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dieserbloghatkeinennamenzwei · 2 years

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IG Hugh Jackman - 26th October 2022

Thank you doesn’t begin to convey my immense gratitude to @variety, @raminsetoodeh and @marchomstudio for this cover story. Also thanks to @thomasdunkin1, @mjonf, @annikauncensored and the village of people who worked behind the scenes to make it all come together. #theson

The Story of Hugh Jackman in Five ActsBy

Ramin Setoodeh

Photographs by Marc Hom

Act I

This is a story about grief in New York. Hugh Jackman’s father died while he was making “The Son.” But instead of taking time off, Jackman kept playing Peter, a workaholic struggling to take care of his family: a new baby, a partner and a teenage son, Nicholas, suffering from a frightening depression. Jackman, 54, related to Peter as both a father of two kids and as a son. Jackman’s dad raised him after his mother abandoned their family in Australia when Jackman was 8. Jackman visited his father, who’d been living with Alzheimer’s for 12 years, right before shooting his first scene as Peter.

“He was nearing the end,” Jackman says over a recent lunch in downtown Manhattan, where he lives with his wife, Deborra-Lee Furness. “So he was ostensibly gone, mentally. He would still smile a bit. I didn’t know he was going to physically pass away, but I knew it was kind of a goodbye.” Jackman’s eyes flicker, momentarily losing that joyful glint they usually possess.

Filming “The Son” in a COVID-19 bubble in September 2021, Jackman pulled director Florian Zeller aside one morning to tell him about his dad’s death. “My father never missed a day of work,” Jackman says, explaining why he resisted taking time off to grieve. “I could feel him. I knew if he could talk to me, he’d be like, ‘You got to go to work! What are you talking about?’ I felt his presence on the set.”

In the early 2000s, after he’d gained worldwide fame in “The X-Men,” Jackman would invite his father to his movie sets, where the old man — an accountant named Christopher John — would quietly perch behind the monitors, working on crossword puzzles. It’s this portrait of his father that stays with him. “I literally could see him in the corner of the room,” Jackman says about the scenes he shot on “The Son” after his father’s passing. “I had an image of him on set, standing behind the action. My father worked incredibly hard — looking after five kids, the weight of the world on his shoulders. I had the feeling of him being completely free. That really helped me.”

The A-list star who played Wolverine in nine movies (and is coming back for at least one more) has charted a career for himself that’s spanned musicals (“Les Misérables” and “The Greatest Showman”), crime dramas (“Prisoners” and “Bad Education”) and Broadway (he’s currently starring in a revival of “The Music Man”). He’s toured the globe as the star of the 2019 concert, “The Man. The Music. The Show.,” belting out some of his favorite hits — from “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” to “Gaston” — to sold-out stadiums. He’s hosted the Tony Awards four times, and his stint as the emcee of the 2009 Oscars was the closest we’ve come to seeing a genial song-and-danceman successor to Billy Crystal. “The Son” fundamentally changed Jackman as an actor and as a man. And when the independently financed movie from Sony Pictures Classics opens in theaters on Nov. 25, “The Son” will probably change how you see Jackman.

Most of Jackman’s roles have only reaffirmed his reputation as the kindest movie star in Hollywood. “He’s the nicest man ever,” says Laura Dern, who plays Nicholas’ mother in “The Son.” Michael Barker, the co-president of Sony Pictures Classics, offers: “He’s one of the most quality human beings I’ve ever met.” Jackman’s pal Ryan Reynolds who first worked with him on 2009’s “X-Men Origins: Wolverine,” remembers being jet-lagged when he arrived on set, and how warmly Jackman greeted him, calling out his name as if they were already best friends. “The thing about Hugh is that he’s always been consistently himself,” Reynolds says.

Jackman’s ease and amiability are reinforced both in person (he shakes hands with every crew member at our photo shoot, which helps ease his nervousness at being the center of attention) and on Instagram, where he posts off-the-cuff videos — walking his dogs, drinking a glass of wine, commemorating the retirement of a 10-year-old pair of dance shoes — to his 31 million followers. He even knows the name of one of his fans (Annette), who has seen “The Music Man” 115 times, casually bringing her up in conversation as if she’s a member of his inner circle.

Jackman is so congenial that it’s funny when he tells a story about how he didn’t get cast as the hunk in “Miss Congeniality.” (More on that later.) But “The Son” subverts that image, which is precisely why he wanted to play the role. The family drama is a difficult watch about a father trying, and failing, to erase the crippling pain of his son’s depression. (It’s based on a 2018 stage play by Zeller that’s part of a trilogy, following “The Father,” which was adapted into a film that won Anthony Hopkins the lead acting Oscar in 2021.) Jackman suffered from sleepless nights while making the film. As his father’s health deteriorated, he entered therapy for the first time and kept up his journal — pouring out his emotions before going to set.

“I don’t think I’m a great sleeper,” Jackman says, noting that he has restless legs syndrome. “But I have always been able to go to sleep quickly and sleep as long as I wanted. But not on this one. I look back now and I’m like, ‘Of course I wasn’t sleeping.’ There’s some history of mental illness in my family, and there was a lot of stuff coming up for me.”

“The Son” will likely earn Jackman an invitation back to the Oscars as a best actor contender (he was nominated in 2013 for “Les Miz”). The film’s release arrives at a busy time for him. In January, he’ll close his run as the tap-dancing con man, Harold Hill, in “The Music Man,” after a full year of carrying the biggest Broadway production during the pandemic. Despite mixed reviews, the show has been a smash success, raking in as much as $3 million a week.

Then he’ll suit up as Wolverine again. He’s coming out of retirement to play the clawed hero in the third “Deadpool” movie with Reynolds, which the two friends announced in September in a video that’s amassed more than 10 million views. Jackman has already started to bulk up, even as he’s losing 1,500 calories a night (per a heartrate monitor) from shimmying and belting out “Seventy-Six Trombones” to raucous applause. “Apologies to the entire cast of ‘The Music Man,’ and in particular my dresser and my wife — all the protein shakes are starting to kick in fast,” Jackman says.

He reveals that his stage costumes have already been let out twice. “The other night, I could hear the Velcro go creaking and actually popped open,” Jackman says. “I’ve split two pairs of pants.” Backstage one night, there was a race against the clock to get him a new pair: “It was an 18-inch tear,” he says. “I had about two minutes. I said to the stage manager, ‘New pair of pants!’ I had my pants around my ankles. I thought, if my dresser doesn’t get here in time, it’s better to go on in split pants than no pants. Then I saw him running from stage right to stage left, top speed. We made it just in time.”

Act II

This is a story about leaving New York. For weeks before meeting Jackman at our photo shoot, I’d been telling strangers — people in line at the pharmacy and the barber shop, cab drivers, a cashier at Home Depot — that I was abandoning the city that had been my home for 18 years, for Los Angeles. So it doesn’t seem that weird (to me anyway) that it’s the first thing I blurt out to Jackman upon seeing him on a beautiful fall day. He quizzes me about it, not approving of the move like every other New Yorker I’ve talked to.

We see each other again a few days later for lunch in SoHo, and they show us to a table by the window. I ask for something less conspicuous, but an employee tells me nothing is available, issuing the rejection without even looking at Jackman, the towering movie star in a fitted T-shirt standing next to me. As we settle into our seats, Jackman jokes that he isn’t as famous as he thought. “When I first did a movie with Meg Ryan”— it was the 2001 romantic comedy “Kate & Leopold” — “she said, ‘Oh, New York’s the best!’ I said, ‘Don’t you get bothered here?’ She goes, ‘Everyone’s moving. You can get everywhere. L.A.’s a nightmare.’”

That’s what I’ve been afraid of. Unlike most interviews with actors, this one begins with Jackman interrogating me. Have I found a place yet in L.A.? How is the packing going? Do I read a lot of books? I tell him I’ve taped up 25 boxes. “That’s not much,” he says. “Well, I did hear this when I was touring: Katy Perry has 26 semitrailers to move around for her show.”

Jackman tells funny tales about his 20s that underline his slapstick sense of humor. One of his first jobs was at a Sydney fitness center called the Physical Factory. “I was the guy opening the gym, and in my first three weeks, I slept in twice,” Jackman says. “If you want to see angry people, it’s alpha people who want to be at the gym when it opens.” He set four alarms so he was never late again, and that’s how he became a morning person.

Back then, Jackman says, he was “super skinny.” “All the guys used to make fun of me,” he says. “They nicknamed me ‘Anna.’” (He has to explain to me that this was an inappropriate joke about anorexia.) “I used to think they were idiots. I was like, ‘You spend all your day looking in a mirror. What a waste of time.’”

When he was cast in the first “X-Men” movie, replacing the Scottish actor Dougray Scott as Wolverine, he wasn’t as ripped as he needed to be for the character. The production had to push back his first scene, where he’s shirtless in a cage fight, so he could get in better shape. “I’m just a bit flabby,” Jackman says. “It took me a while to work that out.”

Before all that, though, he was taking classes at a Sydney drama school while signing up locals for gym memberships. Based on Jackman’s charisma, one customer predicted he’d be a massive movie star: It was Annie Semler, the wife of “Dances With Wolves” cinematographer Dean Semler. “She goes, ‘I know you don’t believe me, but I’m a white witch, and I see this very clearly,’” he says, telling the story as he bites into a piece of fish. She invited Jackman to her house in the Sydney suburb of Mosman so her husband could take his first headshot — still in his Physical Factory uniform — and then connected him with an agent.

Out of that came an audition for the Australian soap “Neighbours,” but Jackman turned down the part to attend a three-year drama conservatory in Perth. “I said, ‘I don’t trust that once I get started, I’m going to go back and study.’”

Eventually, his training led to TV and stage work, most notably as the star of a 1998 West End revival of “Oklahoma!” — the role that got him noticed for Wolverine. Jackman wants to make the point that he’s never been consistently good at auditions. Early in his career, his agent sent him out for the part of the love interest in “Miss Congeniality,” the romantic comedy starring Sandra Bullock. Jackman didn’t want the gig, but his agent was trying to negotiate against another movie he’d been offered — “Someone Like You” with Ashley Judd.

“No one knew ‘X-Men’ yet,” Jackman says. “I was a nobody.” As he read lines opposite Bullock, he remembers thinking: “‘Holy shit! She’s amazing! And so quick and fast. I’m not even vaguely up to speed here.’ I was pedaling as fast as I could, but I didn’t know the script well enough.”

Benjamin Bratt got the part. “That’s humiliating, when your agent says, ‘I don’t want you to get this job, but just go get it.’ And then you don’t get it.”

Act III

This is the story of finding your own tribe. Before “The Son,” there was another Peter who changed Jackman’s life. He played Peter Allen in Broadway’s “The Boy From Oz.” You’ve probably seen clips of the show on social media, but I was there. When I moved to New York to be a Newsweek intern in 2004, “The Boy From Oz” was the first Broadway show I saw. I knew no one in the city, and I’d never lived anywhere with access to theater. The show, and Jackman’s performance, became a source of familiarity and comfort to me. I went back over and over again (five times in all), scoring nosebleed student rush tickets, and moving up to a box seat in the balcony that the theater never sold because it was too close to the speakers. Yes, I might have been damaging my hearing, but I was hovering over the stage — so close, it felt like the actors could see me during the ovations. Even now, all I have to do is listen to the soundtrack on YouTube, and I’m 21 again.

When Jackman arrived on Broadway in “The Boy From Oz,” he was known only as Wolverine. Critics dissed the show, but Jackman proved to be critic-proof. His mostly female groupies, who’d nicknamed themselves “the Ozalots,” started buying out every seat in the house and camped out at the stage door at intermission on nights they couldn’t score tickets. The performance won Jackman a Tony Award. Playing a loving, gay musical icon shattered the public’s perceptions about him and launched his career to a different plane; “Oz” established Jackman as a performer who could act, sing, dance and make people laugh — the very opposite of his gruff “X-Men” persona.

“The most fun I ever had was playing Peter Allen,” says Jackman, who’d drag audience members onstage and roast them during the second act. “There was, I don’t know, roughly 10 to 12 minutes of every show that was ad-libbed. Once I was 50 or 60 shows in, I felt completely free to do whatever the hell I wanted. I was an asshole at times. I brought up Barbara Walters and Matt Damon, and made Matt Damon give Barbara Walters a lap dance, which turned into me giving Matt Damon a lap dance. And he didn’t punch me.”

During a performance as Peter Allen at the 2004 Tonys at Radio City Music Hall, he surprised Sarah Jessica Parker by calling her onstage and forcing her to dance in a tight ballerina top that almost caused a wardrobe malfunction. “I really felt for her that night,” Jackman says. “As soon as she got up onstage, I could tell those boobs were about to come out.”

And so, an Oscars host was born. Would he do the job again? “Yeah,” he says. “My only rule is I don’t want to be working while I’m doing it.” Would he play Peter Allen again? “It did cross my mind a couple of times,” Jackman says. “I’m 54. Peter died at 48. So you could find a way to make it work.”

Jackman never missed a show for “The Boy From Oz,” performing through sickness and health. “I limped across the line,” he says. “I had stress fractures in my feet.” His work ethic on “The Music Man” has been just as intense, though getting COVID twice meant he was forced to cancel shows. “It was maddening, because we were in previews, and we were finding things, and I felt like we were just getting a rhythm,” Jackman says. When he got COVID the second time, in June, an understudy filled in for him. “That time, I thought I was going to go crazy,” he says. “Honestly, I would have gone on if it wasn’t COVID. I guess the show goes on without you. I was like, ‘I need to be there. What’s going on up there?’ I hated it.”

Act IV

This is the story of making the movie that scares you. Knowing all this — Jackman’s love of the theater, his constant curiosity for reinvention — it makes sense why he wanted to star in “The Son.” But his connection to the script started with “The Father” — specifically, how it reflected his experience with Christopher John. When Jackman first watched that film, he was floored by Hopkins’ depiction of a man living with dementia. “He so beautifully put you inside the head of the person suffering with the disease and disorientation,” Jackman says. “Not that it mimics my father. It didn’t look like my father’s experience on the outside.” But the movie made him feel like he could understand what his dad was going through.

A little while later, his agent suggested he read the script for “The Son.” “It was like a lightning bolt,” Jackman says. “I had to play this part. As a son, as a father, I found it to be devastating, truthful. It felt like a compulsion that I long for as an actor.” He lists the ways he relates to the character of Peter: “My own fears as a parent. Am I doing the right thing? Big things, little things. Deb and I sometimes agree, sometimes disagree on how to handle things. Just the vulnerability of being a parent: that love might not be enough; that you make mistakes that really impact them negatively; that my upbringing, which was hard and had traumas, may be informing me.”

Jackman cried after he finished reading the screenplay, “a very rare thing.” He wrote Zeller an impassioned email, explaining why he wanted to play the role, but adding that if he’d already cast the part, “I’m not going to cut in on someone else’s dance.” Since Zeller hadn’t found a Peter yet, the two met over Zoom. “I wasn’t planning to make any decision,” Zeller says. “After eight minutes of that conversation, though, I stopped and offered him the role. I felt strongly he would be extraordinary.”

The script’s location moved from Paris to New York to accommodate Jackman. In the mornings, he’d find himself up before the sun rose. “I was waking up at 4 a.m., knowing I hadn’t had enough sleep,” Jackman says. “Thank God I was playing a part where I was meant to look like shit, because I was feeling pretty bad. I was worried. I would try meditating, which I’ve done for 25 years. I asked myself to be as open as I could. I had to be very kind to myself through the process.” The film’s most wrenching scenes depict Nicholas (played by Zen McGrath) on the verge of harming others or himself. “The subject matter was really hard,” Jackman says. “Many days, crew members would say, ‘I need help.’ Some of them would leave for a few hours.” They employed psychiatrists on the set in case anyone needed to talk about the upsetting material.

Zeller had one strict rule for the cast: no rehearsals allowed. Zeller wanted the actors to come to set each day and let their emotions guide them. “One of the first scenes we shot, I don’t know why, I just started weeping,” Jackman says. “I know there’s no way that’s going to be in the movie or should be in the movie. I was shocked that it happened.”

Vanessa Kirby, who plays his partner, hugged him, and they tried the scene again. “It took me a while to get my shit together, actually,” Jackman says. “And then I said, ‘OK, let’s go again.’ And we went somewhere completely different.”

In keeping with Zeller’s mandate, Jackman tried to live every scene in the moment. “I said to Florian the other day, ‘My memory of acting in this was all over the shop and a bit of a hot mess, and I’m sure you and your editor must have gone, ‘Whoa!’ He said to me, ‘I think you’re a better actor than you think you are,’ which is a nice thing to hear.”

At the film’s premiere at the Venice Film Festival in September, “The Son” was met with a 10-minute standing ovation, launching Oscar buzz for Jackman. He’d seen it for the first time just before that, with Furness and their kids — Oscar, 22, and Ava, 17 — in a private screening room. “They came and watched it with me, which made it even more emotional for me,” Jackman says. “The movie itself did change me as a parent. I’m more vulnerable in front of my kids emotionally. I’m more verbal about stuff I’m going through, even if it’s stuff to do with them.”

He hopes that “The Son” helps people talk about the underlying signs of depression. “We’re in an epidemic,” he says. “We don’t have the skills about how to have these conversations.”

Act V

This is the story of how you can go home again. Over lunch, the news about Jackman returning to Wolverine hasn’t come out yet. He’s coy about whether or not he’d play him again; the character died in James Mangold’s 2017 film “Logan,” arguably the best “X-Men” movie in the franchise’s history. Yet Jackman says he’s asked that question every day by fans, who even yell out the windows of moving cars, “Give it to me one more time, Wolverine!”

“A little part of me now thinks I’d be better at it,” Jackman says. “Is that arrogance of age or something? Wolverine’s a tortured character — more tortured than me. But I always get the feeling of him being comfortable in his own skin. And I feel more comfortable in my own skin now, even though it’s messier.”

While many beloved comic book stars have been played by multiple actors, there’s really only been one Wolverine in the movies. “Well, I was greedy,” Jackman says. “I held on to it for 20 years. And then, of course, since I left, it’s been bought by Disney. I’m sure the plans are afoot.”

A few weeks later, I talk to Jackman on the phone, and those plans are clear. “I straight-up lied,” he says. “But you’re not the only one I lied to, let me tell you.”

He really meant it when he said he was retiring as Wolverine. But then in 2016, “I went to a screening of ‘Deadpool.’ I was 20 minutes in, and I was like, ‘Ah, damn it!’ All I kept seeing in my head was ‘48 Hours’ with Nick Nolte and Eddie Murphy. So it’s been brewing for a long time. It just took me longer to get here.”

At the end of August, during a road trip to the beach with his family, he finally made the decision. He called Reynolds, who’d been pleading “on the daily” for a Wolverine-Deadpool movie. “I think, actually, he’d given up,” Jackman says. “I think it was a big shock to him. There was a massive pause, and then he said, ‘I can’t believe the timing of this.’”

Reynolds was about to meet with Marvel Studios president Kevin Feige about “Deadpool 3.” With Jackman in, the rest is comic book movie history.

“Oh my God, I’m thrilled,” Reynolds tells me. “It’s like old home week. To get to be on set with one of my closest friends each and every day is a dream come true. But to do it with these two iconic characters side by side, that’s beyond our wildest dreams.” Reynolds adds that the first time he talked to Feige — three and a half years ago after Disney bought Fox — he’d pushed for bringing in Wolverine. “It wasn’t possible then,” Reynolds says. “For this to be happening now is pretty damn exciting.”

It’s not clear what the new movie will be about. It’s not even necessarily going to be named “Deadpool 3.”

“Well, not in my heart,” Jackman says. “I’m pretty sure Wolverine wouldn’t like that title.”

Epilogue

When Jackman calls me, I’ve just moved to L.A. I don’t have a car yet, and I’m still trying to walk everywhere. “Aw, you poor thing,” he says. “I could sort of feel the pain when I was meeting with you, knowing what was coming.”

He talks about how on a recent Sunday night, after a performance of “The Music Man,” he drove to the Hamptons for a screening of “The Son” and a Q&A after. He didn’t make it in time to sit through the whole film, just the last 30 minutes. “I must admit I was a little open and vulnerable,” he says. “I was very moved by the questions.” I can picture him there, after a long week in the city, in a theater I’d been to — the rhythm, the magic, the life of New York, all on the other end of the line.

Over our three conversations, we talked about a lot of things. But I never shared with him how he floated into my life as I arrived and then finally left New York — and what that really meant. In our culture, we spend a lot of time analyzing why we love movie stars, but at the most basic level, we’re drawn to them because they comfort us. Jackman was doing that again for me — but this time, it wasn’t from a stage or a screen. It was more personal, from the human being who exists behind the curtain.

