#i have gathered that keith is from texas? which is wild because he was playing the role of . me. and i am also. from texas | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

soundsandnoises · 5 years

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Papa Roach with Nothing More in O2 Bristol Academy (15/04/2019)/ O2 Birmingham Academy (29/04/2019)

PAPA ROACH

I didn't intend this piece to be very personal, but here I am, making it as personal as it can get.

Maybe hearing 'Last Resort' at the beginning of the show triggered something, maybe it's the season or me being bit more fragile in my head again. I know what some may say: “gosh that song was so long ago (like 20 years ago), there are so many great songs Papa Roach produced throughout the years, you should focus on the new material.” Sure, maybe I should. But this song is undeniably one of the songs being the foundation of Papa Roach, so I WILL say few words on the matter. I know the lyrics, they were always hitting close to home. Yet only recently they resonated deeper than deep, like some secret meaning has been unlocked. I fully understood the emotion in it and while it was always intense to sing, scream it at the shows it seemed it just hit another level when I REALLY meant those words...

It's truly special that after all these years the song and the band still have the same effect on the audience, the connection. And what a bittersweet match the concert setlist was when right after dark cloud of 'Last Resort' the acknowledgement in a form of 'Help' followed. And again tears dangerously gathered in eyes while lungs were giving out from the volume of sang words.

The mood and speed of the evening has been established. A ride just as wild as I've seen ten years earlier in not so big club in my home country. Only this time Jacoby seemed more in peace with himself, still presenting this wonderfully insane persona onstage, but this character was broken by fragile, soft human being having a banter about sense of belonging and being alive. But don't dare take it as a weakness or slowing down, 'cause there was none when he encouraged the crowd to crowdsurf, create a moshpit and... ignited a rebellion of sorts among people on the balcony urging everyone to get up from their seats (against security's advice apparently). The crowd immersed completely in the madness to release anger, sadness, pain (like in wonderful unison on 'Scars') and let loose in 'Elevate'. Which leads me to songs from the latest album. Self-destructing, heartbreaking and heavy sound was left in the past and lighter (for feet and heart) tunes overruled it. But it doesn't mean it's all sweet pop and electronic samples now: take 'Renegade Music' where drums, mimicking Beastie Boys' 'Sabotage', accelerated, gained the momentum, great fusion of music genres in this song made it a killer when played live.

There was time for beautiful tribute to late Keith Flint [The Prodigy] when Papa Roach turned the volume and temperature of the show and rock show turned into rave thanks to the 'Firestarter'. Also the show couldn't end on the better note – 'Born for Greatness'; phenomenal choice – it left people buzzing with positive emotions, with sort of soothing feeling though their bodies were tired with fatigue after damn physical show (bleeding nose included, I'm pretty sure the guy was alright after all, especially after getting a shout out and a towel from Jacoby).

Experimenting with sound and growing as a band and musicians doesn't mean that Papa Roach steered away from talking about inner demons, struggle, feeling alone. It's still there, just as other topics familiar to the audience. It's the tone that changed, evolved again. And brand new music wins hearts just the same as the old tunes – people were giving their best moshing, dancing, going crazy . It's the only way to forget about whatever bothered you, kept you down. Those have been left outside the Academy's door, put on hold so you can feel alive, even if it's for a short while.

Setlist:

Last Resort

Help

Who Do You Trust?

Getting Away with Murder

Renegade Music

Between Angels and Insects

Elevate

Not The Only One

Traumatic

Falling Apart

Forever

None of the Above

Scars

Feel Like Home

...To Be Loved

Encore:

Firestarter

Infest

Born for Greatness

Nothing More

I could describe their show in one sentence (and it would most likely give it justice or at least the sense of it): go big or go home. But it’s so worth to say so much more about this band from San Antonio, Texas.

Because it wasn’t just an opening act, support band. They offered engaging, surprising, immersive and passionate show. From machinery that could easily be part of set of Mad Max or Transformers, machinery that in fact was instruments to expressive, mesmerising performance of band’s singer [Jonny Hawkins]. Unconventional approach, pure energy, something animalistic, vocals piercing the air, loads of turns and hard work on band’s path - all these make Nothing More bruised and battered yet firmly standing on the ground construct. A beast that shows all the colours live and it’s impossible to pass it by unimpressed. There’s no stopping, intense lyrically (’Fade In/ Fade Out’ or ‘Jenny’) and unapologetic sonically (’Go To War’, ‘This Is The Time (Ballast)’). Something else.

