#I had a very vivid image of the more ethereal part of the song and I had to draw the dress atleast

[flowerbloom-arts]

Hand him his shovel, he's going in

@wholemleko since we both associate him with this song

#moomins #moominvalley #art #muddler #moomin muddler #the muddler #I had a very vivid image of the more ethereal part of the song and I had to draw the dress atleast #I really wanna do a lyric comic of that part but hhhhhhh y know #hand me my shovel im going in #will wood and the tapeworms #will wood

[bellatrixobsessed1]

The Dragon Egg (Parts 19-25)

Another set of chapters for @secrettunnelatla’s event.

Chapter 19 Leather For Sequin

She should be eating better, should be better hydrated, should bathe more,  should exercise more, should be sleeping better. She finds it harder to do these things at all, much less to an optimal degree. Sleeping is especially hard, having favored doing so on her belly. It helps little that the baby seems to be particularly active when she is trying to sleep with its kicks and squirms. She still can’t get used to it, she doesn’t think she will. It leaves her feel queasier than the morning sickness ever had.

Even if she were as physically comfortable as possible she doesn’t think she’d sleep. Her mind is stuck on Seicho and on all of the articles she has scrolled through during the past few days. Articles that drag her name through the mud and articles that praise Blue Talon for things she should be credited for. She lies awake, staring at the ceiling, hands clasped over her belly. She finds the baby’s foot--or maybe it is a hand--and rubs over the spot, a fruitless attempt to get her to settle down. All the while her mind runs in circles over the headline, ‘Fire’s Reign’s Fire Lord Ozai Denounces Pregnant Daughter’. She didn’t think that he would so publicly condemn her. She should have; he does, afterall, have an image to protect. As if he hasn’t already tarnished it with his binge drinking. She imagines that Zuko is probably getting a good kick out of it. She brings her rubbing to a stop and closes her eyes.

She gets little sleep, but enough of it that she has to be woken by Zhao. She doesn’t know why he bothers, it isn’t as though she will make use of the day. But the man is annoyingly persistent, refusing to leave the living room until she declares that she has to get dressed.

She slips into one of Koemi’s dresses. Eventually she is going to have to pester Zhao to help her buy at least one outfit that suits her aesthetic more, his wife’s attire is absolutely gaudy. Today’s disaster is orange with a sunflower print, which might not have been so horrible if the sunflowers weren’t purple and pink in color. She feels more ridiculous than usual when she emerges into the kitchen.

“I have some good news for you.” Zhao smiles.

“You’re going to take me back to that volcano you hated so much and pitch me into it.” She mumbles.

The man looks horror-stricken. If she weren’t so low she certainly would have laughed.

“I managed to get you a record deal under a new label.”  

“Please tell me that it isn’t Uncle Iroh’s sketchy basement recording studio.”

“It isn’t. It is another label that I work for.”

“And which one is that?”

“WSLSE.”

Apparently her reaction isn’t satisfactory.

“Wan Shi Tong’s Library Of Sound Entertainment.” He clarifies. “You left a good impression on the man. Raava has also been speaking fondly of you.” He slaps a print out onto the table and pushes it to her. “You have been visiting the wrong websites.”

Her brows crinkle. “You have no right to…”

“Monitor my children’s browsing activity?” He asks. “My children still listen to Happy Hei Bai and my wife doesn’t follow music news. That leaves one person who would search up Blue Talon over and over again.”

She folds her arms. “What of it?”

“You’re making yourself miserable.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “All of this talent is just...confined to a couch.” He pauses. “Which is why I took it upon myself to get you signed to a new label…”

“With what band, Zhao!”

“You’re a soloist now.”

“A soloist?” She sputters.

“You don’t exactly mesh well with people.”

No doubt he had overheard her screeching at Seicho. “And yet, I can’t seem to do without them.”

He chuckles. “That’s where we disagree. You have a divine voice, to have it buried under wailing guitars and pounding drums is a shame. The idea I pitched is to have you go acapella and truly showcase your voice for everything that it is.”

Azula’s face pales. “In other words, there’s no room for error. Mistakes are easily detectable.”

“You aren’t one for mistakes and error.”

She frowns rather deeply and gestures to her bump. Ever the gentleman Zhao tiptoes his way back a statement or two. “You won’t be alone, you’ll have a team of fantastic producers and a very talented manager.”

Azula inhales through her nose.

“I dropped Blue Talent to focus on this new project…”

“Me.” Somehow she manages to frown more deeply still. “You dropped a band with a perfectly flawless trajectory for me. Since when do you take risks?”

“Since I found someone worth placing a bet on.”

“That’s what I am to you, a bet. A product.”

“A child.” Zhao cuts in. “I’ve known you since you were as young as my own little ones.”

She massages the bridge of her nose. “Zhao, Audio of Agni is a battle of the bands.”

His smile falters. “I am working on that.”

“Spirits, Zhao! What’s the point of putting me back  in the studio if--”

“You don’t need Audio of Agni to make it big.” He mutters. “I don’t know what it is with you youths and hinging your entire careers on it. We didn’t have battle of the bands when I got into this industry. The Tui La’s didn’t part-take until the fourth event.”

“Zhao…”

He cuts her off once more, the audacity of the man. “We’re going to make a name for you regardless of Audio of Agni. And we’ll do it on raw talent alone.”

“Acapella artists never do well.”

“Acapella artists seldom do well. Most of them are generic. Their voices don’t stand out without instruments.”

“I’m known for metal music…”

“And you’re capable of ballads and operatics. With this project we’re going to put emphasis on your clean vocals. Once that takes off, we can take more risks--you can try doing acapella with those screaming vocals…”

This time she cuts him off. “What about piercings and tattoos says, ‘acapella and opera artist’?”

“Your vocals don’t have to match your looks. But if you must have it that way, we can swap out some of your piercings for less...bold ones. We can cover the tattoo. Your pregnancy might help with this new image.”

She cringes though she isn’t entirely opposed to a more elegant style of dress; she enjoys the glitz and glimmer every now and again. But, Agni, she can’t pull it off not when she has let herself go like this.

“Your first session will be tomorrow, I’ll send my wife shopping with you, you could use a wardrobe for photoshoots and what not.”

She only agrees so that she won’t have to beg the man to buy her better clothes.

Chapter 20 Dragon Tongue

It is daunting to see one of her monikers in the headlines again. To see it there in a more neutral, speculative light. ‘Blue Talon Vocalist Flies Again as Dragon Tongue’. She wishes that she could feel something other than dread, a growing sense that she is only building up momentum for a mightier, more embarrassing fall than her first one.

The announcement of her new single is daunting. And attempting to record a whole new extended play before Audio of Agni and the birth of her baby is twice that. Hama is adamant that she should be taking it much easier, especially since finding out that her baby might be born with an unusually low weight.

She thinks that she should be taking it slower. And yet she can’t afford anymore slacking. She has already wasted so much time sulking and moping and making a deeper mess of herself.

And so she is in the recording booth again and with new material. Material and lyrics that are so much rawer. So much more painful to sing through. They are confessions of shame and inadequacy. Laments of betrayal. And ballads of loneliness. And she can’t hide any of the pain behind indistinguishable growls or loud guitar shreds. It is all crisp and vivid. Open. Naked. She isn’t sure that she wants to do this anymore. Not when every session brings her closer to tears. Closer to a total meltdown.

Every session reminds her of what she lost. Every session reminds her that what she is doing now is nothing compared to what she could have been doing. Every session reminds her of Mai and TyLee and of Seicho.

And when her mind isn’t ailing, her body is aching. Aching in ways that she hadn’t anticipated. Her feet hurt so bad, they hurt when she is sitting down. Her ankles are swollen--Hama assures her that this is normal. As normal as the persistent ache in her back and the odd nose bleeds and congestion that she gets every now and then. On those congested days, she can’t even work.

On other days she finds herself short of breath. Her growing baby is pushing against her lungs. On those days her voice is so weak and breathy. She records regardless. Perhaps she would have allowed herself a break if Zhao weren’t so adamant that the breathy quality gives her a one of a kind sound. An ethereal sound.

She is inclined to disagree. She just sounds weak and weird. She pushes through, she always pushes through.

She promises herself that, whatever she does, she will not read the critiques of her new work. Her self-esteem is already in tatters. They talk more about her pregnancy and what it is doing to her body than they do her work. In that regard she almost hopes that Dragon Tongue is such a flop that it will eclipse that sort of talk.

It is well into the evening. The studio gets so much quieter in the evening. And in the silence her loneliness is emphasized. She remembers late nights of purposely poor vocals and drinking. Of idle chatter between songs. She remembers the crashing of a drumsets when Chan forgets to watch where he steps. She remembers stupid cover songs when they had time to kill. She remembers laughing. She remembers happiness. She remembers friendship.

Chapter 21 A Phoenix In The Winter

His world is in a perpetual winter. A little is no longer enough. He no longer needs food or love or inspiration. He no longer needs a band. He only needs a white winter and his presents come in pouches and needles.

He is losing his senses; of time, of himself, of everything really. One day is the same as the next and none of them bring him any closer to true stardom. His bursts of artificial energy only result in disjointed lyrics and half-assed ideas.

There is no organization and no real attempt to turn them into full songs. He has missed shows to the point of his tour being cancelled. It is so much money down the drain that even Iroh has turned his head. And when the word ‘rehab’ falls from his lips, Zuko runs. Perhaps not literally, but he hasn’t spoken to his uncle since, snubbing all attempts at conversation.

He is perpetually twitchy and agitated and Iroh makes a mistake. He enters the room, guns blazing, “Zuko, get in the car.” It is firm but not firm enough for him to put the needle down. The man sighs, “alright, nephew…”

The minute his hands take him by the shoulders, he is on the ground and Zuko is standing over him seething. “Don’t tell me what to do! What are you, anyways!? A fat, lazy, washed up rockstar! I don’t need advice from you!” But he does, he needs it more than ever. He yanks Iroh up and drags him to the door. He knows that uncle is holding back. He would be flat on his own ass if he wasn’t.

“Zuko, don’t do this. Let me help you get off of this path.” He hears as the door slams.

He is already too far down this path. His only option is to keep on walking. Walking down his cracked and lonely, frigid path. It is desolate now that drumsets, guitars, and microphones no longer clutter the street. He doesn’t pass many people. It is just he and the snow and it is falling thicker than ever.

Iroh hasn’t dropped him from the label yet, but he isn’t making anything of it and so it comes as no surprise to him when TyLee informs him that she would like to try her hand at the school’s gymnastics squad. He lets her go because she can have something. She can make something of herself.

He is less surprised when Mai declares that she is going to write a few poems or, “maybe just focus on school.”

It is fine with him, he doesn’t want to drag them under with him. And so he sits alone in the dark, huddled in a corner rocking back and forth, enveloped in a drug induced anxiety. A state of panic and paranoia that he can’t seem to stave off.

He is deep into it when his phone rings. “We need to talk.” Says the voice on the other end.

“Not right now, Mai. I can’t talk right now, Mai.”

She exhales long and audibly. “Yeah, that’s just it, Zuko. You never want to talk. You never want to do anything…” she backtracks some. “You only want to do one thing. You’re high right now aren’t you?”

“Yes...no?” He doesn’t remember. He isn’t sure if he is coming down or in the middle of a bad trip. “Mai? Mai, are you there.”

“I was there, Zuko. But I’m not now. Not anymore. I can’t be.” The line goes dead.

Phoenixes aren’t meant for snow. It is no wonder he is dying.

.oOo.

The school has been closed for hours now. The windows are as dark as he feels within. He scales his way up the roof. Up to the place where his hopes were born and discussed. He can practically taste the cigarette smoke, the anticipation, the energy that came with a dream in the making.

In its wake is a stale taste, he will drown it with another. He pops the cap off of his beer and gives it a good chug, music blasts loudly and aggressively through his headphones. He drapes them around his neck so that he may hear the cars below and the wind around him. It rustles his flannel shirt.

It’s a nice night, clear and warm. Spangled by a vast array of stars that he can’t seem to reach no matter how high he climbs, no matter how far he reaches. He lays back, he wishes he could relax but he doesn’t have enough coke in his system for it. He sits up for another good drink and then another until he feels a buzz. He doesn’t have enough bottles to take him any further. He supposes he doesn’t really need the help, he has his own woes and hopelessness to propel him the rest of the way.

He stands up and makes his way to the very edge of the roof. He swings his arms back and forth in preparation. He takes a deep breath, the song drones on. He takes another breath. Swings his arms. He’ll finish the song and that’s it. Then he’ll take flight.

He inhales deeply as the song fades out. His phone buzzes in his pocket. He takes it out, inclined to throw it as hard as he can; at this point, Mai can go fuck herself. But it isn’t Mai’s name that decorates the screen. It isn’t TyLee’s. It isn’t even Iroh’s.

He doesn’t know why, but he picks up the phone. For a moment he only hears breathing, breathing and perhaps sniffling. It takes him a moment to realize what he is hearing, but before he can make anything of it, she speaks, “Zuzu?”

He doesn’t reply.

“Zuzu, I really need someone. I need you.”

Chapter 22 The Dragon & The Phoenix

His chest constricts and he grits his teeth. “I need someone too.”  He turns off his music and kicks the empty bottles, they shatter upon the pavement below. “Where are you?” The line goes dead and a text comes through.

By all means, he shouldn’t be driving, but he climbs behind the wheel of Iroh’s car. Spirits, he hopes that he doesn't wreck it. Iroh is already furious.

Truth be told he hadn't known what to expect. Throughout the drive images flashed through his mind, each of them involving a drunkenly enraged Ozai and Azula huddled in the corner. When he reaches the studio he does fine her in the corner. But she is alone.

Alone and very heavily pregnant. He thinks that he remembers reading about that somewhere but, like many other things, it had slipped his mind. For a moment he thinks that he got the wrong address, he doesn’t recognize her with her belly so big and her expression so tired and defeated.

Even if he did have the wrong address, he wouldn’t have left. He couldn’t have. He can’t remember the last time he had sobered up so abruptly. With fumbling fingers he ties his headphones tightly around her arm just above her wrist.

Her other hand comes to squeeze his own wrist. “You don’t have to, it’s not that deep.” She mumbles softly.

“Not that deep!?”

She doesn’t meet his eyes. “I changed my mind. It’s...it’s really not that deep, I just need a bandage.” She gestures vaguely towards the door. “There’s a first aid kit in the lobby.”

He gets up to leave and hesitates, casting a look back at her.

“Go on, Zuzu. I’m not going to do anything else. I...I don’t want to die.”

He wishes that he could say the same. He comes back with the first aid kit and begins bandaging her wrist only to have her slap his hand away with a curt, “I can do it myself.”

He scoffs, “then what the fuck am I here for?”

She flinches. “Nothing, never mind. You can go.”

He rubs his hands over his face. He hasn’t spoken to her in so long, he’d forgotten how she can be. Even when she’s asking for help she can’t swallow her pride. Even when she’s asking for help she’s intolerable. He almost does leave but he thinks that if he does she might just change her mind a second time. He sighs, “why did you ask me to come here if you don’t want my help?”

She holds her silence until he is on the very edge of frustration. “I want you, Zuzu. I don’t have anyone to talk to.”

“So I’m your last resort?”

She nods. At least he can commend her for her honesty.

“I think that I need to talk to you specifically.”

His brows furrow, “why do you think that?”

“Because you would understand.”

He tilts his head.

“What failure is like.” She elaborates.

He feels as though he has been punched in the gut. “Seriously, you called me here to insult me? I don’t need this shit right now, okay!”

She shakes her head vigorously. “I--no, that’s not what I meant.” She rubs her hands over her face. He cringes at the smear of blood she leaves behind. He doesn’t think that she has noticed. If she has, she doesn’t bother to wipe it away.

“What else can you mean?”

She thinks for a moment, “Empathy. I’m empathizing?”

He has to laugh. He face falls. It is his turn to clarify, “we’re a pathetic duo, aren’t we?”

She nods, “very.”  She wipes the remaining tears from her eyes. “I suppose that it’s the rockstar lifestyle. The parts they don’t talk about…”

“Or it’s the father that raised us.” He grumbles. For once she doesn’t protest this. He wonders just what the man did to her. “What happened? You were doing so good.”

“So were you.” And with a shake of  her head she adds,  “no I wasn’t.”

“Neither was I…” He trails off.

“What happened…” she repeats the question back to him and then she rubs her good hand over her baby bump.

“Right. Yeah. That’ll do it.” He frowns. “Chan’s?”

“How’d you know?”

“He’s a total tool.” Zuko shrugs.

She laughs, a very quiet and sad sort of chuckle but a laugh no less. “What about you, Zuzu. I haven’t heard a thing about From Ashes To Phoenix since…”

“Since I went berserk and got arrested at my own concert? Yeah. Because there hasn’t been a thing to talk about since.”

“Not even one new song?”

“There’s no time for songs when you’re...when you’re…”

“On drugs?” She finishes. “Zuko, what happened to us? How did this happen?”

