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melon-kiss · 4 years

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Screaming, Pt 4

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Link to the part on AO3

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I hear voices over the black fog of my unconsciousness but I can’t be sure they’re real. I think it’s the doctors. They try to revive me. I hear that I have a stable pulse and I breathe. Good. Or whatever.

When I open my eyes, I’m sweaty and frightened. My T-shirt is so wet it changed its colour to dark grey. My hair is sticking to my face. My eyeballs go from one side to another in an utter madness. I notice it’s already dark outside. Doctor Mike lights up a small lamp on my nightstand. I think he suspects me of being scared of darkness. I’ve never been. Now he’s right. He says comforting things, like: “You’re safe now” or “I can see you’ve been tortured”. But “torture” doesn’t even cover it. I’ve been through a vivisection. Sherlock gutted me out and now I know for sure he did it on purpose.

I fight insomnia for very long hours. When I manage to fall asleep, I hardly find any rest in it.

I toss and turn endlessly. It never gets better. The bed sheet is too hot or too cold. The dreams I have are horrifying. All the memories I’ve kept safely tamed resurface and haunt me. Suffocate me with their weight. They’re my burden now.

They burn me out. They wreak havoc. I feel every cell in my body ache as I remember the pain of all the words unsaid, all the moments not lived. I see the bright blue eyes, always looking through. I hear the voice. It lies to me. Does it, though? It says: I... I love you. And again, quieter: I love you. It hurts because I’m sure it’s insincere. It couldn’t be any other way. He’ll never love me like I want to be loved. He can’t give me safety and protection. He can’t support me. He can’t be with me. He can’t be with me. He can’t be with me.

I scream. The hot air rips my lungs into shreds. My voice is hoarse and piercing at the same time, it echoes in the entire building. I scream as though being cut in two; a primal shriek finds its way out of me. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane - otherwise the pain would be unbearable. I want to be dead. I scream so loud the night staff comes to my room every fifteen minutes to wake me and assure me I’m safe but it doesn’t take long for the circle to go around again. They finally give up and inject something into my arm. The dangerous mix of fear and pain is numb now. It doesn’t vanish; it’s covered with a warm fluff of the meds. It’s there. He’ll never love me the way I want to be loved.

My eyes are stuck on one point on the ceiling. I want to scream but I can’t.

* * *

The cold late-autumn air lashes my face when I place my foot outside the door. I wrap the scarf tighter around my neck. It’s difficult to keep yourself warm when there’s not much of the fat tissue in your body.

My therapist says it’ll get better. I don’t know. I don’t think he tries to lie to me. I choose to believe him. He also says that I’ll never fully recover. My psyche is broken beyond repair. LSD killed me and didn’t do it at all. All I can do is to try to make the best of it. “Regaining your memory was the most important part,” he said once. “And you’ve succeeded in it.” I think he hopes that there’s a chance for me to get back to my old self in that. I’ve lived with my missing memories for over six months and today is the first day I feel good enough to leave the house. I’m going to face death. Many deaths.

I walk down the London streets and the air soaks up in my lungs. It’s cold but in a pleasant way. The hot air gets out of me with carbon dioxide. I breathe in the chill oxygenium with my eyes closed. I relish the moment. I never know when my brain will snap and turn everything into endless sadness. I don’t have fury attacks anymore but instead, I wake up in the middle of every night, screaming. The scream eventually turns into cry. I curl up in my bed and wait for the pain to let go. It never really does but its level decreases to the point I’m able to live with.

Being yourself. What does it even mean? Whatever I do, I’m me. I’m me when I walk down the London streets, heading to work. I’m me when I jump out of my bed and choke someone. I’m me when I throw up because my body cannot contain the anxiety caused by my fugue. I’m me when I scream my head off in the middle of a night. I’m me when I kiss someone I love. I’m me when I cry because I couldn’t be more broken. I’ve learned to simply accept whatever comes to me. This is who I am. A mess. Fixing me is a job for a lifetime.

I’ve been missing the lab. I throw myself into work because it helps me soothe the suffering. The relief is temporary but whatever works, right? I love the sound of the glasses clinking against each other. I love how my brain focuses entirely on bringing out my scientific knowledge and it almost resembles the mind I used to have. These are the moments when I know the old Molly Hooper is still there. She didn’t die because she always wins.

It’s almost dark outside when I turn off the lights. I take a short look around to make sure I’ve cleaned everything up. I push the door open and fix the handbag on my shoulder. I walk out into the corridor, pale-y lightened with the cold hospital lamps. I raise my head up and freeze.

He freezes as well. He’s changed; weaker, sadder. His blue eyes widen and I can see his breathing stops. His mouth are open in an utter shock. He’s speechless but doesn’t look away. He swallows with difficulty.

“Molly.”

The soft whisper fills out the space of the corridor. I begin to get dizzy and my heart rate quickens rapidly. I take a small step back and cling to the door behind me. I’m close to hyperventilate. He makes a move towards me but I start visibly shivering in response.

“Molly...”

He’s filled with guilt which adds a fair weight to his movements. His eyes, usually cold and focused on looking through his mind palace, are mild, even glossy. His eyebrows frown in worry. I’m sure he pities me. I don’t need his pity. I slide down the door and sit on the floor with my legs pulled to my chest. I see his coat getting closer with a corner of my eye. My body trembles strongly. I let out the tears.

“Leave me alone,” I whisper.

He stands in place for a while and walks off eventually. When he’s no longer in the range of my eyesight, I curl up on the floor and cry. He can’t be with me.

* * *

I’m slightly cheerful on my days off. The winter is pretty ugly this year; it doesn’t look like the ones I remember. No fluffy snow and colourful lights. But maybe I’ve just gotten too old to see them? I think it’s sad. We become adults and forget all the beauty we’ve had as children. We forget that the key to happiness is not only in winning the jackpot but also in seeing the little things and enjoying them. In finding a four-leaf clover and thinking: “Today I’m going to be lucky”. In hearing your mum is going to make your favourite biscuits because she loves you so much she could do anything to see a smile on your face. I sound like The Little Prince, don’t I? When your brain tries to find its way back to sanity, you happen to have a lot thoughts. Trust me.

I deliberately step into every grey, muddy-snowy-watery puddle and smile. My shoes will get soaked up for a while but I enjoy this childish activity until I can. I just hope my groceries won’t slip out of my shopping bag to fall into one of these snowy monsters. I think about the small but pleasant stuff: like ordering a pizza and watching a film. My brain loves turning into tapioca. Well, it doesn’t, I do. I also bought brownies and can’t wait to stuff my stomach with them after the pizza box is empty. For a moment I think of the poor person who would have to go through my stomach content if I killed myself tonight, and then shake it off. I don’t want to die but I don’t have much of a will to live as well. I’ve learned not to joke about suicide around other people, though. It turns out death is a difficult matter for normal human beings. I wouldn’t know, I’ve always been very practical about it. It doesn’t scare me that much. Well, maybe a little because I’ve never been through this. They say I have but I don’t remember a shred from this moment. I’ve regained a memory of being strongly hit in a head in my house but then... it’s all darkness. The next thing was the hospital ceiling and the conversation The Three Horsemen of Madness had in my room.

