#william plays rhythm guitar in the band ^^

[epicfroggz]

my design for Glamrock Spring Bonnie ✨ finished it just in time for Ruin heck yes

Faz Engineer: “Sir, we may have accidentally revived William Afton…”

Faz CEO: “Wh- AGAIN?! HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN TWICE?!”

[elliespassagerprincess]

backup dancer reader x guitarist ellie for a solo artist maybe?

Headcannons: guitarist!ellie williams x backup dancer!reader

masterlist

☆ Ellie never really talked to you, but she always noticed you during rehearsals—watching the way your body moved, sharp and intentional, like your muscles sang instead of her guitar.

☆ You called her “band girl” once with a smirk, and Ellie hated how much she liked the way you said it—teasing and out of reach.

☆ Her fingers would falter on certain chords whenever you danced too close to her side of the stage. Everyone blamed it on nerves. You knew better.

☆ You thought she didn’t like you—Ellie always kept her eyes forward, rarely spoke during pre-show meetings. But she was just trying not to stare too long.

☆ You once caught her sketching in her notebook. It was your silhouette mid-dance. She slammed it shut before you could say anything.

☆ When you laughed too hard around the other dancers, Ellie’s jaw would tighten. She told herself it was just noise. It wasn’t.

☆ Ellie used to tune her guitar when you were practicing—just so she could sit nearby without seeming weird.

☆ Everyone else went out after shows. You stayed back to stretch. Ellie did too. Neither of you acknowledged the timing.

☆ You once wore fishnets for a performance. Ellie nearly missed her cue. The solo artist smirked at her like she knew.

☆ There was one moment during a fog-heavy ballad where you brushed past Ellie’s shoulder. Your fingers grazed her spine. She couldn’t sleep that night.

☆ Ellie had your tour photos saved in a private folder. She told herself it was for artistic reference. It wasn’t.

☆ She’d memorize the way your hips moved during certain songs and accidentally play faster to match the rhythm.

☆ You once tied your top in a knot and Ellie watched like it was something sacred.

☆ Ellie learned how to play one of the dance songs acoustically—just because she liked imagining you swaying to it in private.

☆ She didn’t follow you on Instagram but checked your stories religiously.

☆ One time, you laughed at something she said. Just once. Ellie thought about it for days.

☆ Her bunk on the tour bus had a single Polaroid of you in the background of a group shot. She stared at it before bed like a prayer.

☆ Ellie once offered you a towel after a sweaty set, her voice catching when your hand brushed hers.

☆ Her knuckles went white when you mentioned an ex. “You guys still talk?” she asked too casually.

☆ She tried writing a song about you. Deleted it. Wrote it again.

☆ You caught her watching you in the mirror once. Instead of looking away, she smirked. “Like what you see, band girl?”

☆ You’d sit on opposite ends of the dressing room—never close, but always aware.

☆ Ellie hated when you wore red lipstick. It made her chest tight. You wore it more after that.

☆ During a soundcheck, you improvised a spin right near her amp. Her breath hitched.

☆ Someone joked about you two being “tour enemies.” Ellie laughed but looked wrecked.

☆ One night after a party, you tripped into her. Hands on her chest. Breath close. “Sorry,” you said. “Don’t be,” she whispered.

☆ She hated when the lead singer touched your waist during rehearsals. She had no right to feel jealous. But she did.

☆ Ellie once almost kissed you during a lighting blackout. Inches apart. You blinked and the lights came back on. She walked away fast.

☆ You called her pretty in passing once. She replayed it in her head like a chorus.

☆ The day you got sick and missed rehearsal, Ellie offered to walk your steps—no one asked her to. She knew your movements by heart.

☆ Ellie bought the same scent you used for your hair. She sprayed it on her wrist before playing.

☆ You once said you liked girls with “strong hands.” She stared at her fingers all night.

☆ After a particularly emotional set, Ellie found you crying behind the curtain. She didn’t say a word—just stood there until you let her hold you.

☆ Your knees brushed on the bus once. Neither of you moved for ten minutes.

☆ Ellie once wrote your name into a riff and didn’t realize it until she played it for the crew.

☆ You once danced barefoot and Ellie nearly lost her balance mid-note. “Who told her she could do that?” she muttered.

☆ You left a note on her water bottle: “Try not to break a string today, rockstar.” She kept it in her case.

☆ She once helped zip up your costume backstage. Her hands trembled the entire time.

☆ Ellie hated hotel nights in separate rooms. Not that you were ever in hers—but it hurt anyway.

☆ She talked about you in interviews like you were just part of the team. Her eyes said otherwise.

☆ You started lingering near her more. Just enough. Ellie noticed.

☆ You asked her what her favorite song was. She said, “Whichever one you dance to.”

☆ Ellie started teasing you—barely veiled flirting. “You always stretch like that, or just when I’m around?”

☆ You wore her hoodie once after a rainstorm. She never asked for it back.

☆ Someone dared you to kiss her on the cheek. You did. Her ears turned red for two hours.

☆ Ellie gave you her guitar pick after a show. “Lucky charm,” she said. You wore it on a chain around your neck.

☆ A lyric in one of her new solos included your name. You didn’t comment. But you knew.

☆ You started standing next to her during soundcheck. She played better with you there.

☆ One night, you laid beside her on the rooftop of a venue. “What are we?” you asked. She didn’t answer—just linked pinkies.

☆ You kissed her forehead backstage after a standing ovation. She didn’t breathe for a minute.

☆ Ellie got drunk and said, “You don’t even see how much I want you, do you?” You stared. Speechless.

☆ She once caught you dancing in an empty studio. She just watched—transfixed—then walked away with tears in her eyes.

☆ You finally asked, “Why do you always act like you hate me?” Ellie replied, “Because if I don’t, I’ll ruin us.”

☆ You shared earbuds on the bus. Your head fell on her shoulder. She pressed play on her favorite song—one she wrote about you.

☆ She touched your hand during a live performance. The crowd screamed. You didn’t let go.

☆ A misstep during choreography sent you stumbling. Ellie dropped her guitar to catch you. Everyone saw.

☆ Backstage, you whispered, “Why do you keep running?” She finally answered, “Because I’ve never wanted anyone this much.”

☆ You kissed her—desperate, sweaty, dizzy from lights and adrenaline. She dropped everything.

☆ That night, you crawled into her bed. No words. Just arms, limbs, and aching restraint.

☆ The next morning, she kissed your shoulder like a promise.

☆ You started sharing hotel rooms—Ellie requested it in secret. You never asked questions.

☆ She wrote a song and named it after you. The lead artist asked to record it. Ellie refused.

☆ You danced freestyle one night while she played. It felt like worship.

☆ Fans started shipping you two. You pretended not to notice. Ellie saved the edits.

☆ You wore matching rings—not official, but close enough.

☆ Ellie played a solo while looking right at you. You blew her a kiss. She missed the final note.

☆ Tour ended. You were offered another gig. You said, “Only if Ellie comes too.”

☆ She asked if you ever felt it before her. You said, “Since the first rehearsal.”

☆ One final photo on Instagram: you in her lap, laughing. Caption: “Band girl got the dancer.”

☆ Her guitar case had your name on the back in bold marker. Her final love song had no words—just the sound of you.

[xtearsdontfallx]

It’s me @ratf13nd making yet another blog to yap about my ocs!

This one’s for my oc Zack (and I will also probably talk about his girlfriend Violet here a lot too because she is very important to his story.)

Also please send me asks I love to yap about this guy.

CW: this blog will contain topics of violence, gore, death, experimentation, etc!

Alright so let’s get into it:

Birth name: Matteo Giovanni Marino

Changed name to Zack Ryan Bars when he was 9 years old.

Backstory:

Early Life/Childhood:

Zack was born as Matteo Giovanni Marino on December 5th, 2000 in Brooklyn to Italian-American parents Vincent and Giovanna Marino. He is the second of four children, he has an older brother, Dominic (26), and twin younger siblings Antonio (Tony) and Maria (15). Zack’s dad was a mob boss, causing Zack to grow up around a lot of violence. When Zack was 9, his mom had enough and moved her kids away and had their names changed. Zack was the only one who really stuck with the new name as Dominic moved back with his dad after dropping out of high school. As Zack got older, he hated Dominic because his father would constantly compare Dom to him– and that infuriated Zack. He had no intentions of joining his father’s crime family like Dominic had done.

Zack grew up Catholic and went to Catholic school until 8th grade. He lost the faith as he entered his teenage years and realized that God is never going to answer his prayers. Still, he finds it hard to let go of. Sometimes, if he has a really bad episode, he finds himself praying, even though he knows nothing is out there listening to him.

