#and they all sound so so so much better than Bob Dylan

[thestarsarecool]

Rolling Stone ranking Bob Dylan as a better singer than Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, Paul McCartney, Marvin Gaye, Nina Simone, Etta James, Smokey Robinson, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Janis Joplin, Tina Turner, Elton John, Stevie Nicks, Diana Ross, Michael Jackson, Karen Carpenter, Jeff Buckley, Barbra Streisand, and many, many more has got to be some sort of hate crime.

#my thoughts #I'm not one of those 'Bob Dylan's voice is unlistenable and terrible' people #I agree with Rolling Stone's little blurb! #yeah it IS expressive and unique! it has character! #but like COME ON #you know who else has a distinct and unique voice with lots of character? #Louis Armstrong #Stevie Nicks #Etta James #etc #and they all sound so so so much better than Bob Dylan #in what fucking universe is Bob Dylan a better vocalist than Elvis? #make it make sense #he should be assessed in the same way Lou Reed's voice is assessed #I've seen some people get mad about Lennon being ranked higher than McCartney #but I really don't care about that #that specific distinction is way too subjective honestly and on a list that highly values unique vocal character I see why John comes first #McCartney fans should just be basking in the glow of Rolling Stone saying he was a better songwriter in 2015 #but this Bob Dylan thing made me mad #I am particularly mad about Marvin Gaye cause that man’s voice is simply incredible

[montrealmadison]

congrats on hitting 400 followers and thank you for including us in the celebration! um ... I'm choosing zimbits and number 42 and as for general special requests, I would never say no to some hurt/comfort? (I think you have a good sense of the vibes I gravitate toward but you always do that particular trope so well.)

-doggernaut

my darling, i love writing hurt/comfort for you and you really could not have picked a better song. anything for you beyoncé!!

42. zimbits + hurt/comfort + All Night by Beyoncé for @doggernaut

I found the truth beneath your lies And true love never has to hide I’ll trade your broken wings for mine I’ve seen your scars and kissed your crime

Half-awake, the first thing out of Bitty’s mouth is, “We have gotta stop meeting like this.”

Jack’s answering laugh is wrong, comes from too high up. There’s light pouring in through the windows when Bitty blinks—weird, he could have sworn he closed the blinds last night—and when he rolls over, expecting to meet Jack’s face on the opposite pillow, he finds his hip instead.

Bitty’s head hurts, which could really be from anything: lack of sleep, unshed tears, the anticipation of a hangover. “Honey?”

Jack looks down and down at him. From this angle he’s a giant, all sharpness, features starkly out of sync with the glorious summer sunrise. “Morning.”

“Mmph.” The sheets are warm on Bitty’s bare back as he rolls over, yawning. “How long you been awake?”

The fact that Jack doesn't say anything is what finally shocks Bitty back to life.

read more below or on ao3 | request a fic here

This summer has mostly been a dream, because not only does Bitty love living with Jack, he also loves that they're good at it. It's addictive to know that they're compatible this way too, makes the thought of the two of them as partners feel settled and real. He likes the way they work together in the kitchen. He likes the way Jack’s voice carries when he sings in the shower; likes knowing that Jack sings in the shower, period, Patsy Cline and Bob Dylan and once, memorably, Carrie Underwood. He likes snuggling up to watch a movie on the couch and dozing off with Jack’s hands in his hair. Most of all, he likes sharing their bed—sleeps so much better with Jack’s big, warm body beside his. 

There are trade-offs to that, like the fact that he hasn’t spoken to his parents in two weeks. And the fact that he was barely able to enjoy their bed last night because he was pacing the living room rather than disturbing Jack's attempts at meaningful rest. And the fact that Jack is currently watching himself miss the same shot over and over and over again, breathing just this side of too heavy for Bitty’s liking.

It’s five-thirty in the morning on a day that might make or break them, and Bitty’s had enough.

"Jack," he says, some heft in it now. "How long?"

Jack scrubs his hands over his face, glances out the windows and then at the time on his phone. He’s obviously a little surprised to see the sun rising. “Since you went to bed.”

Bitty had finally crawled under the covers to a half-awake and very worried Jack at 2:15. The fact that he'd apparently slept right through Jack's ensuing three-hour self-flagellation session doesn't sit right in his chest at all.

“Okay—uh, okay." He frees a hand from the blankets with exaggerated care and sets it lightly on the top of Jack’s screen. "Well, first things first, sweetpea, this isn’t useful, it’s torture," he says. "Can I?”

He's expecting pushback, but apparently that's all he had to say to break the dam and make the tension drain from Jack’s shoulders. He nods, slow and unwilling. None of that, Bitty thinks. He shuts the laptop firmly, gets up on his elbow, ducks under Jack’s arm to nudge him softly in the ribs.

“Why don't you come down here,” he says, trying to keep his tone light. “You’re real tall up there.”

Jack’s answering laugh sounds brittle, but he does curl down into Bitty's arms. Add that to the ever-growing list of things Bitty's been surprised by: Jack Zimmermann is the little spoon. Bitty pulls him in, watches the sun start to track above the buildings, and thinks about things that are unfair.

The road to hell is paved with a solid game plan. From the minute the Falcs made the conference finals, Jack has been in regular touch with George and the med staff. He's been seeing his therapist weekly. He's been talking to Bitty and his parents, and when they've lost he's been sad, but he hasn't withdrawn the way Bitty might have expected him to.

They've gone through so much together, all of it leading them here. They've negotiated sex and coming out to their friends and fought about who gets to pay for things. There's trust between them in a way that Bitty has never felt before. He'd felt so adult, keeping a secret as big as Jack Zimmermann to himself all school year; now Bitty has a much better sense of the commitment he signed up for. He's had to learn how to talk through a panic attack and which secrets are okay to keep and, most of all, what real love is: all-consuming, disgusting and vulnerable, terrifying in its intensity, and always, always worth it.

“We’re so close,” says Jack unprompted, muffled because he’s speaking into Bitty's collarbone. “I—Bits. We’re so close."

“You are."

It sounds so simple, but Bitty knows it’s not—knows how much is riding on this game, for Jack and for the Falcs and for so many others. He wants to be able to swallow Jack whole, to carve out a warm place inside him and keep Jack safe in it forever. It would be easier than trying to come up with the right thing to say to make this better.

"What if this is it?"

Jack's voice is tiny and terrified. Bitty feels like someone's reached into his chest and cracked his heart open with both hands.

"Say more," he prompts gently. "The end of the series?"

"The—just." Jack breathes out hard. "This is it. If we lose, it's all over. Everyone was right about me. Right?"

Oh, honey. "Jack," Bitty says. "No."

He can't say he doesn't understand the temptation to think that way. Tonight is everything Jack's been working towards for twenty-five years. Tonight's results will be writ large over Jack's entire career. But—

"Tell me if I'm hearing this right?"

Jack squeezes him tighter. "Okay."

"It's going to be the end of something, one way or another." Bitty threads his hands through Jack’s hair and gently works the tangles out of it, the way Jack’s done for him so many times. "And I know that's scary. But it's not the end." 

There's going to be another game, ten games, eighty-two. The people who love Jack, love them both, aren't going anywhere. Once, Bitty believed that the force of his own will had to be enough to convince Jack of its righteousness. Now—well, Jack breathes, pushes up hungrily into Bitty's hands, and Bitty knows that sometimes love means a blind leap into someone else's hands, trusting them to be there when you fall.

"Is that what feels bad right now? That they're gonna—take it all away from you, if tonight doesn't go well?"

Another long breath. Jack's voice is low, low. "Doesn't make as much sense when you say it out loud."

"Well." Bitty shrugs. "That's anxiety, baby."

Jack grunts. "Sucks."

"Yeah," Bitty says, and suddenly they're laughing, all shaken up and nowhere to go. The tension's broken, though, and the line of Jack's shoulders doesn't feel as hard under Bitty's hands, so he allows himself to feel very tentatively pleased.

“No matter what,” he starts to say, and Jack stills again, listening. “No matter what, we are going to be there for you. Your team and your parents and all our friends and me, baby. We’re not going anywhere no matter what happens tonight.”

Bitty's not sure if he's satisfied with that, but Jack murmurs something that sounds like thanks, so. He'll take it for now. 

When the sun has risen too far for them to ignore, Bitty coaxes Jack into the shower and spends a good twenty minutes puttering around the kitchen, meticulously assembling the best pregame PB&J ever concocted by man. It grounds him a little, helps him sink back into his body; things here are still real, are familiar in a way that means something. When Jack emerges from the bedroom around ten, suited up with a game face to match, Bitty's smile takes less effort than before.

“Hey, handsome.” He steps away from the counter and into the warm, willing circle of Jack’s arms. It's glorious when Jack smells expensive like this, new linen and Armani cologne, and Bitty breathes him in appreciatively.

“Hi,” Jack says, quiet but not as brittle as before. “What do you think? You like it?”

“The day I answer no to that question is the day I am dead in the ground.” Bitty twirls the end of Jack’s tie around one finger. “How you feelin’?”

Jack’s breath ruffles Bitty’s hair when he leans down to tuck his nose into it. “Still scared,” he says. “But, uh, good, I think. I don't know. Better than this morning? Thanks for getting me out of my head.”

For the first time, Bitty lets himself imagine what tonight might bring. The fridge is stocked with enough ingredients for at least twelve mourning pies and enough pasta to feed a small army of sad friends; coming home to that is a definite possibility, the only one Bitty has really let himself focus on. But there's a sparkling alternative, dripping in champagne and smothered in laughter, that Bitty knows for a fact Ransom has already made the playlist for. There's a world in which this all goes right. They just have to be brave enough to make it there.

“Things can be scary and good at the same time,” Bitty says into the perfect knot of Jack's tie.

He feels Jack smile; a tiny, hopeful thing. “You’re telling me.”

#omgcp #omgcheckplease #jack zimmermann #eric bittle #zimbits #my writing #efickegster 2024

[mamaestapa]

digital animal sneak peak…

A couple more rounds went by, Adam picked dare and Dylan dared him to finish off everyone’s drink. Ethan picked dare and Rutger dared him to take a shot out of your belly button—which you didn’t think would turn you on as much as it did. Dylan picked truth and you asked him if he was a boobs or an ass guy, he couldn’t pick so he said both and gave his reasons.

“Rutger,” Luca said, turning to look at the sophomore, “truth or dare?”

Rutger squinted as he looked at Luca, “Hmm, dare.”

“I dare you to french the hottest girl here.”

A chorus of “oooo”s broke out between the guys. Rutger’s adams apple bobbed as he gulped. He took a deep breath and mentally composed himself for what he was about to do.

This was his chance.

Before you could even react, you felt Rutgers hand grab your chin. Your heart was racing as his large hand moved to cupped your cheek. He smashed his lips against yours, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close to him as you kissed back with just as much passion.

All of the guys gasped loudly, shocked that Rutger would even think about kissing you. You were dating Ethan. You were off limits. Everybody knows that. But clearly Rutger didn’t care.

You brought a hand up to the nape of his neck, letting your fingers tug at his blonde hair as his tongue swirled around your mouth. Rutger was a great kisser. Better than you could have even imagined. You were so caught up in the passionate kiss that you didn’t even think to see how Ethan reacted.

While all of the guys were shocked at the scene in front of them, Ethan was watching the two of you make-out in front of him with a sly smile. He knew his girlfriend was hot and he didn’t mind sharing her with Rutger. She would never tell him, but Ethan knew his girlfriend was attracted to Rutger. He always knew. Rutgers an extremely attractive guy, so Ethan couldn’t get upset with his girlfriend for agreeing with that. He knows you love him and only him, so he didn’t care that you were making out with his teammate and one of his best friends. Besides, it was dare anyways. Sure Rutger could have picked another girl, but he picked you. And that gave Ethan a bit of pride in himself.

Rutger moaned into the kiss, the sound of his moans mixed with the feeling of his tongue against yours made your knees weak. You felt like you were dreaming.

Rutger pulled away from you, tugging your bottom lip with his teeth the same way you did with Ethan earlier. His blue eyes were filled with lust as he looked at you and only you. He smiled softly at you before he pulled away from you completely, going back to his spot next to Adam and leaving you stunned and horny.

Dylan cleared his throat, “Well, that was uh, that was hot. You really have some balls for that Rut.”

“Sorry Eddy,” Rutger spoke as he looked at your boyfriend, “it’s the rules, I can’t lie and I can’t not do the dare.”

Ethan shrugged. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, but he truly didn’t care. If anything, it had him a little…excited.

“It’s fine Rut. I don’t mind. She is the hottest girl here,” Ethan said. He placed a hand on your thigh, squeezing it gently, “I don’t think Y/n minds either.”

You stayed silent, pulling your lip in between your teeth and avoiding eye contact with any of the guys. Rutger and Ethan both smirked at your silence. They were getting the exact reaction out of you that they wanted.

“Y/n,” Luke said, a teasing tone lacing his voice, “truth or dare?”

“Truth.” You picked, already knowing where he was going with it.

“Are you happy Rutger picked you to french?”

You glanced at Ethan, then at Rutger. Both boys eyed you carefully as they waited for a response from you. You shouldn’t…

“Yes.”

Both Ethan and Rutger smirked at your answer. Before you could say anything more, Rutger switched to the next person. Thats all he needed from you.

#digital animal #sneak peak🤭 #ethan edwards x reader #rutger mcgroarty x reader

[symbioticsimplicity]

I don’t need to be up this early but this idea won’t leave me.

So, Steddie Battle of the Bands AU featuring punk!Steve.

Corroded Coffin join a battle of the bands competition run out of a little bar just outside Indianapolis, expecting fully to make it all the way. There’s not a lot of musicians in their area and out of all of them, CC have the most milage and the most unique sound. Sure, it’s metal, but in the bigger city that’s not the death sentence it would be back in Hawkins.

For the most part, they’re right. There’s a little pop trio that do okay, a Bob Dylan type with an acoustic and the flattest, most nasal tone Eddie has ever heard, a rock outfit with a drummer who’s clearly on speed and fixing to pull a Spinal Tap, and one very old dude who’s there more for the fun than to actually compete. They’re a shoe-in.

Except there’s a punk band that were running a little late, and manage to take stage literally just as they’re being called. The Demogorgons, they’re called. 

Eddie is pissed the instant he sees them, firstly because he’s been on sight with punks since ‘84 when a flock of the little shits dissed Dio to his fucking face. Second because out of all the things they could have been called, they picked a DND creature??! In Eddie’s house??? Who the fuck did they think they were?!

The longer Eddie watches them play (he can’t leave until they announce who’s moving on from this round, he’s literally a captive audience), the more pissed off he gets because they’re good.

The lead guitarist is a girl with dark, short hair mostly hiding her face, but she’s absolutely slaying their cover of White Wedding, adding more than was originally in the song seemingly on the fly. It’s beautiful, as a guitarist himself he can at least begrudgingly respect her talent.

The bassist is also a girl with short hair who seems like she’s in her own world, totally lost in the music and jamming so hard Eddie can’t really look at her for too long without getting sucked in with her.

The drummer looks like an absolute madman, big buff blonde guy who looks like he’d bite if anyone got too close to him. He’s bare chested, showing off a few tattoos and a couple piercings that make him far more interesting than Eddie cares to admit.

But the singer/ rhythm guitarist, is what is really tripping Eddie up.

He’s prettier than he has any goddamn need to be, and he’s weirdly smiley for a punk. Like being on stage is his happy place, which Eddie can relate to, even if he hates admitting any commonalities between them at all. His voice too, is lovely. It’s not the typical scratchy punk sound, it’s high and airy and from a technical standpoint (only that, Eddie swears) it’s really good. And he seems like he’s not having any trouble playing and singing at the same time, which is shitty as hell because Eddie still does sometimes.

Before their set ends, Eddie has decided he hates them. He hates them, so much.

So much in fact, he goes over to heckle them once they finish.

It goes south almost immediately.

He was right, the drummer is definitely a maniac. It’s like he was waiting for an excuse to fight someone. And given how fast the singer snatches him up after he decks Eddie, this is a frequent thing. The singer and the drummer posture at each other and for a second Eddie thinks they’re about to fight.

But evidently the drummer thinks better of it and stalks off to start helping put their gear up.

The singer apologizes for his bandmate, even though Eddie started the fight, and introduces himself as Steve, the drummer being named Billy. He’s a good kid, Steve tells him, just angry and still learning where to put that anger. He offers to buy Eddie a drink for his trouble, and he’s so floored he ends up accepting.

To Eddie’s surprise, they end up talking, and they end up talking a lot. Steve is easy to talk to, and he listens like what Eddie has to say is important. When he talks, it’s with this sardonic edge to it that reminds Eddie of sour candy. Before he knows it, it’s been like three hours, and it’s time to announce who’s advancing to the next round.

To Eddie’s complete lack of surprise, Corroded Coffin make it through, but so do The Demogorgons. Steve congratulates him, sincerely, and Eddie stutters out the same.

They part ways for the night, but the pretty punk with the prettier smile won’t leave Eddie’s thoughts.

Cue CC telling Eddie to get his head in the game, trying to head off the crush they can spot forming. They know him well enough to know the signs, and they don’t need him pulling a Romeo and Juliet with some punk he met for one night.

Little do they know, The Demogorgons are having a similar chat with their own lead. They’ve worked too hard to have Steve get distracted, or worse, go soft, over some greasy metalhead he’s only talked to like, once. Steve of course promises that he won’t. After all, it’s not like he’s really going to see him much, and Steve isn’t easy, he has to get to know someone to fall for them.

Cut to a week later when one Steve Harrington is dropping Dustin off at his DND thingy, only to see none other than Eddie Munson perched at the head of the table. He’s explaining what their quest is for the night, or something, and he’s so animated, so into it, he doesn’t notice Steve frozen in the doorway.

Steve makes it out before Eddie sees him, but from that moment on it’s like he’s every where Steve goes. They bump into each other constantly, Hawkins is a small town, it’s easy to do. It gets to be such a regular thing that Eddie makes a joke about following Steve, and Steve sings that Rockwell song about being followed and they find themselves laughing together again.

It’s easy, really. Too easy. And before they know it, whenever they bump into each other, they end up talking for a while. It’s just a few minutes, they both reason to themselves, a few minutes is fine.