I’ve loved watching trash telly (and not only this) because it keeps my sadness and insanity at bay. I’m well aware of that. My therapist didn’t have to tell me this but he did it anyway. He even asked if I wanted to do anything about it. I didn’t but he says (because the matter obviously wasn’t dropped) it would work out for the best because a broken heart cannot be mended by watching stories about other hearts being healed. I thought he was supposed to help me keep my post-LSD psyche under control but it seems I couldn’t have been more wrong. When I look back at the memories I’ve retrieved, I can’t help but think... maybe this craziness has always been with me? The way I sewed my happiness with his skin, desperately, utterly, unconditionally, obsessively... Omnipresent but invisible. Courageous - with a rabbit heart. The smallest spark of hope I’ve ever seen kept me by his side. Maybe LSD only sped up what was inevitable: a nervous breakdown. Although I wasn’t really weak. My heart just popped, heavy from all the sorrow it has carried for five years.

Now, after being completely broken, I’m learning to live in a world without him. I don’t blame him - after all, it was me who asked him to leave me alone. I thought he would fight for me but I’m glad he didn’t. My insanity would feed on the scraps he would throw me, reliving the annealed wounds with a red-hot steel. He doesn’t come to Bart’s or maybe he does but he’s good at avoiding people. And sometimes, when everything seems fine and I’m home alone (which is always), I fill out the silence with singing. I choose the saddest songs I know and sing. I bet my neighbours have had to call an ambulance to save their bleeding ears at least once but I’m a psycho. I can do whatever I want because I don’t care.

I’ve recently watched Eclipse and I sing a song from its soundtrack under my nose when I unlock the door. The door clicks and I enter my completely dark house. I don’t turn on the lights and enjoy the fact that it’s already dim outside but it’s too early for the street lights to turn on and shine into my kitchen. I stand in the entrance room and soak in the emptiness. It fills me out and seeps into my bones. This is where my body find its way to the state of default. I put my shopping bag away on the floor and untangle my winter shoes. After that I move the groceries into the kitchen, almost tiptoeing, as though afraid of waking someone up.

I take off my coat and scarf, putting them down on the kitchen counter. I start unloading my shopping bag, thinking about the pizza I’m going to order. I’ve gained some weight, maybe a little too much but that’s all right. I couldn’t care less about my body. If I had to worry about my appearance as well, I would definitely kill myself.

“My love has concrete feet, my love’s an iron ball, wrapped around your ankles, over the waterfall...”

“If I didn’t know better, I would think it was on purpose.”

A glass bottle of a carrot juice slips out of my palm as I jump in a complete horror. My socks soak in the sticky liquid but I can barely seem bothered by this. I turn on the heel and look at the utter darkness in my living room. The same moment the street lights turn on and a beam of weak light falls on his face as well. I feel my body trembling. I want to back out but there is no escape - he could catch me any time. Not that he would but the fear takes over my mind.

“You... you broke into my house?” I ask, panting. A panic attack is around the corner.

“I entered your house without your knowledge,” he replies, utterly steady. “There’s a difference-“

“What are you doing here?” I put on a tough act but we both know it’s a ruse. I don’t care. I don’t want him to break me again. I might never recover.

“I came to see you.”

I scoff.

“You could do it the normal way.”

“Would you meet me, then?”

“No.”

“Exactly.”

I’m pressed against the refrigerator and I feel a pain in my back as the metallic door resists to my spinal bones. He makes three steps forward. He takes off his gloves and shoves them into his coat pockets. He takes if off as well, with no rush, and throws it away on my couch. Without unlocking our eyes, he approaches me. I’m sure I’ll tip over the refrigerator in a second because he’s so close there can’t be more than a foot between us. He stops. My head is dizzy and I feel like throwing up but then he squats and begins to collect the shreds of glass bottle from the floor. I’m sweaty but relieved. The tension leaves my body and I exhale loudly.

It catches his attention. He looks up at me.

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

I scoff again.

“It doesn’t matter.”

I turn around to face the kitchen counter and find paper towels but they’re on the opposite side. I glare down and see that the juice is everywhere but my socks are completely soaked up, so it wouldn’t be smart of me to walk off to the bathroom for a mop. Besides, I could step into the cracks and that was not the point of his help.

He finishes and throws the glass away. He remembers very well where my bin is. After that, he wordlessly goes to my bedroom and comes back with a pair of dry socks. I can see that he spread a bit of the juice on the floor but his gesture successfully disables my frustration. He sticks out his arms towards me. I hesitate. What is he planning to do? I slowly reach out to his arms but he slides them under my armpits and lifts me up over the juice, placing me on my small kitchen island. Then he disappears in the bathroom and comes back with the mop. He wipes out the floor. Not a word slips out of his lips.

I slowly take off my wet socks, watching his every move. I put the dirty socks away next to me and reach out for the paper towel. I dry my feet out while Sherlock cleans up my kitchen floor. Even my old self would say that only a lunatic would find it possible. Cheers to all of us, crazies. I put away the used paper towel as well and put on my new socks. I start to swing my legs a little bit as Sherlock finishes the cleanup. He walks off to the bathroom to rinse off the mop for the last time and comes back to me. I can’t look away somehow.

“Thank you,” I say in a hoarse voice. I clear my throat.

“I’m sorry,” he replies. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, nor be an intruder.”

I shrug.

“It was just a carrot juice. I’ll drink more water, then.”

My legs swing more and more intensively. I know what it means and so does he, so I force myself to stop because a smirk crawls up on his face. I feel my cheeks burning up and I instantly regret tangling my hair into a pony tail. This is probably the most normal thing that happened to me in about nine months.

He places his hand next to my left thigh and leans on. I feel his perfume and something in me shivers. My heart rate goes wild but I cannot force myself to look away. He puts his palm really gently on my right cheek and his face is so close I can see every pore on his skin. I give in and let out a quiet exhale. I close my eyes and my body is fulfilled with warmth as his lips lock with mine. He moves a little to stand fully in front of me and takes my face in both of his hands. His lips open more and more eagerly as he doesn’t see any objection on my side. My legs clench around his waist, I throw my arms around his neck. I pull him closer but it’s difficult to say whether I’m motivated by the kiss or the simple need of a hug.

I feel awaken. My body’s warm, pulsing with every beat my heart does. For the first time in many months I feel alive and I relish this moment because I know that in a minute, everything will end.

And it does.

I push him away a little too hard. He has to take a step back to prevent a fall. The passionate fire turns into anger.

“Don’t do it.”

I feel a twinge in my chest seeing pain in his eyes. He looks as if I just crushed his last hope. His blue eyes are tired, miss their old spark. I hate myself for pushing him away and feeling the way I feel.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because it doesn’t make sense,” I hiss through my teeth.