“It just did, I guess.” He frowns. It is much more complex than that. “Are you still with father, I’m sure that Iroh wouldn’t mind letting you stay with us. He probably needs a break from me.”

“I’m staying with Zhao. He got me a new record deal and…”

And Zuko is once again furious. Even when she’s falling, she’s still on her way up. She still has something going for her. She’s probably still getting good publicity. Hell, even bad publicity can take her far. It’s all about the spotlight and she decided to open her wrists. And with a baby in her belly. Perhaps that is why she changed her mind so quickly. Perhaps it is why she had made her initial decision. The anger passes as quickly as it had come over him. “I’m angry all the time.” He doesn’t mean to cut her off, it just falls from his lips. He hasn’t really gotten a chance to get it out.

“I can tell.” She replies. “It’s in your eyes.” She seems to hum to herself. “But you have Mai,TyLee, and Iroh, right?”

He shakes his head. “They’re all disappointed, mad, both?”

“Everyone, except Zhao--I guess--is angry with me.”

“For being pregnant?”

“For being...unbearable. You don’t even want to be here, Zuzu. I can tell.” “I don’t want to be anywhere, actually. It has nothing to do with you. Really, it doesn’t.” He pauses. “I was about to jump.”

“Why did you change your mind?”

“I was interrupted.”

She nods and then her eyes widen, only briefly, with understanding. “Why didn’t you call me?”

He almost tells her that it is because she is her. Instead he responds, “I didn’t think about it, I guess. Drugs do that.”

She nods again. And then her eyes light up. “You can record things with me! I won’t be alone anymore and you’ll be able to get back on track!”

“I can’t focus on music right now.”

And her face falls again.

“But you can still talk to me. I can go with you to appointments.” He offers.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Can I come with you to rehab?”

He rubs his hands over his face. “I guess. If Uncle is still willing to take me there.”

“He’s uncle. Of course he’ll still take you.”

Chapter 23 Life In The Embers

She feels both better and worse all at once. In a sense it had been liberating to let her emotions flood over, to get them out, to let herself reach the very bottom. There is a sense of calm that follows in its wake. A sense of calm that has compelled her to call Seicho and ask her if she could meet her in the recording studio. Only after the girl had said that she would think about it did Azula send her, her schedule for that week.

At the very least, she can talk to Zuko now. Even if much of their conversation has been getting him through the first stages of withdrawal. Truthfully it was nothing like she had expected.There was no shaking, no vomiting nor sweating. If she didn’t know him she would say that he wasn’t going through withdrawals at all. But she does know him well enough to know that he isn’t himself.

It has been six days since he’d found her with her bleeding wrists and five days since she’d accompanied him to his first rehab visit. Five days since Iroh, for the first time, looked at her with care and trust.  Five days since she realized that she might not be left on her own with this baby. Five days and she is due to check in on Zuzu, if only to intimidate him into keeping on track.

She removes her studio headphones, hangs them up on their designated rack, and exits the recording booth.

“Done for the day?” Zhao asks.

Azula nods, “I promised Zuzu that I would meet him at The Serpant’s Pass Cafe. I’m ahead of schedule anyhow.”

“Very ahead. You’re only a song away from a full setlist.” Zhao agrees. “How about you take the day off. If you’re up for it, I can try to get in touch with a director and we can discuss a music video. It doesn’t have to be fancy…”

“I think that simplicity will work well for this new sound.” Azula agrees. “We’ll talk, Zhao.”

For the first time in a while, she leaves the recording studio with a smile. A smile and a sense that things will come together as they used to. She slips her sunglasses over her eyes and makes her way across the street as hastily and discreetly a possible. People are paying her attention again and it comes in the form of photo op and autograph requests and an occasional paparazzi intrusion. For now she evades their lurking.

She finds Zuko sitting at the corner most table of the cafe’s patio, already well into an appetizer. She slips into her chair only to find that it is not an appetizer at all, but spicy wings. “You started eating without me?”

He shrugs, “want one?”

She shakes her head.

“But you love spicy food.”

“The baby doesn’t.” She frowns.

“Well I already ordered the rest of our food.”  He gestures to the waiter heading for their table with a rather absurd amount of platters. Between her pregnancy and his withdrawal cravings, she and him are a horrid duo in this regard. She thinks to question it only until Zuko begins tearing into his meal.

She rolls her eyes, “don’t be sloppy.” At least she can handle her liberal appetite with poise and grace.

“Don’tell me whadda do.” He grumbles through a mouthful.

She cringes. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

He repeats himself. When he finally swallows the rest of his food he asks, “how have you been holding up.”

Azula sighs deeply, “I can’t breathe properly and I’ve had this annoying itch.”

“An itch.”

“On my belly.”

“Is that...normal?”

“Hama, my physician, says that it is. Something about skin expanding and dryness.” Nevermind the technicalities, the results are very mildly agitating. “And you, Zuzu?”

He frowns, “it’s hard Azula. You can’t even imagine.”

“You look better.”

“But I feel...restless and anxious. And depressed--I’m not sure if this is the drugs though.” He pauses. “I’m tired all the time and the nightmares don’t help.”

“What sort of nightmares?”

“They’re intense. Everyone is reminding me that I’m not going to amount to anything. Dad is always there. He...does things to me in these dreams. Worse than the real stuff.”

Azula nods.

“And Mai is there. So is TyLee, but she’s...weird. She contorts in ways that are crazy even for TyLee. I also had a dream that Aang, you remember him, right?”

“The neighbor kid with the big dog who liked to eat glue? I remember him, yeah. Why?”

“In one of my dreams he had these wild powers and there was this comet and Aang had to stop our father from using it to set the whole world on fire.”

Azula blinks, “Zuzu, there are corners of your mind that disturb me.”

He laughs. Admittedly it is nice to hear him laugh and nicer still to know that she has helped him laugh--a far cry from the distress she used to cause him.

“I suppose that I wouldn’t sleep easily either if I was dreaming about the glue kid getting superpowers.”

He laughs again. “Thanks for coming here, Azula. It’s nice to have someone to keep me company while I go through this.”

“Don’t get sappy on me, Zuzu.” She roll her eyes. She knows that if he does and starts hitting the right cords that she’ll probably start weeping, a humiliating mess of chaotic hormones. “I suppose that I share the sentiment.” She taps her fingers nails against the tabletop, they have grown increasingly long as of late. “You should try to get in good graces with Mai and TyLee again.”

“So should you?” He quirks a brow.

“They’re your bandmates and you still have a chance if you get it together. You already have enough material for Audio of Agni, you just need some publicity. Good publicity.” She pauses. “Of course, you’ll need a band first.”

“Azula, I’m still going through withdrawals.”

“All the more reason to do it. You could use a distraction.”

“You’re a distraction.”

“A bigger distraction. I can’t be here all the time, I have doctor appointments and a career to keep on top of. I’ve only just started getting back on front pages…” for good reasons, she nearly adds, “I need to keep my momentum.”

“So you’re choosing your career over me.”

“I’m choosing my well-being, my baby’s well-being. I don’t really have many other options, a successful solo project is my best chance to provide for this baby.”

“Have you considered adoption?”

It comes like a slap to the face, though she doesn’t think that he means it as such. She bites back her initial scathing retort. “I’m not going through all of this discomfort, disowning, and humiliation just to give the baby away. It’s mine. I want her.”

Zuko lifts his hands, “alright, sorry.”  He puts them back down. “I was just really hoping that you’d be here more. I know, I’m surprised too; you’re insensitive and kind of the worst.”

“You’re a funny man, Zuko.” She responds dryly. “I’m not going to abandon you, not when you’re this pathetic. I just think that you should have more support than just me.”

“Do you have any other support?”

“Seicho, hopefully.” She pauses and pushes her final plate aside. “I’d also like to speak with Mai and TyLee again.”  She stands up and pushes her chair in.

“I’ll try to talk to them.”

“Make sure to mention that you’re in rehab and that you know you’re an asshole. The asshole bit is especially necessary with Mai.”

“I’ll call you and let you know how it goes?”

“It better go well.”  She wishes herself the same luck.

.oOo.

Azula looks much better now, happier, healthier, stronger. There is a radiance about her, something subtle but still present. And it is no wonder; she is back in the press again and much of the headlines predict a groundbreaking and unexpected comeback. The boast of a fallen vocalist whose flame is rising again despite it all. Seicho wonders if the girl is even aware.

“Thank you for meeting with me, Seicho, it is nice to see you again.”

Seicho nods. “Sure, Azula.”

Her gait is rather awkward as she walks alongside her. It prompts Seicho to inquire, “are things going well with the baby?”

“Mostly, yes. Hama has a few concerns.”

“You look a lot better.” Seicho remarks.

“Ugg, if only I felt that way.”

It comes to Seicho then, that the girl is breathing quite heavily, “do you need me to slow down.”

Azula nods, “a little bit yes.”

Seicho chuckles and slings her arm over Azula’s shoulders. She wishes that the girl weren’t so endearing, maybe then she could have drawn her resentment out longer. As things are, Azula is quite precious with her semi-clumsy gait and that genteler twinkle in her eyes. “What did you want to talk about?”

“I would like you to consider not being angry with me anymore.”

Seicho bursts out laughing. “Azula, that is the worst peacemaking opener I have ever heard.”

“How am I supposed to do it?”

“‘I’m sorry that I went off on you for no reason’, would be a good way.”

Azula’s cheeks flush. Seicho thinks that hers might be growing pink as well. She’s adorable, unquestionably so. “I...don’t usually...apologize to people.”

“I can tell.”

Her entire face is red now.

“You’re doing pretty alright.

“Does that mean you are considering my proposal? To not be mad at me?”

Seicho rolls her eyes. “Yes, that’s what it means.” That hopeful little smile seals the deal. “You wanna tell me about your new song ideas? This new concept is...different.”

“Do you like it?”

“I think that it suits you well.” Seicho replies. “You have a pretty voice. I didn’t realize that you had that kind of range. The breathing techniques are really bizarre but they sound neat.”

“Oh, those aren’t techniques. That is me suffering while I try to sing with this baby crushing my lungs.” Her eyes go wide for a flicker. “You’ve been listening to my new music?”

“N-no, well, it’s been on the radio so I couldn’t avoid it!”

She shakes her head, “you listened enough to be able to give me a review.”

“Fine, I’ve been listening to your new material. But I was still mad the whole time, okay? I was listening with resentment.”

Chapter 24

With a new digital album release and a highly anticipated music video in the works, Azula is growing confident again though Audio Of Agni still seems to be far out of her reach. If she makes the right moves and if her pregnancy doesn’t spring up any surprises, she might just be able to make it without the competition. It isn’t ideal and it is terribly frustrating, but at least she doesn’t feel so helpless anymore.

Mostly she feels drained and achy. Her sides stitch from time to time and her entire lower body is growing sore from carrying so much extra weight around. She exhales, she isn’t sure how much more of this she can take.  Hama had warned her about the small contractions but they still take her by surprise every time.

They happen now, and when she could really use a break from them. She is just thankful that she is through with recording. From the looks of it, she will have to find a way to shoot the music video mostly sitting or laying. She has passed several ideas onto Zhao, her favorite being a trip to the local theater where she can perch herself on a stool and sing to an empty venue. They can make use of dramatic lighting and add glitter or glow effects electronically. It is simple and will rely on old time Noh theater aesthetics and a stunning costume. She anticipates that the mask will be the most expensive piece. The simpler, one location video will leave plenty of room in the budget for that.

She casts a look at the door. “They’ll be here soon.” Seicho assures her.

“But what if they decide not to come? Mai, TyLee, and I haven’t parted on good terms.” She rubs her hand over her belly.

“You’ve been helping Zuko out so much, you practically saved their band, how mad can they be?”

She isn’t sure that she wants to find out. Not that she has the chance to retract her invitation she hears a knock and climbs to her feet. Her bump lightly knocks against the table as she does so and she curses to herself. “I can get it, you know?”

Azula waves her hand dismissively. “I’m pregnant, not useless.”

.oOo.

Zuko hadn’t realized just how much a few weeks could change a person. Her cheeks are rosier and the bump is bigger still. In spite of it all, her look of prowess and determination has returned. She wears her pride as though it had never slipped from her grasp at all. Frankly, he hadn’t realized that it was truly missing until having seen it returned.

“Oh wow, you’re so big!” TyLee comments,clasps her hands, and holds them to her lips.

Azula’s face, already flushed lightly, grows redder still.

“How far along are you?” TyLee asks.

“Month six.” Azula huffs as she gestures them inside.

“Congratulations?” Mai quirks a brow.

She clears her throat, “thank you.”

He watches her make her way to her seat. She backtracks to fetch her water bottle and semi-clumsily saunters her way back to her seat.

“Still adjusting?” Mai asks.

“Constantly adjusting.” Azula grumbles before taking a drink. She rests her free hand on the bump. “You’re mostly done going through withdrawals, yes, Zuzu?”

He nods. “Sometimes I still really want to use again. Badly. It’s unbearable...it would be if I didn’t…”

“Take my advise and get back into the music industry? Yes, I am aware. You are welcome.” He has to laugh at her audacity, at least these days it is somewhat endearing. “You look a lot better Zuzu. Your eyes don’t have bags that reach to the floor anymore.”

“I don’t know if you’re trying to compliment me or insult me.”

“It’s a compliment, I’m saying that you don’t look like a walking corpse anymore.”  

Somehow, he does feel a sense of pride in that. It is progress. Progress that he has made. Progress that he is still making. And she isn’t the only one who has noted these changes. Azula has certainly changed radically in the past few weeks, but he can’t deny that the changes in him have been just as dramatic even if they are less outwardly perceived. He does feel better about himself; he feels more inspired than ever, more creative and, for a change, it isn’t synthetic. It is all him, his mind, his...brilliance. He thinks that he can consider himself smart, at the very least he can consider himself not dumb.

She pulls out a pen and a sheet of paper. “So let’s start talking about music. I read over some of your new lyrics, they are rather solid they can just use some fine tuning and better penmanship, I don’t know what this is supposed to say.” She gestures to the worst of his chicken scratch.

He finds himself beaming regardless. She had given him a real compliment. He has written something worth singing. He could cry...

“Azula, can we just...be friends again first?” TyLee asks.

Her brows furrow, “you want to be friends again.”

TyLee smiles and nods. “To be honest, I don’t really even remember why we were fighting.”

“Because she kept picking on my boyfriend and working us to exhaustion.” Mai shrugs.

Azula’s expression darkens again.

“To be fair, she’s been working herself to exhaustion.” Zuko steps in.

She shrugs again, “I suppose that I don’t know many other people who work this hard six months in.”

“I have a lot that needs to be accomplished.”

“And you only have until battle of the bands to do it?”

“Solo artists can’t join.” She frowns, only to perk up again when adding, “but I’ve already written a setlist and a few ideas just in case.”

Zuko laughs, “of course you did.”

“Who is this?” TyLee points to Seicho.

She looks up from her phone, “I’m Azula’s girlfriend.”

“You are?” TyLee and Azula ask at once.

Seicho looks at Azula, “I thought that you knew that.”

“Azula is clueless.” Mai rolls her eyes. “You can take her on as many dates as you’d like, you can kiss her several times--”

“I have! Mostly in the recording booth between songs.” She declares.

“--And she still won’t put two and two together until you tell her that you’re dating.”

Seicho drapes her arm over Azula’s shoulder and pulls her closer. Her other hand reaches for Azula’s. “I go with her to her appointments too. I figured that she can pretend like I’m the baby’s father since Chan is an ass.”

“It’s Chan’s?” TyLee gasps. “He said that--”

“He lied. It is easier to make me out to be...dangerously promiscuous.”

“Oh Azula, I’m sorry.”

Azula offers only a dismissive wave. “Enough baby and drama talk. We need to start discussing music before the studio closes for the night. They lock up on Mondays for cleaning.”

.oOo.

All in all the night has been a success on a musical level and on a social level. The departure of Mai and TyLee is such a stark contrast to their last one. They part with an offer to team up with and do vocals for From Ashes To Phoenix should they make it to Audio Of Agni as well as an offer to invite her to game night at Iroh’s.

“I don’t know, card games, potato chips, and a super campy horror movie sound great!” Seicho declares. “Do you think that they’ll be down for basement tattoos?”

“Probably.” Azula answers nonchalantly. “Exactly how do you plan to get this past your parents? The last time I checked, they said that they didn’t want you hanging around some tramp.”

“They’re never home.” She shrugs. “And when they are, they don’t really pay much attention to me. They didn’t even know that I was a tattoo artist until I came home with a sleeve.”

“I see.” She replies. “Am I dropping you off at home or are you coming with me to Zhao’s place?”

“Zhao’s place! He makes a bitchin’ yakitori!”

Chapter 25 A Phone Call

If Iroh has an issue with the blearing music, he keeps it to himself. Azula reaches for another chip. “Hmmm...truth or dare, Azula?” She puts down the chip.

