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ushizaki-urumi · 5 years

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I finally wrote down the backstory for my new D&D boy and I’m honestly pretty proud of it

Rupert Fribens

Rupert, a half-elf born under the Grace Star while the Muse Constellation was at its highest. He was conceived 9 months before, on the night of the festival of Milil (known as The One Who Watches While Music is Alive, and The Guardian of Singers and Trobadours). Milil was pleased by Rupert’s mother (Rehan)’s song she sang at his alter he took notice of her and her husband (Rupert’s father, Grandeth) a talented Mandola player. Together Rehan and Grandeth preformed pieces of masterfully composed songs of praise and worship to Milil for long into the night. When they went home late after the festival was over, Milil came to the couple and offered them a gift for their devotion and skill. It is unclear what proceeded that night, but the result led to Rehan carrying her first and only child.

Centuries ago a prophesy was told of a child kissed by Milil in the womb would be born under the Grace Star while the Muse Constellation was at its highest. This child would possess the power and talent that only a son of Milil would wield. The child was said to have developed in a womb filled not with water, but with the tears people wept when they were moved by music. The prophesy was almost lost to the ages, but a man (Rupert Sr.) from half the continent away found reference to it in an old woman’s diary that had found its way into the Royal Library.

Excited by the prospect of wielding such power, he planned to take the child for his own. He drove himself half insane by researching nonstop for information of where this child was to be born. Finally, within months of the foreseen celestial alignment, he was sure of where the child must be. He traveled across the land until he finally came to the small village where Rehan and Grandeth lived. Two month’s prior to his arrival, the child had been born. He was born with skin as pink as a rosebud and a cry that was said to be fairer than a harp.

In the dead of night Rupert Sr. stole the child away and made off with him. He took the infant back to his home half the continent away, and named him after himself, Rupert. He planned on raising him to obey his commands. Rupert Sr. thought he now had control over the tool that would grant him the power to overtake the land. But, this did not go according to plan, for Rupert constantly wailed. His gentle cry so lovely back in his parent’s protection grew shriller and shriller by the day. Rupert Sr. slowly began to lose the remnants of his sanity, tortured day and night by the child’s scream.

At the age of 3, Rupert Sr. could take no more. He reasoned that a child gifted by Milil would never make such dreadful sounds. Rupert Sr. abandoned Rupert in the streets, leaving the toddler with nothing but the clothes on his back.

Instead of dying as Rupert Sr. had predicted, Rupert flourished once he was free of the man who had taken him away from his family. He was brought up by other orphaned children living on the streets. An older boy of 12 had found preforming in the streets earned him money, and encouraged the other children to do as such.

As if gifted by Milil himself, Rupert found a rose gold flute in a bed of thornless roses. He began to play, and found himself to be a natural master. Rupert preformed and earned so much money he was able to support the other children on his own. As he grew, he began to see himself as the leader of the pack of orphans. He felt responsible for them, and encouraged them to educate themselves in the way of the performing arts so they could eventually raise enough money to be independent and successful.

When he was 7, he had trained the entire flock of orphans to play the flute well enough to earn the respect of the town they lived in. They came to be known as The Birds of Greydawn (the name of the town) and were occasionally privileged enough to play in small taverns and restaurants as the main entertainment.

When Rupert was 14, a young child, recently orphaned, joined his troupe. This child’s name was John Whitebird. Like the other children, Rupert trained him in the art of music. Whitebird took quickly to the flute and soon became a master. With his charismatic personality and quick whit Whitebird became beloved among the townspeople, and he was adopted into a well-off family. He grew to become the greatest “Rockstar” bard in the land, fame and fortune beyond imagination.

Whitebird never forgot the kindness of his teacher Rupert even after his face was plastered on posters all over the country. Whitebird donated a great deal of money to the homeless of Greydawn, and the orphans in the streets were finally able to find safety and shelter in charities that could care for them. As for Rupert himself, now 16, Whitebird gifted him with the privilege of living along side him. Whitebird, although frequently away on performing tours, never lost his admiration for Rupert after they grew distant from lack of contact.

Finally, Whitebird found himself unwilling to return to Greydawn, as he had found himself a wife in another country. He left the entirety of his estate in Rupert’s hands. Rupert, living nothing but a stable life, had no reason to preform in the streets for money any longer, and gradually his reputation faded until almost no one could remember his talent. And so he came to become the shadow of Whitebird, a forgotten Masterful teacher of the most famous bard to have ever lived.

But, Rupert did not care… for he was an idiot.

#posting it here just for funsies #because i had a lot of fun writing it

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odderancyart · 6 years

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On a Never Resting Sea

Chapter XIII: Partial Escape

First Last Next

AO3

Summary: Razz, the heir of the Beobyrian Empire, is on his way home from a diplomatic mission as his ship gets attacked by pirates. Suddenly he finds himself taken as hostage, and it doesn’t seem like the pirates are planning to exchange him for a ransom anytime soon. How annoying.

Warnings: violence, death, blood, hostage holding, kidnapping, prostitution

A thousand thoughts went through Red’s mind as he quietly left the office behind. None of them was even nearly coherent, changing direction and yelling out-of-context sentences nonstop. He had no idea what he was supposed to do as he pressed back tears and left his brother and almost-sister behind. Swallowing, he walked without thinking where he was going, posture tense and shoulders hunched. Someone greeted him, but he didn’t bother to find out who as he raised a hand in return. Suddenly Red stopped, realizing where he was. In the hallway outside Razz’s cabin. He wasn’t sure whether he had gone here because Razz was here or because this was where his brother used to be before he moved into Undyne’s cabin, but his soul pounded in his chest as he stared at the door.