Relationship with Violet:

Zack met Violet when they were 16. They both went to the same highschool and shared an English class. Zack thought about asking her out for weeks, but was always too scared or nervous to talk to her. While staying late at school one day, he noticed three guys picking on Violet and knew he couldn’t just ignore it. He got suspended for a week after getting into a fight with them, but he thought it was worth it. Zack asked Violet out that evening after giving her a ride home and they have been dating ever since. He loved Violet and would do anything for her, but his protectiveness over her causes him to make some bad decisions down the line.

ANTICHRIST:

Zack played drums in a metal band called ANTICHRIST in high school and college. The band is composed of Zack Bars (drums), Tyler Cambell (vocals, occasional rhythm guitar), Trey Wilson (lead guitar), and Derek Brooks (bass). The four of them formed the band when they were in 8th grade. They all went to the same Catholic school together and had been friends since elementary school. They all got expelled in 8th grade for messing with a ouija board in the bathroom while skipping class and getting Trey to fake a demonic possession during mass. ANTICHRIST as a band is inspired by Bullet For My Valentine, Avenged Sevenfold, Bad Omens, and Motionless In White.

After Violet’s accident:

Zack freaked out after Violet got struck by lightning. He was terrified that she wasn’t going to wake up and he’d lose her forever. When she started showing that she had powers while in a coma, he panicked and almost convinced himself that the past few weeks had just been a dream. When Violet’s dad (Stan Williams) showed up and offered Zack a job, he took it because he thought it would be the only way to keep her safe. While working for Stan, he was given the name Hawk and would be sent on various missions by Stan, where he started making some enemies. Zack lost his right arm due to an explosion on a mission and was given a metal arm two weeks after. He hated it at first, but got used to it after a while. Zack started killing people after he took the job. All of his kills before Violet woke up were orders from Stan. The first few times he killed, he broke down afterwards, but the more people he killed and the more he was experimented on made him treat every kill as just a job.

Experimentation:

Violet’s dad expressed to Zack that he wanted to study Violet’s powers more. Zack knew that meant he wanted to experiment on her and there was no way in hell Zack was letting that happen. He made a deal with Stan and said that he would let Stan experiment on him all he wants, but he can only help Violet learn to control her powers. So, Zack was put through months of intense experimentation as Stan slowly turned him into a weapon. His memory became fuzzy and he just felt either numb or angry all the time. From the experimentation, Zack gained superhuman strength as well as faster reflexes than the average person. What Zack learned later was that Stan secretly experimented on Violet while she was in a coma and found a way to extract some of her power, which he then put into Zack.

Death:

Zack knew he was being turned into a weapon and it was only a matter of time before he lost everything. His biggest fear was that he would lose his mind and end up hurting Violet. He hatched a plan to help her escape, but he knew he wasn’t going to make it out alive– at least, he hoped he wouldn’t make it out alive. In his mind, dying was his way of keeping Violet safe from himself. Violet eventually found out about the experimentation done on Zack and he decided to get her out of there that night. During the escape, Zack was shot in the left arm and right thigh and told the soldiers trying to help him to get Violet out and leave him. Violet protested, but he told her that it’s for the best and he loves her. Zack then confronted Stan and after a brief conversation, Stan told Zack that he doesn’t need him alive to continue the experiments and shot Zack in the head.

Resurrection:

What Zack didn’t know before dying was that Stan had been conducting other experiments involving bringing people back to life. Stan had tried turning Zack into a full-blown weapon while he was alive, but was getting nowhere. He had put off killing Zack until he could get Violet out of the way, but when Zack confronted him, he took the opportunity to get it over with and kill him. When Zack was brought back to life, he had no memory of who he was before he died. He was told that his name was Hawk and he had no idea that he even died. He became an entirely different person. One day, Stan sent him on a mission to bring Violet back to him. Violet still believed that Zack was dead and had been living at Zack’s mom’s house for the past year. When Zack showed up, she tried to talk to him, but he didn’t know who she was other than that she was his mission. He brought her back to the base Stan worked on. She escaped again, but came back a week later, broke him out and brought him back to the lab her brother, Max, worked at. (More about this on Violet’s sheet.) Violet tried to talk some sense into him, but he had no idea who she was or who she thought he was. On a couple occasions, Zack hurts Violet and almost kills her, but she won’t give up until she gets him back to who he was before. She found a tiny metal panel behind his ear and after further investigation, discovered he had a microchip in him. Violet got Max to take the chip out and Zack woke up, unaware of everything he did as Hawk. He eventually regained his memories and was horrified to learn about what he did.

Post-Resurrection:

A couple weeks later, Zack and Violet (with the help of the group Max was working with) infiltrate Stan’s base to take the project down. The intention was to keep Stan alive so he could be questioned about what exactly the program did to superhumans. Zack pretends to act as Hawk to get close to Stan, but Stan realizes it’s a trap quickly. He had one of his technicians inject Violet with a hallucinogen that makes her see her fears that Stan got from a man that Zack encountered before he died (wow wonder who that was inspired by). The serum also causes intense pain and Zack snapped seeing Violet like that. Zack attacks Stan and ends up beating him to death.

[sichore]

I've been rattling around my own version of pre/earlyklok so here's what I've got so far:

Pickles has been chewed up and spat out by the industry after SnB, in ruin after faulty contracts made when he was too young to know what he was getting into. He's also extremely burned by not getting the residuals that he should have when he fucking made SnB what it was, and he's a struggling addict.

I don't know yet what all Magnus' deal is, but he never even made it that far and time is not on his side as far as the industry is concerned. So you've got a has-been and a would-be rock star meeting through the guy who would be Dethklok's first manager who think that hey, they could get something going here.

So you've got two guitarists, and maybe at some local joint, they hear a cover band, and holy shit this kid's got pipes. They approach Nathan and everyone gets drinks and he shares that he's always wanted a band (and deep down he knows that he has to have it), so fuck it, they're gonna make a band. And William's there too, I guess, because he's Nathan's buddy somehow, and they don't wanna waste energy on finding a bassist.

So they've got the start of a good thing but it's not quite there yet. None of the drummers they try have the right sound so finally Pickles is just like "fuck it, I'll do it" because he's had to do Sammy's parts so many times already, and... oh, hey, why the fuck is he bothering with the guitar again? This is where he belongs.

So now they gotta find another guitarist, and finding Skwisgaar is akin to finding a temple to a forgotten god. It's a crime that someone so talented should be regulated to rhythm guitar, but Pickles' last bit of money is fueling this, and Magnus has to have his way, so that's just how it goes.

And turns out Magnus' manager buddy who manages Skwisgaar seems a hell of a lot more competent than their current guy, so they got a new manager now. And it's rough, but it works. For a while.

Pickles runs himself ragged after Magnus is kicked out because it's all on him, this is his last shot and they've gotta make this work. And they give this scrawny kid from Norway a chance and he has Skwisgaar's approval, and then... everything starts to fall together.

Their growing fans become fanatic. People flock to them for work that borders on servitude, and money starts flowing in, and maybe now Pickles can relax a bit. Sure, the drugs may still kill him, but things are better now. He doesn't have to fight and scrape for what's rightfully his. He actually owns Dethklok this time along with the others, and life is... as good as it's gonna get.

And during all this, Nathan grows more confident in seeing his dream come true. No one knows when the shift happens, but he stops playing mediator and starts demanding things go this way and that way. Because it's his band.

And Pickles just lets him take over because sure, it's actually their band, but he's tired, man. He's just so tired of having to do things himself.

The rise of Dethklok happens over the span of 10-12 years, anywhere from 1994 to 2006. Snakes 'N' Barrels only lasted about 4-5 years and Pickles spent a handful of years remaking himself between gigs. Nathan and Murderface graduated high school in the late 80s/early 90s, and Toki is in his late 20s by the time the show starts.

[ttexed]

Larry Williams - She Said Yeah

‘Larry Williams (May 10, 1935  January 7, 1980) was an American rhythm and blues and rock and roll singer, songwriter and pianist from New Orleans, Louisiana. Williams is best known for writing and recording some rock and roll classics from 1957 to 1959 for Specialty Records, including "Bony Moronie", "Short Fat Fannie", "Bad Boy", "Dizzy Miss Lizzie" and "She Said Yeah," which were later covered by British Invasion groups and other artists. John Lennon, in particular, was a fan of Williams, recording several of his songs over the course of his career. "Bony Maronie" is listed as one of the Top 500 songs that shaped Rock and Roll. 

Williams lived a life mixed with tremendous success and violence-fueled drug addiction. He was a long-time friend of Little Richard. As a child in New Orleans, Williams learned how to play piano. When he was a teenager, he and his family moved to Oakland, California, where he joined a local R&B group called the Lemon Drops. In 1954, when he was 19 years old, Williams went back to New Orleans for a visit. He began work as Lloyd Price's valet and developed a friendship with Little Richard Penniman, who was recording at the time in New Orleans. Price and Penniman were both recording for Specialty Records at the time. Williams was introduced to Specialty's house producer, Robert Blackwell, and was signed to record. 