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sympathetichorror · 5 years

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OKAY i got a couple of responses so here’s the first chapter of my WIP tentatively titled “little stranger!”

i’d love comment/critiques but please be kind

[word count: 3,034]

Dad bought Mikey the Rickenbacker for his tenth birthday, back in ‘64. The Beatles had hit it big and Mikey had decided that he wanted to be a rockstar too, so without hesitation or any real kind of money in his pockets, Dad went down to a music shop in Austin and picked up the same kind of guitar that George Harrison wielded. At the time, Dad had given up hope on making Mikey into a sports star, so he decided to try to make him a rockstar. Rock music was masculine in Dad’s eyes, and if Mikey was a big man rock star who could pull in girls like those English boys did, even with their floppy hair, then the rumors about Mikey being light in the loafers couldn’t be true.

But Mikey, being Mikey, was over the rockstar dream by the time he unwrapped the guitar on his birthday, much to Dad’s ire and disappointment. The guitar got hung on the wall of abandoned dreams in the basement, alongside Mikey’s old baseball glove, football helmet, and cleats. I was only six at the time, but I used to sneak down in the basement all the time to steal glances at the mystical instrument, which hung just high enough to be out of my little reach, not that my fingers were big enough to do anything with it. By the time I grew tall enough to be able to take it off the wall, Dad gave in and let me have it.

He didn’t want me to have it at first because he didn’t see the guitar as a “ladylike” instrument, but once he realized that Mikey was never going to be the guy in the letterman with a beauty queen on his arm, he didn’t care anymore. An unladylike daughter was bad, but significantly less bad than a queer son. He already had a queer son, so what was the harm in letting me, the often ignored second child, be a little unladylike?

That guitar was the only thing I took with me when I went to New York to try to find Mikey. Well, I took some clothes and all the money I’d saved up babysitting, but nothing else besides those necessities and the guitar. I didn’t want anything else. I wanted to leave everything behind in Lampasas to die in the Texas heat - the bullying, the rumors, the cruelty, Mom’s bruises, Dad’s growing pile of empty beer cans, all of it.

Mom might not have been able to gather the guts to save herself, but I was determined not to let myself have the same fate as her. So at seventeen, fresh out of high school and full of teen angst, I took a bus up to New York City to try to find my brother, who’d disappeared into the concrete jungle four years ago, just after he got out of school.

It took a while, but I did manage to find Mikey, though he now went by the name Oscar and was nearly completely unrecognizable from the brother I’d once known. At the same time, he never looked more like himself, even if himself looked rather ridiculous in leather and feathers and unkempt hair. He was an artist now. He’d been fronting a band for the past couple of years, a band that was the even poorer man’s version of the New York Dolls, but he was having a ball nonetheless.

That was two years ago. Now, Oscar was deep in a heroin addiction, unable to do anything but turn tricks and shoot up. I was the breadwinner of our little fucked up household, bringing in the money for everything other than drugs. I was the artist now, though I wouldn’t know if I’d call myself that necessarily. I fronted my own little punk group and I did my own shit my own way, and that was all I’d say about myself.

“I’m heading out!” I called to Oscar through the bathroom door. “You good?”

“I’m good!” Oscar yelled back throatily.

There was no doubt that he was in there slumped over the toilet, either from being too doped up or not doped up enough. I didn’t know which it was and I didn’t really care. So long as he wasn’t dead as I was leaving, I didn’t care. I probably should care more about my brother and his current state of absolute drug addiction, but at this point, I couldn’t. I’d cared too much for too long, and I’d learned that if he didn’t care, I couldn’t care either.

With that, I threw my guitar over my back and headed out of our little shithole apartment. For a New York apartment on the budget we had, the place really wasn’t that bad - but rats and mold and pushers still filled the place. If only Ma knew where we were living...she’d probably keel over just hearing a description of it.

But Ma wasn’t here. She was back in Lampasas with her bruises and probably more broken bones at this point. I called her once in awhile to let her know that I was doing okay and that Mikey had yet to die. I didn’t bother to tell her that he’d changed his name and become nearly totally unrecognizable from the son she’d last seen almost four years ago now. She’d had enough heartbreak in her life thus far. I didn’t need to add to it. Besides, that was Oscar’s story to tell her, if he ever got the guts and decency to call home sometime. He never had, not even once, since moving to New York.

“Hey, what took you so long?” Lenny asked.

I glanced down at my watch, then looked up to my bandmate and said, “I’m five minutes late. It’s only five past eight; that’s hardly late at all.”

“Yeah, but you’re hardly ever late,” he reminded me, keeping up with my strides as we hit the Manhattan streets.

We were too broke to afford cabs unless we were buddies with the drivers, so we walked the city for the most part.

“Well maybe you should find something to do to occupy your time other than hanging out around my building waiting for me,” I suggested with a wink.

Lenny rolled his eyes, but laughed. “Hey, things have been rough since I got kicked out of Marcia’s place.”

