocal announcement on “In>Pin” — “like a moth” — that introduces the echo-canyon of “Mothra”) but usually as head-scrambling curveballs. Startled voices or flutes or subterranean sax bubble up from beneath deep house thrum, then are gone in ways that are arresting and deceptive. I still don’t know what to make of the lounge-y closing to “Snakeskin – Has-Been” or the unexpected drone monolith of “Farewell! Magnus Gabbro.” In its way, Vynehall’s music is almost like what you’d get if Graham Lambkin or Jason Lescalleet made a house record. Pretty rich stuff.

 Michael Winter — single track (Another Timbre)

single track by Michael Winter

Who recommended it? Eric McDowell 

Did we review it? Not yet! 

Mason Jones’ take: 

Over its 45 minutes, Michael Winter’s 2015 composition slowly accelerates and accumulates, starting from an isolated violin playing slightly arrhythmic, single fast strokes. The playing, centered around a single root note, seems almost random, but flashes of melodic clusters make it clear they're not. After nine minutes other players have joined in and there's a developing drone, as things sort of devolve, with atonal combinations building. By the one-third mark everything has slowed down significantly, and the players are blending together, with fewer melodies standing out. Instead, it's almost more drone than not; and at a half hour in, most of the strings have been reduced to slowly changing tones. As we near the end we’re hearing beautiful layers of string drones, descending into the final few minutes of nearly static notes. It's an intriguing and oddly listenable composition given its atonality. The early moments bring to mind Michael Nyman, and the later movements summon thoughts of Tony Conrad and La Monte Young, but it's clearly different from any of them, and more than the sum of those parts.

 Young Slo-Be — Red Mamba (KoldGreedy Entertainment / Thizzler On The Roof)

Who picked it? Ray Garraty 

Did we review it? No. 

Ian Mathers’ take: 

The 12 tracks on Red Mamba fly by in a little over 27 minutes (not a one breaks the three-minute mark) but the result doesn’t feel slight so much as pared down to a sharpness you might cut yourself on. Stockon’s Young Slo-Be only seems to have one flow (or maybe it’d be more accurate to say he only seems interested in one) but he knows how to wield it with precision and force, and if the subject matter hews closely to the accepted canon of gangbanger concerns, Slo-Be delivers it all with vivid language and the studied, superior disdain of an older brother explaining the world to you and busting your chops at the same time. The tracks on Red Mamba all come from different producers, but Slo-Be consistently chooses spectral, eerie, foreboding backgrounds for these songs, even when adding piano and church bells (on “Asshole”), dog barks (“21 Thoughts”) or even Godfather-esque strings (the closing “Rico Swavo”). What’s the old line about the strength of street knowledge? These are different streets, and different knowledge.

[starryhedgehog]

i knew you, remember?

summary: what happens when Eliott Demaury doesn’t even remember his name?

amnesia!au

pairing: elu

word count: 1628

genre: angst (now) --> fluff (later)

part 1

a/n : hello everyone!  i had this sitting in my google docs for months (hence there may be grammar errors), and i think this is probably going to be the last fic i upload on this blog.  it’s a series, i have most of it written out, and i hope you enjoy!  

- - 

Lucas pushes the photo album in front of Eliott, his fingers dusted with crumbs of the stale sort of speculoo biscuit only given out at the front desks of hospitals.  “And this is your favorite place.  You like to go here when you need to be alone.”  He points to another photo, a polaroid, more specifically, and it's one of Eliott’s many dubstep vinyls, maybe even the exact one Eliott played on that first day Lucas came over.  “And this is dubstep.  Your favorite.  You made me listen to it when we first met, and it was terrible.”

Eliott cracks a smile, and he’s still so perfect in the room, still so utterly ethereal, even with hospital light blinding translucent streaks through his dark hair and the unruly look stretching across his face because god, he’s probably exhausted.  “So why’d you keep listening, hm?”

Lucas swallows, and he feels his heart physically jump up into his throat.  “Because you liked it.”  Lucas is straggling in a state of disarray, and he swears he can feel the little molecules in his chest expanding and shrinking, almost like he’s shifting and freezing and melting into all different states of matter because nothing feels right.  This isn’t right.  Lucas settles with slowly pointing to the photo on the next page, his finger wobbling.  “And this is the common room.”  He pauses, some part of him hoping Eliott will jump in and piece things together.  But he doesn’t, and Lucas hurries to fill the silence that’s filled between them.  “We worked on this mural together.”  He has to stop.  “We ... ”

“So,” Eliott says, finally, sounding out the words.  He looks at Lucas with those eyes, so beautiful and stunning and full of life that Lucas always feels like he’s teetering at the edge of mischief and wonder, “were we together?  Like, were you my boyfriend?”

Lucas aches.  “Yeah.”  His throat tightens, and he feels the familiar prick at the back of his eyes.  Stop it, he thinks, biting his tongue.  He’s not going to cry.  “I mean, we were dating,” Lucas corrects himself, and the words seem to tear at the little dignity he has left.  It’s so embarrassing, sitting here in front of Eliott, staring at Eliott with eyes he knows are full of yearning, and hope, and most of all sadness.  “I don’t want to pressure you into anything right now.”

“You wouldn’t.  I know you wouldn’t,” Eliott says quickly, and Lucas’s gaze snaps up.  Because maybe, maybe Eliott might remember.

Lucas has to physically bite his lips together to stop himself from saying anything stupid, and he nods stiffly, trying to appear inconspicuous.  But it doesn’t work.  There’s still stupid hope blinding his thinking, and right now, the only thing existing in Lucas’ mind is the notion that maybe, one more time, one more photo might do the trick.

He’s spoken too soon.

“I’m really sorry --”

“No!  No worries,” Lucas blurts out, his voice far too eager for what Eliott’s just said.  But the thing is, Lucas doesn’t care.  He really doesn’t give a shit about what Eliott’s going to say, just wants Eliott to keep talking.  He just wants things to go back to normal again.

Yet the half-smile that barely flits across Eliott’s gaze is a different sort of smile, one that’s hesitant and nearly regretful.  “This is going to make me sound like such an ass,” Eliott says, and this time Lucas hears the sadness in his voice.  “But, what was your name again?  There’s so much, and I can’t … I can’t remember.  Sorry.”

Lucas stops breathing.  Every memory of Eliott starts pressing at his skull, flashing incandescent and neon in his mind.

But instead of working through it, like he’s supposed to, his cheeks flush bright red and he drops Eliott’s gaze, staring hard at the speculoo wrapper clenched in between his fingertips.  “I need to go.”

Eliott’s hand reaches out to grab Lucas’ wrist.  “Wait.”

Eliott’s touch sends all sorts of feelings rushing through Lucas, and Lucas slumps back into his chair, his eyes dazed and confused, and oh, so sad.

“You’re so familiar,” Eliott begins, blinking, “or maybe it feels like you should be familiar.  But I don’t remember you at all.”

Ouch.

“That’s probably for the best.”  Lucas abruptly stands up from his seat, biting at his lower lip.  “I can’t do this.  Not right now.”

“Eliott,” Eliott offers, and he opens his palms on the table as if he wishes there were something he could give to Lucas.  “I’m Eliott.”

Lucas’s lip trembles in between his teeth.  He remembers Eliott at the bus stop, smoking a cigarette in the early nighttime.  He remembers chocolate bars and chelou, remembers everything.  He remembers Eliott saying those same exact words.

Eliott.  I’m Eliott.

“Lucas,” Lucas blurts out.  “And I know.”

Eliott mouths his name, then nods and quirks his lips into a half smile.  “If it means anything,” Eliott starts, shrugging his shoulders bashfully, “I can see why I liked you.”

Lucas freezes.  He’s biting the inside of his cheek so hard he thinks he might draw blood, and tries to keep his eyes trained on his shoes.  But Eliott’s right there, and he feels like the same Eliott, and Lucas lets his gaze travel up.  He stares at Eliott for a moment, eyes tracing over Eliott’s cheekbones, the curve of his nose, and Lucas blinks.  

“Sorry,” Lucas whispers, clutching his hands tightly.  “I thought,” he shakes his head, already walking out the room.  He can’t do this.

“Lucas?”

Lucas rushes out of the room and everything hurts.  He can’t believe he’s leaving Eliott, he can’t believe he’s leaving Eliott in that terrible room with the god-awful lighting, and the windows that are far too small for an artist like Eliott to even stand, and he feels his throat start to sting as he remembers the gauze wrapped tightly around Eliott’s left forearm.

Lucas slams himself against the wall, his head hitting against the plaster.  He stares up at the white lights, the brightness burning small dots in the corner of his vision, and he shuts his eyes, digging his nails into his palms.

A nurse passes by and sees Lucas standing there.  She’s pushing an older woman in a wheelchair, a clipboard grasped loosely between her right arm.  “Good morning,” she says, kindly.  

Lucas takes a deep breath and forces himself to smile.  He watches as he sees countless doors open and close with people walking in and out.  He could just leave Eliott here, he could easily just go back to his apartment and cry.  But he can’t leave Eliott.  Not like this, not alone.

So Lucas grits his teeth and walks right back to Eliott’s door.  He stands outside for a moment, taking a second to watch the outline of Eliott through the notched glass.  Then he knocks quickly, turning the doorknob to step back inside.

Eliott doesn’t look up at first, he’s too engrossed in the empty seat across from him.  The seat where Lucas was sitting, until a few moments ago.

Lucas clears his throat.  Eliott blankly looks up, then does a double take; his eyes widen and a tentative smile graces its way across his lips.

“You’re back?”

Lucas shifts in his stance.  “Yeah.  I was rude.”  He sticks his hands in his pockets, looking decently ashamed.  “Sorry.”

Eliott laughs, and it’s surprising.  “It’s fine.  You came back, so.”

Lucas shrugs awkwardly.  “I just wanted to tell you that I’m going to go now.”

“Okay.  I’ll be here.”

Lucas doesn’t have the energy to laugh.  He’s so exhausted.  But he looks down, and he can’t help the words that blurt from his mouth.  “So could you?”

“Could I what?”

“Ever like me.”

Eliott tilts his head, his gaze rooting Lucas to the spot.  There’s something conflicting in Eliott’s eyes, and Lucas wishes things were different.

“It’s fine,” Lucas whispers, voice catching.  “That was stupid.  I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“I don’t know,” Eliott says.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Lucas repeats, determined to forget what he’d just said.

Lucas doesn’t wait for Eliott’s reaction.  He walks out the room again, forcing himself to not look back.  As he clenches the railing of the elevator, he sticks his headphones in and blindly realizes that he’s nodding his head to the beat of soft dubstep, and he quickly tugs the headphones from his ears.  Staring hard at the floor is the only option right now; it’s all he can do to not break down right then and there.

The elevator buttons glow a soft gold, and then the floor number grits from the speaker in a dulcet tone; Lucas walks out as a bell rings and the doors slide open.  His eyes catch on a vase of sunflowers in the waiting room, all morning glory and warm yellow, and Lucas’s ribs ache.

They’re Eliott’s favorite flowers.  And today they’re not just sunflowers.  They’re also warm yellow overtones from before, when Eliott hadn’t been like this.  When the only problem Lucas even associated with him were the countless atrocities committed in the kitchen, like omelettes with fennel and blueberry muffins with bacon -- nothing compared to this.  Eliott would bring sunflowers home from the market, and Lucas swore it was like summer had graced itself all around the apartment and let its dominion encase the small space in a glorious bubble of tranquility.  But like summer, it wouldn’t have lasted.  Lucas should’ve known, Lucas should’ve been smart about it.  

So as Lucas walks back from the hospital and stands numbly at the bus stop, he comes to the realization that everything feels like Eliott, yet Eliott doesn’t feel like anything at all.

[ravenvsfox]

rockband chapter 5 babey 😈🤘🏻

Neil tilts a record out of the stacks, and the sun catches the sleek surface and shows him his reflection.

“You’re not even in the right section,” Kevin calls. He’s two rows away flipping through rock-punk CDs, looking exhilarated when they fall towards him like dominoes.

The whole store is no bigger than a spacious bedroom, and the shop front is all boxy windows, letting in honeycombs of late-afternoon light. Kevin’s never looked so relaxed, dragging his fingers along the spines of albums, inspecting the equipment behind the till, smiling and chatting with the owner.

“There is no right section,” he mutters, sliding the album back into its slot. “It’s all music.”

“Right,” Kevin says. Neil glances up and finds him unexpectedly close, mouth pursed reluctantly with amusement. “Except we’re not here for all music.”

“What are we actually here for again?” Neil asks, distracted. He can see Andrew waiting outside with his back to them and his arms crossed, serious and stock-still as a bodyguard.

“Inspiration.”

Neil watches Kevin’s face. The crease that’s usually between his brows is only suggestion now, a slouchy, un-tensed line. He’s tolerable like this, Neil thinks, almost impressive, choosing music to feed his creativity.

“You love it here,” Neil accuses. “This is a vacation for you.”

Kevin scoffs. “Like you’re not the same.”

Neil shrugs. There’s an upright piano on the wall and he wants to squeeze the keys in his hands like fingers in a crowd. The sound of voices and tires on asphalt from outside spreads like frosting over the crumbling drumbeat from the stereo. The rusting brown of the wallpaper behind the counter looks almost orange with the full force of the sun on it.

He could live and die in a place like this, head down, hands full of bright new music and dark classics, never in silence, never alone.

"Come look at this,” Kevin says. Neil follows him to the far corner of the shop where there are picked-over alternative CDs and peeling tape labels. He plucks an album from the stack and wiggles it at Neil. “Old school Ausreißer.”

Neil squints at the cover art. “You look like a bad metal band.” The original four are caught in the middle of a set, dressed in all black under a red spotlight, mid-howl. The word Ausreißer is so stylized that it’s almost illegible.

Kevin rolls his eyes and puts the CD back in its slot. “Things change. When we found you you looked like you were on day ten of a bender.”

“I can go back to that, if it’s the look you’re going for. Wouldn’t want to stand out in a band full of junkies and burnouts.”

“Funny,” Kevin says flatly. “Just bring that smart mouth to song writing.” He gathers his little stack of music and a clear box of sturdy picks, and drops them on the front counter to be checked out.

Neil hesitates, swaddled in the darkest, warmest corner of the store, reluctant to splash back out into the cold. He can already see how it will play out: Andrew’s silence and Kevin’s focus, the way they take up so much of the sidewalk that Neil has to fall in behind them or walk in the gutter, the drive home like a never-ending commute to nowhere at all.

He’s listless without a stage, and Kevin won’t let him forget that he’s not a natural born songwriter. He’s waiting for inspiration like that second raindrop after you swear you felt the first one.

His eyes wander and catch on a lurid red flier stapled to the bulletin board above the stacks, and he does a double-take. Foxes. Township Auditorium. Friday, January 25th.

“Dan’s group is playing this Friday?” Neil wonders aloud, and Kevin looks at him over his shoulder, handing bills off to the cashier.

“Oh yeah, the Township gig. I think they’re hanging out in town for a week or so, too.”

“We should go.” He thinks of the way the girls had laughed about their public personas and plastic recognition. He wants to hear them for real, as magnetic and driven as they were at Abby’s, assuring him that they do pop like he’s never heard in his life.

“Waste of time,” Kevin says, accepting his bag with one of his frozen, ken doll smiles and making towards the exit.

“We’re not touring right now,” Neil argues, catching up. “We can take two hours off from the new album.”

“We can,” Kevin says, “but we shouldn’t.”

“And yet you find the time to drink six hours a day.”

“The creative process looks different on everyone,” he grits. They push out into the sunlight and Andrew looks vaguely in their direction, his face chapped from the wind.

“Great. Mine looks like going to local concerts and supporting our label, and you know full fucking well that Wymack would agree with me.” They start walking, Neil leading them in a frantic triangle down main street. Andrew doesn’t ask or care about what they’re arguing over, which is why Neil tells him, “I want to go to the Foxes concert on Friday.”

“Then go,” he says. He’d been chain-smoking while Neil and Kevin were in the shop, and he looks irritable and sick. His pallor has been almost bruised lately, like something’s wringing him out and leaving marks behind.

Neil flips Kevin off and walks further ahead of the group, buoyed by the opportunity to be part of an audience again. He loves the silky anonymity and sway of the crowd almost as much as being doused in lights and held up by a mic stand.

Kevin’s still talking about accountability and wasted talent, but he’s lost his audience.

Neil reaches the van first, parallel parked at a wicked angle. He waits for the muted click of the unlock button, then climbs into the passenger seat. There’s a parking ticket folded over the windshield wipers and Andrew sets them going so that it flutters down onto the street.

“It’s not going to be the same in the crowd as it is onstage,” Kevin says calmly from the backseat.

Neil turns his head. “I know.”

“The fans know who you are now, and I’m not sure you’re ready for what that actually looks like.”

“I’m pretty good at blending in,” Neil says, eyes narrowed.

“You’re not,” Andrew says, pulling jerkily out of the spot without looking and nearly catching a hyundai by the nose. “You’re loud.” Car horns blare on all sides like a chorus of agreement.

“You draw attention,” Kevin agrees grimly. “I’d rather you stick it out in the studio where you can’t get into trouble. And Wymack would agree with me about that.”

Neil watches pedestrians swarm and cars criss-cross beyond the window. “So what, I join a band and now I’m on full-time house arrest?”

“Shouldn’t you be used to keeping your head down, runaway?” Andrew taunts. His hands flash as he makes a left turn, ink spelling yes over no over yes. Neil gives him a look.

“You’re not talking about staying on the move, you’re talking about hiding. And in my experience, your problems catch up with you when you sit and wait for them to go away.”

“I’m not talking about your fucked up past,” Kevin says irritably. “If you want to stumble into the nearest concert, you can, but if you misrepresent us or pull some stupid shit to distract from the set, Wymack will kick your ass. If Dan doesn’t get there first.”

“Don’t worry Kevin,” Andrew says, glancing away from the road to fix Neil with a cool, knowing look. “He has winning impulse control. Right Neil?”

Neil clenches his teeth and ignores him. “I realize that you don’t trust me, but I need you to understand that I don’t care. I’m not going to stay in the cage until you figure out if you’re ready to unlock it or not. I’m not going to live that way anymore.”

“You’re on a team now, and you have to care,” Kevin argues.

Neil scoffs. “Tell that to Andrew.”

Kevin looks pained. “He’s—“

“What? An exception? I’d love to know why I’m held to a higher standard than the person with concealed weapons and an unreliable drug dependency,” Neil says, fuming. Andrew pumps the brakes so that Neil topples forward into the dashboard, then he’s thrown back again when they accelerate. He grips the headrest and seethes, “you’re fucking psychotic.”

“You—“ Kevin starts.

“Kevin,” Andrew says, toneless, barely there, and Kevin stops short. Neil recognizes that easy power, that tongue-biting obedience.

They collapse into strained silence, Andrew looking infuriatingly tranquil, the air around Kevin vibrating with how badly he wants to speak.

Neil thinks about the corner of the music store and that old album, an Ausreißer from back when Neil was still lost in between hotel rooms, when his mother was alive, and she could change the course of his life with just the tips of her fingers. He thinks, things can be so easy and so ugly at the same time.

They get out at Palmetto, Neil wrenching doors closed behind him, trying to feel like he has a raft to himself for once, like he’s not always sharing, feeling for someone else’s shifting weight.

Nicky’s spread between two chairs when he gets to the studio, and Neil’s relieved to see the easy smile on his face. It fractures when he gets a good look at him.

“Oh no. Was it unbearable? I thought music shopping would mellow Kevin out, at least.”

“It was fine,” Neil says, rolling a chair towards the table where they left all of their notes and stray music. He sweeps everything off the table, feeling a vindictive shock when it all settles on the floor; every dangling idea, stagnating chord progression, and experimental piece of garbage.

“Yeah, you seem fine,” Nicky says sarcastically.

“Better,” Neil says, rummaging in the heaps of wasted work until his hand closes around a discarded pen. “I’m inspired.”

_____

The dye burns cold on his scalp. He paints the wispy place above his ears, and tucks it up into the rest of the gummy mess. There’s a dark streak on the porcelain of the sink, and he rubs it with one gloved finger.

Someone knocks at the door, and Neil reaches behind himself to open it. There’s a beat, and a flutter of movement, and then his eyes meet Andrew’s in the mirror. 

“Brown,” Andrew remarks.

“You wanted me to tone it down,” Neil says, focusing on smothering his auburn roots and pointedly ignoring the rest of his reflection.

“Don’t put Kevin’s words in my mouth.”

Neil meets his eyes again. “What do you want?”

Andrew doesn’t reply for a long moment, and then he starts to peel down his armbands. It’s like watching a snake shed its skin, and Neil’s so startled to see it happening that he turns around to watch him directly.

He’s expecting the thatch of scars, but it still knocks the wind out of him to see them, tender pinks and whites that nudge all the way up to the ink on his wrists and hands.

Andrew plucks the brush out of Neil’s limp hand and scoops up a mound of colour that looks black in the weak light.

“Head down.”

Neil complies, chin towards his chest, and feels Andrew smooth the dye from just below his ear up into the coil of loose, wet hair. He can feel the damp heat from Andrew’s bare wrists, smothered for most of the day.

“Who put you in a cage?” Andrew asks, and the hair on Neil’s neck stands up.

“What—“

“You said: I’m not going to stay in the cage until you figure out if you’re ready to unlock it. I’m not going to live that way anymore.” He says it robotically, like an automated recording.

“I know what I said,” Neil snaps, starting to look up, but Andrew grips his neck and steers his head down again.

“Then you should be able to explain what you meant. Without lying to me.”

Andrew’s initiating one of their trades, he realizes, baring a secret and nodding at Neil do to the same. He closes his eyes, flinching when the brush makes sudden contact with his neck.

“My mother.” It’s an easier answer than the reality--a web of injustice too thick to see through. A childhood spent escaping from one cell block to another. 

The brush stops midway through a glide towards his hairline. “She hurt you?” Andrew asks, low.

“It’s not that simple.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You know better than anyone that protecting someone can get bloody. Our circumstances weren’t--they were never good enough for us to have a decent relationship. But she kept us moving.”

A bare hand curls in his hair, and Neil’s eyes open. His breath catches when he recognizes the hateful look on Andrew’s face.

“Did she hit you, yes or no?”

Neil swallows thickly, trying to focus on the feeling of Andrew’s hand against his scalp. “Yes.” The hand tightens painfully. “But she’s dead now. My parents are dead.” He doesn’t know what drives him to say such a hasty, partial truth, like it has any bearing on the way it felt to be forced to the ground and pinned until his arm broke. Death gets rid of the person, not the memory. 

Andrew’s hand drops altogether. He moves into the space at Neil’s side, hip to hip, and rinses his hand under the tap. “If she was beating you, she wasn’t protecting you.”

“You don’t understand what people are capable of when they’re struggling to survive.”

Andrew steps slowly and lethally into Neil’s space. “Yes, I do,” he says, nearly whispering. Neil’s eyes hitch down to his destroyed wrists. 

He nods, and Andrew backs off. He feels a strange, remote disappointment watching him move away, like climbing out of a roller coaster and watching it take off without him.

“We’re not keeping you locked up,” Andrew says. “We do not own you.”

Neil shakes his head a little, running a hand over his hair under the guise of checking for dry patches, trying to reclaim the tingling, grounding feeling of Andrew’s fingers.

“Contractually, you do.”

“You’re with us,” Andrew says, “until the second someone abuses your contract, then you leave. We both know you could outrun me if you really wanted to.”

“Maybe,” Neil says, on the blunt edge of a smile. “But you might be able to outlast me.”

Andrew looks at him in the mirror for a long while. “You’re disgustingly stubborn,” he says. “And dense. I wouldn’t count on my ability to put up with you for that long.”

Neil shrugs. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I won’t leave. We have a deal.”

“I just told you—“

“Not the contract. You and I have a deal. And I’m not ready to give it up,” Neil says, and he means it. The tenuous promise of protection, the give and take, the lure of the stage. He’s only grown more and more obsessed with the whole thing.

Andrew wavers. He reaches for his discarded armbands, and takes his time rolling them back up. Neil feels a painful rush of recognition at seeing his scars swallowed up, and he reaches out impulsively to hold him by the wrist. Andrew’s fingers are still ruddy with dye.

“This isn’t a cage. You’re nothing like—it’s nothing like my mother.”

At Abby’s, he’d told Andrew he reminded him of home, the most nightmarish insult he could lay his hands upon. And for a jarring second, Andrew’s commanding relationship with the band had looked like the dynamic between himself and his mother, ceaseless authority meeting senseless devotion. He’s been stupid enough to mistake Andrew’s promises for Mary Hatford’s threats.

At length, Andrew tugs, and Neil lets go of him.

Long after he’s gone, and Neil’s hair is washed out and limp, wet brown, he can still feel the raised scars underneath the fabric of the armband, and beneath that, a curiously rabbiting pulse.

______

And “monster” does not begin

to cover bolts and stitches in my skin

sinew held with safety pins

but you made me

the creature not the man, right?

but this lab coat’s fitting pretty tight

and if you’re living out of spite

are you a person or a feeling,

and would it hurt to look at you directly?

gunshots speak louder than words

but the warning shots you heard

don’t work for people who’d prefer

to die than to live on their knees--

“It needs workshopping,” Kevin says, tossing the notebook onto the coffee table.

“I think it’s great, Neil,” Nicky says. “The Frankenstein stuff is cool, our fans eat that shit up.”

Neil shrugs, and he gathers his notes back up from the table, out of reach from prying eyes. They’re assembled in a loose square in the living room, with Andrew at the window, a cigarette burning delicately between two fingers.

“You call yourselves the monsters so— I don’t know.”

“It works,” Kevin sniffs. “They’ll get it. They’ll like it.” It’s a more generous response than he was expecting, and he knows it’s the most approval Kevin can bring himself to show. “How soon can you match it musically?” he asks Andrew.