On the day before our lunch, as I was packing, I found a “Boy From Oz” poster at the bottom of a crate of photos. I’d forgotten it existed. Eighteen years ago, alone in New York, I waited by the stage door for two hours in a sea of Ozalots to get Jackman’s autograph, extending my arm over a barricade — almost getting crushed by other screaming fans. I could still make out the signature in blue ink, but it was now smudged like an old memory.

Styling: Michael Fisher/The Wall Group: Stylist Assistant: Annika Morrison; Grooming: Thomas Dunkin/Art Department/Chanel Beauty; Look 1 (cover and roof): Jacket: Vintage Paul Harden; Shirt: Nili Lotan; Pants: Dunhill: Shoes: R.M. Williams; Look 2 (black leather jacket): Jacket: System; Shirt: Tom Ford: Pants: Burberry: Shoes: R.M. Williams; Belt: Montblanc; Sunglasses: Ray Bans

#hugh jackman #photoshoot #variety #october 2022 #the son #interview #article

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taeinmycup · 2 years

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One last time

Hi all!

It has been a long while since I came here and logged into this account. I am aware of the fact that I suddenly disappeared from the platform and I don’t even know if you all remember me or my fanfics, but I still feel the obligation to give an explanation to my 1,500+ followers about my sudden disappearance.

First of all, a lot has changed for me in those 4 years. My last post was from 2018, when I still lived with my parents. However, things at home got turbulent and messy, and I had to move out. I won’t go into details, because it’s a long story, but within a time span of two months I suddenly lived all by myself in a small studio apartment. I also started a new bachelor’s programme during that time, so I was busy like I had never been before. I had no time to write and continue my fics, but I had the intention to continue them when things would calm down and I would be less busy.

However, when things got less busy, I noticed something very different about myself. BTS wasn’t on my mind anymore: I got off stan twitter, I listened less and less to their music and I was not really up to date with their activities anymore. I don’t know if it was because of my busy daily life, or because I got older, but I felt my ARMY spirit drifting away lmao. After a year, I realized my ARMY days were over and it was time to close this chapter of the book. I even went to their Love Yourself Tour in 2018, not as a diehard ARMY, but I went to say goodbye to them and wanted to thank them for making me happy with their music and other content by going to their concert one last time.

This is also the reason why I did not continue my fics. As my ARMY days were over, my motivation for continuing them dropped and I saw no reason to continue the stories further. I occasionally logged into this account to see if people were still reading my stories and to my surprise my followercount went up with hundreds a month still. I also got a lot of sweet messages about my stories (particularly about The Four Elements lol) and I have read them all. I still get these in the present day and I am very greatful for all of them <3

This account has been on my mind ever since I saw Jungkook on my television screen, opening the World Cup in Qatar. As I saw him perform, I was thinking “woah, so he has come THIS far” and I almost felt like this proud mother lmao. I suddenly thought of this account and I wondered if I should write an explaining post about my sudden disappearance, and I eventually decided to do it and write one.

As of right now, my life is very different than it was in 2018. I would say it’s much more stable, much more peaceful. In 2019, I met this lovely guy whom I can call my fiancé right now, and I moved in with him in the beginning of 2020. We got engaged this year in February, and I can definitely tell you all that his proposal was my most beautiful moment in life (pun intended ;) ). I also finished my bachelor’s and I am currently doing a very difficult, but interesting master’s programme and aiming for a career in research. Because I am in a different position in life, I eventually made the decision to not continue my stories anymore. This decision might be disappointing for some of you, but I am in a different place right now with different responsibilities, which makes it impossible for me to continue the stories. However, I won’t delete my account and I won’t delete my fics either, so that people that will eventually come across my stories will be still able to read them.

This will be my very last post and very last login - I will close this account for good. You can see this as my last goodbye post lol. I would like to thank all of my readers for reading my stories and giving me so much love throughout all these years. Without you I wouldn’t be able to write these stories. I wish you all the best and luck in this hardship called life, and I hope you will get to that place that you would like to reach in life.

Thank you, I love you all. Goodbye.

#goodbye post

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t5ltherapy · 2 months

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#Selena #SelenaQuintanillaPerez #Tejano

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lastchancevillagegreen · 7 months

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Monday, 13 November 2023:

Cat Power Sings Dylan: The 1966 Royal Albert Hall Concert Cat Power (Domino) (released 10 November 2023)

For some unknown reason I believed this album wouldn't be released until 2024 so I was surprised to see it show up in my mailbox Monday. I may not be the world's biggest Cat Power fan, but I could not resist the lure of this album. It is one of my favorite albums when performed by the legendary Bob Dylan (the originally misnamed The "Royal Albert Hall" Concert) and then there is the 37 disc box of Live 1966 shows where Dylan performs these same songs in an endless parade of concerts that grow more and more unruly over the span of the box set. As if that isn't enough there are the two Robyn Hitchcock performances of this setlist found on Robyn Sings from 2002 and the even better promo from 1997 which is a straight up set list of the Albert Hall performance titled Royal Queen Albert and Beautiful Homer. People keep reviving this legendary show because Dylan performs some of his greatest songs and the performance is ferocious (Dylan's backing band, for anyone out of the loop, is The Band back when they were known as The Hawks). The songs are so powerful, they transmit well from one singer to the next, providing that performer is a Dylan lover. I doubt Smash Mouth could do much with these songs, but I have little doubt Cat Power can turn this into something great...again.

Above you see the album cover (with is embossed with gold inlay), the gatefold and then the back of the album cover. Below, you can see the hype sticker up close. I took these photos days ago and I am loathe to post one with my reflection, but here it is, just the same.

The hype sticker claims this is clear vinyl but I'll let you be the judge of that. Check out my two photos below. That Sunshine Shot looks more like a glow in the dark anomaly!

The four record labels are seen below. I probably could have gotten by with posting just one label, but I shot four labels, so you get four labels.

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hpoxfordprogram · 2 years

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European Adventure

~by Paul Hutchinson

The Oxford Program has given me a fulfilling opportunity to study abroad: forming new friendships, seeing beautiful old sites, and engaging in a culture distinct from my own. More broadly, the program has allowed me to live in new cultures, gain respect for them, and give me a new perspective on American culture. Two experiences epitomized my growth as a global citizen. Those being an opera in Prague, Katya Kabanova, and the Wimbledon final. These experiences, among many others, integrated me from observing the community to participating in it.

Before diving into specifics, I want to give an overview of the travel itinerary. I was in group three, and we flew to Rome to begin the program on May 25th. We met our guide, Heike, and bus driver, Joel, at the airport before leaving for the first hotel. We spent the next four days in Rome, kicking off the Italy leg of the travel portion. The other two destinations in Italy were Florence and Venice – we stayed outside of both cities. Following Venice, we departed for Munich where we enjoyed the lovely gardens for three days. Next, we left for Vienna and then Prague. Prague (my favorite European city) will be detailed in more depth alongside the opera. Prague preceded the two-day journey to Paris, having to stop in Frankfurt overnight. The cosmopolitan Paris was contrasted by the quaintness of Ghent that followed. We crossed the channel to Oxford after the brief period in Ghent. The past three months have been life-changing and completely packed.

Group photo before the opera.

The program proceeded with us attending many museums and listening to a concert in every other city. At the midpoint of the program, my group arrived in Prague. Prague is a hub for music in the Czech Republic and western Europe. Prague is a smaller city compared to the rest of those we visited in Europe, allowing for easy transportation by foot. There was also so much to see on all the cobblestone paths throughout the city to Prague Castle. A culturally enlightening event was when we attended the National Theatre and saw and listened to Katya Kabanova, composed by the Czech composer Janáček. The story follows a woman who has an affair on her abusive husband and eventually commits suicide due to not being wanted by her husband or her lover. Fortunately, there were supertitles to follow the story and Dr. Ulrich – my music professor – gave us a summary beforehand. We were faced with a baren set that made the singing and lighting the primary feature. The singing was in Czech, and it was stunning. The stage director’s vision of this performance is unlike anything I could have imagined in my own mind. The actors’ voices struck over the orchestra that permeated the background and evoked emotional responses throughout the audience.

Inside of Prague Castle.

Unlike the previous concerts in Rome, Venice, and Vienna, this concert gave me a deep appreciation for the shows themselves instead of just the music. By this, I mean that I had a sense of joy during the opera that I did not when listening in class. I would consider myself a fan of opera now and would very much enjoy attending another one. Much to my chagrin, Atlanta does not have an opera house. I feel that this engagement with the medium is distinctly European – though there are now operas from outside Europe. I was a part of the audience as a whole, connected with the Prague people attending that opera. I feel that this piece gave me an appreciation for Czech culture, even if the culture has changed since the 1920s.

After the rest of traveling through Paris and Ghent, we arrived in Oxford. This is the best time of the year to be in England if you enjoy sports. While we were in Oxford, Wimbledon, the London Grand Prix, and the British Open were all happening in the span of three weeks. Four friends made throughout the trip and I were able to get tickets for the Wimbledon final the day before. The seats were for the boy’s final, but more importantly, we got grounds admissions to watch the men’s finals from the Hill on the large screen. I know nothing about tennis, but I enjoyed the atmosphere of the grounds and the community that formed inside them. The cheering fans and the iconic strawberries and cream made the experience for me.

Strawberries and Cream at Wimbledon!

I had – I feel – a decent understanding of tennis following three of the day’s matches despite never having seen a game of tennis before. This experience gave me an appreciation for the sport of tennis for one. I figured I would not have enjoyed it, but I found the game entertaining. Second, I got to experience the culture of England and contrast it with America’s. I found them to be quite different. This surprised me quite a bit since we speak the same language and live in such an interconnected world. I figured the cultures were likely similar. It seems that English people are more engaged than Americans in sports. They were very passionately cheering on the Hill whenever points were scored, unlike myself and the other Americans in attendance, who remained quieter. I also learned that Europeans take time to enjoy the small things in life more than we do in America. A prime instance is people taking the time to enjoy long meals with others as they did at the Wimbledon café. I think that this is a good thing. I believe Americans have something to learn from the Europeans about how to be a little more carefree.

Wimbledon Boy’s Final.

This experience has broadened my horizons to how different other countries are from the United States. Not necessarily better or worse. Seeing all these old sites is very fulfilling, unattainable in America, and necessary for my development. I would recommend this program to anyone considering applying. I would even recommend it over the other European programs because of how unique this program is – you travel nonstop for five weeks, unlike GTL. If you are planning to apply for this program, I would recommend that you be prepared for lots of traveling that may get tiring towards the end and think of some things you want to do. If you have no idea where to go, it is harder to figure it out a couple of days in advance. So do some research.

The courses are also not necessarily layups either. Some of them, particularly those while in residence at Oxford, are as rigorous as courses in Atlanta. They could be even more strict than some in Atlanta if you have no experience with six-week semesters. This program is primarily academic, and all plans are made around your courses. The courses are, however, experiential by design allowing for the educational parts of the program to be enjoyable.

#gthonors #gtoxford2022 #gtoxfordprogram #gojackets #oxford2022 #georgiatech

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sonneydox · 2 years

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The decades long love affair between the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Big Sur

In other cities, it’s not every day a rock star is at the local library, but in Big Sur, it happens more often than not.

One of the more memorable appearances was July 27, 2011. Three hours before they went on stage, when the Red Hot Chili Peppers announced that they would be playing an impromptu show at the Henry Miller Library, those in the know heard the call and came running.

Forex Heartbeat

“The Peppers, they just wanted to do a little fun, relaxed, hometown rehearsal,” Henry Miller Library executive director Magnus Toren told SFGATE. “It was a stealth concert — people in the valley had heard the rumor was it was going to be Bob Dylan, and I thought to myself, ‘We’ve come a long way if people think it’s going to be Dylan.’”

The lineup was notable that day: Josh Klinghoffer had replaced John Frusciante on guitar, and Brazilian percussionist Mauro Refosco was behind the drum kit instead of the Chili Peppers’ usual tempo keeper Chad Smith. Most importantly, two of the original Chili Peppers, vocalist Anthony Kiedis and bassist Michael Balzary, otherwise known as Flea, took the stage and performed together for the first time in four years.

Live concerts at the Henry Miller Memorial Library, in Big Sur.

The Henry Miller Memorial Library in Big Sur is known to draw some notable acts to its outdoor concert series, including the Red Hot Chili Peppers, upper left, and the Flaming Lips, lower left. (Photos by Terry Way) The Henry Miller Memorial Library in Big Sur is known to draw some notable acts to its outdoor concert series, including the Red Hot Chili Peppers, upper left, and the Flaming Lips, lower left. (Photos by Terry Way)

“Flea and I have mutual friends in Big Sur, so I told them just to join us but didn’t say who it was going to be. I said, ‘Don’t worry about it. Just trust me, it’s going to be fun.’ So they were pleasantly surprised,” Toren said. “During the show, the power went out, and Flea famously said, ‘Turn on your f — king iPhones,’ so the light circuits went out, so everyone turned on their iPhones and drenched the stage in silvery electric moonlight.”

Forex Heartbeat

The foursome even rolled out five tracks from their reunion album with producer Rick Rubin, “I’m With You,” along with some of the band’s standards, and encoring with the chaotic ’90s bop “Give it Away.”

SPIN magazine later reported that a “shirtless, blue-haired Flea joked at the beginning of the set: ‘Anybody who knows where I live, now’s a good time to rob me. Because, you know, I’m here.’”

“The coziness was the real draw — at one point, the guys took turns playing parts of the new single ‘The Adventures of Rain Dance Maggie’ to Flea’s 6-year-old daughter, Sunny Bebop Balzary, as she danced on the edge of the stage,” Chris Martins wrote of the performance in SPIN.

Mac McDonald, a former editor at the Monterey County Herald, attended the surprise concert at the Henry Miller. “They could’ve played the phone books and we would have been delirious,” McDonald recounted for Voices of Monterey. “We just kept asking each other ‘Is this really happening?’ A magical night.”

Bixby Creek Bridge spans Bixby Canyon on the Big Sur coast along California Highway 1.

Brian van der Brug/Los Angeles Times via Getty Imag

But their live performance in 2011 isn’t the only connection between the Chili Peppers and the found Central Coast paradise. The band and the region have a history that spans decades, first name-checking Big Sur in their 2000 single “Road Trippin,’” a song about the surf trips with Kiedis, Flea and on-again, off-again guitarist Frusciante, written in the familiar whimsy associated with the area:

“In Big Sur we take some time to linger onWe three hunky-dory’s got our snakefinger onNow let us drink the stars, it’s time to steal awayLet’s go get lost right here in the USALet’s go get lost, let’s go get lost.”

Maybe “Road Trippin’” wasn’t a bona fide banger, but the B-side off “Californication” did set off a series of salutes to their favorite getaway.

I never connected Big Sur as the source of the Chili Peppers’ powers until something clicked at a writers’ conference there a little more than a decade ago. Toren casually mentioned in a chat that several of the band members had a sort of compound, a creative respite, a getaway — a place to surf, recharge and be left to it. And that tradition is one other big acts have picked up on as well, one library spokesperson said.

“This place is magic and the artists want to prioritize coming here,” Henry Miller Library manager and concert promoter Jake Padorr told SFGATE. “These big names know it’s worth the stop, the whole area, the trees are what’s inspiring them.”

This August 2010 photo shows a sign for the Henry Miller Memorial Library in Big Sur, Calif. The late American writer was a Big Sur resident from 1944 to 1962. The library also houses a cultural resource center and an outdoor performance space that is frequented with big name acts like the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Patti Smith.

The Henry Miller Memorial Library in Big Sur.

The Henry Miller Memorial Library in Big Sur is a combined bookstore, non-profit arts center and concert venue. (Images via Yelp & Getty) The Henry Miller Memorial Library in Big Sur is a combined bookstore, non-profit arts center and concert venue. (Images via Yelp & Getty)

Padorr noted he hasn’t seen Flea as much recently, but there’s “always people of his caliber” around.

“They come into the library and peruse the books,” he said. “It’s always someone. Right now Al Jardine of the Beach Boys will come in and sit in on some folky or rocky performances as a surprise guest. You never know who’s going to show up.”

While Flea has been busy recording and now touring, he has been stitched into the community like a civilian for more than a decade. In a video taken in the backyard of the Henry Miller Library, the bassist is captured dancing with little kids, twirling festival style.

That wasn’t at the 2011 concert, but a few years before, in 2009. Warpaint, an all-woman LA-based quartet that has ties to the Red Hot Chili Peppers, was performing at the library. While the majority of the crowd is sitting in folding chairs like it’s a planning commission meeting, Flea is breaking it down dad-style under the trees, like a true Big Sur local would on a summer evening.

Flea returned once more to the Henry Miller in September of 2021 to play bass for the legendary Patti Smith.

“The second night of her two-night run at Big Sur’s Henry Miller Memorial Library was further evidence of her artistic power,” wrote Christopher Neely for the Monterey County Weekly. “Even with Flea, among the most famous and energetic faces of rock ’n’ roll over the last 30 years, making a surprise appearance as the band’s bassist for the evening, the audience’s attention stayed steady on Smith.”

Forex Heartbeat

Chad Smith, Anthony Kiedis and Flea of the Red Hot Chili Peppers perform live on stage at the O2 Arena on Nov. 7, 2011, in London, England. Just a few months prior, the band played to just 300 lucky folks at the Henry Miller Library in Big Sur.

And when the bat signal goes up that a big act is in town, the locals do come running, Padorr said, but there’s also equal — if not greater value — based on homegrown talent the rest of the year.

“Those bigger names the locals don’t find out about it till day of or day before,” he said. “We try to have a venue that works as a respite for giant acts, as well as local musicians who are a different breed. They are living in paradise, working their butt off to stay here. Some of them are as quality as those who play bigger concert halls, but they stay here, landscaping, gardening, caretaking, working hospitality because they know, just like the bigger acts do, how special it is.”

Today, back to their original(ish) lineup of Kiedis, Flea, Frusciante and Smith, the Chili Peppers recently embarked on a world tour in support of their latest album “Unlimited Love,” which dropped April 1. The tour features prodigal guitarist Frusciante for the first time since 2009 and producer Rubin for the first time since 2011.

Big Sur in the evening, looking out at the Pacific from the Esalen Institute.

JEFF PFLUEGER/NYT

“And that’s my blessing of being in the band, whatever Flea, or John, or Chad bring on any given day energetically is always inspiring to me, and it always brings up something new, and weird, and flow-y,” Kiedis told Forbes in April. “Our magic is we have chemistry and we have love and we have hate and we have disagreements and we have harmony, depending on any given moment, and all of that is lyrically inspiring to me. Every time Flea plays a bass line, I feel like singing. So whatever that is, thank you, universe.”

Bay Area residents will have to wait until July 29 to see them live at Levi’s Stadium. But die-hard Chili Peppers fans will note that there’s a two-day layover from their previous gig in San Diego, just enough time to recharge under the canopy of redwoods and charging sky and perhaps play a quick, intimate set on one day’s rest — and three hours’ notice.

Forex Heartbeat

#hot chili pepers

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princess-of-inarizaki · 3 years

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Hello, dear!~ Todays Inarizaki manager request: manager-chan and boys go together to the her favourite group concert. - Tilli

Ahhh Inarizaki December is almost coming to any end, this is so sad, I hope everyone has enjoyed the imagines I've written during the span of this wonderful month. A special thanks to Tilli, for never failing to send me thoughts, and for you, my wonderful readers, for all your interaction, comments, likes, and reblogs. They mean the world, I love you!!

Inarizaki's manager-chan day 24!!

“Are you guys ready? Oh my gosh it's finally tonight I can't wait” was all the boys ever heard since they surprised you with concert tickets to a BTS concert.

And they couldn't mind less. You were even more adorable when you were excited. When your eyes shone in delight or when you were happily talking about your favourite band.

Frankly, they were a tiny bit jealous. I mean, who wouldn't be? But BTS seemed to make you so happy, they knew it was worth it.

It was all worth it if they got to see you smile.

“Y-you look gorgeous” was all Atsumu managed to stutter when they team came to pick you up.

And he was the most vocal. The rest were speechless. You shyly looked down at your skin hugging black crop-top, and jean shorts. Your hair was parted into two ponytails. You looked adorable, and yet seductive at the same time.

Did we really have to get front row seats? Was all Suna seemed to be thinking, as he felt your shoulder brush against his in the car. He was ready to cry out in frustration when your knee brushed against his, for the second time during the ride.

