#1 record | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

girlreviews · 2 months

Text

Review #474: #1 Record, Big Star

“I never travel far, without a little Big Star”, is the saying that goes, or rather, the lyrics from The Replacement’s ode to Alex Chilton. It’s true though. Big Star are my favorite band. While I disagree pretty adamantly with the order, all three of their records are in the Rolling Stone’s Top 500. I find that immensely satisfying. One thing Rolling Stone and I agree on – apparently — is that Big Star are special. I could talk possibly forever about the Big Star story, but it’s a rare occasion that I happen upon anyone else who knows, cares, or is interested. Which is pretty much part and parcel of the story itself. It’s part of its charm in a way.

I learned about Big Star the way everyone does, or at least did. Someone put a song on a burned CD for me (previously it would have been a mixtape, but this was the early 2000s and this is what we did). It was that fuckin’ boy, okay? And it was around when we actually met. He was trying to impress. He made me this CD, it was plain white, and it had scrawled on it in his stupid fucking handwriting “Summer Promo” with some little patterns doodled around it. Thirteen was the third track and it instantly became my favorite. I fell in love with it, and with Big Star, and that was it. I remember almost all of the other tracks, they were mostly trash. He gave it to me before fucking off for several weeks over the summer – to Bible camp, ha – and the douchebag didn’t ever have enough money to keep his cell phone with credit to call or text. By the time he got back he already was like, “sorry, dumping you”, and so began the 3 to 4 years of hellish on-off controlling, jealous, rage abuse from a boy who didn’t want me, and constantly cheated on me, but couldn’t stand to see me move on or be near anyone else. Who am I kidding, he didn’t say sorry.

Some years in, he had moved away but this all continued. He was back in town – and we were together at this point – and days into his visit he hadn’t called, texted, nothing. He eventually showed up, only to inform me that he had tickets to see an artist that we both loved, Kathryn Williams, at a very local venue, and that he was taking another girl. My father had to physically restrain me. Later that evening, my boy best friend just so happened to call me and said he and his parents were going to that same show, had a spare ticket and would I like to go. I said yes. When I arrived, I sat several rows ahead of my “boyfriend”, and he saw that I was there with my friend, a boy, who in his opinion, I was not allowed to spend time with. Then. As if by magic. Kathryn Williams covered Thirteen. Beautifully. I really do remember that in that moment, knowing that I wasn’t ever going to ever be able to let myself tie songs I loved this much to people that hurt me on purpose if I wanted to continue loving them. I turned around and looked at him as if to say “you will never get this song from me”. I’d love to say that was the end of it all, but it wasn’t.

In the Street also lives within #1 Record, and during my teenage years, That 70’s Show was such a breath of fresh air. We all loved it. I had really fond memories of watching that show with my friends. I used to download it illegally and we would all watch it in my room around my computer. The theme tune was performed by Cheap Trick in the show, but I always loved that Alex Chilton and Chris Bell were in the opening credits, and as I understand it, it earned them money in syndication. However, Chris Bell was already dead, and Alex Chilton died with not a great deal to his name. So maybe it didn’t help. It’s probably the way that most folks know Big Star, even if they don’t know it. I’d encourage you to listen to their original version of In the Street. It’s fun, and honestly would have been a better fit for the show if you ask me. Also, it’s got so much cowbell it’s just silly. Sadly — sadly isn’t really the appropriate word here — That 70’s Show and the majority of its cast are now mired by the actions of convicted rapist and Scientologist Danny Masterson. Fond feelings are now replaced by anger and sadness for his victims and bitter disappointment in his castmates for continuing to support him and his church’s actions.

Skip forward a few years, and that boy is finally out of the picture, but a new nightmare begins. I’ve pointed to this in a few previous reviews. A job with a boss, and that boss is no good. We’re not going to get too far into that here. But there was this time, I was working my seventh day in a week a fourth week in a row (!) at a trade show. I forget why, but the subject of music came up, or I was listening to music on my break, or something like that, and this guy wanted to know what it was I was listening to. He was in his 40s and in a previous life, he had very briefly and with a great deal of mediocrity enjoyed some commercial success in a band. I’m being quite generous in saying that. He liked to overstate that success. A lot. Anyway. It comes up that I’m a fan of Big Star, and this garners his attention (more so than usual), and earns me some respect as a “real music fan”. I’m at work, I’m exhausted, I’m paid 8 pounds an hour, and this man was my ride to and from some hotel trade show at the Heathrow Airport. Finally, the day is over, and we’re leaving. On the way to what I think is home, he tells me that his wife is out of town, and his bandmates are in town, and that he isn’t going to take me home, he’s taking me to his house to hang out with his band. It may surprise you to learn that I, an 18 year old girl, did not want to hang out by myself with five 40-year-old men, only one of which I actually knew. The thing is, I actually didn’t have any choice. At all. This is one of those things where I most certainly look back and think “Jesus christ, that was fucked up”, and at the time I recognized my discomfort, but I didn’t have enough of a voice or know what to do about it. He was my boss.