“I already have a melody,” Neil interrupts. He stands, walks over to the keyboard Kevin insists they always keep on hand, and presses the ‘on’ button. “It’s not very complex,” he says, walking his right hand over a couple of keys until the power catches up and the notes start to voice.

He plays the song through once, low arpeggiated chords and a sustained, high tenor line. He sings when he can’t help it, crooning until it gets too high to sing softly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Andrew’s fingers drumming against the windowsill.

“You’re right,” Aaron says when it’s finished. “It’s not very complex.”

“Downer,” Nicky accuses. “It’s just keys right now, we can amp it up.”

“Is it worth it?” Aaron complains.

“Yes,” Andrew says, leaning over to put his cigarette out in the ashtray balanced on the arm of the couch. They all look at him expectantly, and he gets up, grabs the music directly out of Neil’s hands, and disappears into his room with it.

“Well that’s a good sign,” Nicky says, bemused. “Guess we’re going to that concert, Neil.” When Kevin opens his mouth to protest, Nicky says, “Wymack signed off on it. Plus we’re making headway on the b-side tracks, and Andrew’s actually working.”

“I’m not going,” Kevin says, crossing his arms.

“Me neither,” Aaron says. “Allison will have our balls if we pull focus from her.”

“So we won’t,” Nicky says. He ropes Neil in by the shoulder and tousles his newly dark hair. “No one will even know we’re there.”

______

Later, Nicky sends Neil to ask for the car keys, and he finds himself standing in the dusk outside Andrew’s room, delaying the inevitable confrontation.

Andrew comes out before he can knock, wearing boots and a black baseball cap, keys clenched in his fist. They nearly collide, and Neil staggers back a step. 

“You’re coming with us?” he asks dumbly.

“You and Nicky can’t be trusted alone,” he says. It’s an insult, but it hits Neil like warm water from a shower-head, like relief.

“Did Kevin ask you to do this?” Neil asks, but Andrew ignores him, brushing past into the living room, then the entryway. Nicky pushes off from the back of the couch where he’s been waiting, looking back and forth between the two of them nervously.

“We’re all going?”

“Apparently,” Neil replies.

“Cool. Weird. Shotgun.”

“Neil’s sitting in the front,” Andrew says, cranking the screen door open.

“Family really means, like, nothing to you when Neil’s around—“ Nicky’s saying as he follows Andrew out into the night.

Neil breathes out, lacing his shoes and listening to Nicky chatter circles around Andrew, who is steady and silent, already fixed in the driver’s seat.

He’s been picturing the Foxes concert as that same ambiguous darkness from before he joined the band, skulking in the back of bars and hoping to be caught. Now he imagines Andrew and Nicky propping him up like brackets, a drink he actually paid for, the hair-raising knowledge of what it feels like on the other side of the performance.

Wind shivers through the front door and underneath Neil’s collar. He jams his hands into his jacket pockets—the leather already stiff and unyielding from the cold—squares his shoulders, and opens the door.

______

They’re smuggled in through a door backstage, already late. Nicky clings to Neil’s sleeve so tightly that it pulls down over his hand. 

Renee comes to greet them, as unnervingly pleasant as the last time he’d seen her. Neil keeps expecting her even-keeled demeanour to clash against Andrew’s like icebergs meeting, but they only seem to thaw around one another. 

Andrew greets her, and she knocks her knuckles into his hand and smiles.

“I’m glad you guys came. Don’t tell her I told you, but Allison’s raring to show off.”

“I bet she is, competitive bitch,” Nicky says good-naturedly. “All you foxes are such a handful.”

Renee seems to be considering whether or not he’s joking when Dan appears at her elbow. “Walk in the park compared to your lot,” she says, smiling sharply. Her eyes flit to Neil and she softens. “Still doing okay, Neil?”

“She means, have we ruined your life,” Andrew says in German.

“Quick, tell her how saintly we are,” Nicky says.

“And lie?” Neil asks in exaggerated German, as if scandalized. “I’m fine,” he says to Dan. “Excited to see a Foxes set.” 

It’s a bigger venue than he’s used to, and the energy is intimidating, people whisking past them and calling instructions to one another.

Her smile quirks, and she lets her arm drape around Renee’s neck. “We’ll try our best to impress, then. As usual.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nicky says. “You’re a big deal, we get it. Don’t you have warm-ups to do?”

Dan snorts. “Time off is making you a little mean, Hemmick. You better watch him, monster.”

Andrew stares blankly back at her, and Nicky says, “you try living with Kevin 24 hours a day and tell me how personable you’re feeling.”

Dan winces. “Point.” Someone ducks close and whispers in her ear, and her face flickers through several shades of confusion and annoyance. “Okay, shit. One of Allison’s pegs came loose and her tuning is all over the place. Sound check’s in five, and Matt’s on the wrong side of drunk, but um. The show must go on, I guess.”

Renee ducks out from under Dan’s arm, excusing herself, and Dan squeezes Neil’s shoulder in parting. “See you out there. Try not to get into trouble.”

“Yeah right,” Nicky says, and she aims a kick at his shin. He falls back a step, laughing, as she jogs after Renee. “Hey, rock and roll, Dan,” he calls. “Or whatever it is you guys do.”

He’s still beaming when he loops his arm with Neil’s and steers them towards the door. Neil looks anxiously back at Andrew, but he’s a step behind them as usual.

They wait for a lull in passersby, and then they’re out in the thick of the crowd, pushing conspicuously from the front of the stage to the side of the room. Eyes linger on them and narrow, and his throat starts to constrict until he feels Andrew’s hand thread into the shirt under his jacket, keeping him tethered.

Nicky can’t resist dancing a little to the opener, as obvious as they already are, and he bobs through the aisles, shooting furtive looks back at Neil to see if he’s enjoying himself. The band on stage is too high energy for their low energy song, jumping and twisting to a half-time rhythm. 

Andrew’s hand tightens at the small of his back, and Neil glances back to see him eyeing the thrashing drummer with distaste.

“I thought you didn’t care about technique,” Neil tells him over the music, and Andrew tears his eyes away. He’s frowning, and Neil relishes that off-guard little furrow of emotion.

“I don’t,” Andrew says, “I also don’t listen to bad music if I can help it.”

“Guess we must be pretty good, then,” Neil says.

“I didn’t say that.”

“No,” Neil agrees. “You didn’t.” He knows that it’s true, though. Somewhere past the layers and layers of bandages that Andrew wears, there must be raw flesh. It’s just that Neil can’t tell if he’s healing or rotting underneath it all.

They come to a stop close to the stairs up into the stands, and Nicky gestures at an empty patch halfway up. Most of the crowd is standing already, chaotic, but they climb up into the mess and find their seats, Nicky on the inside and Andrew in the aisle, with Neil sandwiched in-between.

“Our fans are louder,” Nicky leans over to say smugly.

“That’s because they’re trying to keep up with you,” Neil says. “Decibel for decibel.”

“Fuck you,” Nicky laughs. His eyes are bright, and he grips the seat in front of him to get the leverage to see through the masses.

They ride the energy of the crowd to the end of the song, and then the group is hollering goodbyes and filing offstage, and people start to sit down or escape to concession. Nicky relaxes back into his seat and pinches Neil for his opinion.

“I don’t think we missed much,” Neil says.

Nicky shrugs. “Yeah, but we were like that once. You got to skip Ausreißer’s adolescence, Neil, you lucky shit. It was not pretty.”

“Kevin showed me your first album,” he tells him.

“Oh, Jesus,” Nicky groans. “Those were dark times. I used to wear leather biker gloves on stage, like a tool.” He rustles in his inner jacket pocket and produces his flask. “Drink to forget?”

Andrew reaches across to pluck it from his hand before anyone can drink. He unscrews the cap and points it at Nicky. “I know you’re already fucked, Nicky.”

He scoffs, making a messy grab for it that Andrew dodges. “Hardly.”

Andrew swallows a generous shots worth, then passes the flask to Neil. This is familiar by now, sharing space and booze and drugs as a means to an end. They get drunk like they’re grappling down a cliff-face together, connected by rope.

Neil hesitates. There are strangers on all sides and the sick smell of sweat and beer in the air, but there’s something about his back to the wall and a concert ahead that he trusts. This is how he spent the years after his mother’s death, anonymous and drunk, losing control in measured doses like taking medication.

He drinks, the mouthpiece still wet from Andrew’s mouth, and screws his face up at the tartness of the flavour—a salty, lemony vodka. Nicky tries to steal the flask halfway through his sip, so Neil pushes him away by the face.

He and Andrew share the rest of the liquor, and he puts the back of his hand to his face to feel it warming up. It’s a relief, to feel his edges shaved off. It’s like he’s less defined this way, less likely to be recognized.

Stagehands are fiddling with amps onstage and taping wires down, and the buzz of the crowd is suddenly deafening.

“What’s the deal with Renee?” he hears himself asking.

“What d’you mean?” Nicky asks.

“You like her,” Neil guesses, jabbing Andrew with the base of the flask to get his attention. “But she’s nothing like you.”

“She’s one of us,” Andrew says.

“But she’s not, though,” Neil says, half-frustrated and half gawking at his own lack of composure. He wants his curiosity back inside where it can fester and wonder in circles and die. “I thought Wymack only took in strays. Charity cases.”

“You have met her twice,” Andrew says coldly. “How well do you think you can judge a person’s character in that time?”

“Pretty well,” Neil says grimly. He thinks of the cross around her neck and the prim lace of her collar, attention-grabbing hair offset by dark, serious eyes. He saw Matt’s track marks and Allison’s rage before Dan had even whispered their stories to him, but he can’t read anything on sweet, prim Renee.

“Lucky she doesn’t care what anyone thinks,” Nicky interjects. “She’s waiting to be judged by God, I think. Everyone else’s opinions are just… noise.”

He can’t imagine anyone who was really like them believing in God like that, but he bites his tongue.

“Little orphan Neil Josten gets in some trouble and he thinks he knows what rock bottom looks like,” Andrew muses, and Neil’s stomach sinks. “You haven’t even hit it yet.” He looks unfocused, and it occurs to Neil that he might have taken something before they left.

“You’re right,” Neil says. “But you promised that you’d be there when I do,” he reminds him. 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Nicky asks. “Neil?”

“Neil?” someone else says, and Neil looks over to see a woman and a couple of scruffy looking dudes frozen halfway up the stairs. His eyes drop to the shortest of the two, who’s wearing elbow-length armbands identical to Andrew’s. “Andrew! Nicky! Oh my god,” he says.

Nicky puts on a winning smile. “Hey!”

“I can’t believe you’re here—like, for real, there were rumours, but—oh my god— “

“He’s completely obsessed with you,” the woman gushes.

“Katie,” he hisses, and his friend shakes him good-naturedly by the shoulders.

“He’s afraid to say it, but—“

“Fuck off—“

“—every single album—“

“That’s very cute,” Nicky interrupts, cocking a flirtatious grin at the guy who’s holding his own cheeks, dismayed.

“We couldn’t believe you were just, like, changing your sound completely,” the taller guy says. “But Neil, man, I see why they’d take a chance for a voice like yours. It’s sick, dude.”

“Thanks,” Neil says stiffly.

“He’s not used to being recognized, yet,” Nicky says apologetically. “You’re taking his fan virginity.”

They titter, and the woman says, “we’re honoured.” She nudges her friend and widens her eyes meaningfully.

“We can’t really hang out though, sorry guys. Low profile tonight,” Nicky says. His smile is less believable by the second.

“Totally,” they chorus.

“I just quickly want to say, Andrew,” the first guy starts, breathless. “I know you get this all the time, but your lyrics saved my life. I couldn’t believe someone understood me like that, and—and you’re my--you inspire--I mean. I’m sorry, I’m so tongue-tied, I—“

“I didn’t write them for you,” Andrew says. 

The fan’s face crumples. Nicky looks at Neil, panicked, and then he forces a loud, incongruous laugh.

“Wow, good one,” Nicky says. “He doesn’t mean it, obviously.”

“Don’t I?” Andrew says.

“We appreciate it,” Neil interrupts. “But we can’t talk anymore.“

“Right, sorry, I’m so—“

They urge one another up the stairs, apologizing and thanking them, the one guy looking on the verge of tears through the bars of his friends’ arms, until they disappear up to the next level of seats.

“You could’ve pretended to be human,” Nicky hisses as soon as they’re gone.

“They call us monsters,” Andrew says. “What do they expect?” 

Nicky groans. “Please can we have fun, and not ruin anyone else’s night, especially our fans? People are gonna egg our car.”

Neil’s stomach squirms, and he crosses his arms over it. There could be well-meaning, invasive people like that everywhere, and now he’s tipsy and angry and stuck.

The house lights go down a few minutes later, and the whole crowd sucks in a collective breath before they plunge headfirst into cheering.

Neil’s arms loosen. Nicky stands up at his side, hooting, and everyone follows suit, craning towards the stage, wanting to be the first thing the band sees.

Dan comes out first, waving with both hands, and Matt follows, winking at the crowd and sliding his guitar over his head. Allison and Renee emerge from either side of the stage, Allison towering in high heels and glowing under the lights. Renee’s hair is wild, and her face is different, tongue caught in her teeth, almost cocky.

They fit behind their instruments like joints cracking into place, and they play their first chord in perfect unison, all of them operating different parts of the same body.

The crowd roars their approval. Neil sits upright. He’s surprised to feel Andrew standing up beside him, stepping into the aisle to watch. He follows without thinking.

The jangling, bopping drum line doesn’t wait for the strings to catch up, and Renee doesn’t need to watch to see that they’re following her. Her wrists are supple, and she’s lost to the music like she’s been playing for hours and not seconds.

The room goes up in flames when Dan starts singing, like the fans are all hungry, dry wood, and she’s a spark. She works the microphone free from its stand and starts running with it.

“Fucking excellent, right,” Nicky shouts, and Neil nods, mesmerized. The crowd moves together even separated by sections and rows of seats. 

It’s nothing like an Ausreißer concert, where boiling blood turns into wine, and everyone turns their desperate faces up to the stage like they’re waiting to be healed. Foxes sing like they’re in love and they fought for it. 

Neil can admit that they’re as musically proficient as the monsters, too, making up for lack of technical flair with a complete understanding of their sound.

Matt smiles dopily down at his guitar and then at Dan, like he can’t decide which deserves his attention more. When she floats towards him, he gets springy with it, teasing her with guitar licks, carving shapes into her oaky voice. Allison’s hand goes protectively to her tuning pegs whenever she has a break in the music, but her bass is rich and in tune.

They do an old-fashioned crescendo like it’s a classical piece, and Dan is almost conducting, hitting the air when Renee smashes the cymbals, gesturing for more when Allison starts a slippery solo, so fast that she laughs and tosses her hair, exhilarated.

Neil makes a hurt noise that gets swallowed in the din, but Andrew looks at him anyway. Neil looks back, studying his wide black pupils and wondering why he only bothers to pay attention when he’s stoned.

He remembers the wide eyes of the kid with the armbands, the agony of his disappointment, and he forces himself to look back out at the band.

One song finishes and another climbs on its back. People move and mill out of their seats towards the stage. He feels like he’s seeing double, like he’s watching a long pilgrimage that’s somehow been condensed or played back.

The first break in the music, Dan laughs her way out of the song, takes a swig of wine, and says “how was that?” into the mic, pointing out towards the place where the monsters are standing. Nicky puts two fingers to his mouth and whistles.

Her stage presence is unparalleled. She’s funny and a little hard on her audience, begging them to sing louder, drive her offstage if they can. Neil can see why she’s in charge, unofficially. She paces circles around the stage like she’s boosting morale. She barely needs the microphone to be heard.

They topple back into their set without warning, a trust fall of a count-in where Renee bangs out a few warning shots and everyone’s hands fly to their instruments.

Somewhere in the thicket of fans, Neil hears someone call, “Andrew!” He sees an incongruous flash, turned towards the audience and not the stage.

“Nicky, Nicky Hemmick! Nicky, over here—“

“Andrew,” Neil starts.

“We love you, Neil,” someone screams.

“Don’t—“

Neil’s jostled down a stair, and Andrew yanks him back up.

“Ignore them,” Andrew says viciously.

“Yeah,” Nicky agrees, but he’s clearly rattled. “What are they gonna do?”

Neil struggles to get his bearings. A few of them are still shouting, recording them with their phones or fighting their way through the crowd towards them. Nicky motions for them to stop, but a few people get close enough to beg for autographs or snap blurry photos of themselves with the band members in the background. He wonders if it was the fans from before, upset enough to tip off the whole crowd to their seat numbers. 

“Bet you didn’t think we were this famous, huh?” Nicky jokes nervously. 

Andrew has no problem with shoving people away, and Nicky frantically apologizes as many times as he can before he just starts shaking his head. Neil is forced painfully into Nicky’s side, and he can hear people in their row restlessly asking what’s going on.

Most of the audience is oblivious, still focused on Foxes’ raucous energy, but the three of them are surrounded for another ten minutes before people start to get frustrated enough to give up. The rest of them are shoulder-tapped by security, and the throng dwindles to nothing.

“You okay?” Nicky asks. Neil nods, but when he blinks he can still see pinholes of light from camera flashes. He knows that the photos will end up online where anyone can see him as he is right now, and they can guess at his habits or zero in on his location if they want to.

He’s been reckless for a long time, but standing pooled in stage lights feels entirely, chokingly different from wading down into the crowd and feeling the attention slither around him like seaweed.

Andrew crushes a hand to the back of his neck, and Neil inhales all at once.

“Kinda ironic that crowds freak you out so much when you sing for one every night,” Nicky says. He’s standing half in front of Neil, eclipsing the concert still unfolding in the background.

“It’s not the crowd.” Neil shakes his head to clear it. “It’s—they all know who I am.”

‘They think they do,” Nicky corrects firmly, fingers curling into Neil’s arms. The harpy tattoo peers out from under his sheer sleeve, a monster in a veil.

“They want to,” Andrew says, gaze tossed out to the back of the venue. His face is so blank and washed out under the lights that it’s like it’s been chemically stripped of colour. “You’ve caught their attention.”

Neil pulls free from Nicky’s arms and sits heavily in his seat. “I don’t want it.”

“You might not have a choice,” Nicky says, sitting next to him, smothering the distance Neil keeps trying and failing to cultivate.

“You always have a choice,” Andrew says, and when Neil looks up at him, he’s holding out his right hand with its painted yes. Neil accepts it gingerly, and Andrew drags him to his feet.

They watch the rest of the concert from backstage.

Andrew sits propped up on an amp, and Nicky alternates between trying to get the band’s attention from the wings, and mimicking Matt’s solos with vigorous air guitar. Neil suspects he’s trying to get him to laugh.

Neil has enough distance now to feel stupid about locking up during such a minor incident and proving Kevin right. The crowd has already forgotten them, or never knew they were there. The show goes on. 

They’re coming up on their encore performance when Neil feels a buzzing at his hip. 

He fishes an unfamiliar cellphone out of his pocket and stares uncomprehendingly at the message lingering on screen, sent from a number he doesn’t recognize.

A neat little ’60’ and nothing else.

[shes-soparticular]

Wouldn’t Fall for Someone I Thought Couldn’t Misbehave

Let’s just say jealousy gets the best of Shawn when he takes you to see one of your favorite musicians.

Warning(s): Heavy Smut.

A/N: Listened to Pillowtalk one too many times and then this happened.

Words: 4425

You're buzzing. Exiting the venue, the cool Toronto air provides a welcome reprieve from the flush you'd worked up dancing over the past few hours. In fact, your hips still have a little more swing than usual, the words from your favorite song still falling softly from your lips as you lean into your boyfriend. It's not until you lose your grip on his hand that you realize he's a half step in front of you. Then a full stride. Then several. You try increasing your pace, but between your short legs and the painfully high heels on the boots you're wearing, there's no way you're catching up. You always have to tell Shawn to slow down, and he always does his best, but tonight you suddenly realize his strides are purposeful. For the first time over the course of the night, you notice the tension in his jaw, in his shoulders. To be honest, you have no idea what has him in this sudden funk. As far as you're concerned, you'd both had a good time. He'd surprised you with Hozier tickets, one of your favorite musicians, and had seemed equally as excited to take you as you'd been excited to go. Reaching the car, your mind replays the evening, trying to pick out the moment that things took a turn for the worse. Maybe it's the gin and tonic clouding your mind but all you seem to recall is singing at the top of your lungs and being giddy as hell to briefly meet Hozier after the show. Settling into your seat, you instinctively reach for Shawn's right hand. He obliges, but only limply, and his eyes remain trained on the windshield.

"Did you have a good time, baby? Thanks for taking me." Maybe you're misreading the situation? Maybe after the long week of rehearsals he had, he's just tired. But the possibility of exhaustion being the only problem quickly dissolves as he pulls his hand out of yours and grips the steering wheel so tight you notice his knuckles turning white.

"Yeah, you're welcome." It's an innocent enough sentence, but his tone is short and sarcastic. You look over at him through narrowed eyes, half taken aback by his response and half perplexed as to the cause for the attitude.

"Okay wait, what the hell is this all about?" You gesture up and down his body, implying his demeanor. "What did I miss?"

"Really?" He scoffs, finally throwing you a sideways glance. "You really don't know?" Fact of the matter is, you're usually adept at reading people. Especially Shawn. After a year together, you can spot a fake smile from a mile away, can pinpoint the emotion in his voice with ease. But you're also not a mind reader, and tonight, you're completely lost as to how the two of you managed to have a wildly different experience whilst standing next to one another.

"No, help me out here. You're giving me all this attitude and I'm fairly certain I don't deserve it." Of course you guys have petty fights about things from time to time. Just last month you'd had a total blow out about him leaving dirty socks all over the apartment, he'd called you a nag, and he spent two nights on the couch before you both finally came to your senses. The important thing was that you always managed to make up, usually quickly, and always fiercely. In your opinion, relationships without disagreements were simply a result of apathy. Luckily, you two were anything but apathetic.

"So you think you should be allowed to totally eye fuck another guy and I'm not supposed to notice or care? That it?" Your head immediately whips to look at him, mouth wide. His bicep tenses as he grips the steering wheel even tighter. Even though you have no clue where he's getting this from, you know it's about to be one long night.

"Eye fuck? Who did I eye fuck? Hozier?" You're actually starting to burst into laughter now, which, cruelly you know is the absolute worst thing you could do in this situation. Even if he's wrong, even if you're going to prove that, laughing at his anger is only going to pour gasoline on the fire. "Calm down. I didn't eye fuck him. All I did was tell him I enjoyed the show. Am I not allowed to look someone in the eyes when I speak to them? Are you aware I can speak to another man without it being remotely sexual?" Now your blood is starting to boil. The double standard between you and Shawn has always been a sore spot in your relationship. Possibly even the biggest piece of baggage between the two of you.

"Are you kidding me? You were fawning over him. Touching his arm, going on and on about how much you love his new album. About how amazing his performance was. If I hadn't been holding on to your waist, you probably would have jumped him right then and there." He's still refusing to look your way, even as you shift completely in your seat to face him. Taking in his words, you're starting to put two and two together. This may be partially about some kind of perceived sexual indiscretion, but it's about so much more than that. Shawn was accustomed to YEARS of millions of girls fawning over him. Complimenting him. Wanting him. What he wasn't used to was seeing you fangirl over someone else, no matter how innocent. While this revelation should soften your heart a bit with the understanding that your man is just feeling less than, the opposite seems to happen. Your stomach tightens in frustration. This double. Fucking. Standard.

"First of all, I'm into his music, that's it. More importantly, girls touch you EVERY DAY. Every day. All over you. Holding your hands, touching your hair, pressing their faces against yours. We can't even make it to a dinner reservation on time because of your selfie rule. And I just have to grin and bear it, day in and day out. You think that's easy?" You're on a roll, maybe it’s the gin speaking, but this is all coming from a deeper place. A place you've always done your best to compartmentalize. "Don’t you dare come at me like this, because I was nice to some guy. I didn't do anything."

"It makes me wonder what you'd do if I wasn't there." His statement comes out quietly, but still dripping with resentment. "It makes me wonder what you do while I'm on tour." You're genuinely shocked that he just took it there. You've never been disloyal, you've never given him any reason not to trust you. So this fucking stings. You're not the one being literally followed to your hotel by the opposite sex across the world, you're not the one receiving screams of admiration simply for breathing. In what universe are you the one on trial for potential cheating?

"I'm not entertaining this anymore." He's struck such a chord in you that you don't even want to bother articulating your thoughts any longer. For the remainder of the drive, you glue your eyes to the road. In the midst of the heavy silence, he reaches for the radio dial and flips it on. As if the cosmos are playing some sick joke, the DJ introduces a Hozier song after mentioning that night's concert. His latest hit starts drifting through the speakers and because you’re clearly an unapologetic masochist, you reach out and turn up the volume. With the way this fight has progressed, you half expect Shawn to pull over right then and there and make you walk the final blocks home. You know he'd literally never do that, his prince charming complex would never allow it, but you're betting the thought is crossing his mind. Instead he just sets his jaw and pretends not to notice the song. Not to notice you singing along and drumming your fingers on the exposed skin of your thigh between your boots and your skirt. It's a sultry song and you close your eyes, head back as your hips start to move along to the music, ever so subtly. You know this is going to drive him up the wall and frankly, you don't care. Tonight you're going to match his pettiness.

He doesn't say a word the rest of the ride. Luckily, you reach the parking garage just as the song ends. At least now you can both retreat to different sides of the apartment until whatever this is blows over. The elevator ride takes an eternity, you wouldn't be surprised if the universe threw another curveball and stalled the elevator, trapping you in this fight. But eventually you make it to your floor and while Shawn is off in a flash towards the door, you take your time, making him hold the door open a little too long. As he waits, you notice his eyes travel down your body, focusing on the patch of bare skin between your skirt and thigh high boots. There's a familiar flash in his eyes and you know that tonight is going to take yet another turn. Disturbingly, your lower stomach tightens in anticipation of whatever is about to take place after that door shuts behind the both of you. You're still fuming, but no amount of anger can prevent you from going weak in the knees when he looks at you like that.