“What doesn’t?”

“Us.”

He winces and shifts nervously.

“What?”

I clench my palm into a fist and press it against my forehead, leaned forward. A forgotten suffering comes back to me. I’ve buried it so deep inside I was certain it was gone but it’s been waiting for me. A battle I didn’t want to fight starts right here and right now. And I, again, want to be dead and dead only. I close my eyes so tightly it almost hurts as does every cell in my body.

“We don’t make sense,” I utter after anticipating a less painful moment.

He starts breathing quicker. He’s as lost as he’s never been before. I imagine that’s how he looked like calling me to save me. Helpless in the face of the truth.

“How could you have fallen in love with me, then? ” he asks, hopelessness taking over him. “Despite all the pain I’ve caused you, all the things I’ve said...”

“I suppose love is a kind of madness,” I say, my unseeing eyes focused on one irrelevant point.

“Your love is illogical, since I’ve always been an utter cock.”

“Not always,” I reply, smirking weakly. “But we don’t love for the logical reasons. We love despite all the illogical ones.”

We fall silent. I enjoy my most sane moment for several minutes. It can disappear anytime.

“I love you.”

I raise my head up. It feels like my heart skips a beat.

His eyes gaze at me with pain I’ve never seen on his face. He almost pants, his arms are unfolded. He’s like a living target. He’s just showed me where to shoot and I stretch my bow, aiming for his chest.

“But you cannot give me the love I want,” I reply, my voice stifled. I finally sigh in exasperation. “We’re far two different. It would be a disaster of a relationship. Can you imagine yourself cleaning our flat every Saturday, planning our wedding, putting our children to sleep? Because this is want I want. But it would only hurt us more.”

“I can change,” he says.

I scoff.

“And that’s the point,” I respond. “I don’t want you to change. I love you the way you are. I love every part of you. But you cannot love me. You couldn’t have loved me before and you can’t do it now.”

“I think I’ve loved you long before,” he says in a weak voice.

I am... sorry. Forgive me.

You can see me.

You do count.

I’ve always trusted you.

Thank you.

The one person who mattered the most.

I hope you’ll be very happy, Molly Hooper.

You look well.

I’m worried about you, Molly.

I love you.

I gaze at him almost breathless. I blink and make myself utter a response:

“I love you, too,” I whisper. My eyes fill with tears. “But you cannot make me happy... Sherlock.”

His name tastes sweet in my mouth. I’ve missed saying it. Now I glance at his lips and think about the moments we shared a few minutes ago and back then in the hospital. I could share them with him forever. I would never get bored of him. But there would be times when he would forget about my presence in our flat, when he wouldn’t listen to me, chasing a lead. When he would be lost and I couldn’t find him.

And now... me with my mood swings and moments of insanity striking when the least expected. With my broken mind. Unfixable. Fucked up.

He suffers and this time, I’m the one to blame. I’ve broken the unbreakable man.

“I’ve turned you into something you’ve always hated,” I say. “You’re weak, you’re an easy target. You’re emotional and vulnerable.”

“As I’ve always been,” he replies. “You’re my strength.”

I wince.

“Strength? Sherlock-“

“You’re my strength because you’ve helped me understand myself better than anyone. I’ve never had to pretend with you. And... and back then in Sherrinford, when I realised how much pain I’ve caused you... no one ever has made me realise so much of me with so little words as you have. You are the reflection of my sensitivity. With you, I’m no longer myself.”

He begins to slowly get closer.

“But... But this is my point!” I protest. “It’s not a good thing becau-“

“It is a good thing because... what does it really mean - being myself?” He stops at less than a foot from me and scoffs. “I am myself in every minute of my life. I won’t miss my old self, though. I was a completely blind moron, who couldn’t appreciate people around him. And you’ve managed to look behind this curtain and see the man I am now. You’ve taught me to be who I am now.”

He smiles, lifting only one corner of his lips but he knows. I try to back out and escape his look but I feel that I don’t want to. My body is slowly giving in. It is so warm. It feels so good. I love him so much.

“But the old Molly may be no longer there. I’m a mess now,” I mumble, trying to avoid his gaze.

He cups my face in his palms again and places our foreheads together. I can’t resist. I don’t want to resist. I lose control over my head and I’m not even worried. A pleasant wave of chemicals floods my body and they’re better than any of the antipsychotics I’ve taken in the past nine months. I’m still a mess. I know that Sherlock will regret his decision one day when a switch in my brain goes off and I’ll stand at a rooftop (flashbacks will kill him, though). But I’m tired of trying to be normal.

“So am I. When I found out that Eurus had attacked you... I was both furious and hurt. I was torn. I still feel guilty over the fact that I couldn’t have prevented this and that she could have killed you. I was ready to bring hell on Earth. Maybe you’re a mess... but you’re also somehow a piece of puzzle that’s missing from my messy life.”

I feel the warmth of his breath on my face, the softness of his hands on my cheeks. His curls tickle my eyelids. I so weak.

“Oh, come on,” he whispers, “just give in already.”

I giggle and lose myself completely. I want to scream... but everything I do speaks louder than words.

#sherlolly #fanfiction #sherlock x molly #molly x sherlock #sherlock holmes #molly hooper #screaming

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devilsrecreation · 3 years

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Muppirate headcanons pt. 2

*inhales*

Old Tom, Real Old Tom, and Dead Tom are family. Dead Tom is Real Old Tom’s dad and Real Old Tom is Old Tom’s dad

Speaking of Dead Tom, he’s actually an “alive” skeleton who just acts dead most of the time.

Like, everyone would think Dead Tom’s inanimate until at one point, Tom just stands up and helps his crewmates in some way

Cue the surprised Pikachu meme

All the muppirates are a travelling band of sea fairing actors. AKA. They’re both pirates AND actors

Begoony is the youngest muppirate in the crew

Begoony has actually been abandoned before. Former friends and family alike, all his past relationships have left him in the dust for various reasons. Because of this, he’s super sensitive and clingy with his crewmates, in fear of being abandoned again

The Hispaniola has been renovated to having a stage where the captain’s cabin is. The stage is attached to the captain’s cabin so they can all practice rehearsing. It looks like this:

Jacques Roach is Pepe’s romantic rival (Pepe now has two rivals). They met in acting school when they both tried to hit on a lady. He’s kinda like anti-Pepe in a way

Jacques in 100% the cook. It just makes sense. Except sometimes he gets ingredients from the dumpster and the others refuse to eat it cuz some of it has plastic and that stuff’s dangerous to Polly and Walleye

Calico and Spotted Dick are plain old dorks whenever they interact. They’ve known each other since they were kids and that energy has stuck with them ever since

While Walleye finds Mudwell’s relationship with Dead Tom weird, Mudwell finds Walleye’s obsession with merpeople weird

Cute ot3 headcanon: They never realize it, but Polly, Clueless, and Monty always end up snuggling up next to each other whenever they’re sleeping

Bonus: Polly talks in his sleep, usually saying stuff like “Oh Clueless~” or “Mm, Monty...I love it when you do that..”