“Dare.”

“You’ve been picking dare all night!” She frowns, putting her hands on her hips.

“What can I say, I’m a daring person.”

“You just don’t want to tell the truth.” Seicho nudges her.

“I dare you to pick truth next time someone asks you to.”

“That’s cheating.”

“Mm mm, it’s not.” TyLee shakes her head, “we didn’t establish that rule when we were establishing the other rules.

“Truth or dare, Mai?”

“Dare.”

TyLee puffs out her cheeks. “You guys never pick truth!”

“I dare you to be the first one to get a tattoo tonight.”

“I’ll get one right now.” Mai shrugs. “I’ve had one on my mind for a while now.”

“Kickass! What can I get for you?” Seicho asks. “You can sketch it out while I get set up.” She leans in to kiss Azula on the forehead before getting up.

“Truth or dare, Zuko?”

He glances at TyLee before choosing dare.

“I dare you to…”

Azula leans over and whispers in her ear.

“I dare you to prank call Zhao.”

He punches Zhao’s number into the landline pinpad. “Hello, is this Zhao?”

Azula, Mai, and TyLee lean over his shoulder.

“Yes, this is Sokka. I am interested in getting a record deal.” He clears his throat. “Sorry, I’m nervous, I’ve never asked for a record deal before. But I have this great concept its...uh…” He looks at Azula. “It’s uh...okay, picture this, seven minutes of dog barks with occasional bursts of that noise you hear when you’ve lost TV signal.” He listens. “No, no! This is a totally serious pitch! I’ve even named the track it’s called, ‘Bark At The Static’ and I think that I’d be great touring with that guy who dresses up as a cabbage and Yodels.”

TyLee snickers.

The line goes dead and Azula sits down to finally have her chip. She dips it into the salsa.

“Okay, truth or truth, Azula?”

She rolls her eyes. “Truth number two.”

“Hmmm, do you miss being in Blue Talon.”

“A little, I suppose. I don’t think that I’d like to go back to them though. They lack integrity.” She scoffs. “They’re using my story to sell the band.”

“Your story?”  Mai asks.

“I wrote about father before I was kicked out of the band.”

“I write about him too.”

“Yes, Zuzu, I’ve been helping you write those songs.”

“Right.”

“Everything’s all set up. You didn’t sketch, did you?”

Mai fishes through her bag, “I did a while ago.” Azula looks it over. It’s a darkly alluring sketch of a hand holding a punctured heart, weeping roses and thorns. “I want it on my left shoulder blade and a simple throwing star on the right one.”  

While Mai gets herself comfortable in Seicho’s makeshift chair, Azula reclains and reads through the newsfeed. Blue Talon is still soaring high as ever, but From Ashes To Phoenix is already garnering heavy attention with their new single announcement. The whole thing was rather sappy story about Zuko’s recent rehab struggles and an apology for acting out on stage. And for herself, Dragon Tongue is finally being praised for her stunning vocals and her soft, divine sound.

Azula is still rather conflicted about how quickly they were to turn from accusing her of pregnancy being obscene and raunchy to them gushing about how a baby on the way is the finishing touch on her new, soothing sound. She supposes that she should be thankful that they are speaking well of her again, regardless of hypocrisy. She wonders if her father is reading these headlines; wonders if her is proud or if he is seething--fuming because she is still rising despite his efforts to snuff her flame.

“What sort of tattoos were the rest of you thinking of getting?”

“I just want a cute little cherry blossom on my pinky!” TyLee answers.

“A broken chain.” Zuko replies. “On my bicep.”

Azula thinks for a moment. “I’ll let you know as soon as I figure it out. I have to wait until after the baby is born.”

“Oh, right!” Seicho replies. “Maybe I can help you design one.”

Her phone vibrates in her hand, the number on the screen is unfamiliar. “Hello?”

“Azula?”

“Yes.”

“This is Raava.”

“Raava!?”

She hears the tattoo gun flick off and four heads turn in her direction.

“You have a gift and it will be heard at Audio Of Agni. I’d like to talk with you about a loophole that I found.”

“What sort of loophole?”

“You have done work with From Ashes To Phoenix, yes?”

“I will be recording with them soon.”

“I am going to extend a formal invitation to From Ashes To Phoenix. Given their cooperation, you will perform two of three songs with them and one solo.”

She hadn’t expected to cry that night, but she does. She feels like a fool crying in front of all of them, but she is so relieved. Relieved and hopeful. She hasn’t lost her dream.

It will be an absolute treat to see the shock and horror radiate off of Blue Talon when she makes her appearance. And a larger treat to show her father that her worth is beyond what he can give her.

#Avatar The Last Airbender #Azula #Azula/Cupholder girl #Zuko #Mai #Maiko #TyLee #Fanfiction #Very Long Text

[her-culture]

My Top 10 Books of All Time, and Why You Need to Read Them

In my first article for Her Culture, I thought it would be fitting to write about books that have changed my life and shaped my world views in one way or another. My mom was a journalism major, so I guess I could say I got my love of reading from her. She used to read to me every night as a kid and imparted the importance of good literature to me. As a sociology major currently, these were very formative books in my adolescence that not only challenged certain misconceptions about the world, but allowed me to think in a more macroscopic way by reading different perspectives and experiences as well. I put my favorite quote from each book, if it had one, underneath each title—hopefully those will be enough to give you the general gist of each book. These aren’t listed in any particular order, but they are all relatively equally important to me, and it was incredibly hard to narrow it down (stay tuned for honorable mentions at the end):

The Great Gatsby – F. Scott Fitzgerald

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

When I think of this book, I have so many fond and nostalgic memories of adolescence. Even though it was not too long ago, I think this book was really my turning point to begin truly questioning the social facts that govern our society. Although the novel is relatively short, the story holds a much-needed allegory for some of the major plights of Western society: elitism, greed, class, consumerism, etc. I would call this book a buffet of sorts; I say this to mean you can take a plethora of different meanings from Fitzgerald’s relatively straightforward tale. Moreover, I recently learned that Fitzgerald was an Irish immigrant, so the concept of Gatsby’s relentless pursuit to be from East Egg is similar to his own trials and tribulations of fitting into American society—and invariably, not being able to in the end. I really love the imagery and the language in this book as well; essentially, Fitzgerald paints an exquisite portrait of the problem of the consumerist God we worship in America. My favorite imagery in the book is probably the eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckelburg; that’s one of my favorite images ever in literature, actually.

Mrs. Dalloway – Virginia Woolf

“Fear no more the heat of the sun”

This book reminds me of the conversations I’d have with my best friend in high school every day after AP Literature. We’d get coffee and drive around and talk about the various existential topics the book discusses. The book takes place over the course of 24 hours, it essentially covers a middle-aged woman’s retrospective meditation of her life and past decisions as she prepares to throw a party. Although it seems like a simple plot, it delves into ideas about purpose, free will, and even the profound effect strangers can have on your life. I loved the interpolation of other people’s narratives into the story as well; it made the story richer than just Mrs. Dalloway’s narration. Furthermore, I like the stream of consciousness style that you don’t see in many critically acclaimed works, but it makes it feel all the more intimate. Not only do you feel for Mrs. Dalloway, Septimus, and others, but the power of this style of writing makes it seem like you are in that character’s predicament. It reminds me not only of the fragility of life itself, but of the gravity of what you would consider menial everyday interactions can have—the butterfly effect.

Song of Solomon – Toni Morrison

“If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it.”

My mother is specifically to thank for reading this book. She suggested it to me the summer before senior year, and since summer had always been my prime reading time in high school, I read it. Toni Morrison is one of the best writers of the century, without a doubt, and this book is all the proof you need to believe this claim. She created an intricate masterpiece, intertwining various double-entendres—especially with the names of characters, time periods, storylines, and more. Her language is vivid, and every word is meaningful; she has no fillers. Every aspect of the story adds to the jigsaw puzzle that is solved at the end of the book. I’d hate to give any of the plot away, but one of the characters is named Guitar because he’s instrumental to the development of the protagonist, but that’s just one example of her mastery. It explores race, ancestry, colorism, and the power of self as well. This is one of my top favorites of all time, and if I were to order them, this one would without a doubt be close to the top.  

Flowers for Algernon – Daniel Keys

“I don’t know what’s worse: to not know what you are and be happy, or to become what you’ve always wanted to be, and feel alone.”

When I first read this book, I was relatively young, but it still had a profound impact. I think it challenged me to think about the power of sentience and that it’s one of the many things we take for granted. It reminds me a bit of some themes in Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men (an honorable mention), but in my opinion, it’s less cliché in a way. Although it’s technically supposed to be a young adult novel, I would say it has a lot of adult themes, so it was a good stepping stone into adult tragedy. Charly’s connection to Algernon is one of the most poignant relationships in literature, and I do feel like this book gets overlooked frequently when we discuss the greats. On another note, it also caused me to evaluate the power of interactions and relationships with others, as humans are innately relational; this book does a fantastic job of capturing that aspect of life.

Jazzy Miz Mozetta – Brenda C. Roberts

“Okay, young cats, let the beat hit your feet.”

This is the only children’s book in my top 10, but for a good reason. This is another book my mother introduced, but way earlier than the others she suggested, as she would read it to me at night. She’d read it probably 3-5 times a week because this was one of my favorite ones. When I see this book, I have so many fond memories of my mother tucking me in with my matching pajamas and warm milk at night. To this day, I appreciate this book as one of the most incredible children’s books of all time. Roberts’ incredible vision of music, color, and sound made me proud to be black at such a young age, in a world that doesn’t want you to feel comfortable in your own skin. Moreover, you don’t see many children’s books with black protagonists, and this was such a fantastic representation. Especially because I also love music, she did such a good job of creating that through the illustrations. It emphasizes community, music, and living life to the fullest.  

Tuck Everlasting – Natalie Babbitt

“Don't be afraid of death; be afraid of an unlived life. You don't have to live forever, you just have to live.”

Tuck Everlasting was one of the first books that really caused me to examine mortality in a secular sense. I went to church school once a week as a kid, and that was the only space where we discussed life and death in that way, so this was an important introduction to the concept of death altogether, in a sense. We’ve all heard about the fountain of youth at one point or another in our lives, and this novel explores that idea essentially. I also really like the tension between immortality and a normal life, somewhat reminiscent of the Greek myth of Eurydice when Orpheus goes back to the Underworld to retrieve her. This is another book connected to my mother actually, who read it at the same time as me so I would have someone to discuss my reading with and bounce off my ideas. I think this is part of the reason this book resonated so deeply with me; I had an adult to converse complex topics of mortality with.  

The Virgin Suicides

“It didn't matter in the end how old they had been, or that they were girls, but only that we had loved them, and that they hadn't heard us calling, still do not hear us, up here in the tree house, with our thinning hair and soft bellies, calling them out of those rooms where they went to be alone for all time, alone in suicide, which is deeper than death, and where we will never find the pieces to put them back together.”

The above quote is relatively long compared to the rest, but it’s one of my favorite passages in literature. I love the effervescent, ethereal nature of this book. I almost feel nostalgic reading it, although I didn’t grow up in the 70s, but there’s somewhat of a vintage quality to it. These aspects are kind of similar to Lois Lowry’s book A Summer to Die. If you can get past the gruesome, macabre aspect of the actual storyline—young girls committing suicide—you can bask in Eugenides’ masterpiece. His syntax is honestly unmatched, as well as his symbolism. In my opinion, this is a much better version of the popular young adult novel 13 Reasons Why, as it goes into detail about what led to the suicides and you get a look inside the minds of the girls, but from an outsider perspective (as young boys are the narrators of the novel, along with an occasional third person narrator). As a male, Eugenides encapsulates not only youth but the experience of adolescence as a girl as well. The writing is just beautiful, and that’s all I can say about it. The interesting part is that although I guess this would be categorized as a tragedy and certainly has a melancholy tinge to it, you don’t finish the book feeling sad necessarily. I was unsettled, but I still wouldn’t consider it a tragedy per se. Eugenides’ genre-defying classic is one that needs to be acknowledged as the phenomenal work that it is. To this day, I don’t know if I’ve read a book like this one, in the best way possible.

Slaughterhouse-Five – Kurt Vonnegut

“Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.”

The way this book was introduced to me was as a book “about World War II and aliens,” and that is basically the most accurate summary I’ve ever read. It’s hard to say exactly what the premise of this book is because it really is about a wide array of topics, but it’s all connected, and it makes sense when you read it. It had a huge impact on me because I’ve never read a book as non-traditional as this one. I appreciate Vonnegut because he doesn’t subscribe to anyone’s rules—another genre-bender, one could say. It would be diminishing to this work to say that it’s about existentialism, but it is in a sense. The Tralfamadorians (the aliens in the novel), teach Billy how to look at his life macroscopically, and also about the deceptive nature of time. In Vonnegut’s words, “so it goes.”

Tess of the d’Urbervilles – Thomas Hardy

“Beauty lay not in the thing, but in what the thing symbolized.”

I can’t lie, I wasn’t the biggest fan of this book when I started it because I wasn’t sure where it was going. It has a Pride and Prejudice nature to it at the beginning before you delve into the plot that makes it seem sort of outdated, and although it is a timepiece technically, the actual message of the novel is timeless. There’s a lot more than meets the surface in this novel, and the imagery is also incredible. Hardy’s message is essentially about “crass casualty and dicing time” which is basically the notion that random things happen to us at random times and there’s nothing we can do about it. This also counters the notion of free will which is an interesting stance especially for the time this book was written. In fact, when this book was first published it was banned because of the depiction of rape and of secularism as well. At the time it was written (The Scarlet Letter era), the woman was the party at fault if she was raped, so it was met with generally negative feedback at first. Once I finished the book, I was a huge fan just because Hardy went against all norms to write such a tale. I specifically like the idea that Tess essentially saves herself in every scenario in the novel; Hardy knew even in 1891 that she didn’t need a man to save her.

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao – Junot Díaz

“Each morning, before Jackie started her studies, she wrote on a clean piece of paper: Tarde venientibus ossa. To the latecomers are left the bones.”

This book needs to be regarded as one of the best ones of our generation, as well as Junot Díaz as an author. Not only is this book timely, but it is also timeless. I really liked the integration of the actual history of the Dominican Republic into the novel, and also the acknowledgment of the intersection of race, language, history, and culture as the book is written in Spanglish. We don’t read many books in school or any books that garner any major media attention about Afro-Latino comic book nerds and their histories, so it’s important for a number of reasons. Díaz takes us on a long, vibrant journey through many genres, full of culture, and unrefined.

These are my top 10 books, at least as of right now, as the more books I read, the more the list changes. However, many of these will always remain at the top as classics to me. These are all must-reads not just because of how significant they were to me, but because of their respective contributions to literature. Outside of the fact that a few of them aren’t even categorizable into a genre, these books were truly eye-opening and formative for me. If you like to conceptualize the world and read about various topics from free will to mortality, I would highly consider reading at least a few of these, if not all.

Separately, I would like to think of this list as an ode to my childhood, and even more to my mother. She gave me this passion and this insatiable love of literature, so I truly thank her for taking the time to read to me, with me, and even for her suggestions. I can’t thank her enough.

[onestowatch]

MEYY Conjures Up the Ethereal World of ‘Neon Angel’ [Q&A]

Photo: Michael Smits

MEYY makes music for those unafraid to lucid dream. The London-based Belgian artist crafts hypnotic R&B equally informed by neon-lit soundscapes and the artist’s otherworldly musings. All this comes to life on MEYY’s sophomore EP, Neon Angel. Over the course of four entrancing tracks, the ethereal talent whisks the listener away into tales of love, lust, and far-off journeys informed by textured, evolving sonics. 

We had the chance to speak with MEYY about the desire at the core of Neon Angel and plenty more. 

Ones to Watch: Who is MEYY? What is she all about as an artist?

MEYY: MEYY is about digital ethereal emotions.

What is Neon Angel all about?

Neon Angel is a celebration of love and all of its contours. It’s also a manifest for my emotions and accommodated imagination. It’s a succession of dreams. A compilation of songs that beautifully reflect the dreamlike state I enter when making or listening to music. It reflects different dimensions of my world, but they all blend in perfectly through the soundscape I created together with my incredible producers. It’s a delicate project that I curated carefully and the songs were made in the intimate setting of my bedroom. To me, this project sounds like underwater flowers moving. That visualization covers the fragility and yet wavy texture of this EP. When listening to Neon Angel, I hope you can create your own dream world and that it sparks a desire for moments from the past, the present, and the future. That you mentally create your own visuals, as vague or subtle as they may be.  I hope it makes you feel the radiance you have within yourself and that you can enjoy the beauty of it. I want my music to take your mind to places. I'm intrigued by the surreal power that music can have. One form of auditive input can set off so many dimensions like the physical, emotional, personal and memorial. I wish my music allows you to transcend the reality we live in every day, even if it’s in a very small and subtle way and that it radiates colors, emotions, desires, and dreams but above all: I hope it beams angelic neon lights.