The truth of the matter is, you may be a fan, his biggest in your humble opinion, but you’d never been a stan. Before you two met, you'd certainly heard of him. Songs like Stitches and There's Nothing Holding Me Back were staples in your commute playlist but so were hundreds of other songs. Being a full five years older, you were just in a different place in your life when he first arrived on the scene. You were starting a career, living in a new city on your own, and you were past the days of following boy bands. Hell, Shawn would have been legitimate jailbait and thus wasn’t really on your radar.  Nevertheless, this was what made your relationship work. There was still an element of mystery when you first met, in fact he was enamored by the fact that you didn’t know every last detail about him. No, you treated him like a normal guy. You called him on his bullshit when necessary. Most importantly, you were secure. You had your own identify. You knew what you wanted. You could take care of yourself. You were strong. You weren’t the shrinking violet of a girlfriend who needed constant reassurance, who picked apart every comment on social media, who worried about what the world thought. In your eyes, you were just two completely normal (sometimes boring) people in love, one of which happened to have a unique career. No more, no less.

You’re expecting him to brush past you and park himself in front of his X-Box, but instead his hips push into yours until your back hits the kitchen island. His eyes meet yours for a moment, his hands ready and waiting at the bottom of your skirt. Without words, you know exactly what he’s asking when his gaze goes that impossibly dark. Ever the gentleman, he even finds a way to ask permission before completely railing you. Returning his gaze with a slight nod, his hands resume their path further up your thighs. His callused fingers hook into the sides of your panties and roughly drag the red fabric downwards without warning. They skim down your thighs and land at the top of your boots. “Red panties? Really? And I’m the one just imagining things?” His voice is gruff, matching the intensity of his hands. Before you can shoot back a sarcastic retort, he has a firm grip on your hips, spinning you around with one quick movement. The sudden maneuver almost makes you lose your balance, but your hands catch the edge of the counter top just in time. Considering the fact that you can hardly ever shut up, you’re still thinking of a comeback as you hear him unbuckle his belt behind you and the telltale sound of his zipper traveling south. You clench at the sound, cursing yourself under your breath for the wetness he’s about to find. You want to have the upper hand, to be immune to his advances. But your body betrays you just the way it always does. While he hitches the bottom of your skirt up over your hips, you feel his cock pressing against your center. How the hell did he get that hard that fast?? And why is it that jealousy seems to get you two this goddamn horny? You’re sure that’s a question for your therapist, but right now, all you know is that your body will absolutely burst into flames if he’s not balls deep inside you immediately. “Are you going to fuck me or wh-”

Before you’re able to finish the sentence, he pushes into you with such force your words twist into a strangled moan. He immediately sets a punishing pace, slamming into you repeatedly while his fingers white knuckle your hips the way they had the steering wheel. Your clothed chest presses against the counter, the cool marble providing slight relief to your burning skin. There’s no kisses to your shoulder, no hushed affirmations or words of admiration, just pure, animalistic fucking. He’s claiming his territory even though you both know there’s no need. You’re so completely, miserably, passionately his. But tonight, the vision of you dancing and singing like a fangirl for someone else? It’s unlocked a deep insecurity in him and clearly, as a man, the only way he can deal with it is to fuck it out of his system. Somehow, his thrusts speed up even faster as he grabs one of your shoulders for leverage and you swear to god your vision is starting to go black. Even though he’s very, very cruelly ignoring your clit (this is a punishment, after all), he angles your hips so that his cock drives into your g spot relentlessly. You can hear yourself moaning, but it’s all intelligible nonsense. As your body climbs toward orgasm, you start pushing your ass back into him, trying to return the thrusts. When you’re about to tumble over the edge of your climax, you feel him spill inside of you, his hips flush against your ass. He pulls out with the final twitch of his release, and even though your head is swimming, you know exactly why. This skirt, those panties, these boots? He wants to mark them. The next time you wear them, he doesn’t want you to think about the Hozier concert. He wants you to think about being fucked hard over the kitchen counter and his cum dripping out of you and staining that skirt, those panties, these boots. And he’ll definitely get his way.

Without a word, Shawn lets go of you and disappears to the bathroom, leaving you alone and bewildered. Not to mention totally high and (not so) dry. You’re not going to let him get away with this, no, but all things in due time. You know better than to try to reason with him again right now, while you’re both pumped full of adrenaline. So instead you pull your panties back up, kick off those damn boots, and get to making yourself a sandwich.

Shawn went straight from the shower to bed, while you stayed up and absent mindedly scrolled through Netflix. Despite being painfully wide awake, you eventually strip down and crawl into bed next to him. His back is turned to you and though he appears to be asleep, you know better. Running your finger tip down his spine softly, you press your cheek to his back. “Hey.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Do you want to talk about it?” You see him take in a deep breath and you know he’s trying to decide whether or not to open this can of worms. “We don’t have to tonight, but neither of us can sleep. So. Let’s not go to bed angry?”

He finally glances over his shoulder and shifts on to his back. You’re used to being completely intertwined in those sheets, a mess of arms and legs and your body aches for his. “I don’t really know what to say. I know this is stupid. But it just. How am I supposed to stack up against an artist like that?” Unfortunately, you know what he means. Shawn is wildly successful and his credibility increases by the day. But it’s next to impossible for him to shake that “teen popstar” label and seeing you go apeshit for a deep, bluesy artist didn’t help his confidence.

“You don’t need to. You’re you. You’re amazingly talented. Don’t compare yourself to anyone else, there’s no need.” You pull his hand between both of yours, lacing your fingers together. “I love you. I love your music. Nobody can do what you do. Just because I enjoy other artists doesn’t mean you’re not my number one. You know what your music does to me.” You place a tentative kiss on the hollow of his neck, inching yourself closer.

“I know, I do. But seeing you so in awe of him made me feel less than.” He rolls onto this side to look you in the eyes. This time, those brown eyes are soft and pleading. A complete 180 from the look he’d given you just hours ago. “I just want to be enough for you.”

Those words shatter your heart. How could he think he wasn’t enough? He’s your whole world. “Baby, you never have to worry about that.” Reaching up, you pull his face towards yours, placing a soft and sweet kiss on his lips. “As long as you stay you, that’s more than enough for me.” You can feel his body relax against yours, finally releasing the tension he’d been carrying all night. It’s an instant weight off of your shoulders. When you love someone, you carry their pain right along with them. Except for one thing, you’re still carrying some tension of the sexual variety.

“I’m sorry if I ruined your night, I shouldn’t have acted like such a jealous asshole.” His hand finds its way to your hair, cupping the back of your head. “I always have to be so careful of what I say and do, but with you, I just lose control. You’re dangerous.” He laughs softly, that gorgeous smile of his finally making an appearance. As much as part of you still wants to lay into him about that chauvinistic parade earlier, your heart has completely melted. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

Your eyebrow instantly raises at the possibilities. All of the boyfriend chores you’ve been begging him do, the obligatory trip to visit your parents, getting him to agree to binge watch the Bachelor with you…all good punishment ideas. But there’s really only one thing you have on your mind. With a sinister grin, you move to your knees and straddle his waist. “I can think of one thing.” You say, snapping the band of his boxer briefs. “I can’t believe you didn’t let me come earlier.”

His smile turns sheepish at your statement, oh so self-satisfied. He moves his hands to your hips, ready to roll you over and pay the orgasm he owes you, but you quickly grab his wrists to stop him. “Nope. I have a demand first.”

“A demand, eh? Alright, let’s hear it.” There’s a smug look on his face, but you already know he’s not going to be pleased with your contingency.

“You can’t touch me.” The minute the words leave your lips, his eyebrows knit in confusion. “I’m going to use you like you used me earlier. An eye for an eye.” Disobeying you, his fingers momentarily grip your hips harder, not wanting to let go. “I’m serious. Hands off. Otherwise I’m just going to sleep.” By now you can already feel his erection straining against the material separating the two of you. You don’t know how in the world he manages to get hard so fast, but you’ve always been deeply grateful. When you don’t always have the most time with your significant other, time is of the essence.

Hearing the determined tone in your voice, he reluctantly drops his hands to the bed. With a devious smirk, you rock backwards so that your ass is firmly pressed to his crotch. You continue moving your hips back and forth, painfully slow, as you reach up to rid yourself of your shirt. You see his fists clench as your breasts fall free, knowing he’s dying to reach up and brush his thumbs over your dusky nipples. “See? It’s not so hard not to touch.” Running your hands up your sides, you cup your own breasts, head falling back as you give them a soft squeeze. Meanwhile, you grind your pelvis harder into his, a wet spot growing on your panties and betraying you once again. Although you want to act like you’re unphased, like you could dry hump all night long and stay in control of yourself, you both know that isn’t true. You’ve been waiting for this orgasm for hours and as terribly as you want to make him pay for his bad behavior, your pussy is in absolute objection. Sometimes that chick just has a mind and agenda of her own. You make quick work of the under garments dividing the two of you and perch yourself over his length. Rather than sinking down, you stop yourself centimeters short. Reaching down, you delicately press two fingers to your clit, rubbing yourself in soft, slow circles. Through hooded eyes, you see Shawn straining not to touch you, his hands balled in the sheets.

“Okay, that’s not fucking fair, babe.” His hands start to reach for your hips, but you once again grab his wrists. Leaning forward to pin them on either side of his head.

“I said no hands. If you can’t follow that order, I’ll get myself off.” He knows you’re PROBABLY not serious, but he doesn’t want to risk it. “Can I trust you?” Frustrated, he nods and returns his hands to his sides. With a wink, you return your fingers to your clit, dipping your hips just enough for the tip of his cock to enter you. But only the tip. You keep repeating this sway of your hips, only taking an inch at a time before letting him slip back out. He’s got the most tortured look on his face and you’re taking mental pictures to keep you company on the lonely tour nights. Just as you see his hands start to move towards you again, you sink all the way down, feeling that delicious stretch as he’s filling you to the hilt. A deep moan that sounds vaguely like your name escapes him and it’s by far your favorite sound in the entire world. You place your hands on his chest for leverage as you start to move your hips with more intention. You keep your pace a bit slower than the frenzied fuck he’d given you earlier, but the languid rolling of your hips is just as punishing. Leaning back, you let him take in the sight of you, his cock disappearing into your pink folds, your hair brushing across your nipples. As much as you want to remember this night the next time you’re in bed alone, you want him to remember too. Want him to yearn for it. For you. Before you know it, you feel your muscles burn with exertion. A piece of you is already regretting this whole “no touching” rule, but you need to make your point. Reaching down once more, you focus pressure on your clit, your eyes on his. Normally, you’d be talkative, telling him how big he felt inside of you, how hard you were going to come. But tonight you wanted your bodies to speak for themselves. Why let words get in the way? Your movements become less deliberate and it’s a frantic race towards your orgasm. Falling forward, you dig your nails into his biceps fully intent on leaving marks. He’s leaving on the next leg of his tour soon and you want all of those screaming girls to see your scratches appearing from under those goddamn tank tops. You want to make it clear that this man is thoroughly fucked by his girl back home, his girl with the particular taste. With that thought firmly in your head, you finally reach your climax, panting as you dig even harder into his skin.

“Holy shit, please, can I touch you now?” You hear Shawn whine from beneath you. Too spent to form words, you nod slightly as one of his hands snakes behind to grab hold of your thigh as the other presses against your back, bringing you flush against his chest. He drives upward into you for several more strokes, bringing on a second wave of your orgasm to join with his. You don’t like to exaggerate, but you could swear you maybe, possibly blacked out for a second only to come to as Shawn pushed his lips to yours. It’s the first time you’ve kissed since the concert and you would never say it out loud, but it in and of itself might be even better than all of the jealousy sex. There’s just something to be said about a makeup kiss, it can’t be matched.

Both covered in sweat and still trying to catch your breath, you nuzzle into his neck, a smile plastered on your face. His arms encircle you, holding you tightly. For no particular reason other than the absurdity of your relationship, you both start to laugh softly, peppering kisses across one another the way you should have hours ago. “If you thought tonight was bad, just wait until you take me to see Justin Timberlake.” You prop yourself up slightly so he can see you wiggle your eyebrows.

“Don’t even joke honey, you know my soft heart can’t take it.” And with that, he rolls you on to your back, lips capturing yours once more. You have a feeling the night isn’t over quite yet…and you couldn’t be happier.

[the-ink-and-salt-club]

Eggsy & His Giant Peach

Eggsy & His Giant Peach

Eggsy x Harry

Fluff & Lemons....Ok it’s really just lemons with a cute ending.

Scene: Takes place in their shared London flat

Eggsy slaps his laptop shut and taps his fingers on the now closed lid, he has been researching for their upcoming mission all day and he cannot look at the screen for another second.  Standing up to stretch he glances out the window at the evening sun setting.  He walks over to the record collection and as he is flipping through records, his stomach growls.  Quickly grabbing a Frank Ocean album and setting the needle on it to start, he heads towards the kitchen.  A warmly lit kitchen with black granite countertops and walnut cabinets greets him, Harry picked out the designs for most of the interior of the flat and you could see him all over.  He smiles to himself at the thought and opens the double doors of the  fridge, surprised to find that it is essentially empty… “What the hell Harry” he thinks to himself, it was definitely the older man’s turn to buy groceries he had even scheduled it into his calendar for him. Giving up on the fridge he closes the doors with a sigh and turns to the counter, “a ha, you sneak…” smirking to himself he approaches a nearly empty bowl of fruit.  To his great dismay most of the contents do not seem very appealing: one bruised apple, one gala apple, one overrippened brown and greasy banana, but thank god, there hiding between the apples was a big beautiful plump pink peach.

Rolling up the sleeves of his cashmere lounge sweater he leans over the island counter and starts in on the sumptuous peach.  At the first bite the juices gush out and immediately begin to drip down his chin and trickle down his fingers to his toned forearms. “Aww bloody hell this is a disaster already” Eggsy mumbles to himself as he wipes his chin with the back of his hand, to little effect.  It is at this moment that Harry exits the bedroom with the intention of finding his laptop charger in the living room, crossing the hall he looks up to see his partner in the kitchen getting himself into a sticky situation. His eyes run along the younger mans soft yet sharp features, pausing to appreciate the way his back is arched as he uses the island for support. Harry bites his lip as he walks silently into the kitchen, thinking that this is a good chance to have some fun.  “You’re making a right mess of yourself and that very expensive jumper I bought you for Christmas”  Eggsy, not having heard Harry enter the kitchen, jumps at the sound of the older man's voice.  He feels his cheeks run hot as he knows what he must look like. He feels Harry lay a hand on his lower back.  He bucks the hand off playfully with his hip, turning to face Harry with a peach juicy grin “well old man, we wouldn’t be here had you remembered to do the shopping.  I thought you was supposed to be the responsible one between us” Harry rolls his eyes and moved closer to Eggsy “ were not was, Eggs.” He cups Eggsy’s chin in one hand and gently lifts his chin, moving in slowly he parts his lips and playfully licks at the juice rolling down the younger mans face. 

Harry trails his tongue along the juice drips gliding down Eggsy’s neck, licking up the delicious droplets. He stops short at the neck of the sweater… “this has got to go” he mutters. He gently takes the peach from Eggsy’s hand and sets it on the counter behind him. Keeping hold of Eggsy’s hand he brings it to his mouth, slowly sucking the peach essence off of each finger before sliding his tongue down Eggsy’s toned forearm. Once he decides he has adequately cleaned up Eggsy’s juicy mess, he whips off the sweater over Eggsy’s head. In his haste he takes the undershirt along with it, leaving him staring at Eggsy’s perfectly sculpted chest. Harry gulps with arousal, feeling a throb in his pants and suddenly fighting the urge to bite Eggsy’s neck. Before he can act and give in to his impulse Eggsy interjects with “let’s even this up, this is a bit one-sided” and starts to untuck Harry’s impeccably pressed button down from his fitted pants. Clumsily Eggsy begins to unbutton Harry’s shirt, starting at the top and working his way down. Harry is standing so close Eggsy can feel his warm breath on his neck, being so close but not touching makes him ache with desire.  Harry plants a passionate kiss on Eggy’s lips, then his neck and trails slowly down until he is kneeling in front off Eggsy licking and nipping at his navel and the smooth, sensitive skin of his hips.  He shifts his eyes upward at the younger man, whose head is tilted back slightly in arousal and anticipation.  With nimble fingers he unties the knot on Eggsy’s lounge pants letting them fall loosely around his ankles.  He can already see he does not have much work to do in terms of getting Eggsy turned on, he is quite at attention at present.  Slipping down the thin fabric of his briefs he first nuzzles his head just at the man’s thighs placing small teasing kisses along it and occasionally caressing Eggsy’s balls.  “How is it, even here…” he says with a quick flick of his tongue on Eggsy’s shaft “ you smell & taste like peaches?”  Greedily he takes Eggsy in his mouth all at once causing Eggsy to release a sharp moan of pleasure.  Eggsy closes his eyes and lets his head lull back, he runs a hand through Harry’s hair and with his legs feeling weak puts his hand back on the counter behind him for support.  

Harry, not wanting the fun to end quite yet pulls away slowly paying one last slow lick along the bottom of Eggsy’s shaft.  Eggsy opens his eyes slowly and smiles and the older man rises to his feet and places a firm hand behind his neck and kisses him hard.  They are in a fog of lust now, kissing frantically, Eggsy fumbles to take off Harry’s belt and flicks the button to his slacks open.  Harry, impatient, unzips his own zipper to his slacks and throws them off to the side.  With one last kiss, he grabs Eggsy by the waist and flips him around quite quickly, slamming the younger man with a perfectly controlled force into the counter.  Eggsy, annoyed by this, playfully slaps the older man’s hands away and turns his head back with a smirk.  “Excuse me, sir - Manners. Maketh. Man.” Harry slowly kneels down while continuing to kiss and lick Eggsy’s back and hips and sides, reaching down to slide the briefs and lounge pants off his ankles.  “You must forgive me, I was a bit... overcome” He begins to kiss his way back up and while softly nipping at Eggsy’s neck Harry spies the coconut oil sitting on the counter. He grabs it with trained stealthy movements without Eggsy noticing, lost in arousal as he is. With one hand firm around Eggsy’s shaft he uses his other hand to circle the tip of a lubed finger around Eggsy’s tight entrance. Eggsy groans with anticipation as Harry delicately inserts a finger, taking his sweet time to build feeling.  The younger man moans and tightens up by reflex but slowly pushes back onto the older man’s hands wordlessly begging for more.  

Harry wants full submission, and seeing an opportunity to tease Eggsy he withdraws his fingers. Eggsy gasps involuntarily, surprised by the de-escalation. Harry leans forward to whisper into his ear “do you want me inside of you?” Harry’s warm breath tickles his ear and send spasms of feeling down his back, Eggsy moans deeply. Harry says “I need an answer, Eggs” as he continues to lightly tease Eggsy with his fingers. Eggsy gasps “yes, god yes” and Harry smirks - “yes, what? Manners maketh man, I am told.” Eggsy is too aroused to care about the moment of sass, and growls “please Harry, yes please I want you inside of me” Having achieved his victory Harry acquiesces and slides one, two fingers back in. Harry is painfully aroused at this point, he cannot wait any longer; he lubes himself up with the coconut oil and slowly begins to enter. The slippery tip of his cock pushes forward, gently gripped by Eggsy until the crown of his throbbing erection fully enters with a slight pop, Eggsy tightens around his shaft and Harry closes his eyes with pleasure at the sensation.

Eggsy grabs the edge of the cold counter and pushes backward to take Harry further in. Harry, ever the tease, backs off with still only the tip of his member inside. He grabs the counter next to Eggsy’s gripping hands and says “beg for it” but Eggsy is past ready - in one smooth, swift movement he reaches a hand behind to palm Harry’s taut ass and pulls him all the way inside. Both men deeply groan, lost in the moment of relief and pure pleasure. Harry lightly grabs Eggsy by the hair and pulls his head back, “I didn’t hear you beg” while thrusting into him “you’ll pay for that later.” Eggsy is too far gone to respond, only replying by gripping Harry tighter to drive him wild. Harry grips Eggsy’s hair more firmly and reaches his other hand down to Eggsy’s still wet manhood, stroking him in time with his deep thrusts. Harry starts to lose himself in the feeling, willing himself to hold on. The setting sun has darkened the windows and Harry catches sight of Eggsy’s face of ecstasy reflected in the pane across from them. The sight is too much and he can’t contain himself, orgasming in waves. He pushes all the way inside and leans fully against Eggsy while he regains his composure, his member now extremely sensitive and wracked with aftershocks. After a few moments he remembers that Eggsy hasn’t cum yet and regains himself,  whispering “your turn” as he slides out. Harry flips Eggsy back to face him and lifts his hips onto the counter, immediately sinking his head to Eggsy’s pulsing rod. Harry licks and sucks while his fingers caress Eggsy’s balls and circle the tender rim of his ass. Eggsy is already so close, and within a few moments of attention he releases into Harry’s mouth.  Feeling the blissful exhaustion of orgasm both men slide completely to the floor and drape their arms around each other.  Eggsy glances up at the counter top and in the kitchen light sees his half eaten peach.  “You know Harry...I’m still hungry.” Harry, raising an eyebrow turns his head towards the younger man “ Oh, Eggsy I’m not as young as I used to be I might need a few min...”  Eggsy cuts him off and slaps his arm playfully “ NO! You pervert I mean literally, I am hungry.  YOU didn’t go grocery shopping then you barge in and take my peach and…”  Now Harry cuts Eggsy off with a light kiss.  “What do you say to dining in with some take out tonight?  We can get anything you like, my treat.”  Eggsy smiles at this “I think that sounds lovely, we can order Indian food.”

Fin

Brought to you in part by The Diamond Dogs

[lordendsavior]

Harry Styles is a faithful disciple of silence. He rarely does interviews, and when he does he speaks with charm and cheek while avoiding any nuggets of actual information that could be described as revealing. Until he started doing press around his debut solo album this spring, giving him various bits of artwork and magazine covers to screengrab, his Instagram looked like an A-Level photography project—full of dramatically monochrome shots of infrastructure and food. His Twitter timeline is essentially a corkboard littered with messages expressing thanks to his fans, structured like love letters from a husband in the trenches—"See you soon. Love. H."

In our climate of oversharing, his withholding nature may conveniently double up as a watertight marketing tactic, creating a shroud of mystery that's inherently desirable (what's he wearing today? What's he eating for breakfast? What does he do when he's not making scheduled public appearances?). But for him, it's more than that – "When I go home, I feel like the same person I was at school," he told Rolling Stone earlier this year, "You can't expect to keep that if you show everything."

This is why you don't often see Harry Styles among the names that frequent the daily aggregated news cycle of and Person Says Thing > The Thing is Outrageous! > Actually, The Thing Is Very Nuanced > Ugh, Someone Has Said Something Else Now. He has, to paraphrase someone he once dated, removed himself from the narrative. But, at the same time, Styles has created a narrative that exists just between him and his fans. Simply put: he cares about them, very sincerely and very unabashedly. Which isn't unusual—Lady Gaga is a perfect example of the often very intimate way fandom culture works today—but Harry Styles is muse to such a vast number of teenage girls, a demographic whose interests and opinions are rarely taken seriously by music critics or society at large, that his respect for them takes on a different meaning. It's a relationship best summarized by the following quote from Styles in that Rolling Stone interview: "Who's to say that young girls who like pop music—short for popular, right?—have worse musical taste than a 30-year-old hipster guy? That's not up to you to say." He goes on: "Teenage-girl fans—they don't lie. If they like you, they're there. They don't act 'too cool.' They like you, and they tell you. Which is sick."

This was also the defining characteristic of One Direction's relationship with their fandom. They knew exactly who elevated them from bronze winners of a generic talent contest to global superstardom, they knew exactly who kept them there, and in return they gave them what they wanted. In the wake of their split, journalist Anna Leszkiewicz described One Direction as "a towering monument to the power of teenage girls."

It would have been both a strange and fairly stupid move for Styles to abandon that relationship moving into his solo career, but if anything he seems to have doubled down. He still doesn't say a great deal to the press, save for the endless shouts of appreciation for the people who make his life possible—namely, his fans and faves (artists like Stevie Nicks, to whom Harry Styles owes much of its inspiration)—but over time he's fostered a channel of trust that means his shows have become as close to a safe space as is possible for young girls to get as far as experiencing live music is concerned.

Harry Styles is currently touring Europe. He passed through London last weekend, with fans arriving to camp outside Hammersmith's Eventim Apollo in west London as early as Tuesday. Approaching the venue on Sunday evening, the area outside is deserted. It looks like a Glastonbury camping zone on clean-up day. Duvets are draped over the empty barriers; the floor is littered with foil blankets and carrier bags full of empty sandwich boxes and crisp packets; Pride Flags and Black Lives Matter placards have been taped in place like calls to arms. Everyone is already inside, obviously, and has been for ages. There are about 50 girls camping across the road on a patch of grass underneath Hammersmith flyover so they can be first in line for tomorrow's show. To arrive on time to a Harry Styles show is akin to missing it.

As for inside the venue, you can hardly see the stage for the number of LGBTQ Pride and Black Lives Matter signs held aloft by the audience. In Manchester, people also held up the city's bee symbol. The "I love you"s and "Marry me"s stereotypically associated with teen girl fandom are still very much there in spirit, but their articulation has taken on an actively political tone. The rainbow, the striking black and white of the BLM logo, the Manchester bee—all are symbols of support shared widely on social media, where pop fanbases tend to be most active, exemplifying a generational shift in consciousness towards social awareness. Here, they're brandished less a show of resistance and more as a celebration. People feel comfortable expressing themselves this way because they know everyone in the room is already on their side.