Kita drove off wordlessly to the venue, but his mind was reeling. He was always disciplined. Logical. He did what had to be done, nothing less, nothing more. But when he saw you, like that? Every single thought of reason flew out and he so badly wanted to push you against a wall and make out with you till the sun rose.

A soft blush could be seen on his face, and all the other members had similar red tints, and thoughts in their head.

It was a miracle they could control themselves around their innocent fox cub, honestly. But although their lust was strong, their love triumphed it tenfold.

And that was why they would never tell you any of this. You were way too precious to them. If anything, they'd want to do it with you properly. Lovingly. They'd want to have your heart first.

And so with stronger thoughts of love, their hearts stopped beating as fast, and they instead focused on protecting you at the venue itself.

They couldn't let any of the other concert-goers look at you wrong, now could they?

When the car was parked in the already crowded lot, the boys face you, ready to follow the plan (set without your knowledge).

Aran and Kita would take care of you before the concert, Akagi and Atsumu during, and Osamu and Suna after.

Aran placed his hand on your back securely and led you through the crowd, whilst Kita located the seats. Your eyes were just glimmering in awe, since it was your first time at a concert. The lights were so bright, if it weren't for Aran who was holding you, you might've gotten swept away with the crowd.

The boys softened at the happy look on your face. Tons of posters about BTS were plastered all over the stadium, as your eyes keenly searched for Jungkook, your bias.

“Do you think he'll notice me, during the concert?” you asked Kita, hopefully. He sighed and nodded. “I don't think anyone could not notice you, love.”

It pained him to say it, but it was true. You were unique. Beautiful. Noticeable and vibrant. How could anyone ever look past you?

The concert started with their opening song and the Bangtan boys were on stage, in their element. You were sitting on Atsumu's shoulders, comfortably, to get a better view of the stage.

The adrenaline pumping through your veins was unbelievable, as your heart pounded with the beat. Akagi smiled up at you and asked you if you needed anything, but you shook your head.

All you needed was for this moment to never end.

Your eyes followed Jungkook's every movement as you screamed his name loudly. Atsumu laughed as he held you tighter and screamed along with you.

And somehow, the both of your voices seemed to grab the raven-haired boy's attention, his eyes landed on you, and a soft smile played on his lips.

You felt like you were unable to breathe.

“Did I see that right? Tsumtsum, he looked at me, right?”

And all Atsumu could say was "yes" because it was true. Your bias definitely saw you.

Before leaving the venue. When the adrenaline had faded and all you were left with was a tired smile and a head full of memories, Osamu gently held your hand in his.

“Let's get ya to the car, sweetheart.”

Suna trailed behind, and normally, he'd try to battle Osamu for a chance to be close to you, but not this time.

Not when he felt like there were a pair of eyes watching you.

And when he looked up to the side of the stage, his suspicions were confirmed.

Jeon Jungkook, your bias, or whatever the hell K-pop fans called their favourite member these days had his eyes on you. The boy who had stolen everyone's hearts, apparently had his stolen by you. And Suna knew that feeling all too well.

He sighed and trudged behind you, wrapping his arms protectively around your waist.

You laughed as you melted into this hug and allowed him to cling onto you, until you reached the car.

“I love you guys.”

And although the night was filled with suspicion as the boys walked on eggshells, those four words were enough to make everything right.

Suna smiled as he buried his head in the crook of your shoulder.

“You looked beautiful tonight, angel. I'm glad we came.”

And despite the uneasy thought of losing you, he truly meant every word.

Lmao so how did I do 😭😭😃🔫 was I biased? I'm sure I was biased I'm so sorry y'all :(

taglist : @raychii @dai-tsukki-desu @k-sakusa-old @pocket-of-anxiety @sunasthing @thatthangwasthangin @daydreamingtetsu @ignorantsock @ohrintarou @tilli-san

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doomedandstoned · 2 years

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Another Year Lost in the Wasteland: The Heavy Best of 2021 (Editor’s Choice)

~By Billy Goate~

From The Editor's Desk

Oh yeah, you knew it was coming! I'm always one to wait until the dust of "Hurry, hurry! Gotta publish your list of best albums!" has passed in November and early December. After all, it would be a mistake for a music-minded outlet like this to solidify our choice albums, but miss out on the bounty that inevitably drops at year's end. I'm may be just a floppy-eared, weed-eating personification of the humble capra hircus, but I know good doom metal and stoner rock -- two styles that grew up together in the '70s and have evolved into the rich, varied, and nuanced styles they are today.

In January, we brought you Doomed & Stoned staff picks. I had every intention of following this with my own Best-Of list, but contracted COVID-19 (again, after getting Delta last summer). While the initial symptoms were benignly cold-like, the virus played my nerves like a fiddle for weeks and weeks. Let's just say it was not fun to be a traveler in my body.

As I slowly got back to my old killer self, an internal debate raged over whether or not to publish my top albums, like at all. I was embarrassed every time I thought about how many months had passed. And, by the way, who even wants to remember 2021? Yet there were albums released during our last trip 'round the sun that are still worth talking about in '22.

Look Behind You

Before I get into the breakdown, let me just take a moment to thank all of you for reading, sharing, and supporting Doomed & Stoned. Thanks especially to the team of contributors who submitted excellent concert reports, heartfelt album reviews, and in-depth interviews each and every month.

I'm grateful to the local scenes who collaborated with us on another round of incredible compilations. The series, now 8 years old, spans a labyrinth of 40+ editions exploring the fuzzy, low-tuned sound of doom metal and stoner rock as it erupts in heavy hotspots 'round the world.

Doomed & Stoned: The Instrumentalists (Vol. 1) by Doomed and Stoned Records

Doomed & Stoned: The Instrumentalists (Vol. II) by Doomed and Stoned Records

Doomed & Stoned: The Instrumentalists (Vol. III) by Doomed and Stoned Records

Doomed & Stoned: The Instrumentalists (Vol. IV) by Doomed and Stoned Records

Of special note is the four-part series, Doomed & Stoned: The Instrumentalists (2022), which was a partnership with YouTuber Rob Hammer and received considerable love from you all. Volume one may even outpace our most popular compilations of all time, Doomed & Stoned in Portland (2014) and Doomed & Stoned in Canada' (2014). The latter was given a a sequel in October (and raised over $800 in donations for Orange Shirt Day).

Doomed & Stoned in Scotland by Doomed and Stoned Records

Doomed & Stoned in Chile by Doomed and Stoned Records

Doomed & Stoned in Colorado by Doomed and Stoned Records

We also issued a follow-up to our Greecian compilation, Doomed & Stoned in Hellas (Vol. II), and touched down for the first time in Scotland, Chile, and Colorado to visit bands there.

Doomed & Stoned in Hellas (Vol. II) by Doomed and Stoned Records

Doomed & Stoned in Russia (Vol. 1) by Doomed and Stoned Records

Doomed & Stoned in Russia (Vol. 2) by Doomed and Stoned Records

Perhaps most significant of all, Doomed & Stoned made headway into the Russian heavy music scene (long before the clouds of war gathered) with Doomed & Stoned in Russia (Vol. 1) and Doomed & Stoned in Russia (Vol. 2), which bookended a year of haze and malaise.

RIP Eric Wagner (April 24, 1959 - August 22, 2021)

While we're celebrating milestones, let us not fail to honor the fallen. Eric Wagner was the embodiment of doom, even when you met the guy in person.

WAGNER - In The Lonely Light of Mourning by ERIC WAGNER

While I love Trouble, I believe Mr. Wagner reached the apex of his powers with The Skull. He leaves us with an artistic legacy that will no doubt continue to inspire new generations of Doomers. Alive or dead, he remains the Doom Father, our beloved Prophet of Woe. May he rest in peace. ☨

You know I once wrote a song for you Think it was the one about the sun I find it strange you never knew We are here just to love everyone

For Those Which Are Asleep by The Skull

Photograph by Andrew Nesbitt/Njorodyn Photo

On the tail-end of my visit to Ripplefest Texas, I found myself at The Well in Austin for what would be Eric Wagner's last show. I filmed the performance as well, and some of you may be interested in that footage. I hope it brings you consolation as you contemplate the contribution and legacy of our deary departed Brother in Doom. His approach to the medium was remarkable in many ways, not the least of which was that he spoke from a decidedly Christian worldview. As it turns out, believers can be doomers too.

WATCH: The Skull Play The Lost Well

☁ THE HEAVY BEST OF 2021 ☁

And now what you came here for, the goods. Here is the Editor's Choice, first revealed in Season 8, Episode 2 of The Doomed & Stoned Show. The records are as follows:

10. Jointhugger - Surrounded by Vultures 9. Terminus - The Silent Bell Toll 8. Shallow - ...From The Ground Down 7. Oak - Fin 6. Savanah - Olympus Mons 5. Moon Coven - Slumber Wood 4. Moanhand - Present Serpent 3. Blackwater Holylight - Silence/Motion 2. Apostle of Solitude - Until The Darkness Goes 1. King Buffalo - The Burden of Restlessness

That was the way I ranked them when I thought through my selection from the perspective of a music critic, balancing all the variables of artistry with recording, concept with production. But then it dawned on me afterwards, the records I continued to listen to were not in that order. So I decided to look at my favorite records in a more personal way. Thus, the list that follows is based solely on total minutes listened and will appear in ascending order.

Here then are the EPs and LPs I soaked in most often under the oppressive grey skies of Anno Domini MMXXI. Some records inspired me to keep going despite the gloom, while others gave me no end of consolation when I felt stuck and spinning my wheels. As this is a more subjective echelon, you may find yourself agreeing or disagreeing with my choices for various reasons of your own. All things considered, my hope is that these recordings will sink their hooks into you as well.

⛧

Blackwater Holylight - Silence/Motion

Silence/Motion by Blackwater Holylight

Yeah, this turned out to be quite special. When Blackwater Holylight teased out "Around You" as their first single, I really wasn't sure what kind of an album Silence/Motion was going to be. I mean, the song is as sanguine as you could wish (it reminds me of a dreamy Hawaiian sunset). I had been getting into the first and second BWHL albums again, but hesitated to invest in their third.

Thankfully, my will was quite easily broken when I heard the opening "Delusional" with backing vocals from Thou's Bryan Funck (who gets the funk of the Portland band's vibe, if you'll pardon the pun). The atmosphere on the band's third LP can emit a real misty feeling, like the thick fog of a Willamette Valley morning. When I encounter a sound this recognizably true to life, it makes my inner doomer rejoice.

Apostle of Solitude - Until the Darkness Goes

Until The Darkness Goes by Apostle of Solitude

Dark and brooding atmosphere surrounds us like an Alice in Chains music video from the MTV '90s. But there is a light that shines pierces even these clouds, the vocal team-up of Chuck Brown and Steve Janiak, who give us soul-stirring duets reminiscent of albums like Dirt and The Devil Put Dinosaurs Here. Chuck & Steve generate warm, irradiated guitar tone capable of melting anything Winter throws at us (heed the opening bars of "The Union"). The riffs are gorgeously sad and moving. The rhythm section of Mike Naish and Corey Webb offers a convincing conversation of its own, breaking any misconception about doom metal drumming and bass play. This band deserves to be huge.

King Buffalo - The Burden of Restlessness

The Burden of Restlessness by King Buffalo

I wore the album out with listens, but it keeps on giving. "Locusts" remains one my favorite track, as it reminds me so much of "Sun Shivers." When the band dropped The Burden of Restlessness in June, I didn't know how genuinely it would connect with me. The Rochester trio understands pandemic angst like few others. If Nothing captured the feeling of numbed unreality, King Buffalo surely it our wakeup to cruel sobriety. I don't consider it a depressing spin at all, more a diary of honestly feelings with a robust desert metal sound. This record gets me.

Melvins - Five Legged Dog

Five Legged Dog by Melvins

You've never heard the Melvins quite like this. Five Legged Dog was a massive gift to fans, right when the pandemic was wearing us all a little thin. In fact, this 4XLP single-handedly (-leggedly?) reignited my love and (best of all) my appreciation for the great Seattle band. Unplugging can make a band sound really bare, so it's a risk -- especially if you're wanting to play songs that are really girthy like "Hooch," "Revolve," "Night Goat," and "Boris" (yes, they do an acoustic cover of "Boris").

Here it pays off via some really clever arrangements and musicians who are absolutely at the pinnacle of their craft. I liked it so much I forked out a pound of flesh to get the vinyl edition. There's humor, there's majesty, there's wonder, and as always that rambunctious Melvins spunk. Don't miss the coup de gras "Civilized Worm" and the song that got me through a fierce bout with Delta: "Don't Forget To Breathe."

Terminus - The Silent Bell Toll

The Silent Bell Toll by TERMINUS

Many of us awoke to a kind of cautious, nihilistic optimism in 2022, as we tried to come to grips with a fucked-up world that is nevertheless filled with some wonderful people and opportunities still to mine a little piece of happiness. Not that this is a happy go-lucky album, more that it's vibe feels positive.

The Silent Bell Toll is a record that's both "doomed" and "stoned," though on balance more doom metal than stoner rock. Every song feels important, with weighty drumbeats powering our feet as we move closer to the mysterious, the uncertain, the frightful. Not only is the low-end undeniable, the choruses are exceptional and this is largely because of the multi-part vocal harmonies. On guitar, they achieve some exquisitely tragic tones (check out my review here). I guess you can tell, I'm really into it.

Weedpecker - IV: The Stream Of Forgotten Thoughts

IV: The Stream Of Forgotten Thoughts by Weedpecker

It's strange to think about it now, but I avoided so many albums I thought would be "too happy" for me in 2021. It wasn't until later in the year, well after the release of Weedpecker's fourth album, that I gave it a fair shot. Suffice it to say, I became addicted to the Polish band's fuzzy, distorted, beautiful and twisted sound. Come to think about it, I've loved everything Weedpecker has put out. One of the very first bands we featured in the early days of Doomed & Stoned, you might say we've kind of grown up together.

Sentimental feelings inside, The Stream of Forgotten Thoughts is hands down one of the best conceived and executed, recorded, and produced psychedelic spins of 2021, perhaps top of the heap. I respect Weedpecker’s artistic game and savvy musical choices.

Dopelord - Reality Dagger

Reality Dagger by Dopelord

They took my Album of the Year by a long mile, and Dopelord’s 'Sign of the Devil' (2022) was indeed the consummate summary of the angst, disillusionment, and dread we were each feeling as we watched the world fall nation by nation to the behest of novel coronavirus. Who could have known Dopelard had three new songs cooked up for the occasion? Each of them individually is brilliant, but taken together Reality Dagger rules hard (review here). I keep coming back to these three songs, which I find myself sporadically humming (and yes, attempting to sing) when I'm out and about. “Your Blood” will forever echo in my skull.

Eyehategod - A History of Nomadic Behavior

I actually never gave this album a review. For one, the press release included the most thorough track-by-track description of an album I've ever seen in an EPK and I really didn't know what I could say beyond it. Beyond that, however, it was tough for me to pin down just what kind of animal A History of Nomadic Behavior actually was. Certainly, the song-style is unconventional (and always has been), so it's not at all certain what you want to do in response to the music. Sometimes you want to mosh or headbang or slam dance or whatever. Other times you feel "hostile, holy and diseased."

These 12 songs (averaging more or less four minutes a peice) strike me as walking songs, and by that I mean the ravings of someone who is charging down the street, verbally shadowboxing his enemies. It makes me want to go and do likewise. Songs like "Anemic Robotic" and the legendary album closer "Every Thing, Every Day" play out like solioques -- at times pissed off, at others Quixotic. Mike IX is the perfect madman, though he's anything but crazy. You need to listen to these prophets of sludge because they're speaking to today's miseries, recounting what went wrong, and poking the future with a big stick as if to express both curiosity and contempt for what's still ahead. Eyehategod is still the emphatic middle finger of Generation X.

Oak - Fin

Fin by Oak

We didn't really get a chance to mourn the acts that disbanded last year beyond The Skull. There were so many storied or promising outfits that called it a day for a multiplicity of reasons. Many of them left so suddenly (or drifted away quietly) that we didn't get a chance to really give them the goodbye we wanted. Take for example London's rough 'n' tumble rockers Oak. This band has some serious talent and could be on the stage with the best of them, operating somewhere in the neighborhood of Baroness, Elder, Dozer, and The Sword, and not too many doors down from Norma Jean. When I got the press release stating this was going to be their last EP, I offered to debut it for them and wrote my impressions. What a way to make an exit!

Megalith Levitation - Void Psalms

Void Psalms by Megalith Levitation

Mesmerizing, hypnotizing. This dirge is the epitome of stoic nihilism and cultic worship. To prepare you for what you're about to hear, I recommend listening to the classic Melvins song "Boris," only imagine it a tad more gritty, dismal, and darkly hued. Now you're primed for the Megalith Levitation experience. Misty occult atmosphere pervades this surreal horror-trance. Monastic death chants, an electric wall of hazy fuzz, and a "bring out your dead" rhythm section -- who wouldn't fall hypnotically into the arms of Void Psalms? This one helps me to get shit done when I work (review here).

Misery Men - Devillusion

Devillusion by The Misery Men

Portland's Misery Men are as authentic a product of '90s grunge and the Pacific Northwest ethos as you're liable to find anywhere else in doom metal. I discovered the band about 8 years ago, before they recorded a damned thing and have enjoyed watching Corey Lewis develop as a songwriter. Don't suppose that you've witnessed it all when you come to this magic show. Misery Men have a bag full of Devillusion that'll keep you guessing to the finish. Besides Corey's storied love of cats, he's got the best darned track on God’s green earth about those itty, bitty, butt-faced tardigrades you're likely to hear, like ever.

The Waterfall King - Vol. 1

VOL. 1 by The Waterfall King

Their sound is at once earnest and dismal, drawing from a similar well of melodic doom as England's Dopesmoker, and would fit well on a playlist with Helmet, Nothing, The Company Corvette, and bands that traffic in a depressive sound I call "dark apathy." The Waterfall King nails that “sick of it all” mood with some wonderfully bleak expressions of azure blue. Songs like "Earth Roamer," "Droning," and "Heavy Rain" are morose, but irresistibly grungy. Their cover of Nirvana's "Something in the Way" succeeds. I'd like to think that had Kurt Kobain lived on, this is the kind of vibe he'd be into. After all, Kurt was a doomer before it was hip.

∀

The Conclusion of the Matter

And there you have it -- the 30 albums that were my constant companions in 2021. There were many others that impressed me, including releases by the magnificent Acid Mammoth, the mysterious Aiwass, and the revelatory Cavern Deep.

Clouds Taste Satanic put out the ultimate in instrumental post-doom covers, taking on some of the most unlikely material for a metal artist, juxtaposing the odd with the awesome. And High Desert Queen proved they could write more than one hit ("The Mountain vs. The Quake") and dropped an album chock full of 'em.

The new Hooded Menace nailed it (of course). Old Horn Tooth birthed a genuine masterpiece of the doom genre in True Death (all 21 minutes of it). Purification released a new record, a collection of songs that singer Rainbow intended as the last album by the late, great Troll.

Both Savanah and Stargo gave us records (an LP and EP, respectively) that were positively cinematic in vision and execution. I'm telling you guys, the new classical music is being composed right now, in our times, with some of the bands I've mentioned in this piece. If you get a chance to see any of them live, you're in for something monumental.

2021 was also the year that Shallow came back to life after a two-decade absence. Doomed & Stoned had the privilege of debuting their comeback LP ...From The Ground Down almost exactly one year ago. I subsequently had a wonderful interview with the UK desert-grunge rockers (their story is remarkable).

Also not to be missed: new sounds from Blóð, Cave of Swimmers, Conviction, Domkraft, Dr. Colossus, Dunbarrow, Green Lung, Grieving, Hippie Death Cult, Jointhugger, Lazer Beam, Lucifungus, Moanhand, Monolord, Old Man Wizard, Sonic Flower, Spaceslug, Spelljammer, The Age of Truth, Thunderhorse, Vokonis, Weird Tales, and many others my brain fog is hindering me from mentioning.

Let me not fail to laud, however, Heavy Psych Sounds for their most enjoyable Doom Sessions series, pairing the likes of Bongzilla and High Reeper with Tons and Hippie Death Cult. It's a thing of real beauty.

And now we move forward, looking to the remainder of 2022 as filled with intriguing possibilities. Despite meaningful setbacks, we trudge on ahead. So grab a slice of satisfaction, answer your curiosities, pursue what baffles you, and let loose your dearest ambitions. The world may be damned, but it doesn't mean you can't enjoy the sun when it does shine.