But a few minutes turns into an hour, turns into a couple hours, turns into a smoke sesh at Eddie’s, turns into a jam sesh at Steve’s, and before they know it, they’re missing each other when the other isn’t around.

Of course it isn’t long before Gareth notices his best friend’s preoccupation, and Robin could clock Steve’s daydreamy look three miles away. They each come clean to their respective long-suffering bestie.

Neither are happy, but they both care more about their friend than some stupid band competition. They know the rest of their bands won’t be happy, and that could be a pain, so rather than being even slightly reasonable, they hatch a plan.

Eddie and Steve are determined to be the punk-metal version of Romeo and Juliet, but that doesn’t mean their story has to be a tragedy. This is a musical, afterall. What better to do than bridge the gap with the power of music.

So the next time Eddie and Steve hang out, they both spend probably fifteen minutes uncomfortably dancing around trying to ask the other to write a song with them.

Steve cracks first, because seeing Eddie uncomfortable is so fucking bizarre it trumps his own nerves and he has to ask what’s going on. Eddie decides to be brave and takes the leap, asks Steve what he’s got to ask, and to his surprise Steve tells him he was going to ask the same thing.

They haven’t really talked about it, the tension between them, but it boils over when Steve tries to explain why he wants to write a song with Eddie. Eddie can’t watch him flounder for a second more, when he knows he could just be kissing him instead.

He takes Steve by the jaw and kisses the soul out of him. If they weren’t sold they were doing the right thing before, the kiss seals the deal.

They spend the night trading kisses and lyrics in equal measure, alternating between strumming strings and heartstrings until they’re both so caught up in creation, in each other, they’re harmonic.

After that, they hit crunch time. The battle of the bands is next week, and learning a whole new song is a pain in the ass for both bands. It’ll be worth it, but Jeff doesn’t know that and Billy doesn’t care.

The boys make time to see each other, but of course, they get caught.

Band practice gets postponed on both sides of the fence. They know they shouldn’t, it’s stupid, but Eddie spent the day getting harassed by a flock of “Concerned Christian Mothers” who were not shy about telling him exactly what they thought about him, and would not get the hell out of his face about it. Steve is a caretaker down to his bones, and doesn’t think twice about going to care for his metalhead.

Nancy however isn’t stupid, and Grant knows damn well Eddie would only postpone practice if something was genuinely wrong. So Nancy follows Steve to see what the hell could be so important to him that he’d call off practice, and Grant goes to bring Eddie a care package.

Nancy isn’t happy about finding the two spooning on Eddie’s couch, but she doesn’t make as much of a fuss about it as Grant does. Grant goes off about sleeping with the enemy and treachery and the metalhead code of honor (which he made up right there on the spot), but the real bucket of cold water is Nancy telling Steve how disappointed she is that he pulled them all into this, made them care about it, only to waste his time chasing after someone instead of putting his heart into the music the way they all had been. She asks him to get serious, then leaves.

Steve excuses himself, ignoring Eddie’s pleas to wait a second, come back, please, let’s talk about this.

They don’t see each other again until the night of the show.

The competition threw them a curveball, however. None of them know until they get there, see the layout of the big warehouse like space, but instead of playing one after the other, the competition is amp versus amp. CC are freaking out a little bit because they’ve never played that way before, and Eddie is picking up an acoustic, why the hell did he even bring an acoustic, what’s going on?? The Demogorgons are equally nervous, this being a first for them too, and Steve is quiet, so quiet, he’s never like this before shows, what’s going on??

Despite everyone’s nerves and fears, the two bands take their places on the two stages, on opposite ends of the room from one another.

Eddie introduces Corroded Coffin with the same flare he usually does, but tells the audience that tonight’s performance is going to be a little different than their usual. He finishes with “This one’s for you, Juliet.”

He starts strumming the acoustic, the song he and Steve had written together filling the space, warm and full and a wild departure from their usual sound. He’d gone over it with the guys, added some polish to it, made it more metal, but he’d asked them to hold off on that until he cued them.

“And hey darling, I hope you’re good tonight. And I know you don’t feel right when I’m leaving-”

The rest of Corroded Coffin have never heard Eddie sing like this, didn’t even know he could. Usually he was all growls and grit and demon noises he’d figured out how to imitate. They had no idea he was even capable of making a song sound so beautiful.

Eddie continues singing his heart out, strumming his guitar, praying that Steve picks up on what he’s doing, joins him at the drop, doesn’t leave him again. He’s nearly convinced himself he’s going to end up singing the whole thing alone, and God how stupid would that be, that when he reaches the switching point, he nearly drops his guitar when Steve’s voice rises up to meet him. A spotlight flicks on, illuminating him as he sings into the microphone, playing his own part of the accompanyment.

“And hey, sweetie, well I need you here to night. And I know you don’t wanna be leaving me here tonight-”

Steve’s voice is the perfect counterbalance to Eddie’s. It’s light where his is heavy, soft where his is gritty. It showcases their duality, while highlighting how good they are together and Eddie would cry if he weren’t on stage.

He takes the next verse as planned, but Steve’s voice stays with him, harmonizing along side him so perfectly it’s as if they’ve been singing together for years rather than about a week.

“You know you can’t give me what I need, and even though you mean so much to me, I can’t wait through everything.”

That’s different, not the line they wrote together. It lands like a gut punch when Eddie looks up and sees Steve’s expression. He’s not smiling. He always smiles on stage.

“Is this really happening?” Eddie sings back without missing a beat, knowing the next verse is his, meaning it might be his only chance. He prays to every muse he’s ever had to lend him the improv skills to land this.

To his suprise, he hears Jeff’s heavy guitar start to build, Grant’s bass swooping in beside it to flank him. When he turns his head to check, they both give him the nod, the one that’s always meant they’re beside him, for better or worse. It gives him to courage to put his soul into the words he’s about to spit.

“I swear I’ll never be happy again, and don’t you dare say we can just be friends, I’m not some boy that you can sway.” 

There’s a half a second pause in the music, just long enough to wreck Eddie’s heartrate. He can see Steve’s face from here, not clearly enough to make out every emotion that flashes across it, but enough to see when it lands on determination.

“We knew it’d happen eventually.” He and Steve sing, or in his case shout, in tandem.

Corroded Coffin fall back in with them, and to Eddie’s utter surprise, The Demogorgons join them. The sound of two bands playing the climax of the song he and Steve had written together hits Eddie so hard he can barely sing past the balloon of emotion swelling in his chest.

The crowd reminds him they’re there, joining in on the chorus of ‘La la las’ going around the room, their voices loud enough to shake the walls. It’s everything Eddie has ever wanted from a crowd, and it’s way too much along with everything else going on right now. Eddie can’t focus on it, not when Steve is staring him down from across the room.

“If you can wait ‘till I get home, then I swear we can make this last.” Eddie belts, Steve’s higher register wrapping around the notes the same way his hands wrap around his mic.

Both bands let the song taper out, leaving just the crowd echoing back the words to them, just Steve and Eddie singing to each other.

Eddie reaches out his hand, as if he could take Steve’s in his despite the distance. Steve once again meets him halfway, extending his own hand as if to bridge the distance.

The lights go down and the crowd is still chanting. It takes longer to settle them down than it does to make the decision to shrug off his guitar and run to his boy. Eddie hesitates only to look over at his bandmates.

They look exhasperated, but fond. Grant rolls his eyes and tells him to go kiss his stupid punk or whatever.

Eddie is off in an instant.

He finds Steve tearing his way over to him, runs straight into him almost the same way he’d run into him the first time they met outside of a venue.

There aren’t words, they don’t need them, already sung them. There’s just Steve and Eddie and how badly they’ve missed each other. The apologies and affirmations can come later, when their mouths aren’t so busy kissing the life from one another.

In the back of his mind, Eddie registers some of the crowd around them wolf whistling, but for once he doesn’t give much of a shit what the crowd thinks of him.

#steddie #I might long form this later #but i needed it out of my head #they both won by the way #they had to share a trophy #the trophy is now treated as their child #CC and The Demogorgons have a custody arrangement with it #steve harrington #eddie munson #nancy wheeler #robin buckley #gareth stranger things #jeff stranger things #billy hargrove #i know the song is anachronistic but have you considered the story made it worth it?? #that's my justification #that and this here badge that says Fanon: I Do What I Want #also Dustin named Steve's band #punk!steve #corroded coffin

[daisyful-gvf]

sweet as berries (part 3)

18+

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pairings: josh x reader

word count: 6.7k

notes: so obviously halloween has passed 🤭 but this is the vision i had for this chapter, so we’re gonna keep with it

playlist

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-🍓-

“C’mon, for me?” he grinned.

You rolled your eyes affectionately and extended an open hand. He plopped the red and black flannel shirt into it.

You tugged it over your t-shirt and he beamed.

“Told you it would look better on you,” he quipped.

“Do you have another one you can wear?” You pouted. You loved him in flannel.

“I do,” he grinned, going to pull it from his closet, “That one is my cozy one, though,” he pointed at the shirt he’d just given you, “Wanted you to have that one.”

You smiled at him as he pulled on his; it was brown, orange, and cream. He looked stunning in it.

He held his arms out to show you, and you nodded in approval.

“Let’s go then, Berry. The gourds await us!”

“The what? The pumpkins?” You giggled, standing up to grab his hand.

“Yes, the fuckin—the pumpkins, Berry, c’mon now,” he grinned and rolled his eyes as if you were so incredibly silly for not opting to call them gourds.

He led you down to the Jeep and opened the passenger seat for you.

I know we’re both feminists but quit being stubborn and let me be nice, he had said the first time you reached for the door handle and he had swatted it away. It made you blush.

You queued up directions to the pumpkin patch and he put on the music. Bob Dylan, of course, as Josh said.

He reached for your hand with his right as he drove with his left. You held it, obviously, because there was no sweeter feeling than his palm on yours. His hands were always a little cold, as were yours, so together you warmed them.

Things were getting comfortable recently. You tried not to think too much about it, because it was still undefined.

You thought maybe Josh liked it that way—he never liked labels, he ‘didn’t feel like the universe called for them’, or at least that’s what he said when you two had gotten drunk and stumbled upon the conversation of sexuality a couple years ago.

Or maybe he didn’t want to say anything to scare you off, though you didn’t think that was possible. So you tried to let things be, hoping he felt the same.

After that night just over a week ago, you’d agreed to talk about it later. It kind of happened; there was a conversation. But you’d essentially said you liked him being with you, and he said he was so glad this all had finally happened, and then you made out and didn’t bring it up again.

So here you were, headed to a pumpkin patch, something that seemed very much like a date.

“Sing with me,” he shouted over the music, pulling you from your thoughts.

You smiled and did as he asked, singing along to all the words you knew.

“You should have my job,” he shouted.

You looked over at him and felt the breath catch in your throat.

His teeth were flashed in a wide grin, eyes somehow bright and warm at the same time, apples of his cheeks doting just a few freckles from the summer sun. His curls were wild from the wind coursing through the Jeep.

Maybe you were in love.

Maybe that was a crazy thing to think so soon.

It wasn’t really that soon, though. You’d known him for so long, he felt like home already.

“Berry? Whatcha think? Wanna be the frontman?”

He focused back on the road but reached his free hand up to touch your chin. You grabbed it and pressed a kiss to his fingertip.

“Only if you can be my groupie,” you smiled.

“Ah, sounds like a dream,” he giggled. He looked over to you as you pressed another kiss to his finger. His eyes focused on it momentarily, and his smile softened, before he had to watch the road again.

Shortly, you arrived at the pumpkin patch. The gaudy decorations, strung up handmade signs, and the smell of cinnamon roasted pecans made you smile as you got out of the car.

“How’s this for fall, huh?” He beamed, roping you into a tight hug.

“Perfect,” you smiled back, giving him a firm kiss on the cheek. You could hardly believe you could just do that now—just kiss him on the cheek, grab his hand, whenever you wanted.

“Let’s go, Berry. I want some apple cider,” He rubbed his hands together before taking yours again, and you followed him to the entry gate.

He found the apple cider stand in a shocking amount of time.

“I could smell it, how could you not?” he had said when you questioned him.

He bought two large cups, and for a moment, you simply sipped the warm drinks and smiled softly. The tip of his nose was red and it made you want to kiss him.

So you did, gently pushing the cup from his mouth and initiating a slow kiss. He hummed into it, and tasted of apples and cinnamon.

His smile was wide when you separated.

“That was nice,” he took another sip, “Got more of those for me later?”

You nodded and curled your hands around the cup to warm them. The Michigan air was crisp, but not unbearable.

“What do you wanna do first?” He smiled, “Wanna go pick out some god awful things from the gift shop?”

“When you put it like that, how could I say no?”

“Perfect!” he laughed, “Let’s go get my Berry something overpriced and ridiculous,”

There it was: my Berry. You weren’t sure how much more of that you could take without knowing where his mind was.

Dismissing the thought, you followed him to the little shop, full of different fudges, apples, candied nuts, and of course, the dumbest, most charming little trinkets one could find.

After tugging you through the store like a child, pointing out things left and right, he settled on a bracelet rack.

“M’looking for one that says Berry, but they don’t seem to have it,” he giggled to himself, spinning the shelf slowly. You laughed, unable to help it.

“Damn,” you sighed, “Maybe this one?” You held up one that said ‘Daddy’s Girl,’

He choked on a sip of his cider.

“Ah, yes, perfect,” he giggled and shook his head, “Jesus. Are you into that?”

It was your turn to be shocked, and as your mouth fell open and your cheeks flushed.

“Oh, what? Now you’re too shy?” he grinned.

You shook your head with a smile and put it back, finding one instead that said “Joshua”.

“Might get this one, actually,” you smiled as you held it up.

“Yeah?” He grinned and spun the rack until he found your name, “I’ll get this one, then,” he tucked his bottom lip under his teeth—his nervous habit—and showed you the beaded bracelet.

Your heart ached all at once, but not all in a sweet way. You wished you understood what was going on here; why he was buying a bracelet with your name on it, taking you on a date, and yet still hadn’t made any sort of indication that you both were, to put it childishly, a thing.

You couldn’t pass all the blame to him; you hadn’t brought it up again, either. Regardless, it left you slightly hurt and confused.

“You okay?” Josh asked softly, hand reaching for your wrist.

You took a breath and nodded, offering a gentle smile. He didn’t look convinced, but he led you slowly through the store. You told yourself again to try and enjoy the day—there was no need to work this all out right now.

Josh bought both of the bracelets, some kettle corn, and a bag of cinnamon candies, then led you both back out into the crisp air.

“Gimme your wrist, Berry,” he said softly, fumbling with the gift store bag to retrieve the bracelet.

He took the “Joshua” one and fastened it around your wrist. Each bump of his fingertips made your cheeks warm, as if it was the first time he touched you.

“Do mine for me?” He grinned, handing it to you. Taking it, you pushed back his flannel sleeve and tightened it around his wrist.

“That’s cute,” he beamed at them. “I think—“

He patted his pockets and murmured “Shit, did I bring it?”

Finally, in his left flannel pocket, he pulled out a disposable camera.

“Ah!” he smiled, winding it up. He held your hand mid-air and snapped a picture of the bracelets.

You could not deny, it melted you. You looked at him with a chest full of warmth.

He looked up, catching your glance, and smiled at you. Quickly, somehow having already wound it, he pointed the camera at you and it clicked. You blushed.

“Thought it would be worth bringing this along,” he waved the camera momentarily before stuffing it back in his pocket.

He took a deep breath, and the exhale was just barely visible from the cold.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked shyly.

You nodded, leaning into it. You kissed a few seconds longer than you should have, perhaps, in a crowd of people with their children. But fuck ‘em, he was yours to kiss.

He pulled away only barely, and smiled crazily at you,

“Let’s go get the gourds,” he said.

“Oh my god,” you groaned at the phrasing, “You and your gourds,”

“Thought you liked my gourds?” He grinned, turning to walk you both towards the tractor.

You cringed hard at the joke, giving a pained laugh. He joined.

“Yeah, I’m sorry for that,” he giggled, “Not my best work. Let’s go get some pumpkins, sweetheart. I have to show you up when we carve them later,”

“Aw,” you pouted, “You’re so right, cause I planned to go easy on you,”

“Ah, of course you did,” he grinned.

You made it to the tractor to take you out to the pumpkin patch and waited your turn before finally getting on. Josh helped you with a strong hand up into the trailer, where he patted the hay bale next to him for you to sit.

On the short ride, he pointed to the brightest colored trees, and to the deer he saw far off in the field. You watched him, eyes lit up like a child’s, his cheeks and nose pink in the wind. His hands were warm as they cupped around yours. He made your heart ache, he looked so sweet.

in love

You suddenly felt that you could nearly cry at the thought. You wanted him to know, even if it was too soon, even if it was crazy. You bit your bottom lip and took a deep breath, focusing on the red-leafed tree he just pointed to.

The tractor halted with a jolt, and everyone filed off, dispersing into the field of pumpkins.

You held Josh’s hand and pulled him along down a row that hadn’t been picked through yet. Your eyes danced between all of the pumpkins, white and cream and orange, beginning to look for the perfect one.

Josh stopped, causing you to come to a halt as well.

You turned to him to look for the reason he stopped, and as you did, the disposable camera was raised into the air. You could tell that him holding your hand was in frame—intentionally—and it made a smile naturally appear on your face.

Click.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, smiling. You grinned and attempted to turn to keep walking, but he held you still,

“Berry,”

He sounded…nervous?

You looked back to him. Yes. Nervous. His bottom lip was tucked under his teeth.

“Josh?” you answered back, moving to cup his cheek.

“Um…” he swallowed, eyes scanning over your face. He reached a hand up to cradle your jaw, “God, you’re pretty,” he smiled.

“You okay?” you murmured.

He nodded, “I’m much better than okay,” he said cryptically, a wavering smile on his face, “I, uh, was going to wait til later…til we carved the pumpkins, but,”

You looked at him expectantly and he continued to look more and more uneasy.

“But I don’t think that seems right anymore. I feel like you might be…” he took a breath, “I just think now is better.”

You nodded, a hope growing slowly inside you that he may be about to say what you have been wanting him to say. You tried to stifle it in case you were wrong.

