I am sitting outside Score24 practice...yes another one, and at the very thought of it I can't help but smile. I press my lips together in effort not to, because at this point bleeding is more of a release than pretending, but I can't fight it. I know who's behind this door. My hand reaches out, pressing firmly against the thin barrier, and I can feel the songs. The bass. This blog has set to uncovering a good many of the Long Island scene boys, but it has been neglecting somebody.
Through a variety of scene surnames, he has officially become to me- Just Joey, and finally in this setting that's all he is. Thank god. I would have bought and thrown away a thousand EPs just to get him back to this. When he asked me once why I didn't write about him, I told this fun-sized rocker that I did, but chose not to post the truth about what I saw. My job in this scene is not to report the facts, it is to control the honesty. So someday when a brotherly backstab has become mere dramatic entertainment, you will all hear of shotgun glares and side swipe remarks and of how Joey In Color was the pull pin on a self-reconstructing Score24 grenade. But not now. Now it's summer, and they'll all be gone in a matter of days. Right now you need to be told of the previously illicit smiles that were exchanged between the Fox brothers over one taped up microphone.
Today his clothes they look fitting, adding to his personality rather than defining it. I haven't seen him smile this much in months. I haven't seen him sweat this honestly in a dozen set lists. Which reminds me; Score24 has established a song order a whole 24 hours before a show. Watch out All Time Low. His hair is messy in the summer humidity, not panderingly poised to perfection. I lean against Lefty Campbell with my Book, watching the 2 brothers. Rob stands slightly in front of Joey; both in black t-shirts standing the exact same way, 2 black hats bent over Blackberrys. I laugh right out loud at how relieving quirky sibling similarities seem today. “Girl’s giggling at herself” Joey picks on me. “No, she’s giggling about whoever she’s writing about.” I just smile.
Rob holds a wad of merch money in the fly of his shorts imagining, “What if this is what dicks looked liked?” He fans it around, fascinated, then hauls off and smacks his brother with it. Mike Wore Black shouldn’t be offended; Rob24 is way more of a moron than he. The brothers say if the music thing doesn’t work they’d like to become Lost Boys. I wonder if they realize being a Lost Boy is being a musician. The van is your fairy dust, these songs your happy thoughts. To California and back is your Neverland.
There are moments, scenes, that will burn into the backs of your eyes. The way Nate looked at me the first time the audience overpowered him singing Red Letter. Or the way Kevin appeared walking towards us after Melana creeped him out of sleeping in the van at Parkway. This is how I will remember the moment Joey Fox re-joined the Party: Rob is bouncing and singing and showing off to me in Ryan Linzer’s tiny basement. It’s never just practice with Rob. Suddenly he punches a fist out, holding his white taped microphone to Joey so that his little brother may sing the parts he had once called his. He can’t even dream.
I wonder what they’ll think of this; these meager words I have to offer them. I question what I’ll write about where they are gone. I worry what the silence will do to me. I reach out and touch the door. The sound is in my memory.
...Ricky.
"Rob Fox's Freestyle Rapping Excellence" by: Rob Fox, egged on by Joe Fox
Friday, June 26, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
it's the most important thing
This is how it goes. This is how it always goes. Where did it start? I can hardly find the want to thumb back through the prompt cards of last night just to make sense of something that dots the ‘i’ in typical. I’ll begin with where I am now.
The room is dim. Everything is very quiet except for the birds chirping their fucking brains out on the front porch. Another one fell from the nest yesterday. It’s feathers and fluids splattered all over the smooth porch slate. My housemate shoveled it off with a snow scraper. But aside from the birds everything is quiet. Quiet and dim. The clock reads 3:53 pm, though its clarity fuzzes in and out in my vision. I don’t know if it’s because I’m drunk again already, or if it’s my inability to want to be conscious. My hands are steady for the first time in 5 days. My heartbeat is a thunderous hollow tympani in my chest, but it doesn’t make any noise. It just pounds. I think about a lot of things at this point. I think about toes, about fingers. I think about how I flinched when he went to put his hand on me and he asked if someone had hit me before. I think about how I lied. I think about how sore I am, about how it’s a good thing I sobered up enough to buy more Russian Vodka. I think about how I should really take out those recyclables. I think about cocaine. I think about razors. I think of things no one will ever know about if I’m good. I know I’m good. He said so last night.
I open my eyes. The first thing I notice is the obnoxious red plaid patterning of my dress; last night’s dress. Oh…shit. In initial remembrance of the night prior, I snap my body onto it’s other side to check. For half an instant my eyes gaze across the doorway, and I’m sure he’s used it by now. But rather than pressing reassuringly into a soft empty pillow, my nose jolts abruptly into a hard elbow and pain is sent resonating into the backs of my eyes. He is still here. The fact comforts me briefly then I’m back to, oh…shit. I lay on my back, touching my wincing face and wondering what to do next. Get up? I stir to test getting up. He moans and peeks open an eye. “Go back to sleep” he says. Typical: the girl lays there quiet, trying not to be obvious that she’s volleying the age-old regret; was it a mistake/was it not a mistake. Mostly she wants to know if he thinks it was a mistake. But typically, and this is typical, the he is lying there signal-less, asleep, and momentarily unconcerned about the body next to him. And it is just a body at this point. It’s not that he is heartless or apathetic necessarily, it’s just he’s a guy and breakfast is more important to him right now. And so the miscommunication begins.
The so-called body is me. I begin to look around the room for clues about all the things I think probably didn’t really happened. The place is a mess. Towels on the floor where we each spilled full glasses of sharp mixed drinks. Scattered papers everywhere, an uncapped black marker not far from them. Ok, this explains the array of notes and tattoos scribbled across my skin. I squint at my hand; “Go to Liquor Store. Srsly.” Alright, apparently we’re out. I should really take out those recyclables. I see random pillows on the floor and drawings of owls everywhere. I see everything has fallen, or maybe been pushed from my shelves. The lighter is on the chair where he put it when he took it away from me and youtube is streaming *NSYNC’s ByeByeBye on my laptop. Oh…shit. And ouch. A lot of ouch. I wiggled my toes to feel something I had still.