Razz wouldn’t want to see him. He wasn’t stupid, he understood that. Yet he wanted nothing more than to explain to the other, and almost robotically he moved toward the door as his soulbeat continued to fill his head with noise. Hardly breathing, Red put a hand on the door to open it when the sound of gut-wrenching sobs reached him through the wood. He froze. The insides of his stomach coiled, it felt like they were trying to strangle themselves. It hurt to hear. His vision was blurry as he forced himself to take a deep breath and open the door.

Razz was lying on the frankly gigantic bed, face buried in a pillow. His body was trembling violently and his breathing laboured, gasping. A pair of heeled boots were thrown carelessly on the floor. The empress seemed to growl when he noticed Red’s presence and without looking up from the pillow he hissed, “GO TO HELL.”

Despite how his throat tightened and how he mostly wanted to leave, to run to the other side of the ship and cry, Red shook his head. A few tears dropped down his cheeks.

“ra- your majesty, please let me expla-“

He was interrupted as Razz sat up quickly. The other’s face was tearstained, full of purple smears. His eyes were ice cold. Red stared at him in desperation as Razz wiped away the tears from his cheeks, despite how they continued to fall. His guts tightened a little more as Razz’s stare didn’t waver even as his body shook.

“You,” Razz hissed, his eyes narrowed and the single word almost strangled by another sob. The viciousness behind it caused an involuntary whimper to escape Red. It only made the other look even more disgusted. “How dare you show your face here, you fucking ASSHOLE?”

The words were almost shrieked, in particular the last one, and in the same moment Razz’s hand shot out and grabbed one of the books on the bedtable. Red’s sockets widened and he quickly sidestepped as the book flew past his head. The thump when it hit the wall witnessed that it had been a hard throw. He gasped quietly and opened his mouth to try to speak again.

“WHAT?”” the empress screeched, head turning violently from side to side as he seemed to look for more ammunition. “”COME TO TRY TO TRICK ME INTO BELIEVING IT WASN’T ALL A LIE? THAT YOU ACTUALLY CARED FOR ME? THAT YOU’RE NOT DOING THIS TO STEAL MY TREASURES AND TARNISH MY HONOUR? GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY CABIN.”

“your majesty, please-“ Red tried again, but to little result as Razz flew out of the bed and grabbed an inkwell at the desk. His soul skipped a beat as the bottle flew toward him, and with a crash it hit the wall. Black ink dripped along the wall, down on the floor. Tears raced down Razz’s cheeks when he turned to Red again, pointing a sharp finger toward the door.

“GET OUT!” he yelled, voice cracking slightly. There was a miniscule spark of purple fire in his socket before it was extinguished once more. Even as Red’s soul ached, he couldn’t help but feel intrigued by the fact that a spark of magic had managed to escape the suppressor.

There was a flash of blue and black flying toward him. Razz appeared to have run out of ammunition and launched himself at Red instead. Instinctually, he raised a hand and caught the other’s soul with Blue magic. Razz shrieked again, and as he realized the position he was in – powerless – his chin trembled before a sob escaped him, wrecking his body.

Red’s cheek tickled as a tear dropped down, but he didn’t let Razz go. Perhaps he could get to explain himself, “please, listen to me-“

A hand grabbed the collar of his coat, wrenching him backwards. Red choked as his shirt pressed at his throat, and he immediately dropped the other. Razz let out a hiss as he hit the floor. He looked the empress’ way before a hand grabbed his cheek and jerked his head upwards. Scarlet dots glowed at him, from his brother’s narrowed sockets. Fell looked furious as he forced Red to look at him. Another tear tickled his cheek as Fell cast a glance toward Razz.

“MY SINCEREST APOLOGIES, YOUR MAJESTY,” Fell said as he hoisted Red into his arms. He didn’t fight back, his body feeling numb as he turned his eyelights toward Razz, who had crossed his arms defensively over his chest and stared out the window while gritting his teeth. “IT WON’T HAPPEN AGAIN.”

The door closed behind them with a very final thump after Fell had kicked it. Red’s throat burned from forced down sobs. Even more so as he found that a small crowd had gathered, and he forced a grin back on his face no matter how painful it felt.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU WOULD DO SOMETHING SO STUPID, BROTHER,” Fell admonished him. He only nodded vaguely in reply. “I HATE TO DO THIS, BUT SUCH DISREGARD OF RULES AND YOUR OWN SAFETY CANNOT BE ACCEPTED. YOU WILL BE DOING THE DISHES THE NEXT WEEK.”

“aw, c’mon, bro,” he mumbled, not even caring. It was just a show for the crew. Fell glared at him, sympathy hidden in those shining eyelights. The glare, too, was a show. Of course Fell had figured it out, he was so perceptive. Red sighed. “understood, sir.”

His sockets burned with tears as the door closed. As soon as it did, he relaxed, and the trembling started up anew. Razz gasped for breath as he sagged a few steps backwards, sinking down on the bed again. He wiped his cheek again, to little result.

How could Red come in here again? That was just cruel.

When they arrived in port the sky was dark. A storm was approaching once again, but this time the crew was going to wait it out in the harbour. Not that Razz cared; he’d gladly see them all drown. Night was falling as well, and the combined blackness made him unable to see much as he stepped out on deck. The glowing lanterns and lamps from the houses in port was the only source of light. His heels clicked against the deck, accompanied by the similar noise of Fell’s, as he walked toward the gang-plank without bothering to even glance at the crew.

Like last time, he was wearing trousers. He was also wearing a leather coat which only had fur on the inside to lessen the risk for the inconvenience of someone trying to rob them. Two crewmembers walked behind him and Fell, carrying one of his chests. If he was going to stay in port then he obviously needed his things.