 In 1957, Little Richard was Specialty's biggest star, but bolted from Rock and Roll to pursue the ministry. Williams was quickly groomed by Blackwell to try to replicate his success. Using the same raw, shouting vocals and piano-driven intensity, Williams scored with a number of hit singles. Williams' three biggest successes were "Short Fat Fannie", which was his first hit, reaching #5 in Billboard's pop chart, "High School Dance", which also made #5, and "Bony Moronie", which peaked at #14. Both "Short Fat Fanny" and "Bony Moronie" sold over one million copies, gaining gold discs. Several of his songs achieved later success as revivals by The Beatles ("Bad Boy", "Slow Down", and "Dizzy Miss Lizzy"); The Rolling Stones ("She Said Yeah"); and John Lennon's versions of "Bony Moronie" and "Dizzy Miss Lizzy". 

 Williams had been involved with underworld activity since his early teens, and had reputedly been a pimp before he ever recorded music. After 1957 Williams did not have much success selling records. He recorded a number of songs in 1958 and 1959, including "Heebie Jeebies", with band members such as Plas Johnson on tenor sax and Alvin "Red" Tyler on baritone, Barney Kessel on guitar, Gerald Wilson on trumpet, Ernie Freeman or Williams himself on piano, and Earl Palmer on drums. He was convicted of dealing narcotics in 1960 and served a jail term, setting back his career considerably. 

 Williams made a comeback in the mid-1960s with a funky soul band that included Johnny "Guitar" Watson, which paired him musically with Little Richard who had been lured back into secular music. He produced two Little Richard albums for Okeh Records in 1966 and 1967, which returned Little Richard to the Billboard album chart for the first time in ten years and spawned the hit single Poor Dog. He also acted as the music director for the Little Richard's live performances at the Okeh Club. Bookings for Little Richard during this period skyrocketed. Williams also recorded and released material of his own and with Watson, with some moderate chart success. This period may have garnered few hits but produced some of his best and most original work.  

Williams also began acting in the 1960s, appearing on film in Just for the Hell of It (1968), The Klansman (1974), and Drum (1976). 

 In the 1970s, there was also a brief dalliance with disco, but Williams' wild lifestyle continued. By the middle of the decade, the drug abuse and violence was taking its toll. In 1977, Williams pulled a gun on and threatened to kill his long-time friend, Little Richard, over a drug debt. They were both living in Los Angeles and addicted to cocaine. Little Richard bought drugs from him, arranged to pay him later, but did not show up because he was high. Williams was furious. He hunted him down but ended up showing compassion on his long-time friend after Little Richard repaid the debt. This, along with other factors, led to Little Richard's return to born again Christianity and the ministry, but Williams would not escape LA's seedy underworld.'

 SOURCE: Wikipedia 

[krispyweiss]

Song Review: Yasmin Williams - “Nectar” (Colbert)

With a double-neck electric guitar across her lap, Yasmin Williams took tapping to a new level on her late-night-television debut.

Playing the melody on one neck and the rhythm on the other, Williams offered up some “Nectar” on “the Late Show with Stephen Colbert” and quite likely left a lot of folks stunned with her dexterous performance.

The song comes from 2024’s Acadia and is far superior in this simpler, yet more-complex, setting.

Williams is solo but plays like a band in conjuring a tone painting of gentle rain falling on a meandering stream. And Sound Bites’ll bet you $0.05 she can also walk and chew gum simultaneously.

But even if she can’t, Williams can do things most folks can’t even imagine.

Grade card: Yasmin Williams - “Nectar” (Colbert) - A+

1/27/25

[dreamwatch]

Spoilin' for a Fight

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest

Day #8 - Prompt: Band Politics | Word Count: 920 | Rating: T | CW: language, lot's of language! | POV: None | Pairing: None | Tags: Transcript, band fight, arguments, petty bullshit, our babies are divas now! | AO3

****

Transcript of recording made backstage at Corroded Coffin concert - Starplex Ampitheatre, Dallas, TX, Aug 5th, 1996

Eddie Munson (Lead guitar & vocals): You were off.

Jeff Williams (Lead vocals and rhythm guitar): Where are the black towels?

Gareth Jones (Drums): Excuse me?

EM: Your timing was off!

GJ: Yeah, time for the old man to get his ears checked.

JW: Don’t we have a dozen black towels on our rider?

EM: My ears are fine, your timing however—

GJ: You’re going senile, you can set your watch by me.

EM: Yeah well that’s not much use to me if you’re playing in a different time zone, is it?

Matt Morrison (Bass): There’s no Cherry Gatorade either. And your timing was definitely off, you were throwing me all over the place.

GJ: Well maybe it wouldn’t be if he wasn’t out there playing like Yngwie fucking Malmsteen! See that? That’s a grey hair I didn’t have when you started that solo. I was worried I’d never see my kids graduate.

EM: So you admit you were off?

GJ: You know, sometimes you’re a real (inaudible)

JW: Jesus Christ. Calm down, dude.

GJ: I’m calm! 

MM: And there’s no Sprinkle Spangles. 

EM: You have one job - keep the fucking time. That’s it. Not that hard, man. 

GJ: Oh, not that hard? What are you, Neil Peart now?

EM: I couldn’t be any worse than you. 

GJ: Go fuck yourself, Eddie.

JW: Gareth! Come on.

(Sound of door slamming)

MM: Let him go, he was pissing me off as well.

JW: You weren’t exactly on top of things yourself, man.

MM: I beg your pardon?

EM: I could hear your bass.

MM: You’re supposed to hear it!

EM: I don’t need to hear that much of it!

(Sound of door opening)

GJ: And if we’re critiquing one another, you were flat and Jeff was pitchy as hell. And Matty, there are four strings on a bass, try using the other three.

EM: Yeah, sure, whatever.

JW: Nothing wrong with my vocals, dude. Stick to your own lane. And Eddie’s right, your timing was all over the place tonight.

MM: You know something, I’m going to make sure my amps are right up tomorrow night, drown you assholes out completely.

GJ: I wasn’t off!

MM: The Bud is warm. What the fuck is up with this venue, man?

EM: We give you a solo slot to show off your chops, when it’s my solo just do your fucking job. 

GJ: You give me a solo spot so you can all take a piss! Let’s not pretend it’s some gift from the band to me, you want a bathroom break.

MM: To be fair, the audience needs a bathroom break, too.

JW: Not helping. And Eddie, he’s right, that solo was longer than we planned.

GJ: Thank you. There’s only so many hours a man can listen to that shit before he loses concentration. 

EM: It was the same solo I played in Houston.

MM: It was definitely longer.

EM: Well even if it was, and it wasn’t, your supposedly professional musicians. If I’m improvising, and I wasn’t—

JW: You absolutely were—

EM: I wasn’t! But even if I were, you should all be able to adapt and keep up with me. All you have to do is stay in the groove. You were like fucking… he was doing some weird fucking jazz thing out there, for God’s sake. 

GJ: I was trying to keep us all awake! You should be kissing my feet, I was bringing much-needed energy to that shitshow. Did you see the audience? They looked like they were all on fucking Ambien!

EM: Fact remains, you are a drummer. You have one job - keep time. 

GJ: Oh that’s my job? I just keep time?

EM: Yes?

GJ: I bring nothing else to the table?

(Long pause in recording)

MM: You make great lasagne.

(Laughter can be heard)

EM: You do make great lasagne.

JW: I’m pretty sure he buys that in.

GJ: Oh fuck you, I do not!

MM: Did anyone find the black towels?

EM: Just use a white one for Christ’s sake.

JW: We have them on the rider—

EM: It literally doesn’t matter!

MM: It’s the principle, dude! Today it’s black towels and Cherry Gatorade, Tomorrow it’s your Paul Mitchell Tea Tree Oil shampoo.

EM: If that ever happens, the venue is blacklisted. That’s no joke.

JW: I need to talk to Phil (Jackson - Band Manager), I’m fucking done. I need my black towels.

(Sound of door opening)

MM: Ask him about the Gatorade! A man could die of thirst here.

GJ: There’s water right there, dude.

EM: And Bud.

MM: But I want Cherry Gatorade. Why is that so hard to understand? It’s on the rider for a reason. I need hydration after—

EM: Then drink the fucking water!

GJ: How much hydration can you need? You stand in one spot all night!

MM: I beg your pardon?

GJ: Am I wrong?

MM: Yes! You are!

EM: I’m staying out of this one.