The EP explores a lot of space on the track, almost soundscapes. Is that a deliberate part of your art direction?

Whenever I start making a song, I’ll immediately have colors, images, lights or sceneries going around in my head. I think this all from it’s foundation in my vivid sense of imagination. Once I have the imagery, it’s easier to curate sounds or lyrics around that. And also by working with my amazingly gifted producers of course. I feel like their taste just added perfectly to the ethereal digital sound I envisioned but couldn’t literally embody (since I’m not as good of a producer as they are). They got the direction I want to go soundwise, and lifted that aesthetic to an even higher level.

You have excellent features on the EP (Joanna and Jelani Blackman), how do you go about selecting them?

Jelani and I linked up through our label initially and then he asked me to open for him at his sold out show at Bush Hall back in October. We had a good connection, and I love the aesthetic in his voice and flow and his whole project really so when we were looking for a feature for “Rain” I immediately thought of him. Joanna and I had done a session before and she is just such a goddess – a big inspiration. So I asked her to hop on “Do It” which aesthetic she effortlessly augmented.

How does your dance background influence your sound if at all?

I guess it gave me a sense of movement and fluidity, which is very important for my music.

Can we expect more of this style in the future, potentially on an upcoming album?

It’s too soon for an album, but I’ll definitely keep on releasing music in a steady flow and deepen out the sound curation I have going on now.

Besides this excellent EP, what else should we be on the lookout for?

The growth of the project in general, come on this journey with me :)

What's inspiring you right now outside of music?

Love and all of its contours (my eternal inspiration).

Who are your Ones to Watch? 

Ashley Morgan, Pippin, Cosha, Ojerime, onmyones.

#meyy #interview #neon angel #R&B #soul #album reviews

[fayewonglibrary]

Faye Wong's history with Chinese rock music (2019)

I have always wanted to write a brief history of Chinese rock music, but the complicated characters and intertwined stories made me dizzy. The only solution is to approach it from a side angle, not for details, but for clarity. If you can find a representative person, you can tell the context clearly.

This person must have a close relationship with the music industry in Hong Kong as well as the mainland.

I thought about it and there is only one suitable person:  Faye Wong.

She recently celebrated her 50th birthday.

Some people may ask: Other than Dou Wei, what is the relationship between Faye Wong, a pop queen, and rock music?

In fact, this is just a small fragment of Faye Wong's unbreakable bond with rock.

01. FAYE WONG AND BEYOND

When talking about Chinese rock music, we must talk about Beyond.

You may not be aware that Faye Wong and Beyond were once managed by the same person: Leslie Chan

In other words, they were brothers and sister.

But at that time Faye Wong was still called Wang Jingwen.

They often appeared together and many images were captured of them in the same frame.

According to old reports, Faye Wong knew each of them very well and used the term "four big brothers" to describe the Beyond members in an interview.  

In 1991, Faye Wong made a movie with Beyond called "Beyond’s Diary". The heroes of the movie were the Beyond band members Wong Ka Kui, Wong Ka Keung, Paul Wong and Yip Sai Wing. Faye Wong played Yip Sai Wing’s girlfriend.

This is an inspirational youth film of 1991. The film is about the growth of our four protagonists. Although it is a movie, it is very similar to the real-life experiences of the group Beyond! All of them were young people who had nothing and relied on their talent and courage. They finally realized their musical dream of forming a rock band.

Seeing the movie poster, the impact of that memory causes the eyes to tear up. It is the memory of the most glorious period of Beyond! A group of promising young people full of fighting spirit, dreams, and vivid radiance.

Beyond formed in 1983 and participated in a music competition. At that time, they were still in their infancy. In 1984, Wong Ka Kui’s younger brother Wong Ka Keung joined. A record company in Hong Kong assembled some underground bands to make a record called "Hong Kong", and two original English songs by Beyond were selected.

In 1985, the members of Beyond were Ka Kui, Ka Keung, Sai Wing and Chan Sze On. The four of them wrote a lot of songs together, so they planned to hold a concert and share their songs with everyone. However, Chan Sze On was going abroad, so Beyond actively began looking for a guitar player. Yip Sai Wing met Ah Paul (Paul Wong), and Ah Paul also participated in other bands. With superb guitar skills, he joined.

After several lineup changes, Wong Ka Kui, Wong Ka Keung, Paul Wong, and Yip Sai Wing finally solidified their band. At that time, Beyond tried a variety of music styles, including art rock, post-punk new wave, and heavy metal. They also began to write songs in Cantonese such as "Waiting Forever" and "Old Footprints”. Beyond established the image of an avant-garde band in Hong Kong.

Later, there were more familiar classics such as "The Earth", "I Love You", and "Vast Sky and Boundless Sea". In the entire Asian rock scene, they dominated the limelight!

Then all this came to an abrupt end in Japan in June 1993 with the passing of Ka Kui. The classic legend of the four has become even more of an eternal memory for fans!

Beyond did have a very good relationship with Faye Wong at the time. Wong Ka Kui said publicly: Wang Jingwen will definitely become popular in the future.

Beyond has also written songs such as “Rekindle” and "Can You Hold Me Tight" for Faye Wong.

02 FAYE WONG AND LI YAPENG

Just like two sides of the Mobius loop, at the beginning of the 90s in parallel time and space, an Urumqi student at the Central Academy of Drama was exposed to rock music for the first time.

In a basement in Beijing, his young heart was deeply shocked by the wildness and freedom of underground rock and roll.

This student was named Li Yapeng.

Maybe people will call him "Faye Wong's ex-husband" and even during his marriage with Faye Wong, some people jokingly said he "lived off a woman", but this is not the case.

Li Yapeng not only has an unforgettable image on screen, he is also a rock man through and through.

On the side of rock and roll, Li Yapeng is not well known. Perhaps Li Yapeng’s screen image in films such as "Beijing Hong Kong Love Connection" and "Eternal Moment" are too deeply rooted in the hearts of people; or perhaps the light of the "Heavenly Queen" is too dazzling and everyone will unconsciously ignore the people around Faye Wong...

But how many people know that in the early 1990s, a "little" Li Yapeng spontaneously paid out of his own pocket and hosted the first large-scale rock concert in Urumqi:  "Feiyan Rock Night".

Li Yapeng wanted to bring rock and roll to his hometown in Xinjiang, so he organized a "Rock Performance Committee" as the team leader.

Unbelievably, he was only 21 years old then.

In that summer, Li Yapeng knocked on the doors of nearly a hundred companies with the "straightforwardness" of Xinjiang people and the "rush" of rock and roll people, and one by one solicited sponsorship, and finally collected enough money.

In 1993, at the Urumqi City Gymnasium, "Feiyan Rock Night" was successfully held. At that time, Tang Dynasty was all present. The first all-girl band in China, the "Cobra Band", and Wang Yong, a veteran rocker, were also there.

I believe that such a sensational rock performance was more than just a performance. It may have been a huge spiritual baptism for people in the 90s. It was definitely a milestone in the history of Xinjiang rock and roll. In particular, it’s impact on young people in Xinjiang was unprecedented!

"China Music Business" commented: "After the performance, Li Yapeng left himself a ticket to return to Beijing to go to school, and all the rest [of the money] was used to print commemorative posters and rock t-shirts. There was nothing left. For a while, all taxis in Urumqi were full of rock music posters, and many people walked the streets wearing black t-shirts."

Li Yapeng said: "This event still looks incredible today. It even gave me direction in my own life."

It can be said that his artistic life started from rock.

Whether he was in business or acting later, for a college student to manage the first large-scale rock event in the city by himself is absolutely very hardcore.

Later, when Li Yapeng was successful, he launched the "COART Asian Youth Art Scene" festival.

Established in Lijiang in 2012, it created a gathering place for literary and artistic youths. Whether it is people who love music, dance or painting, they can come to this platform to communicate, participate in activities and discussions, and Li Yapeng personally led the team. Several provinces and cities were organized. And the key was not to sell a ticket or charge a penny.

03. FAYE WONG AND BEIJING ROCK

Speaking of Tang Dynasty, we have to mention Black Panther.

The two bands have a constant relationship. In 1987, the lead singer of Black Panther was Ding Wu. Later, Ding Wu left Black Panther and established Tang Dynasty with Zhang Ju. Then, Dou Wei became the lead singer of Black Panther. They ushered in the surging climax of mainland rock and roll in Hong Kong.

Dou Wei's status at the time can be said to be "younger but not inferior."

Aloof, quiet, melancholic, unrestrained and wild, he was fresh-faced and the girls were crazy about him.

Before Faye Wong, Dou Wei's first girlfriend was Jessica Jiang. I believe anyone who likes rock and roll knows this artist. Jessica Jiang has been regarded as a goddess by many people.

Those who don't know her should have at least heard her song “I Am Not A Random Flower" which is such a beautiful song.

Unexpectedly, a young woman with big eyes and an ethereal, refined, and  straightforward personality fell from the sky. Faye Wong directly pierced Dou Wei's heart.

Later, Jessica Jiang published an autobiography called "The Days When My Long Hair Flew". There was a story about herself, Dou Wei and Faye Wong. It is said that Faye Wong chased Dou Wei. If you are interested, you can read it.

Speaking of the relationship between Dou Wei and Faye Wong, many media at that time said that "the heavenly queen married down".

In fact, based on Dou Wei's talent and fame at the time, the author thinks that the two were really equal. But it is a pity that some like to judge people through the eyes of money.

However, Faye Wong was also quite popular in Hong Kong and Taiwan and it is no wonder that there were headlines such as "the queen marries down to a chamber pot" and other nonsense.

In the face of the media's depravity, it affected Dou Wei, who became colder and colder.

[lyrics to Black Dream]

Aren’t these lyrics expressing Dou Wei's voice?

Faye Wong also similarly wrote in "Exit": "I heard that the world will end in 1999. By then, we must get married and have a child."

It is worth mentioning that before they got married, Leah Dou Jingtong, a new rock and roll power in China, was conceived.

Faye Wong’s view of their love may have been expressed in "To Love": "It's violent and vigorous. Our love is like a war. We have not shed blood, but we have sacrificed. Burying the martyr’s heartbeat and ruining an eternal brilliance."

Dou Wei is not actually Faye Wong’s first public boyfriend. Faye Wong’s early boyfriend was Luan Shu, the keyboard player of Black Panther, which is how she met Dou Wei.  It is rumored that this may be the reason why Dou Wei and Black Panther parted ways.

Dou Wei during the era of "The Higher Being" was particularly complex and chaotic.

Later, he went to Taiwan alone to sign with Magic Stone Records and released "Black Dream".  He was signed alongside two mainland teenagers, Zhang Chu and He Yong. In 1994, when Dou Wei released his new album "Black Dream", Zhang Chu released the album "Shameful Being Left Alone" and He Yong released "Garbage Dump".

These three people created a monument in the history of Chinese rock and roll.

Around 1994, Dou Wei began to have a deep influence on Faye Wong's music.

"Child" was dedicated to their daughter. It was written and composed by Faye Wong and arranged by Dou Wei. It was included in Faye Wong's 1998 album "Sing and Play".

And on the song "Pledge", Dou Wei personally provided the flute accompaniment for the Queen.

Dou Wei's influence on Faye Wong can be said to be enormous.

When Faye Wong held a concert in 1994, Dou Wei played the flute for her on stage.

In 1998, during Faye Wong’s Scenic Tour, Dou Wei played drums behind her. Faye Wong also sang a cover of "Don't Break My Heart" from Dou Wei's Black Panther period.

During the concert, Faye Wong also sang Queen’s classic song "Bohemian Rhapsody". Zhang Yadong was the guitarist, Dou Wei was the drummer, and Dou Ying was the back up singer.  It was really a beautiful sight.

My favorite Faye Wong album is "Fuzao", which is full of Dou Wei's shadow.

A Douban group once raised a discussion topic: "Did Faye Wong ruin Dou Wei?"

However, there is no right or wrong in love, it is just the choices we make in the moment.

It is rumored that the Cocteau Twins were also introduced to Faye Wong by Dou Wei. When it came time to prepare for "Fuzao", the Cocteau Twins composed two special songs for Faye Wong:  "Divide" and "Disappointment".

Zhang Yadong has always been one of Faye Wong’s most important producers. "Fuzao", "You’re Happy So I'm Happy", "Bored", "Only Love Strangers" and "Spectacular" are in line with Faye Wong's temperament. The songs of that time period are also Faye Wong's most classic.

Zhang Yadong himself also mentioned that he met Faye Wong through Dou Wei and she gave him creative freedom. In addition, Dou Ying, Dou Wei's sister is Zhang Yadong's ex-wife.

Perhaps because of Faye Wong's natural unpretentious character, the great director Quentin Tarantino appreciated Faye Wong's scenes dancing to "California Dreamin” in Chungking Express.

"California Dreamin'" is the most famous single of the American folk band The Mamas & The Papas. From the 60s to the present, it was also apart of the soundtrack of "Forrest Gump" and won a Grammy. 

Chungking Express won Best Picture at the Hong Kong Film Awards, which was also an achievement for Faye Wong in addition to her singing career.

Faye Wong’s popularity is well-known. In addition to her best friends Na Ying and Vicki Zhao, Faye Wong also has a small circle called "Class 6", which includes Zheng Jun, Gao Qi, Li Jing and her husband Huang Xiaomao (former President of Warner Music China, SONY&BMG China) and dozens of others.

By the way, Huang Xiaomao once popularized Gao Xiaosong and Lao Lang, and was the initiator of campus folk songs. And Zheng Jun and Gao Qi should be regarded as the mainstays of Chinese rock music.

I feel that after the glorious period of rock and roll in 1994, Chinese rock music has been supported by Lao Zheng, Gao Qi, etc. 

Gao Qi is not only handsome, but his band Overload is also quite awesome. The buddies withdrew from the band "Breathe" and formed "Overload". The main members were Gao Qi (lead singer & guitar), Han Hongbin (guitar), and Zhao Muyang (drummer). The bass was played by Wang Xiaodong.

Later, the lineup was also changed, as Zhang Ju, Cao Jun, Hu Xiaohai, Weng Jinhai, Deng Ouge, Ou Yang, etc., all performed in Overload one after another.

They mainly play metal. They are very cool and have a special style.  

Overload's current lineup is lead singer Gao Qi, guitarist Li Yanliang, bassist Ou Yang, Liu Wentai, and drummer Diao Lei. What kind of dream configuration is this!

"Perfect Summer" and "I Want to Hug You All the Time" have become classic songs of the post-80s generation.

Although they play metal, they always make the songs particularly fresh and moving.

04. FAYE WONG AND NICHOLAS TSE

After the accidental death of Wong Ka Kui, the rock and roll circle of Hong Kong and Taiwan did not have a particularly shining star on top.

At this time, Nicholas Tse, who was labeled as rebellious, entered the scene. His chic, free spirited personality, complicated family background, and experience studying abroad in various countries all made this teenager shine.

The boy composed his first song "Estimation Error" at the age of 15, and officially debuted in 1996. From 1997 to 1999, five albums were released

In 1999, he released his first Mandarin album "Thank you for your love 1999" which stayed on the Chinese music charts for a long time and won the Chinese Music Award and TVB Super Music Video Music Award.

Nicholas Tse even participated in the CCTV Spring Festival Gala in 2000 and held a "Viva Live" world tour in the same year. He also performed in classic movies such as "Metade Fumaca" with extraordinary aura.

In that same year, photos of Nicholas Tse and Faye Wong leaving the celebration party of "In the Mood for Love" were blasted all over the media.

At the time, Faye Wong was 31 years old and Nicholas Tse was 20 years old. The two were 11 years apart and were bad-mouthed by mainstream media for a long time.

As we all know, Faye Wong looks ethereal and cold, but she is a sweetheart with a simple and straightforward personality. Perhaps it was the same cold on the outside and hot on the inside that made Nicholas Tse find his soulmate.

Perhaps it was Faye Wong's maturity and tolerance that allowed Nicholas Tse to start reconciling with himself, with his family, and with the whole world.

After being with Faye Wong, Nicholas Tse's musical feeling was also infused with soul.

This boy indeed completed his transformation into a man because of his feelings. After several twists and turns, Nicholas Tse finally chose Faye Wong. He lived more maturely and took care of Faye Wong.

On the program "Chef Nic", he publicly stated that he cooked for Faye Wong. As an instructor on "The Voice of China" in 2018, Nicholas Tse fully demonstrated high emotional intelligence. It felt like he matured a lot in music and became more stable. The musical performance was also stable. He was no longer the guy who throws his guitar at every turn.

He also proficiently demonstrated that he has mastered various instruments and is proficient in guitar, bass, etc.  In fact, what moved me the most was the song "Vertigo " written by Nicholas Tse for Faye Wong:

[lyrics to Vertigo]

Lin Xi's lyrics matched with Nicholas Tse's music. It was about two people who can't help but love each other with feelings of ecstasy and are afraid of losing each other. This sentiment was extremely beautiful.