Styles has spoken generally about equality in the press before ("Most of the stuff that hurts me about what's going on at the moment is not politics, it's fundamentals," he told Rolling Stone. "Equal rights. For everyone, all races, sexes, everything"), but it's what he says at his shows, addressing people directly, that means the most to those who care the most. Throughout the night he encourages people to be "whoever you want to be in this room" and continually thanks them "from the bottom of my heart." Someone throws a Pride Flag on stage and he holds it with both hands above his head and runs back and forth across the stage. Someone else throws a French flag and he does the same. Someone else throws a bit of tinsel and he drapes it around his shoulders like a stole.

The room is full of groups of teenage girls hugging each other, hugging people they didn't know, turning to ask the people behind them if they could see alright. Anyone crammed towards the front has been there from the second the doors opened, denying themselves water or a sit-down so they could be as close to their idol as possible. The show had to be stopped twice to help two girls who fainted in the pit. Harry calmly asked people to take a step back, repeatedly checked if everyone was okay and spoke soothingly about looking after one another. He played "Kiwi" twice because it's what the fans wanted, though not without a bit of showmanship ("if you want us to play it again you're going to have to scream louder than that").

It's also worth noting that, although it was ostensibly The Harry Styles Show, five of the ten people onstage are women. As well as a female drummer and keyboardist playing in his own band, he's being supported by MUNA—a goth-pop trio from LA whose music communicates the emotional disarray of sexuality and relationships, as well as heavier topics like assault, through a specifically queer lens. On stage in Hammersmith this weekend, they repeatedly acknowledged the marginalised communities present within the crowd, providing reassurance that—in this room, at least—they are seen and heard. There are, sadly, so many awful reasons to feel unsafe at any show, but in light of the Manchester Arena bombing, pop shows now carry a particularly horrific association that lingers in the back of your mind and can make you inadvertently take note of the emergency exits. Rather than avoiding it, guitarist/vocalist Naomi McPherson addresses the elephant in the room and reminds people how brave they are for being here at all. Singer Katie Gavin introduces their single "I Know A Place"—essentially the San Junipero episode of Black Mirror as a song—by describing it as their imagining of an ideal world we should be working towards. "I know a place we can run / Where everyone gonna lay down their weapon," Gavin sings over a dancey four-to-the-floor beat, "Don't you be afraid of love and affection."

For all the talk of inclusivity and equal rights often thrown around within subcultural communities like punk, hardcore and indie—predominantly male-dominated spaces that can't seem to go a day without someone in a band being called out as abusive—it strikes me as significant that this is one of the few shows I've ever been to where I've not felt threatened by anyone in the room. And it's not because I am, at 5 feet 3 inches, one of the largest people in this one. It's because Harry Styles supports his fans' politics while they really live it, and as a result his shows have become a place for people to celebrate being whoever they are. The diversity of the room itself speaks to that. He's cheering just as much for his fans as they are for him.

Pop music is accessible and available in ways that more subcultural music isn't, but this dynamic doesn't just present itself anywhere. Justin Bieber shows, ecstatic as they may be, are not largely comprised of kids shouting down racism while overtly celebrating their queerness. Pop, like all music, can often be a form of escapism—a way to forget yourself, especially if being yourself can mean facing a multitude of hardships. The actual content of Harry Styles' music isn't anywhere near political but, because of the way his fans engage with him and each other, his shows inherently are.

Obviously, anything can happen anywhere and anytime. Harry Styles' name on the front of a building can't guarantee the absolute safety of everyone in it. But it does foster a world away from our current one; a world that feels less oppressive and more like MUNA's "I Know A Place." I can't imagine how valuable it is for teenagers to experience that—even if it's just for a night.

[taeminsphltrum]

Unpredictable

Im Changkyun | bff!Jooheon | Fluff | WC: 4.5k

♥ summary: everyone is wrong in thinking you have a thing of hyungwon.

It happens when you’re off stage, back in the audience with the rest of your group after performing a couple of songs at the award show. You’re talking to the members, telling each other how well you all did when you get interrupted by the sound of your best friend beginning to rap on stage and your attention is stolen. You’ve yet to see Monsta X perform to Beautiful yet, and you’re excited because Jooheon kept talking about how much you’d like the choreography when you finally see it. With your eyes on him, you smile and nod along, already appreciating the dance and the aesthetics. The suits with silk shirts and Jooheon in his suspenders make you laugh to yourself. When Changkyun makes his way to the front of the stage your smile slowly falters the longer you observe him. 

Usually when you watch them perform, your eyes follow either Jooheon or Hyungwon around the stage no matter who is in the front singing, rapping, or dancing. But right now you can’t seem to take your eyes off of the maknae. It’s been a while since you’ve seen anyone in the group other than Jooheon since they started preparing for their comeback and it looks as if Changkyun has lost some weight in his face, his jawline more prominent than the last time you saw him. 

Even as Hyunwoo begins singing and gliding his way across the stage, your eyes stay on the youngest member, your head tilting to the side a bit.

"Hyungwon looks good,” Bo Na says from beside you, gently elbowing you in the ribs. You side eye her before glancing at the said male.

He does look as fine as ever, long limbs moving effortlessly, hair dark and fluffy. You look at the rest of the members and they look good as well, but your gaze shifts back to Changkyun. 

The dance to the chorus has you screaming along with the fans in the audience with how smooth it is and Bo Na is cheering along with you, the both of you laughing as you begin nodding to the beat again. You catch Jooheon’s gaze during the dance break after the course and he raises his brows in acknowledgment before looking straight again, but then that deep voice of Changkyun's comes back and he’s gliding his way to the other side of the stage, body rolling elegantly. Your lips thin as you openly ogle at him. You just don’t understand why you’re so drawn to him tonight.

Soon jackets are being taken off and dropped then slung across a shoulder and Ana on the other side of you is screaming loudly, singing and clapping along excitedly. When the performance is over you all stand up, applauding them and yelling. As they walk off the stage Jooheon smiles widely at you and does a small wave, both in which you return with a thumbs up afterward. 

◅ ▻

“So?” Jooheon asks with a bright smile on his face when he sees you walk through his front door.

“It was alright, I guess,” you shrug, looking disinterested.

His smile falters and he lightly knocks you upside your head, making you laugh.

“Hyungwon was amazing,” you say loud enough for the said male to hear as he walks past you, causing him to wink. 

Your best friend rolls his eyes and nods. 

“Of course you’d think so.”

“It was great, Honey. You were right, I really liked the dance, especially that one part in the chorus,” you compliment, showing him the part of the choreography you’re referring to.

His smile is back and he’s giving you a quick bear hug. 

“Wanna learn it?" 

"If Hyungwon teaches me,” you tease and dodge Jooheon’s next attack, bumping into someone in the process.

“Oh sorry-” you begin to apologize until you see who it was. 

His hands are on either side of your body, holding onto your arms to balance you back into place after the collision and you kind of freeze like an idiot in his hold and under his stare. 

“Sorry,” he chuckles deeply before nodding his head in the direction of Jooheon. “Mind if I steal him for less than five minutes?”

You nod and he tilts his head. 

“It won’t take long.”

You realize you just told him yes, you would mind and you wildly shake your head. 

“Oh! No. I meant go ahead,” you laugh awkwardly, smoothing escaped hairs back and out of your face before walking away briskly and heading straight to the kitchen to see if they have anything to eat. 

Once you’re away from them you sigh and put your face in your hands, wondering what the hell just happened. 

“You good?” you hear from behind you and it makes you jump, quickly turning around and finding Hoseok sitting at the island with his head propped up by his hand. He laughs at your reaction before raising a brow, waiting for your response. 

“Yeah, yeah. Just tired,” you lie, grabbing a bottle of water and the bowl of grapes in the fridge. 

He gestures for you to sit in the stool next to him. 

“Your flow has gotten better and you’re looking more comfortable on stage now,” he compliments as he watches you chug down half of the bottle in one swig.

You don’t show it, but you’re touched by his words. He knows how hard it has been for you to adapt to performing and the idol life in general. Your group is still considered rookie, only having one mini album and one full album out so far, but with the good attention you’ve been getting lately your popularity is skyrocketing and the nerves of not being good enough have left your body. Now you can perform comfortably and freely on stage.

“Don’t get all sappy on me,” you say rolling your eyes, but you know he can hear the hidden gratitude in your words. 

After some more small talk Jooheon comes in the kitchen and leans next to you on the island. He nudges you, but you ignore him in favor of listening to Hoseok's story about how Hyungwon almost fucked up the performance but no one else noticed. The two of you are laughing as he stands up to show you exactly what the problem was, when Jooheon’s nudging becomes incessant and actually starts to hurt your arm.

“Oh my gosh, what do you want?”

“What was that about?" 

You glare at him, telling him to shut up with your eyes.

"What?” Hoseok asks, being nosy. 

Your eyes squint, intensifying your glare, but it goes ignored. 

“Why were you acting like that with Kyunnie?”

“What do you mean?” you ask in the best confused tone. You unscrew the cap to your water bottle and start drinking the rest as a distraction.

“You were acting like you ran into someone you had a big ass crush on or something,” Jooheon explains. “I’ve never seen you so… so awkward in front of someone.”

“Her? Being awkward?” Hoseok asks.

“She was all like,” he says before proceeding to mimic how you were nodding and shaking your head crazily and the look of terror you gave Changkyun when you realized it was him you bumped into.

You want to hit your best friend, facepalm and scurry out of their dorm all at once. But you just snort at Jooheon instead. 

Many tell you that you have a confident, nonchalant aura and you take pride in that. Aside from stage fright, you don’t find many situations awkward. Meeting new people and interacting with basically everyone, even crushes is a breeze for you. You don’t let many feelings come to the surface. No one can ever sense doubt, hesitance, awkwardness or fright when speaking or even just looking at you because your face is always straight or smiling. 

What the hell has gotten into you tonight? First you’re finding someone you usually don’t do a double take on extremely attractive and captivating and then when it’s time to interact with him you feel so small and can’t think straight…

You’re just tired from practicing all day and performing, that’s all, is what you tell yourself.

“I think you’re looking too deep into it,” you say with a chuckle, looking Jooheon dead in the eye. “When I bumped into him I froze because I was shocked and when he asked if I minded if he stole you away I meant to say no but I’m exhausted so I did the wrong head movement. That’s it,” you shrug.

“Okay but what about how you wal-”

“Like I said, looking too deep,” you tsk before turning your attention to Hoseok. “I mean, can you imagine me getting flustered and whatnot over a guy? Especially Changkyun?" 

Hoseok looks between you and Jooheon and shakes his head. 

"Yeah Jooheon I think you’re forgetting we have an Ice Princess here. Plus,” he stands and does a little stretch. “If she can act calm and collected in front of Hyungwon when she’s so far up his ass then you’ve got to be imagining things.”

Before you can even say anything about how you actually don't like Hyungwon in that way and just appreciate his face, body, personality and dancing in a platonic way Hoseok is out of the kitchen, calling  "don’t stay up too long" behind his shoulder without stopping. So you say it to Jooheon instead.

“I know I joke about Hyungwon a lot but you gotta stop taking me seriously,” you sigh exaggeratedly.

Jooheon sticks his hand out for you to grab before pulling you up and out of your seat. He leads you to the front door and starts putting his shoes on and you get the hint. Time to leave or else your manager will raise hell. It already took a lot of convincing to let you come over to a boy’s dorm in the first place, but after you, your group and all of Monsta X convinced her that Jooheon is strictly a friend and they all see you as a younger sister, you got the privilege of being able to see your precious Honey. Public outings are a little tricky due to needing to avoid fans and paparazzi, so unless you’re meeting somewhere super late, the dorm and your studios are the only options. Fans know that the two of you have known each other since way back, but since you keep your distance in public no one has any reason to believe anything is up between you guys.

Plus, dating is banned right now. So there’s that.

◅ ▻

Days after the award show, you find yourself slightly obsessing.

Your YouTube history shows nothing but Changkyun fancams and you’re slightly ashamed of yourself. You honestly thought it was because you were just tired that night, but when Hoseok texted you to watch the video of the performance that night and see if you could find the part in which Hyungwon messed up you looked through the suggested videos and there was a solo cam of Jooheon. You tapped it and watched it, catching glimpses of the maknae when he crossed paths with Jooheon and this made you curious as to if you could find any videos with Changkyun as the center of attention. Watching one fancam turned into watching ones all the way back to Trespass. 

“The dance practice to Beautiful has been uploaded,” Jooheon tells you excitedly.

You give him a look before playfully rolling your eyes. 

“Put it on the t.v.”

It’s no surprise who your eyes land on as soon as the video begins. 

You’re leaning on Jooheon as the two of you relax on the couch in his living room on his day off, your schedule not starting until several hours later.

You watch the choreography with Jooheon talking about his most and least favorite dance moves in the background. 

All you can think is wow, Changkyun has improved so much over the years.

“What?” Jooheon asks.

Eye widening at the realization of you voicing your thoughts aloud, you internally panic, but resort to asking him in the best confused tone, “What?”

He looks down at you before shrugging the shoulder your head is on, shaking you off of him.

“Changkyun?”

You side eye him.

“What are you talking about?”

You’re really good at playing dumb, but he isn’t buying it today.

“What’s up with you and Changkyun lately?” he says lowly, the man of topic only a few meters away in his room.

Sighing, you turn your attention back to the men dancing on the screen.

“There you go again.”

You feel Jooheon’s body shift closer to you, his arm going behind your shoulders to lay across the top of the couch as he leans in close to the side of your face.

“I’ve known you for a while, sweetheart. I can sense when something is off about you,” he explains, voice low and deep right in your ears. “I know how you act when you’re tired and I know when you’re bullshitting me. You can fool Hoseok but not me.”

Internally you’re cursing yourself out for being so obvious in front of him of all people when he knows you like the back of his hand. You were hoping that after that night he’d forget about it or at least never bring it up again but then again, he is Jooheon and he can’t let things go without having answers to all of his questions.

You slouch into the couch, sinking until your neck is stretched and the back of your head is on top of the arm behind you. This isn’t what you want to talk about right now.

“Can you not?” you mumble under your breath.

“If we don’t talk about it now, I’m going to keep bringing it up.”

You’re just grateful he loves you enough to keep his voice low to save you the embarrassment of Changkyun hearing the conversation.

“I mean, you literally froze when he touched you,” Jooheon continues. “And then you avoided him yesterday. Yes, I noticed.”

Eyes closing in defeat, you whine. And then you’re throwing a mini temper tantrum because this is not how you wanted to spend your morning before a busy evening. 

Yeah, you avoided Changkyun last night when you quickly stopped by to drop off Jooheon’s sweats that he let you wear a couple weeks ago when Hyungwon tripped and spilled his juice on your jeans. Jooheon needed them back for whatever reason you didn’t question and your dorm is only a ten minute walk away from theirs. When you got to the boys’ dorm you greeted Kihyun when he opened the door for you with a small hug, as well as Hyungwon and Minhyuk on your way to Jooheon’s room. 

When you were walking out of his room Changkyun was coming out of his own. 

“Oh, hey-” he started to greet you but you were out the front door after interrupting him with a high pitched, nervous “Hi! Bye!”

But it’s kind of awkward interacting with the guy you’ve practically been stalking during your free time. You have a great poker face but there was no way you could pretend like you weren’t being a creep just minutes before coming to the dorm, so you had to blast.

“Don’t tell me you have a crush on him,” Jooheon breathes out in amusement.

“Who? Hyungwon?” a deep voice chuckles from behind you, making you start and fold into Jooheon for protection.

“Nah. You,” the man holding you responds and you hear Changkyun choke on his spit.

“Wh-what?” he stutters. He clearly wasn’t expecting that answer.

Your fingers are pinching Jooheon’s side and it has him hissing in pain, slapping your hand away as discretely as possible.

“I’m kidding,” he says, saving the day. “Stop being nosy.”

You want to see the look on the maknae’s face but you can’t find it in yourself to look up at him right now. 

If you look at him all you’ll be able to think about is how attractive he is and how gross and embarrassing is that?

“I should go,” you say a little too loudly, springing up off the couch and speed walking to the door to slip your shoes on, saying bye without looking back as you exit the dorm.

The walk back to your dorm consists of you calling yourself an idiot while facepalming.

◅ ▻

I swear I am going to kill him.

Changkyun is sitting on the couch looking as comfortable as ever, arms spread out on the top of the couch and legs stretched out wide as he watches you. 

“Jooheon isn’t here.”

Yes, you noticed that.

“He should be back in like an hour, though.”

You nod and turn around, heading to the front door.

“You could just keep me company and wait for him,” is what he says next with a low voice, stopping you dead in your tracks. “I feel like I haven’t talked to you in forever.”

Technically, it’s been a couple weeks since the last time you’ve had an actual conversation with him. 

There’s a mental debate going on in your head on whether or not you should stay before your feet are moving back into the living room and your ass is sinking into the cushion of the couch adjacent to the one he’s occupying. 

Your eyes drift to the reality show playing on the television screen and you know already how tense your body looks from an outsider’s point of view.

“Why are you sitting all the way over there?”

You ignore him.

He chuckles before you hear movement, and before you know it, the cushion you’re sitting on is shifting and he’s slightly pressed against your side on the small loveseat. You look at him in confusion. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

Changkyun is laughing again, nodding his head.

“Now you’re starting to sound like yourself.”

His arm is snaking behind your head and he’s getting even closer in proximity.

“Hyung told me everything,” he says nonchalantly, like he’s speaking about the weather. 

“What do you mean?” you ask, dumb act kicking in.

“Well,” he says, licking his lips. You fight yourself so hard not look down at his mouth afterwards. “I know that you two really were talking about me when he was talking about you having a crush on someone.”

Your head rolls back as you internally cry. You’re definitely going to kill Jooheon now and you can already see his dead body in the middle of the living room floor. 

“And?” you question. 

It’s weird how as he’s confronting you, you don’t feel awkward and the need to leave right away. You’re still embarrassed as hell and want to die but the fact that you don’t sense rejection has your nerves eased. For the most part at least.

“And,” he drags out, using his hand to bring your face forward so that you can look at him. 

His fingers stay under your chin as he observes the new look of anticipation written all over your face. 

“I’ve kind of been attracted to you for a while now.”

Your brows raise at this information, a bit of pride swelling in you.

“How long is a while?”

His eyes look up to the ceiling as he hums to himself.

“A couple of months?” he questions out loud before nodding.

“And you never said anything.”

The playfulness in your tone is clear and the corner of his mouth lifts up as he shrugs. 

“Everyone knows you have a thing for Hyungwon so there was no point.”

If you hear someone say that you like Hyungwon one more time you’re going to fight them. The only reason people think that is because one day you went to their dance studio when Jooheon told you to so that the two of you could leave immediately to have as much time as possible to celebrate your debut. Admittedly, you were staring at Hyungwon pretty hard as they were practicing their choreography. He was helping Changkyun with a certain part of the dance when Jooheon came up beside you and followed your gaze. You appreciate dancing, and you really appreciate guys that can dance exceptionally well, and your best friend knew that. The teasing started when he whispered in your ear, “Like what you see?" and you thinking he was talking about the choreography, nodded and kept your eyes on him since he was the only one dancing at the time. Yes, he is very attractive and would probably be your bias if you didn’t know the group personally, but it’s not as deep as everyone makes it to be. Word got around to the rest of the group that you had "heart eyes” for Hyungwon and after a while of constantly denying it, you started playing along.

But now isn’t really the time to bring up another guy when Changkyun just confessed and is holding your face close to his own.

“I do not have a thing for him,” you deadpan. 

He smiles at the switch in the tone in your voice. You can’t help but notice just how nice his crooked smile is up close and now you’re paying attention to how good he smells and suddenly you’re lightheaded.

“I know. It’s just fun messing with you.”

You fake snarl at him before lessening the space between the two of you slightly.

“Are you just going to keep staring at me or are you going to kiss me?” is what you ask next, the confident you coming back out.

His smile only widens and once again he’s chuckling at your words. But then his lips are on yours and you’re sighing in satisfaction, the small build up of anxiety deflating from your body as he takes his time. The hand on your chin moves to the side of your face, bringing you even closer to him when your bottom lip is being sucked into his mouth. You can feel the goosebumps rise on your arm in the wake of the hand that’s sliding down it before moving to your waist. 

Soon you’re practically on top of Changkyun, fingers gently gripping the hair on the back of his head while his tongue separates your lips. A small groan comes from him when his actions cause you to ball your fists briefly, his head jerking back in the slightest bit. 

“Jooheon should be back soon,” you struggle to say. When you try to back up to speak Changkyun only chases your lips.

“He never left,” is mumbled on your lips, your leg being lifted by your thigh so that’s its across his lap.

You nod, breathing out an oh, okay before his words actually hit you.

He never left.

You successfully pull away from the kiss this time to glare at the boy in front of you.

An uncomfortable smile is on his face as his hand rubs on the back of your thigh.

“He’s in Hoseok’s room. I asked him to tell you to come over so that- well, this,” he gestures your proximity and squeezes your thigh. “could happen. If I were to have just invited you over that would’ve been weird because we don’t text so if I would’ve just randomly texted you asking you to come over you would’ve been like what the fuck and like-”

“So basically he’s hiding out in Hoseok’s room to give you the opportunity to bust a move?” you interrupt his rambling.

Changkyun nods. 

You laugh at the situation. That was actually very smart of Changkyun because if you wouldn’t have been left alone with him you definitely would’ve continued avoiding him until your little infatuation died out. 

Shifting, you sit on Changkyun’s lap. His eyes widen before he’s looking up at you in anticipation. With a playful tsk you lean down and slant your lips over his once more. There’s a little more aggression, maybe because you’re just so flattered he went through all of this just to confess, and he seems to like it because he’s groaning when his bottom lip is in between your teeth. Fingers slide down your back in favor of splaying out across your ass.

Pulling back has his mouth traveling south and towards your neck, but you stop him briefly.

“JOOHEON!” you scream out then wait until you hear his footsteps from down the hall. 

Changkyun questions what the hell you’re doing but you shut him up by bringing his face into the crook of your neck by the back of his head. He wastes no time in softly pecking before his tongue is tasting the salt of your skin. 

Jooheon pokes his head from around a corner and has a guilty smile stretching his mouth, trying to distract you from your expected anger by looking cute. When he notices the position you and Changkyun are in his smile turns sly and he’s walking up to the couch. Changkyun’s back is facing the other and he either didn’t hear Jooheon and feel his presence, or he just doesn’t care because he doesn’t stop his ministrations.

“So it worked I see,” he says, satisfaction clear in his voice. 

The rapper underneath you pauses. 

You stare up at your best friend with a smile, hand petting at Changkyun’s hair.

“You’re gonna get tired and annoyed by us,” you promise Jooheon.

He shrugs.

“I doubt it.”

You hum.

“This means less time with me,” you continue.

There’s a change in emotion in his eyes before he shrugs it away once more.

“You’ll miss me too much,” he retorts.

Laughing to yourself, you nod. Moving back results in Changkyun’s face no longer being in your neck and now he can bend his head back over the top of the couch to look up at Jooheon.

“You sure you’re okay with this?”

Jooheon's rolling his eyes and flicking him on the forehead. 

“If I wasn’t okay with it I wouldn’t have texted her for you, dummy.”

“You won’t be okay with it when I’m ruining your day by moaning and screaming his name,” you joke with a straight face.

The reaction you were hoping to get comes when Jooheon’s face turns in disgust and now he’s mushing you in the forehead, your head going back from the force of his hand as you laugh loudly. Changkyun chuckles as well.

The sound of the front door opening behind you stops everyone’s laughter and you feel Changkyun’s body tense underneath you as yours does, too.

Loud chattering stops immediately and you don’t have to turn around to know that whoever just came in is staring at the three of you. Slowly, you climb off of Changkyun and take your place next to him, fake smiling when you face Hyungwon, Hoseok, and Hyunwoo. They all look taken aback, but then Hoseok is smirking and shaking his head.

(This was honestly just a fictionalized version of how he became my bias lmaoo)

[aviationfiction]

XVII

Autumn Dupont

“You wanted me to love you when you said, softly, reach out and touch me. My love is in your hands.”

The sound of my voice filled the space of the palatial marble covered bathroom as I sang along to the stunning vocals of Stephanie Mills and the ever smooth and intoxicating Teddy Pendergrass. While shifting slightly to the right, my hands slowly trailed down, pulling the lavender flat iron along with them. Once I reached the end of the twenty six inches of tresses, I released it and allowed the bone straight strands to properly fall into place. My right hand placed the iron down on the counter as I ran the left through my hair to give it a bit of bounce and balance. I’d been working at properly straightening it for what felt like an hour while swaying my hips to the essentials of Teddy. Every second I spent listening to that special voice of his had me wishing that I’d been born in the fifties so that I could have been the muse of his love woos and woes. Instead, I’m left to just listen. Given the quality of his music, that’s more than enough to last me for a lifetime.

“Hurry it up Autumn.” I muffled my mumbling by coating my already lined lips with MAC cosmetics famed “Siss” lipstick. It’d be the final step of my multi tasked hair and make up process. I didn’t think I’d be as long as I’ve taken, but the comfort of the plush bed and it’s Egyptian linen left me purposefully entangled within the sheets for an addition hour after my alarm went off. I’m not quite sure how Rachel was able to convince Issac to allow her to book myself a thirteen thousand dollar a night suite at the Plaza Athénée but my God, I am more than appreciative of it. I’ve been in awe of the classically decorated Art Deco suite and left astounded by the phenomenal view of the Eiffel Tower from the terrace. I’ve been marveling in every single perk this suite and arguably the most romantic hotel in the city has to offer since my arrival and I am no where near finished. They say that a change of location and pace usually brings about peace and relaxation. Paris proved that to be true. A round of flutters filled my belly as Dante used my hand to guide me down the steps of the jet just a day ago and as I took in the already obvious scenic views of the city, I felt like I’d left my troubles and sorrows back in the states. For the first time in quite a while, the weight of my pain has drawn back and left me with some time to breathe.