The air is cold. So much colder than it is to everyone else. I haven’t needed to eat well in days. Now I sip long from a green straw, having smartly mixed my Russian juice with Passion Tea. How fitting to find the need to liquor up passion. I am minutely content with in my metaphoric misery, although stuck when it comes to having bold enough words for this chapter. The frustration is just about to eat away at the last bit of my hope, then she walks in. No, she floats. She floats in and perches in the large plush chair opposite of me. Her mother makes sure it’s all right with me and I quickly learn this being is Polish and American, because she was born here but her parents are from Poland. She is five, allergic to peanuts, but loves the frosting of a vanilla cupcake. She has a Build-a-Bear named Sparkles. Her mom’s allergic to cats, which is why she can’t have one, although Cherrie her neighbor has two.
She tells me she is writing a novel. She’s stuck too. I suggest maybe we both clear our heads and write something together. This is what we put down:
Mikey the Cat is sleepy. He is happy. He is happy because he has Vivian and Erica. Mikey only meows but Vivian can speak 4 languages. She speaks English, Polish, Chinese, and Spanish. She teaches Erica how to say hello in all 4 languages. Her favorite food is a strawberry with brown sugar. Or macaroni with butter. Or cool whip, which she eats now on the end of a wooden stir stick. She says it’s tastier that way. She tells me how to say ‘yummy’ in Chinese.
We talk for what seems like hours and she strongly suggests I make my book a happy one. She likes happy stories. Then in a gasp of air all too much like the one she rode in on, Vivi leaves, saying goodbye and good luck, it was so nice to meet me. I sit, opposite a large plush chair, now empty. I am still. My fingers move quietly to the keys and gently, the line comes to me:
The angel’s name was Vivi.
And so it goes.
The room is dim. Everything is very quiet except for the birds chirping their fucking brains out on the front porch. Another one fell from the nest yesterday. It’s feathers and fluids splattered all over the smooth porch slate. My housemate shoveled it off with a snow scraper. But aside from the birds everything is quiet. Quiet and dim. The clock reads 3:53 pm, though its clarity fuzzes in and out in my vision. I don’t know if it’s because I’m drunk again already, or if it’s my inability to want to be conscious. My hands are steady for the first time in 5 days. My heartbeat is a thunderous hollow tympani in my chest, but it doesn’t make any noise. It just pounds. I think about a lot of things at this point. I think about toes, about fingers. I think about how I flinched when he went to put his hand on me and he asked if someone had hit me before. I think about how I lied. I think about how sore I am, about how it’s a good thing I sobered up enough to buy more Russian Vodka. I think about how I should really take out those recyclables. I think about cocaine. I think about razors. I think of things no one will ever know about if I’m good. I know I’m good. He said so last night.
I open my eyes. The first thing I notice is the obnoxious red plaid patterning of my dress; last night’s dress. Oh…shit. In initial remembrance of the night prior, I snap my body onto it’s other side to check. For half an instant my eyes gaze across the doorway, and I’m sure he’s used it by now. But rather than pressing reassuringly into a soft empty pillow, my nose jolts abruptly into a hard elbow and pain is sent resonating into the backs of my eyes. He is still here. The fact comforts me briefly then I’m back to, oh…shit. I lay on my back, touching my wincing face and wondering what to do next. Get up? I stir to test getting up. He moans and peeks open an eye. “Go back to sleep” he says. Typical: the girl lays there quiet, trying not to be obvious that she’s volleying the age-old regret; was it a mistake/was it not a mistake. Mostly she wants to know if he thinks it was a mistake. But typically, and this is typical, the he is lying there signal-less, asleep, and momentarily unconcerned about the body next to him. And it is just a body at this point. It’s not that he is heartless or apathetic necessarily, it’s just he’s a guy and breakfast is more important to him right now. And so the miscommunication begins.
The so-called body is me. I begin to look around the room for clues about all the things I think probably didn’t really happened. The place is a mess. Towels on the floor where we each spilled full glasses of sharp mixed drinks. Scattered papers everywhere, an uncapped black marker not far from them. Ok, this explains the array of notes and tattoos scribbled across my skin. I squint at my hand; “Go to Liquor Store. Srsly.” Alright, apparently we’re out. I should really take out those recyclables. I see random pillows on the floor and drawings of owls everywhere. I see everything has fallen, or maybe been pushed from my shelves. The lighter is on the chair where he put it when he took it away from me and youtube is streaming *NSYNC’s ByeByeBye on my laptop. Oh…shit. And ouch. A lot of ouch. I wiggled my toes to feel something I had still.
The air is cold. So much colder than it is to everyone else. I haven’t needed to eat well in days. Now I sip long from a green straw, having smartly mixed my Russian juice with Passion Tea. How fitting to find the need to liquor up passion. I am minutely content with in my metaphoric misery, although stuck when it comes to having bold enough words for this chapter. The frustration is just about to eat away at the last bit of my hope, then she walks in. No, she floats. She floats in and perches in the large plush chair opposite of me. Her mother makes sure it’s all right with me and I quickly learn this being is Polish and American, because she was born here but her parents are from Poland. She is five, allergic to peanuts, but loves the frosting of a vanilla cupcake. She has a Build-a-Bear named Sparkles. Her mom’s allergic to cats, which is why she can’t have one, although Cherrie her neighbor has two.
She tells me she is writing a novel. She’s stuck too. I suggest maybe we both clear our heads and write something together. This is what we put down:
Mikey the Cat is sleepy. He is happy. He is happy because he has Vivian and Erica. Mikey only meows but Vivian can speak 4 languages. She speaks English, Polish, Chinese, and Spanish. She teaches Erica how to say hello in all 4 languages. Her favorite food is a strawberry with brown sugar. Or macaroni with butter. Or cool whip, which she eats now on the end of a wooden stir stick. She says it’s tastier that way. She tells me how to say ‘yummy’ in Chinese.
We talk for what seems like hours and she strongly suggests I make my book a happy one. She likes happy stories. Then in a gasp of air all too much like the one she rode in on, Vivi leaves, saying goodbye and good luck, it was so nice to meet me. I sit, opposite a large plush chair, now empty. I am still. My fingers move quietly to the keys and gently, the line comes to me:
The angel’s name was Vivi.