“My Berry,” he smiled, and his voice trembled, “I want you to be my girl. I want you all to myself, if you’d have me,”

Your heartbeat doubled in time, and you were sure that you were grinning like an idiot.

“Please say something,” he breathed, his thumb gliding over your cheek.

“Yes, Josh,” you sighed, “Yeah, of course I will,”

“Yeah?” He was smiling as big as he could, “Wanna be mine?”

You nodded, leaning in to kiss him hard. The cold air stung your cheeks, but the warmth of his lips melted you.

You kissed him over and over, until you could hardly breathe.

“As long as you’re all mine,” you murmured into him between kisses.

“God, yeah, I’d love that,” he kissed your cheek. “Been wanting to ask you pretty much since the first night, I just…” he pulled away, “I wanted to be sure you felt the same. And I wanted to do it right, I didn’t wanna ask, like, after we drunkenly made out for the first time.”

You giggled, feeling giddy, “This was good,” you nodded, “M’glad you did it like this,”

“Yeah?” He held his palm to your cheek and let you muzzle into it, “Seemed like you were waiting for this all day, I won’t lie. Didn’t seem right to wait any longer,”

“Honestly,” you nibbled at your lip, “Yeah. I was,” a laugh bubbled out of you, “Not in an…impatient way. I was just…I was ready. M’glad you asked.”

He nodded and leaned in for a final kiss.

“Let’s pick out our pumpkins, sweetheart. I don’t want the tractor leaving us here,”

You nodded and smiled, squeezing his hand tight.

Not long after, you found a perfectly round pumpkin with a pink tint, and after a short inspection, you hoisted it up to carry it.

“S’a good gourd you found there, Berry,” he winked and you groaned again.

“Josh, please stop saying gourd,”

“I won’t!” he chirped, the next row over, lifting up a dark orange pumpkin, “And I just found my gourd, so we’re all gourd to go,”

“Oh my god, I’m leaving you here,” you laughed, “I can’t have a boyfriend that makes this many gourd jokes,”

You turned to look at him when he didn’t laugh.

“I’m kidding—“

He was looking at you with a stunned smile.

“What?” you asked.

“Feels nice to hear,” he grinned, “boyfriend”.

“Oh,” you could feel yourself blush. “Yeah,” you bit your lip, “it is nice.”

He nodded, looking like he was in a gentle daze, as he climbed over the tangle of vines back to you.

You walked back to the tractor and took a seat on the bales next to each other, feeling like you were in your own, love-filled bubble. No one else could understand the magnetism.

When you made your way back, and after forcing Josh to carry your pumpkin as well, you went through the checkout and made your way back to the Jeep.

The ride home was dreamy, as the landscape shone with autumn leaves, the music was wonderfully acoustic, and you felt at home with him.

•••

You both went back to your apartment, as this little night of festivity was intended to be Jake-free, and that was practically impossible at the Kiszka’s.

Immediately after setting the pumpkins down, Josh was making spiced hot chocolates.

“Regular hot chocolate is just not as good, or as autumnal,” he ranted, “trust me.”

“Okay,” you giggled, setting out knives and a bowl for the pumpkin innards, “I trust you, Kiszka,”

“Hey, now,” he chided, “There are too many Kiszkas for you to be calling me that,”

“Alright,” you sighed, coming up behind him as he dolloped Cool Whip on the drinks, “I trust you, lover,” you pronounced the word as saccharine as you could.

“Oh,” he whistled, “I liked that a little too much, Maybe don’t call me that,”

You giggled and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck, “Or what?”

He spun around and drew you into a kiss.

“Or we’re not gonna carve any pumpkins because I’m going to kiss you until your lips fall off, and you’ll be all sad about it,”

“Mmm,” you hummed into another kiss, “Fine, I do want to carve pumpkins,”

“I know you do, sweet girl,” he guided you gently out of the kitchen, “Go put on a movie for us, doll. I’ll get some snacks together.”

“Please include the kettle corn,” you shouted over your shoulder, headed to turn on the TV.

“Of course I will include the kettle corn. I’m not insane, Berry,” he shouted back.

You giggled. Once again, you were left feeling stunned that he was yours. You put the movie on and made your way back to the table.

Josh walked over with the hot chocolates and a smile as you took a seat.

“For my Berry,” he sat the warm drink in front of you.

He had sprinkled cinnamon on top, and used your mug shaped like a ghost. You beamed at him. He sat his drink on the table. As he turned to head back to the kitchen, you grabbed his flannel.

“Oh?” He spun around to you.

You tugged on it, pulling him in.

He was inches from your face, then, lips teasing yours. The scent of him and cinnamon clouded your senses. He grinned wildly.

“What’s this?” He murmured.

You just kissed him, sweet and slow. He exhaled against you, lips parting at the second kiss, his tongue teasing your bottom lip.

“Berry…” he sighed, “Hey,” he pulled away and swiped a thumb over your cheek, “Thought you wanted to carve pumpkins?”

“I do,” you bit your lip, “You’re just so sweet,”

You pulled him by the collar back into you and he hummed, almost pained, as he began to lick at your mouth.

After a moment, he pulled away abruptly.

“Later,” he said, then kissed your cheek, “Later, I’ll kiss you all you want, I promise. Let’s enjoy the festivities for now.”

You sighed, relenting, “Okay.”

“Try your cocoa while it’s warm,” he said with a grin as he slipped back into the kitchen.

You took a sip of it, and not at all to your surprise, it was delicious. Cozy, like him.

He came back with a platter of kettle corn, pretzels, and halloween candy.

“Made this myself,” he sat it on the table.

“Very gourmet,” you laughed.

He kissed you on the forehead before sitting down beside you. He took a sip of his own cocoa and hummed.

“It’s really good,” you smiled, taking another sip.

“Mm,” he nodded as he set his mug down, “Thank you, doll.”

His head turned quickly toward the TV, then back to you. He was beaming.

“The Shining!”

“Yes,” you giggled, “for you,”

“Ah, I knew you’d be good to keep around,” he kissed your cheek. “Now, what will you be carving into your gourd this evening?”

You rolled your eyes, not bothering to scold him for his choice of words, “I dunno, actually. Was hoping the inspiration would come to me as I cleaned it out.”

“Spoken like a true artist,” he nodded, spinning his pumpkin on the table, “I might just do the classic jack-o-lantern, y’know? I feel like you can’t go wrong with that.”

“Yeah,” you nodded encouragingly, “Do it, babe. It’ll be good,”

He nodded again, grabbing the knife and beginning to cut the lid of the pumpkin.

“Be careful with that, please,” you murmured, watching him closely, “You’re not usually very cautious,”

A laugh bubbled out of him. He focused on guiding the knife through each cut, “You don’t think so?”

“No, Joshua,” you grabbed your own knife and began to work, “I’ve seen you do so many dumb things,”

“Joshua?” He giggled more

“Yes,” you found yourself giggling with him, “I happen to like your full name,”

“Okay then, Berry,” he murmured, “You can call me whatever you want, as long as I’m yours, I don’t care,”

You paused to smile at him. He glanced over at you, shooting you a soft smile.

“And when have I ever done a single dumb thing?” he pried the lid off the pumpkin and grabbed a spoon, beginning to scrape the insides.

“Oh, do not get me started,” you reached over to ruffle his hair. He giggled and grabbed a piece of kettle corn, popping it into his mouth.

You felt awash with something emotional and sweet; being with him was so effortless.

“Fair,” he nibbled his bottom lip as he cleaned out the pumpkin. You grabbed your spoon and began doing the same, and quickly, you were both covered up to the elbow in pumpkin innards.

“This feels so…,” he laughed, scooping more of the insides out, “…wet.”

“Babe,” you laughed at him, “Please stop while you’re ahead.

“What?” he giggled again, “I wasn’t gonna say anything else.”

“Sure you weren’t,” you rolled your eyes.

“Dirty minded, you are,” he grinned at you, tossing the last of the seeds into the bowl you had set out.

“Can’t help it when I’m around you,” you joked.

“Oh, I know,” he kissed your cheek as he headed into the kitchen to wash his hands.

“Leave the water on, I’m right behind ya,” you said.

You cleaned your pumpkin out the rest of the way and walked into the kitchen.

He was patting his hands off on a towel as you approached the sink.

“Choose your design yet?” He asked, handing you the towel.

“I’m thinking of doing the moon phases,”

“Ooh, I like it,” he stepped close to you, backing you into the kitchen counter.

“What’re you doing?” you grinned up at him.

“Just want a kiss,” he kissed your cheek softly, then trailed kisses to your mouth.

You pushed eagerly back into it; you wanted him, there was no way around it.

He groaned, surprised, and quickly he was licking into your mouth.

You sighed, letting your body push up into him, sucking his bottom lip into your mouth.

“Berry,” he breathed between kisses, “The pumpkins,”

“Just,” you kissed him hard, “Just fucking kiss me for a minute, please,”

“Yeah,” he nodded, large hands coming up to cup your face. He was such a good kisser, always attentive to what you were doing, following along and working with you like a dance. His lips were soft and tasted of cocoa, and his tongue was heavenly.

After a moment, he was lifting you, sitting you on the counter without missing a beat, pushing himself between your legs. You groaned and threw your arms around his neck, pulling him close.

“Fuck,” he sighed into the kiss, growing more fervent.

You hummed and nodded slightly, hardly able to breathe but not daring to pull away.

The wet sounds of the kisses echoed in the kitchen, only joined by the soft sound of the movie in the living room.

“Berry,” he kissed your cheek, “Let’s, uh,” he trailed a kiss down to your jawline, “Mm, the pumpkins,”

“I know,” you took a breath, trying to calm yourself, “Okay, well don’t do that or I’m taking you to my room,” you hooked a finger under his chin and pulled him off of your neck gently.

“That sounds like a threat,” he giggled. His face was flushed, lips swollen. You had to force yourself to focus on his eyes.

“You really do not fight fair, babe,” you grinned, “How do you expect me to calm down?”

He soothed a hand over your hair, “If I can do it, you can do it,” he lifted you from the counter and set you gently on the ground, “Let’s get to carving, I promised you we’ll do that after. I meant it,”

You nodded, letting him lead you back to the table.

Settling back into your seat, you took another sip of the cocoa, and then began to draw the moons on your pumpkin.

Josh went straight for the knife, beginning to carve the eyes of the jack-o-lantern.

“Just going straight for it?” You smiled.

“Of course, Berry,” he smiled, focused, “You said it yourself, I’m a little reckless.”

You laughed and took another sip of the cocoa.

There was a comfortable silence as you both worked, sipped the cocoa, and grazed on the snacks. You began carving as he was finishing the last few teeth on his pumpkin.

“Tell me why you like this movie so much,” you nodded to the TV, “I know you do, but you’ve never told me why.”

“That’s a can of worms, Berry. You sure?”

“Mmhm,”

“Well,” he began to poke the carved pieces of his pumpkin out, “Kubrick is my favorite director, so I guess that sums it up more generally, but. I love the use of color…it’s so stark, jolting almost, which really fits with the goal of the movie—to unsettle, y’know? I think that’s what a lot of good art does, but this especially. I mean, it’s a horror film, so,”

You carved away, listening to him.

“And the writing is just so perfect, it’s not overdone, it’s not lacking. The actors help, of course, I mean you can’t tell me someone else could have done what Nicholson did, or Shelly Duval, for that matter,”

You grinned, listening to him. He must have noticed.

“Am I—” he took a breath, “Is this boring?”

You turned to him with a soft expression, “No, no,” you encouraged, “I’m enjoying it, keep going.”

He nodded, ���I think it accomplished exactly what it wanted to. And I never get tired of it because I always notice something new. That’s just the start of it, really, but if you wanted to hear more I’d have to, y’know, put the movie on and talk all the way through it,” he chuckled.

“I like listening to you talk about film,” you smiled, beginning to poke out the pieces of the moons you had carved, “I always have. You light up when you do.”

You could feel him grinning at you as you worked.

“How about you? You like this movie?” he asked.

“I do,” you grinned, “One of my favorites to watch around Halloween.”

“Ah, well I’ll wear it out for you, don’t worry.”

You nodded, smiling, cleaning out the last of the carved pieces.

After wiping off the stray bits of pumpkin here and there, you sat back and admired your work. You turned it to Josh, then.

“Berry!” He grinned, reaching out to trace a finger over one of the moons, “I love it. That’s perfect,”

“Yeah?” you smiled, “Let me see yours,”

He spun his to reveal the jack-o-lantern face, its smile curling up dramatically, a mix of cute and spooky.

“You did great, babe,” you leaned in to kiss him quickly, “Let me get the candles.”

He nodded and stood up, grabbing the lighter from his back pocket and waiting as you retrieved the tea lights from your cabinet.

When you came back, he was taking a picture of the pumpkins on the disposable camera, which made you smile.

You set a candle in each of the pumpkins, letting him light them carefully before placing the lids on top.

“Let’s go set ‘em outside,” you said, hoisting yours up into your hands.

He followed you to the balcony with his, where you set them on the ground amongst a few barely-alive plants, and a few thrifted decorations.

“Perfect,” he beamed, leaning back against the rail. He extended his arm to you, inviting you to lean against him. You did, resting your head on his shoulder as you both gazed at the pumpkins.

“They look cute together,” he said, and you could tell he was smiling without looking at him.

“They do,” you agreed.

“I had a lot of fun,” he said softly. You turned to him, letting him take you into his arms. “Had a really good day,”

“Me too,” you murmured, “I’m really glad you um…that you asked me. I really…” you bit your lip in a smile, suddenly nervous, “I care about you a lot”

“Me too, Berry,” he pressed a kiss to your cheek, “And I know that I know you so well already, but,” he kissed near your ear, “As cheesy as it may be, I’m excited to get to know you like this,”

He intertwined his fingers with yours at your side, holding your hand. He pulled back to look at you, “You…intrigue me, and mesmerize me. And you make me feel so…”

“At home,” you finished, biting your lip.

“Mm,” he nodded, “Exactly.”

His eyes traced over your face. “Gonna kiss you,” he whispered as he leaned in.

You nodded as you met him in the kiss.

It was warm and passionate, so much so that it made you dizzy.

The kiss devolved quickly into something needy. Soon into it, a soft whimper escaped him. You sighed at the sound.

“I want you,” he said against your lips.

“Please,” you breathed, “Yeah,”

He nodded, splitting from the kiss with a smile to let you guide him back inside.

You tugged him to your bedroom, not bothering to even turn the light on, pulling him up on the bed with you.

“I wanna see you, though,” he pouted in the dark.

“I have a candle on my nightstand,”

“Ooh, romantic,” he giggled.

“Shut up,” you laughed.

He lit the candle with his lighter, and the room glowed orange.

“Jesus, you’re so gorgeous,” he sighed, crawling back over to you. You met him in a needy kiss.

He was leaning over you, laying on his side as you laid on your back. His hand rested on your stomach, his other cupped under your ear, holding your head.

You licked into his mouth, sucked on his lip, traced your tongue over his teeth; anything to feel closer to him.

“Your tongue,” he whimpered, “Fuck,”

You giggled, pleased with yourself, “Yeah?”

“Mm,” he hummed.

“Where else do you want it?”

“Oh,” you could feel him shiver, “Jesus, I—do you…do you wanna—“

“Yeah,” you breathed, “Yeah, come here,”

“Fuck, okay,” he laid down, beginning to work at his buckle.

“Let me,” you murmured, sitting up to undo it. He nodded, exhaling shakily.

You got his belt loose and undid the button on his pants, and with a bit of work, you were able to pull them down and off.

Moving back up to kiss him, you palmed him through his boxers for a moment before hooking your fingers in the band.

He was responding to every touch with a noise or a twitch of his body. You were greedy for each and every movement he gave you.

The two of you had only done this a handful of times. There’s been more foreplay than anything; everything was still brand new.

After pulling his boxers off, you settled between his legs, and looked up at him as you began to touch him. You grinned at him still having both shirts on.

As you began to suck on the head of him, he threaded his fingers through your hair. He sucked a breath in through his teeth.

You looked up at him as you licked several stripes over him, watched as his lips parted at their own will.

“Good girl…” he breathed out, so soft you could barely hear it. Your stomach flashed hot and you groaned, pulling your mouth off of him and letting your head fall against his thigh.

“Oh, god,” you breathed.

“What? What did I do? Are you—are you okay?” he sounded concerned.

You looked up at him, eyes heavy with lust, “You…” your cheeks were hot, embarrassed to repeat it back to him, “I liked that.”

He blinked, trying to sort out what you were saying. It dawned upon him, and he grinned, “You did?”

You nodded, licking at him again.

“Okay,” he said softly with a smile, “Good to know.”

Instead of addressing it any further, you clamped your thighs together and took him all the way down, bobbing around him.

“Fuck,” he gritted, “Yeah, mm,”

You let yourself go, letting all the built up tension flow out of you, spit dripping around him as you sucked and licked.

After a few minutes, he nudged your cheek with a gentle hand.

“Baby,” he whined, “Lay down, lemme take your clothes off,”

You did as he asked, laying beside him.

He was on top of you, then, working to remove your shirts and your pants, stripping you as quickly as he could, leaving a kiss here and there as he uncovered skin.

When he was done, he laid back down flat on the bed.

“Come here,” he motioned up by his head as he stripped his shirts off. You cocked your head at him, getting up on your knees beside him. He reached for your thighs and repeated himself, and you groaned.

“Josh,” you breathed, “You mean—“

He nodded, “Yeah, sweetheart, come here, sit on my face,”

“Fuck,” you whimpered, so turned on you couldn’t think, “Are you—“

“Don’t you dare ask me if I’m sure,” he grinned, still reaching for your thighs, “Hell yes, please, I want it,”

“Oh my god,” you groaned again, doing as he asked, putting a thigh on either side of his head.

“Holy fuck,” he was whimpering, looking up at you hovering over his face, “Baby…” he hooked his arms around your thighs and drew you down.

As vulnerable as you felt, the moment his tongue slipped against you, nothing else mattered. Matching groans fell from you.

You could hear a muffled, ‘fuck’ escape him as he licked at you.

His tongue had proven to be lovely over and over again, but this—this was so intimate, and so close and raw. You pressed down into his face, effectively riding his tongue, and he was taking it so graciously.