Fell guided him through the port without speaking much, which was appreciated. Razz had no wish to talk with any of the pirates, and most of the words that were uttered were “This way, Your Majesty,” and “Next left, Your Majesty,” whispered so quietly no one else could hear. Behind them the pirates carrying the chest walked, and a distance behind the pirates who would act as Razz’s jailers while he was on land. Red’s replacements.

The parlour came into view, soft yellow light shining through the many windows. There was a huge sign writing out ‘OPEN’ on the door, complete with a painting of someone walking in a door for the many illiterate that must reside in this town. Loud music, complete with singing, reached them from the inside. The lyrics were hard to make out, but Razz got the gist. They weren’t the kind of folksongs that were about love and adventure, to say the least. For an instant, he hesitated. Wondered if this was a good idea. Then Fell cleared his throat behind him and he squared his shoulders and ripped the door open. He was not going back to the ship.

The warmth hit him as soon as he stepped over the threshold. The music got louder and marry laughter echoed between the wooden walls. Studying the scene in front of him, Razz quickly found the owner behind the bar. A troubadour was sitting on a table, playing on a mandola. The customers seemed happy enough. Workers were everywhere, doing their thing. He saw one who was hanging over a sailor’s shoulder, another who were doing quite unsavoury things to a monster. Things that should not be done in public. Razz had to turn his gaze away, blushing profusely. Then he found the one he was looking for.

The prostitute in question was grinning widely, lewdly, where he was straddling a human’s lap and grinding their hips together. A blue glow came from beneath the very revealing skirt as he leaned in and pressed a skeleton kiss to the human’s cheek. His customer was leaning backwards, studying Blueberry with a lazy smile. The human said something, which caused the prostitute’s grin to widen yet a little more and he licked his teeth.

Razz closed his sockets, and took a deep breath. Better just get out of this den of sin. He turned to Fell, who nodded, “I WILL GO PAY MUFFET AND INFORM HER ABOUT YOUR STAY. YOU CAN TAKE THE WHORE.”

The absence of title was noted; in here Razz wasn’t allowed to be the queen. He had already been warned about the consequences of revealing it; the denizens of this town did not like the imperial family. They were quite the hindrance in their illegal activities, after all. He nodded shortly before striding over to Blueberry, who now was panting slightly, light blue tongue sticking out between his teeth. Neither whore nor customer noticed him. Without warning, Razz grabbed Blueberry’s arm, and his half-lidded sockets flew open and he froze in his tracks. His sockets widened as he turned, bewildered, and saw Razz at his side.

Without a word, Razz basically tore him down from the human’s lap. The human protested loudly, but was very much ignored as Razz dragged the other toward the rooms. His grip on Blueberry’s wrist was hard. The prostitute spluttered slightly as he was manhandled but followed with an ease that proved he was used to it.

“YOU’RE MINE FOR A WEEK, LONGER IF NEEDED,” Razz informed him without changing expression. He glanced back at the other. “FELL IS PAYING RIGHT NOW. I WILL BE STAYING FOR A WHILE.”

The completely befuddled and confused expression on Blueberry’s face was comical enough to make Razz’s mouth twitch despite his broken heart. Then his sockets widened some more, and he gaped.

“A week?” he asked incredulously and Razz rolled his eyelights.

“YEAH, A GODDAMN WEEK. FUCKING FULL PRICE, TWENTY-FOUR HOURS AROUND, NO SEX INCLUDED,” he muttered. “FUCKING JACKPOT FOR YOU. NOW LEAD THE WAY TO WHEREVER WE’RE SUPPOSED TO BE.”

“Really?”

“FUCKING HELL, YES, REALLY,” Razz replied, annoyed at having to repeat himself. He couldn’t stand the idiots at the court who couldn’t listen the first time, and while he realized the situation was slightly different it was just as annoying.

The surprised look on the other’s face stayed even as a bright smile appeared. A smile much sincerer than the one he had been wearing earlier. The look of such complete gratefulness in his eyes was almost enough to make Razz uncomfortable as Blueberry took the lead, holding the door open for him.

Nodding in thanks – which honestly surprised him since it was more than he did to the servants at home, and a whore was much lower than them – Razz walked into the narrow hallway. He froze. Two people were in there, a human pressed against the wall with a rabbit attacking their neck with their teeth. They were both panting hard. He quickly averted his gaze, staring at the wall, as Blueberry stopped next to him.

“Sasha!” he said, probably to the human, who appeared to be a whore as well, judging from their clothing. His tone was reproachful, and the two stopped to stare at him. Blueberry turned down his eyes when he turned toward the rabbit. “Excuse me, Mx, but could you wait until you get into a room? Madame doesn’t want us to work in the hallway.”

The rabbit glared at him, and bit down at the human’s neck again. Their breath hitched.

“No lowlife like a whore gets to tell me what to do,” the rabbit said, and Blueberry flinched back slightly. It was hardly noticeable, but Razz’s training to warrior had taught him to see every little movement. The other’s eyelights flashed something like resigned hurt as he swallowed, and nodded.

“I’m sorry-“

“I’M NOT A WHORE, AND GET THE FUCK TO A BEDROOM,” Razz interrupted him, glaring viciously at the rabbit. He straightened his back, and made sure to radiate authority as he stepped forward, grabbing the lowlife’s neck and jerking him away from the rabbit. He pressed at a few certain spots to make sure it hurt like hell while he was at it. They gasped. “I HAVE NO INTEREST IN SEEING SOMETHING LIKE THIS, AND I AM SURE NO ONE ELSE HAVE EITHER. DISGUSTING. BUT BEFORE YOU GO, APOLOGIZE TO BLUEBERRY HERE. THAT IS AN ORDER.”