And so it goes.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
to be all those things you hated.
I am driving myself crazy. Seriously. Is this what they feel like? I've walked from my bedroom to the kitchen to Michelle's room to the bathroom at least 15 times. I made toast for no reason. I did dishes that weren't mine just to pass some time, but stopped 3 times to run and check my phone. If I send another text he'll surely kill me, let alone catch onto how unnerved I am. I don't know if I'm making the wrong decision or the right decision but I am sick of making no decision at all. The girls, they all want me to just marry Andre and make beautiful, weird Portuguese babies. I would...but not really. The List has always gotten the best of me. In fact it's the ones who completely destroy me that beat me at my own game. I love it when they win, good for them. Good for them for putting me in my place.
I have become a little brat since this Condition left. Not only do I not understand not getting what I want, but I also become annoyingly perplexed when immediate attention is not administered upon request. I am a spoiled brat. Jay knows this. So does Devin. Randi likes to say it in nicer ways. If he were here, Mike would sit me down and call me out as I pouted and scowled his way. We'd both know he was right and he'd say, "Oh stop. That face doesn't work on me."
I put myself on blog and book arrest for a day because I am driving myself crazy. Seriously. I am in disarray with this constant unsettling feeling. This inability to relax, to breathe. I feel like something's coming that I am not ready for and I don't know what hatches to batten down, thus I am left with noticeably shaking hands and a scared brow bone. But it's not this I am afraid of, is it. These perplexities are but a mask to keep warring sides at bay.
I think I'm dating like 12 guys. And here I sit. A few questionable decisions later, doing the same ritual of lesser intensity. Is this really my game? Or is it theirs? Player or pawn. I know I have to wait for the next text. The question is, will I be sane enough to receive it with grace.
...Ricky.
"A Steady Approach To Sanity" by: The Years Gone By
I have become a little brat since this Condition left. Not only do I not understand not getting what I want, but I also become annoyingly perplexed when immediate attention is not administered upon request. I am a spoiled brat. Jay knows this. So does Devin. Randi likes to say it in nicer ways. If he were here, Mike would sit me down and call me out as I pouted and scowled his way. We'd both know he was right and he'd say, "Oh stop. That face doesn't work on me."
I put myself on blog and book arrest for a day because I am driving myself crazy. Seriously. I am in disarray with this constant unsettling feeling. This inability to relax, to breathe. I feel like something's coming that I am not ready for and I don't know what hatches to batten down, thus I am left with noticeably shaking hands and a scared brow bone. But it's not this I am afraid of, is it. These perplexities are but a mask to keep warring sides at bay.
I think I'm dating like 12 guys. And here I sit. A few questionable decisions later, doing the same ritual of lesser intensity. Is this really my game? Or is it theirs? Player or pawn. I know I have to wait for the next text. The question is, will I be sane enough to receive it with grace.
...Ricky.
"A Steady Approach To Sanity" by: The Years Gone By
Thursday, June 11, 2009
We'd better give these kids a Breakdown...
Devin's just loud. Loud, loud, loud. I guess that's this band's m.o.. But I'm trying to find the other side of these 4 Brides. The underskirt. And they of all people would support blowing up a skirt or two.
I'm at Lyric for a The Bride Wore Black practice. My book's never seen this setting. There was already mention of the Presbyterian Church show last summer, which puts this afternoon into strange perspective. There were 2 bands I conquered by word before I even thought to look into to these 4 boys. I feel kinda lame about that, yet time cannot be mended, only made up for. So I open the book. None of them seem all that interested in my activities but I keep my eyes down on my page more than I've grown accustomed to getting away with. They're not used to being stared at- yet. Plus I know they WILL say something if they don't like what's going on. It's hard to write with a need to be constantly aware of possible sexual innuendos. Bride isn't Score24 or This Condition, they will absolutely call me out on all my shit. And I like them for that.
It's channel 6.
Ok.
No, it's channel 6.
Are you sure it's channel 6?
I can see a fucking 6 in front of my face!!
It sounds shaky at first. Nobody's really together at all. I can't hear Devin and Mike is just staring at frets. Sean holds his fingers over the mic like he never learned about its pickup. I start to feel like I don't wanna write what I'm thinking. But 2 songs and 1 debacle later it is the second verse of "Live" and things start to come together. Sam's in time, his fingers are warming up. Devin starts to let them catch up, he's always ready to take off right here right now. And Sean, with that infamous pink pick guard that I couldn't forget, is singing right into that microphone.
I am good at this, far too good. Efficient too. I know which one of them interests my pen the most, which one will be a challenge to break apart, which one is the one I want to stare at, and which one will ask me what I thought after this is over.
Hey, This Condition, Bride's bassist sits on his ass during practice too.
Mike really is a fucking idiot. In fact he answers to such, as well as fucking stupid, fucking retard, and fucking moron. "Check my mic, stupid ass." Mike goes to tip toe around the high hat taking forever to even grasp what his task is. "It's fucking flexible douche bag!!"
I know they like when I laugh at them making fun of each other, but I like when Sean giggles at himself. "And then I'll do this. And then I'll jump around like this. Then I'll stand here with my hands on my hips like this. And it will be very awkward." Cue self giggle.
Devin's the real one. He is the focus. And he wants to get a set list secured. They actually vote on an order...? How unexpected. How cute. Someone's gonna kill Mike very shortly however:
Mike- "So when are we playing Semantics if we aren't playing Semantics before Peen and Semantics is gotta be played??"
Devin- "You are dumb."
Sam- "You ARE dumb."
Sean- "Pay attention dude."
Mike- "Fuck."
The crisis is on going over a set list. I listened the whole time and I don't even know what it's supposed to be. I would write it down like they asked me to, but it's far too fun watching them argue over it. Sam- "No, we made it New, Old, New, Old, New....Semantics is bisexual so I don't count that one."
The debate over cutting an old song is won by the singer because he reasons that this one girl messaged them saying it was her favorite. They would play an entire song for one girl. If that's true then I just fell in love with Sean Walsh. I notice it's him that pushes for the comical part of Bride. He argues for the outro they've been playing for 2 years rather than writing a new, more legit one. He and Devin clash on views of how legit this band needs to look and I feel like being a fly on the wall isn't small enough right now.