05. NEW GENERATION OF ROCK

The main story of Faye Wong and Chinese rock are many scattered and small things, and this article cannot describe them in full detail.

In short, she has more or less overlapped with most rock stars of her time. Including her own songs, many of which have rock and roll elements.

Now that she has no desires and has long believed in Buddhism, the baton of the story may be handed over to her daughter Leah Dou.

In 2011, Leah Dou formed her own band and acted as the lead singer. In 2012, she composed the English single "With You", and her style became more mature.

In 2016, for the movie Soulmate, Leah Dou sang the theme song “(It’s not a crime) It’s just what we do" and released a movie version of the MV, and continued to compose.

In 2017, Leah Dou won the Best Style Singer Award at the Chinese Song and Music Festival, and her own song "Jungle Pink" won the Golden Melody of the Year. Her popularity among the post-90s and 00s generation can also be seen.

Leah Dou has also appeared in major rock music festivals. Her live performances were stable, cool, and brilliant. She deserved to be Dou Wei's daughter and Faye Wong's baby!

She did not shy away from outside criticisms and slowly proved her strength that Leah Dou is Leah Dou!

To be precise, she not only does not shy away from her mother, but also often "shows off."

"My mother is Faye Wong, what about it?"

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

SOURCE: JAM MUSIC // TRANSLATED BY: FAYE WONG FUZAO

#2019

[disappearingground]

Think Of Us As Bookends: Jenny Lewis Interviewed

Clash Music August 8, 2019

American songwriter on her hidden hip-hop roots, creative honesty, and collaboration...

By Sarah Bradbury

“We can’t do anything about the shit out there,” Jenny Lewis says from the stage at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire in West London, “but we’re all OK together in here.”

Bravely clad in figure-hugging, head-to-toe rose-gold sequins in spite of the atypical British heat still burgeoning outside the ram-packed venue, the Las Vegas-born musician oozes retro-edged glamour in her flame-red beehive and delivers a glitzy, soulful performance, every bit the music and style icon her reputation dictates.

The image she cuts on stage is in stark contrast to the laid-back woman in t-shirt and trainers I had the pleasure of speaking to just days earlier from a hotel room sofa at the K West.

Throughout our freewheeling chat that touches on Ariana Grande’s towering heels at Coachella, her love of boxing, and whether you sneeze when you eat peppermint, amongst more heavy-going topics, I feel the counteracting forces of an effusive warmth with an intimidating otherworldliness, as if speaking with a Hollywood film star of yesteryear.

Husky-toned statements end in pregnant pauses with eye contact firmly held, each anecdotal answer to a question leaving me on tenterhooks of what might come next.

The American singer-songwriter’s life in the limelight began as a child actress, appearing in Troop Beverly Hills and Brooklyn Bridge, Baywatch and The Golden Girls, Jell-O and Toys R Us ads in the late 80s/early 90s, her earnings going to support her family after her parents separated.

She made her break into music heading up much-loved LA indie band Rilo Kiley from 1998, which saw success over four albums and tracks featured on the likes of Noughties teen obsessions The O.C. and Dawson’s Creek. As well as time spent in The Postal Service, Jenny & Johnny and Nice As Fuck*, Lewis has been pursuing a solo career since 2006’s 'Rabbit Fur Coat'.

Earlier this year came the release of her fourth solo studio album, 'On The Line', to rapturous acclaim, delivering yet another installment of the particular brand of country-infused indie rock she has carved out for herself, which she has since been touring the US, Europe and many a festival stage with.

The journey to the album’s completion wasn’t an easy one - while 2014’s 'The Voyager' was preoccupied with the breakup of Rilo Kiley, facing her father’s death and suffering the tyranny of depression and insomnia, the five intervening years before the release of 'On The Line' brought their own set of challenges: the break down of her 12 year relationship with partner and musician Johnathan Rice and her mother’s death from cancer.

Yet while these life events may have left indelible marks on the singer-songwriter, the songs produced in their wake are counterintuitively dominated by spangly sing-along choruses, lucid images and strongly-drawn characters in immersive narratives. In her explanation of what inspired the album, she’s impossibly understated:

“Just life as it happens. All the things that you would imagine that happened between like 35 and 40. A lot of stuff happens in that period. So my songs either predict or mirror or shadow real life. I never know what I'm going to write about, I just kind of write about it.”

In that respect, songwriting is often a kind of therapy for the artist: “I think it's a feeling that births a song,” she explains thoughtfully. “And it's usually a feeling of agony or pain. Music is kind of therapeutic. And in that way it's something to turn to. It doesn't have to come from that place but I feel like it's always a feeling and then hopefully something catchy pops up.”

“In order for me to remember it, it has to be incredibly catchy or it'll just disappear into the ether of my unfinished songs pile. From 12 years ago, I have this one called ‘The Scorpion and the Lily’, that's just this thing that keeps unfolding. I don't think it's very good. I better stop…”

The intensely personal nature of her music means that the experience of releasing them out into the public realm can be a double-edged sword: “The life of a record is so funny because in the formative stage, it feels so potent. Working on it takes however long it takes. But this one took a minute, so to have it done and out in the world and now starting to see people know the songs, it's really satisfying. But it's also like, ‘How do you know that? That's really personal! Stop singing along with that sir, it's inappropriate!”

There’s also a process of translating the album tracks to work live: “On the road with a live band, you’re not playing any backing tracks, it's all what we're creating organically. So sometimes it doesn't work, a record piece.”

In particular, she notes collaborator Beck, the first of many on the album, is a meticulous producer: “Everything is very deliberate. So unless you hit all those marks live, sometimes a song will feel not as great. It takes playing it out in front of people 20, 30 times where it's like, mediocre. And then one night, you're like, ‘we got it.’”

But it’s a collaboration she has found exhilarating, “to experience my own songs through like another artist’s prism, rather than like a straight engineer, there's a trust. It's exciting to just feel what is going to happen. It’s the room. It's the cast of characters. It's how you feel on that day. It's the song. If the song sucks, it's not going to fly. But once I had the songs, I was very open to send them off to college or whatever.”

Growing up with parents as lounge musicians in Las Vegas, music was always going to figure largely in Lewis’ life: “They had a band together. And so music is just in the genetics, like that's just been the family thing. I grew up singing with my mom and my sister, and my dad was a virtuosic harmonica player - genius - so music was just the family business. I also had this side thing as an actor, which was also the family business. But then I just started writing from a young age.”

Her mother’s singer-songwriter records were certainly a key influence but Lewis credits a love of hip-hop for her obsession and dexterity as a lyricist: “I think it was hip-hop that really got me into words. My mom was listening to Laura Nero and Barbra Streisand. But then it was my music, like A Tribe Called Quest, that was a huge, just poetic influence. It was Big Daddy Kane, it was like Run DMC. Souls of Mischief. EPMD - all this lyrical stuff. I’d write poetry and raps. And then someone taught me how to play a couple chords on the piano and the guitar and then that was it.”

It was then later that country music came onto Lewis’ radar, completing the “mixtape” of genres that define her output: “I got into Gram Parsons and the Byrds in the early 2000s, then into Bakersfield stuff a little bit later. It’s all about storytelling. I like very evocative storytelling.”

And it is that very love of storytelling that has led Lewis to sit apart as a songwriter, bringing the acute specificities of her experiences and musical education to bear on a sound that invites her listener into a distinct world via vivid imagery and often biting witty observations in each track.

Opening with ‘Heads Gonna Roll’, the “lyrical mission statement,” featuring none other than Ringo Star plus a narcoleptic poet from Duluth, sycophants in Marrakech and nuns from Harlem, Lewis sees 'On The Line' as a story “from front to back. It begins with a breakup. But it's really a rebound. And then a death and rebirth.”

“So the beginning, it's like a play in my mind: here are the characters, now go for it. And Ringo's on the first track. It's a little braggy to put Ringo on the first track. But that is maybe the coolest thing that's ever happened to me…”

Also featured on the record are Jim Keltner - “one of the all-time rock and roll drummers” - Benmont Tench, Don Was, Jim Keltner and Jason Falkner. Delectable melodies and nods to country-pop and 70s soft rock serve to seductively sugarcoat searingly poignant evocations of much darker subject matter, arguably the most candid reflections on her past her music has ever dealt with.

As Lewis admits, ‘Little White Dove,’ is the “funkiest song about mourning and grieving.” Tackling her mother’s heroin addiction, their decades-long estrangement and final reconciliation before she died in hospital from liver cancer, she sings, “A mother and child / Emergency behind a yellow curtain / On the second floor / All the guardian angels at the door / With their long white coats and stethoscopes” before leading into the line: “I’m the heroin.”

‘Wasted Youth’ ponders her years acting as a child, “I wasted my youth on a poppy / Doo-doo doo-doo doo, just because,” nodding to the hard-earned cash part-funding her mother’s opiate addiction. Stand out track ‘Red Bull & Hennessy’, hits on her painful break from Rice, “And we had it all / It's falling apart / Never getting back again without that spark.”

‘Party Clown’ brings us Fuji apples, scorpions, beetles floating in red wine, while asking: “Can you be my puzzle piece, baby? / When I cry like Meryl Streep.”

Amid heartbreak and grief, lust and infatuation, cynical detachment and raw emotion, there’s a thread of black humour, as is pointed to in the album opener: “And maybe after all is said and done / We'll all be skulls.”

Having become increasingly adept as a solo artist, Lewis still looks back at first leaving her band as challenging: “Those were the best times ever. It's so amazing to see things for the first time, especially with a bunch of your friends around. It was so potent, and so fresh, and so new that it was like as exciting as it ever has been.”

Branching out at first filled her with trepidation, she recalls: “I was terrified. Making my first solo record, my friend asked me to make it for his label. That wasn't something that I would have done at that time. So I feel like I've been encouraged by people throughout my career. I've had these little spirit guides that have kind of like pushed me, like, ‘go do it. You can do it on your own.’”

That encouragement led her to surprise herself of just what she could achieve: “the art itself is the surprising part. When you realise you can do it. I remember hearing Rabbit Fur Coat off the tape in the studio after we had just cut. It was like live music. It sounded exactly like my dreams. It sounded like my soul. Band music is a collective soul but it’s different, it's everyone's experience. This was so personal.”

And now, she thrives on being, “the creative director of my world. I feel more comfortable doing it, you know, designing the set and directing the music videos. Like I directed the ‘Just One Of The Guys’ video” - a brilliantly fun ensemble of Kristen Stewart, Anne Hathaway and Brie Larson donning Adidas tracksuits and fake ‘taches - “which wouldn't have happened in my band, because it would have been a co-directing thing. So I feel like as far as a full artistic vision goes - good or bad, it could suck! - now I want to be in charge of the whole thing. I don't want to really, like, share.”

She reluctantly accepts a need to engage in the promotional side of the business, “though it is annoying, sometimes. But it is part of the whole thing. If I want to get my music out there, this presence is really important. So I try not to not to grumble about it. Because if you're not making like top 40 music, how are people going to find out about your music?”

At least with Instagram, she’s determined to have a laugh with it: “I've tried to curate my Instagram in a way where it is 100% authentic. It is 100% me. So whatever you see on there, if it's lame, it's my fault,” she says with a laugh.

I get a preview of the latest of her surreal Insta Story videos, “shot at the Queen's tennis centre. We opened for Death Cab For Cutie there a couple weeks ago. And that's where Wes Anderson shot part of the Royal Tennenbaums. Then we had these rabbit costumes...”

In the span of her career, the 43 year old reflects she seen the industry and environment both for artists and audiences shift. She herself had to distance herself from Ryan Adams who had worked on 'The Voyager' and the early stages of the current album, after allegations were made against him of sexual manipulative behaviour.

“I think it's evolving and I appreciate the dialogue,” Lewis says. “I was one of fewer women on the road when I started. Now there are way more women out there. But there's still those moments. Like, this camera guy at this festival I played. I wanted the cameras to be in my aesthetic. So I go back to talk to him with the set list and he just rolled his eyes from the moment I opened my mouth. I could tell he didn't want to do it. But I've learned over the years, to just not bat an eye, and just be patient, and get exactly what I fucking want. But you still feel those moments of resistance.”

While she does joke that becoming an “icon” of any kind usually implies “you’re kind of old”, she has no doubt of the importance of inspiring the next generation: “When I saw my first proper concert, on my own, without my mum, it was The Cure and PIXIES were opening. I must have been 11 or 12. And I saw Kim Deal on stage playing bass. She was maybe the first woman I'd ever seen playing an instrument. And that really resonated with me.”

That’s not to say she fully embraces role model status: “I never think of myself in a leadership context. I'm trying to just be myself. I'm not trying to be perfect. I try to be responsible with what I say. But sometimes, I talk shit,” she says with a wry smile.

Were things more wild back in the day?

“I went to a bunch of Grateful Dead shows as a kid. And like the even the parking lot was wild. You know? I mean, it was like drug culture. That was the 90s. We still have fun. Although it's like pretty rated PG-13. I mean, I've never been invited to an orgy. So I don't know. I'm trying to be less of a square…”

While she might not literally be taking things day by day - “I’m a hippie but that big of a hippie that much of a hippie” - there’s a resistance to overengineering her forward path: “I don't have goals ever. I've got like, song ideas. I've got 10 or 12 songs I'm just starting. Like the kombucha thing, you’ve got to let it ferment.”

And there’s also a sense that having pretty much experienced it all, from child-acting to band life to solo artist, playing all festivals from Glastonbury to Coachella, becoming artistic director of all her output, she can take the time to relish in this moment.

The week previous she was at Latitude: “I love Latitude. Our set was so fun. But then afterwards, we got stoned and went out into the crowd to watch Khruangbin, which was the best festival sets I've seen since like, Tame Impala at Coachella. It was absolutely dancey. We were like we found ourselves in the middle of like a steampunk 30th birthday party where everyone was dressed up and dancing around us. And we were like, this is amazing.”

Later that week, watching her delight, charm and coax her summer’s evening London crowd into being wrapped around her finger as pink and blue balloons filled the air, I saw that this is a Jenny Lewis who’s survived significant turbulence in her life, faced her demons and gone from strength to strength as an artist as a result - and now gets to enjoy the pink and blue-hued view.

Does she have any advice for young women looking to for the success she has enjoyed?

“I'd say: wear what you want. Sing what you feel. Write what you know. Stand flat-footed. Don't take no shit.”

Wise words, well said.

#publication: clash #album: on the line #year: 2019 #mention: breakup #mention: mother's death #mention: songwriting #mention: parent's band #song: little white dove #song: wasted youth #mention: child acting #mention: heroin #mention: drug addiction #mention: advice

[how2to18]

CRITICS GENERALLY DEFINE “Lynchian” as the cohabitation of the macabre and the mundane. The severed ear hidden in the field in Blue Velvet may be the most iconic representation of this junction, but it’s everywhere in David Lynch’s work: from Twin Peaks’s sweet, brochure-like title sequence of a mountainous town that, as it turns out, hides Laura Palmer’s corpse and many other monstrosities, to the arrival of Naomi Watts’s aspiring actress Betty in a dreamlike Hollywood in Mulholland Drive, before the nightmare of that city consumes her. In Lynch’s early work, the small town is the theater of this dance of innocence and evil, but in his later films, namely the loose trilogy of Lost Highway (1997), Mulholland Drive (2001), and Inland Empire (2006), the macabre and the mundane coexist in the individual soul. Upon reading Room to Dream — Lynch’s newly released experimental memoir — one’s tempted to say that the same coupling exists in David Lynch himself.

With Lynch treading into his 70s, it’s an appropriate time for Room to Dream. This hybrid of biography and memoir by Lynch and journalist/critic Kristine McKenna offers hope of understanding an artist who, four decades into his career, remains a subject of much mystery and misinterpretation. Even his old school friends still don’t know the source of Lynch’s Lynchianism.

McKenna and Lynch alternate chapters, starting with McKenna, who covers a period of her subject’s life through extensive interviews with those who know and have worked with him, in turn prompting a chapter from the director about the same period. In sum, the book presents a quirky but ultimately lovable — and widely loved — man. With output as dark as his, one expects the outward oddity of an Alan Moore or a Tim Burton, or the intensity of a Terry Gilliam. When I describe him as one-part “mundane,” then, I don’t mean that Lynch is tedious in any sense, but that his persona is so endearing, so enamored of life and film, so — indeed — normal, that it’s confounding to think that behind this childlike chirpiness is the mind that gave us the ear and the depraved Frank Booth who severed it.