“Who are you to order me-“ Razz smirked, and with a quick motion pressed his sharp heel into the rabbit’s paw. It went straight through the leather of the boot. They cried out in pain.

“SOMEONE WHO IS TRAINED TO KILL WITH A SINGLE MOVE, THAT’S WHO. NOW APOLOGIZE.”

For good measure, he pressed the heel a little harder, feeling it pierce the top layer of flesh. All his footwear was specifically designed to work extra as weapons, so it was easier than breathing to do. Blueberry gasped in the background. They screamed, scrabbling at his hand which was still around their throat. The rabbit claws didn’t even scratch the hard leather of his gloves. Razz’s soul pounded in excitement. He almost hoped they would refuse. That way he’d get to take out all his anger on the bastard.

Normally he’d go out to Alphys’ Elite Guard’s training grounds whenever he was angry and work of some steam with his friends and fellow warriors. That hadn’t been an alternative for a while now, obviously, and it felt great to have the upper hand again. To have someone at his mercy, rather than to be at someone else’s.

Then, unfortunately, they nodded rapidly. They turned toward Blueberry, who was watching with wide, shocked sockets.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, I’m sorry,” they rambled, tears pouring from their sockets. Sighing, Razz eased the pressure against the other’s paw. They sobbed in relief. Blueberry swallowed as Razz let go of their neck as well, and they fell to the floor with a loud thud.

“It’s alright,” Blueberry replied faintly, staring between Razz and the rabbit. The human by the wall looked just as unbelieving, Razz noticed in the corner of his socket. The rabbit scrambled to their feet, making a move to leave, as he grabbed them again. With a sharp grin, he twisted their wrist hard, and they gasped sharply.

“I THINK YOU OWE THE HUMAN OVER THERE SOME MONEY, TOO,” he gleefully pointed out, and the rabbit dug into their pockets with a free hand, almost throwing the gold they found at the worker. Razz nodded. “NOW SCRAM.”

They did.

The door closed behind him loudly, and both workers stared at Razz in absolute incredulity. Then the human knelt, quickly raking the money from the floor and with a quick “Thank you” they left. Blueberry was still wide-eyed as he looked after them before turning back to him. Slowly, the disbelief turned into delighted thankfulness. His smile returned, thrice as big as earlier and, to Razz’s discomfort, he noticed a few tears in the corners of his sockets as well.

Blueberry seemed at a loss for words for a moment, until he laughed and launched himself around Razz’s throat. Razz froze, having no idea how to react, while the other hugged him tightly. Finally, the worker let go whilst still beaming brightly.

“Thank you, m’lord,” he breathed, a look quite near adoring in his eyelights, as he grabbed Razz’s hand and squeezed tightly. “Thank you. No one’s ever defended me like that before.”

“IT’S NOTHING,” Razz replied tightly, tearing his hand away. He felt oddly self-conscious as Blueberry stared at him with such gratitude. “NOW SHOW THE WAY TO YOUR ROOM.”

Blueberry smiled, and nodded once. There was a new spring in his steps as he walked. “Of course, m’lord.”

The silence was kind of awkward. After Blue had led them to the same room as they’d been last time, they’d fallen quiet. The room was just as dreary as last time; a bed, a table, a chair. Everything was brown, except for the blanket, which was grey wool. Blue had tried to strike up a conversation, but none of them had found anything worth speaking about with each other. Razz chalked it up to them being too different. Blueberry was a prostitute while he was royalty.

He had had non-noble friends before, like the horse breeder’s kid, but not in this way. That was a friendship where he was fully powerful, and whilst he was that here as well, due to basically owning Blueberry when he was paying, the other could not know about him being more than nobility. Eventually he had just given up and was sitting on the chair, staring straight at the wall, while the other was sitting on the bed doing the same.

The room and silence was starting to feel truly claustrophobic. Growling, Razz turned to the other. Blueberry immediately turned toward him as well, all his attention on him. He threw out a hand, pointing at the entire room.

“I’M NOT GOING TO FUCKING STAY IN THIS ROOM FOR THE MOTHER KNOWS HOW LONG,” he said, making Blueberry blink. “IS THERE ANYWHERE LESS AWFUL IN THIS BUILDING?”

Blueberry looked thoughtful before nodding, “There’s Madame’s dinner suit. It’s the nicest rooms in the Parlour except for her own. But it’s also incredibly expensive, only the richest can live there.”

Razz nodded sharply, and stood up. While he walked over to the huge chest on the floor – the crew had left it there – he pulled out the brass key from the inner pocket of his shirt. The lock clattered as he turned the key. Behind him the bed squeaked as Blueberry stood up, and he felt him lean over him. Had he been at the ship he would’ve been infuriated over the invading of his privacy, but he knew Blueberry had no malicious intent. The other was simply curious. He couldn’t fault him for that; a sight into a completely foreign life was probably tempting for someone like him.

The chest had been relatively quickly packed with the absolute necessities. A jewellery case, dresses and suits for two weeks, a bunch of books, his political documents – they couldn’t be left at the ship (not the ones that hadn’t been stolen, at least), his embroideries, a pocket mirror, the music box, and in the bottom, his money.

He heard Blueberry gasp above him when he opened the chest and everything came into view. Razz glanced up, and the other’s eyelights were basically sparkling in wonder. The corner of his mouth twitched. With a quick motion, he opened his jewellery case and picked up a golden necklace filled with sapphires. Blueberry followed his every move as he held it in the air. Narrowing his sockets, Razz looked between Blueberry and the necklace and nodded, pleased.