They're having the conversation that I feel all Long Island/NY bands are having in these cramped financial times. Band boys will always be poor, that's legit, but even a kid who's used to a $5 budget for dinner feels the pressures of getting to a point where you either move up in the business or you don't. Either you make it or you quit. The ones in front of me feel the pressures to pander, to get younger as the van wheels drive the same roads of another summer tour. Band boys are expected to pull a Benjamin Button.
Just sing the OHs in Jousting, Dev! You have to, it's Lanky Brown Ass's favorite part!
Semantics sounded the best thus far. Devin makes it look entirely too easy. It throws me off because I write about the effort, the shit underneath the 6 amazing tracks. How can I write about ease? He knows I'm here though, and thus begins minor attention recieving. I like that curiosity for what I'm writing is here too. Devin knows what I'm doing, it's Sam pulling Mike along into verbal wonderment. Somebody explain to him that he has to wait for the blog like everybody else!
If attention's like a fire then these four will put the flint out there...but they won't guarantee they'll find you flammable. In fact I'm probably gonna get chastised for using an All Time Low lyric in Bride's book pages, but I don't know what A Common End would say.
Joey has lost the title for favorite stroke in my little scene world. Meet Sam. He has two; one elbow stroke and one wrist stroke. It's the upstroke that's selling me on The Bride Wore Black though. I don't care what color they want to wear as long as Sam can keep the upstroke.
Do you think I need to love these band boys before I find the insight? Or do you think I see up their skirts and then fall in love? Which came first; the lust or the peep show?
I don't want to watch Devin sing. It's too honest and I don't want to handle that today. Today I want Sean's sway and scream. Luckily, they entertain me with both.
"Write that down! Write that down!" They all raise a hand to mock scribbling. "Write that down! (in unison) MATT IS A FUCKING MORON!"
I pack up to be on time when I punch into the real world but...I know this synth part...
11:11 !!
The perfect exit song for a scene of the boys who made it my favorite time on the clock. The gang OHs. Sam and Mike love them, but not more than I do. And it happens; that undefined feeling of being totally numb but completely conscious in one heartbeat. It's this that makes this world so different from the real one. And there's that smirk, 5 times over.
I knew if I came to this practice I'd fall in love with them. Right the fuck in love with them.
...Ricky.
www.myspace.com/thebrideworeblack
I'm at Lyric for a The Bride Wore Black practice. My book's never seen this setting. There was already mention of the Presbyterian Church show last summer, which puts this afternoon into strange perspective. There were 2 bands I conquered by word before I even thought to look into to these 4 boys. I feel kinda lame about that, yet time cannot be mended, only made up for. So I open the book. None of them seem all that interested in my activities but I keep my eyes down on my page more than I've grown accustomed to getting away with. They're not used to being stared at- yet. Plus I know they WILL say something if they don't like what's going on. It's hard to write with a need to be constantly aware of possible sexual innuendos. Bride isn't Score24 or This Condition, they will absolutely call me out on all my shit. And I like them for that.
It's channel 6.
Ok.
No, it's channel 6.
Are you sure it's channel 6?
I can see a fucking 6 in front of my face!!
It sounds shaky at first. Nobody's really together at all. I can't hear Devin and Mike is just staring at frets. Sean holds his fingers over the mic like he never learned about its pickup. I start to feel like I don't wanna write what I'm thinking. But 2 songs and 1 debacle later it is the second verse of "Live" and things start to come together. Sam's in time, his fingers are warming up. Devin starts to let them catch up, he's always ready to take off right here right now. And Sean, with that infamous pink pick guard that I couldn't forget, is singing right into that microphone.
I am good at this, far too good. Efficient too. I know which one of them interests my pen the most, which one will be a challenge to break apart, which one is the one I want to stare at, and which one will ask me what I thought after this is over.
Hey, This Condition, Bride's bassist sits on his ass during practice too.
Mike really is a fucking idiot. In fact he answers to such, as well as fucking stupid, fucking retard, and fucking moron. "Check my mic, stupid ass." Mike goes to tip toe around the high hat taking forever to even grasp what his task is. "It's fucking flexible douche bag!!"
I know they like when I laugh at them making fun of each other, but I like when Sean giggles at himself. "And then I'll do this. And then I'll jump around like this. Then I'll stand here with my hands on my hips like this. And it will be very awkward." Cue self giggle.
Devin's the real one. He is the focus. And he wants to get a set list secured. They actually vote on an order...? How unexpected. How cute. Someone's gonna kill Mike very shortly however:
Mike- "So when are we playing Semantics if we aren't playing Semantics before Peen and Semantics is gotta be played??"
Devin- "You are dumb."
Sam- "You ARE dumb."
Sean- "Pay attention dude."
Mike- "Fuck."
The crisis is on going over a set list. I listened the whole time and I don't even know what it's supposed to be. I would write it down like they asked me to, but it's far too fun watching them argue over it. Sam- "No, we made it New, Old, New, Old, New....Semantics is bisexual so I don't count that one."
The debate over cutting an old song is won by the singer because he reasons that this one girl messaged them saying it was her favorite. They would play an entire song for one girl. If that's true then I just fell in love with Sean Walsh. I notice it's him that pushes for the comical part of Bride. He argues for the outro they've been playing for 2 years rather than writing a new, more legit one. He and Devin clash on views of how legit this band needs to look and I feel like being a fly on the wall isn't small enough right now.
They're having the conversation that I feel all Long Island/NY bands are having in these cramped financial times. Band boys will always be poor, that's legit, but even a kid who's used to a $5 budget for dinner feels the pressures of getting to a point where you either move up in the business or you don't. Either you make it or you quit. The ones in front of me feel the pressures to pander, to get younger as the van wheels drive the same roads of another summer tour. Band boys are expected to pull a Benjamin Button.
Just sing the OHs in Jousting, Dev! You have to, it's Lanky Brown Ass's favorite part!