There’s a LOT of confusion between Toms since there are three of them

Mudwell: Poor Tom!

Clueless: Why? He’s right there! *points to Old Tom*

Mudwell: No, not that Tom! I meant the OTHER Tom! He’s dead!

Real Old Tom: No, I’m not. I’m fine

Mudwell: No, the OTHER one

Clueless: That’s what I said! Old Tom’s as fine as ever

Mudwell: No, I-

Old Tom: Have you been telling everyone that I’m dead?

Pew and Jacques totally hang together and talk shit about people in French. Jacques talks smack about Pepe while Pew talks smack about Deadly, Kermit, and basically everyone else he hates

So because his puppet was used as a woman in Muppet Christmas Carol and since I heard the voice, I now headcanon that Mudwell can do a female voice that he uses to distract enemies or just plain mess with people

Calico and Spotted Dick’s fav song is “Stop! In the name of love” and they use it to get each other’s attention

Polly: Hey, where’s Spotted Dick?

Calico: I got this.

🎶STOP! IN THE NAAAME OF LOOOOVE!!🎶

Spotty: *from a distance* 🎶BEFORE YOU BREEEEAAK MY HEEEEAAART!🎶

How Pew lost his sight: A crewmate of his took his eyes at some point but he couldn't figure out who it was(it was on purpose, too). After that, his former crew just kicked him off the ship cause they thought he was dead weight. The next leader became Black Dog. And before you ask, no, it wasn’t BD, or Angel Marie, or Mad Monty, they wouldn’t do that. (props @luigixlrepostblog for coming up with that one!)

The aftermath of losing his sight would be that Pew just didn’t give up and kept practicing his skills. Now, nothing can stop him from being a pirate

So based on my newest headcanon for Monty, I’mma add:

When the hat formed Monty from seaweed, the gem, and shark teeth, it created a baby Monty that would grow throughout the years. When the witch doctor went after his belongings, he saw baby Monty looking at him like “Sup”. After bringing him back on the boat, the witch doctor was like “You could be useful. I’m gonna keep you” and so he named him Mad Monty and he taught him how to be evil and become violent. When Monty came of age, his “father” was like “Okay, you’re of age. Go out and kill people” and kicked him out of his house. Monty didn’t know what to do at first, but then he saw a pirate ship and he was like “F it. I’ll be a pirate” and he’s been a pirate ever since

Walleye Pike HATES his voice. Everyone, including him, thinks he sounds like a creep/like he’s trying to kidnap a child and it’s a really touchy subject

Whenever one muppirate starts singing a shanty, within 5 seconds, ALL the muppirates are singing said shanty

Mudwell’s first name is Paul. And since he can play piano, he was in At the Bar. So whenever Clueless called out “Paul?” and the piano started playing, that was really Mudwell.

Mudwell also goes by the nickname Paulie and his middle name is Wahnacrakha. Paulie Wahnacrakha Mudwell. Yeah.

Clueless is omnipresent. He sees just about everything his fellow crewmates are doing and nobody notices until Clueless would accidently bring it up and everyone else is like “Wait, you saw that?”. What’s even worse is that he goes into detail about it

#HUGE thanks to DimTheFrog for coming up with some of these #they’re my first mate!#muppirates #headcanons #the muppets

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stereostevie · 4 years

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A brutal childhood, a traumatic marriage, decades of racism: the singer has overcome it all on her way to the top. She lets rip about the people who have wronged her and the self-belief that sustains her.

It is a rainy Thursday afternoon and Mariah Carey is talking to me from her home in Los Angeles, her voice coming through my laptop. Is this the real life or is this just fantasy? (Sweet, sweet fantasy …) “Hello, good morning, good afternoon, this is a little unusual,” says a gravelly voiced Carey. You’re telling me, Mariah.

We are talking by video chat, but – as specified by Carey – without the video turned on, so it is pure chat. Despite her ability to hit the high notes, Carey has always described herself as an alto. Yet even taking that into account, her voice today sounds pretty husky. Is she feeling OK?

“It’s 6am here, and I’m awake in the bright light and it’s fabulous and I love it,” she says and makes an exaggerated groan.

I’m sorry you had to get up so early for this interview, I say.

“Well, darling, then let’s not book interviews at 6am if you’re worried! But please, it’s not you,” she says, and indeed it isn’t. The time and date of our interview have moved around so many times to accommodate Carey’s ever-shifting schedule that, for a while, it looked as if it wouldn’t happen at all. But at the last minute, it was decided we would talk at 6am her time, which I was promised would be fine because Carey is a self-described “nocturnal person”, so that would be 6pm for her. Alas, for reasons too complicated to get into, for one night only, Carey was a non-nocturnal person, so now 6am is just 6am.

“Typically I would have been working [all night] until now, but we had a situation and I couldn’t. Then I tried to get some sleep, but actually I watched the interview I did with Oprah. But it’s OK, it was just one night [of no sleep] and here I am,” she says. You don’t become one of the most successful singer-songwriters of all time – she has sold more than 200m records, and only the Beatles have had more US No 1 songs – without being a trouper.

Carey, 50, has spent lockdown with her nine-year-old twins, Monroe, named for Carey’s hero, Marilyn Monroe, and Moroccan, named partly for one of her favourite rooms in one of her houses, the Moroccan room, “where so many creative and magical moments have happened, including Nick presenting me with my candy bling”. Nick is Nick Cannon, the twins’ father, and “candy bling” is Carey’s term for her engagement ring, which Cannon hid inside a sweet before proposing. Carey liked Cannon’s proposal so much that she even wrote a song about it, called Candy Bling. The marriage proved less enduring and the couple divorced in 2016.

“Honestly, I don’t miss anyone outside, so I don’t care about lockdown,” she says with a throaty laugh. “But it’s difficult for the kids, because they’re used to three-times-a-year Disney World moments and stuff like that, and that’s just not the current state of affairs.” It is not. So Carey is conducting the promotional tour for her memoir, The Meaning of Mariah Carey, from her kitchen table, and if she has her way – and who would dare to argue? – this will be the last round of interviews she ever does.

“No offence to doing interviews, but what would be the point? I can’t articulate it better than I already have [in the book]. From now on, I’m like, ‘Please refer to page 29,’ you know what I mean?” she says. Carey’s deliciously shady put-downs are legend: her “I don’t know her”, when asked almost two decades ago about Jennifer Lopez is still the internet’s most beloved diss. Speaking of Lopez, her name is notably not in Carey’s memoir. Instead, when recalling the hoo-hah that led to their fallout, when a sample Carey had planned to use on her single, Loverboy, appeared on Lopez’s I’m Real, Carey refers to her as a “female entertainer (whom I don’t know).” So is her official position still that she has never heard of Lopez?