\DoomOn/

ᛝ

ALBUM OF THE YEAR

King Buffalo - The Burden of Restlessness

The Burden of Restlessness by King Buffalo

True story: King Buffalo is one of only two bands I've ever written fan letters to. Pretty sure I was afraid to write Guns 'n' Roses when I was 13, but now in the age of email it makes a little more sense. The other band was Blackwater Holylight, by the way. Something about The Burden of Restlessness just struck me as wholly authentic as we weathered another year of pandemic listlessness.

The soul-wounding impact of fear turned to worry turned to sorrow and despair is real. For some it was fear turning into skepticism and anger or boredom devolving into apathy and cynicism. Whatever your experience, King Buffalo captured it all, with just right vocal temperature (one that exudes a spirit of that worn out and jaded "Whatever, Dude" mentality we get every now and again) combined with that patented guitar tone, a cascade of cleansing riffage, and clever integration of keys. You can read my full review to get the panorama of my thoughts on this apathetic little gem.

SONG OF THE YEAR

Apostle of Solitude - "Apathy in Isolation"

Until The Darkness Goes by Apostle of Solitude

Fostermother's "Hedonist" is a strong runner-up and was leading until those fall leaves got crispy, and my tastes took a turn for the melancholy. Monolord gave us a bonafide doom classic in "The Weary," but it was Apostle of Solitude that really summed up the year with "Apathy in Isolation." If year-one ushered in one traumatic event after another, year-two was listlessly boring, surreal, and laden with limitations and regrets.

Sometimes you just need a song for grieving, and this is such a track. It allows us to feel deeply without resorting to heart-on-the-sleeve sensationalism (or by playing so damn slow we're in tears yawning). The Indianapolis quartet paints a picture of pandemic seclusion with deep, colorful shades of grey, ebony, and blue (with just the hint of a silver lining). It's really three different songs united by an interlocking chorus. However you break it down and interpret it, there is respite here for the weary soul.

ALBUM COVER OF THE YEAR

Vokonis - Odyssey

Odyssey by Vokonis

After giving Vokonis several fantastic single-edition covers, Kyrre Bjurling shows what he can do with a full-on full-length album cover. I had this pinned as my favorite album cover of 2021 all the way back in January, when I received the promo for Odyssey.

To be sure, there were many extraordinary covers last year, but the vibrant nature of the statement Bjurling makes here is extraordinary. It's just not something you see often in metal subgenres, which tend to gravitate toward a color scheme of black & white or muted earth tones.

That said, heavy music is breaking stereotypes and shattering preconceived notions every day. Here is a band that continues to evolve one expressive album after the next. In a way, the artwork also symbolizes Vokonis' artistic journey. Having begun eons ago with Sleep-worshiping doom, Vokonis is taking their music ever closer to the horizon's edge.

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kalaluchi · 3 years

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chapter 05: Jagged Stone

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Marinette was confused.

How could two people go from comfortable banter to awkward silence in a span of two days? She’d heard of going from 0 to 100 real quick, but she’d never thought it’d happen to her.

More accurately -- to her and Adrien.

She stared at the back of his head, wondering where she’d gone wrong, as Mme. Bustier droned on with her lesson.

Marinette had really thought she’d finally gotten over the shy-awkward-start phase after the whole movie “date” last Friday. (She still wasn’t sure if that had been meant as an actual date, or as a chill friend hangout. And frankly, she was too scared to ask.)

But then the weekend came and they’d barely talked. (Though she’d been secretly hoping for a random good morning from him or something -- even just once.) She’d been busy baking and cramming assignments and random projects, and just like that the weekend was over.

It was now Monday, and she was sad to think all her efforts to become closer had gone down the drain. They’d exchanged greetings as she made her way to her seat that morning, but it was now 2 periods after lunch, and he hadn’t spoken to her at all. There weren’t even any of the corny memes he used to send when they were both bored in class.

Not that he’d been ignoring her, though. It just seemed like… he’d forgotten about her or had nothing more to say to her.

She probably could have reached out herself… but every time she was about to approach him, she felt like she was walking on eggshells. One wrong step, one wrong word, and something would crack.

She groaned, painfully aware that she was probably overthinking things too much. She checked her phone for the 10th time that period -- no new messages.

Marinette let out a sigh.

One apparently much louder than she’d intended.

“Anything to share with the class, Marinette?” Mme. Bustier’s voice broke through her thoughts.

She bit her lip, her ears red. “No, Mme. Bustier. Sorry,” she murmured, embarrassed.

She thought it was absolutely worth it though, because just then Adrien offered her a small smile in sympathy before turning back to face the front. So there was hope for them yet.

She sat back in her seat, deep in thought again. On impulse, she leaned forward and tapped Adrien’s shoulder while Mme. Bustier was facing the blackboard.

“Do you, uh, can I borrow a pen?” Marinette whispered in his ear.

If she didn’t know any better, she would’ve thought Adrien was blushing slightly from the sudden interaction. “Here you go,” he replied in the same quiet voice.

Her fingers tingled when they brushed his during the exchange, but she thanked him anyway. She really had no intention of using the pen (she’d never leave home without her beloved pencil case, with all the colorful pens and markers, please) so she decided to wait until class ended to return it and use it as an excuse to start a conversation.

Brilliant! This must be what Alya feels when she comes up with one of her schemes.

An hour later, as Adrien began packing his bag to go home, Marinette tapped him on the shoulder nervously. Her brilliant-a-period-ago plan was starting to not feel brilliant at all.

Nevertheless, she held out the pen to him, smiling. “Thanks for lending me this a while ago. You’re a lifesaver.”

He chuckled easily. “No problem. You looked like you needed some life-saving,” he joked.

Marinette couldn’t help but scoff at that. “I can save myself, thanks,” she muttered, in a tone sharper than she intended.

“Of course,” the blond backtracked hastily. “I didn’t mean to assume, I just--”

“Is… that a Jagged wallpaper?” Marinette asked suddenly, immediately forgetting the earlier offense.

“Uh, yeah. You listen to Jagged Stone?”

“Listen to Jagged? Get out, I practically breathe Jagged! Wow, I can’t believe he didn’t come up once in our conversations…”

“Well, I… didn’t really peg you to be a Jagged girl, honestly. No offense, though, I really don’t know why it didn’t occur to me. I mean, now it seems obvious. You’re nearly as cool as him.”

“Shut up,” Marinette laughed, waving away the compliment. “No one is as cool as Jagged. And it’s okay, I didn’t peg you to be a Jagged fan either.”

“You’re kidding. How could I not? A great singer, and a great player too. Piano, guitar, you name it! Heck, I bet he could even play, like, a lyre or something.”

Marinette scrunched her nose and raised an eyebrow. “A liar and a player at once? Can’t say that’s exactly my type. I’ve met too many of those, thanks.”

Red spots bloomed in Adrien’s cheeks as he sputtered, “No, I’m not-- that’s not what I--”

“I’m joking,” she interrupted, honestly surprised at his reaction. So annoyingly endearing.

“Oh.” Adrien sighed in relief, as Marinette bit back a smile.

There was an awkward pause as she thought of what else to add.

She had just opened her mouth when Adrien blurted, “There’s actually a Jagged show tomorrow.”

“Yeah, part of the Jagged Worldwide tour, right? I’ve got my room all set up with 3 flavors of popcorn to eat while I stream it.”

“Actually,” Adrien said somewhat nervously, “I may or may not have an extra ticket to the show, thanks to the Agreste brand and all.”

“Get out,” Marinette deadpanned, in shock.

(Adrien noted that that was the second time she’d said that in the last five minutes, and chuckled internally. How cute.)

“So, you wanna go?”

There it was again. That… awkward is-this-a-friend-thing situation. Marinette’s conscience told her no, don’t fall for his trap! He definitely only sees you as a friend, you’ll just get hurt if you hope for more! Which, true… but then again. This was Jagged. How could she say no?

“I’m in.” She beamed, bouncing on the soles of her feet. Even though the concert was on a school night, she was fairly sure her parents would let her go once they found out it was another ‘date’ with Adrien.

“Hey, Nino! Marinette said she’s game to come with us to the concert tomorrow,” Adrien called over his shoulder at his best friend.

“Sweet! See you there, my dude! I’ll pass the news on to Alya.” He gave a last wave before leaving.

Ah. So definitely not a date. At least she was aware.

Unless… a double date? Marinette groaned inwardly. Why did things have to be so complicated? She could almost feel the headache she was going to get from all this. (Especially now knowing that Alya would be involved.)

Marinette had never seen so many people in her life.

If she thought her bakery’s end-of-the-month sales were insanely crowded, that was nothing compared to the mass of people at the concert grounds, tightly packed and eagerly awaiting the arrival of their favorite singer.

As usual, something went wrong right off the bat. Their little group of four had gathered outside the grounds at 4:30pm sharp, but it hadn’t even been five minutes since they’d entered and already Alya and Nino were nowhere to be seen.

Marinette panicked immediately, obviously, frantically searching for the telltale brown-red-tipped hair of her best friend.

Adrien calmed her down immediately, saying that the lovebirds probably wanted to ‘spend some alone time together.’

Had Marinette been in a normal state of mind, she might’ve noticed that this practically reeked of another of Alya’s schemes. As it is, she simply allowed herself to be led by the blond-haired boy.

“Let’s go this way so we’re closer to the stage,” Adrien said gently, steering her one way. “Here, you can… hold my hand so we don’t get separated,” he added softly, taking her hand in his.

Soft. She was surprised to find that his hands were smooth and uncalloused. Well… she didn’t know what she had expected, but she thought they were absolutely fine as they were.

They finally made their way to the front as the singer stepped onto the stage to an eruption of cheers. She had to bite back a pout as Adrien dropped her hand to clap his own. She was about to suggest they link hands for the entirety of the concert, but all thoughts disappeared once the music started playing. She let herself get lost in the song, letting go of all her fears and doubts just this once, dancing to the tune, jumping to the beat.

A few minutes in, Adrien leaned in close. “I love this song,” he said, speaking directly into her ear to be heard over the crowd’s screams.

“Me too!” she shouted in reply, hoping in her heart it were actually words of endearment he’d said.

Once the first five songs ended, Jagged Stone stepped up to the mic, and a quiet hush spread through the crowd, waiting with bated breath for what he would say.

“I just want to thank everyone here for coming,” he started, pausing when the crowd roared their approval. He laughed heartily. “Never in my life would I imagine I’d be getting crowds like this, especially right here in Paris. Not many people know this, but I didn’t always like the name Jagged Stone. I mean, as is, it’s really nothing, right? It is what it is: a stone that is jagged. That means cut different from the rest, sort of sharp around the edges, prone to hurting others. Who would want that, right? Growing up, I was told I’d probably amount to nothing, so maybe I should choose a safer, more secure path. But then-- and here’s the key-- I grew up. And look where I am now.”

Marinette whooped along with the other concert goers, wanting her support to be evident.

“See, that’s the thing,”Jagged continued, on a roll. “These things take time. I came to love the name Jagged Stone. Because over the years, stones that are jagged smoothen around the edges. They become toned, weathered. They become the kind of precious stone you see being used in jewelry, maybe. Suddenly they’re something beautiful, valuable. Meaningful. Are they different from what they were before? Of course. But are they still themselves? Absolutely. Was that greatness there all along, right from the start? Without a doubt.

So to everyone out there: don’t rush it. Everything moves at its own pace. You may seem sharp around the edges, but that’s just how we are. Other people might not know how to approach those edges, afraid of getting hurt. But give it time. The ride will smoothen out. I want you to remember that there is already something valuable in each of you, even at this very moment. It’ll just take time for you to get used to that something, to hone it into the best version of you.

And speaking of time, I’d like to thank you all for the time you’ve given to be here! With that I’ll be performing my last song of the concert, my brand new single: Miraculous!”

“That. Was. Amazing.”

Ten minutes later, Adrien and Marinette had navigated their way out of the thick of the crowd, and were making their way to the meet-up spot as previously discussed.

“Definitely,” Marinette agreed, taking a bite of the cotton candy she’d bought. “That speech before the last song? That was my favorite part.”

“Really? He played six songs and not one of them classifies as your favorite part?”

“Oh, be quiet,” Marinette scoffed, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Stop judging. It just… hit close to home, I guess.”

“Oh… Well, uh, I don’t really know any of the context, but you do know you’re pretty amazing, right? As you are right now.”

Marinette took another bite to hide the blush spreading across her cheeks. “Thanks,” she said meekly, unsure of how else to respond.

“There you are!” a voice called. Marinette suddenly found herself enveloped in a tight hug. “I can’t believe we got separated right at the start! Nino here wouldn’t even let me go look for you because we’d found a great spot, he said.”

“Hey!” her boyfriend protested. “You were the one who said let the two lov-- oof, did you have to step on me foot?”

“Oops, accident,” Alya said lightly. “So anyway, how did you two find the concert?”

“It was fun,” Marinette replied softly, wrapping her arms around her best friend’s waist.

“Yeah? Something interesting happen?”

Marinette laughed. “No, I guess not. It was just… I don’t know, it seemed pretty--”

“-- miraculous,” Adrien finished, and they all had to agree.

As they headed back, Marinette reflected that maybe it wasn’t so bad she’d been treading on eggshells just the other day. Maybe her relationship with Adrien was just like what Jagged had said in his speech. At the moment rough at the edges, either party cautious of how to proceed in fear of hurting the other or getting hurt. And that was okay.

Because eventually, it would smoothen out.

And eventually, maybe, just maybe, it would bloom into something beautiful-- something hopefully more than friendship.

All they really needed was time.

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#adrinette april 2021 #adrinette #miraculous ladybug #idk what im doing sorry #ml #mlb #mlbcn #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #adrienette #mlb fics #adrinetteapril2021 #day 5: jagged stone #jagged stone

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magioftheseas · 3 years

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Boom Through Jabberwock!! Bang Bang!

Summary: An alternate/bonus scene spanning from Matsuda giving Ibuki a certain CD in Chapter 24 of Super Danganronpa 2: Matsuda Yasuke’s Battle of Despair and Wits.

Rating: PG

Warnings: None really.

Notes: It’s the yukata bonus scene but for SDR2 Protag Matsuda Yasuke. There’s a bunch more song references and extra banner. The yukata scene’s probably my favorite of the bonus events in sdr2, so it ended up being the longest. Hopefully that’s okay. It’s also much gayer. Because pride.

Read this fic among others HERE

Main story is HERE

Commission? Donate?

“If dealing with her is your way of dealing with guilt over Koizumi, then—I don’t think you could continue bothering.”

Mioda blinked again. Her mouth hung open, jaw slack before it began to tremble.

“Y-Yasuke-chan, that’s—way harsh! You’re making it sound like I don’t care about Hiyoko-chan at all!”

“It’s suffocating to have someone dote on you because they feel sorry for you,” he said. “It’s even worse when that person is floundering because then you feel bad for them.”

“Wah!”

“The fact that you approached me screams that you’re pulling your hair out over what to do about her.” Matsuda sighed, rubbing his nape. “That’s not remotely helpful. Gather your bearings first. Maybe...”

It’s not that I’m obligated to help, but it would be to my benefit that she and Saionji get along.

“When you kick the gachapon enough times, you can get prizes,” he finds himself saying, digging around in his coat to pull something out. “I happened to get this.”

This being the debut single of the band, The Black Cherries. Summer Festivitrees.

He tossed it to Mioda, but it just smacked against her chest as she gaped and he hurriedly had to catch it before it fell to the ground and broke before even having a chance to play.

“Um,” Mioda uttered as Matsuda handed it to her a second time. She didn’t take the CD. “W... Wow, Yasuke-chan.”

“No good, huh,” he guessed, waving it in front of her. Somehow, that did not make the CD more enticing. “Guess this kind of thing isn’t your jam.”

“I was just thinking that you’re fearless,” she said. “I mean—coulda guessed that from you and Nagito-chan being a thing... But seriously, that you’d have the brass to show me this...”

Matsuda’s frown deepened. His brow furrowed for good measure. However, when he pondered about what the fuck this girl’s problem could be, he could scrounge up a few ideas.

“Rival band?” he guessed, looking at the back of the CD. All it listed, of course, was the songs and artists and some copyright. “Or was there some stupid band drama?”

“Rivals!” Mioda confirmed with a chirp. “Did you not hear about all the hype of boys versus girls?! The battle of the boy bands and the girl bands?! The epic showdown of chicks and di—!”

“...isn’t battle of the sexes so last decade?” Matsuda asked, raising an eyebrow. “Hell, wasn’t it more thing two decades ago? Talk about outdated.”

“It super is,” Mioda agreed. “But that was just the press for ya. Out of time, out of tune, out of touch! My old band’s ticket sales and concert attendance numbers still got compared with the Cherries’ all the time.” She perked right up. “But out with the old, in with the new! It doesn’t matter to me because it’s old news about my old band!!”

“I see...”

“Music shouldn’t be about sales anyway!” she exclaimed. “Down with capitalism! Eat the rich!” A pause. She groaned, pained. “Oogh, Byakuya-chan would have been so yummy and chewy... I miss him so much...”

What the hell am I supposed to say to that?

“The meeting’s about to start,” he reminded her. “And...about Saionji...”

“This lightbulb has now been lit!” Mioda went right back to shouting, undeterred even as Matsuda grimaced. She just looked at him with bright, sparkling eyes. “Yasuke-chan, can I have you for the night?”

“...” His grimace darkened. “...”

“If you’re that busy with Nagito-chan, I gueeeeeeess he can come too,” she says, huffing before outright whining. “But you gotta give me an answer! Even if it’s not the story that I planned, I gotta hear your answer! I wanna know the answer!”

Matsuda squeezed his eyes shut, sighing as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

I really don’t want to, but...

“I guess I might as well go,” he grumbled.

“You should!” Mioda agreed happily. “GOOD answer! There wouldn’t have been much point in this bonus scene if you said no, Yasuke-chan!”

Matsuda stared.

“Ooh, so sharp! So cool! Cutting like the highest note!” she gushed. “Alright! The meeting time is two hours before the evening announcement! At the supermarket! No carts needed!”

Matsuda turned on his heel to hurry on ahead.

“Alright, then, guess that’s that.”

When she shouted some more, he didn’t look back. Only quickened his step.

After all the plot-relevant stuff of which the reader shouldn’t be concerned with right now, Matsuda did end up remembering the plans he made.

“Oh, right. It’s probably getting about whatever time that rocker girl wanted to meet up.”

“Oh, Matsuda-kun!” Komaeda exclaimed. “If you had already made arrangements with our Mioda-san, shouldn’t you have respected that first and foremost?”

“I had more important things going on,” Matsuda muttered. “Stuff more...relevant.”

“Geez, you’re such an asshole,” Hinata griped because he was here too for reasons. “Just hurry on. You shouldn’t keep Mioda waiting.”

“Eh.” He really shouldn’t. That said—“She said Komaeda can come, so I guess you should come, too.”

“H-Huh?! Why?!”

“Just...a feeling I have. Come on, you two.” Matsuda gestured for them to follow. “We’re heading to the supermarket.”

“Uwah, how exciting! Mioda-san’s kindness knows no bounds!” Komaeda gushed to which Hinata could only grumble.

“I feel like I’m just going to get pulled into extra work...”

Good news.

“O-nya-su-mi! O-nya-su-mi!” Mioda waved them over frantically from behind one of the aisles. “Ready for something to happen?!”

She gasped, gripping one of the cereal boxes with glee when she saw that Matsuda hadn’t arrived either alone or with just the resident crazy on the islands.

“Ooh, you brought Hajime-chan, too! I guess you do know the saying! Three’s a crowd, four’s a party!”

“Hey, Mioda,” Hinata greeted half-heartedly as she put the cereal back. Hinata strode up to her only to pause. What laid scattered before him was undeniable and he could only sigh at his fate. “Okay... What’s all this?”

When Matsuda got close enough for a look, he could see the piles upon piles of cardboard boxes. Komaeda, too, blinked at the sheer volume.

“Kaboom! Through summer!” Mioda exclaimed with a thunderous clap. “You can’t have a summer without fireworks!”

“I’ve had many of those,” Matsuda informed her without missing a beat.

“Loud noises make me a bit nervous,” Komaeda admitted before exclaiming, “How exciting!”

“Oh, right,” Hinata remembered. “Komaeda, on your student profile, it lists your dislikes as...”

“D-Don’t worry about it, Hinata-kun! It’s for the sake of hope!” Komaeda did in fact seem more nervous than excited. “Hope can come in loud, colorful bursts!”

“Eh...?”

“Filthy fireworks disappear into the sky!” Mioda sing-songs. “From Summer Festivitrees! Haven’t you heard it?”

“I don’t really listen to music that doesn’t play in anime,” Matsuda replied.