A straightforward summary of David’s upbringing, largely devoid of turbulence, would be a bore. The value of this book is in getting closer to the origins of Lynch’s art, which, as McKenna eloquently puts it, “resides in the complicated zone where the beautiful and the damned collide.” His early years seem to have provided the foundations. Born in 1946, he spent his childhood in Boise, Idaho, before moving to Alexandria, Virginia, as a teen, where he discovered his first love: painting. Nostalgia for Boise seems to have turned the middle-class small town into an ideal in Lynch’s heart that echoes in his work. McKenna writes:

The 1950s have never really gone away for Lynch. Moms in cotton shirtwaist dresses smiling as they pull freshly baked pies out of ovens; broad-chested dads in sport shirts cooking meat on a barbecue or heading off to work in suits; the ubiquitous cigarettes […] classic rock ‘n’ roll; diner waitresses wearing cute little caps; girls in bobby sox and saddle shoes, sweaters and pleated plaid skirts — these are all elements of Lynch’s aesthetic vocabulary.

There’s an elegy to this aesthetic in Mulholland Drive’s opening title sequence: splices of all those boys and girls swing dancing as if in a jitterbug contest. Hollywood is radiating ’50s congeniality as Betty emerges from the airport, escorted to her cab by a warm elderly couple expressing full confidence that they’ll soon see her on their TV screens. “Won’t that be the day!” Betty merrily replies. But the garish frozen smiles on that elderly couple as they leave Betty, like that of Mad magazine’s Alfred E. Neuman, offer a warning that this affable setting, like the vivid rosebushes that open Blue Velvet, will be subverted in due course.

Lynch’s father, Donald, worked for the agriculture department. McKenna posits, “Perhaps his father’s work dealing with diseased trees imbued him with a heightened awareness of what he has described as ‘the wild pain and decay’ that lurk beneath the surface of things.” In Lynch’s hands, however, decay is not a function of time and history as it is, say, in the writings of V. S. Naipaul and W. G. Sebald, but of the permanent presence of something threatening in humanity’s character. In part, his art is a parable of the rural-urban transition. Anxiety about big cities harassed him early, derived perhaps from childhood visits to New York. Lynch writes, “Everything about New York made me fearful. The subways were just unreal. Going down into this place, and the smell, and this wind would come with the trains, and the sound — I’d see different things in New York that made me fearful.” A move to Philadelphia in the mid-1960s, after unsuccessful attempts to keep a steady menial job in Alexandria, seems to have refined this anxiety into an artistic doctrine. According to McKenna, “The chaos of Philadelphia was in direct opposition to the abundance and optimism of the world he’d grown up in, and reconciling these two extremes was to become one of the enduring themes of his art.” The city was “dangerous and dirty,” providing “rich mulch for Lynch’s imagination.”

In Philadelphia, like the gushing water hydrant that gave Saul Bellow a new writing style, Lynch found his epiphany when, supposedly, some wind caused “a flicker of movement” in a painting he’d made of a figure standing among foliage. “Like a gift bestowed on him from the ether,” McKenna writes, “the idea of a moving painting clicked into focus in his mind.”

Some well-received shorts at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts yielded an opportunity, upon moving to Los Angeles, to make his poem to urban horror, Eraserhead (1977). An underground success, the film caught the attention of influential studio players, including Mel Brooks, who gave Lynch the opportunity to make The Elephant Man (1980), which would go on to be nominated for eight Academy Awards. Dune came next in 1984, an artistic and professional debacle that ended up being a necessary turning pointing, from which Lynch emerged more resolute to fully own his material. “You die two deaths […] And that was Dune,” he writes. “You die once because you sold out, and you die twice because it was a failure.” (Whereas with the 1992 critical and commercial flop, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me, he feels he only died once, since it was authentic Lynch.) Two years later, he got his revenge with a movie that was completely his.

Three things comingled to produce Blue Velvet in Lynch’s mind: Bobby Vinton’s song of the same name, which on a second hearing (after finding it “schmaltzy” the first time) summoned the image of green lawns, red lips, and, finally, a severed ear in a field. “I don’t know why it had to be an ear,” Lynch writes, “except it needed to be an opening of a part of the body […] The ear sits on the head and goes right into the mind, so it felt perfect.”

It is indeed captivating to read both McKenna and Lynch on the origin of his stories. Many like Blue Velvet, Twin Peaks, and 1990’s Wild at Heart (based on a Barry Gifford novel), do have a basic plot, but their artistic merit is in their accumulation of effects and moments. As Julian Barnes wrote of a net in Flaubert’s Parrot: rather than “a meshed instrument designed to catch fish,” each can be seen as a “collection of holes tied together with string.” Room to Dream shows us how Lynch went about collecting his holes — from dreams he barely remembered, to a mysterious line spoken at the other end of a receiver, to people spotted on the side of the road who move him in some way and end up playing a role in one of his films. Collaborations were equally critical to his career. The most famous of these are Mark Frost, who co-created Twin Peaks and its reboot, and Angelo Badalamenti, who composed the series’s musical score, but others like Jack Fisk, a fellow painter and friend since the Alexandria days, and Dean Hurley, who mixed the sound of Inland Empire, also get their due.

As Lynch’s net gets wider, so, too, do the holes. By Lost Highway in 1997, the narrative barely coheres. Instead the pleasure is in a growing radicalism in Lynch’s storytelling: the Mystery Man who tells Bill Pullman’s Fred Madison not only that that they’ve met before, at Fred’s house, but that he, the Mystery Man, is at Fred’s house at that very moment, and goes on to prove it; Fred’s metamorphosis in prison into Pete, played by Balthazar Getty, a young man with a completely different life, though it does ultimately intersect with Fred’s again, at which point Pete turns back into Fred. Lost Highway offers a kind of quantum theory of personality, where you’re only probably who you are. Inland Empire, the most encrypted of all of Lynch’s movies, largely abolishes narrative altogether and instead ties disparate Lynch ideas — a sitcom of people in rabbit costumes, Polish prostitutes, psychosis — to a central story about a cursed film set.

¤

Lynch’s prose has all the innocence of the deceptive first part of a Lynch movie. The same guy who, McKenna tells us, finds pleasure in collecting human remains — embryos in bell jars, for example — and who once asked a woman who was about to have a hysterectomy if he could have her uterus, addresses the reader with things like, “I’ll tell you about a kiss I really remember.” About that encounter: “That was a kiss that got deeper and deeper, and it was lighting some fire.” About masturbation: “So I thought, I’m going to try this tonight. It took forever. Nothing was happening, right? And all of a sudden this feeling — I thought, Where is this feeling coming from? Whoa! The story was true and it was unbelievable. It was like discovering fire.” He doesn’t sound the least bit boastful when he says, “They thought I was so handsome. It was really great.” Or the least bit intimidating when he describes how “[a]nger came up in me like unreal.” His writing is sprayed with “sort ofs” and “kind ofs” and “so cools.” The hard work required to get Eraserhead into Cannes “almost killed me” — not because of the long hours themselves but because this meant giving up milkshake breaks. That, for Lynch, is one of the crises of fame.

There is, however, a problem with this kind of charm. It’s ultimately a performance, not in the sense that it’s inauthentic, but because it’s the voice of a raconteur; there’s something inevitably impersonal about it. Lynch doesn’t make you feel like you’re in a one-on-one with him, but instead like you’re one among several sitting on barstools around him. When McKenna writes of a divorce, she prepares us for Lynch’s perspective, but that never comes. His mother’s 2004 death in a car crash gets little attention from McKenna and none from Lynch — even as his ex-wife Mary Sweeney suggests “he was changed by his mother’s death.” Meanwhile, Lynch, a transcendental meditation devotee, devotes but a few pages to the death of the Indian guru Maharishi, whose funeral he flew to India to attend.

McKenna ends up not being too big a help here. While she understands her subject well, she’s also too close to him. Her fondness for her subject is not in itself a problem, especially given how universally loved Lynch seems to be. But when McKenna says, “Lynch is good at tuning out static,” or that “you’ve got to hand it to him” that he could make a film like Lost Highway, or that “[h]e doesn’t like it when things get too big and unwieldy, and he wants to be left in peace to make whatever it is he’s decided to make; it’s never been about fame or money for him,” she sounds less like a biographer than a friend. Even in discussing flops like Fire Walk with Me, McKenna seems keen not to hurt Lynch’s feelings. She seems much more comfortable calling a Lynch film a masterpiece.

Indeed, once we get to start of Lynch’s movie career, Room to Dream is less a biography than deep reporting of each of Lynch’s major projects, and some minor ones. Divorces are mentioned, for example, because they coincide with a film. Part of the problem is conceptual. Because Lynch would read the preceding McKenna chapter, it’s unsurprising that McKenna isn’t inclined toward too probing an account. But this sacrifices candor and revelation, and it’s hard to see the value of this peculiar framework. The fault may lie more with Lynch than McKenna, since he isn’t given to confession. His current wife, Emily Stofle, says, “We’re still very sweet to each other […] but he’s selfish, and as much as he meditates, I don’t know how self-reflective David is.” This comes not long after McKenna claims Lynch “has a unique gift for intimacy.” What draws readers to a biography or memoir like this is the question of how a great artist lives in and with the world. We don’t get the whole story here.

We do nevertheless get a sense of how Lynch’s imagination works, and how he brings that imagination to the screen. Blue Velvet’s editor seems to represent the majority view when he says, “It’s an honor to work with his material, because that’s sacred clay he produces.” If we don’t get enough of Lynch’s warts, at least we get to see him and the people around him playing with that clay.

¤

Shehryar Fazli is a Pakistan-based essayist, political analyst, and novelist.

The post David Lynch’s Sacred Clay appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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CRITICS GENERALLY DEFINE “Lynchian” as the cohabitation of the macabre and the mundane. The severed ear hidden in the field in Blue Velvet may be the most iconic representation of this junction, but it’s everywhere in David Lynch’s work: from Twin Peaks’s sweet, brochure-like title sequence of a mountainous town that, as it turns out, hides Laura Palmer’s corpse and many other monstrosities, to the arrival of Naomi Watts’s aspiring actress Betty in a dreamlike Hollywood in Mulholland Drive, before the nightmare of that city consumes her. In Lynch’s early work, the small town is the theater of this dance of innocence and evil, but in his later films, namely the loose trilogy of Lost Highway (1997), Mulholland Drive (2001), and Inland Empire (2006), the macabre and the mundane coexist in the individual soul. Upon reading Room to Dream — Lynch’s newly released experimental memoir — one’s tempted to say that the same coupling exists in David Lynch himself.

With Lynch treading into his 70s, it’s an appropriate time for Room to Dream. This hybrid of biography and memoir by Lynch and journalist/critic Kristine McKenna offers hope of understanding an artist who, four decades into his career, remains a subject of much mystery and misinterpretation. Even his old school friends still don’t know the source of Lynch’s Lynchianism.

McKenna and Lynch alternate chapters, starting with McKenna, who covers a period of her subject’s life through extensive interviews with those who know and have worked with him, in turn prompting a chapter from the director about the same period. In sum, the book presents a quirky but ultimately lovable — and widely loved — man. With output as dark as his, one expects the outward oddity of an Alan Moore or a Tim Burton, or the intensity of a Terry Gilliam. When I describe him as one-part “mundane,” then, I don’t mean that Lynch is tedious in any sense, but that his persona is so endearing, so enamored of life and film, so — indeed — normal, that it’s confounding to think that behind this childlike chirpiness is the mind that gave us the ear and the depraved Frank Booth who severed it.

A straightforward summary of David’s upbringing, largely devoid of turbulence, would be a bore. The value of this book is in getting closer to the origins of Lynch’s art, which, as McKenna eloquently puts it, “resides in the complicated zone where the beautiful and the damned collide.” His early years seem to have provided the foundations. Born in 1946, he spent his childhood in Boise, Idaho, before moving to Alexandria, Virginia, as a teen, where he discovered his first love: painting. Nostalgia for Boise seems to have turned the middle-class small town into an ideal in Lynch’s heart that echoes in his work. McKenna writes:

The 1950s have never really gone away for Lynch. Moms in cotton shirtwaist dresses smiling as they pull freshly baked pies out of ovens; broad-chested dads in sport shirts cooking meat on a barbecue or heading off to work in suits; the ubiquitous cigarettes […] classic rock ‘n’ roll; diner waitresses wearing cute little caps; girls in bobby sox and saddle shoes, sweaters and pleated plaid skirts — these are all elements of Lynch’s aesthetic vocabulary.

There’s an elegy to this aesthetic in Mulholland Drive’s opening title sequence: splices of all those boys and girls swing dancing as if in a jitterbug contest. Hollywood is radiating ’50s congeniality as Betty emerges from the airport, escorted to her cab by a warm elderly couple expressing full confidence that they’ll soon see her on their TV screens. “Won’t that be the day!” Betty merrily replies. But the garish frozen smiles on that elderly couple as they leave Betty, like that of Mad magazine’s Alfred E. Neuman, offer a warning that this affable setting, like the vivid rosebushes that open Blue Velvet, will be subverted in due course.

Lynch’s father, Donald, worked for the agriculture department. McKenna posits, “Perhaps his father’s work dealing with diseased trees imbued him with a heightened awareness of what he has described as ‘the wild pain and decay’ that lurk beneath the surface of things.” In Lynch’s hands, however, decay is not a function of time and history as it is, say, in the writings of V. S. Naipaul and W. G. Sebald, but of the permanent presence of something threatening in humanity’s character. In part, his art is a parable of the rural-urban transition. Anxiety about big cities harassed him early, derived perhaps from childhood visits to New York. Lynch writes, “Everything about New York made me fearful. The subways were just unreal. Going down into this place, and the smell, and this wind would come with the trains, and the sound — I’d see different things in New York that made me fearful.” A move to Philadelphia in the mid-1960s, after unsuccessful attempts to keep a steady menial job in Alexandria, seems to have refined this anxiety into an artistic doctrine. According to McKenna, “The chaos of Philadelphia was in direct opposition to the abundance and optimism of the world he’d grown up in, and reconciling these two extremes was to become one of the enduring themes of his art.” The city was “dangerous and dirty,” providing “rich mulch for Lynch’s imagination.”

In Philadelphia, like the gushing water hydrant that gave Saul Bellow a new writing style, Lynch found his epiphany when, supposedly, some wind caused “a flicker of movement” in a painting he’d made of a figure standing among foliage. “Like a gift bestowed on him from the ether,” McKenna writes, “the idea of a moving painting clicked into focus in his mind.”

Some well-received shorts at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts yielded an opportunity, upon moving to Los Angeles, to make his poem to urban horror, Eraserhead (1977). An underground success, the film caught the attention of influential studio players, including Mel Brooks, who gave Lynch the opportunity to make The Elephant Man (1980), which would go on to be nominated for eight Academy Awards. Dune came next in 1984, an artistic and professional debacle that ended up being a necessary turning pointing, from which Lynch emerged more resolute to fully own his material. “You die two deaths […] And that was Dune,” he writes. “You die once because you sold out, and you die twice because it was a failure.” (Whereas with the 1992 critical and commercial flop, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me, he feels he only died once, since it was authentic Lynch.) Two years later, he got his revenge with a movie that was completely his.

Three things comingled to produce Blue Velvet in Lynch’s mind: Bobby Vinton’s song of the same name, which on a second hearing (after finding it “schmaltzy” the first time) summoned the image of green lawns, red lips, and, finally, a severed ear in a field. “I don’t know why it had to be an ear,” Lynch writes, “except it needed to be an opening of a part of the body […] The ear sits on the head and goes right into the mind, so it felt perfect.”

It is indeed captivating to read both McKenna and Lynch on the origin of his stories. Many like Blue Velvet, Twin Peaks, and 1990’s Wild at Heart (based on a Barry Gifford novel), do have a basic plot, but their artistic merit is in their accumulation of effects and moments. As Julian Barnes wrote of a net in Flaubert’s Parrot: rather than “a meshed instrument designed to catch fish,” each can be seen as a “collection of holes tied together with string.” Room to Dream shows us how Lynch went about collecting his holes — from dreams he barely remembered, to a mysterious line spoken at the other end of a receiver, to people spotted on the side of the road who move him in some way and end up playing a role in one of his films. Collaborations were equally critical to his career. The most famous of these are Mark Frost, who co-created Twin Peaks and its reboot, and Angelo Badalamenti, who composed the series’s musical score, but others like Jack Fisk, a fellow painter and friend since the Alexandria days, and Dean Hurley, who mixed the sound of Inland Empire, also get their due.

As Lynch’s net gets wider, so, too, do the holes. By Lost Highway in 1997, the narrative barely coheres. Instead the pleasure is in a growing radicalism in Lynch’s storytelling: the Mystery Man who tells Bill Pullman’s Fred Madison not only that that they’ve met before, at Fred’s house, but that he, the Mystery Man, is at Fred’s house at that very moment, and goes on to prove it; Fred’s metamorphosis in prison into Pete, played by Balthazar Getty, a young man with a completely different life, though it does ultimately intersect with Fred’s again, at which point Pete turns back into Fred. Lost Highway offers a kind of quantum theory of personality, where you’re only probably who you are. Inland Empire, the most encrypted of all of Lynch’s movies, largely abolishes narrative altogether and instead ties disparate Lynch ideas — a sitcom of people in rabbit costumes, Polish prostitutes, psychosis — to a central story about a cursed film set.