(Sound of door opening)

JW: Okay, towels are coming, they were in another dressing room.

GJ: Fucking amateurs, man.

MM: What about the Gatorade?

JW: Shit. Forgot, sorry.

MM: Son of a bitch. 

EM: Can someone explain to me what the fuck is wrong with the water?

GJ: Wait a second… some fucker’s recording this!

(Sound of tape clicking off)

End Transcript

****

If you're an Iron Maiden fan... you know what this is from!

Also - I might retcon Matty's last name at some stage so if you see it change... no you didn't!

[anonymous-spooks]

Hey I have weird ask. Don't know if this fits into the rules though.

In my creepypasta au, Sally, Lazari, Vailly Evans, Lucy and Lily started a rock/metal/punk band called Bolt Action.

They play a lot of cover songs from bands they like, such as The Ramones, Black Sabbath, Kiss, AC/DC, The Beatles, Beach Boys, Elvis, etc. Here they're playing Dogshit by GG Allin and the Murder Junkies, real band cool guy, btw. They also do some original stuff.

Wanted to ask, how would other characters react to them just randomly popping up, blowing up the entire building with their loud and fast music, and then just leaving after causing a wild and rambunctious party that leaves everything in ruin?

From left to right

Lily Kennet - Drums and Backup Vocals

Sally Williams - Rhythm Guitar and Vocals

Lazari Swann - Lead Guitar and Vocals

Vailly Evans - Keytar and Vocals

Lucy Jones - Bass and Vocals

Sorry for the long text.

Awww, a mini-concert! I’m sure everyone would appreciate it.

[jazzandothersounds-blog]

Hendrix, Miles and the record that wasn't

Hendrix, Miles y el disco que no fue

(English / Español)

Jimi Hendrix and Miles Davis met in a barbershop. Jimi loved his hair and Miles loved Jimi's hair. That's how it all started. Of course, the music of both was already ruminating in their heads. Hendrix was at the top and Miles was revolutionizing jazz. It was 1969 and drugs and alcohol were very present in their lives. Miles and Jimi started going out together with their respective girlfriends. They would go to bars and have a good time. "They gave us a table in the corner, and even covered us with a curtain so we could smoke a joint. They served us wine and played Jimi's music over the PA system," recalled the guitarist's ex, Carmen Borrero, about one of their visits to the exclusive Small's Paradise, the famous Harlem nightclub.

Jimi started buying jazz records and Miles was completely crazy about Jimi's music. "It's that motherfucking motherfucking Machine Gun." he said after listening to Band of Gypsys. So the idea was brewing. Jimi and Miles would record an album. Jimi cared very little about formalities and contracts, so he agreed one day with Miles to get together to record and told him who he wanted on rhythm: none other than Paul McCartney on bass and Tony Williams on drums. There was one problem anyway. The money. The fucking money. It seems Miles was a little jealous of what Jimi was earning, so he tried to negotiate with Hendrix's manager, Michael Jeffrey, to advance him a few thousand dollars. But there was no case. Thus, greed thwarted what could have been perhaps the best album in the history of jazz and rock.

Maybe there was one lucky guy. His name: Terry Reid, an English friend of Hendrix. In Charles Cross's biography of Jimi, Room Full of Mirrors, Reid recounted that one afternoon he was in Jimi's New York apartment when Miles Davis arrived. The two of them locked themselves in a room and began to play. Trumpet with mute and acoustic guitar. "It was authentically beautiful, it was a tasteful performance, nothing ostentatious or over the top. In the context of jazz, Jimi kept pushing the boundaries, and all those jazz guys respected him like nobody else in the rock world," Reid said.

Shortly thereafter they crossed paths at the Isle of Wight Festival. Jimi had very little time left to live. Miles was more vital than ever. He had been performing Bitches Brew, his most innovative album, for a year, with John McLaughlin on guitar, to whom Miles said: "I want you to play like Hendrix".

During the time that the relationship lasted, Miles and Hendrix shared many other things, such as Betty Mabry, Davis' wife, who had a lot to do with that first hair meeting. In terms of image, it was not only the hairdresser that brought them together. Miles changed his formal attire for a more extravagant one thanks to Hendrix's influence. For the celebrated bassist Dave Holland, "Miles had been deeply enriched by Hendrix's music". It is a logical explanation if one analyzes his music from 1968 or 1969 onwards. In his biography on Miles, Ian Carr quotes an opinion of the tormpetist: "Hendrix knew nothing about modal music, he was just a natural musician; you know, he hadn't studied, he didn't give a damn about the market".

Hendrix died on September 18, 1970. Miles attended his funeral and was devastated, so much so that he went to the last funeral he ever attended.

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Jimi Hendrix y Miles Davis se conocieron en una peluquería. Jimi amaba su pelo y Miles amaba el pelo de Jimi. Así empezó todo. Claro que la música de ambos ya estaba rumiando en sus cabezas. Hendrix estaba en la cima y Miles estaba revolucionando el jazz. Era 1969 y las drogas y el alcohol estaban muy presentes en sus vidas. Miles y Jimi empezaron a salir juntos con sus respectivas novias. Iban a bares y la pasaban bien. “Nos dieron una mesa en la esquina, e incluso nos taparon con una cortinilla para que pudiéramos fumar un porro. Nos sirvieron vino y pusieron música de Jimi por la megafonía”, recordó la ex del guitarrista, Carmen Borrero, sobre una de sus visitas al exclusivo Small´s Paradise, el célebre nightclub de Harlem.

Jimi empezó a comprar discos de jazz y Miles estaba completamente enloquecido con la música de Jimi. “Es esa Machine Gun maldita e hija de puta”. dijo luego de escuchar a Band of Gypsys. Así se fue gestando la idea. Jimi y Miles grabarían un disco. A Jimi le importaban muy poco las formalidades y los contratos, así que acordó un día con Miles para juntarse a grabar y le dijo a quiénes quería en la rítmica: nada más y nada menos que a Paul McCartney en bajo y a Tony Williams en batería. Había un problema de todos modos. El dinero. El maldito dinero. Parece que Miles estaba un poco celoso de lo que ganaba Jimi, así que trató de negociar con el manager de Hendrix, Michael Jeffrey, que le adelantara algunos miles de dólares. Pero no hubo caso. Así, la codicia frustró lo que tal vez podría haber sido el mejor disco de la historia del jazz y el rock.

Igual hubo un afortunado. Su nombre: Terry Reid, un amigo inglés de Hendrix. En la biografía sobre Jimi de Charles Cross, Room Full of Mirrors, Reid contó que una tarde estaba en el departamento que Jimi tenía en New York cuando llegó Miles Davis. Los dos se encerraron en una habitación y empezaron a tocar. Trompeta con sordina y guitarra acústica. “Era auténticamente precioso, se trataba de una interpretación de buen gusto, nada ostentosa ni exagerada. En el contexto del jazz, Jimi no dejaba de ensanchar los límites, y todos aquellos tipos del jazz lo respetaban como a nadie más en el mundo del rock”, dijo Reid.

Poco después se cruzaron en el Festival de la Isla de Wight. A Jimi le quedaba muy poco tiempo de vida. Miles estaba más vital que nunca. Llevaba un año presentando Bitches Brew, su disco más innovador, con John McLaughlin en guitarra, a quien Miles le dijo: “Quiero que toques como Hendrix”.

En el tiempo que duró la relación, Miles y Hendrix compartieron muchas otras cosas, como a Betty Mabry, la esposa de Davis, quien tuvo mucho que ver en aquél primer encuentro capilar. En cuestión de imagen no sólo fue el peluquero lo que los unió. Miles cambió su vestimenta formal por una más extravagante gracias a la influencia de Hendrix. Para el célebre bajista Dave Holland, “Miles se había enriquecido profundamente de la música de Hendrix”. Es una explicación lógica si se analiza su música a partir de 1968 o 1969. En su biografía sobre Miles, Ian Carr cita una opinión del tormpetista: “Hendrix no sabía nada de música modal, era sólo un músico innato; sabes, no había estudiado, no le importaba nada el mercado”.

Hendrix murió el 18 de setiembre de 1970. Miles asistió a su funeral y quedó devastado, a tal punto que fue al último entierro al que fue en su vida.

Publicado por Martín Sassone en Malbec & Blues

[guitarhq]

Kenny Vaughan: The Guitarist Who Keeps American Roots Music Alive

Kenny Vaughan might not be a household name like Eric Clapton or Keith Richards, but among musicians, especially those steeped in Americana, country, and roots music, Vaughan is something of a legend.

Known for his jaw-dropping guitar work, especially on the Fender Telecaster, Vaughan brings a distinct blend of skill, soul, and historical reverence to everything he plays. His story is one of constant evolution, genre-blending, and deep musical respect—traits that have made him one of Nashville’s most respected players.