“IT MATCHES YOUR EYELIGHTS. TRY IT ON,” he ordered, shoving it into the other’s hands.

Laughing at the wide-eyed, gaping expression on Blueberry’s face, he nodded again. The prostitute was still gaping as he almost mechanically obeyed, locking it around his neck.

“IT LOOKS GOOD AT YOU,” Razz praised, receiving a hesitant smile in return. Blueberry was looking a little nervous. “WHY ARE YOU SO JUMPY ALL OF THE SUDDEN?”

Funnily enough, he did jump at that. Fiddling with his fingers for a short moment before quickly hiding them behind his back, the other turned down his gaze. Razz noticed his shoulders hunching as well even as a smile appeared on his face.

He raised an eyebrow as Blueberry replied, the carelessness and cheer in his voice obviously faked, “Oh, it’s nothing, m’lord.”

“OBVIOUSLY IT’S SOMETHING, BLUEBERRY. I’M NOT STUPID, I CAN SEE IT.”

A small smirk flashed over the other’s face, even with the uneasiness still there, “Then you’re smarter than about ninety-eight percent of the people coming here – please don’t tell anyone I said that, m’lord, I’d be in so much trouble.” He appeared relieved after Razz had nodded.

“It’s just… Most of the time when a customer is dressing me up, it’s because they want me to be prettier or cuter when we’re having sex. Some people like that.”

Razz grimaced, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Taking a deep breath to stop himself from blushing again, he turned away from Blueberry to pick up the pocket mirror. He opened it and held it up for the other to look.

“DON’T FUCKING WORRY ABOUT THAT. I GUARANTEE YOU, I HAVE ABSOLUTELY ZERO INTEREST IN DOING ANYTHING SO UNSAVORY AND IMMORAL. YOU ARE HERE TO KEEP ME COMPANY AND NOTHING ELSE. IF I DRESS YOU UP IT IS ONLY BECAUSE I ENJOY PRETTY CLOTHES AND DRESS-UP HAS ALWAYS BEEN A GAME OF CHOICE AMONG ME AND MY FRIENDS.”

He earned a bright smile at that, and Blueberry bowed slightly in acceptance. Then he took off the necklace and gave it back to Razz, who nodded and put it into the case again. He opened the money box instead, showing off its contents. Once again, Blueberry gasped in pure disbelief. The wooden box contained over a thousand Imperials.

“ANYWAY, I DON’T THINK THE PRICE WILL BE AN ISSUE.”

#on a never resting sea #swapfell #underfell #blackcherry #nrs pt. 13 #my writing #uf sans #sf sans #uf papyrus #us sans #underswap #underfell undyne

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theartscenter-blog · 6 years

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John McEuen & Friends present: “Will The Circle Be Unbroken”

Interview: John McEuen Posted by Jenks Miller

We spoke with John McEuen about his time with the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band -- and about his plans for his first tour after leaving the seminal folk-rock group -- in advance of his show at The ArtsCenter in Carrboro on November 10th. Get tickets for John McEuen & Friends present Will the Circle Be Unbroken here. Interview continues below. Audio from this interview is streaming at the bottom of this post.

The ArtsCenter: Your tour this fall is a celebration of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s classic record, Will the Circle Be Unbroken. Each show features stories and songs from the record. Storytelling has always been an important aspect of the folk tradition, and at this point Circle has its own mythology. What kind of stories should audiences anticipate at these shows? Are they stories about the recording sessions? Stories about the songs themselves?

John McEuen: For years, with the Dirt Band, I’ve been very frustrated by not having enough music reflecting the Will the Circle Be Unbroken album. In fact, the band only did one song from the album. And that is such an important record for my life and for many people’s lives that it just needs to be covered more. When I started doing that at my own shows, I found out there’s a real hunger for knowing about how it all came about. And I have all these photographs from the session, and stories behind it.

It’s always different every night, but what usually happens is I have the video running behind me and I might be talking about part of the album recording and I say to the audience, “Instead of trying to tell you what Maybelle Carter was like, let’s just go to the session.” And that’s when her voice will come up on the screen and say, “Well in the old days I used to play it like this.” Then Doc Watson says, “Do you remember the ending you put on that old song?” And she says, “Well I started it like this…” That’s when we start “Keep on the Sunny Side,” live on stage with the pictures going behind us.

And we go through the whole process of recording the album, with some sound bytes from the studio, from Roy Acuff and Doc and Merle [Travis] and Maybelle. But preceding that is also the story of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, a group of young hippies in Southern California that had a dream of getting on the radio, and did against all odds. Our first review in Billboard Magazine, before we had a record company, was: “Very entertaining, but doubtful if they’ll ever be captured on record.”

TAC: Well, you proved them wrong.

JM: That review is in a frame with the first platinum album. [In this show] I try to take people through this strange path I’ve been on, the dream of an Orange County teenager. The first part of the dream was just to get out of Orange County — that’s Orange County, California. I’d spent several years working in Disneyland, then music came along and took over the pursuit, my passion.

TAC: So the music was kind of a ticket out of where you grew up.

JM: It became one, for sure. The pathway out. After I saw a group called The Dillards, I was driven to play the banjo. I went home and took the fifth string off my guitar and put a HO [scale] railroad spike at the fifth fret so I could tune it like a banjo. From that point on, I wanted to be on stage and travel the world as a troubadour, mainly in the folk tradition.