¤

Lynch’s prose has all the innocence of the deceptive first part of a Lynch movie. The same guy who, McKenna tells us, finds pleasure in collecting human remains — embryos in bell jars, for example — and who once asked a woman who was about to have a hysterectomy if he could have her uterus, addresses the reader with things like, “I’ll tell you about a kiss I really remember.” About that encounter: “That was a kiss that got deeper and deeper, and it was lighting some fire.” About masturbation: “So I thought, I’m going to try this tonight. It took forever. Nothing was happening, right? And all of a sudden this feeling — I thought, Where is this feeling coming from? Whoa! The story was true and it was unbelievable. It was like discovering fire.” He doesn’t sound the least bit boastful when he says, “They thought I was so handsome. It was really great.” Or the least bit intimidating when he describes how “[a]nger came up in me like unreal.” His writing is sprayed with “sort ofs” and “kind ofs” and “so cools.” The hard work required to get Eraserhead into Cannes “almost killed me” — not because of the long hours themselves but because this meant giving up milkshake breaks. That, for Lynch, is one of the crises of fame.

There is, however, a problem with this kind of charm. It’s ultimately a performance, not in the sense that it’s inauthentic, but because it’s the voice of a raconteur; there’s something inevitably impersonal about it. Lynch doesn’t make you feel like you’re in a one-on-one with him, but instead like you’re one among several sitting on barstools around him. When McKenna writes of a divorce, she prepares us for Lynch’s perspective, but that never comes. His mother’s 2004 death in a car crash gets little attention from McKenna and none from Lynch — even as his ex-wife Mary Sweeney suggests “he was changed by his mother’s death.” Meanwhile, Lynch, a transcendental meditation devotee, devotes but a few pages to the death of the Indian guru Maharishi, whose funeral he flew to India to attend.

McKenna ends up not being too big a help here. While she understands her subject well, she’s also too close to him. Her fondness for her subject is not in itself a problem, especially given how universally loved Lynch seems to be. But when McKenna says, “Lynch is good at tuning out static,” or that “you’ve got to hand it to him” that he could make a film like Lost Highway, or that “[h]e doesn’t like it when things get too big and unwieldy, and he wants to be left in peace to make whatever it is he’s decided to make; it’s never been about fame or money for him,” she sounds less like a biographer than a friend. Even in discussing flops like Fire Walk with Me, McKenna seems keen not to hurt Lynch’s feelings. She seems much more comfortable calling a Lynch film a masterpiece.

Indeed, once we get to start of Lynch’s movie career, Room to Dream is less a biography than deep reporting of each of Lynch’s major projects, and some minor ones. Divorces are mentioned, for example, because they coincide with a film. Part of the problem is conceptual. Because Lynch would read the preceding McKenna chapter, it’s unsurprising that McKenna isn’t inclined toward too probing an account. But this sacrifices candor and revelation, and it’s hard to see the value of this peculiar framework. The fault may lie more with Lynch than McKenna, since he isn’t given to confession. His current wife, Emily Stofle, says, “We’re still very sweet to each other […] but he’s selfish, and as much as he meditates, I don’t know how self-reflective David is.” This comes not long after McKenna claims Lynch “has a unique gift for intimacy.” What draws readers to a biography or memoir like this is the question of how a great artist lives in and with the world. We don’t get the whole story here.

We do nevertheless get a sense of how Lynch’s imagination works, and how he brings that imagination to the screen. Blue Velvet’s editor seems to represent the majority view when he says, “It’s an honor to work with his material, because that’s sacred clay he produces.” If we don’t get enough of Lynch’s warts, at least we get to see him and the people around him playing with that clay.

¤

Shehryar Fazli is a Pakistan-based essayist, political analyst, and novelist.

The post David Lynch’s Sacred Clay appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: Maureen Gallace’s Uneasy Sublime

Maureen Gallace, “Clear Day” (2012), oil on panel, 14 x 18 inches (35.6 x 45.7 cm) (all images courtesy 303 Gallery)

Maureen Gallace is a wonderful anomaly, a painter of vision and serious skill whose elemental works seem at odds with so much visual art these days. Bigness and boldness grab attention. Damian Hirst’s whopping, multimillion-dollar, sunken treasure extravaganza is now on view in collector Francois Pinault’s two museums in Venice, and the art world, whether for, against, or somewhere in the middle, is predictably going gaga.

Gallace’s oil-on-panel paintings, primarily of enticing, yet stark and unsettling coastal scenes, are resolutely small — most of the works in her impressive mid-career survey show, Maureen Gallace: Clear Day at MoMA PS1, measure a mere 9 by 12 inches or 11 by 14 inches. In this fraught Trump time, political matters and identity issues are often paramount and sometimes elicit loud reactions; witness the controversies surrounding Dana Schutz’s painting of Emmett Till in his open coffin and Jordan Wolfson’s head-bashing, virtual-reality installation, both at the Whitney Biennial. There are no people at all in Gallace’s paintings, and also no overt politics. Instead she paints the beaches and barns, beach shacks and seascapes, houses and empty roads, foliage and sky of coastal New England, although she occasionally ventures further inland (there is a great painting of a very lonely looking Merritt Parkway in this show, and a stunning painting of red barns in the snow in Easton, Connecticut.) This is a region and landscape that Gallace (who grew up in southern Connecticut) knows well. Her orientation is toward the local and specific, the “lure of the local,” as the writer and art critic Lucy Lippard has put it. The remarkable thing is how such commonplace scenes —a beach shack next to the ocean; towering trees, which look vaguely threatening, next to a house; a rural barn close to a seaside road—while lovely, have such an air of mystery and unease.

Maureen Gallace, “Surf Road” (2015), oil on panel, 9 x 12 inches (22.9 x 30.5 cm)

The barn that I mentioned is in “Surf Road” (2015), a standout in this exhibition which includes a smattering of early paintings from the 1990s, a smart assortment of works from the 2000s, and a generous selection of recent works from 2015 and 2016. The cloud-streaked sky is a mesh of exquisite, yet also unruly, blues and whites. On the left is a thin beach with scraggly vegetation, and beyond that a glimpse of blue ocean. In the foreground is a bush with just two orange dabs for flowers. There is a curving, empty road (the surf road from the title), which seems like a vulnerable border between land and ocean, humans and nature, the present moment and eternity. There is a simple gray telephone pole. The scene is alluring but also bleak. Gallace works wonders with her typically spare means, which include dabs, smears, irregular pools of color and abrupt brushstrokes (it’s worth paying careful attention to her complex and sometimes fractious surfaces.)

While her paintings are realistic, they display a pared down, at times rudimentary realism that also includes numerous abstract elements. Beach vegetation appears as just a few green and yellow-green brushstrokes. The ocean can be nothing more than a slightly askew blue band. Trees can be delineated just by gray, black, and white streaks. Houses — often without windows and doors — can consist of simple monochromatic planes.

Then there is that barn. Gallace has painted it and a nearby telephone pole with a brilliant, glowing white that seems to have gathered and absorbed clouds and sea spray. While physical, they seem ethereal, made not of wood but of concentrated mist. Frankly gorgeous and even sublime, both barn and telephone pole are also unsettling, but in a way you can’t quite pin down.

Herman Melville — who knew a thing or two about New England, the ocean, and the color white — had a lot to say about this color in his great chapter in Moby Dick titled “The Whiteness of the Whale.” For Melville, white symbolizes purity, innocence, and grace but also induces irrational dread: the whiteness of angels’ wings and wedding gowns, and but also the ghastly whiteness of a shark’s underbelly, the pristine whiteness of amanita virosa (the so-called “destroying angel,” one of the deadliest of mushrooms), and the pallor of a Caucasian corpse. Something of that complexity can be found in Gallace’s white structures, which also seem liable to disperse and vanish in the next instant, one of many times when stout, manmade things appear precarious and ephemeral.

Gallace’s paintings, with ample space between them, are installed as a horizon line around the central gallery, and installed in the same way around several adjacent galleries. Especially when seen from a distance, these small paintings almost float upon the white walls, and sometimes half-dissolve into them; the walls correspondingly appear vast, almost overwhelming. This makes perfect sense because Gallace’s compact paintings deal in vastness, or rather a combination of precision and vastness.

Maureen Gallace, “Beach Shack, Door” (August 14th, 2015) oil on panel, 9 x 12 inches (22.9 x 30.5 cm)

In “Beach Shack, Door August 14th” (2015), a gray beach shack stands at the edge of the ocean. There are no signs of life anywhere, even though, as the title tells us, this is high summer: no beach toys or barbecue grill, no bicycles or towels. Instead this solitary shack seems implacably isolated, fragile, perhaps abandoned, and lonely — a loneliness that suffuses Gallace’s other paintings as well.

Still, there is something rapturous about this scene. A white doorframe and gables echo the color of wispy clouds and white sand. This humble shack seems lit up with palpable intensity. You look at this shack but also right through it, through its exposed front door to the ocean and sky behind. This building is open to and implicated in nature’s immensities. Here and elsewhere the ocean is much more than a setting. It is a powerful and defining force that inspires awe and fear, delight and humility, and the same goes for Gallace’s eventful skies, which sometimes dominate the scene.

In “Pink Flowers / Ocean” (2016), one of several excellent floral paintings in the show — and flowers aren’t exactly a trending theme in the art world — delicate blossoms stand in the foreground, partially obscuring a pale blue strip of ocean. You could, the painting suggests, “lean and loaf” (as Walt Whitman wrote in “Song of Myself”) right here for hours, observing not “a spear of summer grass” but this vivid, beachside marvel. In Gallace’s painting, as you look at the flowers you also look through them and beyond them to the sea and sky. These ebullient flowers are framed by immensity.

Maureen Gallace, “Cape Cod, Winter” (2004), oil on panel, 11 x 12 inches (27.9 x 30.5 cm)

While Gallace’s rural scenes might look serene, creeping trepidation haunts many of them. People are totally absent, and you wonder about that. Oceanfront houses, or those tucked among plants and trees, don’t look homey and inviting; instead they are more like impersonal and inscrutable forces. Gallace doesn’t provide the slightest scrap of a narrative. You don’t know who lives in these houses or if they are inhabited at all; this adds to a sense of mystery. In “September 1st” (2014), a house and an attached garage are surrounded by encroaching, almost menacing green vegetation. Both structures are gray and have blank facades. This home is sealed off from the outside; it’s as if the house and garage have turned into a bunker. In “Cape Cod, Winter” (2004), a white house with a black roof and a nearby white building with a brown roof (this may be either a barn or garage) — both buildings lack windows and a door — are in front of a beige band, for a beach, and a gray-blue band, for the ocean. Again unnaturally white and almost spectral, these buildings are much more extreme than a Cape Cod house shuttered for the winter. They seem to be merging with winter, becoming ice and snow themselves, blending with the sky and ground; they “have been cold for a long time” and evince a desolate “mind of winter,” as Wallace Stevens’ put it in his great wintry poem “The Snow Man.” Half of the sky is a giant white cloud rolling in, poised to envelop and perhaps erase the buildings altogether. Gallace’s local paintings tap into a pervasive national anxiety, an ill-defined feeling of threat coupled with a nagging sense that a bright promise is faltering and may be already gone.

Lots of commentators have noted Gallace’s affinity with such 20th-century representational painters as Edward Hopper and Fairfield Porter. She also connects with a 19th-century nature-based sublime in New England, and this gives her little paintings a very big and profound historical scope. Like luminist painters Fitz Henry Lane and Martin Johnson Heade — whose works are more subdued, atmospheric, and, in a way, minimal than the comparatively dramatic and maximal paintings of the Hudson River School — Gallace discovers acute psychological and spiritual potential in unremarkable coastal scenes; she also shares the luminists’ absorption with light and color.

With the sun dipping below a gray and orange horizon, and with subtle colors reflected on a glassy sea, Gallace’s near-beatific “September Sunset” (2008) is exactly the kind of scene Lane favored, for instance in “Brace’s Rock” (1864), in which part of a jutting rock is illuminated orange by the sun while smooth water in a quiet cove (there is also the rotting hull of a wrecked boat on the beach) reflects both sky and rock. Like transcendentalist poet-philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson, whose clarion call for immersive experiences in nature greatly inspired the luminists and the Hudson River School painters, Gallace opens herself to nature, studies it intently, observes its forms, and absorbs its changing moods, and then channels this into her art. Her paintings aren’t so much depictions of nature as they are charged and complex encounters with specific sites that, for whatever reasons, are deeply meaningful to her, and she sometimes returns to those sites to make new, slightly different paintings, studying the sites again, querying them, trying to discover a bit more of their mute secrets.

While Gallace does not paint whopping natural forces like lashing storms and tumultuous waves, nature is all-powerful in her works, and she probes and questions our often uneasy relationship with nature, which makes her works all the more relevant, especially now. We have lived for centuries with the fantasy that we, as humans, are somehow above nature, or masters of nature. That fantasy, encapsulated in the current president’s ridiculous claim that global warming is a hoax, is fast becoming perilous. Global warming, of course, is real and a very grave threat. The sea level is rising, severe storms are increasing, and coastal areas — including the ones Gallace paints—are especially endangered.

In “Clear Day” (2012), which is also the exhibition’s title, an empty house (this one with four windows and a door) is at the edge of what looks like a blue inlet. Each window — a blue rectangle above a dark gray one— becomes an abstract version of the ocean, sky, land and night. Nature isn’t just a setting for this house. Instead it seems to flow though the house, which is part of the environment, one more object among many, one more form among those of the sky, water, bushes, and land in the background. This house also looks curiously unstable, like a propped-up Hollywood flat. When the next fierce storm comes it might be blown straight to the ground.

Many of Gallace’s paintings feature scenes that are disconcertingly close to images common on postcards, in calendars, and in innumerable amateur paintings — the kind of local flavor, Sunday-painter paintings that one might well find among the bric-a-brac and musty furniture in a Cape Cod antique shop. I mean this as a plus. Gallace invests common, readily understandable, even timeworn local scenes with freshness and wonderment, as well as subtle agitation and upheaval.

We are all familiar with rural red barns. In “Christmas Farm” (2002), three windowless barns, each bright red with a white roof, are arrayed on a snowy field. In one sense, they are utterly normal, just some more red barns in a rural place where barns are ubiquitous. In another sense, they look strange and uncanny, as if an aerial squadron of alien barns had suddenly landed on the field.

This is a hallmark of Gallace’s work: the mundane morphing into the peculiar and uncanny. In “Ice Storm, Easton (with Robert)” (2015), two red barns with white roofs nestle in the snow beside bare trees with snow-and-ice-encrusted branches; above is a bright blue sky. Winter gathers these barns, presses against them, and threatens them, while everything still looks utterly lovely. You sense eternal cycles of creation and destruction, cohesion and entropy.

This painting with red barns (stereotypical for New England) and snowy woods (likewise) points to another New England connection for Gallace. Poet Robert Frost — about as identified with New England as one could be — also favored homespun, familiar, even clichéd scenes. Two of his most famous poems, “The Road Not taken” and “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” — and among his most sorely misunderstood — concern a couple of lightly trodden roads in autumnal woods and snowy woods at night just a bit outside of town. You can well imagine them as images in a New England picture calendar, the first accompanying October and the second accompanying December. Both use plain language in a deceptively easy, almost conversational tone.

“The Road Not Taken,” far from being the celebration of against-the-grain individualism that it is often taken to be, is a poem of radical doubt and existential crisis, mixed with stubborn perseverance. The seemingly pleasant and contemplative “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” is filled with shuddering intimations of mortality, with the woods that are famously “lovely, dark and deep” hinting at self-annihilation.

Maureen Gallace, “July 4th” (2014), oil on panel, 9 x 12 inches (22.9 x 30.5 cm)

Gallace’s quintessentially New England scenes have a similar quality. They lull you and please you while they also — very quietly — deal in rough and disturbing matters: our connection with, but also alienation from, nature; the temporariness of our creations (and also our own brevity) in relation to nature and the huge scale of time; our frequent wariness of and isolation from others; our aptitude for sheer joy but frequent experience of consternation and loss.

These paintings also never seek to wallop and bedazzle you. Instead they invite patient engagement and contemplation, verging on reverie, and they can be very, very soulful. They “dazzle gradually” as Emily Dickinson wrote in one poem and “stun you by degrees” (I’m slightly paraphrasing her here) as she wrote in another. Gallace has much in common with the New Englander Dickinson, who also made really small artworks (poems) filled with complexity, ambiguity, and crackling spirit.

There is a room in Gallace’s exhibition featuring several of her early paintings from the 1990s. Their palette is considerably darker than her subsequent work, and they are also more brushy, more rendered, more Old Master-ish. Still you can see the origins of what would become a strong, clear, nuanced, and decisively idiosyncratic vision, for instance in “Untitled (White House)” (1992), in which two startlingly white houses look almost unearthly in a dark and somber landscape. It is also worth recalling how at odds these paintings must have been with the hyper-political, poststructuralist, postmodern critical discourse of the time, often so blithely dismissive not only of landscape painting but of painting altogether.