Humble Beginnings: The Jazz-Infused Roots of a Guitar Legend

Born in Oklahoma and raised in Denver, Colorado, Kenny Vaughan grew up in a household where music was a daily part of life. His father had an extensive jazz record collection, which introduced young Kenny to artists like Jimmy Smith and Kenny Burrell. That exposure to jazz’s complexity and rhythm shaped Vaughan’s musical thinking early on, giving him a nuanced understanding of improvisation and timing.

As a teenager in the 1960s, Vaughan fell under the spell of rock music. Like many young musicians of the era, he was heavily influenced by British rock bands such as The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, and The Kinks. But Vaughan’s ear was never satisfied with just one style. As he dug deeper, he also fell in love with country, blues, and rockabilly—a diverse mix that would eventually define his unique approach to the guitar.

From Punk Rock to Honky-Tonk Bars

Before he became a fixture in Nashville, Vaughan cut his teeth playing in various bands around Denver. In his early days, he explored genres like progressive rock and jazz, even spending time in a punk rock band called Jonny III in the late 1970s. This wasn’t just a detour—it was a vital part of Vaughan’s musical education. Playing punk rock gave him a raw energy and edge, while his work in jazz combos and country bar bands taught him subtlety, technique, and groove.

His musical partnership with Leroy X (songwriter Jeffrey Leroy Smith) during this time helped him develop songwriting and studio chops. Vaughan wasn’t just content being a great guitarist—he wanted to understand the entire musical process.

A New Chapter in Nashville

In the 1980s, Vaughan moved to Nashville—a city that would become his true musical home. At first, he found work as a session guitarist, contributing his distinctive style to records by artists like Lucinda Williams, Rodney Crowell, and Tim O’Brien. His versatility made him an in-demand player. Whether the session called for fiery rockabilly licks, laid-back country twang, or precise jazz flourishes, Vaughan always delivered.

But his big break came in 2002 when he joined Marty Stuart’s band, The Fabulous Superlatives. As lead guitarist, Vaughan finally had a stage where he could shine night after night. The band’s mix of classic country, honky-tonk, gospel, and surf rock was the perfect playground for Vaughan’s eclectic talents.

Crafting a Signature Sound

What sets Vaughan apart from so many other guitarists is his tone—especially the way he coaxes it out of a Fender Telecaster. While many players chase effects and speed, Vaughan focuses on clarity, feel, and authenticity. He has an uncanny ability to honor the past while still sounding fresh and vital.

His style pulls from a wide range of influences: the Bakersfield twang of Buck Owens, the rockabilly drive of Duane Eddy, the fluid blues of B.B. King, and even the bebop lines of Charlie Parker. Yet despite this deep well of inspiration, Vaughan never comes off as derivative. He channels these influences into something entirely his own.

When asked about his approach, Vaughan often emphasizes the importance of listening, restraint, and groove. He knows when to take the spotlight and when to sit back and support the song. That’s a rare gift in any musician, and it’s one of the reasons he’s so respected by peers and producers alike.

Stepping into the Spotlight: Solo Career

After years of supporting other artists, Vaughan released his first solo album, V, in 2011. The record was a love letter to everything he held dear: country, rockabilly, surf, and instrumental guitar music. Songs like “Country Music Got a Hold on Me” and “Minuit Sur La Plage” showcase both his virtuosity and his sense of melody.

Rather than trying to impress with speed or technical trickery, Vaughan crafted an album that felt timeless. The record featured contributions from his bandmates in The Fabulous Superlatives, and it received strong reviews from critics who praised its warmth, sincerity, and musical intelligence.

Though he hasn’t released a large solo discography, V stands as a perfect introduction to his sound and a testament to his songwriting and arranging skills.

More Than a Guitarist: A Cultural Contributor

Beyond playing, Vaughan has played an important role in shaping the modern Nashville music scene. In the 1990s, alongside fellow musician Greg Garing, he helped revive Nashville’s Lower Broadway district. At the time, the area had lost some of its musical vibrancy, but Vaughan and others helped bring traditional country and roots music back to the forefront, performing in clubs and mentoring younger players.

In 2007, Vaughan was recognized for his contributions when he was awarded the Americana Music Association’s Instrumentalist of the Year—a fitting honor for a musician who has spent decades lifting others up while perfecting his craft.

Teaching the Next Generation

Kenny Vaughan is also passionate about education and mentorship. Through interviews, clinics, and informal lessons, he frequently shares his knowledge with younger players. He doesn’t hide his tricks—he wants others to carry on the legacy of authentic American guitar music.

He emphasizes the importance of listening to old records, learning to play in time, and always serving the song. Vaughan is particularly vocal about resisting the temptation to overplay, a habit that many guitarists fall into when trying to impress.

A Continuing Legacy

Even today, Vaughan remains as active and enthusiastic as ever. With The Fabulous Superlatives, he continues to tour, record, and bring traditional American music to new audiences around the world. Whether he’s tearing through a honky-tonk solo or backing a quiet gospel tune, Vaughan brings a signature mix of technical mastery and emotional depth.

He doesn’t chase trends or worry about fame. For Vaughan, the music is enough. He once said in an interview, “I just want to play guitar and play it well.” That humble mission has taken him farther than most—and has made him a beloved figure in a world that values authenticity.

Kenny Vaughan’s career is a masterclass in dedication, versatility, and soul. From his early days playing jazz and punk in Colorado to his pivotal role in Nashville’s country and Americana scenes, he’s always followed the music, not the market.

His guitar playing, especially on the Telecaster, is a living history of American music—equal parts blues, country, rock, and jazz. But more than just a stylist, Vaughan is a storyteller. Every note he plays seems to come from a place of lived experience, musical curiosity, and deep love for the traditions that shaped him.

In a music world often dominated by flash and hype, Kenny Vaughan stands as a reminder of what really matters: tone, timing, taste, and heart. And in that regard, he may just be one of the greatest guitarists of his generation.

[thanotaphobia]

prime defenders band au. i simply think we are lacking one

ashe on drums, dakota on lead guitar, vyncent on bass, william on rhythm and vocal!!! it was originally just vyn, dakota, and will but then ashe transferred in sophmore year and joined up. they go play at random little tiny gigs and practice in mark's garage, and once a year they always try and win a battle of the bands that the city hosts- they nearly won last time, but got beat out by some seniors :(

...but this year? this year they're gonna WIN IT!! <- dakota every time someone asks. william thinks he's delusional and writes angsty lyrics about it. vyncent and ashe just throw soda cans at each other whenever dakota and william get into it during practice

[slackville-records]

As the man who popularized the guitar in a jazz setting, his legacy lives on.

Charlie Christian was born on July 29, 1916 in Bonham, Texas but was raised in Oklahoma City from the time he was two years old. Charlie's immediate family were all musically talented - his mother played the piano; his father sang and played the trumpet and guitar; his brother, Clarence, played the violin and the mandolin; and his oldest brother, Edward, played the string bass. His parents made a living writing accompaniments for silent movies. At the age of twelve, Charlie was playing on a guitar that he had made from a cigar box in a manual training class. Charlie was actually first trained on the trumpet which was a huge contribution to his fluid single-note guitar style. Then, his father and brothers formed a quartet and Charlie got a real guitar. They performed in Oklahoma City clubs and Charlie even met Lester Young (tenor saxophonist) during one of his performances. Charlie was fascinated by Lester's style which helped in shaping his own stylistic development.

At the age of twenty-one he was playing electric guitar and leading a jump band. At the age of 23 (1939), Charlie was discovered by a talent scout, John Hammond, who had stopped in Oklahoma city to attend Benny Goodman's first Columbia recording sessions. Pianist Mary Lou Williams had actually recommended Charlie to John Hammond. Goodman was not very excited, this was due to the fact that Charlie was an unknown musician playing an electric instrument. The amplified electric guitar was fairly new at the time (trombonist and arranger Eddie Durham began playing it as a solo instrument in Jimmie Lunceford's band in 1935). It was essentially an amplified "f-hole," and it helped in making the jazz guitar solo a practical reality for the first time.

Previously relegated to a chordal rhythm style by the limitations of the acoustic instrument, jazz guitarists could now revel in the volume, sustain, and tonal flexibility provided by amplification. Charlie quickly realized the potential of the electric guitar, and developed a style which made the most of the unique properties of the instrument. When Charlie arrived in Los Angeles, he was only allowed a brief audition and he was not even allowed the time to plug in his amp. Goodman was not impressed so Hammond decided to sneak Charlie onstage later that night during a concert at the Victor Hugo. This made Goodman angry and he responded by launching into "Rose Room," which he assumed Charlie would be unfamiliar with. Charlie performed an impressive extended solo on the piece. This impressed Goodman and Charlie was let into the band.