So there I was, at his house, just kind of stuck. They all got fucking white girl wasted. And they had set up recording equipment – I assume their entire weekend plans were to fuck around and record music. Well. He made me sing. He made me sing Thirteen. He recorded it. They played. I was shaking. Mortified. Terrified. He wouldn’t let me leave until I did it. Then I was allowed to be sent home in a private car. I feel really sad for myself when I think about this. I’m not sure how not one of those men thought it was strange that I was there, or that my discomfort was so obvious, and that not one of them thought I should be at home. In hindsight I get the feeling my boss wasn’t someone people felt comfortable standing up to. That’s no excuse, in my opinion.

In weeks following, he showed me the mix he made of the recording, and I hated it. Hated. It. To be clear: I sang it beautifully. Every single one of those men was surprised by what came out of my mouth, and they all shut the fuck up for awhile, because I sang it beautifully and they weren’t expecting it. I hated it because of how it was created. I hated it because he bastardized it with a bunch of weird added effects and elongations that were insults to the original. From that day, until I left that job to go to university, I was encouraged to not bother with school and let him manage my music career, and my aspirations of college and helping people were “a stupid waste of time”. I thank myself every day that I had no desire to take him up on his ridiculous offer, and that saying no required no second thought. I can’t imagine what would have happened to me had I said yes, but I know that it would not have been good. That wasn’t the last of that guy, either, unfortunately, but I did go to school and I did graduate before he had the opportunity to fuck anything else up again.

Again, I revisited that notion of never letting anyone ruin a song or a band for me. But, in writing these reviews, I have come to realize that the memory being attached to a song or an artist has served a really valuable purpose for me. I know that this shit really happened, because the song/artist makes me think of this memory. That’s how I know. It’s validating and it’s helpful to actually catalogue all of this in this particular way. I can believe myself. If I ever didn’t before, I do now.

At the end of 2022, I was able to see Big Star (well “Big Star”), perform all of their catalog live, for the 50th anniversary of #1 Record. In Memphis. Mike Mills of R.E.M., Pat Sansone of Wilco, Jon Auer of the Posies, and Chris Stamey of the dBs, playing alongside original drummer and only surviving member, Jody Stephens. Over the years – whether in the UK or in the US, so many Big Star events had come and gone. Movie showings, one-off shows, tributes, whatever. And no matter what, somehow, something always stopped me from catching them. Not this one. No fucking way. I was really overwhelmed, and overcome, to think of all of the things that had to happen in my life since I first heard Thirteen on that burned CD under my loft bed in England to put me in Memphis, listening to these songs live, finally, in my Thirties, knowing those absolute assclowns that I’ve written about above are well behind me and can’t hurt me anymore.

#album review #music #music review #rolling stone top 500 #big star #1 record #memphis #Alex chilton #men are trash

2 notes · View notes

monzamash · 8 months

Text

off the record — lando norris

"the line between personal and professional was already so blurred; so incomprehensibly faint that anyone looking in would have to squint to see it." lando norris x you (femreader) | 2.1k rating – 18+ (sex, coarse language, drug references) masterlist

The media pen was mayhem after what had been an eventful morning on track. Cameras hoisted every which way, journalists vying for their chance to get front row. And then there was you; little old you trying your best to muscle into every nook and cranny available, wrestling with the big boys and girls. You were a bit of a hot shot now, rising through the ranks online as a media personality and bringing it to the stalwarts of mainstream media.

And you were good – really good. An exceptional storyteller and an extractor of sorts when it came to getting the scoop, something you had honed in on during your days working freelance before eventually realising your potential. Somehow, you’d made it here. Reporting for Sky Sports. Coming to you live from Monaco. Dream shit.

“Lando Norris…” You started, microphone locked and loaded in front of the sweaty, nonchalant McLaren driver.

“Felt like you left a little bit out on track in practice this morning. P10 – where do you think you can get the car in qualifying this afternoon?”

“P1 obviously,” Lando quipped, chewing through his comically large drinking straw in an attempt to hide his smirk. Mocking.

“Yeah?”

“What do you reckon?” He asked, leaning forward ever so slightly with a mischievous glint in his eye that had you rolling yours.

You shrugged, “Wouldn’t count the McLaren car out, that’s for sure.”

“The car and…” Lando smirk widened, lips still pursed and baiting.