There is another room, a concluding room if you follow this largely chronological exhibition counterclockwise, that is all frothing waves surging toward beaches. The waves are not dramatic. They are not the crashing kind that, “fold thunder on the sand,” as Hart Crane wrote in his poem “Voyages,” but are instead incessant, minor waves. In “July 4th” (2014), Gallace captures one white wave just as it is about to break on the shore. The tawny beach in the foreground is speckled with a few black marks for sea wrack and driftwood. Behind the wave stretches the undulating ocean, in several shades of blue, and a distant gray strip of land. In Gallace’s hands, this minor, workaday wave, this one instant of the infinite, becomes very special. It is ragged and chaotic, but also effervescent and sensuous, and it is downright mesmerizing.

Organized by Peter Eleey, Chief Curator, and Margaret Aldredge Diamond, Curatorial and Exhibitions Associate, this beautiful and meaningful exhibition is, for me, one of the highlights of the whole art year. It opened on April 9, will be up until September 10 and it really should not be missed.

Maureen Gallace: Clear Day continues at MoMA PS1 (22–25 Jackson Avenue, Long Island City, Queens) through September 10.

The post Maureen Gallace’s Uneasy Sublime appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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[tischphotography-blog]

I will be writing my photo gallery review on an exhibit by Brian Underwood in “Les Etoiles Gallery “ in Soho New York.  I was drawn to this exhibit because of the striking picture I saw online at Photograph Magazines exhibition resource featuring a vivid snowy forest interposed with a red neon light.  The gallery showing is called “This Land Is Your Land” named after the Woody Gutherie song of the same name.  Underwood traveled around North America to capture all of shots featured in this series. Underwood employs a distinct compositional style throughout each photo in his series by capturing neon lights arranged in within remote areas of the North American landscape. Underwood considers himself an environmental photographer and creates his works to serve a statement on the relationship between man and his natural surroundings.  While no person is seen in any of Underwood’s photos, traces of man exist in every image emanating from the artificial neon lights Underwood uses to show the mark man has left on the world.

While Underwood’s intention is to bring awareness to the environmental crisis and highlight the effects of humanity on the natural world, the lights he uses work beautifully with nature. They are not juxtaposed with their surroundings, but instead a part of it. They are neither ugly nor perverse, though their symbolic meaning is.  I wonder if perhaps these images belong to an idealistic view Underwood has on what man’s relationship with nature could be: one that is small, symbiotic and appreciative, in the way his lighting fixtures highlight the beauty surrounding them.

All of his images are taken at night or dusk with long exposure times. Because of the long exposure time, his pictures take on a sort of ethereal quality- branches and leaves touched by wind are ever so slightly blurry and alive, while others remain sharp and in focus. His water has no waves, just whispers of the crests and troughs of ghostlike waves. Stars arc across the sky in night shots, and shots of dusk trace the sky from orange to purple to blue to black. I found staring at pictures to be quite meditative. I had to sit with each one for sometime, and get close into them, filling my entire field of vision with his world.  After doing this, I found myself more and more inspired by this gallery showing.  I took out my camera and took some images cropping out certain parts of his frame to further immerse myself into the world Underwood created to get these shots. I began to see the lights not just as lights but as magma flowing out of a river  (see the orange lights in the first picture), or a fence made of layers of land and lights (see picture two).  Aside from the statement that Underwood wanted his pictures to serve, the emotive qualities of each one of his pictures spoke to feelings of a cold night, but not a lonely night. They were surreal, but also very real. In this way, “This Land is Your Land” serves a dual purpose. It is both a statement on the juxtaposition man has on nature, yet each images is aesthetically beautiful because of man’s interference with nature. Emotionally, the pictures are cold and remote but not lonely or despairing.  Overall Underwood’s work displays a duality in meaning and aesthetic that is very compelling.

jacobjones

[mantrabay]

Ballroom In The Sky

Short Story

Gazing with his mouth wide open towards a sullen evening sky dotted with jet black clouds

Geoff Wild shakes, weeps and sighs.

He was on his knees on this grass-strewn, unkempt graveyard on the outskirts of his native town.

Two years later and her memory still intrudes in unexpected moments.

“Still so vivid. Is this a nightmare…..some trick of the light or just another passing dream?

The Passing Of A Velvet Heart.”

Geoff's thoughts almost choking him. Streams of emotion flowed down his face like someone who had just seen a tragic film.

Violet or Velvet heart, his pet name for his wife, had died and was still having difficulty coming to terms with it.

The sudden passing of his loved one had left this middle-aged man gaunt, ashen faced and skeletal. Wild’s troubled expression had become a haunted house of uncanny notions and strange secrets waiting to flow from his water-logged eyes. Those circumstances surrounding Violet’s death were never clear.

Was it a death wish or an accidental fall from the edge of the flat roof on their elegant townhouse?

Why would this lady of such excellent balance lose her footing in such a manner?

Death through misadventure was a colourful term used to describe what happens when there is no clear cause or explanation.

“Cherish all those wonderful experiences we had. Whichever one of us dies first.”

Violet once said. Almost as if she had some premonition.

This was six months before she passed away.

A creepy dawning sneaks its way into Geoff’s thoughts.

An endless see-saw of conflicting doubts convulsed him as he dwelt in the cemetery.

Yet Wild fondly recalled that night they first met at the Skyline Ballroom.

The Skyline was a battered tumbledown barn cum venue whose allure was based firmly on its availability.

The interior of this ballroom was hardly more enticing.

The chipped hardwood floor and the dusty pale cream walls with paint flakes that peeled off only confirmed its tenement status. It was known locally as the “Creaking Beam”” due to its ghostly acoustics and flickering lights. Here in this spooky venue Geoff and Violet had their earliest encounter. Wild remembered her radiant smiles and looping glances which he hoped were being cast at him. The ripples of long dark hair, those apple blossom cheeks and of course her angelic aura stood out.

On that night she wore a polka dot ruche dress, amethyst ear pendants and satin moccasins.

An opal choker completes the picture. “Have I the gumption? The courage.

A faint heart etc.” Geoff could hear his heart flutter as he did his tightrope walk toward her. Within seconds he was standing in front of Violet unable to control the tremble in his knees.

“May I dance with you?” Geoff asked.

Velvet heart’s hands formed a lazy arch and her dainty fingers curled inwards while she thought of a response.

“Of course. I would be delighted.” Violet spoke in that pear drop tone which beguiled everybody who met her.

Geoff, the local journalist and writer was in seventh heaven.

They never forgot that enchanting song they first danced to, “Ballroom In The Sky.”

The song was performed by Valerie And The Blue Skies, a rock and jazz band whose name was partially influenced by the venue that gave them their initial break.

They weren’t very big but had a cult following.

Something magical and unearthly happened every time they played that song on stage.

Geoff could see how similar Violet and Valerie were in appearance.

They were mirror images of each other.

It was frightening how easy it was to confuse the two of them in speech, mannerisms and appearance.

The drole, quaint, humour.

Age even.

Valerie was based in a remote enigmatic area outside town when not on tour.

She used to refer to songs as role plays in that banter between numbers.

“You feel as though you are a different person.

Maybe a member of the audience betimes.”

Valerie remarked.

Other than that they, Violet and Valerie, were virtually indistinguishable.

Violet did admit to meeting Valerie casually and for autograph purposes but other than that they had very few interactions with each other or so it appeared on the surface at any rate.

It seemed amazing how “ Ballroom In The Sky” with its airy ascending rock chords and jaunty jazz lines could draw Violet, Valerie and Geoff into a peculiar triangle.

The sudden moody breaks and abrupt silences built a momentary cocoon around the three of them which the rest of the patrons were unaware of.

For the most part or at least superficially.

They, the three characters, weren’t always aware that they were being sucked into a surreal threesome.

As for Valerie’s top sideman....well, he was known as Silent Sam.

He was the only member of this group that had any kind of track record or reputation.

Sam’s blue attire was in keeping with the band’s name. He wore a large trilby hat tipped over his forehead sheltering his pointed face and pencil slim physique.

Basking in the background one saw very little of him.

He, Sam, was short-sighted when it suited and though taciturn was also eccentric.

Practical jokes were his forte and the trademark impish grin was always an afterthought.

Then the usual quiet man mystery.

“Yep ..Yup....or Sure.“

These were the only asides from this oddball sidemen by and large.

He was prone to stumble and fall. Valerie had to indicate where things were to Sam in case he injured himself.

They would have words with each other which no one could quite figure out. Theirs was a sign language of its own complete with slanted squirms and facial signposts.

One often wondered if there was a deeper relationship between Valerie and Sam that others had yet to pick up on.

Leaving that aside, those Blue Skies airs would have been mere fillers without Sam. This lonely freak seemed aloof but by the same token these songs were peculiarly his.

“LOVERS TAKE THE FLOOR

FANCY DANCING WITH THE ONE THAT YOU ADORE

WARM EMBRACES AS YOU HEAR EACH OTHER SIGH

LOVERS TIL WE DIE

WE’LL BE DANCING IN THAT BALLROOM IN THE SKY.”

Every time that song was played Valerie, Violet and Geoff were sharing unwittingly a secret that would baffle even the most senior detective.

The startled looks, embarrassed smiles, were all part of this outlandish ritual.

Wild did try to piece all these recollections together.

“Valerie sure could croon those songs. In a real hypnotic fashion. Everyone in the dancehall was enthralled. People would sway like ice skaters one moment, waltz in a swan-like manner the next and just as often rave in the isles like end of term teenagers. The classics then came thick and fast.”

Geoff whispers to himself in this solitary graveyard.

“JUST A PASSING DREAM...........STILL SO VIVID.......DANCING IN HEAVEN...... KISSES ALL AROUND....MAGIC HAND........A LITTLE BIT BLIND, and of course “BALLROOM IN THE SKY”. Other favourites included “ LET YOUR LOVED ONE KNOW “ ( BEFORE SHE PASSES AWAY ) AND “ IN TWO MINDS.” Geoff and Violet would date and swing religiously to those fantasy songs every Sunday as their courtship blossomed.

“Ballroom In The Sky “ was always the highpoint of the dance with its mesmerising rhythms and choral mantras.

Like magic it weaved its way through every aspect of their relationship. Its spell was like an invisible hand shadowing their each and every move.

This constellation of events occurred in a scenic nineteen seventies spot.

Despite its haunting vistas and backdrop of panoramic hills it resembled a ghost town. Openings were few against an infinite spiral of closing factories, bookstores with half-empty shelves and shopkeepers peering out of doors.

A crushing gloom weighed heavily on this once vibrant resort.

Ten years earlier it was a beacon. “I shudder to think…...A jigsaw puzzle of past events.”

Geoff surveying the cemetery as if he were a stargazing prophet.

He didn’t want to be heard talking to himself.

Such memories could have been taken directly from some movie script. “Yes .. it was a hub that Skyline. Like homeless drifters, the folk who attended lapping up and revelling in the bonhomie of gemstone tunes and spritely pulse rate beats.”

The man Geoff communing with himself.

They were fugitives all of them. Be they fantasists, love seekers or escapees from that heavy-handed void called the dole queue. Suddenly an unusual presence descended without warning.

“What the heavens is? Snap…..ah it's a branch.” Momentary jitters engulfing Wild.

He shook in concert with the overarching colonnade of brown edge green leaf trees astride this burial ground.

An eerie rustling dewdrop tiptoe now caressing Geoff’s ears.

”Up there somewhere Velvet Heart?

Dancing in the heavens? You know that “Ballroom In The Sky.”

Nervous laughter now relief road to that traffic jam of sentiment just about to speed off.

Glued to the spot that macabre sixth sense of Violet hovering above evaporates due to an illusory shaft of late evening sun.

Warm misty comas presently forming a shroud over Wild but he was immune to them.

Geoff’s mental state shifts from doze to daze. Clouds of recall floated past his eyes with the odd fact jolting him out of his stupor.

Wild could no longer hide from the rather bizarre identities Valerie and Velvet Heart possessed. “Oh those comic jibes and piercing glances that they cast at any distance. Some ethereal intrigues were passing through the air in a game of bow and arrows that never missed their target.”

Geoff recalls with forensic clarity.

Poor Silent Sam who was also at a loss would do his usual u-turn into the shadow. He then shook his head in dismay.

Two months before Geoff's and Violet’s parting, an unforgettable incident occurred.

Quite often memory is a lodger which steadfastly refuses to surrender its keys. It was one of those Sunday’s that typified the area Geoff lived in.

Valerie and the Blue Skies were in flying form as the tunes morphed and segued into each other. Valerie and Velvet Heart who were magnets for men knew the music would amplify their appeal.

This tuneful genre helped both aforementioned ladies ooze black magic.

Violet's knowing stare caught Geoff off guard. “Guilty conscience, there Geoff?”

Having fantasies about Valerie.

Focus all those erotic thoughts on me.

As for that eternity ring remember?” Violet’s eyes twinkled as she seized Geoff up and down. Those penetrating peepers knew how to vet a body in a flash.

“Oh no .....not at all.” Geoff with a loop of a smirk.

“Just those mystical melodies working their spell.” He said.

“You came into my life like the early morning sun.... a new dawn.” Wild in poetic mode.

“You honey tongue you. Wait, Geoff our song. Yes, Ballroom.” Violet mutters gingerly.

Valerie nodded towards Sam.

Her expression was a hard to decipher veil and deep code command.

“Get those fingers flying, Sam.”

In a tone identical to Velvet Heart leaving no room for misunderstanding.

Sam didn’t always act immediately on Valerie’s cues.

“Yep.. Yup ...Sure.” Sam’s usual retort.

Eventually.

“Ballroom In The Sky” now strong as ever as it cast its bewitching spell to all sections of this venue.

A medley was now included tonight for the first time.

“SOMEONE FOR EVERYONE” ( Sam looked at Valerie), “A LITTLE BIT BLIND” ( Sam staring vacantly at both Valerie and Violet), “MIND YOUR STEP( Sam winking at Geoff while scrunching the mouth at Violet).

Violet edged toward the stage whilst tenderly clasping Geof. There was a dim-lit silence.

Ballroom started again. Valerie and Violet now singing this tune. An eerie vacuum filled the hall as they sang unaccompanied with Geoff simply awestruck.

A triangular crush of people occurred near the stage.

Valerie handed Violet a letter which Geoff could only peer at. What was in it?

Sam was now talking to Valerie with the usual economy.

In the confusion of memory images are both mist and blur.

“Pst...Pst. It's me. Your Velvet Heart is back to haunt you so I am.“ Violet’s lofty twang.

“What in the name….I can't phantom…..fathom.” Geoff nearly froze. Violet’s voice sounded like a wet whisper stretching over twigs that simultaneously tap against windows.

She pulled back an orchard pattern duvet which was covering Geoff.

“Fell asleep at your favourite film, The Passing Of A Velvet Heart. All those graveyard scenes shot in our small town remember?

Actually Silent Sam wrote the soundtrack for the film and Ballroom. He sings on that one.” Said Violet objectively.

“Incredibly you chose Velvet Heart as your courtship name for me based on the film.

The film was never a huge success at all but did get our area some limited publicity for a while.

Sam earned some extra royalties, though not a king’s ransom from the soundtrack sales.

Valerie and Sam tying the knot next Sunday of all days.

As for that love letter you mumbled about in your sleep.

It’s an invite to their secret wedding.

Very private. As Sam is.

What a time and place he chose for the invitation.

During that ethereal love song which brought us together.” Once more Violet observes.

“Poor Sam’s a little bit blind and confused on occasions.

You know next Sunday and all. Or is he?

I was upstairs on the flat roof today.

Six months ago I fell off it.

You’ve never liked me being up there since.”

Violet continuing.

“Guilty secret must confess. I used to be onstage instead of Valerie.

Well, sometimes.

She was dating you pretending to be me.

We never knew each other that well but it was a dare worked out between us.“

Geoff shouted. “Hoodwinked.”

An incredulous look ripples over Wild’s pale face.

Violet’s eyes now ablaze.

“You never noticed did you? Deep down.”

This dry playful tease surfacing from Violet again.

Geoff was thunderstruck. Violet strolled towards their CD player on the mahogany table near the drawing room corner.

“Think you’ll like this one. Our song with Sam on vocals.” A tranquil Violet stated.

“This is one tune you’ll definitely know.

May I dance with you?”

Geoff smiled. “Of course. I would be delighted.

And relieved!”

Silent Sam’s voice wafts and weaves in his own inimitable shy way a song usually sung by Valerie, his wife to be.

And sometimes Violet, or Velvet Heart.

A number that united three people in the most curious and otherworldly manner!

“Yep….Yup ….Sure.”

As Sam was in the habit of saying!

mantrabay Copyright Protected

All My Own Work

.