My morning long thong dance party came to much needed end when I slipped into the high rise red stretch ribbed knitted midi skirt. While adjusting the waistband, I made sure the full length of the two way zipper was aligned properly. Omitting a bra, I pulled the matching Wang sleeveless cropped top over my upper frame. I’d seen this set in Nordstrom just a couple of days ago and refused to leave without the sporty yet posh look in my possession. Initially, I figured I’d pair it with either a pair of heeled ankle strap sandals or metallic flat ones, but given our plans for the day, these white low top Converses are the better and surprisingly cuter choice.

“Be right there!” I shouted loud enough for the person on the other side of the door to hear. While walking towards it, I twisted the earring back of my stud into place. Instead of glancing through the peep hole, I quickly opened the door and came face to face with the person I’d been expecting to see. My greeting suddenly became stuck in my throat as he leaned against the door post and my body instinctively took a step back when he properly adjusted his frame upright. My eyes panned down to his Air Max 95 covered feet, slowly trailed up past the perfectly fitted dark denim jeans and grey pullover sweatshirt, and widened at the sight of the black cap resting on his head. I expect formal attire despite it being a day of leisure. His uniformity has become the expected and no matter how much I tried, I could not picture him in anything denim, until now. I’m baffled.

“What’s up? I figured I’d meet you here and we just head down together.”

“You look nice.” I intended to formally greet him but my thoughts rebelliously poured out of my mouth beforehand. His eyes slightly shot up and the chuckle that slipped past his superbly blush toned lips left my entire frame rattled and unnerved. As my fingers ran through my hair, I briefly returned my attention to the floor to gather my thoughts. His scent; an odd make up of lavender and cedar, engulfed me.

“I do? Honestly, I was second guessing this. Surprisingly, the suits are easier to put together than everyday attire. These days I find myself working at it.”

“It’s great. It’s a nice look for a casual day.” I stepped aside and he walked past, slightly brushing my upper frame with his arm, to enter the suite. As I followed behind him, I listened to the sound of the door shutting behind the both of us. It was far more startling than it needed to be.

“You look nice too; incredible. The red is great.” I watched as he boldly analyzed every single aspect of my look and I nearly ran in the direction of the bedroom to dodge his intense and potent glare. With his hands stuffed into the front pockets of his hoodie and his tall frame intimidating towering over mine, he never once looked away. Even as I turned to walk away from him, I could sense his presence in it’s entirety.

“Thank you.” While standing at the head of the bed, I began to put on the rest of the pieces of jewelry I’d taken out to wear. He didn’t leave me alone within the confines of the bedroom for long. Upon his entry, he stood at the long windows and peered out at beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower.

“The view is beautiful isn’t? It was all I could look at until I fell asleep last night. Look at the Eiffel Tower.”

“It is beautiful. Not to brag but you have to see it from my room. It damn near feels like you’re standing in front of it. Come and see it later.”

“Well since you’ve given me an invitation, I will. I can’t wait to go and see it in person tomorrow.”

“Why don’t we just go tonight? We’ll have a bit of time to kill before we head out this evening. I figure it won’t be too time consuming to head over and see it tonight. We can go tomorrow too, after Disney Land. It closes late, so we won’t miss it.” Rather than asking me if I needed any help, he offered it by grabbing the final bracelet out of my hand, slipping it around my wrist, and carefully clasping both ends of it together by the hook.

“I’d like that.”

“Alright, then it’s a plan.” He wears his brim low, like a true New Yorker, and it oozes from his demeanor in all that he does. There’s just something about a New York man. You can pick them out from a crowd of a million. This particular New York man is distinct. There’s no picking him out of a crowd. I don’t believe a crowd would ever be courageous enough to stand around him in the first place.

“Shall we?” I double checked my pure white Wang bucket bag to make sure I had all of my day’s necessities and Dante grabbed the long sleeved sweater that completes the entire set and tossed it over his forearm. I hadn’t been thinking about the sweater and had he not grabbed it, I certainly would have left it on the bed. I’m known to leave things behind. If I don’t double or triple check my purse and pockets before leaving home, I go about on my journey missing something that is essential to my activities for that day. Shane would always play as my second brain. Like a parent, he’d come behind me and make sure to retrieve whatever I forgot. He’d been doing it since we were kids and if he were here, he’d be doing it right now.

“We shall.”

We were only been in the backseat of the Mercedes Benz for ten minutes and I was left in awe of the sights yet again. With Dante’s raspy voice filling my ears and my eyes taking in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, I wasn’t sure if I’d been trapped inside of one of my life long night time fantasies or if a big blue genie decided to grant me one of my many wishes. No, this has to be God; nothing more than God. I’d been wanting to come here ever since I curled up next to my mother and watched Gene Kelly and Leslie Carson sing and dance their way into my heart on my eight birthday. I was ill that year and wanted to do nothing more than lie in bed. With snacks that I could barely stomach and the warmth of her motherly love, I watched her favorite film and easily fell in love with it myself as she hummed along to every song and soothingly stroked her fingers through my hair. I invited Shane in on the love just weeks later. At least once a month, we’d share a movie night with mom and it’d always be “An American In Paris” no matter how many times we promised that we’d switch to a new film. Shane and I created endless amounts of Parisian adventures with every bit of information we learned about the city during our years of coming up and we promised that we’d come and spend an entire summer immersed in the way of life here. When I became a wife, my desire to visit here heightened even more. I wanted to marvel in my love for him, in The City Of Love and Lights, with my favorite musical’s soundtrack as our theme music. I'd envision the two of us walking along the cobblestone side streets, carelessly French kissing as our eager hands explored parts of our bodies that only needed to be touched behind closed doors. We’d visit the beautiful sights and small cafes, take pictures to fill a photo album for our children, and spend our nights making our first born. Andreas would always assure me that we’d come soon enough but soon enough became an empty promise I’d become accustom to. Instead, I’m here by the way of work and I’m accompanied by a man who I haven’t known very long. Oddly, this seems far more suitable. It feels liberating and genuine.

“Stand there. The lighting is nice.” Dante held my iPhone with his left hand and my purse with his right as I cheerily posed in front of La Pyramide Inversée yet again. I’d lost count of how many pictures I’d ask this man to snap as soon as we exited the car and he’s yet to complain. In fact, he’s hilariously encouraging it. He’d between changing between both my phone and his own for these pictures, aiming to get all of the right shots. I’d even brought along my personal Nikon but we’ve been moving too quickly for me to even think about it.

“You take picture with you husband?” The statement accompanied a tap on my shoulder and I swiftly turned to look at the curious woman as she pointed between both Dante and I. His eyes widened at the question she’d asked and embarrassment flushed throughout my frame as I slightly blushed at her question. The assumption bemused me. Neither one of us are wearing rings on the proper finger to signify a marriage and yet here she is somehow assured that we’re yet another couple in love, frolicking around this monumental city.

“Sure.” I chuckled as I shrugged my shoulders and his mouth slightly fell agape as she happily approached him. Chills danced along the back of my neck as he smirked and he handed over the iPhone. He then suavely approached me.

“Husband?” The warmth of his breath caused my body to shift in his direction and his lips lingered on my ear as he awaited a response.

“She said it. Not me.” His arm smoothly wrapped around my waist and the tips of his lengthy fingers softly dug into my flesh, leaving a tingle to dance along my side. Yet again, his aroma overpowered my own and left me intoxicated as it embedded itself into my memory. As he leaned in, his head rested on top my own and upper frame meshed into his. We both smiled. I only knew that because I could help but to glance up at his face in the midst of however many shots of that one particular pose the woman took.

“Vous deux êtes un beau couple!” As Dante took my phone out of her hands I couldn’t help but to laugh at her statement. I could only recognize the last word of it and that was more than enough to make it hilarious.

“What did she say?” I shrugged as a response to his question. She’d walked off far too quickly for either one of us to ask her to do her best to translate what I assume to have been a compliment into English and I’d be damned if I tried. Shane dedicated years out of his life into learning the French language. I’d chosen to take Spanish in high school and though I passed with high marks all three years that I took it, I can barely formulate a proper sentence of it now.

“I don’t know. Something about a couple.” I slid the strap of my purse over my shoulder as we began to walk along and my eyes took in the variety of people and cultures walking the exterior grounds of the historical museum.

“So what do you want to see first? You know there’s about ten different curatorial departments. This place is huge. It usually has up to fifteen thousand visitors per day.”

“Where’s the Mona Lisa?”

“She’s in the paintings department among seven thousand other paintings. You want to go there first? If we do, we should head to the Egyptian portion next. I think you’ll love it. They have arguably the most extensive collection in the world and it gives a lot of insight on ancient Egypt.”

“And the statues?”

“Sculptures have their own department. We’ll go there too. Don’t worry. I’m going to show you all the great aspects of his place.” His hand enclosed over mine as he pulled me along and we made our way through a crowd of people and past the lengthy line. Though we weren’t planning on visiting every attraction Paris has to offer, the Paris Passes he’d gotten through an acquaintance were the perfect score to get past the crowds and lines without having to endure the ridiculous wait. With every long stride we took and corners we turned, I silently thanked God that I’d chosen not to wear sandals or heels. Though I can handle hours in both, I’m almost sure I would have been barefoot by the time we finished with this massive place.

“There she is.”

Dante rose his arm to point at the world renowned painting and we took a step closer to the barrier that separated the crowd of people looking on from arguably The Lourve’s most prized possession.

“The painting is said to be of Lisa Gherardini. She was the wife of Francesco del Giocondo. It was painted around fifteen o three and was completed in fifteen o five. Supposedly it may have been painted for the new home of the couple or to mark the birth of their son, but either way, they never received it. It’s an oil painting. He started it in Italy and finished it in France. Later on down the line, it was acquired by King Francis of France and became French properly. It’s been on display here since either seventeen ninety six or seventeen ninety seven.” Mona and her seemingly content expression lost my attention as my eyes panned to the side of his face. He’s not only taken on the role of my tour guide, but he’s also a walking encyclopedia? What doesn’t he know or do? Though I don’t ask, I absolutely expect him to be able to offer expert advice in business, finance, and marketing but to say I expected him to be an art enthusiast or art history expert would be a lie.

“This is going to sound so silly but all I can think about right now is how she has no eyebrows or lashes.” His chuckle made me smile and I glanced at the painting once more continuing to wonder why Leonardo da Vinci would leave her without two pivotal assets to the beauty of a woman’s face.”

“Hm. Maybe the painting is incomplete or maybe women around that timeframe thought removing the eyebrows and eyelashes was a beautiful thing. Oddly, I’ve never noticed that until you mentioned it. I guess when you’re so busy trying to analyze the overall message of a piece of art, you tend to miss the little details.”

“Do you think she looks happy?” He slightly tilted his head to the left and his shoulders rose just a bit.

“I suppose so. I think everything this and about her is a symbolic simplicity. What about you? What does her expression read?” It was my turn to tilt my head as if that would help me better understand da Vinci’s mind when he created this masterpiece. Women tend to hide their emotions quite well and if anything, I believe he embodied the complexity of that aspect of us far more than he did an obvious emotion. Her expression is neutral and that can indicate an array of sentiments.

“I don’t know and I believe that’s the genius within this. That’s what makes this painting or rather this woman so iconic. We can stand here all day long and create a ton of scenarios about her facial expression, emblematic smile, and potential emotional state.”

“That kind of reminds me of you.” My mouth almost fell agape as I turned to glance at him once again. This time, he turned to take a look at me as well. The last thing I’d think I’d remind a person of is the Mona Lisa.

“Me?”

“Yeah. Well, before we began to speak to one another. I could help but to break the ice because I grew tired of trying to read you and understand what was going on in that head of yours. You were stoic. You still are.” I curved my lips as I assessed his statement and he playfully smirked. “What? You thought I was referencing to your looks? You’re no Mona Lisa. She wishes.”

With my cool on it’s hinges, the knot that was already resting within the back of my throat seemingly expanded in size and I immediately glanced down at the floor to gather myself and my thoughts as quickly as possible. My fingers fluttered through my hair and I’m almost sure I saw a glimpse of my flustered face on the pristine marble flooring. My eyes then panned to Mona and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think the pale faced woman was laughing at my perturbation to this man’s every word and movement. I’m unintentionally overthinking about all that he is, says, and does. It’s bordering on the line of being unjust.

We’d gone off to see an additional thirty pieces of art work which is far more than I ever though we’d get through. The visuals I’d only seen in books or on the internet were nostalgic to see in person and he left me bewildered by all of the information he had about so many of these paintings by memory alone. I had to ask him how he’d been able to learn so much about art and he admitted he took art history summer courses over a summer at his alma mater just for the sake of culturing and enriching his mind. It became his way of taking his mind off of the endless business courses and his paid interning at A&M. The often misunderstood Jean-Michel Basquiat is his favorite artist and unlike the rap artists, his reasoning for him being so doesn’t have any cliches within it. He has a preference for neo-Expressionalism. Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.

“The artifacts in here date all the way back to about four thousand BC.”

“Tell me more Wikipedia.” We shared a laugh and he lightly nudged me in the side as my eyes glimmered over the Crypt of the Sphinx in the very first room within the Egyptian department of the museum.

“Well this piece here, they found it in about eighteen twenty five among the ruins at the Temple Of Amun at Tanis. That was the capital of Egypt during the twenty first and twenty second dynasties. This is inscribed with the names of three pharaohs; Ammenemes the Second, Merneptah, and lastly Shoshenq the First.”

“How the hell do you know all of this? You studied art history and Egyptian history as well?” He stumped me. I feel like I didn’t learn anything in school. While I am knowledgeable enough in both topics, he’s absolutely running circles around my intelligence effortlessly. I didn’t think it’d be this bad.

“Nah. I just read that little sign right there.” As he pointed it out, it was my turn to nudge him back and I shot a side eye in his direction over his amusement. I was so in awe of the beautiful craftsmanship lying in front of me that I hadn’t notice the plated description card resting to the furthest right of the wall.

“How many rooms are there?”

“For this section? I believe there’s about thirty of them.”

“My God. Maybe half or a little less?” We’d be here all day and throughout the night if we attempted to see everything. I don’t think it’s possible to do it all within a day. I don’t even believe it’s possible to do it all within a week.

“Yeah. We’ll know when we’ve had enough.”

We didn’t know when we’d had enough. Our feet moved as quickly as my mind; with every second of excitement and intrigue radiating from my frame. My desire to see everything heightened with each room we visited and as we cut corners and walked long stretches to see other domains within the museum, it took the both of us constantly checking our phone and even his watch to forcefully drag ourselves out of The Lourve to make it to lunch on time.

For lunch, we’d chosen Ferdi. Though small in size, it’s laid back ambiance was the perfect setting for the mellowed lunch we were seeking. Typically, the ever popular establishment is booked for weeks on out but Dante had been able to pull yet another set of strings to effortlessly have us escorted to a red booth in the back of the restaurant without any issues. While consuming spiced beef empanadas, their beloved burgers, and a shared bowl of macaroni and cheese, we relaxed and conversed in the comfort of the rich burgundy decor and stone walls. The eclectic musical soundtrack was an added bonus. I don’t know how we found the room, but we’d taken a complimentary dish of churros to go and finished all of them before arriving back to the hotel.

In a rushed effort, I stripped out of everything, leaving each piece as they lie, before running into the bathroom to do what I described to him as my quickest effort of freshening up. A quick shower, another session of applying lotion to every nook and cranny of my body, running the flat iron over the pieces of hair that needed a bit of heat, and lastly a touch up of my make up with the lip color changing to my favorite bold red. For the evening, I’d chosen Anthony Vaccarello pieces I purchased some time ago. Both were among the occasional “splurge for the sake of physically appeasing Andreas” days and I’d yet to find somewhere to wear them until now. Though short in length, the cropped sleeve suede dress and it’s high round neck would serve well enough to shield my upper body from potential winds of the now cool nighttime temperature. The dramatic cuts on the base were purposefully done to display the thighs but I’d deemed them to be tasteful enough. The cabochon stud embellishments were simply that; decorative enhancements meant to further heighten the style of the dress. The long gilded viscose jacket and it’s stylish notched collar could have been overkill but for some reason worked quite well in contrast to the suede. My strappy heeled open almond toe sandals were designed by him as well. To match my lips and step away from the blue and black garb, I completed everything with a red YLS clutch bag I’d taken out of my mother’s closet just hours before leaving the country.

With six minutes behind the scheduled time I assured him I’d be downstairs, I rushed out of the suite’s door and to the elevator. His patience is certainly a virtue because had it been anyone else, my head would be on a platter right now. Shane accepted my occasional lateness and that’s because he was late all the damn time. He’d always assure me that perfection takes time and though my beautiful brother couldn’t achieve any more perfection than what he already had, I gave him the time. I’d give anything to give him some more. Now, here I am, adopting his habits. Hopefully my perfectionist Parisian tour guide isn’t doesn’t ever become offended by what it unintentional.

As the elevator’s doors pulled apart, I chortled at the sight of him leaning against the wall waiting for me. What amused me wasn’t his stance, him waiting, or his presence. From head to toe, we were unwittingly wearing the exact same colors as one another. For this evening, he’d opted for a royal blue version one of his many designer suits. Much like myself, even his long trench style of coat was exactly the same shade of blue. To further sleek and enhance it, he paired it with a midnight black collared shirt and a tie of the same color. For some reason, the blue highlighted the bone structure of his perfectly symmetrical face and the tailoring outlined every aspect of him beyond reasonable belief. It highlighted the slight smiled that etched its way onto his alluring face. The blue enhanced the mystery that is Dante St. James.

“Great minds think alike?” His eyes slowly trailed down, taking in all of me, and I bid him a small smile with a nod.

“I’d say so.”

“Are you ready? You have everything you need?” The the double check I did upstairs was enough but here is my triple check. He’s it.

“I believe so. Where are we going?”

“Théâtre du Châtelet. We’re going to see a musical. An American In Paris. It’s not officially opening here until the fall but I scored tickets to tonight’s preview of it. I’ve heard great things about it and I figured since we both enjoy music, it’d be cool to see. That’s even if you like the theater. Do you? If not, we can do something else. The night is young and…”

“Are you kidding me?” I hadn’t intended to rudely cut him off but my knees nearly buckled as soon as the name of the musical slipped past his lips. This has to be some sick twisted fate because in all the hours we spent together today, I’d never mentioned anything about my all time favorite musical or anything related to it. We hadn’t even spoken about films. We spent house hours talking about our families; verbally introducing each of the key players in our lives with a well enough description about all of them. I’ve yet to see the musical live on Broadway. Anytime I’d make plans to do so, they always fell through. To see it here is more meaningful than it would  be seeing it anywhere in the states. This brings it full circle. Being here allows me to relish in it. I can’t quite recall the last time I’ve received a gift but this is arguably the best one that I’ve been given in years.

“It’s my favorite musical ever. Seriously. I could cry right now but then I’d ruin my make up. I forgot to pack my waterproof mascara.” We shared a loud laugh; mine being of excitement and his visibly being of relief. The nervousness within his aura couldn’t possibly equal to mine.

“Well, good. I’m glad that we’re going to see it. I’ve never seen the film, so it’ll be something new for me.”

“You’re going to love it. Even if you don’t love it, you’ll appreciate it.” As we walked towards the exiting doors, I slightly trailed behind him, taking in his stride. He moves like a warrior and yet his entire being screams gentlemen. His head is always held high, chin slightly up, and he steps forward with a agility that I’ve never witnessed within any other man. There’s no way possible that it's something that he’s been taught. I cannot assume that it’s within all of the St. James men. It seems so exclusive to him.

“First, we stop at the tower.” He held the door open for me and allowed me to walk out head of him. When we approached the awaiting car, he opened up the backdoor before the driver could and allowed me to slide into the backseat. I didn’t move far. Rather than sitting on the right side, I remained in the middle, close to him as he sat on the left.

“You know, since we’ve been out today, I’ve yet to see you use your phone for anything other than the camera. How do you get the calls to suddenly stop coming?”

“I don’t. It was on airplane mode.”

“Seriously?” My eyes widened at the revelation and he smirked in response to the initial shock.

“Yes. I took it off when we returned to the hotel and I put it back on while I was waiting for you to come downstairs.”

“But why? I don’t mind you using your phone or taking important calls. It’s understandable.”

“It’s nice that you don’t mind but I’d rather not. No one’s dying. If there’s an emergency, they know where I am.” My fingers tapped along my exposed thighs and I thought about my own phone that I’d left on vibrate. Most of my calls were from my mother and there was one from Heather asking me about the details of my almost completed plans for her bachelorette party and I rushed her off of the phone before she could began to meddle about what’s been happening here. I hate having to explain myself; especially to a giggly and giddy audience.

“Having you been sleeping well?” His eyes panned over to stare into mine and he silently questioned why’d I wanted to know.

“I’m asking because you work really hard. You deserve to sleep in and just have some time to breathe. Like I told you, you need to live. You can’t be all work and no play. Are you sleeping? Has this been okay for you?”

“I slept in this morning. I got some much needed rest and I lounged around a bit. It was nice. How about you?” I shrugged. A part of me wanted to lie to him and keep the medical troubles to a minimum but I hate to start what can easily spiral out of control.

“I sleep when my body allows me to. After the TIA it’s became very hard to do so without taking a pill. I mistakenly left them in my medicine cabinet. It’s okay though. I slept for a few hours last night.” His dark brows furrowed as he frowned and his blazing eyes peered into mine.

“So you suffer with insomnia?”

“I guess so. It’s a side effect. The hand, numbness here and there in my side, my speech slurs every now and then. It hit me a little harder than it was supposed to. That’s what the doctors say. My hand is at like ninety two percent. I still work on it, though I’m not sure if I’ll ever reach the full capacity I once had. They talked about surgery but I’m not interested. The hand is too delicate. I did and still do my own speech therapy and I’m much better. The numbness is occasional. I could have been dead, so insomnia is the least of my worries. You know?”

“But sleep is important.”

“It is and I’m working on it. I’ll get better.”

“Are you sure you’re working on it?” His intense glare didn’t falter. Instead, he placed his hand over mine and just about dared me to lie to him.

“I am. Seriously.”

“Good. We need you around for a long time. You have a lot to do before you’re old and grey.” I chuckled at the though of it. I do have a lot to do and I’m still trying to figure out what all of it will be.

Silence filled the car and we stared out of the same window until the car suddenly came to a halt. Dante couldn’t move fast enough. Within seconds of him exiting the car, my heeled feet jogged as quickly as they could until I was close enough to be face to face with the tower of dreams, hope, and romance. Though I looked up at it, it felt as if it was peering down on me, while miraculously shinning brighten than any sky in the darkened sky. The beauty of it is a testament to the capability of man kind and it’s power reigns as it stands in within it’s realm. I cannot differentiate between the natives and tourists but I could only wonder if people are viewing this in the same manner that I am. Can they feel the magic?

“Can you believe this?” He hadn’t been standing along side me like I expected. Instead he was behind me, quietly taking photos of me becoming one with the structure.

“Believe what?”

“This. All of this. How beautiful.” As I turned, the flash of the camera quickly beamed onto my face and vanished within a second. Had it been anyone else, I would have shielded myself but these moments are worth being captured. I’d like to look back on all of this one day and be proud of myself for seeing all that I’ve dreamt of.

“It lives up to the hype?” His eyebrows rose as he questioned me and I quickly nodded my head.

“And then some. This is awesome. Wait until I show my mom.”

“I know it’s dark but I think the pictures will turn out great and you look incredible. Stand right there. You can send these to your mom later on.”

“And a selfie. We have to take selfies.”

“And a selfie, Autumn.” He playfully rolled his eyes and pointed at the spot once again.

“I said selfies. That means more than one.”

“Yes. Selfies.”

Once he gave me the confirmation that I’d been aiming for, I obliged his request and stood in the exact spot that he’d chosen. With both of our phones in his hand, he alternated between capturing different angles of me and photographs of the tower itself. Yet again, he’d shown me a hidden talent. Who knew that someone could be so gifted at taking photographs on an iPhone. He turned what are usually the most ordinary pictures into something out of a Parisian tourism catalog. He’d even slightly edged out my selfie skills but I’m only giving him the credit for it because his arms are extend further than my own and he’s able to capture more than I can because of that bodily characteristic. Before leaving, he finally caved and allowed me to take three pivotal shots of him. I figured I’d print one when we returned home, frame it, and gift it to him as a piece of Paris for his office. It’d be a small token of thanks for his hospitality in a city that belongs to neither one of us. He’s made me feel at home.

Yet again, he gifted me with another breathless moment as I nearly sat on the edge of my seat taking in the musical. The orchestra took control of my body as I swayed and mouthed along to every single song and the intricate and stunning movements of the performance artists captivated my eyes. I was in a trace throughout the performance; imagining myself on stage with all of them, twirling and happily allowing my body to move along to the infectious sounds on it’s own accord. The smile on my face remained in tact from the very moment the curtain opened and it didn’t falter when it closed. Instead, I cheerily sang along to myself as we exited the theater and even in the car on the way back to the hotel. I became a source of entertainment for Dante, leaving him filled with laughter as he listened and watched the hopeless romantic within me blissfully pour out within the streets of the city it belonged in. I can be that here. I can be Leslie Carson, Audrey Hepburn, Ingrid Bergman, and Donna Reed. Even if it’s by myself, I can marvel in all of it. Even if it’s temporary, I’m thankful to be able to be the whimsical woman I became on a huge university campus in Los Angeles, California.

“You’re right. Your view is better.”

I slightly leaned over the rails and peered out at the Eiffel Tower as it stood in a short distance glimmering into the late night. A faint wind blew, flushing through the silk slip dress I changed into for comfort upon my arrival to my lavish suite. I planned to give Dante a break from the exhausting person that is myself but he reminded me of the invitation he extended earlier and I obliged. Warm Chocolat Chaud à l’Ancienne and macaroons awaited me and we enjoyed the midnight snack while lounging out on the terrace and taking in the wondrous view. The heat radiating from his lanky frame served as the warmth for my own and the sound of the city was the soother.

“I figured you’d appreciate it.”

Oh, I do. I certainly appreciate it; all of it. The view is second. He is first. I appreciate him more; more than I want to.