“I can’t be sorry for you for that,” I said, tucking my hands into the pockets of my beat up leather jacket. “You’re the one who decided to fuck her best friend on the floor at her place...you kinda deserved that one.”

“Yeah, but I mean, I never told her that we were like, a thing,” he told me, trying to justify his actions. Seeing the serious side-eye I was giving him, he sighed and relented, “Still, I guess I coulda told her that we weren’t.”

“Exactly,” I said.

We walked in silence for a bit, only the sounds of the ever-rowdy city filling our ears.

“You still think I’m a piece of shit for that, don’t you?” Lenny pressed.

His expression was serious - he was genuinely concerned that he’d permanently tainted my opinion of him. Lenny was the one of the closest things I had to a best friend. That position used to be occupied by my brother, until he went and fucked himself all up. He was definitely my best guy friend and my favorite guy out of the three of them who played in my little “band” with me. We both had similar stupid senses of humor and not-so-secretly harbored major loves for David Bowie. Lenny said he was the only guy he’d go gay for, and I couldn’t fault him for that.

We’d went and seen Bowie with Iggy Pop and Blondie a couple of weeks ago at the Palladium, and Lenny had nearly shit himself out of excitement and arousal. I was just as excited, of course, but I had a much better poker face than he did.

“I don’t think you’re a piece of shit, I think you did a really shitty thing,” I clarified. I gave him a small smile, seeing as he was still desperately waiting for my approval. “But that can be remedied...you can always learn from your actions. Just no more treating women like shit, right?”

“Right,” he nodded eagerly. “I won’t sleep around and I’ll--”

“You can sleep around,” I interjected. Seeing his surprised expression, I added, “As long as you’re being safe about it and you’re telling girls that they shouldn’t get their hopes up, that is.”

“Right,” Lenny said again. “Will do, Kathy.”

“Good,” I said. “The last thing the city needs is another misogynistic asshole in a band.”

That got him to laugh, which I was glad. I laughed alongside him as we rounded the corner to go into the back entrance of CBGB’s, the one reserved for the ‘artists’ that would grace their stage. We were one of those groups that got to use the door, though we weren’t big names like the people we opened for. Then again, in the grand scheme of things, we weren’t even that big.

“Jesus Christ, Kathy, don’t you have better clothes to wear than those in the middle of winter?” questioned Terry G., one of the bouncers/security guys. He was far beefier than he was brainy - I doubted he even had the brains to play ‘Blitzkrieg Bop’ - but he was a nice guy nonetheless.

“Naw, I’m fine,” I told him with a polite smile.

“Your lips are turning blue,” he informed me. “And your cheeks are all chapped.”

He was right, but I brushed him off, repeating myself, “I’m fine, really. A little cold never bothered me.”

Lie. That was a big fat lie. The thing I hated the most about New York was the cold. I loved the cool autumns, the mild springs, and even the sticky city summers, but the frigid winters were the one thing that made me miss Texas.

“Well, either way, you guys should get inside,” Terry G. said. “The other two Black Eyes are in there waiting for you.”

“Thanks,” Lenny said, speaking for the two of us as we hopped the couple of stairs into the building.

By the other two Black Eyes, Terry G. meant the other two guys that played in our little band, Phil and Keith. Phil was on the bass, Keith was on second guitar, Lenny was on the drums, and I was on guitar and vocal duties. We were quite an odd foursome, having come together after our stints in other bands didn’t work out. Phil was hanging onto the New York Dolls look with his platforms, scarves, and eyeliner, while Keith dressed more like an accountant, in button downs and ill-fitting blazers. Lenny was the one who went the most wild with his punk style, loving the safety pin and spikes look, enjoying sticking up his hair with loads of Aquanet, and always working on bettering his impression of Johnny Thunders with that lip curl thing.

I, the lone female in the band, was also the most boring looking, except for my Kool Aid red hair. I’d cut it all off when I moved to New York, and now that it was long enough to graze my shoulders again, I’d decided to go a little crazy with the dye. I didn’t love it, but I didn’t hate it either, so we were working with it. Lenny and the guys were insistent that I keep it for a while - they said it was good for our image, that it made me stick out, which was exactly the reason that I kind of, sort of hated it.

“I always thought it’d be a cold day in hell when the two of you showed up after the two of us,” Phil joked as we entered the green room. He had a cigarette dangling from his teeth and bright blue glitter accentuating his eyes.

“It is like negative ten out,” I informed him dryly. “So that might have something to do with it.”

It was March, almost April. It shouldn’t have been this fucking cold still, but it was, and I hated the cold more and more each day.

“Haha,” Phil deadpanned. “Funny.”