Semantics sounded the best thus far. Devin makes it look entirely too easy. It throws me off because I write about the effort, the shit underneath the 6 amazing tracks. How can I write about ease? He knows I'm here though, and thus begins minor attention recieving. I like that curiosity for what I'm writing is here too. Devin knows what I'm doing, it's Sam pulling Mike along into verbal wonderment. Somebody explain to him that he has to wait for the blog like everybody else!
If attention's like a fire then these four will put the flint out there...but they won't guarantee they'll find you flammable. In fact I'm probably gonna get chastised for using an All Time Low lyric in Bride's book pages, but I don't know what A Common End would say.
Joey has lost the title for favorite stroke in my little scene world. Meet Sam. He has two; one elbow stroke and one wrist stroke. It's the upstroke that's selling me on The Bride Wore Black though. I don't care what color they want to wear as long as Sam can keep the upstroke.
Do you think I need to love these band boys before I find the insight? Or do you think I see up their skirts and then fall in love? Which came first; the lust or the peep show?
I don't want to watch Devin sing. It's too honest and I don't want to handle that today. Today I want Sean's sway and scream. Luckily, they entertain me with both.
"Write that down! Write that down!" They all raise a hand to mock scribbling. "Write that down! (in unison) MATT IS A FUCKING MORON!"
I pack up to be on time when I punch into the real world but...I know this synth part...
11:11 !!
The perfect exit song for a scene of the boys who made it my favorite time on the clock. The gang OHs. Sam and Mike love them, but not more than I do. And it happens; that undefined feeling of being totally numb but completely conscious in one heartbeat. It's this that makes this world so different from the real one. And there's that smirk, 5 times over.
I knew if I came to this practice I'd fall in love with them. Right the fuck in love with them.
...Ricky.
www.myspace.com/thebrideworeblack
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Feeling belief, typing it's meaning, and sharing it with the world: The religion of obscure collaboration
by Timmy and me
I believe in thunderstorms in the morning.
I believe an outfit can change your fate.
I believe in the moment when a plane takes off and you realize you’re off the runway. Flying.
I believe a tuna fish sandwich can cure most wounds.
I believe in the way old books smell.
I believe that the possibility of infinity lies within the dusk.
I believe in hiding behind my sunglasses, even when the sun is almost set.
I believe time can stand still for roughly 3 minutes and 12 seconds at a time.
I believe in saving worn out sneakers in case I need a bedtime story.
I believe in keys. That every one holds a story and a secret.
I believe in the street I grew up on.
I believe in Indian summers.
I believe in Mrs. Kordowski, my sixth grade teacher. She told me she once saw God and I've been questioning ever since.
I believe in choice of font.
I believe in coffee and its conversations.
I believe in Stick Stickly and that popsicle sticks can and will talk under the right circumstances.
i believe in safety pins.
I believe that hope is the foundation of humanity, and that love is its realization.
I believe in words. And pens that write them.
I believe in Nate Cyphert in a vocal booth.
I believe in embrace. That there's no safer feeling, no sturdier guard, than between a friend's arms.
I believe in a moment; in the whispers leading up to it and the morning afters that still your soul.
We believe in obscure things and the random evidence that proves them to be true. What do you believe in?
I believe in thunderstorms in the morning.
I believe an outfit can change your fate.
I believe in the moment when a plane takes off and you realize you’re off the runway. Flying.
I believe a tuna fish sandwich can cure most wounds.
I believe in the way old books smell.
I believe that the possibility of infinity lies within the dusk.
I believe in hiding behind my sunglasses, even when the sun is almost set.
I believe time can stand still for roughly 3 minutes and 12 seconds at a time.
I believe in saving worn out sneakers in case I need a bedtime story.
I believe in keys. That every one holds a story and a secret.
I believe in the street I grew up on.
I believe in Indian summers.
I believe in Mrs. Kordowski, my sixth grade teacher. She told me she once saw God and I've been questioning ever since.
I believe in choice of font.
I believe in coffee and its conversations.
I believe in Stick Stickly and that popsicle sticks can and will talk under the right circumstances.
i believe in safety pins.
I believe that hope is the foundation of humanity, and that love is its realization.
I believe in words. And pens that write them.
I believe in Nate Cyphert in a vocal booth.
I believe in embrace. That there's no safer feeling, no sturdier guard, than between a friend's arms.
I believe in a moment; in the whispers leading up to it and the morning afters that still your soul.
We believe in obscure things and the random evidence that proves them to be true. What do you believe in?
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Flying with the Pilot (tc recording day 1)
My eyes opened so carefully this morning. They knew this day was here. June 6th. But before my head could think, my lungs expanded. Breathe.
What makes time stand still?
I think before Twitter people just appreciated the moment they were in. Before cameras they set their gaze upon their surroundings as long as possible to remember them for a lifetime. I haven't been to a recording since..well old Killingsworth days were enough for a while. Then Santo kinda made We Don't Have To Be Alone in a storage closet. Now in this setting...Pilot Studios in Boonton, NJ....my old nerves return and a strict attention must be in focus at all times so as to not repeat clumsy commotions. I was the one who broke Tomas' shelf ok! There it's out in the open now. Clumsy is my middle name. We can't have any of that here.
We walked up the first flight of wet wooden stairs and gazed up the rest as we waited for him to answer the door. Pilot Studios, I thought to myself...he's The Pilot?! I've listened to the solo project since I was 18 and needed mood music to write to. He's The Pilot! I turned to tell my best friend but got cut off. Rob Freeman opened the door.
"Hi, I'm Rob."
His ears. Most people would assume that upon meeting him, my favorite part about Rob Freeman would be his hair. But I like his ears. They hear things normal people can't. They hear things regular musicians don't. His sense of humor is...at arms length yet not always easy to grasp. I have all day to tune into it. I like his voice, quick comments, and blunt remarks; "That was awful." after Mike finishes an entire run of one of the new songs. He has unexpected mannerisms and wears a red hoodie that seems to me to define his status. He seems slighty surprised when Mike does something satisfactory and wastes no time getting to the work. I find most of him completely interesting, as I guess would be expected when one meets a new person. But I haven't met someone who intrigued me in a long time. I promised Nate I wouldn't write a lot, but I have to watch this producer character.