There is a pause, then stifled laughter. “Oh my gosh, can you hear that music in the background? It’s Sam Cooke! It’s fantastic!” she giggles.

Not only has Carey not heard of Lopez, she cannot even hear questions about her, it seems.

Carey’s memoir is about a lot more than score-settling (although she makes time for that, too.) “I don’t think anyone could have known where I was coming from, because I was always very, I don’t know if it was protective, but I was cryptic about the past, let’s say,” she says. No more. The youngest child of an African American father and a white mother, Carey was three when her parents split up. Her childhood was threaded through with neglect and violence, not least from her older siblings. When she was six, she says, her older brother knocked her mother unconscious; when she was 12, her older sister allegedly drugged her and left her with creepy men.

“I think my staying up all night started from having such a dysfunctional family. Oftentimes, whoever was in the house was doing whatever it was that they were doing, and that felt kinda unsafe to me, so I started staying up,” she says. Another legacy of this time is Carey’s obsessive adoration of Christmas, because her childhood Christmases were so miserable. When she wrote the monster hit All I Want for Christmas Is You, she wanted, she says in her book, “to write a song that would make me feel like a carefree young girl at Christmas”.

As a child, her biracial identity made her feel she did not belong anywhere: she was so self-conscious about not being black enough that she wouldn’t even dance, as she associated that with black culture; meanwhile, white girls at school taunted her with the N-word. In one of Carey’s – and my – favourite chapters, she describes how her mother did not know how to look after her young daughter’s textured hair, so it was often matted. Carey would look enviously at the white women in shampoo adverts on TV with their flowing hair. “I am still obsessed with blowing hair, as evidenced by the wind machines employed in every photoshoot of me ever,” she writes.

One of the most painful moments in the book comes in 2001 when Carey is having what the press described as an emotional breakdown. (Carey writes that she did not have a breakdown, but “was broken down by the very people who were supposed to keep me whole.”) During this episode, she rages at her mother, who calls the police. The police take her mother’s side: “Even Mariah Carey couldn’t compete with a nameless white woman in distress,” Carey writes. Is that how she experienced it at the time, or is that how she feels generally, that not even she is safe if a white woman complains?

There is the briefest of pauses. “Those are my words, so please refer to page 29,” Carey says.

Race is very much the running theme in Carey’s memoir. This might come as some surprise to those who know her solely from the mega pop hits such as Hero and We Belong Together, as opposed to the more revealing songs, such as 1997’s Outside, which addressed her feelings of racial ambiguity (sample lyric: “Neither here nor there / Always somewhat out of place everywhere”). “I can’t help that I’m ambiguous-looking,” she says, “and most people would assume that it’s been to my benefit, and maybe it has in some ways. But it’s also been a lifelong quest to feel like I belong to any specific group. It shouldn’t have to be such a freaking thing – and please edit out the fact that I said ‘freaking’. I’m not very eloquent right now.” I ask if she was at all influenced during the writing of her book by the rise of Black Lives Matter. She dismisses the question: “Interestingly, this book predates everything that’s happening now, and the book just happened to be very timely.” In other words, Carey hasn’t caught up to the times, the times have caught up to Carey.

Despite her omnipresence over the past three decades, it is possible that you have not thought about her ethnicity. This, Carey says, has been part of the problem: from the start, she was marketed by “the powerful corporate entities” in a way that played down her racial identity. What made this even more complicated for her was that the most powerful corporate entity in charge of her career at the beginning was her first husband, Tommy Mottola, then the CEO of Sony Music.

Carey’s discovery by Mottola is the stuff of music industry legend. The then unknown aspiring singer gave him a tape of her music at a party in 1988. Mottola tracked her down, signed her and, a few years later, married her. She was 23 and he was 44. Within just a few pages in her memoir, she goes from wearing her mother’s busted shoes to work to living in a $30m mansion with Mottola, which she decorated with enthusiasm: “Though by no stretch do I like a rustic look, I do have a preference for tumbled marble on my kitchen floors,” she writes. Adjusting to the high life was not difficult.

The hits – I’ll Be There, Emotions, One Sweet Day – were unstoppable. The Mottola-Carey marriage did not fare as well, imploding in 1997. Carey expands at some length on her previous allusions to Mottola’s controlling tendencies, claiming he would spy on her and that she was effectively a prisoner in the house. In his 2013 memoir, Mottola admits his relationship with Carey was “absolutely wrong and inappropriate” and adds: “If it seemed like I was controlling, I apologise. Was I obsessive? Yes, but that was also a part of the reason for her success.” Carey points out that she went on to have nine hit albums without Mottola’s controlling obsession. She writes that Mottola tried to “wash the urban” off her, recoiling at Carey’s increasing leaning towards hip-hop and collaborations with African American artists such as ODB. “I believe I said ‘urban, translation black,’ just in case anyone thinks I don’t know,” Carey corrects me. Does she think that was just for commercial purposes, or was something else going on with Mottola? “In my opinion there was a lot of other stuff going on there,” she says.

It must have been pretty upsetting to revisit that period during the writing, I say.

“Yes it was traumatic, but was it harder than some of the other things I’ve gone through? Maybe yeah, actually,” she says with a rueful laugh. “I don’t know if I’ll ever fully recover from the damage of that emotional abuse. But in my school of thought, you have to be a forgiving person.”

Carey is extraordinarily honest in her memoir, but the book is almost as striking for what she does not include as what she does. A lot of attention has focused on her confirmation that she did, as long rumoured, have a fling with the former baseball star Derek Jeter (“I’m not being shady, but he had on pointy shoes,” she recalls a little shadily of their first meeting.) But there is no mention of other boyfriends, such as her former fiancé, the Australian billionaire James Packer.

“If it was a relationship that mattered, it’s in the book. If not, it didn’t occur,” she says.

But you were engaged to Packer, I say.

“We didn’t have a physical relationship, to be honest with you,” she says.

And that is that.

Carey’s singing voice made her famous, but her penchant for being thrillingly, hilariously high-maintenance played its own part in shaping her legend. On an episode of MTV Cribs, she explained that she had a chaise longue in her kitchen because “I have a rule against sitting up straight”, and she has talked about bathing only in milk. Does she think she is high-maintenance – and, if so, does she think it is because she came from nothing?

“You know what? I don’t give a shit. I fucking am high-maintenance because I deserve to be at this point. That may sound arrogant, but I hope you frame it within the context of coming from nothing. If I can’t be high-maintenance after working my ass off my entire life, oh, I’m sorry – I didn’t realise we all had to be low-maintenance. Hell, no! I was always high-maintenance, it’s just I didn’t have anyone to do the maintenance when I was growing up!” she says and cackles with delight.

By now it is almost 7am for her and she is wide awake. I tell her I enjoyed all the references in her book to her enjoying “a splash of wine”.

“Oh, do you? Do you love a splash for yourself?” she asks, pleased.