“Bang! Bang! There go my dreams!” Mioda gasped, but she recovered quickly. “Anyway!” With a salesperson grin, she gave a wide sweeping gesture towards the boxes. She even wiggled her hand while she was at it. “Boys, get those boxes! Let’s go! Set up!”

“Hah,” Matsuda huffed. “You could have gotten literally anyone to do grunt work.”

“Between the four of us, it won’t be too bad,” Hinata points out. “I mean...”

“Yeah, it’s a party!” Mioda agreed. “A super spicy party! Well—it’s a real party since I’ve already invited a few others! Chiaki-chan, Akane-chan, Mikan-chan, Sonia-chan—and did you know?! Hiyoko-chan’s gonna take pictures!”

...that’s good.

“Oh, and Nekomaru-chan juuuuust for Yasuke-chan!” she added, giving him a wink. “Everyone else already brought these fireworks in, so we’ll leave the rest to you! It’s Ibuki yukata time!”

“I suppose everyone else will be wearing yukatas as well?” Komaeda asked, to which she gleefully nodded.

“Yep! Sonia-chan’s gonna wear what she calls a Japanese yukata! So will Nekomaru-chan! Just for Yasuke-chan!”

“Great,” Matsuda griped, unenthusiastic. “What about us?”

“You want to wear yukatas too?!” Mioda yelped. “Unexpected! Aren’t the protagonists supposed to be the normies?! Or—wait! You want to see Nagito-chan in a yukata too, don’t you?! Sly dog! I should’ve known with my Ibuki sense!”

“W-What’s that mean?!” Hinata stammered. “I-I mean... Komaeda...!”

Komaeda blinked twice. His head tilted.

“I guess you’ll change into a yukata, too,” Matsuda told him. “I’ll look for some earplugs. Hinata will handle the boxes.”

“Wait why did I suddenly get saddled with all the work?! If Nidai’s here, he should help, too!”

“Nekomaru-chan helped during the day, Hajime-chan!” Mioda tutted. “Now, it’s your turn! Yasuke-chan has already asserted his dominance as top antenna!”

“What does that even mean?!” Hinata cried.

“Good luck, Hinata-kun!” Komaeda exclaimed. “Work your hardest so that your hope can shine your brightest! Oh, but, Matsuda-kun, please don’t feel obligated to...”

Aaaand Matsuda was already making his way down the aisle. No longer listening. A man single-focused on his mission. Mioda saluted him before marching on her merry way. Komaeda, too, left to go obediently change. Hinata, left alone, could only sigh.

Resigned to his fate, he began to move the boxes with only a mild grumble.

(Thankfully, once he found some earplugs, Matsuda did go back to help. He wasn’t that heartless.)

Thus, the night ended with a climactic series of colorful explosions in the starlit sky. Nidai whooped, Mioda cheered, and Sonia chattered excitedly.

Another burst. Nidai whooped again. Tsumiki was stammering in delight. Owari was happy, too.

The only one who wasn’t was...

“Pffft, so fucking lame,” Saionji muttered, but she snapped away with her camera. “It’s just because Mahiru-nee would’ve taken these pics...”

“The Ultimates are more radiant than any blossoming firework!” Komaeda exclaimed, voice uncomfortably loud as he likely couldn’t hear himself with the earplugs. “How wonderful! Sublime! Vibrant!”

Matsuda gave him a thumbs-up before gritting his teeth and adjusting the other’s yukata lest it be too revealing for this rather chilly evening.

Nidai whooped again, much to Nanami’s apparent confusion.

“Nidai-kun...keeps doing that...”

“It’s because when fireworks go up, you...whoop,” Hinata explained. He was looking away quite pointedly from a giggling Komaeda, his ears almost as red as a firework that just dyed the sky. Another whoop from Nidai as Nanami let out a curious hum.

“Girl power!” Sonia exclaimed.

“G-Go...burst...” Tsumiki stammered.

“Oh god, you two are so laaaaame,” Saionji groaned, to Tsumiki’s despair.

“E-Eep! I’m so sorry!”

“Oh! That’s a better face!” Saionji snapped with more enthusiasm. “Bwahaha! Pathetic weeping suits you waaaay more!”

“...Hiyoko-chan’s having a great time!” Mioda shouted. “Wahoo! Ibuki’s decisive victory!”

“W-What the hell are you talking about?!” the dancer shrieked.

“Lit ‘em up, Hajime-chan!” Mioda yelled, whooping with Nidai. “Do it, just DO IT!!”

“Got it, got it,” Hinata sighed, doing as he was told.

“After that one, we’ll trade off!” Nidai laughed. “You gotta enjoy these fireworks TOO, ya know!!”

Hinata did smile back, even warmer under another burst of color above.

“So lovely,” Komaeda cooed, and Matsuda didn’t care to ask if he specifically meant the fireworks.

Regarding everyone’s bright faces, made brighter by the fireworks, nothing else...really mattered.

The scent of summer enveloping the night. Goldfish fireworks trickling down, falling in drops,

Matsuda thought, remembering a song.

With eyes dazzled by the light, your gentle face was reflected for an instant.

When everyone parted, it was with a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. One could even think it contentment if not for the erratic stumbling of a few stray thoughts.

#yasuke matsuda #matsuda yasuke #ibuki mioda #mioda ibuki #sdr2 #nagito komaeda #hajime hinata #Magi fics #some pairing references involving matsun and some boys #gay #Protag Matsun

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emilieautumnarchives · 2 years

Text

Glide Magazine Interview

Original Link last accessed 1/3/2022

Emilie Autumn - Original Victoriandustrial by Deb Draisin

Malibu native Emilie Autumn was classically trained on violin from the tender age of four. Admitted to the University of Music in Bloomington, Indiana at only fifteen, Autumn found herself unable to simply blend with classmates, and left after just two years. She started her own label, Traitor Records in 2000, but halted work on her first full-length, Enchant to record a single benefiting 9/11 survivors. Reworking the album to incorporate her new “fantasy rock” direction, she released the fourteen track CD in 2003.

She was snapped up later that year by Courtney Love as her own "anarchy violinist” for Love’s 2004 solo effort, America’s Sweetheart. Autumn has also sessioned on albums by Otep and Billy Corgan (she also worked on costume design for his video, “Walking Shade) and was asked to guest on Dethklok’s infinite “Dethalbum” and even appeared on Adult Swim’s “Metalocalypse.” Autumn has also appeared on The Jay Leno and David Letterman shows and her songs were featured on the Saw III and Saw IV soundtracks. As musician she has introduced her own" Victoriandustrial" style, consisting of original pieces played on the electric violin, backed by the harpsichord, drum machines and synthesizers.

The U.S. debut of her album, Opheliac – The Deluxe Edition this past October 27, boasts five bonus tracks, live concert footage, video interviews, and recording outtakes. This latest effort, completely self-produced, touches upon Autumn’s personal struggles with mental health, which she has detailed even more in her autobiographical novel, "The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls” (a must-read!)

Emilie’s shows are quite the spectacle: a sexually charged mix of Victorian and Gothic, Burlesque and Vaudeville, Metal and Electronica, backed by all-female backup singers “The Bloody Crumpets.” Autumn also runs her own clothing, accessory and perfume lines via the company that she co-owns with “Lee Queen of Tarts,” Lee Ann Helmer, WillowTech House.

The absolutely riveting Emilie was awesome enough to spare Glide a few moments backstage at her recent Williamsburg, Brooklyn Music Hall performance. The show did not disappoint. You’ve never seen anything like it, I promise, so make sure you do not miss her the next time she comes to your town (but don’t wear heeled boots, as I did, despite the fact that Emilie’s audience has a penchant for dressing up – they’re two and a half hours long!)

I got a sneak preview of your book.

You did? Awesome, I’m so glad! Yes, I did, you have good publicity people – I’m excited! Tell the readers a little bit about what they’re going to be seeing.

It is The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls. It is my debut massive, large-scale novel, and in addition to being a novel, kind of a historical thriller, because it spans two hundred years (Victorian) it is also my autobiography. It is true, that no matter how crazy it seems, it is. It’s got so many arcs, like a story within a story within a story, but there’s an overall theme. You learn about Victorian insane asylums for girls and our modern day psych wards, and that not much has changed between the two, and that’s a problem. It’s a very extensive account of bi-polar disorder (for obvious reasons) and I think that it’s definitely rated R, but there’s something for everybody.

It’s also just a beautiful, almost coffee table type of book; we didn’t do black text on white paper. Everything is fully illustrated to try and tell the story in as complete a way as possible. Yes, it’s about me and my life, but more over, it’s about the world of the asylum, and that’s something that I’m only a miniscule part of – it’s so much bigger than me.

The main thing, I think, is that I need everybody to go out and buy like fifty to a hundred copies each. That way, we can get it to be a New York Times best seller, which is necessary, because, obviously, we have to make a movie out of it.

Is everybody listening?

Yeah, if you could just do that, it would be so great. If you want to see a movie, that’s what it’s going to take, because this is not a small budget. Thank you so much.

You know, I studied psychology twenty years ago and turned my back on the industry then due to the poor conditions in the asylums. I don’t know if I should be disheartened at this point, because nothing has changed still.

So you know this. Basically, you’re experimented on, you’re sexually fucked with and you can’t do a goddamned thing about it, because you’re the crazy girl and he’s the head psychiatrist – who are you going to believe? So, what is my ultimate revenge; lawsuits? Not gonna happen, because how can I fight somebody with a million dollar education? They’re not gonna go down without a fight, and everyone’s going to think I’m crazy anyway, because I’m bi-polar. It’s so easy to blame everything on that when, in reality, it’s not even responsible for most parts of my life. It’s definitely a part of everything that I do, but it doesn’t make me do anything.

What is my ultimate revenge? A lawsuit would be over in a day, but a song or a book is eternal. You can tell the truth in that and get everybody to sing along, and that’s revenge. That is the ultimate rule of “Don’t fuck with the songwriter.” Just don’t, it’s not going to end up well for you.

People take that risk sometimes – you just don’t know who anyone’s gonna turn out to be. That’s the best revenge for all of us artists: consider yourselves exposed!

Absolutely, yeah.

You’ve always been your own person, even when you were little – a few words of encouragement, to maybe for some kids who are trying to make it as artists and are feeling squashed and discouraged?

You just have to want something so badly – as corny as that sounds – that you really can’t do anything else. Just say “Fuck you” to anybody that tries to change you; I wish somebody had advised me of this at the time. Just know that everybody – from the time you are born – is going to tell you that it’s too different and it’s not going to sell and you’re never going to make enough money to buy your mom a house and all of that. They’re going to say that you need to change and that you need them.

You could have a perfect record, and some big-shot producer from somewhere will come in and say “You really need to change this, because I could make it so much better,” yet there’s nothing wrong with what you did; it’s the “You need me” game. That especially happens to girls, because we’re so willing to be told what to do; it’s almost like genetically ingrained at this point, and we have to change that.

The last note is just work until you bleed. Don’t take any short-cuts, don’t expect people to support you. Don’t expect people to be nice or even like what you do, and don’t care if they don’t; believe that you know what’s right for you. You can’t compromise anything – you might have twenty years of absolute misery, but if you want it that badly, it’s going to be worth it. It was worth it to me, because I did.

You’ve certainly accomplished that!

Thank you very much. I talk to a lot of musicians who like to complain “Why haven’t I made it yet? Why aren’t I being recognized, why am I not signed?” It’s that sense of entitlement that I think is so backwards. I don’t feel entitled to anything! I don’t know that anybody knows who I am or will like me – it’s a great symptom of getting to do what you want to do; it’s lovely, but it’s not the point.

How many bands want to bitch about not getting what they want, and how many people are really honest-to-God fucking interesting? Not many that I can think of; it’s like that’s the one thing that they didn’t think of.

You can’t write a song and expect anybody to give a fuck, because there are too many songs in this world already. Be interesting! Well, I think what happens is that (not to single anybody out) they look at someone like Josh Groban or Taylor Swift and think “Hey, that’s an ordinary person writing an ordinary song, why can’t I have that?”

Exactly, and that’s the thing: those people might not be terribly interesting, but they’ve got a great marketing team. They won’t be legends who last forever, and it doesn’t matter. If you’re on a huge label with huge management that throws millions of dollars into you, realize that there is the lowest common denominator of humankind. They’re always going to gravitate toward something simple and easy that feels good, but do you really want to be that? If you do, then by all means don’t be interesting, because that’s gonna ruin your career. I’m guessing that most of us would like something a little bit more dangerous, just because it’s so much more fun.

I like my art to challenge me. If I’m going to watch a movie or a performance, or look at a painting, I want to think.

To learn something! Yeah, I don’t want to go to feel better. I want it to fuck me up a little bit – even if something is so beautiful that it makes you cry. That’s perfect, that is the point. You can’t be afraid to do that, and if you do, you’re going to be unpopular some of the time. You just can’t care, and if you care, then you just don’t want it badly enough and you should be doing something else – and that’s great.

I don’t mean to sound like a complete ass, but I really believe that the world is divided into the people that should be onstage and the people that should be in the audience, and both are equally valuable. We both need each other; we can’t have one without the other, and both are part of the show. I think that so many people wouldn’t want the job that I or that people much bigger than me actually have – it’s not that glamorous. I don’t think they realize that.

Nobody does, and that’s okay, because part of it is to keep the illusion alive. I most definitely don’t make six million dollars a year or live in an ivory tower. I do have a nice tour bus, and that kicks ass, but that’s the extent of the glamorous part. I did a photo shoot just a moment ago – with an awesome rock-n-roll famed photographer – literally in a dumpster, and I had the time of my life. It was the best thing I’ve ever done; it was full of garbage, and I hope that I don’t smell like it. You’re being very nice, which means I don’t smell like trash. Well, we’re both wearing perfume – that could be it, too.

We’re fine, sexy, civilized ladies; we are so classy. And you know what? We’re also dangerous.

Most fine, civilized ladies are. We’re getting crazy up in this place – I like it! Let’s keep going from here. “Opheliac” is pretty dangerous. It’s also tracked in a very interesting way. I thought that having the white noise on “Swallow” in the middle of the record was a ridiculous idea – I’ve never seen anyone do something like that before. You don’t want to switch tracks, because you don’t know what’s going to happen. I was actually on the train listening to it, and it was blending in with the train noise; I didn’t know if I was listening to the song or the train. It was this really cathartic experience; it was crazy! I was like “This is so original.” You self-produced; do you miss having somebody else bounce ideas off of?

I don’t, mainly because I’ve never had that, and it’s a sad thing, but it’s not. Maybe it’s my own bad luck, but any time I’ve had somebody with whom I could potentially be like “Help me on this” it’s always turned out to be somebody that just takes control of it, or wants to. I’m so stupidly, violently independent that I can’t. Obviously, I hate being told what to do. I don’t have a marketing person, even, that advises me, because I’ve only gotten this far because I did it myself. The thing about that is that it keeps the vision pure.

It isn’t that I’m the best at everything – I’m not the best singer or whatever, but I work fucking hard to be very good at it, and I’m determined to learn anything I don’t already know, and I’ll never, ever stop. It’s kind of ironic and funny – something that I laugh at a lot now – that people are starting to see this whole thing: me, the show, everything, as pretty damned marketable. I know that the only reason that it’s marketable is because I’ve never had a marketing person to get in the way and fuck it up and try to make it marketable.

That is a really interesting point, wow.

You brand automatically, without even trying, when you just keep it so raw and pure and don’t let anyone touch it. Something as weird and eccentric as this whole world, this alternate reality which I do (yet it’s completely real) it’s hard to categorize all of that. The fact that we appeal to literally, like, four years old to like, sixty-five – that’s who comes to all ages shows. The four year olds come and they sit on their dads shoulders and they know all the words to everything. Is that trippy?

It’s really trippy! We’ve been in Europe for the last three years; this is our first North American tour – I didn’t know if anybody would even show up. It’s working out, but I think the most trippy thing is when we do other countries and, without exception, they know every word to every song. We just did Mexico, and it was the largest, most rabid crowd we’ve ever had. I had heard that that happens, from other artists who’ve played Mexico City, but I didn’t think it’d happen for me. I was like “How do you guys even know who I am?” That is the power of the internet though! That’s why I love it when the kids tape shows and post them on YouTube within ten minutes, because we need that. We shouldn’t be fighting against that.

In your case, the bootlegging is more beneficial than harmful.

See, that’s the “be interesting” thing again. If you produce unchallenging music, or if you yourself are not that magnetic, where people need to own it and hold it in their hands, then yeah, you’re going to get illegally downloaded. I know I’ll get illegally downloaded, too – all of us will – but I don’t feel terribly hurt by that, because any real fan (which are really the only kind that that I care about anyway) will buy the record. In fact, they buy two copies – one that they keep in shrink wrap and the other that they bring to shows to have signed. I see this all the time, and it’s crazy, but how is that for “Yeah, record sales suck?” Well, maybe they could be better; they suck for a lot of people, but I don’t see that, I see people buying doubles.

It’s simply because I care about the packaging; all of it matters, and you do have to work for it. You do have to give people more than just “Hey, here’s a CD.” You do have to draw pictures or put yourself into it somehow, and make every single detail equally important, just as it is in the show. As you know, it’s not just a rock show, it’s a Broadway musical, and we’ve got some new tricks. It’s going to get crazy; it’s gonna look a little dangerous, but don’t worry, because I’m not gonna fall.

I would totally fall.

Really? I’ve been working on my balance. These aren’t the best shoes to be climbing things in (indicates six inch pink stiletto-heeled boots) but it looks good, so I’ll do it.

Yeah, I’m a little girl who can’t walk in heels at all.

I never wore heels really; I was always in combat boots with platforms and stuff – because I’m short and I like to be taller – but I just saw these and I thought they were so ridiculously sugary and gorgeous, that I learned to walk in heels just for these, and to actually like, dance in them onstage. It’s worth it; I only fell twice.

You only broke your ankle fourteen times?

Yeah, and it’s like that thing, if you’re up there…say I’m in a photo shoot, and I’m trying to look cool, it’s going to be a disaster. The safest thing is to just be an idiot from the very beginning, because then nobody can call you that; you’ve already called yourself that. You can’t look uncool if you already started out that way.

You can’t take yourself too seriously.

That’s the whole thing; we don’t. I take my music, obviously, intensely seriously, but as far as the live performance, or just how I present myself, whether it’s in photos or whatever, it’s always supposed to be slightly sarcastic or over the top dramatic, or just stupid and ridiculous – me looking like an idiot, or being awesomely pretentious to where you can’t even take it seriously. My whole signature move, the “Ohh” (makes faint, high-pitched voice) it’s supposed to be ridiculous and over the top. I mean, I’m a weirdo who draws a heart on their face every day; how can I take that seriously? I know it’s crazy, but it makes me happy, and I love it, and old ladies smile at me on the street, as do four year olds, because they think I’m a Muppet.

Which is perfect, because you know what? My whole career goal was to be a guest star on The Muppet Show and it’s tragic that t that’s over. I’m still hoping for “Sesame Street,” but we’ll see how that goes. Anybody listening out there? Come on, somebody set that up!

Yeah, get me some Cookie Monster! Explain the term “fantasy rock” – like, how did you come up with that idea?

It doesn’t so much apply now; it applied back in the day with the “Enchant” record, before the whole Asylum thing happened, before I was locked up. Obviously, once that happens, you’re never ever the same person again. From then on, when I got out, I looked different, I sounded different – a completely different voice – I thought differently, everything was different. You never, ever can go back to before once you’ve been in, you never really get out, and that’s why I have my cell number tattooed on my arm. Don’t even try to pretend it didn’t happen; don’t even try to run away from it, own it. Say “Yeah, if you’re gonna call me crazy, I’ll show you crazy, and I’ll make a career out of it, and I’ll make crazy pay for the gas on my fucking expensive tour bus.” A kind of “Fuck you” to the stigma, because it is one.

It is, and that’s because nobody understands it. I know that I’m derailing, but it’s fun to talk about the whole bi-polar thing for a second. Well, it’s part of what you’re doing right now, you should talk about it.

Yeah, that’s true. There again, it’s like: don’t try to pretend, because you realize that the moment that you’re on a psychiatric drug, you’re not really going to be taken seriously anymore, and the moment that you are locked up, it’s all over for you. So I could either try to live a normal life and be 9-5, whatever, and have background checks and psychiatric evaluations and have that matter, or I can take everything and make it my career. Now it’s like: how can you fuck with that; it’s what we’re making money off of, and that’s a beautiful thing. I’m honestly pretty proud of that, because I’m not ashamed of anything. I may not be happy about it, but I’m not ashamed of doing the things that I’ve done to myself – I’ve never hurt anybody else.