Nicky sits on the floor in some curious non-typical Nicky C outfit. He doesn't bother me, but he won't look at me either. Serves me right. He makes suggestions to Mike and Nate, which both surprises me and enchants my curiosity. Stevie sits on his computer also with different attire on and Nate demands to know what the hell he is wearing. Every once in a while he will reach over and rub either Nick or Nate inappropriately. His creepiness eases my tension; something familiar. Nate sits on his computer as well and Anthony sits with his arm around the back of me, chewing his nails and staring off into god knows what space. We all get kicked out when Mike starts recording bc too many bodies makes too much heat which makes Mikey sound bad. What did we do in the hours we spent on the other side of the wall? Drawing time. Nap time. Snack time. Therapy time. All the essentials. I had a great talk with Nicky C. Call it chance, call it luck, call it timing. I believe it had something to do with NateCyph's vocals pouring out from behind closed doors.
What is it about this place that makes it Pilot Studios, specifically?
- The little duck popping out of a hole in the aged brick wall.
- The claw lamp that leans over the living room area. Constantly shaking but not bendable. Steve and I tried.
- The wooden airplane that sits nicely placed on the glass end table. Not far from it, in a room like the cockpit, The Pilot.
- The 2 white doors; to the left Mr. Freeman, to the right, Mr. Booth.
- Rob's red sweatshirt.
The day ended all of a sudden but I wasn't sad. The car ride home entailed no music and Nathen bouncing off the walls. We would later hear that Colin had to give him a timeout.
The Mission:
Home
Mess
Taradactyl
How I Keep Them Straight:
the Woahs/"tell tell me anything"
Perfect/ "whole damn life"
"I'm alright."
...Ricky.
What makes time stand still?
I think before Twitter people just appreciated the moment they were in. Before cameras they set their gaze upon their surroundings as long as possible to remember them for a lifetime. I haven't been to a recording since..well old Killingsworth days were enough for a while. Then Santo kinda made We Don't Have To Be Alone in a storage closet. Now in this setting...Pilot Studios in Boonton, NJ....my old nerves return and a strict attention must be in focus at all times so as to not repeat clumsy commotions. I was the one who broke Tomas' shelf ok! There it's out in the open now. Clumsy is my middle name. We can't have any of that here.
We walked up the first flight of wet wooden stairs and gazed up the rest as we waited for him to answer the door. Pilot Studios, I thought to myself...he's The Pilot?! I've listened to the solo project since I was 18 and needed mood music to write to. He's The Pilot! I turned to tell my best friend but got cut off. Rob Freeman opened the door.
"Hi, I'm Rob."
His ears. Most people would assume that upon meeting him, my favorite part about Rob Freeman would be his hair. But I like his ears. They hear things normal people can't. They hear things regular musicians don't. His sense of humor is...at arms length yet not always easy to grasp. I have all day to tune into it. I like his voice, quick comments, and blunt remarks; "That was awful." after Mike finishes an entire run of one of the new songs. He has unexpected mannerisms and wears a red hoodie that seems to me to define his status. He seems slighty surprised when Mike does something satisfactory and wastes no time getting to the work. I find most of him completely interesting, as I guess would be expected when one meets a new person. But I haven't met someone who intrigued me in a long time. I promised Nate I wouldn't write a lot, but I have to watch this producer character.
Nicky sits on the floor in some curious non-typical Nicky C outfit. He doesn't bother me, but he won't look at me either. Serves me right. He makes suggestions to Mike and Nate, which both surprises me and enchants my curiosity. Stevie sits on his computer also with different attire on and Nate demands to know what the hell he is wearing. Every once in a while he will reach over and rub either Nick or Nate inappropriately. His creepiness eases my tension; something familiar. Nate sits on his computer as well and Anthony sits with his arm around the back of me, chewing his nails and staring off into god knows what space. We all get kicked out when Mike starts recording bc too many bodies makes too much heat which makes Mikey sound bad. What did we do in the hours we spent on the other side of the wall? Drawing time. Nap time. Snack time. Therapy time. All the essentials. I had a great talk with Nicky C. Call it chance, call it luck, call it timing. I believe it had something to do with NateCyph's vocals pouring out from behind closed doors.
What is it about this place that makes it Pilot Studios, specifically?
- The little duck popping out of a hole in the aged brick wall.
- The claw lamp that leans over the living room area. Constantly shaking but not bendable. Steve and I tried.
- The wooden airplane that sits nicely placed on the glass end table. Not far from it, in a room like the cockpit, The Pilot.
- The 2 white doors; to the left Mr. Freeman, to the right, Mr. Booth.
- Rob's red sweatshirt.
The day ended all of a sudden but I wasn't sad. The car ride home entailed no music and Nathen bouncing off the walls. We would later hear that Colin had to give him a timeout.
The Mission:
Home
Mess
Taradactyl
How I Keep Them Straight:
the Woahs/"tell tell me anything"
Perfect/ "whole damn life"
"I'm alright."
...Ricky.
the Taxi and Take-off (day 2 and everything after that)
There's no remedy for love but to love more. -Henry David Thoreau
Day 2: is rainy and dim which I think could either be perfect for creative focus or dragging in ambition. They're working with Rob Freeman...it'll be the first. I'm sitting in the control room with him now- just me and him. Yeah, this is weird. He doesn't know me but was friendly initiating introduction and hasn't given me a nasty look to speak of. These are different times then what I've known. Yes, I'm sitting in a room with Rob and Nate's in the vocal booth directly across from me. And the two computer screens are lit with a bunch of colorful caterpillars that I know are the tracks of the song we'll all have a repeat soon enough. The headphones are on and Rob's shoes are off.
And I hear it.
No matter how much I think I know or what I am sure is true, everything changes after he sings this line. One year and this line is enough to fill it all. And now Rob is singing it. He's helping Nate with phrasing and notes, loving to have this voice in his hands, and I know the question I asked earlier has been answered. Moments create themselves, with the guidance of people who love you. People who believe in you. I know I will live here, somehow, some piece of me, forever. (Are ya happy, Cyph? I said it!) My jaw just eases, not drops. Nothing drops in this family without being caught. It eases to let out the air that has inflated my heart. My hand reaches for the back of my neck. Just something to keep me from floating away.