Charlie was a hit on the electric guitar and remained in the Benny Goodman Sextet for two years (1939-1941). He wrote many of the group's head arrangements (some of which Goodman took credit for) and was an inspiration to all. The sextet made him famous and provided him with a steady income while Charlie worked on legitimizing, popularizing, revolutionizing, and standardizing the electric guitar as a jazz instrument.

After working at nights with Goodman, Charlie would seek out jam sessions. He discovered a club in Harlem, Minton's, located on New York's West 118th Street. At Minton's Charlie played with such greats as Dizzie Gillespie, Charlie Parker, Thelonius Monk, Joe Guy (trumpet), Nick Fenton (bass), Kenny Kersey (piano), and Kenny Clarke (drums). Charlie impressed them all by improvising long lines that emphasized off beats, and by using altered chords. He even bought a second amp to leave at Minton’s. Jamming sessions would usually last until about 4 A.M. and Minton’s became the cradle of the bebop movement. Charlie's inventive single-note playing helped popularize the electric guitar as a solo instrument and helped usher in the era of bop.

In the summer of 1941, Christian was touring the Midwest when he began showing the first signs of tuberculosis. He left the tour and was admitted to the Seaview Sanatorium on Staten Island. While he was there, he died on March 2, 1942 at the age of twenty-five.

Charlie Christian’s most familiar recordings are those with Benny Goodman which were available on vinyl for years ("Solo Flight") and which are now available on cd as "Charlie Christian: Genius of the Electric Guitar." There are recorded sessions from when he played with members of the Goodman and Count Basie bands, Lester Young, and numerous artists at Minton's. Charlie Christian had an immense influence on the development of BeBop and the transition from Swing to BeBop.

Source: All About Jazz

[mythrite]

Drogo Full Bio

i love my silly lil guy

Name: Finley Williams

Aliases: Drogo, The Metal Cryptid, Glowstick (From being in Ghost)

Nationality: Canadian Ethnicity: White

Age: 29 DoB: 6/30/95

Pronouns: he/him 

Gender: Cisgender Sex: M

Sexuality: Gay

Height: 5’7

Languages: English

Roles/Instruments: Lead/rhythm guitar (typically lead), bass, clean/dirty vocals, acoustic guitar (not for performance)

Personality: Social, flirty, high energy, cryptid energy very much

Backstory: Born in Vancouver, he grew up in a music household of the 90s bands. Finley eventually got interested in metal and it was that from there. He has tried starting up his own band when he was younger, but decided never again. But he still wanted to do music, so found himself joining any and all bands, learning all sorts of styles on guitar and bass.

Issues: Facial dysmorphia, loses track of time when playing instruments—leads to exhaustion and fingers bleeding, exhausts himself to the point he cannot speak

Habits: Licks blood off fingers, gestures a lot, has a little boogie, stands ominously in the back of the stage

Scars: Scratches on his fingers, missing canine

Preferred method of showing care/affection/love language: Compliments/words

Preferred way of receiving care/affection: Physical touch, Words

Body description: Slim, muscular, great waist (people love it)

Favorite Activities: Band practices, posting online, interacting with band members, hiking, going to coffee shops, playing/singing acoustic versions of songs

Blood Type: B-

Favorite color: Dark blue. Dark red and neon green (they look good on his mask)

Favorite animal: Ravens

Favourite food/Dessert: Marshmallows, cookie dough

Other Fun Facts:

Drogo was a name decided upon his fans. Once the fans agreed on his name, that’s when he began making social media accounts.

Has (had? idk if/when the ban goes through) a/an Tiktok, Instagram, Twitter/x, and a Youtube channel where he posts more cryptid shit. Usually who he’s touring with next.

Very anonymous. People have tried to find his identity like the assholes they are. They have gotten insanely close to his identity, but no one is sure because theres barely any solid evidence. Drogo is straight terrified that his fans will be able to find him.

Gives in and does the fan service

Has had to shove glowsticks into his mask when the LEDs died on him

ok fine he gets to like dcfc

Had his gay awakening one day on stage

Only uses his acoustic guitar when alone

Keeps a bag of marshmallows in his pocket to eat

Had a biker phase when he was 25-27, but sold his motorcycle when he began touring

Profesional at hurting people with baseball bats

Vapes occasionally, usually only when offered

[dustedmagazine]

Grails — Anches En Maat (Temporary Residence Ltd)

More bands should make music that sounds like Tangerine Dream. It’s hard to imagine music more evocative, precise and crisp. Their music communicates not only mood, but season. The late William Friedkin knew what he was getting when he asked them for a soundtrack.

Anches En Maat is the latest from Grails, the band’s tenth album but the first in five years. They’ve undergone quite an evolution from their early days at the margins of doom-inflected drone and folk, the sounds drummer Emil Amos would pursue with the legendary Om. Their new album is focused, meticulous and unlike anything they’ve done. It’s one thing to try to sound like Tangerine Dream; it’s another to actually do it.

What makes this so special is how unexpected it is. If you’ve been following Grails for the last 20 years or so, you’ll be surprised how polished this album is. When “Sad and Illegal,” begins, you can picture a wet, reflective streetscape, lit by mercury vapor lamps. The music envelops you in its world. Anches En Maat distills and synthesizes their earlier work into an electronic prog masterpiece.

If you follow guitarist Ilyas Ahmed on Instagram, you get a behind-the-scenes look into where his interests and influences are taking him, but unlike his more ambient solo work, the scope here is vast and expanding. A sonic universe explodes during “Sisters of Bilitis.” Likewise, Amos has always exercised restraint on drums, but this is different, more subtle and nuanced. It’s not simply a tribute to Amos’ talent, but also a reflection of the band getting together to record the album, versus piecing everything together separately.

It’s not an indulgent album. There’s a discipline to every song. No note sounds wasted or out of place. It so perfectly captures the spirit of those gritty 1980’s psychosexual thrillers, at once lush and foreboding. Nowhere is that more apparent than on the aptly titled “Black Rain.” The song pulsates in rhythms that play up the tension and paranoia that characterize the late 1980s and 1990s neo-noir period in cinema. The album closes with the crystalline sounds of the title track, guitars fading into the night.

It’s a soundtrack to summer becoming autumn, rain blanketing cities everywhere, with wet leaves papering the streets beneath your wheels.

JT Ramsay

[yunhsuanhuang]

LOVE SONGS IN A FOREIGN LANGUAGE | YH HUANG

With apologies to A.L.

When I'm seventeen, I put a picture of Loretta Lynn in the back of my clear phone case. With the same care my best friends take in decorating trading cards of Jungkook and Jisoo, I get a pair of tweezers and my most expensive stickers, and make an afternoon out of sticking little daisies all over a glossy black-and-white printout of Loretta in the 70's. In the picture she's leaning against a tree, her dark hair long and thick, smiling at the viewer with the same unshakable confidence she's always had.

The next day, I slap my phone face-down on the cafeteria table. My friends go oh-my-god and you-actually-did-it and wait-that's-kinda-cute. We propose swapping some of our cards–I get Minho, she gets Randy– until the conversation derails to exams and teachers and the presentation that's due on Wednesday but none of us have started.

Then it's two weeks later, and when I wake up, thirteen hours after Kentucky does, I read that Loretta Lynn has passed away. A clickbait news site uses the same picture for her obituary.

Sometimes I feel like everything I love is already gone and I just don't know it yet.

-

so why do you like country music, my friend Alex asks me once.

Alex is American, but the South is as alien a place to him as it is to me– he grew up in suburban New Hampshire, after all, in an impossibly huge house bursting with beach-themed paraphernalia. America, to him, is Dunkin' Donuts and perfectly manicured lawns and the pale foam of the Atlantic cutting itself open over and over again against the sharpness of the rocks.

I squint at my phone. It's late, and I'm probably supposed to be asleep by now, but I'm fifteen and the year is 2020 and time stopped mattering somewhere in the middle of March. It's not like I have school tomorrow, anyway.

I type and retype my message for a while. Then, because it sounds about as good a reason as any, I say, idk i just like the fiddles

It's true. I do like the fiddles, and the steel guitar and the autoharp and the banjos too– the joyful clatter of it, the melody so much like flight. During quarantine, I spend a lot of time lying on the bedroom floor with my headphones on, blaring bluegrass at ear-destroying volumes. Maybe if I play it loud enough, if I squeeze my eyes shut hard enough, I can transport myself into the real thing: a honky-tonk with wood-panelled walls, heat and whiskey in the air, some familiar rhythm reverberating through the floorboards. Sometimes I even imagine myself there in the crowd, singing along.