You skimmed your hands over your breasts, taking a deep breath as he licked at you, before looking down at him.

He peeked up at you, eyes half-lidded, so glossy and lust-blown, and the sight weakened you. You threaded your hands through his hair and whimpered, trying desperately to keep your body from buckling out from under you at the way he was undoing you.

Somehow, despite him being near smothered, he was making a good bit of noise.

So were you, when you could afford a breath.

“Fucking—babe, that feels so fucking good, please,”

“Oh god, I think I’m gonna cum, don’t stop,”

He nodded just so, and with his velvet tongue and determination, you were shaking on top of him, gripping your headboard as you came, nearly doubling over.

You could feel and hear him whimper as you did, and then he was pulling you up just barely to speak, “Fuck, I’m so hard, please get on top of me,”

You nodded, moving yourself down his body and lining yourself up with him, letting him push up into you.

“Oh,” he groaned, eyes rolling.

You leaned forward, kissing his cheek, beginning to ride him.

“That was so hot,” he was whimpering, his hands skimming over your ass, feeling you bounce against him, “We’re doing that more. We’re doing that like, like every day,”

You laughed, kissing him softly. You pulled back to look at him.

“Really,” he grinned, “Jesus Christ,”

“I could say the same,” you breathed, rolling your hips down into him.

“Yeah, fuck, sweetheart, kiss me,”

You clashed your lips together as you rode him, enjoying the way he sounded, the way his hands held you, how he filled you.

Then, he was pulling away with a gasp.

“Wanna be on top, Berry. Wanna fuck you,”

You nodded, laying against him and letting him flip you over.

Wasting no time, he was grabbing your hands, pinning them gently above your head as he held them, and leaning down to kiss your neck.

He rolled his hips into you at a steady pace, and you kept your knees bent, letting him lean all the way against you.

He kissed your cheek.

“You feel so good, sweet girl”

“Fuck, babe,” you groaned.

“I know,” he kissed you, “I’m—I’m close already, I—,”

“Me too,” you nodded, “Please,”

“Fuck,” he kissed your temple, fucking into you quicker, “That’s it, sweetheart, be good and cum with me,”

“Oh, fuck—” you whimpered, squeezing your eyes tight as it hit you.

He slammed into you, groaning, his chest falling against yours as he slowed, fucking you gently through it.

“Jesus Christ, Berry,” he breathed against your cheek, pulling out slowly and lying beside you. You curled into him immediately, resting your head on his chest.

You laughed, weightless, “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he giggled. He took a deep breath, “So…good girl, huh?”

“Josh,” you blushed, “Please don’t make fun of me, or—“

“No, no,” he turned and cupped your cheek, “Not at all, not at all. It’s—it’s hot, I’m sorry if it felt like I was teasing, I’m just…” he took a breath, “I’m glad you said something.”

You bit your lip and scanned his face, willing the embarrassment away, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said softly, “You can always tell me. Anything.”

You smirked, “You really liked me sitting on your face, huh?”

“Yeah,” he groaned, rubbing a hand over his face, “Yeah, don’t talk about it or I’ll get hard again,”

“Okay,” you giggled, “I liked it too.”

He looked at you, eyes soft, “Good, sweetheart,” he said softly. He leaned over to kiss you.

Slowly, you parted.

“This is gonna be fun, you know,” he smiled, tracing a thumb over your cheek, “Figuring all this out, what we like…what we really like.”

You knew you blushed, but were pretty sure he couldn’t see in the low light. He was right, though.

“Mm, yeah,” you nodded, “We probably should get to work on that pretty quickly,”

“Mm, agreed. In the morning?” he grinned.

You nodded, kissing him again.

“Let me get something to clean us up, sweetheart,” he said, sitting up to find a shirt.

“Ahh!” Josh yelped towards the door.

You sat up, heart pounding, scanning the room, “What?”

He sighed, “You still have her?” he pointed to the corner.

Oh.

“Oh, Pepper? Yeah,” you smiled as your cat meowed and jumped up on the bed.

Josh nodded, “Jesus, sorry. I just saw a shadow and it scared the shit out of me,”

You laughed, petting Pepper’s head.

“Thought you left her at your parent’s house,” he reached out and let Pepper sniff his hand. After she head butted it, he grinned and scratched her chin.

“Only for a bit, then she moved over here.”

“Mm,” he smiled wider at her, “Sorry, Pep, I’ll pet you more when I’m clothed,”

You laughed. He slid off the bed and found his shirt on the floor, wiping you off with it, then himself.

“Want a drink? Some water?” he offered.

“Yeah, that would be nice, thanks, babe.”

He nodded and slipped through the doorway. You pet Pepper and grabbed the TV remote from your nightstand, turning Coraline on.

Josh came back in with two waters.

“I locked the door and turned the lights off,” he smiled, joining you in bed after shutting the door.

“Thank you,” you smiled, taking the water, “You’re quite sweet, you know.”

He shot you a cheesy grin, “I try, Berry, for you,”

Pepper settled at the end of the bed, curled up in a ball. You took a large sip of the water and then cuddled up to Josh, his skin warm against yours.

“Coraline, huh?” he grinned, sipping his water, “Good choice.”

You hummed, feeling sleepy.

“My Berry,” he leaned down to kiss your head, “Get some rest, sweet girl.”

You nodded, smelling a hint of cinnamon on his skin, drifting easily off into sleep.

-🍓-

taglist

@starshine-wagner @dannywagners-middlefinger @writingcold @kels-gvf @aconfusedhippie @jordierama @fearless-wanderer @finelinejpm @thehourbeforesunrise @madz-0217 @gretavanbitches

#gvf fanfiction #gvf fic #greta van smut #greta van fleet fan fiction #gvf fics #gvf smut #josh kiszka fic #josh kiszka x you #josh kiszka x reader #sweet as berries

[girlreviews]

Review #184: She’s So Unusual, Cyndi Lauper

You’re receiving a fair warning right at the outset: there are going to be no less than two references to The Simpsons in this review – possibly more -- and I’m not even a little bit sorry about it.

I think that Cyndi Lauper is one of the very first female artists I ever knew the name of and recognized, and knew her record from start to finish. I don’t think it was this one. I believe it was a compilation CD called Twelve Deadly Cyns… And Then Some, that had a really striking image of her with bright yellow hair and a bright red hat. It had all of the major hits from this album, and the next few, as well as the most interesting remix of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun that was done by the guys from Redbone, and was very much my first introduction to the bassline from Come And Get Your Love. That shit worked.

Anyway, I wish that every three-year-old girl got to hear Cyndi Lauper like this because she’s fucking iconic. Powerhouse voice. Uninhibited. Artist. Creative genius. A girl’s girl and a woman’s woman. I’d love to get drunk with her and play a round of cards. I bet she’s been treated like a child while navigating this industry. I just feel it in my bones and guts. Because of the earnest, girlish, sincere, whimsical music she’s making, as well as her unapologetic cute and girly aesthetic and small frame. But she’s always demanded to be taken seriously. She’s the inspiration I’ve carried around as an experienced professional in my field: I can have a bubble tea pencil case with a smiley face on it, and cute stationary, and a notepad with a bird on it, and a cute haircut and fun outfits. It doesn’t mean I’m childish, or any less good at my job, and I will rip you a new asshole if you fucking cross me or any of my employees, cool? Do not be fooled by the enamel pins on my jacket. I could stab you with them if I wanted. I just don’t, that’s all.

My notes: Money Changes Everything, which it does, has a harmonica solo in it, and I think we all need to take a moment and bow down to the boldness of that. How many harmonica solos do we hear outside something like Bob Dylan? It’s pretty few and far between and it’s really fucking great in this song. Every single track on this album is deep, fun, and interesting. And some of them have harmonica solos! When I was a doofy little teen, I used to have a necklace with a tiny harmonica on it. It was ugly as could be, but it was pretty cool. I recently started looking into whether there were any cute, adult versions of it. There are. And I am once again inspired by Saint Cyndi to be cute, functional, and badass.

I’m going to save Girls Just Wanna Have Fun for last because I have so much to say about it. So next up will be Time After Time, which to be honest is every bit as iconic. Genuinely. It’s absolutely beautiful. Stunning. Moving. How does one write a song so incredibly poignant and dedicated to someone? Can anybody listen to this synth ballad and not just feel their heart plunge into it? Maybe they can. Maybe they’re a monster. Not a Simpsons reference, but to illustrate my point: even April Ludgate, known to be cold-hearted and dead inside, can’t resist the pull of this song.

She Bop is one of my favorites. I think I loved it when I was really tiny. It makes sense that I would have. I loved nonsense. I still love nonsense. It’s a lot of nonsense (Oop, she bop, she bop, she bop, he bop, we bop, I bop, you bop, they bop, be bop, a lu bop), but it’s positioned over some very serious-sounding synths and electric drums. That’s my exact shit and always has been. There’s a good chance Cyndi Lauper and this song are largely responsible for my entire persona, in hindsight. That’s fine with me. I think this song is about bad boys and having crushes on them (hey, hey they say I better get a chaperone, because I can’t stop messin’ with the danger zone). Cyndi Lauper has always been completely about her uninhibited noises. Woops, and breaths, and squeaks, and squawks. They’re amazing, and they add absolutely everything to the experience. Simpsons reference #1 coming up here. They made it the butt of the joke, but I loved it. Cyndi Laupi (yes, Laupi), singing the National Anthem at a baseball game, with all that breathy, squeaky, baritone nonsense. Absolutely fucking hilarious. Also the way in which I mostly learned the words to the National Anthem (you try knowing it when you grew up in Europe? I do not accept your judgment, and frankly I’m still pretty shaky on the words and I don’t care).

Every track on this album slaps, and you should listen to it, but it is one of those where you kind of have to focus on the singles/iconic tracks because they are iconic for a reason. So here we go. Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. I want to say that this song is so happy and upbeat and means everything to every girl and woman that knows it, which, is like, all of them, ever, and if it isn’t, it should be. However. There’s also a sad undertone to it, or at least I have always felt one. It’s always just tugged at my heart a little bit. I actually have no idea whether that’s just me or whether that’s a universal experience. It’s like a gentle feminist wish. She’s singing about oppressive experiences — from parents, from partners, from society:

“Oh Mama dear, we’re not the fortunate ones”

“Oh Daddy dear, you know you’re still number one”

“Some boys take a beautiful girl, and hide her away from the rest of the world”

It genuinely hurts my feelings. I’m not sure a song has ever so captured the simplicity of experience. Just trying to exist. Just trying to walk in the sun. Just trying to go home and chill after work, and for some reason, it’s just hard to do. But, in singing it, she’s fulfilling the wish, because she’s having fucking fun. It’s fun. I don’t know man, that’s really cool. I love this song. But it’s way deeper than I imagine a lot of people have ever given her credit for. I imagine to a lot of people, it’s just a silly little party song. But it’s not. And if you want to fight with me about that, I’ll get my cute enamel pins ready. Here’s Homer Simpson singing it, which I have always found extremely endearing. Do you think it’s lost on him? Probably. That’s sort of what’s endearing about it.

#album review #music #music review #rolling stone top 500 #cyndi lauper #she’s so unusual #the simpsons #parks and rec

[zilabee]

Yoko: I'm trying without the marmalade today, you know.

The breakfasting genuinely makes me so happy. And the lunchtime conversation today is stellar. It's the quality content I'm here for, more than the music or the interpersonal dramas.

What do you want for lunch? --- Sparrow On Toast. --- Boiled Testicle. --- Whatever The Veg-etables Are.

My menu when I open a fancy london dinery.

- When George is talking again about releasing Get Back as a single, and Paul says he's really just rehearsing at the moment sldkjfowije. They're still trying to do different projects at the same time.

- I am starting to feel a low drag from watching get back so constantly, now. While the small amounts a day is definitely easier for me than the whole thing was, it's also very constant, with all the pain and the frustration spreading out endlessly, heartbreaking and blue.

- John deciding he wants Billy to be a permanent Beatle, and not just deciding that but deciding to talk about it, and then George wanting to drag in Bob fucking Dylan too. Exhaustion. I love Paul just openly acknowledging that he can only just cope with the Beatles they already have. (I know there are pros and cons and maybe it makes sense to turn the Beatles into a concept instead of a group, but also it doesn't at all not really.)

- I do just love Ringo having a little art gallery. The only thing keeping him sane.

It's a bit of a drag, bass, isn't it?

It is not a drag Paul, it is your soul. (Is it John that then claims he's never heard a song without bass, and Paul has to go 'well we've done a few...')

Paul: ha aha ha, it's so weird, it's like we wrote songs that mean something lol John: yeah, mad. it makes it sound as if we love each other or whatever roflmao!

- MLH doesn't know what story he is telling any more, and I'm trying to have a bit of sympathy for him. I think he could just call someone with a bit of imagination, and a bit of push and put them in charge. But at the same time... he thought it was going to be about everyone working hard, it all fitting together, and creating a huge Beatles concert to light up the world. So he's allowed to be sad that all they do is sit in a room and talk in circles.

> At the moment we've got a movie about smokers, nose pickers, and nail biters. > We are rather uncouth. We're not your elite you know.

- I suppose he didn't know who they were. I suppose we have a lot of hindsight about them. I suppose he thought he was going in to do a film about really successful people doing something successfully and he just didn't know he'd have to organise it and shape it at all. I suppose he thought they were magical and was surprised that they were weird terrified children.

George: It sounds lovely that, now. After all the anguish we went through with it. John: Well, it's part of the, the pudding... It's a Henry Moore sculpture, that. George Martin: And the fact that you're working so well together: you're looking at each other, you're seeing each other, you're... just happening.

- All my heart to George Martin for saying perfect things to them.

- The bit in Polythene Pam where John is frowning, and confused at what his chords are doing, as though he has nothing to do with it, and he is so beautiful when puzzled that is all.

- I love that they only bought George the cheapest Hawaiian but if he's any good he can have a better one. Mimi would be proud.

- I love how much Paul and John use each others names the moment they're in an accent or a character or a bit.

#get back #get back january #get back words

[chicken-delight]

 god it so fucked up that I can’t just record a audio post of me talking and post it here but my thoughts are too intense to have to think about it and then type it out so I’m just saying it into my voice text thingy on my phone.

 people who complain about Bob Dylan‘s concerts being lame don’t get Bob Dylan. I was talking about this to one of my buddies a couple weeks ago and I was saying like something something something Bob Dylan live something something something and he was like yeah but have you seen Bob Dylan live before and I was like yeah twice and it was great. I loved it and he said oh really? and I was like yeah… I know people are haters, but Bob Dylan has never promised his fans the show that they expect to see. He’s always doing the opposite of what people expect him to do. He’s never gonna play the hits. Shows for him are like the ultimate artistic expression for. It doesn’t matter if you like it. you are the one who paid to see him right. And I understand like some artists, do feel the need to give the crowd what they want because they did pay for it and that is just on a basis by basis sort of deal. I personally don’t care what their outlook on it is. They are the artist and you are the spectator. there’s a certain power dynamic in that and the artist always wins. Great art has never been made by doing what the spectator wants to see, here, experience, etc..

 yeah, maybe his voice is gone. But he’s in his fucking 80s. Like what the fuck. You’re asking too much of him. Also Rough and Rowdy Ways is one of the greatest Bob Dylan albums. The sound is great. The band he has is great. The songwriting is superb, and the voice that he has now fits perfectly with the music. He is making right now. And I think it is so fun to watch him bang on the piano and for his band to just be tight and know what they’re doing. and I love how he would come out from behind the piano after every song and pose and then go back and play another song. i saw a man comfortable with what he is doing. and thats what matters.

And now that I’m just on a roll, I feel as though people who dislike Bob Dylan have a superiority complex about it even though they think that Bob Dylan fans have a superiority complex about liking Bob Dylan. every person, at least of my generation that I’ve talk to who is into him has a very personal complicated relationship with his music. It’s not just easy listening. And yeah, Boomers just like Bob Dylan because he’s Bob Dylan sometimes and dont think about it. But I feel like anyone l who goes after a Popular artistp like this just is doing it to make themselves feel cool and different. And they said that it doesn’t make them feel: different but it does. And I understand that and I think everybody has one artist that they are like I don’t get it. I’m just on another level. Like Taylor Swift. also I don’t give a fuck. There are so many layers to this artist as there is to any artist, but especially Bob Dylan where you can’t listen to one album or one song etc. and decide you don’t like it forever and write it off. he has a different sound and he evolves just like every other artist. Leave some room for potential here like it doesn’t have to sit right with you in the moment but it’s, very juvenile to be like I don’t like his voice I don’t like the harmonica, but also like you don’t have to like him even if you do listen to all the fucking albums like it doesn’t matter and it shouldn’t matter stop thinking about it. and I know everyone was talking about whoever it was who was comparing Bruce to Bob Dylan. And I don’t even care if Bruce would think that that’s a lame opinion to think he’s better than Bob. It’s never fair to compare artists to artists,  the only arena where you can do that is, if you’re joking or if it’s a lighthearted conversation. I think the world we live in right now with social media, and Paris social relationships has sort of stripped away the sacredness of the art someone makes, and then decides to put out into the world. it’s so deeply entangled with their being even if it’s a silly song or even if it’s not autobiographical. Art comes from the deepest part of your soul. You wouldn’t want to compare souls. Anyways. This took up my entire 30 minute lunch break. I have to pee.

[skittlesfics]

I saw your requests were open and I just a story of what it would be like for eddie, argyle and reader to all get extremely high together the vibes would be immaculate 😭

Obsessed with this trio, already thinking of 10 billion other/longer ways to write this fic 466 words - Eddie Munson x Reader x Argyle (could read as platonic but super touchy) -

“So, like, here’s my audition for the dragon in your next campaign or whatever.” Argyle said, already laughing slightly at his own joke as he took a hit from the joint Eddie had just finished rolling.

You lifted your head slightly from Eddie’s lap, squinting for a better look at Argyle’s face as he blew smoke from both his nose and mouth at the same time, pulling his eyebrows together in his best approximation of “serious.”

You tried so hard not to laugh.