More than I need to.

My heart wildly thumped against my chest as my stomach filled with a ravenous rage of flutters. My lips quivered. My core tingled. My flesh shivered. My mind withered. I’m becoming undone, without a flicker of mercy, by my fantastical mind.

Dear, God.

Help me.

[a-patheticapathetic]

Nine Inch Nails/Yaggenhimen - The Downward Spiral: Review

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3bY3GGfqp7g

Alright, I think I’ve had enough time to reflect on this album. Time to do a review. And not just one review; I want to go over the original album, as well as an incredibly impressive full cover done almost entirely by one person. Linked above is the cover version. I assume that you can find the official version yourself. I recommend that you get a version with no gaps in between songs, nor risk of ads playing and breaking the flow.

Before you listen to either version of the album, you need to know a couple of things. This album is incredibly dark in both tone and sound. It is at times abrasive, angry, and totally devoid of hope. Depression and suicide are the main themes of the album. If you don’t think you can handle this, don’t risk hurting yourself. If you think the actual sound of this album will be too harsh for your tastes I would recommend listening to these songs, in this order: Closer, Heresy, Reptile, and March Of The Pigs. If the things you heard interested you and did not hurt your ears too badly, you can probably make it through the whole album.

I’ll be reviewing these albums in two parts: First, I’ll go though the NIN version like usual. After that, I’ll go through the Yaggenhimen, but instead of stream-of-consciousness writing, I’ll note down the differences and decide whether the cover is better, worse, or somewhere in between.

Alright. For those who are ready, let’s begin. 

(Also, fair warning: The loudest and most abrupt this album gets is at the very beginning and the very end. I’ll put a warning before the last song and tell you exactly where it happens.)

Mr. Self Destruct - 7/10

We begin the album with a looped audio clip of a man being beaten, taken from the movie THX 1138. Fairly fitting, given the journey ahead. Immediately following this is the second-most violent noise on the album, and the start of the song proper. I still can’t tell how much of this is physical instrumentation and how much is synthetic. Things go about as you’d expect up until the end of the second chorus. At this point the volume plummets in an instant, and the strange and eerie noises buried in the background hint at the subtlety NIN is hiding underneath all the violence. Trent is also showing off some serious vocal talent here, managing to sing quietly but still maintaining that feeling of insurmountable rage. When the anger comes back, it does so with more graduality. Listen to how the response vocals (”and I control you”) are distorted; they’re barely even recognizable. As the chorus repeats, a layer of static slowly rises, eventually all but drowning out the rest of the song. This too drops in an instant into the outro, a strange and unintelligible spaghetti loop of distorted guitars. This goes on for a bit, before cutting to the next song.

Piggy - 8/10

After a pronounced sigh, hey pig. The silence of this song relative to the cacophony of the previous is almost shocking. It also gives us more time to bask in all these little samples hidden in the background. The production on this album, despite how dirty it sounds, is unbelievably meticulous. Listen to the drums now; they’re about to change. After chorus 2, a pause, then a second, much louder drum track comes in. This is a solo performed by Trent himself. While it shows mercy at first, it quickly devolves into tempos and random beatings that have little rhyme or reason. And as the mantra “nothing can stop me now” is repeated, a gentle synth line begins, way up high in the background. This is the first appearance of the Downward Spiral motif. Pay attention moving forward; it will appear several times over the course of the album. Lay back as everything but the motif fades away. The spiral has begun; now, down is the only way to continue.

Heresy - 7/10

Instantly we’re hit with a wave of 80s synth, then a punishing programmed drum beat. Trent’s recorded double vocals here; one for each ear, and neither is quite right. More noises appear and we hit the chorus; while it may seem edgy today, this was released in the mid-90s. It drove conservatives absolutely insane because back then not many people were saying things like this so unabashedly. Also, while it’s hard to hear, the rhythm guitars are playing the motif during the chorus. There’s also a sample of a cheering crowd during the solo. Still not sure if it’s a guitar solo or a synth, or something in between. As the last chorus comes around and another, more distorted Trent comes out from beneath the mix, the synths give up and make way for the distorted guitars.

March of the Pigs - 9/10

The beat here is the fastest NIN have ever written, and it fits the panicked mood of this song. This is made clear when the rest of the instruments suddenly jump in, and the screaming crowd is back in full force. Trent is basically just yelling commands through a megaphone here, and there are also stranger voices creeping in the prechorus, seemingly talking about him in the third person. This all then fades as we approach the chorus. The distortion echoes and recedes, giving way to a sinister synth bassline. Then, the chorus. All the pigs are all lined up. And then...

Yeah, it was pretty clear that wasn’t going to last. This time, there is no mercy; the song kicks back with full force, and repeats in the same way through to the chorus. This time, the piano stays for the ride. Somehow this is even more threatening than the loudness of the rest of the song.

Closer - 9/10

The one everyone knows. This iconic drumline is actually sampled from Iggy Pop. The introduction of the vocals and synthbass essentially turn this song into the dictionary definition of sex. Then the chorus, which for better or worse, everyone can sing along to. It’s after this that things begin to get really interesting. A strange, ominous, distorted string line floats just out of reach for the next verse, and Trent’s delivery gets much more desperate than sexy. The next chorus is the same as the first, but the bridge is notably more barren and atmospheric. A heavily distorted guitar line slowly wades in, then vanishes as the final vocals come in. Trent is buried deep in the mix and devoid of emotion, and is essentially delivering prose rather than singing. Afterwards things begin to build up, with more aggressive synths, guitars and drums adding in. Then, the motif appears again, calling out like a hellish chorus line before everything else drops away. The motif is now more like a single string, high up in the sky, under so much tension that the slightest touch could break it. An odd wind spins around your ears as we cleanly transition into the next song.

Ruiner - 8/10

As the last note rings out, we get one of the coolest drumlines on the album combined with some strange, ghostly samples. A quick synth accompanies Trent on the verse, and distortion joins him in the more angry pre-chorus. Then, we get a great wall of shredded synth, almost like the devil’s brass section. Trent is almost muttering here in contrast to the noise around him, but he’s crystal clear above it. The verse and prechorus after are slightly more unkempt, leading into the last chorus. Here Trent has lost his composure and is now shouting along with the world around him. Both he and the song then trail off into a calm bassline and crying synthetic wind. And then... an honest-to-god guitar solo. A pretty fucking good one too, with a very nice bluesy distortion filter. At the end it ramps up into the outro section, a marching drumline, driving bassline, and open synth. As the ending mantra begins, the wall of hell trumpets return. This repeats several times, with Trent getting cut off at the end. 

The Becoming - 6/10

Sharp samples are used in this intro as percussion over a menacing piano line. These are replaced with straight synth as some very punchy drums come in. Also, the screaming. That’s gonna be happening for a while. By this point in the album the noises are getting more industrial, as noted by the percussion. We continue in this discomfort through a couple verses and choruses, until the screaming and drums are replaced with a nice little acoustic guitar and strange warped noises that may at one point have been human. This doesn’t last too long until we’re dropped back into the song proper with a nasty distorted synth solo. Then this song’s mantra begins, and it’s not the most uplifting thing either. Which gets even worse when the vocals are suddenly pitch-shifted super high up, almost making a mockery of the message. Then, of course, we end the song by going back to the nice acoustic chords, although some heavily mutated noises are still flailing around. This fades into the clicking beat of the next song.

I Do Not Want This - 6/10

The true beat replaces the clicking heard in the last song, and a somber piano line plays while Trent sings. The verse-prechorus here is much more restrained than we’ve heard for most of this album. Then, after a refrain, the NIN we know comes back. Through the next cycle the drums begin to get more intense. The drop here keeps hitting us with the drumline before we get a “solo” that’s pretty much just distortion beyond the point of instrumentation. Makes some pretty cool noises though. Then, through the remains of that, another mantra crawls out. Increasing in volume with each repetition, a guitar joins in as Trent’s voice gets more and more distorted. Then, the most controversial song.

Big Man With A Gun - 6/10

Right off the bat we’ve got the most unsettling sample over a gunshot drumline. Huge chorded waves of distorted synth come in as Trent gets louder and more violent. Everything starts going off the shit end, and

A Warm Place - 7/10

No, your album didn’t break. That’s actually the transition. Amazing. Here we have the calmest song Trent had anything to do with in the 1990s. There are no lyrics here to analyze; just close your eyes and float away. You’ve reached the eye of the storm.

Eraser - 9/10

This is the point in the album that makes it a masterpiece. This song. The build and pacing here is absolutely impeccable. I hope you enjoyed the respite of the previous song because we are now reaching for the bottom of the spiral. There is no peace to be found here. Need you. Dream you. Find you. Taste you. Fuck you. Use you. Scar you. Break you.

Reptile - 7/10

Here is where NIN puts the “industrial” in industrial metal. Half of this song is basically just machinery to music, especially the percussion. The main message the sound of this song gives off is dread. Dread in musical form. Something terrible is ahead, and behind, and around. Trent’s voice is the only human or recognizable thing left in this soundscape, and even he is becoming robotic. It’s like wandering a mid-fallout wasteland at sundown, with no knowledge of what may come out at night. The bridge here is a cruel joke. A sample of what sounds to be a girl in distress, and the hint of a calming piano, snatched away. This is essentially the sound of the last act of Spec Ops: The Line. At the last repetition of the chorus, another version of Trent can be heard screaming from behind a wall, before...

The Downward Spiral - 9/10

Here we are. This is the end of the spiral. Over a weeping machine and the buzzing of flies we hear the motif, one last time, on an old acoustic guitar. Then some oddly warbled chords come in. After that, we reach the bottom. 

Okay. This is your warning. At the end of this next song, the last song, is a jumpscare that turned me away from NIN and all of their works for several years. It comes at the final verse, on the final line. The lines before it are, “If I could start again / A million miles away / I would keep myself...”. Then, exactly at the start of the next line, a sound that was engineered to be the scariest sound on the album plays at the highest volume they could reasonably push. Fortunately the rhythm is consistent and it’s relatively easy to predict when the noise will happen. Hopefully I can lessen the shock for those that continue on. I’d still recommend you turn your volume down at the line “If I could start again”, if not before even starting the song.

Hurt - 7/10

This is what lies beyond the spiral. A song you may know by a different artist. While it may seem calm on the surface, it is designed to prevent true peace. The sound echoes between each ear at the verses, almost as if it’s spinning very rapidly around you. The chords sound wrong, somehow. This is much more apparent in chorus 2, as they seem to whine like insects. Then, the ending. Brace for impact, everyone. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Alright. It’s quite a bit later than I expected and this has taken a lot longer than I thought it would. Still, I don’t want to stop for the night and give myself any more opportunity to procrastinate. Let’s finish this now.

Yaggenhimen (BassistBob) Cover Review:

Destruct: +,-

He actually didn’t copy that intro from NIN: He took the same sample and remade it himself, in the same way Trent did. The verse/chorus here is actually WAY different from the original and I think it sounds cool as hell. It’s much more subdued instead of in-your-face, and feels more threatening and insidious as a result. Great work there. The bridge is a very good recreation of the eeriness of the original. After this point it falls flat a bit. He just doesn’t have quite the edge Trent does in the buildup. Also, the distortion wave at the ending is missing, and the guitar loop doesn’t sound as demented. Still I’d love a version of this song that’s the Yaggenhimen version at the beginning, and switching to the NIN version at the bridge. 

Pig: ~,-

Very nice work here. There’s some good spooky sampling going on in verse 2. Before that, it’s close to equal to the album version. However, the drum solo kinda loses here. It’s nowhere near as loud and overpowering as the original. Although, he adds a distortion effect to his voice near the end that I think adds a nice bit of foreshadowing. The use of a guitar for the motif at the end is cool.

Heresy: ~~

A really cool rendition of the synths here as what appear to be sampled acoustic guitars. The recreation of the percussion is also top-notch. The break is more minimalist, which really allows the bassline to shine. I do wonder how he got that sound; it sounds sick as hell and apparently came from a plastic flute, of all things.

March: -

Unfortunately, this one doesn’t go so well. Bob’s voice just can’t measure up to the edge required to match Trent’s delivery. The choice to switch the piano in the break to acoustic guitar is interesting, but it really doesn’t have the same effect. The piano in the original is essential in making that drastic shift from NIN violence to safe, contemporary pop song. Nice harmonics at the end though.

Close: =

I mean, it’s just Closer. He almost perfectly and exactly matched the NIN version in every way. It’s absolutely incredible. From the same Iggy Pop sample all the way to the blank tape noise. Every detail is remade. 

You know, it’s kind of a shame how this song has come to be known. Even though the chorus is pretty infamous, it’s for the wrong reason. This isn’t meant to be a “sexy” song. When you listen to the lyrics, it’s about the use of depravity to try and fill a soul. But then again, if you didn’t want the song to be sexy Trent, you probably shouldn’t have made the sexiest fucking drum/bassline in the history of music. Anyways.

Ruin: ~

Interesting that he chose to close the transition after Closer. In any case, the synth is a very good recreation, and as are the drums. Verse vocals aren’t quite there unfortunately. Apparently, the hell-brass in the chorus here are actually fucking harmonicas. I admit, they sound a little cheesier, but I can’t knock the man for having the balls to use a goddamn distorted harmonica. The solo is just as dirty as the original, despite apparently being played on an acoustic! Very nicely done. The outro percussion also sounds very grimy.

Become: ~+~

There is some SHIT going on in this version. At the start it sounds kinda silly because the acoustic used for the intro sounds almost like MIDI, but then the screaming starts. This is WAY more fucked up than the NIN version, it sounds like someone poked a microphone into hell and grabbed some samples. There’s one “NOOOOOOOO” that’s just a bit over the top though. The samples used during the acoustic breaks are also very interesting. At the end of each measure, it sounds like a couple of people are just kinda cheering, but in an insane, cannibalistic way. Also the distortion on the ending mantra is much more drastic than the NIN version and I think it works really well.

Want: ~,-,~

The switch from piano to acoustic guitar here works a lot better than it did in March of the Pigs. It feels just as natural as the original. The vocals and distortion during the chorus aren’t nearly as abrasive as the original though, and I think that works to Yaggenhimen’s detriment here. Though I was never a huge fan of this song in the first place; while I think Heresy doesn’t deserve judgement for the aging of the message, this song’s theme just kinda feels overdone. The strange samples before the mantra are done nicely here. 

Gun: -,~

The lack of the woman screaming sample here kinda loses some of the momentum the original had. It also spotlights the drums being programmed. Scott provides some good screams for the outro though. Nice work Scott.

Warm: ~

Solid recreation here. The choir-like “aaah”s are a great touch. It really only lacks some of the softness of the original’s production.

Erase: =,~,-

It’s hard to match up to the original, but I think Yaggenhimen really pulled it off here. The fact that he made the buzzing noises with a plastic cup is hilarious. I hope it was a red Solo cup. It is missing the distortion effect as “Kill me” is repeated though.

Reptile: =,-,~

Once again, he used the same sample Trent did for the intro here. The industrial sounds were apparently taken from Robocop but almost sound like the door sound effect from DOOM. Either way, it sounds excellent. Not sure about the sample used during the bridge though, it almost sounds like Elmo. At the end, instead of the muffled yelling from the original, he uses a strange time-distortion effect on another take of his own vocals. A really cool idea.

Spiral: -\+

This version overall sounds markedly scarier than the original. Whether that’s good or bad is probably subjective. For me personally, I like how the NIN version is much more sad than ominous, only really getting unsettling at the ending. Still, this version is very impressive.

Hurt: +

Oh yeah. A straight plus. Blasphemous it may be, I think this version is just better than the original. Hey, Johnny Cash already did it anyways. This one is somehow sadder and scarier than the original. The effect on the vocals during the chorus is such a good addition. Also, somehow the ending is even scarier than the NIN version, and even adds more meaning for me.

Overall this is just about the best cover album I have ever heard and am likely to hear, and it was done almost entirely by one guy. I hope he gets more credit for this because right now the video is only at 36,000 views and deserves so much more. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Okay, that’s it. I guess I’ll wrap up with my thoughts on the album as a whole.

The Downward Spiral is one of the most profound and important albums I have ever heard. It is so full of Trent’s blood, sweat, and tears that I can practically taste it. He suffered for this and that suffering is audible in ever second in this hour and 5 minutes. While I still cannot rate albums numerically, this album is undeniably a masterpiece. Thank you for those that made it to the end with me. For those who are now here at the bottom of the spiral and wish to go back, go listen to Lateralus for instructions on how to ride the spiral back up.

On a scale from “I lost my shit because of you”, to “I’m hard as fucking steel, I’ve got the power”, The Downward Spiral (predictably) gets a “Nothing can stop me now.”

[dustedmagazine]

Dust Volume 6, Number 7

Stars Like Fleas

The summer rolls on in a very peculiar way, with masks and zoom calls and brief, furtive trips to the grocery and the growing realization that normal is months, if not years, away.  Even so, the music remains excellent. Thank god it’s downloadable and accessible even in these strange days we inhabit. Here writers including Bill Meyer, Jennifer Kelly, Jonathan Shaw, Ian Mathers, Justin Cober-Lake and Ray Garraty consider improvised drone, precocious alt.country, experimental banjo tunes, rap metal and jazz.  Enjoy.

75 Dollar Bill — Live at Café Oto (75 Dollar Bill’s Social Music series)

Live at Cafe OTO by 75 Dollar Bill

Before 75 Dollar Bill put out those widely revered LPs for Thin Wrist records, Che Chen and Rick Brown made a series of tapes. You could pick them up at shows, packaged in a clamshell case with a business card advertising their services. 2020 is a plague year, so it’s going to be a while before anyone hires them for another party or a parade, but this download-only release fulfills similar functions. It captures the band at a particular moment in time, and it gives you a chance to throw a few bucks their way. Do so and you probably won’t be sorry, because the late 2019 tour documented by Live at Café Oto was unique in 75 Dollar Bill’s history. Chen and Brown did the whole run of shows with double bassist Andrew Lafkas, but they also did nearly all of them without essential gear. It wasn’t until near the end, when they played in England, that Brown was reunited with the big wooden box that is his main percussive instrument. Spread across three sets, this three-hour long album shows how swell they sound when they’ve got a committed agent of swing adding his subtle shift to their Bo Diddley meets Mauritanian wedding music groove. If you know I Was Real, you’ll recognize many of these tunes, and you’ll likely appreciate the differences that 75 Dollar Bill works and reworks upon them.

Bill Meyer

  Bandgang Lonnie Bands \ Bandgang Javar – The Scamily (TF Entertainment \ Empire)

After Bandgang broke up, Lonnie Bands made a successful solo career. His only misfortune, apart from a murder rap prosecutors tried to stick him with, was that he picked up a no-talent partner Javar. Here, surrounded by aggressive but undistinguished artists Mascoe and Paid Will, Lonnie hasn’t learned lesson. Thankfully, Javar makes his presence on The Scamily scarce, and the second half is basically Lonnie’s solo effort with some guests. As usual, Lonnie makes himself busy in illegal activities: drugs, scams, pimping, firearms. He neatly sums up his bad deeds on “Me Too”: “You on that bullshit? Me too.” The Scamily is not that focused as last year’s KOD but Lonnie, with his slick rhyming and catchy hooks, always reinvents a bad man’s lexicon.

Ray Garraty

 Sammy Brue — Crash Test Kid (New West)

Sammy Brue is no longer quite the wunderkind he was when he released his first full-length at 15, but he is still quite impressive here on the follow-up, hitching the spit and fire and wordy angst of, say, Ezra Furman, to the downhome pyrotechnics of Bob Log III. “Teenage Mayhem” explodes with teenage aggression, building out a twitchy blues riff into a monumental rock chorus, while “Crash Test Kid,” is softer sonically, but just as unflinching in its narrative. “Skatepark Doomsday Blues” is epic and grandiose but carries it off, infusing an old man’s blues progressions with the eruptive feelings of young manhood. All the signs point towards Brue growing into his art. He’s already channeling raw emotion into sharp song structures and lyrics without sacrificing their force. It’s a drag getting old, but it doesn’t have to be a step back.

Jennifer Kelly

 John Butcher — On Being Observed (Weight of Wax)

On Being Observed by John Butcher

English saxophonist John Butcher has a deep and diverse discography, much of it on CD. Since the standard of his playing is so high, and the settings and accompanists he selects so diverse, they’ve never been merely about documentation; you’d have to look hard to find a dud on the shelves. But as format preferences, economic shifts, and that damned virus turn everything upside down, Butcher has, like everyone else, found himself suddenly with plenty of time to comb through the hard drives and reassess the music stored there. And since CD manufacturing and distribution has been snarled up worldwide, what better time to transfer some of it straight to yours? On Being Observed comprises six solo performances recorded between 2000 and 2006, and you could not ask for a better introduction to what he does on his own. It features him in the studio, at a jazz festival, and in some unusual acoustic environments which afford a number of ways to understand what it means to read the room. Whether he’s playing to an audience or a 20 second delay in a dis-used gas storage facility, acoustically or amplified, using a soprano or tenor sax, Butcher’s tone is unmistakable, and his sense of how long to develop ideas and how to develop them is peerless.

Bill Meyer.

 Carling & Will — Soon Comes Night (self-released)

Carling & Will (banjo player Carling Berkhout and multi-instrumentalist William Seeders Mosheim) have spent the last few years working out new twists on old-time music. Their debut album Soon Comes Night takes another a step forward from their previous, more traditional sound. Much of the album relies on the interplay of banjo and electric guitar. The pair don't go for outre sounds, but Mosheim provides textures for Berkhout's banjo playing. “Lillie's Lullaby” offers a highlight, not only in its prettiness, but in its revelation of Berkhout's idiosyncracies as she shifts in and out of more typical patterns. The album in itself makes for a lovely collection of songs, but it has both the ups and downs of an act starting to find itself. Carling & Will have a distinct voice, and the more they work to develop that (probably by letting Berkhout get odder and Mosheim explore his voicings a little), the more impressive they'll become. If the pair decides to just focus on smaller updates to mountain music, they've already shown a worthy artistry in that.

Justin Cober-Lake

 Cloud Rat — “Faster” (Self-released)

Faster by Cloud Rat

Like a lot of us, the folks in Cloud Rat have been cooped up behind walls, watching the world burn. But that hasn’t stopped them from making some terrific music. This new track, “Faster,” has been posted to Bandcamp as a benefit for Black Lives Matter-aligned organizations. The song is somewhat in the mode of their most recent EP, Do Not Let Me off the Cliff (2019). That record traded in the band’s characteristic grindpunk intensities for some weirdo experiments in dreampop, noise and gauzy gothic nightmare soundtracks. “Faster” isn’t quite as far out there, and longtime listeners of the band will recognize some of the textures of tracks like “Moksha,” “Raccoon” and “Luminescent Cellar.” The song starts and ends with some lovely acoustic finger-picking by guest musician Andy Gibbs of Thou. In between, there are clean vocals by Madison Marshall that border on the ethereal, and electric riffs that build and build toward majestic heights. Good cause, great tune.

Jonathan Shaw  

 Drakeo the Ruler – Thank You for Using GTL (Stinc Team)

Recorded through a phone line from prison, with beats later provided by JoogSZN, Thank You For Using GTL right after its release was named best prison album since Penitentiary Chances, by now classic joint effort by C-Murder (still incarcerated) and Boosie Badazz (now free). It was too strong a claim to be true. On that duo’s album you can hear a sense of doom hanging over them. When all hope is lost, there is only a prayer, and even that can get lost on its way to God. There was no tomorrow. Drakeo the Ruler, on the other hand, raps like there is tomorrow. Even rough sound of voice recording and “This call is being recorded” tags are more like a necessary sound effect and a gimmick rather than an effect of reality (he couldn’t do it any other way). Strip this tape of all these effects, and you end up with an ordinary rap album, exactly like others released by dozens every week. Maybe there is no reason to thank GTL. It did us a disservice.

Ray Garraty

 Holy Hive — Float Back to You (Big Crown)

These super laid back funk soul cuts stay well inside the pocket, except when they veer unexpectedly into indie-folk. The funk parts come from one-time Dap King Homer Steinweiss, whose loose but transcendent way with a groove can be best heard on “Hypnosis.” Paul Spring, the singer, brings in the psychedelic falsetto, more Justin Vernon than Curtis Mayfield, but still radiant and chilling. The title track plays like a lost 78 soul classic, Spring’s mournful melody wafting skyward as big loopy bass notes and splayed jazz guitar chords drop into a slink and strut of snare drum. That’s maybe what you’d expect from Steinweiss’ Brooklyn soul revivalist resume, but elsewhere, there are surprises. “Red Is the Rose” sounds like Tunng, all space-bopped folk magic and electro-pinging drums, and “Be Thou By My Side” is lattice-picked folk without the slightest hint of syncopation. Both sides of Holy Hive have their sweetness, but only the funk stuff buries a stinger.

Jennifer Kelly    

 Dustin Laurenzi’s Snaketime — Behold (Astral Spirits)

Behold by Dustin Laurenzi

Here’s an irony for you. Composer Louis Hardin, whose habit of dressing up like a Viking and hawking his wares on the streets of mid-20th century NYC turned him into a bona fide attraction, may have conversed with jazz musicians, and shared a record label or two with them. But he didn’t really like jazz. Nonetheless, jazz musicians liked his music back, and they still do. The melodies are graceful, but malleable, and the Bach-meets-powwow rhythms have plenty of productive implications for a percussionist willing to work between the lines. After years of study Chicago-based tenor saxophonist Dustin Laurenzi formed Snaketime, a project named after one of the composer’s rhythmic notions, that turned seven of his compatriots loose upon the Moondog book. Maybe loose isn’t quite the right word, since Laurenzi’s arrangements show deep respect for the original melodies and their exotic vibe. But there’s not a lot of music that can’t be made a bit better when you ask bass clarinetist Jason Stein to improvise from its foundations. This half-hour long tape adds four tunes to the seven on last year’s excellent LP Snaketime: The Music of Moondog, and any one of them could have made the cut if Laurenzi had been given enough rope to make a it a double album in the first place.