I like the way Nate dances in the booth but even more so I like the way he looks at me and giggles. I grasp the discreet smile we share when the much debated last line of the second verse earns a "I really like that line, good job" from Rob. "Work on the 'she'. Get that note." he tells Nate. I am the she. One year and this line is everything I need. One more year and this moment will still be enough. "Thanks" Rob says crisp and simple. Mike texts me. It's like they let me be in here alone to hear it- everything happens for a reason. Now Mike's texting "that's you!" Sometimes obvious feels good to hear. It's good to know what the hell Nick was stuttering about yesterday. They're so excited about this and I don't know what to say. What do I do? All I can do...write the words.
Nate comes in. I kinda forgot that I was going to see him again outside the booth. It's his true cubicle. "Do ya wanna read the words she wrote?" Mike grins to him. We sit quietly as Rob opens his eyes and shifts from creative vision to concentrated worker. Yes, I like his ears. And his eyes. Whatever's under all that hair. I like him for liking those lines and for taking a break for a phone call. It was his Dad.
Rob tells them this is their best song and his favorite. Nate turns to me and Mike immediately and gets silently stoked out of him mind. I wish I could pay to keep him here every week, though we'd probably want to kill him with all this blissful energy. "We might just make it, Erica." he says to me with sly eyes. "Maybe." I say. I can't not smile back at him.
What do you do when a moment's over? When vocal heroes turn back into your closest friends and producing geniuses are just the guy you saw yesterday- in the same clothes? Well...you thank god you're in a recording studio and that these walls immortalized everything you just felt.
I will remember when Nate Cyphert was 5 green dots on Rob Freeman's brand new studio rack. I believe in that.
How will this day end? Does it even matter? Coming around the backstretch of Day 2, I'm not afraid to walk into the control room. I've seen Nate screw up at least half a dozen notes. I have learned half a dozen new terms. I've watched Rob trip and I've "not" laughed at him. I believe that Nate Cyphert can hit any note he wants in a take or two. And I no longer disbelief in us coming out on the other side of this together.
It is tonight. The show is over, the lingering behind the van has concluded, and our bellies are full. The same song is playing in my stereo. It is tonight and we are...the family. We're still going to be the family tomorrow when the van pulls away from a New Hyde Park curb. I believe in still being the family 3 months from now. They each had had something to say to me:
"We're gonna call each other."
"I won't let you forget me."
"I'm goin to miss you."
"When we say goodbye, you will tell me what you really feel right then. And I will tell you I'll be back before you know it."
"Iverson dunked over O'Neill. I rule at NBA 2005 and I'm also extremely sexy."
My eyes opened so carefully this morning. But before my head could think, I decided something. I am not a nonbeliever. I'm just not as truly forgiving as I'd like to be. But I like words, words I definitely trust. This morning the evidence my eyes are looking for is in the words. There is 'good' in 'goodbye'. There is 'to u' in 'tour'.
I rode away from Rob Freeman the other day in Ant's 1967 Impala. It bottoms out as we go about 109mph towards the George Washington Bridge. And I wonder if there's such a thing as the perfect nonchalant moment, if there's a perfect way to end this. But for once I don't really care and I just let everything soak into me. Moments are created if you let them, songs are made when you sing them, love hoeds on when you believe in it.
...Rica.
Day 2: is rainy and dim which I think could either be perfect for creative focus or dragging in ambition. They're working with Rob Freeman...it'll be the first. I'm sitting in the control room with him now- just me and him. Yeah, this is weird. He doesn't know me but was friendly initiating introduction and hasn't given me a nasty look to speak of. These are different times then what I've known. Yes, I'm sitting in a room with Rob and Nate's in the vocal booth directly across from me. And the two computer screens are lit with a bunch of colorful caterpillars that I know are the tracks of the song we'll all have a repeat soon enough. The headphones are on and Rob's shoes are off.
And I hear it.
No matter how much I think I know or what I am sure is true, everything changes after he sings this line. One year and this line is enough to fill it all. And now Rob is singing it. He's helping Nate with phrasing and notes, loving to have this voice in his hands, and I know the question I asked earlier has been answered. Moments create themselves, with the guidance of people who love you. People who believe in you. I know I will live here, somehow, some piece of me, forever. (Are ya happy, Cyph? I said it!) My jaw just eases, not drops. Nothing drops in this family without being caught. It eases to let out the air that has inflated my heart. My hand reaches for the back of my neck. Just something to keep me from floating away.
I like the way Nate dances in the booth but even more so I like the way he looks at me and giggles. I grasp the discreet smile we share when the much debated last line of the second verse earns a "I really like that line, good job" from Rob. "Work on the 'she'. Get that note." he tells Nate. I am the she. One year and this line is everything I need. One more year and this moment will still be enough. "Thanks" Rob says crisp and simple. Mike texts me. It's like they let me be in here alone to hear it- everything happens for a reason. Now Mike's texting "that's you!" Sometimes obvious feels good to hear. It's good to know what the hell Nick was stuttering about yesterday. They're so excited about this and I don't know what to say. What do I do? All I can do...write the words.
Nate comes in. I kinda forgot that I was going to see him again outside the booth. It's his true cubicle. "Do ya wanna read the words she wrote?" Mike grins to him. We sit quietly as Rob opens his eyes and shifts from creative vision to concentrated worker. Yes, I like his ears. And his eyes. Whatever's under all that hair. I like him for liking those lines and for taking a break for a phone call. It was his Dad.
Rob tells them this is their best song and his favorite. Nate turns to me and Mike immediately and gets silently stoked out of him mind. I wish I could pay to keep him here every week, though we'd probably want to kill him with all this blissful energy. "We might just make it, Erica." he says to me with sly eyes. "Maybe." I say. I can't not smile back at him.
What do you do when a moment's over? When vocal heroes turn back into your closest friends and producing geniuses are just the guy you saw yesterday- in the same clothes? Well...you thank god you're in a recording studio and that these walls immortalized everything you just felt.
I will remember when Nate Cyphert was 5 green dots on Rob Freeman's brand new studio rack. I believe in that.