The thing is that bi-polar disorder/manic depression, to begin with, is so intensely misunderstood in a way that really affects people and really matters. It doesn’t help if you’ve got people in Hollywood – Britney shaving her head and showing her whatever-the-hell (I couldn’t think of a clever word to call that right now) we’ve all seen it a million times, and not just with her. Basically, a famous person behaves badly and the next day in the paper, they start calling her bi-polar. It’s like “Oh my God, she acted crazy, she must be bi-polar.” It’s almost like calling somebody a retard. It’s passed into common vernacular and people don’t even really understand what they’re talking about.

Yeah, it’s like saying “That bitch is insane, she’s acting all bi-polar” and the thing is, no, they’re hopped up on drugs, that’s what. They might be miserable, and they might have good reason to be, but they’re not bi-polar – that’s something entirely different. This condition has made me try to kill myself, but it’s never made me get out of a cab without underwear or shave my head. It made me cut my hair, but that was different – I left a few inches on there. It’s kinda like the post-partum depression that somehow turns into homicidal behavior – I’m not buying that, either.

Right. I see that and I think that I agree, but…wow, I was about to say never having been pregnant, but it happened. It was terminated, obviously, and that’s in the book, so I can’t even be quiet about that now as it’s all going to come out anyway.

That’s a stigma too now, thanks to the Conservative movement.

It is. I mean, I hesitate to say that I or this book are important enough to have any backlash, but I suspect that it will. We’re going to push it; I won’t stop until it is read, because it is everything to me – my whole life. It’s the most important thing that I have ever done, and likely ever will. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s massive, epic, huge and it’s everything. I have almost no more secrets now, and it’s pretty scary, but it’s also just a bit cathartic, because you don’t have to wonder anymore if people understand you or not. I’ve never felt entirely understood – and any complex person never will – but this gives me at least a better chance at that. You know that if people like you, they like you even knowing all of this, and I think that is a nice thing in some way. It does talk about all of the things you’re not supposed to talk about. I’m a big fan of that.

I can tell! In this world, we talk about depression now – not that it’s understood, because it’s not – but we do talk about it. We talk about rape and child abuse and all of those things, which we should (and those are in the book, too) but there are still some things that we really don’t talk about. We don’t talk about suicide and we don’t talk about cutting, and we don’t talk about a lot of diseases that people absolutely don’t understand. We don’t talk enough, or in the right ways, about abortion and all of those things.

No, we just try to squash it.

That’s the thing: we squash it or it’s just about taking sides, or it’s about Women’s Rights (and that’s good,) but there’s so much more to it: how it affects you forever, and how it feels to have one. I mean, people don’t realize, and it’s not meant, anyway. They pass judgment before they understand the problem first.

And they don’t know what this is like. You don’t know what finding out that you’re pregnant when you’ve been continuously on the pill feels like – when you are that point one percent, and I was. Try to judge that; I didn’t go around being irresponsible. I can’t believe we’re talking about this – I have never, ever talked about this in an interview before. I realize now: it doesn’t matter anymore, because I can’t pretend to be more glamorous than I am; it’s all going to be there anyway, so I feel like “Why not?”

I have my own things that I hide too, and I’m listening to you and wondering why we do that. I remember having an anxiety attack at work and being terrified that they were going to find out, because you feel crazy. How do you explain to somebody that you think you’re having a heart attack when you’re not?

You’re viewed as naturally weak, and people will, they will! They will absolutely think “Wow, you’re a little bit unstable.” Even something even as simple as “mentally unstable,” especially when you’re not working exclusively for yourself, is something you don’t want.

It’s such a dismissive term.

Well, that’s why I felt the need – it’s not just about me and this bullshit, it’s about this other world, and most of the book is this world and what goes on in it; this alternate reality that I had to create in order to survive while not being allowed to have contact with the outside world. What I didn’t know at the time is that it would all become very, very real, and it’ll all make sense when (hopefully) you read it.

It’s necessary, because people are just so fucking cruel about it, and a lot of the book is just about that. Like, look at how we behave toward these people who need help and compassion and care. Like, it’s so true that so many people’s reactions to an attempted suicide are anger…

Scorn…

Scorn, disgust. Same with cutting yourself, same with even having to be on drugs in order to survive. There is so much absolute brutality and cruelty.

They call you weak.

And, almost the worst thing that’s happened to me with all of this – probably the most cruel, honestly, in spite of all the abuse and harassment – the most degrading thing is when your boyfriend does something shitty, and you have an actual problem with that, and they say “Have you taken your medication today? That’s the equivalent of asking “Is it your time of the month?” It’s no different, and there’s nothing worse than that. People feel that they have a right to do that, and that’s the point: it discredits everything you say, everything you do, and everything you will ever do.

It’s almost my only hope, in getting through this life with any semblance of happiness, to own it and to make my life entirely about it. Just the complete reverse psychology of it is that I am not ashamed. I maybe should be, but I’m not ashamed of that or anything that I’ve done. I think we need to talk about it – I need to talk about it – but the trick is that nobody likes to be preached to. You need to do it with humor, and the book is also very funny (or I would like to think so.) God, that sounded pompous, but anyway, I try. The show really just highlights how to say this message in – as childish as it sounds –with massive doses of humor; using sexuality to do it, because I have no problem with that whatsoever. I think it’s a great, awesome, beautiful thing, using those tools in order to send the message that you want to send. Even if it’s as simple as letting people know that we’re all in this together and they’re not alone and we still get unequal pay as a reward. That hasn’t changed, and so much hasn’t changed, and it needs to. I think that one of the most awesome things that’s ever, ever happened to me is when we were sound-checking for the concert recently in Mexico City. One of the crew guys who worked for the venue came up and said that he was a fan of the music, but what he really appreciated the most (and he was fully in that culture – a guy’s guy) was that, in our own way, we are educating men there to treat women. That machismo thing which is a huge part of their culture (they know that – it’s not derogatory, it’s the truth.) He was saying “This is how guys are – here, especially – and you’re helping to change that.

Now, I don’t think we’re really helping to change that, but it’s cool that he thought so, and that he, as a guy, thought “This is good.” Guys would be so much happier – and they don’t even know it – if this were all equal, and that’s all we’re asking for. You know what I’m saying? Changing behavior is definitely what it’s about.

It is – it’s about changing thought process, behavior, reaction, all of that. Educating in whatever way I can, and even more than all of that, it’s just about creating an environment where even I can be accepted in that process. Creating it and letting other people share in it, because that’s the funny thing, is that now everybody wants to be an inmate. It’s hilarious, because the asylum is actually the last place on earth that you should want to be, but that’s the joke, and it’s a beautiful one. It makes me smile, which is a very, very long time coming type of thing. In the end, the whole show – and the fun that we have together onstage – is all about taking back the asylum and making it what always should have been.

A fucking asylum is a sanctuary; a place where you go to be safe. It’s not how it was, and not how it is now, but we can create it for ourselves, even if it’s just us, in this venue – us right now, together. That’s the point, because I need a place to live, and I’m not comfortable outside the asylum, because it’s not set up for me to be comfortable. So, I will make my own reality and I will build my own house, and surround myself with people who will understand – even if it’s just my band. We are all best friends, and in the end, it’s like: fuck all the rest of this, and what I have to complain and write books about. How fucking lucky am I that I get to tour the planet with my four best girlfriends? In the end, I’ve realized that I have very little to complain about, and I’m grateful for all of this.

And that the suffering was necessary.

It was, and it still is. It continues, and it always will, but I am going to accept it and learn from it, and make it entertaining for everybody else. The truth is that people love to watch a crazy girl freak out, and I’m going to deliver, because I can. It’s honest, and fuck it, I don’t blame them – but I’m going to look good doing it.

#2009 #interviews

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jovialyouthmusic · 3 years

Text

Double Trouble

Bastien’s foster parents come to meet the twins, and he receives a gift that brings back painful memories...

Word count 2774

A/N You may need a tissue at hand for this one, Bastien is reduced to tears himself. There are a few Greek words here, but I’ve tried to make them obvious or translated immediately afterwards. My favourite was the word for grandmother, which is pronounced ‘ya ya’. You may notice I’ve chickened out from writing a chapter devoted to their wedding - at least for now...

5 Parents, old and new...

‘They’re here – the guards at the gate just rang through’ Bastien announced. Sophia cast an eye around the apartment to check all was spick and span.

‘Does it look right?’ she queried. ‘If it’s too tidy it will look like we’re not taking enough time with the twins, but if it’s untidy it looks like we can’t cope.’ Bastien walked over to her and kissed her forehead.

‘Don’t worry, theà mou’ he soothed ‘Althea will understand. She’s fostered plenty of babies as well as older children. She knows a little disorder isn’t a bad sign’

‘Did you ever get drafted in to looking after any younger ones?’ she asked.

‘One or two, but she never left me alone with them. Being totally responsible for small babies is a task for an adult.’ He went to the door just as a wail started up on the baby monitor. Sophia grimaced.

‘They certainly have a good sense of timing’ she said ‘I’ll go and see who it is and what they need.’

‘I’ll go down and greet our visitors. Don’t be worried about feeding them, they wouldn’t bat an eyelid, but if you want to stay private, stay in the nursery and I’ll check with you.’ He kissed her again and went to greet his foster parents, there to see the twins for the first time.

They lived only a few hours drive away in Greece but said they’d wait until the couple had settled into parenthood. Sophia’s parents had booked their flight from the Channel Islands and would be there the next month. If it hadn’t been for various video calls, her mother might well have demanded that she and Bob move lock stock and barrel to Cordonia, but Sophia had told them they weren’t sure they would be staying in the tiny European country for good. She had received a job offer from Edinburgh and had deferred it until the twins were older, and there was a lot of support at the Palace. They didn’t have to worry about cooking, laundry or cleaning, and Hana had volunteered to help too. She had experience with Savannah’s children, and would most likely go on to help the Queen when she gave birth to the heir.

She went into the nursery to discover that Theo needed a nappy change, and she was in time to get that done before his wailing woke his sister, who was a determined and deep sleeper. Changing him was an easy task compared to his sisters indignation at being messed around.

As she worked, she remembered that the last time she’d seen her own parents was at their wedding. It was a small affair, and her mind went further back to when they’d discussed getting married, some time after Bastien had proposed. They were taking a break at the villa in Greece that Costa and Althea owned, this time entirely on their own. They lay out in the sun after a swim in the clear blue sea.

‘Mum asked me when we’re getting married.’ Sophia said, reaching for a cool drink.

‘Then we should probably set a date’ Bastien replied. ‘That is, if you think we should do it’

‘It’s odd’ she said ‘I like the idea, but we’ve made our commitment to each other already. I don’t need a ceremony to know we intend to be together for the rest of our lives’

‘But perhaps other people have to acknowledge it’ Bastien pointed out ‘Plus it’s better legally, if anything should happen to one of us’

‘I could never understand my friends who started planning their weddings when they were teens’ she had said. ‘My best friend had a scrapbook and she’d collect pictures of dresses, think about venues and colour schemes and so on. I don’t think she cared who she married, and she expected it to happen before she was twenty’

‘How did that turn out?’

‘She did actually find a really nice guy to marry, but she was the original Bridezilla. He got fed up with her tantrums and stood her up at the altar – or in her case, at the beach. In Jamaica. He’d never even got on the plane to go there. Her family and friends had a wonderful holiday, but she spent the whole time crying and cursing him until one of the waiters caught her eye’ Bastien sucked his breath in between his teeth.

‘Did that put you off, theà mou?’

‘Just a little. But my wedding day wasn’t the apex of my expectations. I wanted to find someone to share my life with – and I have’

‘So what do you think we should do? What do you want?’

‘I don’t want a big wedding. A registry office would do – and a minimum of guests. In fact, just you, me and a witness would be enough. But my mother would never forgive me’

‘May I make a suggestion, then?’

‘’Of course, Bas. Fire away’

‘Why don’t we get married in Guernsey? That would please Edith, and it would keep the guest list down. We could always have a reception back here after a short honeymoon’

‘That might work. Wouldn’t Costa and Althea want to come to the wedding though?’

‘Hmmm. They’d understand if I told them we’d want to keep it small’

‘We, Bas? Are you happy with that?’

‘I think the same as you. It’s a formality – a legal piece of paper. It doesn’t compare to what we already have together. I’m happy to do whatever you want’

‘Well aren’t we a pair’ she had laughed ‘The reluctant bride and groom’

‘But enthusiastic lovers’ he joked, and swooped down on her, kissing her and picking her up to carry her inside.

So it was that they travelled to the tiny island where they had a small ceremony at the registry office with a reception at a four star hotel, arranged by her father. Some of his work colleagues attended as many of them had been impromptu Uncles when she was growing up, and a few of her school friends went too. Drake went as Bastien’s best man and representative of the Crown, being the third party in King Brad’s Cordonian marriage. It had been decided that he and Lucy would not attend, to keep the wedding low key. They had a short honeymoon on one of the smaller islands, and on their return King Brad had insisted on a lavish reception party in the Palace Ballroom. He had flown the happy couple back for the occasion in the Royal jet along with Bob and Edith.

After that, they had briefly discussed having children and decided to try as soon as they could, due to their age. Bastien had visited a sperm bank when he had a vasectomy on joining the Guard, and they were advised to try using that whilst waiting for his medical procedure to heal and his count to go up. Despite being told it would most likely take a few tries, the very first treatment worked, and Sophia had to defer taking up a job offer at Edinburgh University.

As she buttoned up Theo’s romper suit she heard the apartment door close and there was the babble of conversation in the main room.

‘You don’t look hungry, little man’ she cooed to the baby ‘Come and meet your pappous and giagià’ She picked him up, peeking into Beatrice’s cot, but she slept soundly. She resolved to come back for her, to keep the twins in synch with their naps. She had barely entered the lounge before Althea had plucked Theo from her arms with cries of delight.

‘Oh, mikros’ little one she gushed ‘I giagiá sou eínai edó’ your grandmother is here ‘Aren’t you such a delicious creature, I could eat you all up’ She turned to her husband ‘See how he looks like his father’ Costa nodded gravely, pursing his lips.

‘He does’ he said shortly, leaning over to appraise the baby. He looked up at Sophia.

‘And here is his mitera’ he smiled, and walked over to kiss her cheek. Althea only had eyes for Theo, rocking him and speaking in rapid Greek. Theo was mesmerised and gazed at her, entranced. ‘You look well, Sophia’ he said ‘I hope our Antras is looking after you and his mikra’

‘He’s very attentive. It’s good to see you, Costa. I hope the journey was okay’

‘It was very quiet – when Althea fell asleep’ he said, dropping his voice to a stage whisper.

‘You think I don’t hear you, old man?’ Althea cried ‘You’re lucky I’m holding our foster grandson. And where is his sister?’

‘I’ll get her’ Sophia said.

‘Let me come with you.’ Costa offered, and she led the way.

‘I’m sorry you can’t stay with us’ Sophia said as they went. ‘As you see, our spare room is occupied.’

‘Don’t worry my dear’ Costa boomed in his deep voice. ‘I know better than anyone how tiring Althea is to have around. We won’t stay long, we have friends to visit in the Capitol.’ As they entered the nursery Beatrice was stirring. Costa made a cooing noise as soon as he saw her.

‘Oh mikros – little princess.’ he clucked ‘Here, come to Pappous.’ and leaned over the cot, tenderly picking her up. Sophia held her breath, not knowing how she would react. She made little squeaking noises as she woke, her eyes opening to an unfamiliar face. She squinted and opened her mouth to protest but the sound of his voice lulled her as he crooned to her. He turned to Sophia.

‘They are both so dark.’ he said, referring to the shock of black hair that both children sported. ‘Your lovely blonde hair has not come through.’

‘It’s only natural.’ she smiled ‘We knew they would probably take after Bastien.’ They returned to the lounge, where Althea declared she would have to split in two in order to make the most of the babies. Costa stood facing her, and they rocked and sang to them together, doing a little dance. Bastien looked over at Sophia, whose face had lit up with joy to see the charming interaction. Theo gazed at his entertainers with fascination while Beatrice made odd little expressions and noises, waving her little starfish fingers randomly.

‘This one is musical, see?’ Althea said ‘She has a sense of rhythm. She will be a great singer or a concert pianist, just you see.’ Costa laughed.

‘Theodore is quiet and stoic like his father. Perhaps he too will be Captain of the Guard’

‘It’s a dangerous job, Pateràs. I wouldn’t wish it on him.’ Bastien commented. At that moment Beatrice decided she’d had enough of being joggled about and started to grizzle.

‘Your little princess needs her materà.’ Costa said, handing her over carefully. She made a face as if she was searching for a nipple.

‘Do you mind…?’ Sophia asked.

‘Go right ahead, I may never have fed one myself, but I would have if I could.’ Althea replied, so Sophia settled down to nurse. Theo remained in Althea’s arms, sucking his fingers and gazing back at her. ‘You need your strength, Sophia, so I brought some food for you.’ Althea sat close to her. ‘I know the palace kitchens cook for you, but I don’t think they make proper Greek food. It’s like medicine – my pastitsio will cure anything, and my moussaka would satisfy a giant.’ She nodded toward Bastien’s broad frame ‘Even our àntras there. How do you think he grew to be such a mountain of a man?’ Bastien rolled his eyes.

‘I think we might have to get a freezer of our own to store all the food Althea brought for us.’ he said drily. She turned toward him.

‘Look in the cooler bag – there’s Greek salad and dolmades and olives, and bread I baked this morning.’ Bastien shook his head, smiling.

‘You shouldn’t have, Althea’ he laughed ‘But it’s very welcome’

Before too long the dining table was set with a Greek feast, and Costa sat with Beatrice resting on his chest, making little circles on her back to bring up any wind, and Bastien had given him a napkin in case of accidents. Sophia sat nursing Theo, and Althea hovered over her with a plate full of finger food.

‘Eat, eat’ Althea urged her ‘The babies will grow fast. Start getting bigger clothes for them, you will see’ Soon it was Bastien holding Beatrice to wind her while Sophia sat at the table to eat, and Althea fussed with plates and food as if she was the host, not her foster son and partner.

At last they had done justice to the food, and Costa was the one to wash the plates while Althea played with Theo.

‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ she said suddenly, addressing Bastien. ‘I brought you something.’

‘Althea…’ he protested, but she had already handed the baby to Sophia and was rummaging in a bag. She brought out a small package and handed it over. Bastien took it curiously, and carefully unwrapped it. It was a small piece of fabric – a flowered pattern with a satin edge. He stared at it for a moment, and Sophia was shocked to see his eyes watering, hand resting on his cheek in shock.

‘Materà.’ he said, choking with emotion, struggling to keep his composure ‘I didn’t know you still had this.’ Althea went to him and put her hand on his arm. He grabbed it and kissed her fingers, tears running down his cheeks.

‘We found it when we cleared out some old boxes. I knew you’d want it.’ Her usual brusque tone was soft and tender.

‘I thought – I thought it was lost’ Bastien choked. Sophia was baffled, and she suddenly found Costa at her elbow, patting her arm. She put her hand on his, looking up in query. He spoke quietly as Bastien covered his face, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

‘It’s from a dress that his mother wore.’ he said in a low tone. ‘He kept it under his pillow until it got lost – we’re not sure exactly when. It’s the only thing that belonged to her that he had.’ Sophia already knew that Bastien had been fostered when his mother had become a drug addict and died tragically when he was a teenager.

Bastien got to his feet and shakily left the room. Costa went on to tell her that Althea had made the keepsake for him and quietly left it in his room when he was a surly and unruly teenager. They had noticed an improvement in his behaviour soon after, even though he had never acknowledged her kind action.

‘Go, he needs you.’ Althea said softly ‘The twins will be fine with us.’ Sophia handed Beatrice to her and got to her feet to follow him to the bedroom, where he sat holding the piece of fabric, tears still silently flowing down his cheeks. She sat next to him and handed him a tissue. He slowly calmed and mopped his eyes, taking a shaky breath.

‘I hated her when I was younger.’ he said hoarsely ‘But later on I realised it was a sickness that changed her, bad people who made her make the wrong choices. She never meant to hurt me.’ He turned the fabric over in his hands. ‘I wish every day she’d been stronger, been around to meet you. Now I feel as if she’s here.’ She took his hand and squeezed it.

‘She’d have been proud of you, I’m sure. I’m only just starting to understand what it’s like being a mother. I know if anyone tried to hurt our babies, I’d go out of my mind.’ He nodded.

‘Not everyone can cope with being a parent, even with the best intentions.’

‘You never had any doubt about whether you’d be a good father?’ she asked gently.

‘Of course I did, but I had Costa and Jackson to emulate’ He blew his nose. ‘And you had good examples, so I never had any doubt about you.’