Bill Meyer  

 MachineGum — Conduit (Frenchkiss)

Like its Pepto-Bismol-pink cover, these songs seem a bit over-sweet and undernourishing at first, but damned if their synth and disco and art-rock grooves didn’t start to catch on after a few listens. The project, launched in New York City with the mysterious appearance of pink gum machines, is not what you’d expect from a Strokes offshoot, but give Fabrizio Moretti credit for branching out. Here tight, “O Please”’s sleek, wah-wah’d guitars and fat-fingered bass throws off a funk shimmy, but soft, dream-y choruses add an element of electro-pop introspection. “Act of Contrition,” by contrast, swells and swirls with gothy new wave drama, but also vibrates with indie earnestness; it’s like the National playing a New Order cover. If you’d told me a month ago, that I’d be enjoying a super clean, super precise synth-dance album by a member of the Strokes, I’d have laughed, but here we are.

Jennifer Kelly

 Phosphene — Lotus Eaters (Self-Release)

Lotus Eaters by Phosphene

Portland’s Phosphene drifts and drones in a satisfying vintage 4AD-ish way, the serene vocals of Rachel Frankel wafting out over intricate tangles of shoe-gazey guitars as Matthew Hemmerich pounds out motorik rhythms on the kit. This album, the band’s second, was written in the turbulent aftermath of the 2016 election, but it exudes a murky calm. In “Carousel,” for example, Frankel sings about how “everyone gets lost in their own power,” but the temperature remains cool, dream-like, lit by arcs of guitar sound and undergirded by a thudding mantra of bass (Kevin Kaw). The two singles run closest to pop. Bright, upbeat “Cocoon” is spiked with Spoon-ish piano chords, while “The Wave” damn near bubbles with girl pop exuberance. I can see why they’re leaning on those cuts, but I like the cloudy radiance of “Seven Ways,” the morose moods of “The Body” better.

Jennifer Kelly

 Sara Schoenbeck / Wayne Horvitz — Cell Walk (Songlines)

Cell Walk by Wayne Horvitz/Sara Schoenbeck

Bassoonist Sara Schoenbeck and pianist Wayne Horvitz built to their first duo release slowly. They've been playing together since the previous decade in Horvitz's Gravitas Quartet, working together in various styles. The bassoon doesn't necessarily lend itself to jazz, but Schoenbeck's experience with artists like Roscoe Mitchell and Anthony Braxton — as well as in various orchestras and symphonies — has revealed her fluency in different languages. Horvitz and Schoenbeck develop that approach on Cell Walk, mixing composed and improvised tracks, moving from jazz to classical and back again, happily residing in a new music space. The pair's chamber background comes to the fore more than anything else, but the artists' experimental ideas and Horvitz's occasional electronics keep the duo moving forward. The album mostly stays cool, although a few tempo shifts and Schoenbeck's varied tone create unexpected energy any time the disc starts to settle. Schoenbeck and Horvitz fill an unlikely niche, but they also make a good case for expanding it.

Justin Cober-Lake

  R.E. Seraphin — Tiny Shapes (Paisley Shirt)

Tiny Shapes by R.E. Seraphin

Ray Seraphin makes sweet, sharp songs out of guitar jangle and whispers that seem to nestle right in your ear. His first cassette under his own name after a stint in the slightly more abrasive Talkies kicks up a power pop dust and haze a la Luna or, more recently, Plates of Cake. Like these bands, however, he envelops smart, coiling melodies and wild spiralling guitar hijinks in daydreaming inchoate jangles. In “Streetlight,” Seraphin vamps and caroms in spike-y mid-temperature anthemry, crooning “And I won’t feel a thing,” and indeed there’s a misty, nostalgic remove around most of this album’s emotional content. Yet there’s also a classic pop shape that can’t quite be obscured by muttered, offhand delivery. “Fortuna” is the best bit, to my ears, a summer radio megahit heard from several rooms away, bittersweet and slipping away even as it plays.

Jennifer Kelly

 Stars Like Fleas — DWARS Session: Live on Radio VPRO (Amsterdam) (self released)

DWARS Session: Live on Radio VPRO (Amsterdam) by Stars Like Fleas

New York collective Stars Like Fleas are still gone, but the tracers and streamers left in the air by their passing continue to be entrancing. Whatever collapsed in the wake of their work on the follow up to their epochal LP The Ken Burns Effect can perhaps be glimpsed a little in the bulk of this first (and hopefully not last) release from what they describe as “a huge archive of live and session material.” As the title indicates, six of the 11 tracks here come from a radio session they did during their final tour (coming apart and leaving the final album unfinished upon their return to America). Along with a couple of Ken Burns highlights that session is all new material and it is as rich as anything they released during their lifetime. The collection is rounded out with some brief improvisations and another track intended for the final album, the 7” single “End Times”, and a wonderful performance of “Falstaff” from a Toronto show. Perversely and beautifully enough, the result is not only a must listen for fans of the group, it makes an excellent introduction for anyone who missed them the first time. Bring on the archives!  

Ian Mathers  

 Thecodontion — Supercontinent (I, Voidhanger)

Supercontinent by Thecodontion

 A death metal band entirely devoted to songs about ancient, paleolithic lifeforms and geological history? It’s not the most harebrained musical concept you may have heard — it even makes a sort of sense. What better musical genre to address such massive, atavistic and lumbering forms? Supercontinent is the Italian duo’s first LP, following 2019’s Jurassic EP. As its title suggests, this new Thecodontion record goes way, way back, to primal landforms, before continental drift assembled the earthball’s map into its current shape. Appropriately, the longest track on Supercontinent is “Pangaea,” named for the unimaginably huge late Paleozoic landmass. Thecodontion’s featured instrument is Giuseppe D’Adiutorio’s bass, which he variously thrums, hammers and shreds. He gets some pretty amazing sounds out of it, sometimes producing the soaring, moaning, keening sounds that Greg Lake coaxed out of his bass on the early King Crimson recordings. The proggy reference is pointed; Thecodontion’s high concept project smacks of prog’s grandiosity. But where prog shoots for the heavens, Thecodontion goes bone hunting. It’s interesting work.  

Jonathan Shaw

 Various Artists — Building A Better Reality: A Benefit Compilation (JMY)

Building A Better Reality : A Benefit Compilation by Various Artists

As Bandcamp’s choice to waive its portion of transaction proceeds in favor or certain needs and causes has evolved from an occasional to a monthly event, releases have started to appear which take advantage of both the event and the rapidity of production when no physical objects are being produced. George Floyd died under a policeman’s knee on May 25; this compilation was released just 24 days later, on Juneteenth. Brent Gutzeit of TV Pow secured 106 contributions from friends, friends of friends, and customers of friends — and that’s just the parties that this writer recognizes. They range in length from Kendraplex’s 58 seconds of metallic shredding to Joshua Abrams’ half hour of mournful clarinet and cathartic double bass. You’ll find acoustic protest music, swinging jazz, harsh noise, hip-hop, and a sound collage that includes sounds of protest and mourning. The participants include Simon Joyner, Jsun Borne, I Kong Kult, Jesse Goin, Chris Brokaw, AZITA, Keith Fullerton Whitman, and the Jeb Bishop Trio, along with many, many more. Have I listened to them all yet? Of course not! But the thing with a set like this is that you don’t need to. Put it into your shuffle play and it’ll yield surprises for years to come. Income goes to Black Lives Matter, NAACP Legal Defense Fund. and the Greater Chicago Food Depository.

Bill Meyer

 Michael Vincent Waller — A Song (Longform Editions)

A Song by Michael Vincent Waller

At first listen, you might not guess that composer Michael Vincent Waller’s new EP/song A Song is an improvised piece, and as the surrounding material on Bandcamp makes clear, that’s kind of part of the point. Composition vs. improvisation is the kind of duality where both sides are never really distinct, and Waller is both interested in the history of composers improvising and (possibly naturally) improvises in a way that’s not a million miles away from his compositions. Which also means that just on that first listen the 21 minutes of solo piano found here are frequently beautiful, whether patiently probing a set of arpeggios or momentarily going somewhere a bit darker and deeper near the end. Whether considered as work done around or between more composed ones or in its own right, A Song makes for both a fine follow up to Waller’s 2019 collection Moments and a brief thesis on the always permeable boundary between two methods of creation.  

Ian Mathers

[dustedmagazine]

Dust Volume 6, Number 1

A new year means new music. At least eventually, it does, though January is notoriously slow for album releases. Meanwhile, there’s plenty we missed from late (and mid and even early) 2019, so let’s dig into that for one last big Dust. Here we cover subcontinental LGBTQ gangsta rap, industrial clangor, string quartets, Welsh agitpunk, electronics, free jazz, blackened death metal and an odd, charming collaboration between Cate Le Bon and Bradford Cox (see photo). Writers include Bill Meyer, Jennifer Kelly, Ian Mathers, Tobias Carroll, Andrew Forell, Ray Garraty, Jason Gioncontere, Ethan Militsky and Jonathan Shaw.

Jeb Bishop / Alex Ward / Weasel Walter — Flayed (Ugexplode)

Flayed by Jeb Bishop / Alex Ward / Weasel Walter

You know a party is good if it carries on even though the organizer can’t show up. Bassist Damon Smith planned this encounter, which involved his long-term partner in intensity and chaos, drummer Weasel Walter; New England improvisational fellow traveler (at least until Smith moved to St. Louis a few months after this March, 2019 session) Jeb Bishop on trombone and electronics; and Alex Ward, a veteran of work with Derek Bailey and This Is Not This Heat, on guitar and clarinet. Since Walter has played with both of the other guys in and outside of the Flying Luttenbachers, when Smith had to drop out for scheduling reasons, he was confident that the trio could make something of both the opportunity to play and the space made available by the absent bass. He was right. Both the title and prevailing assumptions about Walter might set you up to expect a one-dimensional blowout, but there’s loads of listening and thoughtful, instant reacting taking place on each of the album’s eight, mostly pithy tracks. This music plays out like a combination of jujitsu and shuttle diplomacy, with players shifting between support and challenge, density and space, rapidity and reserve from second to second.

Bill Meyer  

 Cartel Madras — Age of the Goonda (Sub Pop)

Cartel Madras turns gangsta rap’s hyper-male, African-American-oriented bravado on its side, filtering the guns and blunts ethos through a female, queer, multicultural lens without diluting its violence in the least. Sisters Priya and Bhagya Ramesh, known as Contra and Eboshi, have lived in Calgary since childhood, but they immigrated from Chennai, India, once part of Madras, hence the name, hence the tricky scales and intricate, not-quite-Western rhythms of their rhymes. Age of the Goonda works in a spare, menacing way, dense, referential wordplay atop an undulating threat of sub-bass and the occasional spray of bullets.

“Goonda Gold,” celebrates cartoonish dominance, though with a South Asian twist. Little bits of Hindi harmonics decorate the bare architecture of synth bass sounds and cracking, stabbing percussion (augmented here by gunfire); the Cartel’s chant of “Gold on my neck I’m a Goonda/got guns in the air like a junta” puts a subcontinental spin on ghetto law. The clever-est word sprays come in “The Legend of Jalopeno Boiz,” where the duo references everything from Frost/Nixon to incel stereotypes, but the single “Lil Pump Type Beat,” is all hedonism, devious syncopation and sexual predation. Though wildly intersectional, these tracks make no concessions to soft, liberal ideas about how women/minorities/LGBTQ people wield power; they do it just like the men do, with guns. “Take off your top boy/somebody bring me my gun/that bag in the back of the jeep/you just a bitch on the run,” asserts one or the other sister in “Jumpscare.” What was that you were saying about women and nurture?

Jennifer Kelly

 CIA Debutante — The Landlord (Siltbreeze)

CIA Debutante-The Landlord by CIA Debutante

A new Siltbreeze record is a rare blessing nowadays. The label’s first release since 2018 comes from Paris duo CIA Debutante. The Landlord fits in nicely with the label’s storied '90s output, particularly the Shadow Ring. The electronics aren’t quite glitchy—they sound more like the batteries in a cheap toy dying. Still, CIA Debutante are savvy enough to avoid getting too clever with their sputtering, plodding, and whizzing, and they don’t go the easy route when layering incongruous sounds. There’s never the fatiguing sense that they rely on the same few tricks. It helps that their murky, paranoid vignettes are fully engrossing. CIA Debutante tap into something truly nightmarish on The Landlord, which is a rare accomplishment. Sure, plenty of music shoots for tense and creepy, but CIA Debutante have an exceptional gift for the uncanny, the kind of stuff that haunts you long after you’ve woken up and can no longer hope to grasp it. Ethan Milititsky

Decoherence — Ekpyrosis (Sentient Ruin Laboratories)

Ekpyrosis by Decoherence

Decoherence is a pretty good name for a band that locates itself in the liminal space between industrial music’s stomp and clangor and black metal’s astringent tumult. The band’s new LP (and first full length release) Ekpyrosis is at its best when its waves of distorted hiss, dissonant riffing and distant shrieks and growls threaten to rend the record to shreds. One imagines that if you found yourself in an aluminum ladder factory, amid the massive drills and extruding machines and metal presses and then removed your ear protectors, you’d hear something akin to this — especially if the place was possessed by demons of ill intent. It’s a well-crafted, ritualized chaos. The band is so insistent on a specific set of sounds and forms that the record’s long tracks tend to blur into one another. Which may be the point. Decoherence, indeed.

Jonathan Shaw

 Bertrand Denzler / CoÔ — Arc (Potlatch)

Arc is a two-part, album-length work by Bertrand Denzler, a Swiss-born, Paris-based saxophonist and composer. It is performed by CoÔ, a string septet led by double bassist Félicie Bazelaire. The ensemble’s composition is a sort of funhouse reflection of a string quartet, distorted towards breadth; it comprises one violin, two violas, one cello and three double basses. But there’s nothing comic about this music, which is quite beautiful in the same way as a slow winter sunset. Denzler’s method here involves the use of continuous sounds, but don’t call it drone. The players use both conventional and extended techniques to create a continually changing sequence of striated sounds. Naked scrapes and cavernous groans arc in formation, changing fairly frequently over the course of each piece. The result is immersive enough to let you get lost, but keep your ears and eyes open; you wouldn’t want to miss one moment of gradual transition. A note about circumstances — Potlatch, the label that released this CD, has slowed its production in recent years, and this is the only record it released in 2018. Apparently, the label isn’t wasting its time with unnecessary effort; Arc clears the necessity bar.

Bill Meyer

 Fujiya & Miyagi — Flashback (Impossible Objects of Desire)

One of the interesting things about Fujiya & Miyagi’s songwriting is that as the UK post-motorik outfit’s music becomes ever more focused and sleekly propulsive, frontman David Best has zeroed in on any number of little aspects of life disturb and upset the kind of cool pulse the band specializes in. Here it’s everything from violations of your “Personal Space,” the “Fear of Missing Out,” and nagging thoughts in the title track to the more political concerns of the closing lengthy workout of “Gammon” (which eventually, in one of the little touches that makes F&M’s music so addictive, settles on the “pure evil vibrating” of a dial-up modem). That doesn’t mean the band can no longer bust a groove just for the pure joy of it, as “Dying Swan Act” proves, but it’s the combination of those chops and the perceptive if increasingly jaundiced eye they turn on life that makes them such a unique and compelling act.

Ian Mathers

 Cate Le Bon & Bradford Cox — Myths 400 (Mexican Summer)

Myths 004 by Cate Le Bon & Bradford Cox

Intricate fancies turn just out of true in this pop-up collaboration between Cate Le Bon and Deerhunter’s Bradford Cox, the fourth in a series of joint EPs recorded under the auspices of Mexican Summer’s annual Marfa Myths festival (hence Myths 400). The two artists work in a skewed, peripheral vision take on artful pop, building interlocking boxes of percussion and whimsey in which fleeting glimpses of loveliness flit by. The song-i-est bit of Myths 400 is undoubtedly “Secretary,” a Weimar-decadent bit of mournful song hedged in clanks and clicks, strings and clarinets, and the odd combination of Le Bon’s pure art-song shiver and Cox’s less pristine, more grounded voice. Yet the rhythm-centered oddities are just as rewarding; resist the slap-bang fanciful-ness of growly-voiced, Cox-led “Fireman,” with Le Bon trilling off center arias in the margins at your own peril. “What Is She Wearing” bangs out disconsonant guitar tones in slightly off center patterns and tunings; it’s a wind-up toy’s existential crisis. Le Bon chants in a Middle European cadence, as the cut falls somewhere between early Michachu and a Kurt Weil song. It’s about the last thing you’d expect to emerge from the desert, eccentric, abstracted, playful and utterly urbane.

Jennifer Kelly

  Urs Leimgruber / Andreas Willers / Alvin Curran / Fabrizio Sperra—Rome-ing (Leo)

Urs Leimgruber has covered a lot of musical ground in a performing and recording career that spans over 45 years. The three musicians who join the Swiss saxophonist on this freely improvised encounter, which was recorded in Rome late in 2018, are well chosen to access aspects of that history and shape it into sound configurations that are quite present-focused. Quick, light-fingered, and restless, drummer Fabrizio Sperra keeps things in constant motion. Swiss guitarist Andreas Willers stirs chunks of almost rock-ish noise and sprinkles stinging, pure-toned notes into the mix that give the music heft without slowing it down. Alvin Curran, an American keyboardist and composer (and member of MEV), draws on classical more than jazz elements in his piano playing; there are moments where he stubbornly erects a structure that the other musicians must either inhabit or work around. But his sampler also enables him to inject the sounds of other places. Shifting between tenor and saxophones, Leimgruber drives quickly spiraling phrases through the open spaces and uses astringent, distressed tone-shards to suggest where there needs to be more space.

Bill Meyer

 The Master Musicians of Dyffryn Moor — Music for the National Health Service (Amgueddfa Llwch)

Music for the National Health Service by The Master Musicians of Dyffryn Moor

When I was a younger punk, I would sometimes take in the phenomenon of bands’ whose lyrical explanations would take longer to deliver than the playing of the actual songs. And while I haven’t seen this crop up much recently, I feel like that aesthetic is alive and well when I visit the Bandcamp page of The Master Musicians of Dyffryn Moor, which includes a terse essay about the dangers facing the NHS under the current British government. This new EP follows two excellent full-lengths, Cerddoriaeth Ddefodol Gogledd Sir Benfro (Ritual Music of North Pembrokeshire) and Contemporary Protest Music, which blend the “instrumental music can be politically charged” feel of Godspeed You! Black Emperor with the intricacy of Steve Reich’s Drumming. These two songs continue in that tradition — furiously played percussion with a heated political subtext — but add a few tweaks to the sound the group has already established. Specifically, there’s a stronger electronic element here: you could probably get a dancefloor moving if you cued up “A spell to protect the NHS from those who seek to destroy it.” Its opposite number, “A hex on those who seek to destroy the NHS,” is built around a steady pulse. You probably can’t dance as well to that, but given the potential psychic damage incurred by dancing to a hex, would you actually want to?

Tobias Carroll 

 Overground Collective — Super Mario (Babel Label)

SUPER MARIO by OverGround Collective

The Overground Collective is a pan-European big band that is based in London and led by Paulo Duarte, a Portuguese guitarist/composer currently based in Scandinavia. If that sounds like a bit to get your head around, you probably need only wait a while to see what Boris’s Britain does to the freedoms of movement and thought necessary for such an endeavor to get off the ground. For the rest of us, it’s a nice illustration of why such fluidity is part of a better way. Duarte spent some time in England studying the ways of various improvisers, and recruited 17 to join him in realizing a set of compositions designed expressly for them. Certain of the participants come from free jazz (Julie Kjaer, Rachel Musson) or cross-genre experimentation (Yazz Ahmed), and you can hear the influence of such approaches in a few moments of freefall and adventurously conceived solos. But these elements fit into a structure that fits squarely in the tradition. Duarte sets tunes you could hum on grooves that’ll make you tap your feet, albeit quickly enough to annoy your neighbor if the floorboards happen to transmit your amateur approximation of his beats, and dresses them up in arrangements that could speak to a person who thinks that jazz’s lineage is a straight line from Duke Ellington to Maria Schneider. Music like this is a reproach to those who think that differences can’t be complimentary parts of a whole.

Bill Meyer

  Pictish Trail — Thumb World (Fire)

Thumb World by Pictish Trail

Folktronica from the tiny island of Eigg in the Hebrides, this latest album by Pictish Trail (Johnny Lynch) demonstrates the aesthetic value of both isolation and connection. Per isolation: Lynch lives on a windblown island with fewer than 100 other people. But as for connection, he is intimately involved in a northerly folk scene through King Creosote’s Fence Records and surrounded by local musicians. There aren’t that many folks on Eigg, but almost everybody plays an instrument. That kind of environment allows space for eccentricity and practice, which shows up on these expansive, dance-inflected, folk-shadowed cuts. Pictish Trail enlarges his subtle, personal songs with enveloping arrangements of rock sounds and club electronics; Kim Moore contributes some string arrangements and Alex Thomas of Squarepusher sits in on drums. “Double Sided” has the lilt and ramble of Three EPs Beta Band (Lynch has been out touring with Steve Mason lately), while gorgeous, glistening “Slow Memories” has the glitch, glow and aura of early Tunng. Thumb World demonstrates that music can be solitary without being lonely, introspective without self-absorbation. “You’re my solitude/I’m never so alone by myself,” sings Lynch, on the surprisingly rock-guitared “Bad Algebra,” underlining the fact that too many people (or the wrong people) can be isolating, and a few can provide the space for originality and experiment.

Jennifer Kelly

Pinkish Black — Concept Unification (Relapse)

Texas psych sludge prog metal duo Pinkish Black has been quiet for a little while; their last record, 2015’s Bottom of the Morning, was such a compact and potent summation of the miasmic bad vibes that Daron Beck (synthesizers, voice) and Jon Teague (drums) can summon up seemingly at will. No more than a minute into the opening title track of their fourth record you get a strong reminder of just that atmosphere; you might as well be in a haunted castle during the full moon. The closing, lengthy “Next Solution” also offers a reminder of what you might call classic Pinkish Black, but it’s the four songs in between that show Beck and Teague working to make sure there is always room to expand their dark palette. Whether it’s the relatively straightforward, thrashy “Until” or the prettily drifting “Inanimatronic” the results are always interesting. Bottom of the Morning remains the best introduction for now to this duo’s indelible sound, but once you’re a fan Concept Unification makes for a strong and promising follow-up.  

Ian Mathers

  Alexa Rose—Medicine for Living (Big Legal Mess)

“How I wish I were kinder, how I wish I were patient, I could learn all the songs on the gospel station,” trills Alexa Rose in a water pure soprano touched with shivery vibrato as she navigates the twists and corners of the title track from her lovely debut album. The Virginia-born, Memphis-based songwriter has a native’s familiarity with gospel, country and folk blues, but a fresh, sparkling delivery that makes these well-worn forms sound like she just thought of them. A lilting, effortless voice elicits spare melancholy sparked with hope and a crack band of Americana pros in tow – Will Sexton on guitar, George Sluppick playing drums and Mark Edgard Stuart on bass — fill out the songs without a bit of bloat. “Tried and True” enlists a cajun squeeze box and skittering banjo into Rose’s smart, unsentimental songcraft; country teems with strong women disappointed by love, but Alexa Rose is clear-eyed and strong enough to kick its ass without breaking meter. Gorgeous and empowered stuff.

Jennifer Kelly

Sartegos — O Sangue da Noite (I, Voidhanger)

O Sangue da Noite by SARTEGOS

This new release by Sartegos isn’t so much blackened death metal as it is a death metal record that morphs its shape and sound into black metal. The buzzy crunch and acrobatic soloing of opener “Sangue e Noite” gradually give way to leaner, meaner riffs, and by the midpoint of fourth track “Solpor dos Mistérios,” the record has fully taken on the properties of merciless, muscular continental black metal. The record may engage with various metal subgenres, but O Sangue da Noite is held together by Sartegos’s focus on Galician nationalist themes and celebrations of its landscape. The band is named for a miniscule rural hamlet in Galicia, and we are told that all lyrics are delivered in the region’s native dialect. Black metal and ardent nationalism don’t always make for the happiest of combinations. For those of us lacking fluency in the language, it’s tough to know what ideological charge the lyrics carry. And Galician regional politics feature a panoply of leftist and right wing factions, all with their own fiery arguments for the region’s autonomy. What sort of blood? Who sings in the night? Hard to say. But the music’s pretty good.

Jonathan Shaw

 Seablite – Grass Stains and Novocaine (Emotional Response)

Bay Area quartet Seablite’s debut album navigates the fuzzy end of indie pop with aplomb. Vocalists Lauren Matsui (guitar) and Galine Tumasyan (bass) are joined by drummer Andy Pastalaniec and ex-Wax Idol Jen Mundy on lead guitar for 11 tracks of chipper, summery shoegaze that sit easily alongside their most obvious influences Lush, Curve and Stereolab. Seablite’s songs are elevated by the interplay of twin vocals, clean guitar lines and bouncy bass lines supported by cymbal heavy motorik drums. There’s steel beneath the gauze as Mundy brings a little of the Idols’ shade to proceedings and Pastalaniec drives songs like “Pillbox” and “Polygraph” hard and fast down a euphoric freeway of top-down thrumming thrills. Yes, it sounds like a lot of bands you’ve heard and maybe loved but Grass Stains and Novocaine is so well put together and convincingly played it’s hard to resist.

Andrew Forell

 Seiðr — Intethedens Afsky (Nattetale)

Seiðr is a one-man band from Denmark. For just one man, he was awfully busy in the past year, having put out three records. Intethedens Afsky can boast of 10 tracks of dirty, primitive sound with bursts of melody buried immediately under a wall of noise. The inspiration for Seiðr’s music can be found in early 1990s Norwegian black metal, and Claus H. (that’s his name) cannot be blamed for being too much of a good student. Why shouldn’t he have learnt from his elders? The first two tracks here have samples from “nature,” and this gives us a hint to how Seiðr’s music can be interpreted: it’s ruptures in Nature’s hellish landscape. No one will be saved.