You really did! You put everything you had into keeping a straight face for an entire 12 seconds before Eddie snickered behind you and everything came crashing down. You exploded with laughter, a high-pitched squeak sneaking out before you could slam your hand over your mouth. That got Eddie laughing with you, and Argyle joined in too, all three of you practically crying with laughter on Eddie’s messy bedroom floor.

Every time you thought you were calming down; you would glance at Argyle’s face and start laughing all over again until your stomach was sore from the effort and you knew your face would hurt from so much smiling.

When finally, you remembered how to breathe air without immediately expelling it from your lungs, you settled back into Eddie’s lap and stretched your legs out to drape them over Argyle’s.

Argyle rubbed circles into one of your ankles as he leaned over to pass Eddie the joint, which was already more ash than weed at this point. Eddie ashed it and leaned over you, holding it between your lips while you inhaled so you didn’t have to sit up.

“We’d be honored to be joined by such a mighty dragon.” Eddie declared theatrically, making you cough slightly as a fresh peal of laughter sprung unbidden from your lips.

“Fuck you, Munson, that was on purpose.” You flicked his arm, scrunching your nose at him when he protested. You coughed again, and glared when Argyle murmured something that vaguely sounded like take a chill pill, baby lungs which Eddie found simply hilarious.

A comfortable silence fell between the three of you once they finished laughing at your expense, the space filled by an old instrumental record of Bob Dylan “before the evangelical phase” that Eddie and Argyle had taken thirty whole minutes to agree on before either of them would start to roll a joint. They had both insisted that the vibe needed to be perfect, but struggled to agree on what the vibe was actually supposed to be.

This, you thought, was perfect. Both boys swaying softly to the music as the joint burned slowly in the ashtray, one rubbing comforting circles into your leg, the other playing idly in your hair. Your thoughts were hazy and distant, but you couldn’t think of anywhere else you’d rather be.

#Eddie Munson x Reader #Argyle x Reader #Eddie Munson Fluff #Argyle Fluff #Eddie Munson Reader Insert #Argyle Reader Insert #Stranger Things x Reader #x Reader #Stranger Things Imagine #Fluff #0 - 500 #Drabble #Stranger Things Reader Insert

[7grandmel]

Todays rip: 28/11/2023

Top of the Looping Steps

Season 1 Featured on: GilvaSunner's Highest Quality Video Game Rips: Volume 7

Ripped by toonlink

Ah, Super Mario 64 and toonlink...what better icons of early SiIvaGunner are there? I've talked plenty about the absolute flexibility of Super Mario 64's soundscape, be it with Slider rips like WA-HOO DISCO or more out-there arrangements like Super Mario 64 Submarine Ending. Its a game with an iconic and immediately recognizable set of samples and instruments, and one that's just as malleable, letting rippers do practically anything they can put their mind to with it. It should come as no surprise that Top of the Looping Steps is as good as it is despite how early into the channel's rip it was released.

Yet even back then, I remember feeling as if Top of the Looping Steps was a, pardon the pun, step above so much else. Looping Steps in Super Mario 64 isn't so much a song as it is a looping Shepard tone - a series of notes that trick your brain into thinking its escalating in pitch, whilst in reality going nowhere at all. Much of SiIvaGunner back in Season 1 was still built around the idea of the pure bait-and-switch: the idea of iterating upon an already existing song, be it through covers like Can't Say Goodbye to Yesterday - as performed by Bob Dylan, through mashups like Door into a Hundred Summers, or through rearrangements in the original song's style like Earth, Wind & Bombs. I distinctly recall Top of the Looping Steps sticking out for how much of a creative endeavor it was - it still *felt* like the original Looping Steps, yet it was far more its own thing, using every part of the game's soundscape to recreate the instrumental backing of Top of the Stairs by Skee-Lo.

There's such a unique sound to the original track, with the ever-escalating notes that introduce the track being the true tie it has to Looping Steps - not quite a sequence of Shepard Notes, yet similar in spirit. The arrangement is a stroke of genius, a connection toonlink pursued to its logical conclusion, and the end result almost sounds *more* natural than the original instrumental. It's a damn good arrangement, and well deserving of its view count.

#todays siivagunner #season 1 #siivagunner #siiva #toonlink #tunedlink #Bandcamp #super mario 64 #mario 64 #super mario #super mario bros #nintendo 64 #n64 #3d mario #mario 64 speedrunning #sm64 #hip hop #rap music #90s hip hop #top of the stairs #skee lo

[cellarfulofnose]

tonight i'll be stayin' here with you

@smallsnzplz prompt #4. I once had a girl (or, should I say, she once had me)...

1961

The Bitter End wasn't crowded. Alice came there to get away from the throngs that steamed up the cafés. There was music sometimes. Not all the time. If anyone got up to play, the whole place settled into curious silence for a while, then went back to their books. There weren't any world-shaking acts that got up to play there. As far as she'd ever seen.

These days Alice thought she was about tired of stars. If someone got up to play their guitar and sing in front of everybody, as far as Alice was concerned, it better be to buy a bed for the night. Or a mouthful of soup. That was the only reason she wrote. People came to Greenwich thinking it was Hollywood.

It was Bohemia. They didn't last long.

The boy who'd been sitting near her creaked to his feet and slung a guitar strap over his shoulder. It'd been a while since anybody had been on stage—and it wasn't even a stage, really. Just a milk stool and a microphone. But Alice couldn't stir herself to feel annoyed, not even as he yoked a harmonica brace over his neck. A little music wouldn't go amiss right now. She didn't peer too close, but he looked like a busker. He wouldn't take up too much of her time.

He introduced himself to the room with a voice like a tin can, and she had to look.

Under his too-big newsboy cap, Alice's eyes flew to the first thing she always noticed on a man. His nose. It was like none she'd ever seen. At once rounded and sharp, long and slim with a lovely down-curve. It looked almost too smart on his soft cherub face, and he looked like he knew it. There was a tightness to his light eyes. Bleared and weighed down by that jewel of a nose. And he sang right through it. Rang like hollow wood.

She couldn't look away.

The café glanced at him when he got up, then returned to their books. When he began to sing, some heads turned back in surprise. But now he was a couple songs deep and they were really listening. Alice let her coffee go cold.

He stayed a little longer than he maybe should've. Though he wasn't a regular, Alice thought the boy could tell he had this place's attention in a way they didn't usually give it. Certainly, he had hers. But his set ended, as all sets do, and he ambled back to his seat. Nearer hers than she remembered. His hat, full of coins, jangled like a tambourine as he set it on the table. A heavy sound. He'd done well. A hot shower was in his future tonight.

His hand slipped inside his coat and fumbled for something. Alice didn't allow herself to imagine—when he pulled out a red bandana and cupped it to his nose, a bright leap of shock caught her. He blew his nose earnestly, easing his head side to side for good measure. She was close enough that she heard a small hum in his voice, a sigh of effort, like that soft sound took some serious doing. She didn't even try not to stare.

Too careless. The boy locked onto her gaze as he emerged and blinked self-consciously. He sniffed—his nose twitched. Alice was transfixed. As the red bandana disappeared, the tip of his nose remained pink. His eyes, too, even. He looked half-dead of the flu, poor boy.

Alice was in love with him. She bought him a hot bowl of soup.

---

1966

The boy slipped her grasp—she didn't mind. Others came and went.

Seasons changed. Soon enough, the name Bob Dylan, household around these neighborhoods, met the face from her memory and became one.

And what a face it was. He'd grown into his nose by now, his brow and cheeks and chin so arrowhead-sharp you'd cut your hand to slap him.

Alice wanted to cut her hand. She paid for a show or two, but when they became too expensive, she figured out how to let herself in. She talked her way out of a ticket for trespassing. The crew came to know her by face, if not by name, and that suited her fine. She talked her way in with the girls that seemed at home in his dressing room. What's he like? Then she saw for herself.

They'd always usher her out just as the show ended. One day they must have figured her half-hearted protests weren't worth the trouble. There she stayed—and there he was.

"Who's the chick?" asked Bob.

It was several minutes after he opened the door that he deigned to acknowledge anyone in the room. But Albert was quick.

"She said she knew you."

Bob exhaled smoke as he regarded her. Three soft jets through his mouth and nostrils. "Knew me?" He squinted suspiciously—or maybe he was just nearsighted. But the more he looked at her...

Alice gave him the coy once-over she'd seen the other girls do. Different men, but she had a hard time believing they were that nuanced. She smiled, barely.

"Oh...right." Comprehension dawned on Bob's pale, peaked face. His eyes wandered over her. A smile cracked his lips. He hid it with another pull on his cigarette. "Well, why didn't you say so?" he added, with a glance at Albert.

"You know her?"

"Yeah, oh, yeah." Bob's eyes crinkled with the lie. He didn't recognize her from the Bitter End. No chance. But he knew exactly who she was. Her own mischief reflected back at her in his eyes. She would make an honest man of him.

"Yeah, I know 'er. Yeah, we just, uh." Bob was next to her now. Alice didn't rise from the couch, hardly rose her head to look at him from under her lashes. "Haven't had a lot of time to catch up." Bob seemed to stall for a moment, then stroked her cheek with the side of one finger. Asking.

Alice's eyes fluttered shut. She wasn't acting.

His finger hooked under her chin, and she opened her eyes to look him in the face. He seemed keen enough to take her right there, in front of God and everybody. She almost didn't protest.

Somehow, they got into a car with all their clothes on. The second the door shut, Bob went straight for her breasts. Alice struggled to pull the divider shut, then covered his hands with hers. He muttered 'S your name, anyway? in between kissing the life out of her, and once she caught her breath, she told him. Twice. His short-term memory seemed to be on the fritz.

Perhaps it was contagious. Alice nearly forgot why she was there, until he buried his nose against her neck in the elevator and her chest roared with butterflies. He nuzzled and hummed and she probably could've stayed there for a week, but he felt slightly cold and wet on her skin, and she just had to drag him up for another kiss.

They stumbled backward together, the hall—the door—the bed. She made herself pull away from his mouth, his hands, and went for her purse. Bob was all questions.

"Hey, c'mon," he needled. "What're you...Hey, I ain't gonna give you nothing." Bob pivoted, seeming to think she was hunting for a condom. "What're you looking for?"

Instead of answering, Alice pulled the round tin from an inner pocket and unscrewed the lid. Menthol filled the air. As she lifted out a healthy, thimble-sized deposit and began to arrange it across the metal tray on the nightstand, she felt Bob appear over her shoulder. She pretended not to notice.

"Hey, gimme some of that. What is that?"

A strange order in which to ask those questions, she thought. His misfortune and none of her own. "It's pretty strong," she warned, truthfully.

Bob scoffed.

"You might not like it." Alice continued to shape neat little piles.

"Bullshit." When she didn't react, "Aw, baby, c'mon. I'm hip." His chin rested on her shoulder. A dog begging for leftovers under the kitchen table. "Let me have some of that."

Alice kept her smile small. "Suit yourself."

Bob didn't wait. He vanquished the first pile in one great, rushing snort. "What is this, some kinda..." The next two took a few tries each. Diminishing returns.

"Herbal remedy." Alice blushed.

"Oh, that's–" Bob coughed, sharp, from his throat. Snuff! The tray was clean, save for a few specks. "That's cute." He finished pawing at his nose with a final, sweeping sniff. There was a moment of oceanic calm behind his frosty eyes.

Before, "Ow, fuckin'—shit—" Bob cringed like he'd suffered a jab to the eye. His hand flew to his nose.

"Are you all right?" Alice dared to ask.

"It's so—" Bob lost the end of his sentence to a shuddering cough. Then his lungs started to fill in short gasps. Again he gasped, again, again, again, and Alice felt her stomach drop with each one, felt her heart dive, until the line snapped.

He sneezed over the bed, half-blocked by his arm. It almost sounded offended.

"God b–"

Right away, he wrenched another gasp and buckled with an even stronger sneeze.

Alice jumped. The fingers he'd clamped around his nose did nothing to dampen the sudden, cutting sound. She felt herself blush and heat. "Bless you."

Bob sputtered out an urgent sneeze—managed a surprisingly coherent Thankyou, trembled with the coming gasp—and sneezed so wretchedly he let himself drop onto the bed. He still held his nose between his fingers. To keep from quitting the powder, she could only imagine. He wouldn't want to sneeze it out before it got him high.

"Thin walls," Alice warned, on an impulse.

Bob nodded immediately, even as the obvious need to sneeze began to snatch his breath again. His shoulders shook—Alice expected a sound, and there wasn't one, and her stomach flipped over like she'd missed a step on the stairs. He bought it. He was smothering himself into silence on the off-chance someone would hear him through the walls, assume illicit substances, and whip up a drug bust. God.

He did it again—sneezed next to silently. But it seemed to backfire. Once he started, they just kept coming. He was twitching, shuddering, trying not to breathe in or out for fear of letting one slip, until a shaking gasp broke his hold and he couldn't stop the next sneeze from hissing out through his teeth.

"Oh." Alice felt her ears go red.

Or the next, from rupturing out of him with a kick from his chest, loud and violent.

"Bless you." Waves pounded inside Alice's ears. She touched his back tenderly, and her vision swam. "Darling."

Bob groaned. Alice didn't have time to react before his curly head swung into her shoulder. He leaned limp against her, sniffling and sighing with exhausted relief. She cradled his crown and wove through his hair.

She tried to drop her smirk as he finally surfaced, but her cheeks bloomed to see his face. His eyes were flame blue against weeping red. Even his lips seemed reddened, like after a good strong cry. Or a sound kiss.

The powder had nearly worked its way out. To the untrained eye, it looked as if he'd rubbed dirt just under his nose. Above his lip. Alice thought about lending her handkerchief, but his hand appeared to swipe it away—well, to try. Now it just looked like more dirt.

"Mm." Bob's smile was tight, and his eyes darted slightly. Not ashamed, but slightly shy. He sniffled against the block in his head. "So, uh. When's it start kickin' in?"

Alice couldn't help it. She laughed. She hurried to cover her mouth, but Bob wore a sheepish grin, seeming to suspect a joke at his expense.

"Oh, okay. What?"

"What?" She smoothed her face and played coy. "You didn't get enough that time?"

"Well, shit, I don't know. I was hopin' it'd give me a little pep or something." Bob's eyes were watering again, and he looked slightly disturbed. "Made me..." his breath skipped, "sne—sneeze." He recovered in time, but wavered on the edge long enough for Alice to feel the earth move.

He looked a little disappointed that it hadn't come, even. As he glanced up at her in the midst of rubbing his nose, his expression turned distinctly suspicious. "Lookin' at me like that," he murmured, still unable to keep from smiling despite himself.

"You're teasing me."

"I'm teasing—" Bob shook his head, pushing through his disbelief. If anyone was being teased here, his expression seemed to say, it was him. "You want me to sneeze? That'd do it for you?"

Alice shifted. "You didn't seem to mind it so much yourself."

Bob snickered, then laughed again softly as it dawned on him that she was serious. "No, I guess it didn't feel too bad."

"You loved it," Alice accused.

"Yeah?" He grinned. "Maybe you oughta let me try some more..."

Bob reached for the canister, but Alice drew back, just an inch. Bob looked utterly confounded.

"I would," she quickly explained. "Only—"

"Aw, don't be like that."

"No, I would, really..." Bob had started cupping her cheek, her chin, to plead with her. It didn't make speaking easy. "It's just. Like I said, it's an herbal remedy."

"Yeah?" Bob wasn't convinced.

"For colds." Alice tried her best to look concerned. "What if I get sick?"

"Aw, come on, I'm not gonna get you sick." Bob was brushing her hair behind her ears now.

"Yes—" Alice fairly gasped, " well...I'm afraid I just can't spare it..." Managing to disguise her effort, she reached to replace the canister in her purse.

"Hey. Now, you don't want that." Bob held her wrist. There was no power in his grip, but she froze. "You want me to sneeze some more." He sniffed dangerously, roughly—trying to stir up another one? "I know that. Don't put that away." All this he punctuated by stroking her cheek, letting his overlong nails graze her skin, set her face awash with sparks.

Alice opened her mouth to speak. And swallowed. "Well. Maybe if you're very, very good..."

"Mm, good, baby." He pressed a kiss to her cheek, next to his hand.

"...you can have some more later." She replaced the canister and snapped her purse shut.

This was enough to make Bob draw back. He looked bewildered, but he still couldn't wipe the smile off his face. "I'm teasin' you, huh?"

"Kiss me."

Bob's mouth twitched into a wider smile, every moment looking like he might say something, but he only sniffled and leaned in for a kiss.

Alice sighed. He was a wonder to touch. His kisses were ambitious but sincere, and he gasped through their mouths when he couldn't get a breath in his nose. She let him wrap his small frame around her, even as she grew dizzy from all the blood pooling at her center. When she cupped him through his cords, he whined appreciatively and sank his teeth into her lip. She squeaked.

A minute later, though, Bob detached—as she suspected he might. He looked unsure.

"Something wrong?" she panted.

He pawed at his nose. "Don't ask me that like you don't know." Sniff. "I still got a tickle in my nose. I want to—" He sniffed again, looking distracted.

"Do you?" A question to the statement he'd finished, and the one he hadn't.

Bob's ears seemed to perk up. His eyes were wet but focused. "I've been good to you, mama," he ventured. "Haven't I?" An innocent, almost boyish glint of hope.

Alice smiled. She leaned in close. Bob parted his lips, awaiting her kiss. She was pressed against him.

She inclined her head and stuck out her arm, reaching not for a kiss, but for the box of tissues on the nightstand.

As Alice pulled back, purchase in hand, Bob made a sound like a kettle about to boil over. He was champing at the bit—perhaps literally, she thought as she watched his jaw work.

She threw him a line. "There's another way." She plucked a tissue and tried to make quick work of it, twisting from the corner, through her practiced fingertips. "And this way doesn't sting so bad."

"You're—oh." Bob reached down and winced as he gave himself a slightly painful adjustment. "Yeah, I've seen that."

Alice looked up. "Seen what?"

"The, the tissue thing." Bob performed a twisting gesture, a strikingly perfect pantomime of this particular instrument's use.

Oh?

Alice gnawed her lip and looked back down. "Really? Where?"

Bob laughed. "It was John, he showed me. Beatle John, you know him. John."