I do, but I was intrigued by her description of a night out with her friends, including Cam’Ron and Juelz Santana, when they were all “high” on “purple treats”. What were these “purple treats”?

“A legal substance in California known as mari-ju-ana. It’s called purple because that’s the particular weed they liked,” she says.

And did she like it?

“Are you enquiring for yourself or are you asking if I enjoyed it?” she says, mock coy.

I am asking if you enjoyed it, Mariah.

“No, I hated it,” she deadpans, then laughs. “I’m sorry, but it’s obvious!”

I have been interviewing famous people for a long time, but talking with Carey is the closest I have come to how I imagine it would have been to spend time with Bette Davis or Aretha Franklin. There are lots of ridiculous modern celebrities, but Carey is not like that. With her mix of slightly self-parodic ridiculousness undercut with no-messin’, true-to-herself honesty, she is a proper grande dame of the old school. A diva, in other words. It is a term she has laboured under throughout her career, and it is unlikely she will escape it, even if people now finally know where she is coming from. Does she mind the D-word?

“No! Who the fuck cares?” she laughs. “Honestly! ‘Oh my God, they’re calling me a diva – I think I’m going to cry!’ You think in the grand scheme of things in my life that really matters to me, being called a diva? I am, bitches, that’s right!”

The Meaning of Mariah Carey (Macmillan, £20) and The Rarities (Sony Music) are out now.

• This article was amended on 5 October 2020 to clarify that it is in the United States where Mariah Carey is second only to the Beatles in terms of having the most No 1 singles.

#mariah carey #music #culture #pop and rock #soul

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onestowatch · 4 years

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Jimi Somewhere Dives Into an Angelic, Crisis of Faith on Latest Single "Jesus" [Q&A]

Jimi Somewhere is the brainchild of Benjamin Schandy, a 22-year-old artist hailing from Hokksund, a charming town in Norway. Jimi Somewhere's music is influenced by the imaginative work of renowned filmmaker Spike Jonze and the outstanding artistry of Kendrick Lamar, Kevin Abstract, and Frank Ocean. Jimi ties his contemplative lyrics with frenzy electro-pop, ornate hip-hop beats, trippy pop, and multi-layered vocals to produce his very own signature resonance.

Today, Jimi Somewhere shares his new single "Jesus” off his forthcoming debut LP, Nothing Gold Can Stay. We caught up with Somewhere for a quick Q&A about the track's grandiose and "larger than life" feel and the inspiration he pulled from the Christian summer camps he attended growing up.

Ones to Watch: This song has a very spiritual tone and is named after a spiritual figure. It sounds like throughout the song, the main character is going on a spiritual journey or crisis of faith. What is this song about to you, and how did this song come to be?

Jimi Somewhere: A crisis of faith is a good way to put it. That's what it's about to me: faith, doubt, and values. I grew up and out of the church myself, and after I stopped going, I kind of had to reflect on which one of these values to bring along with me in life. There was a lot I was taught in church that I didn't agree with, but then again, a lot of it is just about empathy and humanity. But I needed to have space to figure that out for myself without having any voices in my ears. That's what inspired me to write the song. I was just so frustrated with everything and needed to breathe. Music is also very therapeutic for me. I use it to get it all off my chest.

What was the creative process like for the single? What made you want to go for this very omnipresent, iridescent sound for the track? Were you inspired by anything in particular?

We kind of wanted it to sound like these Christian songs that we would hear at various summer camps growing up. They always had this "larger than life" feeling. You're in the crowd singing, and you feel like you are a part of this big thing. That's what we're chasing. A Hillsong type beat. Only felt right considering the themes on the song. Other inspirations for the song is Coldplay's early stuff, which has been very important to me. The emotional but pretty sadness they often present.

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Do you consider yourself a spiritual person?

I'm not sure. I don't think so. I can, for sure, say I feel very connected though. Like I'll be in nature, and I'll take it all in. But on a day to day basis, I wouldn't say I'm very spiritual. It's something I'd like to dive more into as I'm getting older because I believe the universe is bigger than just us and what you see.

I found myself deeply connecting with a lot of the lyrics, especially the line "I've never met Jesus, but you're the closest to Heaven I've ever come." Do you have a favorite lyric from this track or one that speaks to you? What is your approach when it comes to songwriting?

"For everything I never told my mother, always comes back to get me" is a line I really like. Because it's so true to me. Every time I go against my mother's advice, it ends up negatively affecting my life. So listen to your mothers! They do know best.

Songwriting to me is just kind of throwing up. Just everything I have pent up inside. I don't want to overthink it because if it becomes too conscious, it's usually not that good. The best stuff just falls out.

Kacy Hill's voice is so stunning and perfectly compliments the sonic chaos when she comes in halfway through the song. What was working with her like, and how did she get involved with this single?

Working with her was so sick. She's literally the sweetest person. I've been a massive fan of her for many years and suddenly found out I had a mutual friend. So after bugging him to ask her to come to the studio, she did! I was so embarrassed the first time she came to record but because suddenly our audio interface didn't work. We got all sporadic and were trying to fix it but couldn't. I was thinking like she would hate us for wasting her time and that we blew our shot. But she was so nice about it and came back the next week.

She really just went into the studio and did that. Me and Milo were in the other room, shaking and jumping around. It sounded crystal clear and angelic from the jump. I think her verse brings this comfort and hope that the song was missing. Because it's not all bad, you know. There's light at the end of every tunnel. It was important to me to have that emphasized in the song, and she did that perfectly.

I know "Jesus" is a single coming off of your upcoming Nothing Gold Can Stay. How does it fit into the album overall?

It's one of the first songs on the album, and I thought it would be cool to open an album with such an honest track. Keep the book open from the beginning. The album is also me reflecting on all these things ending in my life. During the ages of 16 - 20, there's a lot of moving out, losing friends, growing up, graduating high school, etc. Faith & wanting a sense of belonging has been a big part of my life during those years so it was important to me to talk about it on the album.

What can people expect to hear from the new LP? I'm sure there's only so much you can share about the album and want to keep a lot of it as a surprise for your fans. Can they expect the same emotional, nostalgic, summery themes from your previous work, or do you feel like you're going in a different direction? Or is Nothing Gold Can Stay going to be a healthy mix of something old and new?

There's for sure a lot the same themes as in the previous work. This is my debut album, so we wanted to make it as "Jimi Somewhere" as possible. Everything else has been building up to this, so we weren't afraid of being a little cliche with it. I just think that's fun. There's definitely some new directions on it as well though. Both sonically and thematic. We never want two projects or songs to sound the same.

Has the pandemic effected you or inspired you as an artist? If so, how?

It just gave us time to create a lot. I live with my producer, so when lockdown happened, we kinda were like, "Ok, let's just be here and work!" We've made so many songs this year. I also got to add that I live in Norway, and we handled it all pretty well in the beginning, so life has been a lot more normal here than what it looks like in the States.