–

In 1957, a song called Geisha Girl by Hank Locklin topped the country and western charts. It's about this American guy who arrives in Japan, falls in love with the titular Japanese geisha, and leaves his American wife for her. Well-trodden ground, both in art and in reality– after World War 2 ended, tens of thousands of Japanese women married American men for love, for money or for everything in between. Locklin's Geisha Girl became so popular that a song was released in reply to it–Skeeter Davis' Lost to a Geisha Girl, in which Davis takes on the persona of the man’s lover back home, scorning her fickle-hearted husband. As is common in reply songs, lyrics from the original are changed to fit the new perspective:

Locklin sings, Have you ever heard a love song that you didn't understand / when you met her in a teahouse on the island of Japan?

Davis sings: Why a love song with no meaning makes you happy, I don't know / I've lost you to a geisha girl where the ocean breezes blow.

A song you don't understand.  A song with no meaning. A song in a language you don't speak. What's the difference, anyway?

In post-war Japan, a whole plethora of country music bands sprung up around the country, playing American hits for homesick soldiers: Tennessee Waltz, Lovesick Blues, Your Cheatin’ Heart.. The closer they were to the originals, the better. They'd bill themselves as the Japanese Hank Williams or John Denver or Patsy Cline. The catch? Some of these singers barely spoke English. painstakingly memorising each lyric until their L's and R's sounded just right. Yet, every Friday night they'd get up on that stage and sing songs they didn't understand about a country they'd never been to. 

Just a few years ago, America had been Japan's worst enemy. But here their sons and daughters were, singing American songs, working in American jobs, marrying American men. In the present day, you could almost argue that the tables’ve turned: middle-schoolers debate anime at the cafeteria table; red-blooded blue-collar workers drive Toyotas and ride Kawasakis.

One thing that's stayed the same, though– American boys, Japanese girls. Love songs in a foreign language. Kind of a funny thing.

–

For hundreds of years, the West has been fascinated by the geisha. In Puccini’s 1904 opera Madama Butterfly, fifteen-year-old Butterfly is making her living as one when she’s bought by an American soldier named Pinkerton. He marries her, knocks her up, then ditches her in Japan while he marries an American woman. The whole time, Butterfly’s left to pine for him, and when Pinkerton returns to Japan with his wife, Butterfly stabs herself so that her son will be able to live in America with his father. 

(Pinkerton, as you can probably tell, is kind of an ass.)

I keep thinking about Butterfly in that lonely, empty house in Japan, waiting for someone who didn’t love her back. I keep thinking about Alex: Alex and his horrible stupid round glasses and his old embarrassing love of Panic! at the Disco and his stupid cringe emojis, Alex who’s still the smartest person I know, Alex who was the first guy to ever pay attention to me. When I’m sixteen, I think about him almost constantly, a constant hum of obsession in the back of my head. I know I’m in love with him because that’s how all the songs go: Randy Travis declares that it’s deeper than the holler / stronger than the river; Deana Carter says it’s bittersweet / green on the vine; Keith Whitley confesses that it’s what I hear when you don’t say a thing.

Alex asks me, so what do you like about country music? And I don't know what to say to him, so I say nothing at all.

–

They read it in the tea leaves and it's written in the sand

I found love by the heart-full in a foreign distant land

–

Alex likes Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, the outlaws and the jailhouses and the pistols at the hip.  My classmates like the feminist murder ballads, where they think she did it but they just can't prove it, where afterwards the girls sell Tennessee ham and strawberry jam / and they don't lose any sleep at night. I personally have a fondness for the silly and unserious: Alan Jackson extolling the virtues of grape snow cones, George Strait selling me the Golden Gate.

In the end, though, what I end up listening to most are the old songs– the really old ones, all the way back to the dawn of recording, the Golden Age of the radio.  These songs, collected in the 1920s and 30s, are impressively varied in lyrical content: you’ve got the ones that are basically a soap opera stuffed into three minutes flat (Lorena, My Heart’s Tonight In Texas); the religious ones (Anchored in Love, Will the Circle Be Unbroken); the relatable ones (Give Me Your Love); the unrelatable ones (The Dying Soldier, No Depression In Heaven). What I like about them, I guess, is the familiar hiss of the vinyl, the way the lyrics are both specific and universal at once, their ability to make a time and a place that you’ve never been to before feel, inexplicably, like home.

Alex and I aren't anywhere near poor– his parents are both surgeons, and I spend my evenings trying not to fall asleep in increasingly expensive private lessons. But then again, neither were the Japanese country singers of the fifties and sixties, mainly college kids from elite families who could afford custom-made cowboy hats and genuine guitars. Hell, even the prince of Japan was said to be a country music fan in his youth. None of us have worked in the fields or in the mines, none of our parents have had to tell us here's your one chance, Fancy, don't let me down. We're the people Garth was referring to when he sang about that black-tie affair, those social graces, the ivory tower.

What does it mean to understand a song? How do you sing something and really, truly mean it?

–

When I'm sixteen, my fun fact on the first day of school is that I listen to country music. When I go out with my friends, I wear ankle-length denim skirts and lacy blouses and tie my hair in twin ponytails. I beg and beg them to listen to Loretta, to Dolly, to Patsy. In response, they buy me a Cowboy of the Month calendar and save me in their phones as "the horse girl".  In one inexplicable picture that we've since lost, I've got my face in my hands, trying to hide my laughter, as my friends gleefully blast a Fox News clip about Randy Travis' drunken escapades.

So maybe my taste in music is the most interesting thing about me. What else is there? I'm not very pretty, only sometimes funny, and, to my eternal embarrassment, not good at all at being Asian. If I was smarter– fine, if I was Alex, Alex with his books and essays and critical theory– I might say that I do everything I do because I don't want to be the whitest girl in a room full of Asians (lame, boring, suck-up) but the most interesting thing in a room full of white people (exotic, rare, unique). A geisha girl, dressed in Oriental style. 

Even so, I don't like to think that that's all there is to it. You can shrink the world down to words on a page, map out the complicated intersections of nations and culture and war that make up the popular imagination of America, call it pentatonic scales, the mixolydian mode. Of course there's value in that, I know– but all that stuff's a foreign language to me. You can try to explain why music sounds the way it does, but in the end you just have to hear it for yourself.

–

For a genre obsessed with authenticity, modern country music's chock-full of performers: Toby Keith singing We'll put a boot in your ass, it's the American way, Hardy singing My small town is smaller than yours, Jason Aldean singing, I sit back and think about them good ol' days / The way we were raised and our southern ways.

A geisha's a performer, too, in a way. She trains her whole life to sing, to dance, to entertain. In yet another adaptation of Madama Butterfly, David Henry Hwang's play M. Butterfly, a Communist actor seduces a French man by pretending to be a woman for years. When the actor's finally caught, he's asked how he got away with it. He responds: Because when he finally met his fantasy woman, he wanted more than anything to believe that she was, in fact, a woman.

Don't tell this to anyone else, but when I curl my hair and put on lip-gloss and toddle around in heels, wondering if Alex would like what he sees, I feel like I'm a walking caricature in the shape of a girl. When I’m online with him I simper, I preen, I ask stupid questions just to keep him talking to me– and he likes it, or at least I really hope he does. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I wonder what'll happen if I stop performing. I wonder if there’s anything left of me below the performance.

I used to worry that I fell in love with something that doesn't exist: the myth of America, the barbeques and the cornfields and the porches, the honky-tonk and the church social and the choir all singing, the cowboys on their vast, empty ranches. A place that's already gone, or else never existed at all– but what does that matter? An unreal place for an unreal girl. If everyone's performing, then no one is.

–

How much of this is true, then?

It's true as backroads and cold beer and pickup trucks. True as private jets and cowboy hats and exaggerated drawls. True as Nashville and Wallen and the CMAs. Which is to say, it's as true a story as you want it to be.

–

Tell the home folks that I'm happy, with someone that's true I know

I love a pretty geisha girl where the ocean breezes blow

–

In the months around my eighteenth birthday, my parents start screaming at each other. Suffice to say, they never really stop. I take up temporary residence in the school library instead, and spend my afternoons staring at maths textbooks while regretting every decision I’ve ever made. My exams are drawing closer. I’m sure I’ll fail them. It doesn’t feel real. Nothing does. I can’t bring myself to look at my future, I can’t, and yet like the long black train / coming down the line I know what’s going to happen when it hits me, and I know, I know– it’s not gonna be good. I start learning how to fall asleep to the background noise of things getting thrown. When my friends come over to study, they call the house beautiful. I guess it is.