Alice's heart leapt into her throat. After '61, when she'd given up on the sickly busker from the Bitter End, there was a period...John Lennon. 1963. He had a statue's face. An emperor's profile. She'd wanted nothing more. That nose. And he liked to play around with...and he'd done it in front of Bob...

"He did it to me." Bob gestured again. This time, there was a flick of devilry in it. He knew he had her listening rapt. "Couple a' times, but I got it now. Here, let me do it." He held out his hand.

"Did he really." Alice's heart had plunged from her throat into her stomach. She was breathing harder now, sweating. She didn't hand over the tissue.

Bob giggled, as if he were just seeing the humor in it. "Yeah. Well, I had this bad cold, he was just helping me to, uh." He laughed. "Kinda makes you think, huh? Kinda makes you wonder." He snorted—laughing had knocked something loose. "What he was really after."

"Um..." Alice was panting. "Come here."

Bob saw her brandish the tissue and obligingly stuck his nose out. Very, very good.

She held him by the jaw. He didn't shave too close; his cheeks prickled her fingers. From this distance, she could pick out a few blemishes against his pale skin. Beautiful, she thought. She stuck the wicked point of the tissue just inside his left nostril. And left it there.

Bob rippled with irritation, his face contorting as he fought the urge to snort it out. He twitched his head side-to-side, chasing the bare minimum friction. "You–you gotta—"

"Did you like it?"

Alice barely knew she was going to ask before the question slipped breathlessly past. "When John..."

"Yeah...yeah, I liked it." Bob's voice was light, floaty. He wore a slight frown, his eyes half-shut. His furrowed brow smoothed when he smiled. "I love to sneeze. Feels too good not to. And this cold—" He made a sound of pain and coughed. Alice had wiggled the tool, just a little bit. Just back and forth.

"Go on."

"Um." Bob shut his eyes tight, causing a few teardrops to roll down his right cheek. "I don't remember...what I was—" Now she twitched it again, and kept going, in small pulses, and he couldn't speak through it. His nostrils flared out. His mouth lazed open.

A sharp gasp of warning. Alice stopped. At the very same time, Bob took hold of her thigh. Her jaw dropped to match his. He wavered, fragile as glass. Her skin was on fire.

When it was clear he wouldn't sneeze, Bob surrendered with a light groan. He shook his head, freeing himself from the tool, and glared at her. It was enough to send a chill down her spine.

"What'd you stop for?" he demanded. And sniffled.

"Thought that'd be enough." Her lie ended in a gasp that was nearly a yelp as he gave her thigh a squeeze and slid his hand higher.

"No, you gotta move it around more, get it all the way up there. I'll show ya. Hey." Bob drew her to him with a hand at her back. "Baby, let me show you." Still stroking her thigh. Her blood burned.

Alice swallowed heavily. "You think it's easy with you distracting me?"

"Mm-mm. Don't know what you're talkin' about, babe." He was so close to her that his breath danced over her neck, cooling then warming her. Then she felt his lips. His nose.

Alice forced herself to pull back, certain she'd shatter if she didn't. Wordlessly, she raised the tissue between them. Bob grinned his victory and stuck his nose out.

The first tiny brush of movement had him coughing and staining his cheeks with tears. She wasn't merely teasing now. He was so profoundly affected that, for a while, he didn't try to utter a word.

In an instant, the pitch of his breathing changed. He stammered something that, if allowed to finish, might have been Oh, shit or Oh, Jesus. Instead, he started to sneeze...only to bottle it up into a quiet tremor. He snatched another quick breath and sneezed openly this time, thin and sharp as a willow switch. His hands had been wandering all around her—there was nothing to cover his mouth except her.

"Bless you." Alice could've melted metal.

Bob mopped at his lips and nose with the cuff of his sleeve. He sniffled—a strong effort, but not much got through—and sighed. "Thank you. Thank you, did I get you?" The timbre of his voice had changed to something dull and froggy.

Alice laughed breathlessly and wiped at her face, the front of her blouse. "I'll live."

Bob didn't react except to lean in like he was going to kiss her. But he ground to a halt partway there, dropped his eyes, cleared his throat.

His hand rose above the tops of her stockings.

"Hello." The breath pushed out of her. Bob didn't slow. He followed her smooth skin under her skirt to the hem of her underwear, traced the lace border. Alice's hips moved without her meaning to. She almost wished he wouldn't touch her—she was a swollen mess, he'd know with one touch how depraved she was—but he did. Dead center. She felt the fabric stick. He tested her with a fingertip, and her small shame was engulfed by want. She burned for him to touch her. He must have felt her heartbeat.

Bob let out a faint breath of surprise. "Weren't kiddin', were you?" His glacier eyes locked on hers for a moment, then fell. He felt along her seam with the pads of two fingers, further in, further down.

Alice gasped. She felt sweat and tears gather in her head, fire in her belly. "Bobby." She'd heard her call him that—Joan. The poor woman must have been used to all this. Able to keep her head at times like these. She wouldn't be whimpering, quivering...not from one lousy touch. Not from a couple of sneezes.

"Yeah?" Bob moved in nearer to her. His lips were at her ear. "You want me t'..." He asked with his hand, fine and careful strokes. Alice squirmed.

"Babe—" Bob's voice came out as a rattle. He cleared his throat as gently as he was able, but this close to Alice's ear, it was a rumble. He sniffed. "Baby, you wanna do it to me again?"

Alice drew silent breaths through her open mouth. If she answered she'd break.

"I know you liked it." His mouth twitched on her cheek—a smile. "I like...seein' how you get. Shit..." He was talking so slowly, rubbing her so carefully, Alice had a moment of panic. She couldn't hold out. She twitched away from his hand.

Bob must have thought her hips had bucked of their own accord. He chased her sidestep and stroked her lovingly. "I want to," he added. And sniffled, light and wet.

"Yes." Alice heaved a heartbreaking sigh. She felt the lights of the world dim, felt her heart race. She held his wrist firmly. Bob stopped, and Alice wanted to cry when he did. Her body hurt with want. She ignored the screaming ache and recovered the tissue, fallen on the bedspread.

His hand retreated from her skirt and came to rest on her knee. She saw his fingers and thumb rub together, probably unconsciously, feeling her traces on them.

"Gonna let me do it?"

Just to spite the smug expression on Bob's face, Alice shook her head no.

Bob rolled his eyes, pretending great offense, but he assumed his ready position all the same.

His haughty expression barely flickered when she began to tease at the right side of his nose. He looked defiant, and only more so when the tickle forced him to cringe and weep. This time, he seemed oddly stiff. His cough was like a clenched fist.

"G'nna—"

He was whispering something.

"...Gonna—gonna s-snee—hz...!"

Consciously or not, Bob tightened his grip on her knee as he neared the tipping point. His brow was tightly knit, eyes closed; he couldn't even see her flounder on the spot.

It took one more refrain for Alice to realize he was chanting Not gonna sneeze. Which, judging by his gulping breaths and the way his nose twitched, didn't sound like the truth.

"Oh, really?" Alice lessened her effort slightly. "How do you figure that?"

Bob spent a long while fighting off a sneeze, his breath coming in great bounding gasps, until at last he let out a shuddering sigh of defeat. "Maybe..." He gathered his strength with a heavy sniff and trudged onward. "Maybe I don't want to." He didn't even sound like he had convinced himself.

Alice must have let her disbelief show on her face, because Bob glared at her through his tears and croaked, "Hey, don't slow down."

She let him have it.

Bob winced, then coughed, then swore. He gave little struggling sounds with each breath—coming faster and faster now. Alice's heart was skipping beats. He looked ready to...well.

His hand suddenly slipped in next to hers; to drive her away, she thought. But he just pressed the very edge of a finger under his nose. He wasn't in her way, but still, she tutted. "Cheat."

Bob huffed, perhaps meant to be a laugh or a snappish reply. It only succeeded in chasing away the sneeze that threatened. He groaned.

Heedless of his cheating finger, Alice moved to stick the tissue in his other nostril. As soon as she slipped free, though, Bob made a sound of protest. He shook his head like a dog drying itself off. "Don' stop," he wheezed.

Interested, Alice held back. "I thought you didn't want to."

"I'm tryin' not to, but it feels..."

Alice cried out to feel his hand between her legs again. Too shocked and too hot to even form his name. With clumsy fingers, he felt for lace and drew her soaked cotton to the side.

"You're so wet."

"Fuck, that's..." Alice slapped a hand over her mouth. He traced her cunt, slick and swelling and aching tightly. Her clit. Just a fingertip, but she saw stars. She panted for breath, making the room spin.

"Yeah. C'mon, baby."

Alice had no wherewithal to protest when Bob took hold of her hand and used it to jab the tissue up his left nostril. They both gasped and whined.

"Sorry, honey..." He was moving her hand too, in frantic little circles. He had his own technique. "Can't wait, I can't stand it—" he coughed, "god—!"

He wasn't touching her as faithfully as he had been, but it didn't matter; Alice was trembling. A whisper of a touch would finish her.

Bob exhaled vocally, heaved a sharp gasp—again and again, he dragged her over jagged ups and downs—then he sneezed! They came crashing out on top of each other, three in the space of one, tossing his hair, shaking the bed. As if he were so desperate to let them free, he couldn't wait for one to end before the next began.

It wasn't the triple-sneeze that did her in. It was how he quaked once he'd let go of it. An audible, hair-raising shudder. It was a filthy fucking sound, and Alice quickly followed it, coming on his hand, barely touched, rocking with need.

"Oh," Bob sighed, groaned. "Look at you, you're so fuckin' pretty. Yeah, hey. Baby, god..."

Alice chased his praises with mewling moans. She couldn't summon speech. When her throat dried out, her breath came in fluttery sighs.

He kept petting her even after she was done coming. Lightly, as if to soothe himself. She swallowed, tried to catch her breath. "Bobby," she said, her head on his shoulder.

"Honey, wait just a minute."

Alice started when Bob's hand disappeared and he shifted away. She lacked the breath to ask him what was wrong, but as the haze cleared, she saw him unroll the tissue and press it to his face. He was sniffling.

"My nose." His hands were prayerful, perfectly elegant, almost delicate when they folded the tissue to his nose. "I gotta—"

He shrank like a violet as he blew with force. The sound was thick, awful. But productive. He grunted in apology and tried again, a few times more, until his breath came clear and a small nest of discarded tissues had gathered on the bed.

"Poor dear." Alice knew it was wrong to say, but she couldn't control her tongue. This elfin wisp of a man had somehow grown into an even bigger charity case than the soft-faced train-hopper she'd watched in the café that time. It was starting to get her hot all over again.

Bob wasn't offended—he positively blossomed. Put his face next to hers and let their bodies line up. He still had goosebumps from the sneezing. Alice could see on his neck; on his wrists where they poked out of his sleeves. "You gonna take care a' me?" he nuzzled, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Alice sweltered. She rubbed over the shape of his cock, still trapped in his slacks, felt him pulse and stir and almost whine. "You've been awfully good for me," she said, not answering.

Bob seemed to be having a hard time keeping his eyes open and his mouth shut. He rolled into her touch, helpless to his own needs. "How...how good?" he managed.

Alice put her lips on his ear. "Very, very good."

"Yeah?" His shaking hand covered hers and made her touch him harder, more deliberately. He was hard as a statue, even just from this, and she could feel his blood beat under his skin and clothes. Beat, she thought, does that make me a poet?

Her answer was a kiss. Bob swore freely into her mouth, but his words survived only as tangled moans.

His lips pulled apart from hers a moment. "Wanna...Can I?"

Alice glowed. "Yeah."

At once, his hands were on his zipper. She heard a little sigh of relief once he freed himself from his restraints. Alice started to lean down to admire him, but he was already clambering behind her to work on her skirt. She pulled her blouse over her head.

Many hands made light work. Alice was down to her underthings when Bob said, "Here, gimme the shit."

He was reaching for her purse.

Alice swiveled her head around to get a look at his face, then back to her purse, before she parsed his meaning. "You want—are you sure?"

"I won't take it all," Bob said quickly, shaking his head. "Swear. Just a little bit." He'd started to breathe a little heavy. Could be something to do with his fist around his cock, giving short, rapid tugs.

Alice sat there burning, looking him over, then dove for the jar. With shaking hands, she carefully wrested the lid and held the contents out to him. She feared a spill...but then, she wasn't desperately afraid.

Bob reached out, then stalled. His hand froze. He looked pained, then he stuck out a finger as if bidding her to wait.

Alice trembled. She knew this face by now.

Sure enough, Bob started to inhale. He wedged the back of his hand across his mouth, convulsed once—and held still.

There was so little sound, Alice couldn't tell if he'd squashed it down or simply quelled it before it could materialize.

Bob dropped his hand and let his breath out. "The smell," he explained softly, grinning with shy surprise.

Already? she wanted to say. Maybe you've been over-served. But what slipped out instead was "Bless you." A soft whine. He wasn't the only one over-sensitized, woefully unprepared.

"Thank you," he purred. His voice was getting away from him again. He wriggled Alice's underwear down around her knees, and she grit her teeth to keep from gasping.

Alice's eyes went wide when she saw the incredible handful he'd procured from the tin. A tower of powder. She screwed the lid back on and practically threw the thing away to balance herself with both hands on the bed.

Bob caught her eye and chuckled. "Hold still," he instructed, and piled the powder on the table-top plane of her ass.

Alice heaved a gasp and swore when his nose crashed into her soft skin. Over his snorting and huffing, she could hear wet sounds in time with the trembling of the bed. He was touching himself again, building to speed.

He brought his hand down in a slap, and she squealed, but he was only brushing her off, carelessly swiping away the specks he couldn't suck up, leaving them to settle in the sheets, in the creases of his hand. Alice bit her tongue and whimpered.

Bob coughed gently, then again with spite. "Fuck." His voice went raw in the middle of it; she could hear his throat try to close against the intrusive spice. He took careful breaths.

"You nice and ready for me?" he rasped.

"Yes—yes. Yes." Alice started to answer, but his hand appeared between her legs to check for himself, and soon that was the only word she knew.

He coughed again. "Jesus, baby, you're so—" A worried gasp and a frantic sneeze cut him off.

Alice lurched. It was so sudden, the spray across her back.

Bob grabbed her waist and sputtered out another sneeze, showering her again. "So w—wet–!" he gasped, his voice sailing above his speaking range as he fought what was coming.

He drew a sharp breath, and then no more, and Alice almost believed he had lost it before the sneeze came, abruptly and violently, painting her back.

Alice leaned into the mattress and moaned. She couldn't even...

"Bless me." Bob's voice was dulled, wrecked by his symptoms, but she could hear his smile in it. "God, Jesus fuck, feels...good..." As his breath started to skip, she felt the head of his cock press against her. Without thinking, she reached down, found his hand, guided him in, and they locked together.

"Oh." Bob moaned, heavy with surprise. He pressed into her all he could, squeezed her hips for more leverage. "You feel..." He might have went on, but he was panting heavily, vocally, exerted by sex and wild from the tickle in his nose. He sneezed once, twice in a row and gave a shaking groan before he started to fuck her in earnest. Alice wailed into the sheets. She though she'd hit her peak before, that he couldn't rile her back up again, but this. She was light-headed, dizzy. Helpless.

Bob drove into her, practically singing with pleasure, and started sneezing again. The sneezes came close together, in soft summer-rain whispers and fine mist. They made his body and his voice shake badly. He sucked air like he was drowning and sneezed like he couldn't breathe. Alice loosened her hips and took it, and took it, and bit the sheets and yowled.

As Bob wound up for another, his movements grew stiff. His hips jerked. His breath tumbled in and out, high and loud until he was whimpering, and still it wouldn't come.

"Ah, god," he sobbed, and came like a wave breaking.

Alice's eyes slammed shut as another orgasm shattered through her and she clenched around him. The room, the world seemed to wink out like a star. They cried out to each other until they lost their breath and fell together. Alice waited, curled around him, for her heartbeat to quiet and her ears to quit ringing.

Before that happened, Bob sat up to catch a short, sharp bark of a sneeze in his steepled hands. He let out a mild groan.

"Bless you." It was only too easy.

Bob sniffled and rubbed his forehead. He didn't lie back down. "Don' think there's any more."

Alice rose next to him and filled his hands with tissues.

He flashed her a sheepish grin of thanks, and she drug her nails up and down his back as he cleared out his nose. He'd kept all his clothes on, just undone his slacks. But when she scratched his arms, a shiver tore through him, and she imagined his hair raising all across his body.

Bob made a noise of distress when he spared a glance at the contents of his tissue. It wasn't blood, Alice assured him, just rusty powder. He blew his nose until nothing more would come, but his head was still stuffed. She told him it'd likely stay that way for a while, a day at most.

"Need a cigarette," was his response.

"It'll mess with your throat," Alice offered, knowing it wouldn't sway him.

"No, no, it'll clear my head. Hey, you got a...?"

Alice lit his cigarette and shook out the match. She marveled at his sharp, flushed face, finer and more handsome in catarrh and tears than most were in health. Her hand wandered up the back of his shirt to scratch between his shoulder blades. Sure enough—goosebumps.

"Do you remember the Bitter End coffeehouse?" she asked.

---

Epilogue

What Alice failed to mention was how, after the congestion had gone, the medicated stuff would linger in his sinuses. How his head would drip like a faucet from the time he woke up. How bad the shifting, the draining, and the dripping would tickle. Sometimes it only drove his eyes to water, but more often, it made him sneeze. Throughout the day, there was no telling when it would come. Mornings were almost a guarantee. Things had settled during the night, and suddenly going vertical always made this interesting. It wasn't unlike the first few days of a cold.

Another small detail that Alice seemed to miss was that her particular interest was dangerously, fatally contagious.

He'd always found pleasure in the release provided by sneezing. The relief. He'd step outside on a sunny day and half-scorch his eyes staring at the bright sky, just for the chance to feel something spark and catch and prickle into an itchy sneeze. Two if he was lucky—and he usually was.

It must have been some form of classical conditioning. Ever since he'd messed around with that girl, all he had to do was sneeze once, and it wasn't relief he would feel, but heart-pounding arousal. Quick as a light. And ever since his tryst, they were coming in bunches.

In the dressing room before a show, Bob threw a hand over his mouth and started to sneeze. The first two came out muffled, like he'd tried to hold them in, but the third burst out of him, throwing his head forward.