Once the world comes to a state of a new normal, what's the first thing you want to do?

Go back to America! I had so many plans before the pandemic, so I'm trying to make them all happen once I can. But it's just not safe, yet so I'll stay on this side of the ocean until then.

When shows and concerts are back, who do you want to see, and who do you want to tour or play with?

I was supposed to see Taylor Swift live this summer, but it, of course, got canceled. Hopefully, I'll get another chance next year. Just so cool to see such a big production. There's always that dream of doing stadium shows in the future, so I would be in the crowd taking notes. I'm also a huge Taylor Swift fan, so it's the best of both worlds.

Dream tour would be with Lorde because she's been such a big influence on me, and I love her live show. Would not mind hearing 'Writer in the dark' live 30 nights in a row. I also feel like I could learn so much from her. She's only a couple years older than me but seems so wise. So yeah, Lorde, I'm here if you need me just call!

Who have you been listening to throughout the pandemic? Are there any Ones To Watch?

I've been going through so many phases. I had this big Jill Scott phase, where I just listened to "The Light" on repeat all day. Watched this movie "Weathering with you" and got obsessed with the soundtrack. When it comes to Ones to Watch, I wanna recommend this Norwegian band Veps. They're completely new, but my friend sent me their music during quarantine, and it's so good. My favorite song, "Do I Hear a Maybe," is this really sweet, garage rock track with a big hook that I've been screaming around the apartment ever since I heard it. Very fire.

Stream “Jesus” below.

#Jimi Somewhere #Jesus #Pop #Electronic #Indie

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wonderfulworldofmichaelford · 5 years

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Psycho Analysis: Team Rocket

(WARNING! This analysis contains SPOILERS!)

“Prepare for trouble! And make it double!”

I feel like there are few anime villains who are quite as iconic and memorable to the current generation than the bumbling trio of Team Rocket: Jessie, James, and Meowth (that’s right!). These three have appeared in nearly every single episode of the anime, indisputably being main characters on the level of Ash and his pals. Hell, they actually have more of a right to being main characters than franchise staples like Brock, Misty, or whatever girl of the season Ash has tagging along. Team Rocket are pretty omnipresent.

Of course, they’ve had many ups and downs over the years. From some poor showings to voice actor changes to being so overexposed it’s hard not to get tired of them to some absolutely awful decisions the characters make, Team Rocket are just as imperfect creations as most of the other characters in the show. Still, I find Team Rocket to be more consistently enjoyable and even for the most part more compelling than Ash Ketchum. It helps that, unlike him, they have rather interesting backstories and characterization.

Actor: Originally, the trio were voiced by Rachel Lillis (Jessie), Eric Stuart (James), and Maddie Blaustein (Meowth), though in the case of Blaustein and Stuart they actually weren’t the first in their respective roles; Nathan Price and Ted Lewis were the first to voice their characters. Blaustein and Stuart are easily the more iconic voices, however, so I’m going to focus on them.

Lillis is also the original voice of Misty, as well as Jigglypuff, though she has a pretty prolific career in anime voice acting outside of Pokemon; her performance of Jessie really cements her as an abrasive, stuck-up witch who constantly sounds like she’s talking down to everyone; you can practically hear the sneer in her voice, it really is something.

Eric Stuart you may know as Brock or perhaps Seto Kaiba, or perhaps as Meta Knight from Kirby: Right Back at Ya! Or maybe you know him from his music career. Either way, you know that he gave James that sissy, foppish charm that we all know and love.

Maddie Blaustein… She was easily the most talented of the bunch here, and that’s really saying something. She was a woman of a thousand voices, to the e point where you’d never know she was voicing someone unless you saw her name in the credits. Like, can you believe she was Solomon Moto and Sartorious in the Yu-Gi-Oh franchise? Or Omega in Sonic 06? She was one of the greats, and as such is it any shock she delivered the best performance possible to the sneaky little wise guy mascot of the bumbling trio? Her presence is definitely sorely missed even today.

Of course, these three really made the characters who they were, but they did eventually get replaced, and while I don’t think Michele Knotz as Jessie, Jimmy Zoppi as James, or Carter Cathcart as Mewoth are bad by any means – they still manage to give great performances and keep the characters lovable as ever – I do think that it really is hard to live up to the iconic originals, especially in Blaustein’s case.

Motivation/Goals: Team Rocket are introduced as menacing, competent criminals very early on in the anime, with the same goal as any Team Rocket member would have: stealing Pokemon. Of course, after their fated encounter with Ash and the witnessing of his Pikachu’s incredible power, they become single-mindedly obsessed with nabbing Ash’s Pokemon pal and using him for their own nefarious purposes, and the rest is history. Of course, Team Rocket occasionally finds time to look for other goals, such as getting food or money, but most of the time they just try and find new ways to steal Pikachu and fail at doing it.

Personality: Their personalities are really what sets them apart and makes them so interesting. Jessie, for instance, is definitely the more evil of the three; she’s willing to keep going at Team Rocket goals even when there’s no need, while her teammates are far more willing to just abandon stealing Pokemon if better opportunities arrive. Jessie can be callous and cruel, she has an extremely short temper, she’s loud and brash, but even with all that she truly does love her teammates. Even Wobbuffett. Jessie really epitomizes “jerk with a heart of gold.”

James is flamboyant and just as willing to take part in evil schemes to steal Pokemon, but out of everyone in Team Rocket James is easily the nicest guy. He’s sweet and doting to his Pokemon, he has quite a few morals, and he has a lot of the more genuinely compelling emotional moments. All of this also leads into him being probably the smartest and most level-headed of the group, for what that’s worth anyway.

Meowth is snarky and loud, but he has a lot of depths, much like his colleagues. I mean, this guy taught himself how to talk (at the cost of being able to learn moves like Pay Day), so he’s gotta be at least a little smart, right? WELL… while Meowth does have some smarts, especially street smarts since he grew up on the mean streets of Hollywood, Meowth is also the looniest of the three if you can believe that. Have you perhaps seen the numerous fantasies of Giovanni doing something ludicrous with some random Pokemon? Guess who is the person responsible for thinking most of those up. Go on, guess.

There are things all three members of the group share: all three are incredibly friendly to the point where they’re only villains because of their loyalty to Giovanni; they’re as likely to be friendly with Ash and the gang as to be trying to steal his Pokemon, o the point where they’ve not only helped him, but have directly had a hand in saving the world on quite a few occasions. All three are pretty hilarious in their ineptitude as well, and all three are actually very competent at disguising themselves. They all tend to be pretty hammy as well. All in all, the three are really enjoyable and fun for what they are.

Final Fate: Whenever these three do evil, there is only one fate in store for them: blasting off. Still, they always end up somehow coming back in the next episode to cause a ruckus.

Best Scene: In a series as long as this, it’s hard to single out one scene among the hundreds of thousands of scenes they’ve had. Still, the entirety of “Go West, Young Meowth” counts as one for Meowth, culminating with him taking out a Persian by himself, as well as Jessie and James coming to Meowth’s aid before said duel.