Ray Garraty   

 Spider Bags — A Celebration of Hunger (Sophomore Lounge)

SPIDER BAGS "A Celebration of Hunger" by Spider Bags

Spider Bags are still around, making a record every three or four years for Merge. But listening to this debut, it’s hard to imagine how they did it. If subject matter reflects life style, then the motto of these guys back in 2008 was, “We do the hard stuff so there won’t be any left for you. Say, can you loan me a couple of twenties?” But there’s a self-observing intelligence at work in these songs that suggests that self-awareness wasn’t totally obliterated, and a loose, rumbling energy to these roots-tinged garage-rock songs that confirms that the Bags spent at least part of everyday upright. Add to that engineer Brian Paulson’s knack for getting sound under challenging circumstances, which renders the live-sounding performances with sufficient but not distracting clarity, and you have a good soundtrack for the next time you want to drink yourself off the barstool in the privacy of your own home.

Bill Meyer

 Luke Spook — Small Town (Third Eye Stimuli)

Australian multi-instrumentalist Luke Spook steps away from the garage-punk of his Pinheads to conjure up lysergic specters from bygone times on Small Town. There are a fair number of freaked out boil-overs in the offing but the general tone is one of reserved simplicity. Whether sipping tea with the subject of “The Owl” or gathering around the fire with some fellow townsfolk on the title track, Luke channels Syd Barrett to the point of becoming nearly indistinguishable. But what makes Small Town more than just a covers album is Luke’s ability to vary the intimacy of his arrangements when needed. “All the King’s Horses” features a harmonica solo backed up with an (accidental?) chorus of distant, wailing hounds. Those types of moments lurk beneath the surface and inject a pastoral quality that feels authentic. More quirky utopian village than small town, the world Spook creates is a place to live rather than to pass through.

Jason Gioncontere  

 Nick Storring — Qualms (Never Anything)

Qualms by Nick Storring

Nick Storring’s latest recording started life as the score for a dance performance, and it is easy to imagine how it might function in that role. The composition, which spans both sides of a cassette, is episodic. Each moment feels unique unto itself, creating an environment in which things — maybe movements, or maybe something in your own imagination — have the space to happen. If you caught him onstage with the group Picastro, you would probably see Storring play cello, but for Qualms he plays a couple dozen keyboard, stringed, percussive and woodwind instruments. This allows similar themes and actions to appear and reappear in different garb. One stalking theme, for example, manifests once as a psychedelically dense string melody, and again played by gamelan percussion. Elsewhere passages of meter-less sound temporarily halt the progress. Moments of Steve Reich-like repetition surface, but instead of locking in like they might in a Reich piece, they quickly morph into something else. The same pattern of change that probably made this a handy program for a dance performance makes it an engaging pure listening experience.

Bill Meyer

 Sun City Girls — Dawn of the Devi (Abduction)

Dawn of the Devi by Sun City Girls

Dawn of the Devi holds an important place in the Sun City Girls’ discography. Released in 1991, it was the follow up to the much-celebrated Torch of the Mystics, which remains one of the more tuneful and easily-relatable records that Charles Gocher and brothers Alan and Richard Bishop ever did. As such, it had a job to do, and it did it well. That was to throw the followers who sandals instead of sturdy shows off the track. They did this by serving up a song-free album of jagged, totally improvised jams. While it did the job at the time, and in doing so established a pattern of giving the people something other than what they want, in retrospect, you can appreciate it for another reason. Dawn of the Devi makes a pretty strong case for the trio as a rock-derived improvisational ensemble. They sound like they’re listening and responding to each other, and their transitions from acidic splatter to swooning hesitation or heavy ambush make intuitive sense. It wasn’t always that way.

Bill Meyer

 These New Puritans — Inside the Rose (BMG)

Essex experimentalists These New Puritans return with a lush yet disquieting take on English pastoralism. On Inside the Rose multi-instrumentalist twin brothers Jack and George Barnett create an often lovely, occasionally portentous, romantic paean to nature and love. As the Barnetts move further beyond the fractured post-punk of their debut Beat Pyramid, this, their fourth album, elaborates the use of contemporary classical and choral orchestration into arrangements that channel Talk Talk. Jack Barnett’s voice is high in the mix and evokes David Sylvian at his most emotive. Beneath the sheen and swooning strings George’s drumming shifts and slides between Reichian repetition and fierce Taiko inspired rhythms. Inside the Rose is a meticulously produced but never fussy collection, welcoming the listener but refusing either to compromise or patronize. A serious but accessible work full of carefully considered details, some gorgeous melodies and an almost Pre-Raphaelite sensibility expressed in a thoroughly contemporary manner.

Andrew Forell

 Various Artists — No Other Love (Tompkins Square)

No Other Love : Midwest Gospel (1965-1978) by Various Artists

No Other Love is, like the several albums that Mike McGonigal has compiled for different labels, a sequence of gospel records drawn from one collection. In this case it is the collection of Ramona Stout. She culled the 45s that make up this set from her husband Kevin’s trawls of records that had spent years in Chicagoan basements. A graduate student who had spent much of her life outside the USA, she saw with clear eyes the grime of American urban poverty, and found herself deeply compelled by the discovery that hopeful music could grow in such decay. There are no big stars amongst these recordings. Even at the time they were recorded they would have sounded rough and behind the times production-wise — just electric guitars, drum kits, whatever piano or organ was sitting in the church where they were recorded, and congregants’ voices. But the fervor of yearning and the joy of release makes every track a transporting listen.

Bill Meyer

 WOW — Come La Notte (Maple Death Records)

Come La Notte by wow

Underground Roman duo China Now (vocals, drums) and Leo Non (guitars) recent album as WOW, Come La Notte (Like the Night), is seven tracks of 1960s influenced Italian noir cabaret high on atmosphere and drama. Now’s almost operatic vocals are at the forefront over skeletal brushed drums, minimal bass and restrained guitar. The band lulls then surprises with a spectral sax and bursts of crashing cymbals and feedback on “Niente Di Speciale” (“Nothing Special”), a keening gypsy violin on “Vieni Un Po’ Qui” (“Come Over Here”), middle eastern organ on “Occhi Di Serpente” (“Snake Eyes”). Fatalism drips from every note bringing to mind a low ceilinged club in the catacombs where refugees from the sun fill the air with smoke and their guts with grappa and cheap vino rosso as Pasolini scouts for rough trade and fingers grip switchblades concealed in socks. Come La Notte is a slow grower that draws you in even while it picks your pocket. Put it on and live a little vicarious danger in your own private La Dolce Vita.  

Andrew Forell  

[shes-soparticular]

Wouldn’t Fall for Someone I Thought Couldn’t Misbehave

Let’s just say jealousy gets the best of Shawn when he takes you to see one of your favorite musicians.

Warning(s): Heavy Smut.

A/N: Listened to Pillowtalk one too many times and then this happened.

Words: 4425

You're buzzing. Exiting the venue, the cool Toronto air provides a welcome reprieve from the flush you'd worked up dancing over the past few hours. In fact, your hips still have a little more swing than usual, the words from your favorite song still falling softly from your lips as you lean into your boyfriend. It's not until you lose your grip on his hand that you realize he's a half step in front of you. Then a full stride. Then several. You try increasing your pace, but between your short legs and the painfully high heels on the boots you're wearing, there's no way you're catching up. You always have to tell Shawn to slow down, and he always does his best, but tonight you suddenly realize his strides are purposeful. For the first time over the course of the night, you notice the tension in his jaw, in his shoulders. To be honest, you have no idea what has him in this sudden funk. As far as you're concerned, you'd both had a good time. He'd surprised you with Hozier tickets, one of your favorite musicians, and had seemed equally as excited to take you as you'd been excited to go. Reaching the car, your mind replays the evening, trying to pick out the moment that things took a turn for the worse. Maybe it's the gin and tonic clouding your mind but all you seem to recall is singing at the top of your lungs and being giddy as hell to briefly meet Hozier after the show. Settling into your seat, you instinctively reach for Shawn's right hand. He obliges, but only limply, and his eyes remain trained on the windshield.

"Did you have a good time, baby? Thanks for taking me." Maybe you're misreading the situation? Maybe after the long week of rehearsals he had, he's just tired. But the possibility of exhaustion being the only problem quickly dissolves as he pulls his hand out of yours and grips the steering wheel so tight you notice his knuckles turning white.

"Yeah, you're welcome." It's an innocent enough sentence, but his tone is short and sarcastic. You look over at him through narrowed eyes, half taken aback by his response and half perplexed as to the cause for the attitude.

"Okay wait, what the hell is this all about?" You gesture up and down his body, implying his demeanor. "What did I miss?"

"Really?" He scoffs, finally throwing you a sideways glance. "You really don't know?" Fact of the matter is, you're usually adept at reading people. Especially Shawn. After a year together, you can spot a fake smile from a mile away, can pinpoint the emotion in his voice with ease. But you're also not a mind reader, and tonight, you're completely lost as to how the two of you managed to have a wildly different experience whilst standing next to one another.

"No, help me out here. You're giving me all this attitude and I'm fairly certain I don't deserve it." Of course you guys have petty fights about things from time to time. Just last month you'd had a total blow out about him leaving dirty socks all over the apartment, he'd called you a nag, and he spent two nights on the couch before you both finally came to your senses. The important thing was that you always managed to make up, usually quickly, and always fiercely. In your opinion, relationships without disagreements were simply a result of apathy. Luckily, you two were anything but apathetic.

"So you think you should be allowed to totally eye fuck another guy and I'm not supposed to notice or care? That it?" Your head immediately whips to look at him, mouth wide. His bicep tenses as he grips the steering wheel even tighter. Even though you have no clue where he's getting this from, you know it's about to be one long night.

"Eye fuck? Who did I eye fuck? Hozier?" You're actually starting to burst into laughter now, which, cruelly you know is the absolute worst thing you could do in this situation. Even if he's wrong, even if you're going to prove that, laughing at his anger is only going to pour gasoline on the fire. "Calm down. I didn't eye fuck him. All I did was tell him I enjoyed the show. Am I not allowed to look someone in the eyes when I speak to them? Are you aware I can speak to another man without it being remotely sexual?" Now your blood is starting to boil. The double standard between you and Shawn has always been a sore spot in your relationship. Possibly even the biggest piece of baggage between the two of you.

"Are you kidding me? You were fawning over him. Touching his arm, going on and on about how much you love his new album. About how amazing his performance was. If I hadn't been holding on to your waist, you probably would have jumped him right then and there." He's still refusing to look your way, even as you shift completely in your seat to face him. Taking in his words, you're starting to put two and two together. This may be partially about some kind of perceived sexual indiscretion, but it's about so much more than that. Shawn was accustomed to YEARS of millions of girls fawning over him. Complimenting him. Wanting him. What he wasn't used to was seeing you fangirl over someone else, no matter how innocent. While this revelation should soften your heart a bit with the understanding that your man is just feeling less than, the opposite seems to happen. Your stomach tightens in frustration. This double. Fucking. Standard.

"First of all, I'm into his music, that's it. More importantly, girls touch you EVERY DAY. Every day. All over you. Holding your hands, touching your hair, pressing their faces against yours. We can't even make it to a dinner reservation on time because of your selfie rule. And I just have to grin and bear it, day in and day out. You think that's easy?" You're on a roll, maybe it’s the gin speaking, but this is all coming from a deeper place. A place you've always done your best to compartmentalize. "Don’t you dare come at me like this, because I was nice to some guy. I didn't do anything."

"It makes me wonder what you'd do if I wasn't there." His statement comes out quietly, but still dripping with resentment. "It makes me wonder what you do while I'm on tour." You're genuinely shocked that he just took it there. You've never been disloyal, you've never given him any reason not to trust you. So this fucking stings. You're not the one being literally followed to your hotel by the opposite sex across the world, you're not the one receiving screams of admiration simply for breathing. In what universe are you the one on trial for potential cheating?

"I'm not entertaining this anymore." He's struck such a chord in you that you don't even want to bother articulating your thoughts any longer. For the remainder of the drive, you glue your eyes to the road. In the midst of the heavy silence, he reaches for the radio dial and flips it on. As if the cosmos are playing some sick joke, the DJ introduces a Hozier song after mentioning that night's concert. His latest hit starts drifting through the speakers and because you’re clearly an unapologetic masochist, you reach out and turn up the volume. With the way this fight has progressed, you half expect Shawn to pull over right then and there and make you walk the final blocks home. You know he'd literally never do that, his prince charming complex would never allow it, but you're betting the thought is crossing his mind. Instead he just sets his jaw and pretends not to notice the song. Not to notice you singing along and drumming your fingers on the exposed skin of your thigh between your boots and your skirt. It's a sultry song and you close your eyes, head back as your hips start to move along to the music, ever so subtly. You know this is going to drive him up the wall and frankly, you don't care. Tonight you're going to match his pettiness.

He doesn't say a word the rest of the ride. Luckily, you reach the parking garage just as the song ends. At least now you can both retreat to different sides of the apartment until whatever this is blows over. The elevator ride takes an eternity, you wouldn't be surprised if the universe threw another curveball and stalled the elevator, trapping you in this fight. But eventually you make it to your floor and while Shawn is off in a flash towards the door, you take your time, making him hold the door open a little too long. As he waits, you notice his eyes travel down your body, focusing on the patch of bare skin between your skirt and thigh high boots. There's a familiar flash in his eyes and you know that tonight is going to take yet another turn. Disturbingly, your lower stomach tightens in anticipation of whatever is about to take place after that door shuts behind the both of you. You're still fuming, but no amount of anger can prevent you from going weak in the knees when he looks at you like that.

The truth of the matter is, you may be a fan, his biggest in your humble opinion, but you’d never been a stan. Before you two met, you'd certainly heard of him. Songs like Stitches and There's Nothing Holding Me Back were staples in your commute playlist but so were hundreds of other songs. Being a full five years older, you were just in a different place in your life when he first arrived on the scene. You were starting a career, living in a new city on your own, and you were past the days of following boy bands. Hell, Shawn would have been legitimate jailbait and thus wasn’t really on your radar.  Nevertheless, this was what made your relationship work. There was still an element of mystery when you first met, in fact he was enamored by the fact that you didn’t know every last detail about him. No, you treated him like a normal guy. You called him on his bullshit when necessary. Most importantly, you were secure. You had your own identify. You knew what you wanted. You could take care of yourself. You were strong. You weren’t the shrinking violet of a girlfriend who needed constant reassurance, who picked apart every comment on social media, who worried about what the world thought. In your eyes, you were just two completely normal (sometimes boring) people in love, one of which happened to have a unique career. No more, no less.

You’re expecting him to brush past you and park himself in front of his X-Box, but instead his hips push into yours until your back hits the kitchen island. His eyes meet yours for a moment, his hands ready and waiting at the bottom of your skirt. Without words, you know exactly what he’s asking when his gaze goes that impossibly dark. Ever the gentleman, he even finds a way to ask permission before completely railing you. Returning his gaze with a slight nod, his hands resume their path further up your thighs. His callused fingers hook into the sides of your panties and roughly drag the red fabric downwards without warning. They skim down your thighs and land at the top of your boots. “Red panties? Really y/n? And I’m the one just imagining things?” His voice is gruff, matching the intensity of his hands. Before you can shoot back a sarcastic retort, he has a firm grip on your hips, spinning you around with one quick movement. The sudden maneuver almost makes you lose your balance, but your hands catch the edge of the counter top just in time. Considering the fact that you can hardly ever shut up, you’re still thinking of a comeback as you hear him unbuckle his belt behind you and the telltale sound of his zipper traveling south. You clench at the sound, cursing yourself under your breath for the wetness he’s about to find. You want to have the upper hand, to be immune to his advances. But your body betrays you just the way it always does. While he hitches the bottom of your skirt up over your hips, you feel his cock pressing against your center. How the hell did he get that hard that fast?? And why is it that jealousy seems to get you two this goddamn horny? You’re sure that’s a question for your therapist, but right now, all you know is that your body will absolutely burst into flames if he’s not balls deep inside you immediately. “Are you going to fuck me or wh-”

Before you’re able to finish the sentence, he pushes into you with such force your words twist into a strangled moan. He immediately sets a punishing pace, slamming into you repeatedly while his fingers white knuckle your hips the way they had the steering wheel. Your clothed chest presses against the counter, the cool marble providing slight relief to your burning skin. There’s no kisses to your shoulder, no hushed affirmations or words of admiration, just pure, animalistic fucking. He’s claiming his territory even though you both know there’s no need. You’re so completely, miserably, passionately his. But tonight, the vision of you dancing and singing like a fangirl for someone else? It’s unlocked a deep insecurity in him and clearly, as a man, the only way he can deal with it is to fuck it out of his system. Somehow, his thrusts speed up even faster as he grabs one of your shoulders for leverage and you swear to god your vision is starting to go black. Even though he’s very, very cruelly ignoring your clit (this is a punishment, after all), he angles your hips so that his cock drives into your g spot relentlessly. You can hear yourself moaning, but it’s all intelligible nonsense. As your body climbs toward orgasm, you start pushing your ass back into him, trying to return the thrusts. When you’rt about to tumble over the edge of your climax, you feel him spill inside of you, his hips flush against your ass. He pulls out with the final twitch of his release, and even though your head is swimming, you know exactly why. This skirt, those panties, these boots? He wants to mark them. The next time you wear them, he doesn’t want you to think about the Hozier concert. He wants you to think about being fucked hard over the kitchen counter and his cum dripping out of you and staining that skirt, those panties, these boots. And he’ll definitely get his way.

Without a word, Shawn lets go of you and disappears to the bathroom, leaving you alone and bewildered. Not to mention totally high and (not so) dry. You’re not going to let him get away with this, no, but all things in due time. You know better than to try to reason with him again right now, while you’re both pumped full of adrenaline. So instead you pull your panties back up, kick off those damn boots, and get to making yourself a sandwich.

Shawn went straight from the shower to bed, while you stayed up and absent mindedly scrolled through Netflix. Despite being painfully wide awake, you eventually strip down and crawl into bed next to him. His back is turned to you and though he appears to be asleep, you know better. Running your finger tip down his spine softly, you press your cheek to his back. “Hey.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Do you want to talk about it?” You see him take in a deep breath and you know he’s trying to decide whether or not to open this can of worms. “We don’t have to tonight, but neither of us can sleep. So. Let’s not go to bed angry?”

He finally glances over his shoulder and shifts on to his back. You’re used to being completely intertwined in those sheets, a mess of arms and legs and your body aches for his. “I don’t really know what to say. I know this is stupid. But it just. How am I supposed to stack up against an artist like that?” Unfortunately, you know what he means. Shawn is wildly successful and his credibility increases by the day. But it’s next to impossible for him to shake that “teen popstar” label and seeing you go apeshit for a deep, bluesy artist didn’t help his confidence.

“You don’t need to. You’re you. You’re amazingly talented. Don’t compare yourself to anyone else, there’s no need.” You pull his hand between both of yours, lacing your fingers together. “I love you. I love your music. Nobody can do what you do. Just because I enjoy other artists doesn’t mean you’re not my number one. You know what your music does to me.” You place a tentative kiss on the hollow of his neck, inching yourself closer.

“I know, I do. But seeing you so in awe of him made me feel less than.” He rolls onto this side to look you in the eyes. This time, those brown eyes are soft and pleading. A complete 180 from the look he’d given you just hours ago. “I just want to be enough for you.”

Those words shatter your heart. How could he think he wasn’t enough? He’s your whole world. “Baby, you never have to worry about that.” Reaching up, you pull his face towards yours, placing a soft and sweet kiss on his lips. “As long as you stay you, that’s more than enough for me.” You can feel his body relax against yours, finally releasing the tension he’d been carrying all night. It’s an instant weight off of your shoulders. When you love someone, you carry their pain right along with them. Except for one thing, you’re still carrying some tension of the sexual variety.

“I’m sorry if I ruined your night, I shouldn’t have acted like such a jealous asshole.” His hand finds its way to your hair, cupping the back of your head. “I always have to be so careful of what I say and do, but with you, I just lose control. You’re dangerous.” He laughs softly, that gorgeous smile of his finally making an appearance. As much as part of you still wants to lay into him about that chauvinistic parade earlier, your heart has completely melted. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

Your eyebrow instantly raises at the possibilities. All of the boyfriend chores you’ve been begging him do, the obligatory trip to visit your parents, getting him to agree to binge watch the Bachelor with you…all good punishment ideas. But there’s really only one thing you have on your mind. With a sinister grin, you move to your knees and straddle his waist. “I can think of one thing.” You say, snapping the band of his boxer briefs. “I can’t believe you didn’t let me come earlier.”

His smile turns sheepish at your statement, oh so self-satisfied. He moves his hands to your hips, ready to roll you over and pay the orgasm he owes you, but you quickly grab his wrists to stop him. “Nope. I have a demand first.”

“A demand, eh? Alright, let’s hear it.” There’s a smug look on his face, but you already know he’s not going to be pleased with your contingency.

“You can’t touch me.” The minute the words leave your lips, his eyebrows knit in confusion. “I’m going to use you like you used me earlier. An eye for an eye.” Disobeying you, his fingers momentarily grip your hips harder, not wanting to let go. “I’m serious. Hands off. Otherwise I’m just going to sleep.” By now you can already feel his erection straining against the material separating the two of you. You don’t know how in the world he manages to get hard so fast, but you’ve always been deeply grateful. When you don’t always have the most time with your significant other, time is of the essence.

Hearing the determined tone in your voice, he resultantly drops his hands to the bed. With a devious smirk, you rock backwards so that your ass is firmly pressed to his crotch. You continue moving your hips back and forth, painfully slow, as you reach up to rid yourself of your shirt. You see his fists clench as your breasts fall free, knowing he’s dying to reach up and brush his thumbs over your dusky nipples. “See? It’s not so hard not to touch.” Running your hands up your sides, you cup your own breasts, head falling back as you give them a soft squeeze. Meanwhile, you grind your pelvis harder into his, a wet spot growing on your panties and betraying you once again. Although you want to act like you’re unphased, like you could dry hump all night long and stay in control of yourself, you both know that isn’t true. You’ve been waiting for this orgasm for hours and as terribly as you want to make him pay for his bad behavior, your pussy is in absolute objection. Sometimes that chick just has a mind and agenda of her own. You make quick work of the under garments dividing the two of you and perch yourself over his length. Rather than sinking down, you stop yourself centimeters short. Reaching down, you delicately press two fingers to your clit, rubbing yourself in soft, slow circles. Through hooded eyes, you see Shawn straining not to touch you, his hands balled in the sheets.

“Okay, that’s not fucking fair, babe.” His hands start to reach for your hips, but you once again grab his wrists. Leaning forward to pin them on either side of his head.

“I said no hands. If you can’t follow that order, I’ll get myself off.” He knows you’re PROBABLY not serious, but he doesn’t want to risk it. “Can I trust you?” Frustrated, he nods and returns his hands to his sides. With a wink, you return your fingers to your clit, dipping your hips just enough for the tip of his cock to enter you. But only the tip. You keep repeating this sway of your hips, only taking an inch at a time before letting him slip back out. He’s got the most tortured look on his face and you’re taking mental pictures to keep you company on the lonely tour nights. Just as you see his hands start to move towards you again, you sink all the way down, feeling that delicious stretch as he’s filling you to the hilt. A deep moan that sounds vaguely like your name escapes him and it’s by far your favorite sound in the entire world. You place your hands on his chest for leverage as you start to move your hips with more intention. You keep your pace a bit slower than the frenzied fuck he’d given you earlier, but the languid rolling of your hips is just as punishing. Leaning back, you let him take in the sight of you, his cock disappearing into your pink folds, your hair brushing across your nipples. As much as you want to remember this night the next time you’re in bed alone, you want him to remember too. Want him to yearn for it. For you. Before you know it, you feel your muscles burn with exertion. A piece of you is already regretting this whole “no touching” rule, but you need to make your point. Reaching down once more, you focus pressure on your clit, your eyes on his. Normally, you’d be talkative, telling him how big he felt inside of you, how hard you were going to come. But tonight you wanted your bodies to speak for themselves. Why let words get in the way? Your movements become less deliberate and it’s a frantic race towards your orgasm. Falling forward, you dig your nails into his biceps fully intent on leaving marks. He’s leaving on the next leg of his tour soon and you want all of those screaming girls to see your scratches appearing from under those goddamn tank tops. You want to make it clear that this man is thoroughly fucked by his girl back home, his girl with the particular taste. With that thought firmly in your head, you finally reach your climax, panting as you dig even harder into his skin.

“Holy shit, please, can I touch you now?” You hear Shawn whine from beneath you. Too spent to form words, you nod slightly as one of his hands snakes behind to grab hold of your thigh as the other presses against your back, bringing you flush against his chest. He drives upward into you for several more strokes, bringing on a second wave of your orgasm to join with his. You don’t like to exaggerate, but you could swear you maybe, possibly blacked out for a second only to come to as Shawn pushed his lips to yours. It’s the first time you’ve kissed since the concert and you would never say it out loud, but it in and of itself might be even better than all of the jealousy sex. There’s just something to be said about a makeup kiss, it can’t be matched.

Both covered in sweat and still trying to catch your breath, you nuzzle into his neck, a smile plastered on your face. His arms encircle you, holding you tightly. For no particular reason other than the absurdity of your relationship, you both start to laugh softly, peppering kisses across one another the way you should have hours ago. “If you thought tonight was bad, just wait until you take me to see Justin Timberlake.” You prop yourself up slightly so he can see you wiggle your eyebrows.

“Don’t even joke, y/n, you know my soft heart can’t take it.” And with that, he rolls you on to your back, lips capturing yours once more. You have a feeling the night isn’t over quite yet…and you couldn’t be happier.