“The driver too? Maybe?” Dickhead.

“Maybe that too…” You gave in with a sigh, eliciting a wide smile from the man standing in front of a gaggle of reporters, waiting for your next question with snickering expressions.

“So high expectations going into quali then?”

It had always been like this with Lando from the moment you stuck your little hand held recorder in his face at Bahrain last year to now. He knew he could wind you up and find levity in whatever situation he found himself in at the end of a session – good or bad. It was always a friendly back and forth between journalist and driver. Harmless banter to make the monotony of the media pen just that little bit more bearable. Professional, until it wasn’t.

“The flirting is getting out of hand,” You whispered into his kiss, teeth clashing, hands fumbling as you fell back on your hotel bed with a huff.

“But you look so fucking cute asking me questions like that,” He growled in retort, hands making quick work of the jeans clinging to your hips – the ones that had been taunting him all day.

Everywhere he turned he saw you swaying from side to side, aching to have this moment with you now.

“Well duh,” You quipped confidently, eyes fluttering shut as his feverish lips ghosted above the damp patch of excitement between your thighs. Focus.

“But it has to stop.”

“Oh you want me to stop right now?”

“I’m not talking about…” You stopped mid-sentence when you caught the mischievous glimmer in Lando’s eyes, lips pulled into a smirk, “Okay, fuck you.”

“You love it,” He breathed out in barely a whisper, leaving a trail of marks down the inside of your thigh before finally giving you what you were waiting for.

“And don’t pretend like the thought of me going down on you when you’re asking me those silly little questions doesn’t turn you on.”

Well he fucking had you there.

Lando punctuated his point with a long, teasing stripe to your cunt before burying himself between your thighs, only coming up for air when you tugged on his curls and demanded a kiss. He knew how you were, how needy and insatiable you could be. This was a thing now; a god forsaken mistake in Australia that had turned into a runaway train. Neither of you could stop it.

“I can’t live without this.”

The desperation spilled from your mouth in a guttural moan as you titled you hips upwards and let the twisted knots in the depths of your stomach unravel. The sight of you thrashing in pleasure below knocked the wind out of Lando, eyes and mind focused solely on fucking you through your high so perfectly, fingers bruising the buttery flesh of your thighs.

“God – fuck…” He could barely breathe, “Don’t – you don’t have to.”

And with one last pump, he was coming into the condom he’d slipped on without you even knowing. It was second-hand now, muscle memory and so fucking good. But it didn’t start that way – no, it was awkward goodbyes and a cold ‘thanks for that’ which made you regret ever answering your hotel door. The situation had changed in the blink of an eye – now he was lingering, kissing you in places that had you melting into the mussed sheets and begging him to stay a little bit longer.

It was pathetic how reliant you’d become and how distant you could be when he had to leave. The leaving part was the thing that changed and had you questioning all of it. It used to be that you could go shower and come back to an empty bed and not even flinch. Four months of he is just a causal fuck, no hard feelings to now not being so stoic on that sentiment but you wouldn’t admit that. Not to yourself and especially not to the man peering down at you – all lazy smiles and dimples and ocean eyes. You were fucked.

“I gotta go,” Lando whispered, brushing the stray strands of hair from your flushed face, pout present and needy.

“You don’t really though.”

“If I don’t go now I’ll never leave.”

The little voice in your head was monologuing – screaming out all of the reasons why he should stay because maybe deep down that’s what you wanted. But you couldn’t have that. The line between personal and professional was already so blurred; so incomprehensibly faint that anyone looking in would have to squint to see it. It was the devil on your shoulder that tormented you when it came to Lando, pushing the boundaries more and more every time you had him in your clutches. Risking it all.

“Kiss me before you go.”

And he did. Passionately, like a man in love because maybe he was. Maybe he had been for a lot longer than he’d realised – somewhere between Miami and now he let his guard down too far, too soon. You were flawless though, unattainably perfect that he couldn’t be blamed for falling victim to your allure – sharp eyes following you around the paddock, wishing he was the little notebook in your back pocket that garnered all your attention on race weekends.

“See you tomorrow?”

“If you’re lucky,” Lando quipped, knowing he would be the one curled up in his cold, lonely bed for the rest of the night waiting impatiently for tomorrow.

In any other circumstance you would think the two of you were like magnets, drawn together amongst the travelling circus that was your workplace. But you had a job to do and that was to seek out drivers and team principals, digging deep for any story you could find. There was a trust that you’d built with the teams, all of them respected your work and knew that you weren’t malicious; in fact you were the opposite.

“I really appreciate you not writing about my drunkenness last weekend… It wasn’t my finest moment unfortunately.”