Best Quote: I hardly think it is possible to overstate how good their original motto is:

Jessie: Prepare for trouble!

James: And make it double!

Jessie: To protect the world from devastation.

James: To unite all people within our nation.

Jessie: To denounce the evils of truth and love!

James: To extend our reach to the stars above!

Jessie: Jessie!

James: James!

Jessie: Team Rocket, blast off at the speed of light!

James: Surrender now, or prepare to fight. note

Meowth: Meowth, that's right!

From 1998 to 2006, this was how they announced their arrival on the scene, and while they’d go through other mottos and songs and whatnot over the years, nothing can top the original.

Final Thoughts & Score: Team Rocket are some of the most memorable antagonists in all of anime, despite amounting to what would just be nameless, faceless mooks in the game series the anime is based on. Honestly, it’s hard to imagine the anime without them involved, and even when they introduce more serious villains they rarely ever match up to Team Rocket. Hell, even other members of Team Rocket fail to live up to their entertaining standard; does anyone remember Atilla and Hun, does anyone actually care about Butch and Cassidy?

In fact, it’s pretty easy to say that in many ways these three are even more interesting than Ash. You see, we know from the start Team Rocket is going to fail in whatever evil schemes they have going on in any given episode, so unlike when Ash inevitably loses the championship, Team Rocket losing is expected, making their victories sweeter as opposed to Ash’s victories feeling like inevitable buildup to failure. It also helps that unlike Ash, all three have pretty interesting, compelling, and even tragic backstories, with Jessie following in her mother’s footsteps as a Rocket grunt, James fleeing from an abusive arranged marriage and tossing aside a life of riches for crime, and Meowth learning how to talk by itself and growing up on the streets. Team Rocket just ends up feeling so much more interesting and fleshed out than the main character of the show, though considering the amount of screentime they get they easily could be considered main characters.

Jessie, James, and Meowth across the board get 8/10. I’d definitely say it’s the high end of 8, but they are held back a bit by some truly dumb decisions they’ve made over the years, dumb decisions to rival Ash’s, such as the frequent letting go of Pokemon the audience has likely grown to know and love, with Arbok and Weezing being the most offensively egregious example. Still, this gang has stuck around for over 20 years, and the show and series at large just wouldn’t feel the same without their continued presence. Good, bad, it doesn’t matter; Team Rocket’s iconic trio is a core part of the franchise, and their impact can’t be ignored.

“Meowth, that’s right!”

#Psycho Analysis #Team Rocket #Jessie #James #Meowth #Pokemon

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thesinglesjukebox · 5 years

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ZARA LARSSON - ALL THE TIME

[5.89]

Our opinions change all the time...

Alfred Soto: Eventually a artist will figure out how to put this spate of post-1989 synth pop to more thrilling uses than wringing the bitter from the sweet. [3]

Elisabeth Sanders: A solid pop bop with the familiar, slightly tired "I think about you all the time, let me list the things I'm thinking about, and also the various times and places I'm thinking them" theme, "All The Time" isn't as memorable or as fresh as Larsson's previous absoLUTE slappers "Ruin My Life" or "Lush Life," it's certainly not something I'd be disappointed to hear come on at the club. Perfectly serviceable fun. [6]

Kayla Beardslee: Easily in my top five pop songs of the year, this is all I could ever want not just from Zara Larsson, but from the genre as a whole. Larsson's songs have sometimes stumbled over awkward lyrics, but here the rhymes and narrative fall easily into place, even the vaguely archaic phrasing of "the breaking of the day." Her vocals are mixed incredibly clearly, enough to give every breath the suggestion of emotion, and from the first vocodered refrain, the song's pace is relentless -- it builds in glitzy layer upon layer, explodes into perfectly crafted choruses, and even finds the space for a proper bridge. Music as bright and thrilling as "All the Time" feels out of place in 2019, but that just strengthens its appeal. [10]

Joshua Lu: I've been thinking about a quip from around a month back on how scores of [9] or higher are reserved for songs that are "transcendent," and I've realized now just how effective an adjective that is at differentiating between good songs and good songs. The word connotes a quality that evokes a certain response from a listener, one that's not contained in the physical or aural realm, but instead just something you have to feel in order to recognize. Zara has a lot of good songs, and for the most part, "All the Time" is one of them, with a unique, omnipresent, unwieldy hook made possible with the incessantly upbeat, disco-tinged backdrop. It's all agreeable and catchy and good. But that bridge, where the hook disappears for the first time, the instrumental curls inward, and Zara's delivery suddenly rings as despondent, and you realize that this has been a sad song the whole time and the lyrical dissonance was acting as some kind of auditory coping mechanism, and you get hit with this pang of despair that you're sharing with Zara, whose belt bleeds perfectly into the final chorus? Now that was transcendent. I will score accordingly. [9]

Michael Hong: That autotuned "from the breaking of the day to the middle of the night" might be a mildly annoying intro, but it ends up being an even more irritating drone during the verses and completely ruining what could have been a perfectly fine chorus. [2]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: I can appreciate the repeated hook on a conceptual level: Larsson can't stop thinking about a previous lover, so these lines detailing how often she's thinking about this person present an obsessiveness, but the fact they're vocodered transmit an incompleteness. The instrumentation never quite captures the depth of her mental state though. Really, "All the Time" is mostly just a slog that has an unconvincingly chipper sheen--perhaps an appropriate representation of how life feels for her, but it's certainly not something that's fun to hear. As with many of Larsson's songs, its failings come down to how unconvincing she is as a singer. There's a bit of intrigue with how the second verse flips the New York line, hinting that her trip to this state has her wishing for a chance encounter, but Larsson makes every line just sound like a string of words. Isn't she supposed to sound impassioned? Desperate? Like a person with emotions? [3]

Will Adams: A "Doin' It Right" vocoder hook paired with the drumbeat from "Hold On, We're Going Home"? If this came out in 2013 it would be the most derivative, desperate song of the year. But in the kinder light of 2019, its sad-disco drive is a winning formula, allowing the typically malleable Zara Larsson to sound a lot more memorable than usual. [7]

William John: In which Zara Larsson enlists the help of a vocoder to convey the insurmountable delirium brought on by desire; together, the ceaseless pull of the looped hook and her lusty delivery ensure that her motives are perceived as romantic rather than possessive. If we hadn't already been graced with Dedicated, then I suppose this would be the best Carly Rae Jepsen song of the year. [7]

Kylo Nocom: Zara Larsson does "Doin' It Right" right: the looped vocoder is surprisingly inspired as a low-pass filter instrumental and as a heavy pop-drop. However, this production could have benefited from some restraint; the guitar in the second half of the earlier choruses crowds an already loud mix that only gets even more hard on the ears by the end. The bridge does strip down considerably, allowing Zara to reach into the emotional core of the song before the chaos comes crashing back in. [6]

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