The first guy that I had a band with was Les Thompson. We had a group called the Wilmore City Moonshiners in 1965. That lasted about nine months. We probably did twelve jobs, then went our separate ways. Then he called me up the next year and said, “We’re putting together a new band — it’s called the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.” And in about the second month of the band coming together, I jumped in. I taught ‘em a song I’d written with my brother, ‘cause I’d wanted to play a banjo contest with more behind me than just me. And they did a good job! So I said, “OK, I’ll go with this group, ‘cause that might get me on the radio.” Nine months later we had our first single out, “Buy for Me the Rain,” with banjo on it.

TAC: Now, was that an actual banjo or were you still playing a modified guitar?

JM: No, that was an actual banjo. I put a mute on it so it would sound like a harpsichord! We made four albums, then Jeff [Hanna] broke the group up after we did Paint Your Wagon, the movie. We spent four months on the set and when we got back a couple months later, we were tired. We split for six months. I went and worked on other things, including an album with [Eagles founding member] Bernie Leadon, mainly bluegrass. We worked for about four months on music, but he got a call to be part of Dillard and Clark. Then I ran into Jeff at a club and said, “We ought to get the band back together,” which we did. All this story comes out on stage, with the photos behind us from the era. It kind of takes people on the path, as if they were there like a fly on the wall. And Les Thompson is part of the group that I have. He’s on stage with me fifty years later.

One of the guys in the group is John Cable. He was in the band in the 1970’s and went to Russia with us. We became the first American band to go to Russia.

TAC: I’ve read about that. How did that come about? How did they decide it would be you guys that went over?

JM: The Russians had to go look at a bunch of American groups and decide which one they would approve. It was in the agreement between the State Departments that America would bring over whatever they wanted, but they had to commit to bringing over a band — not a lead guy, a star with a bunch of musicians, but an actual, democratic band. They went and looked at a bunch of groups and they ended up picking us. We did twenty-eight sold-out shows.

I took an 8MM sound camera with me, in 1977, and when I have enough time — which I will, for this show — I go through the Russia trip a bit. John Cable’s up there in the pictures, but now it’s thirty years later. He has more hair than Les, though. Les has less hair. [laughs]

TAC: Besides Les, who else are you going to have on stage with you for this show?

JM: On stage with me also will be a guy I’ve been playing music with the last twenty-five years: Matt Cartsonis. He plays mandola, guitar … but I don’t let him sing till the middle of the show ‘cause he’s so hard to follow. [laughs] Matt just rocks out. It’s all acoustic, no drums: stand-up bass, mandolin, guitar, fiddle, banjo, mandola. We cover music from the early Dirt Band, music from my String Wizards album, and the new album, Made in Brooklyn. Matt’s an integral part of the Made in Brooklyn album.

TAC: On your latest album, Made in Brooklyn, you play the title track from an earlier album, Acoustic Traveller.

JM: It’s a song from Acoustic Traveller with a different arrangement. Made in Brooklyn features people I’ve been wanting to record with for many years, like David Bromberg, Jay Ungar, John Cowan. Matt’s singing the song John Cowan did, and he’s killing it. It’s exciting every night. After we do some Dirt Band songs, and the Circle story, we get into that music — more bluegrass than the Dirt Band does.

What’s important about this trip — well, I think every show is important — but this particular trip is the first time I’m actually going out as an ex-member of the Dirt Band. I just departed at the end of October. After fifty-one years, I just need to do what I want to do. It’s awful hard to be in a band and say, “Hey guys, I’ve got twelve songs I want to put on the next album,” you know? It’s awful hard to be in a band and say, “I want to do these fifteen songs on stage tonight.” But my players — Les and Matt and John Cable — we like to play everything. They like to play everything. They like to follow my suggestions, and they have so many good ones of their own. Everybody listens to each other.

TAC: You have more creative freedom under your own name, I imagine.

JM: Totally. With the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, it had come down to where I wasn’t fingerpicking guitar anymore. I wasn’t playing enough bluegrass music or enough Carter Family songs, or our new music. The band basically played the same set for the last 11 years: “OK, the show started at 8. What time is it now? Oh, ‘Bojangles’ is starting, so it must be it’s 8:52!” [laughs] At this show, we’ll play at least one or two songs that we’ve never played before together. Somebody might yell out a request, and I’ll say, “John, do you know that one? Matt, do you know it? I know it, follow me.” Or, “You know it, I’ll follow you.” And that’s not to be haphazard. It’s to capture that moment when music is for the music and not just because it was on a record -- to put people to the test.

TAC: It sounds like you have a lot of flexibility on stage, a lot of spontaneity.

JM: Exactly. And keep in mind, the Circle album was thirty-five songs done in six days. And that was because everybody had studied what to do. The Made in Brooklyn album, with all the people I mentioned and several others like David Amram, Andy Goessling from Railroad Earth, Skip Ward on bass, John Carter Cash, Steve Martin plays banjo on a Warren Zevon song -- we’re doing a couple Warren Zevon songs because I think he’s an overlooked guy. Made in Brooklyn has fourteen songs and was done in two days. We recorded it all in one microphone, and you had to be able to know the song and play it right once.

TAC: Tell me a little bit about that binaural recording technique, because it’s pretty interesting. In photos, everybody’s gathered around a model of a human head, and the mic kind of replicates how we hear the music in a room.

JM: You know when you drop your car keys, you hear ‘em hit the ground, right? A bird chips in a tree and you hear it above you. A car honks its horn while you’re walking down the street and you can tell it’s behind you, right? That’s the way you actually hear. But most stereo records are mixed right to left, as though everything is right in front of you. This binaural mic — in a dummy head with two split mics, one in each ear — it hears the way you hear. When my daughter first got the album, she said, “Dad, I wish you would’ve warned me. I was home alone playing the record and I thought somebody came in behind me.” [laughs] It’s like surround sound without the speakers.