How will this day end? Does it even matter? Coming around the backstretch of Day 2, I'm not afraid to walk into the control room. I've seen Nate screw up at least half a dozen notes. I have learned half a dozen new terms. I've watched Rob trip and I've "not" laughed at him. I believe that Nate Cyphert can hit any note he wants in a take or two. And I no longer disbelief in us coming out on the other side of this together.
It is tonight. The show is over, the lingering behind the van has concluded, and our bellies are full. The same song is playing in my stereo. It is tonight and we are...the family. We're still going to be the family tomorrow when the van pulls away from a New Hyde Park curb. I believe in still being the family 3 months from now. They each had had something to say to me:
"We're gonna call each other."
"I won't let you forget me."
"I'm goin to miss you."
"When we say goodbye, you will tell me what you really feel right then. And I will tell you I'll be back before you know it."
"Iverson dunked over O'Neill. I rule at NBA 2005 and I'm also extremely sexy."
My eyes opened so carefully this morning. But before my head could think, I decided something. I am not a nonbeliever. I'm just not as truly forgiving as I'd like to be. But I like words, words I definitely trust. This morning the evidence my eyes are looking for is in the words. There is 'good' in 'goodbye'. There is 'to u' in 'tour'.
I rode away from Rob Freeman the other day in Ant's 1967 Impala. It bottoms out as we go about 109mph towards the George Washington Bridge. And I wonder if there's such a thing as the perfect nonchalant moment, if there's a perfect way to end this. But for once I don't really care and I just let everything soak into me. Moments are created if you let them, songs are made when you sing them, love hoeds on when you believe in it.
...Rica.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
the pearls
My mother taught me how to cut apples. She did not tell me how to cut my losses.
There was a point in time, sometime in my senior year of high school, where I could have done anything, been anybody I wanted to be for the rest of my life. I chose to be an artist. Why wasn't I the guy who figured out peanut butter and apples tasted great together? Why was I instead the girl who repeatedly figured out you and I wouldn't work out after all. I'm going through my clothes, fitting into my new space by cutting out the weeds, and I have created a pile of clothes from ex boys and boyfriends. There it is, my entire dating history right in front of me and again, I find myself at a crossroads. Which do I throw out and finally leave behind forever? Which do I save for another 6 months? And which, do I secretly tuck in the back of my drawers for a night when lonely is just too cold?
I threw them all away.
Unfortunately for me, the very night I took out the trash was the very night I could've used pretending there was someone here with me. I'm up, crying, something I haven't done in a while. One of my friends says he admires me because I just ask what I want to know, so instead of tolerating being haunted by two hidden hands of cards...I asked. And I was told.
The funny thing about getting what you want is that you get it. Then that's just it. No more mystery. No more maybes. Done deal Mr. Postman. I shut off my computer immediately following my enlightenment. I was hollow, but hollow is lighter. I put on a pretty little nightgown and a string of fake pearls. Single girls put on the lingerie they never get to wear on nights like these. I looked and thought I didn't look half bad. Then I cried to remember just who it was that gave me the confidence lesson. I stopped crying to think about what I would give to be sitting on the front porch in Vernon right now. Bare feet and the Big Dipper. I even calculated travel time. I wanted to leave him waiting in the morning and never ever come back. But I have unfinished business and Daddy said you can never run away from yourself. I laid in Michelle's bed with the 4 things that have been with me every important and unimportant day of my life, and muffled until I couldn't breath through my nose. Then I got up and floated precisely to my computer. Artists don't sob, they create.
I have no more questions your Honor, the jury is free to come or go. The trial is over and life shall be far more difficult than death. I knew I couldn't count on you guys. I'll have to write my own sentences now.
My mother never taught me this lesson. She never told me to watch out for falling hearts, or to look both ways before crossing lines. She probably knew I had to be in my own right places at the wrong times. But she did teach me to prevail. That being me meant being strong enough to take any apple thrown my way. And that's not just as good, that's better.
...Ricky.
There was a point in time, sometime in my senior year of high school, where I could have done anything, been anybody I wanted to be for the rest of my life. I chose to be an artist. Why wasn't I the guy who figured out peanut butter and apples tasted great together? Why was I instead the girl who repeatedly figured out you and I wouldn't work out after all. I'm going through my clothes, fitting into my new space by cutting out the weeds, and I have created a pile of clothes from ex boys and boyfriends. There it is, my entire dating history right in front of me and again, I find myself at a crossroads. Which do I throw out and finally leave behind forever? Which do I save for another 6 months? And which, do I secretly tuck in the back of my drawers for a night when lonely is just too cold?
I threw them all away.
Unfortunately for me, the very night I took out the trash was the very night I could've used pretending there was someone here with me. I'm up, crying, something I haven't done in a while. One of my friends says he admires me because I just ask what I want to know, so instead of tolerating being haunted by two hidden hands of cards...I asked. And I was told.
The funny thing about getting what you want is that you get it. Then that's just it. No more mystery. No more maybes. Done deal Mr. Postman. I shut off my computer immediately following my enlightenment. I was hollow, but hollow is lighter. I put on a pretty little nightgown and a string of fake pearls. Single girls put on the lingerie they never get to wear on nights like these. I looked and thought I didn't look half bad. Then I cried to remember just who it was that gave me the confidence lesson. I stopped crying to think about what I would give to be sitting on the front porch in Vernon right now. Bare feet and the Big Dipper. I even calculated travel time. I wanted to leave him waiting in the morning and never ever come back. But I have unfinished business and Daddy said you can never run away from yourself. I laid in Michelle's bed with the 4 things that have been with me every important and unimportant day of my life, and muffled until I couldn't breath through my nose. Then I got up and floated precisely to my computer. Artists don't sob, they create.
I have no more questions your Honor, the jury is free to come or go. The trial is over and life shall be far more difficult than death. I knew I couldn't count on you guys. I'll have to write my own sentences now.
My mother never taught me this lesson. She never told me to watch out for falling hearts, or to look both ways before crossing lines. She probably knew I had to be in my own right places at the wrong times. But she did teach me to prevail. That being me meant being strong enough to take any apple thrown my way. And that's not just as good, that's better.
...Ricky.
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