‘Althea should have been more sensitive.’ Bastien smiled weakly, his eyes red but dry.

‘It’s okay Sophia, it needed to be done. They’re here to look after the twins while I process it’ He took her hand and squeezed it ‘and while you support me. It was a good time to do it’ He got up and held out his hand. ‘Speaking of which, we should get back before they need a nappy change’

‘Something tells me that wouldn’t phase either of them’ she smiled, and rose to embrace him and kiss his cheek.

@sirbeepsalot @katedrakeohd @fluffyfirewhiskey @kingliam2019 @rainbowsinthestorm @camillemontespan @texaskitten30 @bascmve01 @nomadics-stuff

#trr bastien #bastien lykel #Bastien x OC #sophia x bastien #bastien x sophia #double trouble

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1dffchallenges · 4 years

Photo

It’s All Happening

Written By: @luminescencefics

Characters: Frankie/Harry

Summary: If Frankie Goodhart had one secret in her life, it would be that she spent her summer writing album reviews to Rolling Stone, hoping one day they’d give her a shot. If she had a second secret in her life, it would be that she was constantly chasing love, never knowing what it felt like to be truly immersed in another person. She blames this on her ever-growing record collection filled with love songs.

Harry Styles had a lot of secrets in his life, but if he had to share one, it would be that he was trying his hardest to balance his life while being on the road with his band. Just as he’s starting to feel like he’s begun to balance the ever-shifting scales of his life, Frankie shows up, and suddenly he doesn’t want to keep his secrets hidden any longer.

Well, except one.

Inspired by Almost Famous, a 70s au about a girl whose job required her to ask the hard-hitting questions and a boy who did everything he could to avoid them.

March 1973 - entry no. 1

Most mornings in the Goodhart household typically started with some sort of screaming match between Frankie’s mother and her older sister, Mary. You see, Mary had a penchant for rebellious behavior, or so their mother believed. She liked listening to rock music and kissing her boyfriend Greg outside in his Chevrolet Nova past curfew. Mary graduated high school four years before Frankie did, and her mother had begged her to go to college. But instead, Mary took that time to “find herself,” and put off enrolling into schools on the west coast in favor of finding her own place in the world.

Cynthia Goodhart had a lot of rules in their household, but two that stood out the most (and practically ruined Mary’s life) were: no rock music and no popular culture influences. Cynthia believed that her children did not need those things to rot their brain, and instead played classical music and watched films that she had seen numerous times before to ensure they were censored appropriately and recently introduced soy to their diets.

“This is why dad left you!” Mary would say whenever their mother would find a hidden record that went against her arbitrary rules.

“You’re so ungrateful, I didn’t raise you to be so cruel!” Her mother would respond, and Frankie would sit on the top of the carpeted stairs and watch it all unravel below her.

Truth is, Frankie didn’t know why their dad left. She was too young to remember what life was like with him around, but Mary always told her that it was their mother who drove him away with her incessant rules and authoritative outlook on life.

“I’m never going to end up like her, Frankie,” Mary would say after their fight, squeezed beside her little sister in her twin bed. Frankie would just hold her hand tightly and agree, even though she didn’t really think her mother was all that bad.

A few weeks later when Mary announces that she’s leaving Santa Monica and going to San Francisco to become a stewardess, Frankie isn’t all that surprised. It was only a matter of time until Mary left. Their mother didn’t take this well, of course. She wanted Mary to go to college and find a nice boy to start a family with. She didn’t want her running off to San Francisco with Greg to travel a world so far from what she had known.

Before the Chevrolet Nova skids out of the driveway and Frankie never sees her sister again, Mary runs up to her and gives her the tightest hug she could muster. Frankie holds her with all of her grip, wishing that she didn’t feel that she had to run away in order to be her own person. But it was out of Frankie’s control, so she could only wish the best for her older sister.

“Frankie,” Mary whispers in her ear, “look under my bed. That suitcase is yours. Everything you’ve ever wanted to know, every question you have, the answers are there. I love you. I always have.”

After Mary is long gone and her mother has cried out all of her tears, Frankie slips into her sister’s room and lifts up the ruffled bedskirt to find an old brown leather suitcase. She opens it and inside is Mary’s secret cache of rock albums spanning decades. Frankie heaves it into her room and plucks Tommy by The Who on her record player and plays it softly, and in that moment she feels as if her life is finally starting.

***

May 1973 - entry no. 2

Frankie was sitting in her bedroom listening to

Exile on Main St.

by the Rolling Stones trying to clear her head. She was suffering from a bit of writer’s block, and she was feeling a bit uninspired at the moment.

During the middle of “Torn and Frayed,” Frankie hears the landline start ringing from the kitchen downstairs. Her mother was currently in the shower, and deeming the call to be rather important as it was after dinner time, Frankie trudges downstairs to answer before the ringing has ceased.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Lester Bangs here. Is this Frankie Goodhart?” A deep voice says on the other line.

Frankie pauses, scrolling through the rolodex in her brain trying to remember if she knew anybody with that name. Suddenly, Frankie sucks in a breath, realization dawning on her.

“Hello? Do I have the wrong number or something?” The voice repeated, clearly losing patience. Frankie was currently speaking to the Lester Bangs, top music editor at Rolling Stone magazine. Also known as, the name she had scribbled on the past fifteen manilla envelopes she sent out to the magazine up in San Francisco.

“Er, yes. Hi, this is she,” Frankie mutters, trying to sound sophisticated.

“Awesome. I work at Rolling Stone and we just came across your review for Bowie’s Aladdin Sane record. Ace work,” Lester says quickly, and Frankie can feel her heartbeat in her throat.

“Oh cool. Thank you,” Frankie replies, quietly jumping up and down on the tile flooring of her kitchen.

“Are you currently writing for any other publication? Please don’t tell me those bastards over at Creem snatched you up,” Lester asks.

“No, uh, nothing like that. Just freelancing, at the, er, current moment,” Frankie says. She lowers her voice an octave so she doesn’t sound like the eighteen year old high school graduate she clearly was. She was sure that Rolling Stone would want nothing to do with her if they knew the truth.

“Good to hear. On the envelope in front of me it says you're based out in Santa Monica. Tonight there’s a show at The Troubadour. The Nocturnals are performing and if you’re up for it, we’ll give you fifty dollars to write a review on it. Eight hundred words.” Lester spoke so quickly that Frankie couldn’t even discern what he was actually saying to her.

The Troubadour. A live show. The Nocturnals. Fifty dollars.

The words replayed over and over in her mind like a broken record. She had no idea that this could even happen to her. Before she could reply, Lester spoke again.

“Fine. Seventy dollars, but I can’t go any higher,” he sounded exasperated with a hint of desperation laced in between.

Just as Frankie was about to respond with a resonant yes, she hears her mother’s voice on the other telephone from her bedroom through the tinny speakers.

“Francine? Who on earth are you speaking to at this time?”

Frankie’s heart drops.

“Uh… Hello?” Lester asks, completely confused as to why there were two voices on the line. Before her mother could blow her cover, Frankie drops the receiver onto the kitchen counter and sprints upstairs to her mother’s bedroom, slamming her fingers on the lever to end the call.

“It’s a friend from school. Sorry it’s a late call, I’ll get off the phone in a minute,” Frankie rushes out, before turning back on her heel and grabbing the other telephone in the kitchen.

“Hi Lester, sorry, that was my, uh, assistant. Yeah. She’s sort of new at answering the phones and such,” Frankie shoots out quickly, lying straight through her teeth.

She needed this phone call to end immediately.

“No worries. I’ll expect a review mailed over by tomorrow so it’s on my desk by Monday morning. Any questions?” Lester asks in a way that sounded like he really didn’t have the time to answer.

“Nope. Sounds good,” Frankie says sounding completely out of breath.

“Expect to hear from me on Monday. Good luck,” Lester says, hanging up before Frankie could even consider responding.

Frankie’s first reaction was to start squealing in excitement. The second was, shit, what am I supposed to say to my mother?

***

Somehow, Frankie convinces her mother to drive her down Sunset Strip towards The Troubadour for the live show. If there’s one thing Frankie Goodhart could never do in this world, it would be to hurt her mother. Granted, she knows her rules are a bit obscene and that she can be a bit overbearing at times, but at the end of the day, she was her mother. And that was the main difference between Frankie and Mary—Mary thought running away was the answer to everything whereas Frankie believed honesty was most important.

Which is why Frankie was currently sitting in the front seat of her mother’s baby blue Lincoln Continental parked illegally across the street from the concert venue. She had spilled the beans about her writing cohorts to Rolling Stone, and even though her mother didn’t like the idea of it, she appreciated the fact that Frankie was trying to make something of herself. And there’s no denying that seventy dollars was a lot of money for any eighteen-year-old.

“Please make good choices. I’ll be here to pick you up at ten on the dot,” her mother says, staring at Frankie sharply.

“I will, mom.” Frankie makes a move for the door handle, watching as the crowd of teenagers and twenty-somethings huddle towards the front entrance. It’s loud and she can smell cigarette smoke and marijuana in the air. She knows her mother can too, and she knows that she’s about two minutes away from a full-blown heart attack, so before she can escape the confines of the car, she gives her mother a gentle reassuring squeeze.

With her tape recorder in one hand and her pocket-sized notebook in the other, Frankie starts walking towards the front entrance. Before she can get too far, she hears her mother bark out one last order.

“And Francine? NO DRUGS!”

Frankie feels her cheeks burn up as the people in front of her turn around and snicker at her mother’s frame hanging out of the Continental. They jokingly repeat her mother’s warning, with some even holding up a lit joint at her, cackling away.

If there was a hole in the pavement, Frankie would admittedly jump into it.

She makes her way to the front entrance with no luck. The show was sold out, and she didn’t have a ticket. Before Frankie can start to panic, she reassess the venue and sees that around the back there was some sort of loading dock. She turns the corner and is situated at the top of a ramp, with a group of three girls at the bottom giggling to themselves near a steel door.

“Are you new?” Frankie hears a voice from behind her.

She turns and is face to face with one of the most beautiful girls she’s ever seen in her life. Her blonde hair is long and curly, cascading over her shoulders and down her back effortlessly, ending just above two hollow dimples. The girl towers over Frankie, and when she looks down at her glittery go-go boots she understands why. Her long legs are toned and smooth underneath her leather mini skirt. She’s wearing a silver halter top that is so sheer Frankie can see her nipples through the thin layer of material. Over top is a pink velvet trench coat with frills on the lining, a garment completely inappropriate for the California heat in the beginning of summer.

That doesn’t matter though, because this girl emits confidence that is almost palpable. Frankie compares her own outfit to this girl’s, her long ivory legs and knobby knees hidden beneath her flared denim bell bottoms, her pointed boots with the small heel making her seem taller than she actually was. Her white cropped t-shirt is almost childlike compared to this girl’s daring choice, and when Frankie looks up she’s a bit embarrassed to be seen with her.

“Uh, I guess. I’m supposed to be writing an article about The Nocturnals for Rolling Stone, but I found out a bit late and I don’t have a ticket,” Frankie explains, holding up her tape recorder lamely. She really wishes she thought this entire thing through.

“Ooh, a journalist,” the girl echoes, reaching into her translucent plastic purse to grab a cigarette. She’s effortlessly cool in a way that should be intimidating to Frankie, but for some unknown reason she emits warmth.

“Cherry!” Frankie hears from down below the ramp. Suddenly the squealing trio starts running up the pavement and Frankie watches as the curly blonde skips down to meet them in a group hug. They’re all wearing some sort of sequinned ensemble, and Frankie can only assume that they’re groupies.

“Who’s this, Cherry?” A girl with jet-black hair and deep brown eyes asks, pointing at Frankie. Her long fingers are covered in jeweled rings and she has a fair amount of kohl liner surrounding her eyes. She’s wearing leather and is not as warm as the blonde girl.

“I’m not sure. I think she’s new, girls,” the blonde girl, presumably Cherry, says. She sounds much older than she looks and it’s almost obvious that she’s the ring leader of this troupe of glittery girls.

“I’m a journalist. I’m not a, uh, grou…” the words fall out of Frankie’s lips before she can finish the sentence. The girls in front of her hang their mouths open in shock, and Frankie feels as if she has said the wrong thing. The blonde girl has a hint of a smile on her face, as if the whole interaction is amusing to her.

“Don’t you dare say groupie!” The black-haired girl shrieks, practically jumping out of her skin.

Frankie feels bad, suddenly.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, I mean I just—”

“—Assumed?” Cherry finishes for her.

Frankie shrugs her shoulders because she isn’t sure what to say. She feels bad for assuming the worst out of these girls, but she really couldn’t blame herself considering they were standing at a back entrance wearing far too much eye makeup than they should be. Frankie hated to judge people, because she didn’t deem it fair. But, she genuinely didn’t know any better. And she really didn’t think that these girls would be offended.

“You’re talking to Cherry Bomb here. She changed the groupie way of life forever. Before Cherry, girls were just throwing themselves at rockstars and sleeping with them just for the hell of it. Cherry here inspires people, man. They write songs about her! It’s much deeper than just sex, honey,” the girl with black hair says, pointing at Cherry as if she was a fine painting in a museum that you weren’t allowed to touch.

In some ways, she sort of was like that.

Cherry just smiles. “It’s about the connection. You’ll see,” she says.

Before Frankie could apologize again and leave, the large steel door opens and another pretty girl with brown hair and shiny pants comes out, holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a cluster of backstage passes in the other. The girls all start running towards the door, and Frankie is about to turn around in defeat before she feels a small hand latch onto her forearm.

“Aren’t you coming?” Cherry asks with a grin.

Before she could respond, Cherry tugs on her arm and the two girls are running through the steel door into the large venue. The other four girls start walking ahead, sharing sips from the large bottle of champagne, but Cherry hangs back, slowing her strides so she’s matching Frankie’s slow gait.

“So, what do I call you?” Cherry asks as they continue walking down a long hallway.

“Frankie,” she responds, looking up into Cherry’s silver eyes. “What do I call you?”

Cherry laughs. “Cherry should be fine,” she says, her words twisting as if they were a riddle.

Before Frankie could respond, they’re suddenly being thrust into a much smaller room. The air is stale with cigarette smoke and the effervescent scent of boy. Inside the makeshift dressing room, Frankie recognizes the girls from outside lounging around men of different ages. They’re laughing and drinking straight liquor from the bottle and Frankie tries her hardest to conceal her uneasiness.

Because in front of her were The Nocturnals, and she had a job to do.

She notices the drummer and the bassist, Jett and Rod, sitting on a torn up leather couch sharing a joint between the two all while entertaining Cherry’s friends. A girl with hair as dark as coals sits in front of a mirror applying red lipstick and Frankie recognizes her as the keyboardist and backing vocalist, Veronica—the only female in the band. A man with dark green eyes and long brown hair looks up and smiles when Cherry walks into the room, and Frankie realizes that he is Eddie, the lead guitarist.

Frankie did her research.

Before she could start conducting her interviews, a husky voice from the other side of the room calls out, stopping Frankie dead in her tracks.

“Cher, who’s your friend?” he asks.

Frankie’s head snaps up and immediately her blue eyes latch onto a pair of green. They’re much lighter than Eddie’s, and if Frankie was standing closer, she would be able to see the turquoise ring that outlined his pupil. His hair is shorter than the rest of the men in the band, albeit still curling around the tops of his ears. He’s the only member of The Nocturnals with a bare face, sans facial hair, and Frankie is taken aback by his youthful features. He’s wearing white wide-legged trousers and a bright pink shirt tucked under the waistband, barely buttoned up, showcasing his toned stomach and chest. His sleeves are rolled up and Frankie can almost make out the shapes of his tattoos, but before she can inspect them further, she’s completely aware that she’s been staring at him far too long.

Him, also known as Harry Styles, the lead singer of The Nocturnals.

Cherry hasn’t said anything, but with one look in her silver eyes, she’s said an entire string of words to Frankie without even opening her mouth.

Frankie suddenly feels a fire start to grow in her stomach.

“Harry, this is my friend Frankie. She’s a journalist,” Cherry announces loud enough for the rest of the room to hear over the beginning riffs of the opening band’s first song.

“A journalist?! Who let her in? She’s the enemy!” Eddie yells over from the couch. It’s clear that the rest of the band feel the same way about having a reporter around, and Frankie’s confidence suddenly starts wavering.

“Oi, calm down Eddie. She looks harmless enough,” Harry says slowly, suddenly appearing right in front of her. His voice is low and his eyes have a twinkle to them and Frankie’s throat has become increasingly dry.

“Hi Frankie, I’m Harry. Nice to meet you,” he says, towering above her from his stance.

Frankie shoots her arm out for a handshake. “Hi Harry. Nice to meet you, too.” His hands feel warm in her grasp and she’s shaking his so hard that the bangles on her wrists clang together like tambourines.

“If you have the time, I’d love to ask you a few questions before you—”

“—Five minutes!” A voice interrupts. Instantly, the band starts standing up and running around the room, grabbing various instruments and beginning to tune them accordingly. Roadies come in to grab amplifiers and microphone stands, and everything starts twirling together like a whirlwind and Frankie is losing grasp on what she’s supposed to be doing here in the first place.

The band starts walking towards the stage and Cherry grabs Frankie’s arm again, giggling a bit to herself. They catch up to Jett, and Frankie can see through his red-rimmed eyes and his glazed over stare that he’s stoned out of his mind, but he smiles at her and gives her a small nod, and Frankie feels a bit more welcomed.

“So who do you write for?” he asks, grabbing his drumsticks from the back pocket of his blue jeans and running his fingers over the shiny wood.

“Rolling Stone,” Frankie replies quickly.

He stops walking for a moment and looks up with wide eyes. “No shit? I’ll come find you after the show. Give ya a real interview,” he says excitedly, before giving her one last parting nod and approaching the rest of the band.

Frankie feels a bit out of sorts, but Cherry is still standing by her side and she feels an odd sense of comfort in that. The band is doing some sort of pre-show ritual and Frankie starts scribbling it all down in her notebook because it seems like the right thing to do. She watches the huddle break apart in front of her, and the band starts walking out onto the dimly lit stage.

She can hear the roars of the crowd, can practically feel them vibrating through the thick leather of her boots. And just before Harry steps on stage, he looks over his shoulder and gives her a wink, and the fire inside Frankie’s stomach turns into a full-blown blaze.

***

The show is everything and more. Frankie started by lingering in the background, letting the rest of the friends of the band stand closer to the side stage viewing area. After their first song was over and the crowd was cheering louder than anything Frankie had ever heard before, she feels Cherry drag her towards the front where she can get a better view of the band.

“How are you supposed to write an article standing all the way back there?” Cherry asks with a grin. They’re standing so close together that Frankie can feel the frills on her jacket tickling her cheekbones, but she doesn’t mind.

“Good evening, everybody,” Harry says after they’ve finished their first song of the night. He’s nothing but confident up there, a true frontman, and Frankie is a little bit in awe of him. “We’re The Nocturnals. I hope you like this next one,” he says and the crowd cheers. He looks over towards Eddie with a nod and he starts picking at the fret, playing a loud solo before the drums crash in and the second song starts.

It’s the third single off of their album and Frankie isn’t ashamed that she knows all the words. She would be lying if she didn’t think it was a good album. She remembers running to the other end of the boulevard into Tower Records before they closed to purchase it. Frankie must have played it for a week straight on the record player in her room.

Frankie starts scribbling in her journal, balancing on one foot while her knee is raised in a ninety degree angle acting as a makeshift desk. Her head is darting up, down, making sure not to miss a moment, but also making sure she’s capturing it all for the article.

“Enough of that, Frankie. Just watch,” Cherry says, whispering in her ear. Her small hands put pressure on the notebook over Frankie’s thigh, pressing down so her boot-clad feet touch the ground again.

“But I have to—”

“—Just watch. It’s the best way to experience the music.”

And Frankie does just that.

***

The show finishes with an encore of their number one hit single, “Too Much.” It’s electrifying and Frankie is glad that she listened to Cherry’s advice and watched the entire thing with wide eyes, remembering every moment of it. She could feel everything—the thumping of the bass, the rattling of the cymbals, the zing of the keyboards. But Harry’s voice—that was something she couldn’t wait to write about.

Frankie’s raking through the thesaurus in her mind trying to think of other words to describe his voice. She scribbles down guttural and gravelly, grating and gruff, throaty and raspy before she’s hearing it right in front of her.

“Did you enjoy the show?” he asks, and Frankie is trying her best not to stare at the sweat dripping down the sides of his forehead, past his cheekbone, and pooling at his deep collarbones.

She blinks.

“It was amazing. Perfect, almost,” she replies.