TAC: I’m not sure I’ve heard another binaural record.

JM: There’s a bunch of ‘em on Chesky Records. They’ve made about four hundred albums over the years. When the owner of the company came to me with a proposal, it took a while to get it going, to get everybody’s schedules to match up. Then we rehearsed the songs for about five days — we rehearsed by email, too — and it came together.

On the “Miner’s Night Out” cut on Made in Brooklyn, the drum sound is one of my favorite I’ve ever had recorded with my music. And it’s all with the one mic, all in one take! It amazed me. I was thinking the drums weren’t going to pick up good enough, but no: it was perfect. That was also because of the drummer: he knew that he wasn’t playing rock and roll drums. He was a percussionist. The engineer would come out after we ran a song once and he’d say to one person, “You move back two feet, and you move in a foot. And I gotta move you over to the left about four feet.” Because we were surrounding the mic. And dang, Skip Ward, the bass player — I used Skip Ward on The Crow, the album I produced for Steve Martin. I’d spent five days in the studio with him there and in rehearsal for this album, and I’ve never heard him make a mistake! It’s really disgusting! [laughs] He’s so good. One of the top New York bass players.

TAC: Did the setup in the room affect the arrangements of the songs themselves?

JM: It meant we didn’t need echo, because the room was a big, old, out-of-business church that had its own natural echo. That’s why we recorded there. Chesky records in that building all the time. It was a simple formula: the engineer said, “If you can’t hear the other guy playing, then you’re playing too loud. Play like you want to hear each other. If it’s your solo, and they can’t hear you, then they’re playing too loud.”

TAC: You’d have to have some disciplined musicians to pull that off.

JM: They certainly were. All these people have been recording for 40 years or more. They’ve gone through all the mistakes and the accomplishments of recording well. I told David Bromberg on “She Darked the Sun,” “Just play one of the solos that I used to have to buy the album for.” [laughs] Sometimes you’d hear a record back in the 70’s and go, “Geez, how did he play that?!” and you’d buy the album because of that one solo.

That recording attitude is reflected in the live show. It’s a wonderful thing. We feel at ease in what we’re doing but excited about getting out there. We’re playing all the time. The sound check usually goes long because we’re done in about fifteen minutes but we play for another hour. Then we go back to the dressing room and play because you can’t play in the rental car, you know? That’s the excitement I miss.

TAC: This is a Carrboro show, and The ArtsCenter is literally two blocks from where Elizabeth Cotten grew up on Lloyd Street. You told me you were thinking of doing a special tribute or acknowledgment of her at the show. Are you still planning on doing that?

JM: Yeah. The first song I learned fingerpicking was “Freight Train.” Years later, I was booking and producing a show for Austin City Limits, and I booked Elizabeth Cotten to come out and tell her story. That was a really neat thing, to get to meet her. At thirteen years old, she had written a song on fingerpicking guitar that has had as much effect on the guitar world as Maybelle Carter’s guitar playing did.

I was talking to Duane Allman’s daughter a year or two ago. She wanted to find out about her dad because she was only three or four years old when he died, so she was calling people that knew him. I’d spent time with Duane. When The Allman Brothers first came to LA — my brother had convinced the band The Allman Joys to come out to Los Angeles — they moved into the house that I’d rented up in the Hollywood Hills. We had one floor occupied by The Allman Joys — which was to become The Allman Brothers — and the other three by Dirt Band people. It was a mess. [laughs]

It was really fun. We were on the radio for the first time, and this group of great players had come out. They were set up and playing on one floor, and we were on the other three. They became The Hourglass, which lasted about a year and a half. Then that broke up, and so forth.

TAC: Looking back, that was such a magical time. You had an intersection of great talent, recording technology that was coming along very rapidly, and an industry with infrastructure that could support new artists. It’s incredible to think back on all the great music that was made back then.

JM: It was very strange: I was living in Laurel Canyon, in the middle of Hollywood, kind of. Across the street was [“San Francisco” singer] Scott McKenzie with flowers in his hair. Next door was Ian Whitcomb from England with a hit [“N-Nervous”]. Down the street were The Mamas & the Papas. Across from them were The Mothers of Invention. And at the top of the hill was Steve Martin, writing for the Smothers Brothers’ show, and my brother was managing him. I had a young kid, a nineteen year-old, approach the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band in 1969, and he wanted us to record some of his songs. So I had him come up to make a demo. I play one of those demos as part of the show and talk about how Kenny Loggins came into the radio world through the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, which has always been nice to remember. We recorded four of his songs from that demo. You’ll hear him at nineteen years old and we’ll sing along with him, it’s really fun. You feel like you’re going back to that era, only the sound is better. [laughs]

John McEuen plays some licks during our Skype interview:

John McEuen & Friends present: “Will The Circle Be Unbroken” The ArtsCenter in Carrboro

Friday, November 10th

8:00pm

Tickets:

http://artscenterlive.org/events/john-mceuen/

John McEuen’s website:

http://www.johnmceuen.com/

#john mceuen #the artscenter #nitty gritty dirt band #carrboro #chapel hill #will the circle be unbroken #elizabeth cotten #made in brooklyn #maybelle carter

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jazzworldquest-blog · 7 years

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USA: Matt Lavelle's 12 Houses- End Times (2017)