On the way back from school, pressed into a corner of a sardine-packed bus, I put one earphone in and watch the sunset fall over the expressway, the heat turning the sky a gorgeous, deadly pink. Loretta Lynn sings: Well, I look out the window and what do I see? / The breeze is a-blowing the leaves from the trees / Everything is free, everything but me. The Chicks sing: She needs wide open spaces / Room to make her big mistakes. John Prine sings: Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery / make me a poster of an old rodeo / Just give me one thing that I can hold on to / To believe in this livin' is just a hard way to go.

Meanwhile, in my headphones, a thousand different stories unfold, familiar missives from some far-off place:  a son buries his parents. A wife kills her husband. Two childhood friends fall in love. A girl convinces her father to let her marry her boyfriend. A woman pins a runaway to a motel wall. Somebody calls his ex, even though he shouldn’t. A mother sells her daughter to an older man. A traveller gets on a train. The unfamiliar place names rush past. Amarillo, Charleston, Jackson, Cheyenne, Chattahoochee: evidence of an existence outside of calculus and grammar and pushing my desk against my door to block it. In my head I picture as if through a window some wide, sprawling prairie, some open starry sky, and think of Mary Oliver – so this is the world. I’m not in it. It’s beautiful.

–

(Meanwhile, online: it’s a different story.)

–

If it was a breakup, would it have been better? There's no shortage of breakup songs in country music, after all. Like, What right does she have to take you away / when for so long, you were mine? Like, I'm crazy for loving you / Crazy for thinking that my love could hold you Like, Nothing much for us to say / One last goodbye and you drove away.

Instead, it’s the stupidest, most mundane of reasons: we just stop talking. I couldn’t tell you exactly why. For me, I’m wrapped up in exams, family stuff, a clown car full of childhood friends crashing their way back into my life without warning; for him, he’s busy at Harvard, busy with his new friends and new projects and new– 

Okay. Fine. His new girlfriend.

I can’t blame him. I don’t have any right to. I still don’t know whether I actually loved him or I was just sixteen, lonely and looking to write myself into a song. Still, after I learn that he’s dating her, I fall into a haze of social-media stalking: I scroll through their Instagrams, their Twitters, anything that’ll tell me more about who he was, who they are. She’s cute, I’ll give her that, and they’re cute together, the kind of forever and ever, amen couple whose profiles are full of heart-shaped chocolates, of candid kisses and in-jokes I’ll never get to hear.

(A love song with no meaning. A language you don't speak.)

For weeks and weeks on end I dream of him, but the really funny thing is that even in these dreams he’s nothing but a spectre: texting me, calling me, writing long-winded letters in the mail.  The closest I ever get is this dream where I’m walking through his hometown, the one I looked up in Google Earth in a fit of desperation. It’s just like I thought it would be, every house gorgeous and stately and ancient, the trees barren but still grand. My hometown’s always been warm. It’s the one thing I have in common with the people in the songs, that overwhelmingly oppressive heat, the kind that sucks all the energy out of your bones. Even though Alex lives at the edge of America, Stephen King and sweaters country, in the dream it’s not cold at all– Georgia hot, hometown hot. As I run from house to house, ringing every doorbell, the roads seem to stretch out beneath my feet until the next door seems oceans and continents away. Nobody’s home. Nobody’s there. In the dream, I’m not surprised.

Sometimes I worry that everything I love is already gone, but I guess I knew that already. That doesn’t mean I didn’t love it. 

–

When I'm eighteen, my parents spend a small fortune on a family holiday to America, some last-ditch effort at holding the household together. I miss most of it, however, because the moment I step off the plane I come down with the worst cold I've ever had in my life. Thankfully, during the last couple of days I begin to feel a little bit more like a human being and not just a collection of symptoms, so I manage to go down with my family to the shore.

Maybe it's the ghost of the fever coming back to haunt me, or maybe it's just December, but the beach is bitingly cold, the evening light only just poking through the clouds. Standing there, I find myself thinking– predictably– of Alex. We haven't talked in months, at this point: the last thing I texted him was im in the us lol to which he responded Haha enjoy, and that's about it.

On some other shore, so far away we might still be in different countries, Alex is at Harvard writing essays about America– learning how to understand it, how to shape it, how to make it somewhere he can love without reservation. But I'm not him. I know, now, that I know nothing at all about America: not the blue and far-off one in my songs. but the real place, full of contradictions, land of guns and welfare and Walmart and the Free.

I keep going back to what Alex asked me when I was fifteen, when we barely knew each other: so why do you like country music? And it's only here, now, freezing in a down jacket on the California coast, that I finally have an answer for him.

I think: because every good country song is a love song in its own way.

I think: because country music is the only thing I've ever known how to love.

I think: I have stood and watched the sun rise from the waters of the sea / and I've wondered how much beauty in this cruel world can there be / My dreams are all worth dreaming and it makes my life worthwhile / to see my pretty geisha girl dressed in oriental style.

I think: does there really need to be a reason, A?

From somewhere behind me, I hear someone call my name. I turn. It's my mother yelling: “Come back to the car! It's getting cold!”

“Coming!” I yell back, and run to her.

–

Before I have to go back home, I manage to get my hands on a Shania Twain t-shirt, which honestly makes the entire trip worth it.

[ungoliantschilde]

Powerage, 1978.

Worked all day, spent most of it thinking about how to articulate what I want to say about this album.

This is the album where Cliff Williams joined the band as the bass player, and Phil Rudd solidified himself as the third piece of the band’s bedrock: the rhythm section. Malcolm Young is regularly called the greatest rhythm guitarist of all time. Just a brilliant, brilliant player and a riff-writing machine. Phil Rudd’s drumming has a swing to it that perfectly matches what the band does when they’re at their best. And Cliff Williams on bass just locks in with Phil and Mal. Mal, Angus, Phil, and Cliff are the best AC/DC lineup. All of them just seem to know exactly how to play with each other in perfect lock step.

Now, for Bon’s work on Powerage, I am gonna talk about the lyrics.

Let There Be Rock, lyrically, exemplified everything enjoyable about Bon Scott. He was a wild-eyed, mischievous good time at his best. Powerage exemplified the dark side of that personality. It has the most personal, emotional, and directly confessional lyrics of their entire catalogue. For a band that is defined by seeking commercial success, an album comprised of almost entirely first person accounts of heartache is noteworthy. Bon was beloved for being a lewd, lascivious, rabble rousing ring-leader of a band of miscreants.

But Powerage was Bon as a broken hearted poet.

When an interviewer asked Angus what Bon was like, he said “what you see is what you get”. That is what Angus remembers about Bonny: that you could absolutely judge that book by its cover. In another interview, Angus was asked about why Bon drank himself to death, Angus answered in his typically terse style again, “it’s in the songs, mate.”

The songs on Powerage, to be specific.

From “Rock and Roll Damnation”:

-you say that you want respect, honey for what? for everything that you’ve done for me, thanks a lot. you say that I act the fool, well honey I’m a fool for you.

From Brian Johnson’s favorite song, “Down Payment Blues”:

-feeling like a paper cup, floating down a storm drain

From my favorite track, “Gimme a Bullet”:

-she had the word, had the way, the way of letting me know. She said ‘you go your way, and I’ll go mine, and that’ll be the start’. Come tomorrow, come to grips with being all alone. Give me a bullet to bite on. Something to chew. Give me a bullet to bite on and I’ll make believe, I’ll believe it’s you.”

From, “What’s Next to the Moon”:

-it’s your love that I want (background: your love that I need)

From, “Gone Shootin’”:

-Bought a ticket of her own accord… …I stirred my coffee with the same spoon… She never made it past the bedroom door, what was she even for? I took a lover in another town, she took another pill. She was runnin’ in an overdrive, a victim of overkill. My baby’s gone Shootin’… I used to love her so.

According to what I’ve read, Bon once had two separate women in the maternity ward, and they were unaware of each other. Bon was not a guy that would have done well in the age of social media and cellphone cameras. His point was that he found a girl who loved him for being a rock star, and he was not gonna quit being a rock star for her. He was a gross, lascivious and carousing womanizer. And she knew it. When she did the same things back to him, Bon didn’t like being on the receiving end. He was drunk and high most of the time, living out of hotel rooms and the beds of welcoming lovers in every town.

The end was coming, and his family and friends all knew it. No one that knew Bon was shocked when he drank himself to death. The tragedy was how inevitable it was at this point in life.

Powerage was the last of the Aussie made albums. The finale of their time as a bar band. And it’s their most personal, most poignant, and most heartbreaking.

Sad lyrics aside, Powerage is the album that every rockstar that grew up with AC/DC cites as the band’s best. Slash, Joe Perry, and basically every guitar player that was in a band formed after 1983 says the same thing. Powerage is packed with virtuoso performances from every band member. Every track is an all time favorite guitar riff.

Listen to it. Pay attention to it. It’s AC/DC’s breakup album. There’s a reason it’s so well regarded.