He shuddered audibly, sounding as if someone had walked over his grave.

Robbie frowned. "You cold?" he asked after a while.

Bob sniffled. "Hm?"

Robbie echoed the shiver, letting his teeth chatter and his shoulders shake. "What's all that for?"

"What, I can't sneeze?"

"Aw, forget it." Robbie went back to the newspaper, accompanied by the gentle sounds of Bob sniffling and occasionally clearing his throat.

[dollarbin]

Dollar Bin #10:

Bob Dylan at Budokan

My famous brother went out on one of his classic limbs this past week and told his approximately 64 million followers that it was time to get excited about Dylan's latest Archive reclamation project. 

The Archives series has already saved Self Portrait and saved the Saved era; now Dylan and my brother want to convince us that Dylan at Budokan, Bob's cheese favored concert album from 78 is a misunderstood classic. 

Without having listened to the entirety of this Dollar Bin mainstay in a few decades I'm going out on a much narrower limb than my brother right now and saying he's wrong.  Wrong! I first picked this record up at my local library in about 90, back when you could still check vinyl records out of libraries. It sucked then, and I say it still sucks now.

Problem is, my famous brother is famous in part because he's never wrong about stuff like this. I told him Saved was unsaveable a few years back and he patted me on the head, chuckling. Then Dylan put out Trouble No More and proved my brother right. I also told him in about 1983 that I would always be taller and more handsome than him. And look what the hell happened.

Point is, my brother knows what he's talking about. He's famous for a reason. And yet! Lately he's been telling me I should listen to Manassas records, claiming that Stephen Stills' other 70's "supergroup" doesn't suck. Well, that sounds like a load of horse crap. Stephen Stills sucks, bro, and so does Dylan at Budokan. 

So let's drop the needle and take a listen. I'll write this entry in real time, beer in hand. May the best brother win.

Side 1

Mr. Tambourine Man opens the album. Every time I try to listen to this record I start here, obviously. I can already see why I don't get much further. The song's arrangement is incredibly complex, and everyone is clearly talented. The opening guitar riff is lovely and returns toward the end to ramble and shine. But why does the flute never, ever stop? If I wanted someone on stage with a magic flute, I'd ask for it, Bob. I'm not asking for a magic flute, Bob. Ever.

Next we've got Shelter from the Storm performed by a strident Greek dramatic chorus. Sounds pretty good, I guess. The song makes sense for ancient masked tragedy. It describes a world of steel eyed death and men fighting to stay warm; they sell the guy's clothes; doom alone counts.  But in-between verses tragedy falls away and Steve Douglas, the man formerly fingering his endless flute, is staggering around like the guy in a fat suit in a Satyr play, his sax beating everyone on the head like it's a giant pigskin phallus.  His name, of course, is Steve; he and Stills outta go and compare their mammoth ding dongs in private: we don't want to see them.

Love Minus Zero follows.  Dylan is suddenly fronting Van the Man's Caledonia Soul Orchestra, one of the best live bands of all time, but Bob has them juggling pineapples and riding unicycles. Rob Stoner, who possesses the best name for a bass player in the history of white people, ignores them all, rocking out underneath. The track is better than I remember, but everyone is still playing hopscotch gleefully during one of my favorite songs of all time, so the album still sucks - so far.

At this point, my famous brother is beginning to tremble with fright because he knows what comes next. Ballad of a Thin Man gives Steve "Must Be Related To Stills" Douglas another chance to slather his sax sized wienerschnitzel with all kinds of mustard and wave it in everyone's face. That thing was meant for procreation, Steve, not for playing with in front of the poor Japanese audience. Jesus Christ, the album is even worse than I remember.

And now it gets even more terrible! It Ain't Me Babe has a rumbling your way to the crapper vibe; something Bob ate is not sitting right inside him and the stage swirls while his drummer's bass drum drops a smoking load all over the floor. 

Okay, bro, sure, the guitar solo mid-song is kinda awesome; but by that point everyone in my house, hell, everyone on my block, has their heads in their hands and is begging for it to stop. Bob's satin jumpsuit needs to be thrown away; no detergent will ever get these stains out. But even so he wants us to know it's alright, it's alright, it's alright!

Time to flip the record, and get another beer. We've got a long way to go.

Side two opens with Maggie's Farm. Never my favorite song, frankly.  The wild thing about this album is how intricate the arrangements continue to be.  Do I like this James-Belushi-running-up-a-series-of-down-escalators-at-full-speed take on the song?  No.  But everyone in the band charges on earnestly, working through reams of intricate lead sheets; even the drumming is perfectly notated so as to induce maximum seasickness.

Now One More Cup of Coffee is a song I always enjoy. It's creepy and seductive, a prequel to Senior, which Dylan must have been working on at this point. But this take replaces the sinister, elusive vibe of every other version with misplaced, chest-pounding bravado.  What's Dylan need another cup of coffee for if the valley below is a place where everyone will gather and cheer while he does clap-as-you-rise push-ups? It sounds like Dylan is surrounded by Bukokan's finest break dancers. My brother stands to one side, cowering in shame.

However, Like A Rolling Stone is actually good here.  This take lays the sonic foundation for much of Street Legal, the well-above-average album of new songs Dylan recorded with this band in the middle of this tour. Here, Douglas channels All Things Must Pass rather than Elvis's laced up leather pants. Sure, he flashes his midsection monster yet again at the end to interrupt a pretty solid guitar solo, but we're thinking about Dylan's great phrasing of the timeless lyrics, not Steve's Johnson.

The verse work on I Shall Be Released gives my brother's cause for further hope, but the chorus turns the song into This Little Light of Mine complete with hand gestures. The song is about dreaming of freedom, Bob. It should not sound like an upbeat prison torture soundtrack.

Speaking of Street Legal, Is Your Love in Vain is as great on this album as you'd expect, maybe better than the studio version at moments, especially when the mandolin elbows in.  The song comes from a particular genre in the Bobosphere: the "Bob Shares Insights into Why He Never Stays Married" genre. The songs are often pretty good in this genre; but the lyrics are by turns offensive, hilarious and (hopefully) ironic. What Was It You Wanted? is a fun member of the club; Something's Burning Baby, is a particularly terrible entry, not because it features tender husband bon mots like, "Something is the matter baby, there's smoke in your hair," but because it's unlistenable. Bob, buy a clue: if your ladyfriend is on fire, don't write a song about it. Rather, go get a hose.

Just in case Bob's not sure, let's tell it to him straight, right here and now: no one wants to be asked if they can cook and sew and make flowers grow for you, Bob. Therefore, no one wants to understand your pain. But we still like your song! 

Okay, we are almost 1/2 way through this record and the score is me 4000, my brother 2. But Going, Going, Gone sounds alright!  We've got a pretty full rewrite going on, and the guitar noodles along nicely.  I'd love to hear Bob Uecker sing this version of the chorus as a ball leaves the yard. 

But then mid-track something wicked and gross this way comes. In what I guess we'll call the bridge, the band veers off Gordon Lightfoot's Carefree Highway and is suddenly going, going, gone into the River Acheron (you know, the one that welcomes all souls to hell).  Moments later, the band regains form, and we are no longer trembling alongside Dante. But then the whole reckless thing restarts and I'd rather get in Charon's boat and compliment his flaming wheel eyes than listen a moment longer.

It's time for side three!

Finally we hear Alan Pasqua front and center on Blowing in the Wind; here he tinkles mysteriously along, going somewhere exciting.  His intricate, conversational and utterly original playing on Murder on Most Foul led me down a lovely internet rabbit hole a few years back.  Somewhere on the net (look yourself, you lazy reader, and bring me another beer while you are at it. I'm busy surviving this experience.) there's a huge and exciting interview with Pasqua all about this tour and his occasional work with Dylan during the past 45 years.  Someone, somewhere in all that reading compared Murder Most Foul to A Love Supreme. The comparison is ridiculous, yes, but it's also interesting. All kidding aside, Dylan has made some of the last century's weirdest and best art. Just not here.

Anyway, this arrangement of Blowing gets increasingly intolerable as the rest of the band comes in; I'd be far more excited to have Dylan work the whole song through alone with Pasqua.

Just Like a Woman sounds nice here; it's another entry in the "I recommend you divorce me" Bobfiles, but if he wanted to play this at my $1000 Wedding I'd be fine with it.  Dylan busts out his harpoon for some classic warbling at the end, setting the stage for the best harmonica playing of his whole career three or four years later on Every Grain of Sand.  Blow Bob, blow! Your catching my brother up!

But uh oh, broheim, Oh Sister is moody and unrecognizable.  Where is this going?  This song has always been one of Bob's most terror inducing.  Is he singing about lying in the arms of his actual sister?  Is Oedipus joining them afterwards for light drinks and conversation?  By the time Steve Douglas fingers his giant, one eyed, Achaean blood sausage yet again everything sounds like the fourth, thankfully edited out, hour of Boogie Nights.  During the final instrumental section things are actually pretty exciting, but I'm glad Bob didn't introduce this one the way he introduces the next ("Here's a simple love story, happened to me...") because if this song and this version are non-fiction there are three headed people in Minnesota descended from Dylan's coupling with some poor sibling.  Yikes. Next track, please.

Simple Twist of Fate is good!  I'd prefer it if Dylan's hotel wasn't "renovated" and I'd be fine without the bridge, but David Mansfield's violin soars nicely towards the end, swimming in a lovely current with Billy Cross's lead guitar and Pasqua's surging organ. Score another one for the famous brother.

What can I say about All Along the Watchtower?  Stoner's bass is bigger here than his bong. Mansfield's violin is awesome; the background vocals are great.  Does this compete with Jimi Hendricks, or the Dylan and the Band version from 74, or the original?  Hell no.  But this is probably my favorite track so far: Dylan gives one of Dylan's most cinematic songs a great reboot.

Wow.  I Want You!  Maybe my brother is famous for a good reason after all.  This take is soulful, unrecognizable and tender.  It nearly wins my brother the whole bet. One of his big claims is that Bob really sings on this record, rather than the shouting he'd done on the previous tours. I concede that point, at least for the moment.

I'm at the bridge now (Remember? All this is being written while I sit here suffering! But this song is amazing so far.) and I'm praying Bob sent his sax player and his unsheathed whispermaphone straight to Tokyo jail.  Ooooh - it's even better than that: Bob's making the guy play recorder instead.  Forget you ever saw the long term tenant in the sax guy's trousers because we're swooning here.  Wow!  If Bob's reissue sounds like this my famous brother is going to be right yet again and I'll be left with Bob's own backyard brood of chickens' eggs all over my face.  Curses!

Side 4

Are there really only four sides so far? How many beers have I had? Do I really have to listen to All I Really Want To Do? It doesn't even crack my top 400 Dylan songs; Handy Dandy holds down number 400 and cannot be budged.  Handy Dandy: he's got an all girl orchestra and when he says strike up the band, they hit it. Love that song....

It doesn't matter if it's Dylan giggling through All I Really Want to Do himself or if World Party are playing hommage to it, I've just never wanted to be friends with anyone while listening to this song.  And this version isn't making me social; a few more minutes of this and I'm gonna go out and punch a neighbor.  Any neighbor. All I really want to do is get to the end of this damn song.

Knocking on Heaven's Door explores whole new realms of terrible. Here's Bob, hawking bananas and other ripe fruits.  He'll show you a yo-yo trick; he'll squeeze your baby's cheeks with affection and scare the hell out of them in the process.  This might be the worst thing on the whole album.  I'm winning, people! My famous brother: infamous. A plethora!

The next track lands like a jiggling jello dropped from a great height.  It's Alright Ma combines with Gates of Eden to form the least tolerable moments of Bob's first golden era of solo folk; sandwiched between two stone cold classics on the acoustic side of his fifth record, they make clear that Bob going electric is a good idea.  But then in 74 Bob sailed It's Alright Ma into his rushing flood of hollered greatness. Even the president of the United States has to love that version.  But here at Budokan, Bob karate chops his way through each verse, surrounded by a flash mob of belly dancers.  I don't want a sensie, Bob. I want this record to end.

Thankfully, we're winding down. My family is no longer begging me to turn this crap off. Forever Young and The Times They Are a-Changing end the album and both sound reasonable here, like leftovers from The Last Waltz's studio sessions, where the fabulously nuts Richard Danko and Richard Manuel were chained down to their desks and ordered to not freak out. Stoner takes one very intentional bass step at a time throughout each track, like he's completing a connect the dots page with fierce concentration. Slowly an image is revealed: a giant, white guy afro in profile: Dylan in 78.

Okay, it's over. Did I win? Of course not! No doubt my brother is right and the reissue will feature more outtakes like this one, leaving him the victor, yet again.

#Youtube #bob dylan #stephen stills still sucks #nippon budokan #dante #hell #gloom and doom from the tomb

[broadsidemagazine]

Newport: The Short Hot Summer (Newpork Folk Festival, 1965)

PHIL OCHS: The trouble with Newport 65 was that too many people forgot that it was supposed to be a festival. The cops were ridiculously harsh and rude. Many city performers were up tight about how well they would do professionally. And juvenile gossip seemed to be on too many peoples’ tongues. It should have been called the Newport Fuzz Festival. If people don't take it so seriously next year it should turn out to be a whole lot better.

NEWS REPORT: This year’s Newport Folk Festival was the biggest ever with 77,000 paid admissions. Festival officials plan to have next summer’s affair run a full week.

CARL MIRKEN (Broadside reporter): Fanatic screaming erupted when Bob Dylan appeared on stage Sunday night. His black leather sports jacket, red shirt, tapered black slacks and electric guitar startled some in the audience and dismayed many. Sight of the Butterfield Band backing him up deepened their dismay. By his third -- and most ‘radically’ rock and roll -- song, there was loud jeering and cat-calls from some parts of the audience. Then a regular battle between boos and cheers. Bob was obviously quite perturbed, the first time I have seen him so in front of an audience. (It must be said that he had rehearsed with the band for only an hour the night before and the poorly-balanced sound system made what could have been a great sound messy). Bob dismissed the band, exchanged his electronic guitar for his more familiar acoustic one. When a cry arose for him to sing “Mr. Tambourine Man” he responded almost apologetically “Okay, if you want me to.” And he did, and then once again he had the oldtime thunderous near-unanimous applause. All in all, it was a dramatic confrontation.

JACK SOLOMAN (manager): Dylan was out of his own element. Butterfield isn't a performer. He just lays down music.

JOAN BAEZ (performer): Tonight Bob was in a mess. He’s really very good. People just don't understand his writing.

CAROL ADLER (copywriter): This is the most hostile audience I've ever seen. I don’t understand it. Dylan completely knocked them out wherever he went in England.

THEODORE BIKEL (performer): You don’t whistle in church -- you don't play rock and roll at a folk festival.

NEW YORK TIMES (Robert Shelton): While the fresh, enthusiastic thousands of teenagers in the audiences comported themselves in a fashion that pleased Newport and festival officials, the conduct of older members of the folk leadership left much to be desired… A folklorist and a personal manager scuffled on the ground over a fine point of courtesy in the folklorist's introduction.

ALAN LOMAX (folklorist): I had been on stage for over three hours and I was hot and tired. At this point I wasn’t emceeing -- I was talking about the blues. When I came off stage there was Al Grossman and he said to me “That was the worst job of emceeing I’ve ever heard in my life.” And I said “It was no worse than some of the things you've done in your life.” Then he said something like “I ought to belt you in the nose.” I pushed my chest up against his and invited him to try it. I don’t remember swinging but there he was stretched out on the ground. Then he jumped up and grappled me around the waist and we were both down, rolling around. By that time people pulled us apart. That’s all there was to it. It couldn't have lasted more than 30 seconds. But I suppose it's already becoming a folk legend. (Editor’s note: The artist who apparently got a somewhat less than perfect introduction from Mr. Lomax belongs to Hr. Grossman’s stable).

CARYL MIRKEN (after the dust settled): The contemporary songs workshop was a high point of the festival, or could have been. It was the most eagerly awaited event and best attended. Large crowds jammed into the area the instant the gates were opened. Co-Host Peter Yarrow in a little speech said the contemporary writers are rightfully folksong writers because the whole folk tradition is with them. But although this was by far the workshop attracting the greatest interest the Newport Board this year seemed deliberately de-emphasizing contemporary songs and their writers. Most conspicuous by his absence from the program was Phil Ochs… Also absent were such of the country's leading topical songwriters as Tom Paxton and Eric Andersen. Also memorable at Newport 65: Joan Baez saluting “Johnson’s marvelous foreign policy” by singing “Stop, In The Name Of Love”... Another side of Pete Seeger: Pete managing to hang in while backing Spokes Mashiyane, the amazing South African pennywhistle jazzman (his music is really called “Kwela” but the closest term we have for it is jazz), along with Chicago blues piano player Lalayette Lee and bassist Willie Dixon. Spokes, who along with Mimi and Dick Fariña was probably the most brilliant performer at this year’s festival was brought to Newport largely through the efforts of Pete Seeger, who discovered him on his world tour a year or so ago… Fannie Lou Hamer: A great human being and a wondrous singer (“Mississippi, land of the tree and home ot the grave”)... Dick & Mimi Fariña holding an enthusiastic audience Sunday afternoon despite a sudden downpour as they sang their “House Un-American Blues Activity Dream”... Mark Spoelstra's new songs… Donovan the import from Britain is certainly much more than just an “imitation of Bob Dylan”. Donovan has his own style; his imagery is clear and meaningful without any trace at Dylan's semantic obscurity. Aside from his music Donovan is the sweetest, most “natural” guy going… John Koerner's parody of the gambler-sheriff song.

(Broadside #61, August 1965)

#newpork folk fest #newpork folk festival #newport folk festival 1965 #bob dylan #phil ochs #1965 #60s #broadside #broadside magazine #broadside ballads #dylan #joan baez #richard farina #mimi farina #pete seeger #newport #newport folk #folk music #folk #folk magazine

[gerogerigaogaigar]

Oh snap it is top ten time! These are the ten greatest albums of all time according to Rolling Stone magazine. Are they right about these choices or are they complete fuckups? Thank God I'm here to tell you all about this shit.