End times One of the signatures of the 12 Houses is that with the exception of the singularly unique voices of guitar players Jack DeSalvo and Anders Nilsson, very rarely is an instrument doubled. In fact, the only time this occurs is when we are joined by special friends like incomparable global citizen Nicole Johänntgen or shaman Ras Miguel who hails from the mountains of Puerto Rico. Each of the houses is an individual sound-color and story. The seed for the creation go the 12 Houses was planted in a series of discussions I had with Ornette Coleman. In one important conversation, he pointed out to me that, instrumentation aside, what most traditional large ensembles were missing was a balance in male and female energy. I still am not aware of any large group in jazz history which has pursued this elemental balance. In another discussion, I recall wondering out loud, what it might be like to have a large ensemble in which you could hear every individual color at the same time. Ornette smiled when he said, “There’s only one way to find out.” If we dare to enter the mind of God, we can wonder about what decisions were made in creating life as we know it in order for the human race to become itself. Seemingly, separation by gender and culture continues to be far more than we can handle. The 12 Houses are an attempt to musically begin to bring us all back together while celebrating each and every one of us. What if the balance Ornette spoke of could be achieved on a worldwide scale? Every piece on our second album is a concerto of sorts that celebrates a sound color that is entirely unique in the world. At the same time, each house is supported by all the other houses in the neighborhood. We’re all stronger together, and one day we just may tune the world. OC DC BC was the first Harmelodic piece I ever composed. At the time I had three C’s in my life. Ornette, Daniel Carter and Bass Clarinet which I was passionate about at the time. Of all the musicians I’ve crossed paths with, I have always been in awe of Charles Waters relationship with music. Charles is the first serious composer I ever met, and I have never met anyone who hears and writes new music so prolifically. Besides his writing, Charles has been blowing his alto and clarinet on the front line in downtown NYC for a long time, and I thought OC DC BC could tap into his spirit. Jack DeSalvo is also featured with possibly the most scorched banjo solo in jazz history as he takes his banjo through the door he opened on our previous record Solidarity down into the heart of a volcano. Bloodstreams is an unabashed attempt to hear every sound we have at one time together. Without a single unison, we all move forward each taking turns playing every note we have. The unison here is the method itself. At the center of all these cells moving downstream is my brother François Grillot and his bass. I was determined to place François in an environment he might never find himself in so he could explore in his unique way, and explore he does. My portrait of Daniel Carter is an epic out blues celebrating my dear friend DC with Uranus in the 10th house. A true portrait of DC would be an improvisation with extreme dynamic contrasts and sweeping movements, but I’m one of the few people who has played his written work, and I wanted to tap into Daniel’s version of blues and swing. At the center of his deep radical nature lies one of the biggest hearts I have ever seen. This piece features the big tone and heart of brother Tim Stocker on the big horn, the Baritone saxophone. Tim has that emotional urgency and honesty that makes everything that much more real with a sound color that is all his own. End Times is the second ballad I ever wrote trying to use wide intervals inspired again, by Daniel Carter using major sevenths in his improvisation. The song is a prayer with lyrics though we play it here as an instrumental. The prayer was and still is a call to the human race to try and become itself, written before 2012 as it seemed the world was collapsing around us. The world is in even more chaos now, so we better keep playing it. I have found myself many times telling people that when it comes to singers, there are some folks who are simply in possession of a gift from God. Anais Maviel is that kind of special person who I truly believe was born to sing, and I am in awe of her work on End Times. End Times also features cellist Gil Selinger who is a master at playing cello right at the intersection of the instrument's entire history. Another thing I love about Gil’s music is that he goes right to the emotional core of the cello, not an easy place to reach. The next piece was designed to feature a true clarinetist, (who is also a true soprano sax player). Lee Odom, also known as Sweet Lee, is simply a joy to listen to, as she gives himself over to the moment completely every time she plays music. After she had played this piece several times I asked her what the title was, and she said: “It sounds like sleepy Harlem to me.” I knew then and there that was the title, as this piece belongs to her. Lee takes us from sleep into a deep dream state, into waking up, into everybody waking up, into.. The moment I received the first time message from the love of my life and future wife Sue Nyoni, I was composing the next piece. The music is about sunset and sunrise happening at the same time, the dual existence of day and night, and both birth and death. Sue (the music) is about an epic life change sitting on your doorstep waiting for you to exit your house. Nobody on Earth can escape transformation and evolution. Brother Anders Nilsson is featured on this piece. Anders' music is, in fact, everything that the piece is about, especially night music. Anders always reminds me in music that the creation of music is indeed a human experience. In Anders' music I’m reminded of the greater nature of the human being, and that we are far greater than what we appear to be. In Anders, I hear the present and the future, never the past. Finally, we reach Darklight, a feature for Mary Cherney, a flute master. Long have I been obsessed with the flutes ability to live in such a unique sound world all their own. Dark Light is also a journey into my long time obsession with haunting dissonance. The still lake at night. The middle of a completely calm ocean. Alone on a mountain path. Darklight is also any place on Earth where there has never been any people and nature exists without us. The sound of trees growing. Mary takes us to all of these places with the center of her sound. Matt Lavelle 1/14/2017 credits released January 17, 2017 MATT LAVELLE - cornet, flugelhorn, alto clarinet, conduction LEE ODOM - soprano saxophone and clarinet CHARLES WATERS - alto saxophone and clarinet RAS MOSHE BURNETT - tenor and soprano saxophones, flute, bells TIM STOCKER - baritone saxophone, bass clarinet MARY CHERNEY - flute, piccolo CLAIRE de BRUNNER - bassoon CHRIS FORBES - piano LAURA ORTMAN - violin GIL SELINGER - cello ANDERS NILLSON - guitar JACK DeSALVO - banjo, mandola JOHN PIETARO - vibraphone, percussion FRANÇOIS GRILLOT - double-bass RYAN SAWYER - drums ANAÏS MAVIEL - voice All music by Matt Lavelle via Blogger http://ift.tt/2mO2uSc

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