“Are my drums all set up already?” Lenny asked. He helped himself to one of the beers in the cooler in the corner of the room, downing half of it in on impressive swig.

“Yeah, Keith and I took care of ‘em,” Phil nodded. We kept our spare equipment at Phil and Keith’s place, since they were the only ones with any space to put all of it. “We’re just waiting for someone to tell us it’s time to go out there and do the damn thing...unless you wanna do a quick soundcheck?”

The question was rhetorical, and he knew that. I shook my head to verify, though. I wasn’t one for soundchecks. That was too much effort, and unnecessary effort when playing at a place like CBGB’s. The louder and fuzzier, the better, or so I’d found.

“Hello hello, shiners,” came an all too familiar voice.

Before I knew it, I was being squashed in a hug by Ray. Every time I saw him I was shocked by how tall he was, more than a foot taller than me, to be specific. I should’ve been used to it by now, after everything, but I wasn’t. I lingered in his arms for a moment, taking note of his old familiar scent that I still loved - Camels, Pabst, and a dash of that cologne I couldn’t remember the name of.

“Hey, thanks again for asking us to open for you,” I said as he released me from the hug.

He pressed a light kiss to the top of my head before completely separating himself from me, something he still did everytime we saw each other, despite having been broken up for four months and some odd days. I’d been keeping track of the days for some time without really meaning to, but I quit when Lenny told me I should forget about it and try to move on to a new dick.

“Of course,” Ray said. He grinned down at me, his dark eyes glassy. He must’ve shot up not too long ago. “If I can’t have you playing with me, I’ll have you open for me, anytime, gladly.”

“Thanks,” I said. Glancing to Phil and Lenny, I said, “We all really appreciate it.”

That was true. Ray’s band, Raymond Garbage and the Trash Junkies, always pulled a big crowd. Their crowds were the good kind too - the people who really loved the punk scene for what it was, not the posers who crept it to check out what the whole ‘punk’ thing was all about. Ray and the guys were good, but their sound wasn’t the kind of sound the punk inspectors came to see, nor were we. Those curious spectators came for the Ramones or Blondie, not the Trash Junkies and the Black Eyes.

“‘Course,” Ray assured us, but mostly me. “Someday I’ll be opening for you guys.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “But that’s a nice sentiment.”

“It’ll happen,” Ray said. He flashed me that charming smile of his that’d won me over, rubbing at his eye. “Excuse me, shiners, I’ve gotta hit the little boys’ room before you go on.”

With that, he made his exit, much to my disappointment. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish that Ray and I were still together. I didn’t know if I loved him anymore in a romantic kind of sense, but I missed him. Sure, I saw him all the time and in reality we were closer than ever, albeit in a platonic way, but I still missed what we had. I missed waking up in his bed with my head on his chest and his fingers in my hair, and how we stayed up all night talking about Nietzsche or reading Vonnegut novels to each other.

“We need to get you fucked by someone,” Phil said, breaking the silence left in Ray’s wake.

“I’ve been getting fucked by plenty of people,” I said.

That was true. Since breaking up with Ray, I’d become just as promiscuous as anyone out here on the Bowery. Well, maybe not just as promiscuous. I refused anyone who refused a condom, which ended half of my encounters before they could ever happen. Still, I’d shared a bed with more people - mostly men, a couple of women - than I bothered to keep track of. A few weeks ago, I truly realized that the promiscuity thing just wasn’t for me. I was a monogamist at heart, and I’d learned that the hard way. I hadn’t stopped sleeping around, though. Once you got in the cycle, it was hard to get out of it.

“Clearly it hasn’t been good, though,” Phil replied. “Or else you wouldn’t keep on staring at Ray like he’s some sort of messiah.”

“She doesn’t wanna get fucked, she wants a nice guy to settle down with,” Keith chimed in, emerging into the room. His gray tartan blazer was so oversized that it was bordering on ridiculous. He stopped and thought about it for a moment, and said, “No, maybe you don’t want to settle down now, but you get what I mean.”

“What I need is to not date for a while,” I sighed. I flipped my guitar so it hung around me the right way, absentmindedly fingering out my arpeggios.

“Amen to that, babe,” Phil said, holding his bottle of gin up to me in praise.

He, Keith, and Lenny all took long gulps of their drinks. Lenny finished his entire beer, slamming the can into the wall. I was the only one not drinking, per usual. I was damn near being a teetotaler, something I got a lot of loving shit for around here.

“Black Eyes, you’re up,” said one of the CBGB employees, ducking their head into the room. “And just a heads up - you’ve got a bit of an unruly crowd out there tonight.”

#personal #iwrite #finally updating my writing tag on here!#be kind i love kathy but i appreciate constructive criticism!

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