#10

Lauryn Hill - The Miseducation Of Lauryn Hill

Where to start? Miss Lauryn Hill deserves more. She was the star of the Fugees and her solo debut, this album, is one of the highest achievements in the genre of hip hop and soul but oh how suddenly halting your career will get people to stop talking about you. The Miseducation Of Lauryn Hill is more than just a strong debut it is the perfect blending of hip hop and neo soul. It is what Hill started on The Fugees album The Score and makes it into something all her own. She switches between rapping and singing so fluidly that you don't even always notice it, but at the same time they don't sound anything alike. Hill is so beautiful with her rich contralto voice but when she switches to rapping she hits with an incredible staccato that usually contain copious Jamaican patois. But her style isn't what's new here, you heard her rap and sing on The Score after all. When given the freedom of an album all to herself Lauryn Hill gets deep into the politics of love, career, and family. And she comes at it from the distinct angle of a woman struggling to be successful in a male world. She talks about her pregnancy, the collapse of Fugees, past heartbreaks, she criticizes the hip hop industry, and she does it all without adopting the masculine kayfabe that most other female rappers of the 90s did. Lauryn Hill never once compromises her personal vision for her life and her music. And that's why she never followed this one up. She chose her family and raising a child over fame and if you listen to the lyrics on this album its obvious that she was gonna do that. I have to respect someone who has music as a passion and didn't want to fit that passion into a commercial box. Miseducation was always gonna be best as a one off thing and it is as good of a hip hop album as we are ever gonna get.

#9

Bob Dylan - Blood On The Tracks

1975, a decade after Dylan shook his fanbase by going electric. Bob Dylan had put out a couple good but not super successful albums with The Band but his career was realistically sundowning at this point. I suspect that this is a major factor in how Blood On The Tracks has been received over time. Receiving middling reviews upon release and then skyrocketing to the top of many best album lists in later decades. How uncool must it have been to admit that Bob Dylan released one of his best albums in 1975? Blood On The Tracks retains some of the production cleanness of his electric era, but the instrumentation is much more akin to his first few albums. Another thing that I think people may like about this album is that it is less lyrically obtuse than most other Dylan albums. That isn't to say that it's crystal clear straight forward storytelling but it isn't as cryptic as say A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall. Now here's the thing. I think Blood On The Tracks is a little overrated. It is a great album by a great artist, but it doesn't carry the sincerity or creativity of his earlier work. This isn't a new frontier anymore and while Dylan has matured as a musician it doesn't really change the fact that he's writing a bunch of songs about his marital troubles just like every other 70s rocker. Dylan just does it with a much better vocabulary and without talking about his penis. Still I would be a huge jackass to suggest that this is a bad album and if you, like myself, are horny for Bob Dylan's extremely long numbers then the song Lily, Rosemary, And The Jack Of Hearts is one of my favorites of his.

#8

Prince And The Revolution - Purple Rain

Oh yes. Fuck yeah! I couldn't agree more with this choice. Purple Rain is a completely transcendent album. Prince is always an immaculate performer but in Purple Rain he is just so much more extra. Every drum beat is more intense, every lyric more wild and sexual, the funk more unfettered. Prince screams in sensual agony constantly. His vocals dynamics more pronounced than on any other pop album ever recorded. And then there's the guitar. Did you know that Prince was one of the most skilled guitarists ever? He rips solos regularly in this album that put most metal guitar virtuosos sound like amateurs. Prince's career had done nothing but catapult from the very beginning and it all seems to have been building up to this moment. The bombast of the music, the flamboyant persona, the movie tie in to this fucking album. Prince had it all.

#7

Fleetwood Mac - Rumours

Can you even fucking imagine? You are in one of the greatest bands of the 70s, you are in the middle of a divorce and you're in the studio doing backup vocals on a song your ex wrote about how done she is with your shit. Being in Fleetwood Mac must have been wild. The two separate divorces that were happening while this album was being written really made for some of the best music of all time. It's not just breakup music either it's "I've moved past this" music, it's "I genuinely wish you well and hope we can still be friends" music, it's "you broke a sacred promise when you broke my heart and now I'm feral" music. All done in an intensely calm until it isn't calm anymore country/folk rock style. And it's all extremely catchy and memorable. From the eerily detached Dreams, to the jaunty Never Going Back Again, or the intense American gothic of The Chain and Gold Dust Woman. These songs are going to get stuck in your head. Fleetwood Mac were nothing if not accomplished songwriters and if that meant playing bass on a song about your ex's new boyfriend then godammit you better lay down a hell of a bass line!

#6

Nirvana - Nevermind

By all rights nothing should have propelled a band like Nirvana into the mainstream. They existed in a niche genre tucked inside of a niche genre. But something about Nevermind hit just the right chord with gen x. The music industry changed overnight with record labels rushing to sign and promote alternative artists and so the very notion of indie music went up in smoke for decades. If you think I'm being overdramatic or mythologizing too hard understand that this no name band of punk rockers knocked Michael Jackson off the top of the charts. The music industry of the early 90s was a very different place, major labels had the whole thing on lockdown, and this should have been an all but impossible move.

So what is this music that turned the industry upside down overnight? What is grunge? It really is just punk but with an anti-macho sensitivity and some influence from alt rock bands like R.E.M. and Pixies. It's lyrically witty and evokes both a fear of the mundane and a disinterest in the interesting. Cobain roasts mainstream audiences that have latched to alternative music (In Bloom), he paints a surreal portrait of middle class banality (Breed), and sings about the disenfranchisement of his generation (Smells Like Teen Spirit). What Cobain does that is interesting is always write from the point of view of who or whatever he is criticizing. Polly disturbingly portrays sexual assault from the point of view of the assaulter, Lithium has its main character be a Christian convert to show how religion can be a vice.

Musically Nirvana's brand of grunge is very punk, but there is a quiet loud dynamic that suggests, possibly coincidentally, emo as well. The distortion is heavier than almost any other alternative band and influence from recent tour mates Sonic Youth is probably partially responsible. Especially with the high wetness levels that the guitars frequently hit. There is also an undeniable hint of country twang that kind of permeates grunge music in this unstated way. You can certainly hear it on Polly and Come As You Are, but it's like an unseen specter surrounding all of Nirvana's music. I have a near infinite number of thoughts on the grunge movement and I may have let a few too many leak into what is supposed to be a review of a single album, but oh well, whatever, Nevermind.

#5

The Beatles - Abbey Road

With the impending breakup of the band looming over them The Beatles felt freer than ever before. The resulting album is in turn one of their happiest, their most unfettered, and probably their most unhinged. While there are a couple of relatively normal tracks in there, the love ballad Something, the dramatic Oh! Darling, or the sweet and hopeful Here Comes The Sun, a lot of the album is populated by weird shit. The jaunty murder ballad Maxwell's Silver Hammer truly feels like there was no point other than to go "hey wouldn't this be fucked up or what?" The nearly eight minute I Want You (She's So Heavy) is way too close to being stoner metal than anything by The Beatles should be and is my absolute favorite Beatles song. And then there are the surreal Because and Sun King the former of which is a psychedelic nightmare and the latter being much the same but with nonsense lyrics at least partially in Spanish for some reason. The musical diversity is very high with most of the songs on the first half of the record not sounding anything like each other. The second half contains a trilogy of medleys and is the more interesting half of the album in my opinion. You Never Give Me Your Money is split into three movements, which is such a McCartney move, and it transitions smoothly into Sun King. Then the rock n roll medley of Mean Mr. Mustard, Polythene Pam, and She Came In Through The Bathroom Window which all flow together so cleanly that they are essentially one song. I gotta respect the titular Mr. Mustard for shouting obscenities at the queen. What a legend. The final trilogy of songs that are also mixed together make up a sort of farewell for the band. They are clearly meant tow be the last song on the last Beatles album (Let It Be came out after but Abbey Road was the last recorded). So it's very funny that the album ends on an incomplete ditty that was accidentally tacked onto the record due to a clerical error.

#4

Stevie Wonder - Songs In The Key Of Life

The sessions for this album produced so many tracks that they couldn't even fit it all on a double album so it came with an extra 7" disc containing the last four songs. You'd definitely think an album that long would get tiring but no. Absolutely not. From the very first notes to the end, an hour and forty five minutes later, it is a masterpiece of 70s funk/soul. And even though the album runs longer than the average feature film when it ends you will be disappointed there wasn't more.

Wonder explores his main two sides, political activism and emotional maturity, to their fullest extent. The political side most ardently on Black Man, a song that argues for racial equality by listing the accomplishments of American men and women of all races and stating that we have all contributed to our society so we should all be treated equally. And on the emotional end Isn't She Lovely is the most beautiful and heartfelt love song ever written. Wonder wrote the song about his newborn daughter and her giggles can be heard in the recording. It is the sweetest thing I have ever heard.

#3

Joni Mitchell - Blue

Joni Mitchell's talent as a Singer cannot be overstated. She can jump octaves with apparent ease and move between smooth melodic phrases to cheeky staccato recitative in a heartbeat. She uses these beautiful vocal skills to lead us through ten confessional songs about heartbreak and breakups. As cliche as that sounds she has a beautifully poetic sense to her lyrics that help display a complex breadth of emotions.

Mitchell didn't just get more personal for Blue she also picked up some new musical tricks. She plays with open tunings on several songs l and makes notable use of the Appalachian dulcimer on Carey, California, and A Case Of You. Mitchell isn't quite in her jazz experimentation era yet, but a tendency for blues chords and improvised vocal flourishes show that it was always a part of her. Perhaps that buried sense of bluesiness trying to escape is reflected in the songs about trying to move on and escape.

#2

The Beach Boys - Pet Sounds

It's probably easy to look at Pet Sounds, see nothing more than some 60s pop rock and not think twice about it. What is it that has Pet Sounds always placing at or near the top.of these lists? Is it just some old men's nostalgia? Well, probably to some degree sure. But this is more than just an album with a disproportionate number of catchy hits on it. Brian Wilson was an eccentric perfectionist who constantly saw himself as being at war with The Beatles. The Beach Boys always had to be topping whatever The Beatles put out and they had recently released Rubber Soul, their first album that felt fully cohesive as an album. Brian Wilson stepped it up a notch adopting the theory of "the studio as an instrument". Every track on Pet Sounds is meticulously crafted from the writing to the performing to the mastering, and it manages to achieve a level of precision and perfection in every one of those fields that it cannot realistically be argued that it isn't a perfect album.

The albums arrangements feature some very interesting instrumentation, bike horns, and coke cans amongst the more traditional but still interesting tack piano, harmonium, and french horn. The album also features orchestral arrangements, but they are rendered in a more rock oriented style creating something in between doo wop and chamber pop. In terms of composition the tonality of most of the songs is vague. Few have a particular key and instead float around a tonal center. This contributes heavily to the albums dreamlike, hazy sound. The songs are so tight and focused though that the tonal vagueness just reinforces the emotional uncertainty of the lyrics. Meanwhile the drums, and instrument that you usually associate with, y'know keeping time, is used here to create texture rather than rhythm. The fills are used very tonally, almost like how Joe Morello approaches drum solos on Time Out.

Bringing it into the studio Wilson himself lead most of the production and was inspired by Phil Spector's wall of sound. What Wilson does that is not revolutionary by modern standard was make sure every song on the album was mastered in a way that made them sound like they all came from the same album. Compared to other albums from the era it made Pet Sounds seem more like a classical song cycle than a rock album. Nearly every artist followed suit which makes it impossible for us to really hear how unique Pet Sounds was at the time.

The only surprise about Beach Boys being at this place on the list is that it wasn't at number one.

#1

Marvin Gaye - What's Going On

"Mother, mother there's too many of you crying / brother, brother, brother there's far too many of you dying"

The opening line of this album is clearly as relevant today as it was in 1971. The whole album is writhing with fear and confusion over the state of the nation, Vietnam, the civil rights movement and the violent intersection between the two that saw US citizens shot dead in the street by their own government. Perhaps the fine line toed by What's Going On is best summed up by this quote from Four Tops singer and title track cowriter Obie Benson "My partners told me it was a protest song. I said 'no man, it's a love song, about love and understanding. I'm not protesting. I want to know what's going on.'"

The number one thing that What's Going On understands is that protest has to be an act of love. It doesn't spend as much time on the acts of police brutality as it does on the people actually affected. It talks about environmentalism because we need a planet for future generations to live on. Marvin Gaye sees everything that is going wrong and says 'we can get over this, it will be okay if we can work together to fix this'. Affected by the trauma his brother experienced in Vietnam Gaye made his protest album a concept album about a Vietnam veteran coming home only to find suffering and hardship.

Musically Gaye uses a lot of repeating motifs and lyrical phrases, especially the titular question of what's going on?, to link all the songs thematically. The songs all running together in a gospel soul song cycle.

#500 album gauntlet #lauryn hill #bob dylan #prince #fleetwood mac #nirvana #the beatles #stevie wonder #joni mitchell #the beach boys #marvin gaye #im finally free of the witches curse

[rue-bennett]

I also believe Chalamet’s career will get better once he turns 30 because he’s in his transition from “teenager heartthrob” to serious actor. His role in the Bob Dylan biopic might be the start of it all because he does a visual change (as we’ve seen in the pictures) so this movie needs to rely on his acting and not his good looks. I think this movie will prove if he is the type of actor that can change his voice tone and be a bit more versatile with his appearance.

I believe too that he has grown into his body (?) and now looks a bit older than he did a little bit ago so I think he could now pass as a father in a movie and no one would think it’s weird.

While it’s not the same career AT ALL and the levels of fame aren’t the same it reminded me of Leo DiCaprio when he was nearing his late 20s. Sure, Leo on his 20’s had already done Romeo + Juliet and Titanic, and that made him an international star. He was the Global star of the 90s but he was still very much considered a heartthrob for the female audience. He did Marvin’s room and The King of The Iron Mask but that didn’t give him much. He did The Beach and it was still a more heartthrob role.

It was when turned 29/30 that he changed the type of roles so much and in his early 30s he made Gangs Of New York, Catch Me If You Can, Aviator, The Departed, Blood Diamond - that was an insane roll out and solidified him as one of the best actors alive. If Timothee choses his next roles well, he can be on the right track. And I think Dune helping him too because his role isn’t a romantic hero but an anti hero.

Yes I agree! He's still in that transitional stage but he's kinda going from like Teen Star to Movie Star these past couple years and I think he's done w Teenager roles now. And agreed, he still looks young but that's just his build tbh, he looks his age though finally. AGREED. The Bob Dylan movie has huuuge risk/reward for him and his career. I'm excited to see it.

No but I do think the early career Leo comparisons are fair and imo, thus far Timothee has pretty clearly modeled his career after him? Obviously with distinct differences and there's never going to be A Leo again imo, same with Titanic, etc. But yes!!! He definitely was always seen as a good actor afaik but very teen heartthrob and not a serious actor until he started looking older and taking on I guess just more mature roles in that sense. He's fucking fantastic and still is.

Yup, so much of it is about choosing your roles well, and killing it every time (like Leo. His iffy dating life is a joke, but his work is not). Agreeeed, Dune is v layered and complex and Adult but also universally kinda loved. It isn't Star Wars, it's... idk. Serious Star Wars lol. (I know it isn't. But it kinda is.) It also shows that he can do action as well. I feel like he's dabbled across genres pretty well so far actually, and proven himself strong in them all.

I'm just so curious about what his career will be like in a few years, and the other up and coming actors currently. There's a lot to be excited about tbh, even though stardom is different than it was.

I don't remember if I brought him up the other day, but I feel like Josh O'Connor is another guy on the verge of being more known. The Crown def helped and tbh I love that he sticks to indies and chooses great scripts and directors. I can't wait for La Chimera, it sounds insane and interesting. And of course the gay romance movie The History of Sound w Paul Mescal. (Which honestly respect him going from All of Us Strangers to Gladiator 2 to another gay drama lmao.) They also all bring smth different but I think sensitivity is one thing.

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[harmonicabisexuals]

7 and 23 for the musical asks game!

*shows up three days later with coffee* sorry i was busy and forgot about this ask lmao

7. do you prefer cds, streaming, or vinyl?

I actually have a very complex answer to this lol...I definitely always prefer physical media over streaming but I am also a hypocrite who loves the convenience and portability of streaming so I still have an apple music account and use it almost every day. That being said, there are some albums that are just MADE to be listened to on vinyl and I am very proud of my vintage vinyl collection and very sad I had to leave 98% of it at my parents house bc I just recently moved to Europe. (for example, one of my most unpopular opinions is that I actually like the wall of sound production on ATMP, but I also think it sounds so much better on my original press vinyl than it does on streaming, so that makes me wonder if the medium people are listening to 60s/70s albums on are influencing their opinions on them, particularly on their sound and production). On the other hand, I have mixed feelings about the current vinyl boom bc while buying physical media is always good, in my experience a lot of these new albums that often come out with multiple limited edition vinyls (ex. taylor swift) are 1) not produced in a way to sound the best on vinyl since everything is done digitally these days, and 2) the actual quality of vinyl presses has gone down SO much even in just the past 5 years that a lot of these new releases and even new presses of older albums just sound shitty or have skip problems right out of the package. Seriously, I started buying vinyl around 2014 and I never had these types of problems with brand new presses until the last 3 years or so. So in that case, now if I really like a new release album enough to buy a physical copy of it and I think the production style won't translate as well on vinyl and/or I don't trust the company that does the vinyl pressings for the artist I'll buy it on CD instead!

23. how did you discover your favorite artist?

It's impossible for me to choose a definitive favorite artist but I am deep into a Bob Dylan phase rn because my life is very stressful and uncertain atm and his whiny singing and blaring harmonica always relaxes me lmao. so I guess we'll go with that. I first discovered bob in high school when I listened to "like a rolling stone" and it literally altered my brain chemistry. so I always loved that song and a few others here and there but never really did a deep dive on him (I think I tried to listen to highway 61 revisited and blonde on blonde and didn't really Get It at the time) but about a year ago I started listening to Joan Baez and I fell in love with her and her bob covers, and I was like okay maybe I'll give him another shot and then weirdly enough I stumbled across "shelter from the storm" after rewatching jerry maguire dkfsjkdf and listened to all of blood on the tracks and the rest is history <3

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