Oscar was a rookie driver but also a total sweetheart, who admittedly had found himself in a precarious late night adventure in a Miami nightclub post-grand prix. How he ended up that drunk, you had no idea but you saved him from himself with the help of Lando, who Oscar would’ve thought was suspiciously close by if he wasn’t black out drunk.

“I got you, buddy but I think your Australian citizenship might have to be revoked after an effort like that… Very disappointing,” You teased in jest, both smiling into the blistering Monacan sun as you walked side by side into the paddock.

“I woke up with an L on my forehead which I can only assume Lando put there so I think my ego’s bruised enough thank you very much.”

“Oh yeah,” You cringed, “That might’ve been my eyeliner.”

“Is that right…”

Oscar’s tone was laced with suspicion but before he could quiz you on why you were still there that night and that he had started to notice the budding friendship between you and his teammate, he was being whisked away by one of his McLaren publicists. You were thankful that they'd taken his curious questions away – how the tables had turned.

Lando was watching you wander through the paddock behind his dark sunglasses, as had been the trend all weekend. Every time you glanced around he was there, wondering if he could sneak over and say hello. Sure, you were friends with a few of the drivers outside of work but when you stepped over that white line, the barriers of professionalism came up again. They had to, otherwise you would end up in a situation like this – gawking at someone you shouldn’t be.

But god he looked good.

He wore what he knew was your biggest weakness – a backwards cap and the black denim jacket he slung over your shoulders on that dark, stormy night in London a few weeks ago when Imola was cancelled and you needed a fix. Hotel hook-ups only. And all of this had you asking yourself, how on earth could you deny a good morning from the man who was the subject of your every desire?

“Good morning.”

“Well it’s not a bad one,” You smiled, more energised than Lando who was yawning into the crook of his arm, “Late night?”

He loved it when you did that. Sneaking little inside jokes into seemingly innocent conversation, naughty reminders of the nights you shared together when nobody was watching. The cheeky grin tugging on his lips a definite tell-tale that he enjoyed it – the tells getting easier and easier to spot the more you got to know him. A shiver ran down your spine at the thought that maybe he was into this as much as you. Little did you know.

“Yeah just squeezed in a late cardio sesh – you know how it is…”

A soft ahh slipped from your smirking lips, eyes trained on your path ahead as Lando strolled alongside, “What’s on the agenda today?”

You shrugged, half out of genuine cluelessness and the other half deflecting how nervous you were. Working in the media was your dream but walking through the hallowed halls of a sport you had loved for your entire life and that dream coming true made your stomach churn with every emotion under the sun. Especially in Monaco.

“You nervous?” Lando asked quietly, shaking you from your thoughts and panicked that you were talking out loud.

“Huh? Oh…” You waved him off and chuckled, “No – I mean, yeah but I always feel like this on race morning… But obviously you’re probably a lot more nervous than me so it’s nothing…” You were a stuttering mess and all Lando wanted to do was reach out and give you a hug.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. This was your little secret, a delicious secret that only the two of you knew and he didn’t want to ruin that. Instead, he dug his hands into his jean pockets a little deeper and gave you a reassuring nudge. Shoulder to shoulder, the same way you laid together the night before after what could only be described as the best sex of your life. Lives.

“My mum always said that nerves mean you care,” Lando’s voice was lower than before – a seriousness taking over, “You’ll do great, as always.”

“Thank you,” You matched his tone, “Hopefully I’m interviewing Lando Norris, Monaco Grand Prix winner…”

That’s all you really wanted deep down. Not the breaking story of the weekend or the drama surrounding contract talks at Red Bull. Just for the guy you had grown profoundly fond of to have some semblance of good luck for once. He’d worked hard for it, you’d seen it first hand and you’d seen the heartbreak when things weren’t going his way. Alas, that was what started this whole situation – frustrated post-race sex. Chef’s kiss.

Lando simply rolled his eyes and sighed loudly before leaning in a tiny bit closer than what you considered a safe workplace distance, “Kiss for good luck then?”

“Get the fuck out of here!” You laughed, kicking his calf with your platform boot as his infectious cackle of a laugh echoed through the growing crowd.

You watched him disappear somewhere between the motorhomes, searching for his team. The lingering feeling in your stomach made you slightly nauseous and a little excited for the next run-in with him. It was like a game of cat and mouse and you weren’t sure who was who but you liked it. More than you wanted to admit because he was Lando fucking Norris – f1's most eligible bachelor, the naughty boy from Bristol, all curls and dimples and undeniable charm. You couldn't help but wonder how many others he had wrapped around his finger like you.

He's just a casual fuck, you mumbled under your breath as you flicked open your notebook and got to work.