“Almost?” Harry repeats, tilting his head downwards. Frankie watches as a bead of sweat travels down the bridge of his nose and she feels the warmest she’s ever felt this entire night.

Frankie reaches out to grab her tape recorder. Just as her finger is hovering over the record button, Harry shakes his head, tutting in disapproval.

“Not now.” And with that he walks away.

Frankie searches around for Jett, remembering that he promised her an interview after the show. Surprisingly, it goes a lot better than her attempt with Harry, and not long after, Rod decides to pitch in and add some remarks about the performance. Reapplying her makeup from the vanity behind the group, Veronica agrees to speak to Frankie and somehow she’s surprised that this group of people who once called her the enemy suddenly have an inkling to speak to her.

Harry reemerges suddenly, swapping out his pink dress shirt for a black one. It still isn’t buttoned appropriately, and he’s still looking at her with a twinkle in his emerald eyes that Frankie has never seen before. She watches as one of Cherry’s friends tries to give him attention, but his eyes are locked on Frankie’s, and she knows that this is the moment she needs to get his interview before the clock strikes ten.

“Do you have time to talk?” Frankie asks, approaching the pair cautiously.

The auburn haired girl rolls her eyes, but Harry just nods, shooing her away. Frankie feels bad.

They sit in the farthest corner of the room, her notepad and pen at the ready, her finger hovering over the record button. Harry’s watching her intently, inspecting her close enough that he can see the nervous shake of her hand, the small quiver of her lip.

“So, what has inspired you to make music?” Frankie asks, wasting no time.

Harry blows out a breath. “That’s the first question you ask me?” He reaches his hand out for the bottle of whiskey on the table, slugging it without pouring it into a glass.

“Well, on your debut album your song ‘1969’ clearly comes from personal—”

“—What inspired you to write?” Harry asks, completely ignoring Frankie’s question.

“Excuse me?” She says, completely thrown off guard.

Harry just shrugs his shoulders, smirking at her from his position on the leather seat. He takes another swig from the bottle and Frankie tries not to stare at his bottom lip that has become shinier from the liquor.

“I’m the one meant to be interviewing you, Harry,” Frankie says shyly.

“What if I want to know more about you, Franks?” His gaze is unwavering and Frankie is sure he can see the flush working its way up her neck, before settling over her freckled cheeks.

Before she could respond or even begin to pry into the mysterious mind of the frontman of The Nocturnals, Frankie chances a glance over at the clock and sees that it’s 9:58.

Shit. Her mother.

“What?” Harry asks with a chuckle.

Shit. Frankie said that outloud.

“Nothing. I just have to go,” she says quickly, closing her notebook and tucking her pencil behind her right ear. She presses the pause button on her tape recorder, holding it tightly in her hand until her knuckles turn white.

“You have to leave? Already?” Harry’s eyes are wide at Frankie’s fumbling, and for once he’s actually confused that a girl who looks like her isn’t throwing herself at him.

“Yeah. Thanks for the interview, even though I can probably only quote a few words,” Frankie says offhandedly. She stands up and Harry follows suit. She’s not sure what type of parting she should give him, so she settles with an awkward wave, before running out of the dressing room and back through the steel door.

She can hear the honking of the Continental from the same illegal parking spot, and Frankie sighs as she starts picking up her speed on the loading dock, knowing that the longer she takes to reach her mother, the more frantic the honking will become.

“Frankie! Wait up!”

Frankie turns around and sees that Cherry and her wild blonde hair are running up to her. Frankie looks at Cherry’s hands, wondering if she had left something backstage. But when she’s standing in front of her, she is empty handed. Cherry reaches a small hand out and grabs the pencil behind Frankie’s ear, before stealing her notebook from her hand and flipping open to an empty page.

“You need to call me,” Cherry announces once she’s done scribbling her phone number down. She returns all of Frankie’s items back to their original place.

“Really?” Frankie asks, completely shocked. She couldn’t picture a world where a girl like Cherry would ever even consider being her friend.

“I need a new crowd,” Cherry says with a shrug.

Frankie just smiles, nodding her head with a promise to call her. She hears the Continental honking again but chooses to ignore it. Instead she watches Cherry walk backwards down the loading dock, giving Frankie the most infectious smile she’s ever seen.

“Can’t you feel it, Frankie?! It’s all happening!” Cherry’s arms are outstretched and she starts twirling around, before giving one last wink and walking through the steel door once again.

Frankie can feel it. It’s all happening.

***

June 1973 - entry no. 3

On Monday morning Frankie receives a call from Lester Bangs praising her for her review about The Nocturnals show. It went so well that Lester and the other music editors at Rolling Stone wanted to send Frankie on their West Coast tour for a month. They wanted her to follow the band on the road and write a featured article piece about the mysterious new British rock band that was taking over the industry by storm. It was scheduled to be printed in the middle of the magazine, spanning over three pages.

And they wanted Frankie to write it.

“How are you going to pay for it? Who will you stay with? Is it even safe?” Her mother asks after Frankie gets off the phone with Lester. He still didn’t know that she was an eighteen-year-old girl living with her mother. And her mother didn’t know that Lester offered to pay an eighteen-year-old girl still living with her mother a lot of money to write this piece.

It was just easier that way.

“The magazine will cover my hotel expenses. I’d obviously stay with the band, but in my own room. It’ll be safe, you know me—I stay out of trouble,” Frankie says, answering each of her mother’s questions one by one.

“But, Francine, how will you—”

“—It’s my dream, mom.” Cynthia Goodhart purses her lips. She’s thinking so hard that Frankie can practically hear the wheels turning in her head. After a few moments, her mother walks over and hugs her tight.

“You better call me every night. I want to know where you are and know that you’re safe. And for the love of god please—”

“—No drugs,” Frankie finishes for her mother. She hugs her back even tighter.

Three days later, Frankie’s mother has just dropped her off at Long Beach Arena in Los Angeles. Her duffle bag is swung over her shoulder, and for the first time in her eighteen years of living, Frankie Goodhart is alone.

And she’s shocked at how excited she is.

The Nocturnals are scheduled to play a gig at the arena tonight, and Frankie remembers her instructions. She’s meant to seek out their manager, Bryan Greenberg, and retrieve her all access pass for the next month. Then, he’ll show her the hotel accommodations, give her a room key, and she’s off to start her assignment.

The band has been informed of her role. She remembers Lester telling her that a few of them were not keen on the idea of having a journalist follow them around for a month, but after hearing that they were going to be featured in the next publication of the magazine, their outlook immediately changed.

“Rockstars,” Lester said over the phone, “They’ll do anything for some decent fuckin’ press.”

On her way into the arena, Frankie bypasses a behemoth of a vehicle. It’s monstrous and gunmetal grey and looks like it’s about to fall apart at any moment, and when she squints she can make out the lettering spelling BERNIE on the side near the door. It reeks of marijuana and booze and she can only assume that this is their tour bus.

Before she can continue to walk by, she hears her voice.

“Frankie!” It’s Cherry and Frankie is surprised that she’s actually happy to see the tall blonde girl. She’s wearing another outrageous assortment of clothing, full of frilly layers and white patent leather. Her lips are stained red and she’s wearing opaque pink sunglasses and when she wraps her thin arms around Frankie’s neck, she instantly hugs her back.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Cherry says, and Frankie’s glad too.

When they untangle themselves, Cherry grabs onto Frankie’s arm and drags her towards the arena, mumbling something about the lingering smell of sex inside of Bernie. Frankie doesn’t bother to ask her what she means, instead allows Cherry to drag her inside the venue.

Frankie tells her that she has to find Bryan and Cherry just shakes her head, explaining to her that Bryan isn’t any fun before five o’clock. Frankie takes her word for it, and not long after have the two entered a backstage area filled with tables and chairs and an assortment of food. Various crew members lounge about eating craft services, and as her eyes sweep over the room, she sees the band in the far corner.

“The enemy is approaching,” Frankie hears Eddie call out ominously from the table. Veronica and Rod snicker beside him, and Frankie tries not to let their words affect her.

She has a job to do.

Cherry shushes them before sitting next to Rod, running her fingers through his long blonde hair that falls past his shoulders. Frankie watches them, fully aware that the only reason Cherry is here is because she’s sleeping with the bassist. But then she remembers her conversation with Cherry’s friends outside of The Troubadour, and she pushes those feelings deep down, only hoping for Cherry’s sake that Rod cares about her the same way she cares about him, even though he has a rumored fiancée back home.

Frankie is trying not to judge.

Before she can say anything, she hears shuffling behind her. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up because in front of her is four-fifths of the band, so that only leaves Harry, who has suddenly appeared behind her. Frankie hates that she can feel his presence before she can actually see him, and when he gives her a throaty hello, she can practically see the goosebumps prickling her skin.

“Heard you were comin’. Glad you’re here, Franks.” Frankie is fully aware that Cherry’s eyes are on her, and all she can do is stare at her new friend, completely out of her own element.

“Hi, Harry,” Frankie offers shyly, finally allowing him to enter her frame.

Before she could examine him fully, another man approaches the table. He’s shorter than Harry, a stocky little man with a permanent frown etched onto his face. His hair is thinning, practically balding in some spots, and he looks utterly exhausted.

“You the journalist?” He asks Frankie. His accent is high-pitched and squeaky, and Frankie blinks once, twice, before realizing that he’s actually addressing her.

“Yeah, hi. Frankie Goodhart.” She extends her arm even though he makes no effort to try and shake it. Frankie suddenly feels small, even though she’s taller than the man in front of her. His eyes are raking up and down her body, and Frankie squirms under his gaze.

“Christ, Rolling Stone hires kids now?” He chuckles to himself and Frankie really wishes the ground would swallow her up right then and there.

“Enough Bryan. They wouldn’t have sent her if she wasn’t good, right?” Harry comments, finally taking the spotlight off of Frankie. She’s grateful that the attention is off of her now. All she wants to do is start gathering quotes for her piece.

If only things could be that easy.

***

The show was once again incredible. Frankie watched from backstage, standing on Cherry’s side. She followed her advice again, only jotting down pivotal moments in her notebook. Most of the show, she spent mouthing along to the lyrics.

She didn’t want to admit that she was a fan.

“You can’t let them know you’re into their stuff,” Lester told her on the phone three days earlier. “They’re gonna want to buy you shit, be your friend. All of that. You can’t let that happen. Once they’ve got you, you’re fucked.”

After the show is over, the backstage area of the arena is buzzing with people. Cherry’s friends showed up right after the opening act was finished, and currently they were traipsing around the green room as if they owned the place. Jett sat sandwiched between two of them, sharing a joint and sips of champagne right from the bottle. Frankie had just finished talking to Veronica, who surprisingly was a vessel of knowledge. Before she could finish making her rounds, Rod storms in angrily, with an annoyed Harry trailing behind him.

“You really had to stay out on stage the longest when we were giving our bows, Harry?” Rod asks, and suddenly the entire room begins to grow quiet.

“What’s going on?” Bryan asks.

“Fuckin’ Harry’s out here craving all the attention, that’s what’s going on! And you’re so far up his ass you can’t even see it!” Rod’s full on screaming now, and all Frankie can do is just sit and watch.

“Everybody says ‘oh look, it’s Harry’s band! Look how talented Harry’s band is! As if we’re not a fuckin’ unit!” Frankie watches as Harry’s eyes grow darker. Bryan is trying to calm Rod down, but it’s no use. He’s completely uncaged.

Before he can say anything else, his eyes suddenly fall onto Frankie’s.

“I’m not sayin’ anything else with the enemy around.” It’s final, absolute. The words resonate in her brain and for the first time since arriving, Frankie’s second-guessing taking this job in the first place.

Rod storms out after that, and Frankie tries to ignore the green eyes trying to search for hers. She doesn't want the attention right now. What she wants is to retreat back into her hotel room and reevaluate how the next month of her life will go.

While everybody else heads back to the hotel, Frankie notices that Harry stays back, choosing to spend the night in the bus.

***

June 1973 - entry no. 4

The entire bus ride to Tempe, Arizona is uncomfortable.

Tensions are still high from Rod and Harry’s fight after the show in Long Beach last night, and Frankie watches as they sit on opposite sides of the bus, eyes covered in sunglasses facing the windows.

Eddie sits close to Harry, automatically taking his side because he’s his older brother. It makes sense, and Frankie watches it all unravel in her seat beside Cherry. She’s thankful that the blonde girl has decided to sit with her instead of Rod, because Frankie is still struggling with fitting in. This whole enemy ordeal is really starting to make things difficult for her.

Once they hit a rest stop, Jett offers Frankie some of his potato chips and for the rest of the ride he talks to her about music and the process of recording their first album. Veronica joins in, recounting the story of how she joined the band after watching them play a show in Phoenix.

“They were decent,” she tells Frankie, her American accent standing out.

“She makes us better,” Jett says, nodding at Veronica appreciatively.

In the dressing room before the Tempe show, battle lines are drawn up. Harry and Eddie stand on one side, chain-smoking cigarettes and keeping to themselves. Rod and Cherry sit on the other side, and Frankie watches as Cherry soothes Rod’s anger by running her small fingers down his back. Veronica and Jett play the roles of peacemakers, alternating between each side, trying to get everybody in the mindset for a great show.

And as Frankie watches from the sidelines, she’s shocked that it is in fact a great show.

During their last song, Frankie watches Harry grab the water bottle resting on the riser where Jett’s drum set was. She almost misses the dramatic eye roll Rod gives him, seemingly annoyed at whatever Harry was planning on doing. As the lights are dimmed low and Eddie starts playing a riff, Frankie watches Harry fill his cheeks with water.

He can feel her gaze on him. As soon as Jett starts hitting the kick drum, Harry’s green eyes meet Frankie’s. He gives her a quick wink before turning over towards the crowd, leaning back on his legs and spitting the water up into the air as the instruments all clash together.

Frankie tries to ignore the tingling beneath her skin.

After the post-show adrenaline rush has worn off, The Nocturnals retreat back to their pre-show state. Eddie tries to entertain Harry while the rest of the band keep Rod as far away from him as possible. Frankie just observes, scribbling notes down in her journal, before Cherry approaches her cautiously.

“Do you think you could do me a favor, Frankie?” Cherry asks. Her voice is soft and her eyes show a little bit of apprehension, and Frankie immediately snaps her journal shut.

“Of course. Everything okay, Cherry?” Frankie is concerned because for the first time since being introduced to Cherry, she’s asking Frankie for help.

“Could you talk to Harry, maybe? He seems to be fond of you. Maybe you can get through to him about the whole Rod situation.” Frankie suddenly understands that the only reason Cherry is concerned about Harry is because Rod is involved.

“Uh, I don’t know if I’m really the best person—”

“—The thing is, they’re both alphas. Harry takes control and Rod doesn’t know how to function without it. They need each other, Frankie. The band needs them. Sometimes it’s tough getting through to Harry, but do you think you could try it just this time? For me?”

Frankie doesn’t know how to say no to people. Which is why she finds herself approaching Harry outside of the hotel while the rest of the band grab beers from Bryan’s cooler and stretch out around the pool outside of the building.

“I don’t want to do the interview right now, Franks,” Harry says quietly once he realizes that Frankie has stayed back to chat with him.

“We can just talk. Completely off the record,” Frankie says, throwing her journal and tape recorder deep into the depths of her messenger bag around her body.

Harry looks at her with his eyebrows raised. “Oh yeah? So what, we’re just gonna talk as friends?” He’s teasing her now and Frankie just rolls her eyes.

“If that’s what you’d like, sure. Friends,” Frankie agrees, surprisingly meaning every word.

“Alright. Come with me.” Harry leads them to a quieter area away from the pool. It’s a makeshift smoking area, and when Harry reaches into his denim pocket for his pack of Winstons and offers one to Frankie, she shakes her head no. Harry gives her another long look before shrugging his shoulders and lighting the stick between his cherry lips.

“Are you here to try and make me feel better?” Harry asks smugly.

Frankie shakes her head, growing annoyed. “No. Cherry just asked if I could—”

“—Oh so Cher put you up to this?” Harry interrupts, and Frankie has decided that this is just something she has to get used to around him. The constant interrupting, constant avoidance of questions, constant staring.

Frankie just sighs. She’s not quite sure why Cherry thinks Harry is fond of her, considering they can barely get through a conversation without him ignoring her questions and directing them towards Frankie instead.

They’re quiet for a few minutes. Harry finishes his cigarette, stubbing it out with the sole of his boots before Frankie opens her mouth.

“Why do you put up with it?” It’s quiet and she’s not sure if she should have even asked him that in the first place, but she’s curious.

“I thought this wasn’t an interview?”

“It’s not. Off the record, strictly.”

Harry stands up straighter, no longer leaning on the fence surrounding the smoking area. His shoulders turn so he’s standing directly in front of Frankie, eyes falling past her uncovered shoulders to her thin yellow tank top, before falling down the lengths of her ivory legs under her jean shorts. She screams of innocence and Harry suddenly feels like he can drop his rockstar façade and finally be truthful for once in his life.

“I do it because I have to,” Harry says slowly.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Harry,” Frankie replies, blue eyes staring deep into green.

Harry just laughs to himself quietly, shaking his head.

“Sometimes you have to do things because they’re expected of you. Like love, for instance.” He’s speaking as if he has all of the answers in the world and Frankie can’t quite fathom how that could possibly be true.

”What do you mean?”

“Well. You’re expected to love your boyfriend, right?” Harry’s asking her in a way that doesn’t come across as fishing for information. Frankie suddenly wonders if he thought she was the type of girl that would have a boyfriend. That she was capable of enthralling the other sex.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” Frankie’s suddenly shy, and Harry looks at her as if he’s seeing her for the first time.

“Well, any of your boyfriends. You were expected to love them.” Harry doesn’t need Frankie to tell her that she actually has never had a boyfriend in her entire life. Her silence tells him more than he needs to know, and Frankie hopes he can’t see her fidgeting under the moonlight.

“I wouldn’t know.” Frankie says it so quietly that Harry almost missed the words leaving her lips. He suddenly feels his age for the first time—twenty-three and hyperaware of the pretty girl with freckles on her face who has never been in love before.

“You’ve never been in love?” He sounds shocked, and Frankie starts wondering if there’s something wrong with that. Sure, she’s had a few opportunities to try and fall in love, and sure, she was almost close to it with her prom date a few months prior, but the truth still stands. It’s a feeling that Frankie’s heard endless times play over in the songs on her record player.

It’s the one question that she’s never found the answer to in Mary’s collection.

“Not truly, no. I mean, every song I’ve ever heard has talked about love as if it’s supposed to be this monumental explosion of feelings. It’s supposed to be all-encompassing. We’re supposed to crave it, chase after it, live for it. So when you say that you’re expected to love another person, I don’t know what you mean. Because you shouldn’t be expected to do something that’s supposed to consume you.”

Frankie chances a look over towards Harry and finds that his eyes aren’t set on hers. Instead, they’re looking over her head, fixated on the trees behind her. He has a distant look in his eyes as if he understands exactly what Frankie is telling him.

Suddenly, his eyes lock back on hers. But this time, the glint is gone. Instead he looks sad almost, nodding absently at whatever Frankie had just said.

Frankie has another sleepless night.

***

June 1973 - entry no. 5

Frankie began to grow quite fond of Bernie on the drive from Tempe to Las Vegas.

Somehow, The Nocturnals had a strong affinity for the nearly broken down grey touring bus they’ve been sequestered to for the past few months. Jett proclaimed that Bernadette had magical powers, and they preferred to travel to each venue by bus because they performed much better after sitting in the bristling heat for hours on end.

Frankie thinks that Jett needs to lay off the weed.

Each band member had their own little corner of the bus. Eddie always preferred the middle so he could jump from conversation to conversation wherever he was needed. He didn’t like feeling left out. Veronica was happy towards the front as long as she always had a window. She always said her lack of a penis allowed her prime window seating. Nobody disagreed.

Rod liked the back of the bus because that was where he could sneak off and make out with Cherry without anybody else watching. Sometimes he would sneak his hand down her skirt and Cherry would giggle as if he was telling her the funniest joke in the world. Harry on the other hand always chose to sit in the front seat behind Bryan who was always driving. It was an unwritten rule that nobody else could sit there. It was also an unwritten rule that Harry always needed to be close to Bryan.

That is where Frankie finds him when they’re about twenty minutes away from the Las Vegas Convention Center. His long body is taking up two seats with his head leaning against the glass window. He has his black sunglasses on but Frankie can see that his eyes are open through the tinted frames.

“Starin’ is impolite, Franks,” Harry says after a few moments.

Frankie blushes, looking down at the floor. “I’m still waiting for your interview, Harry.”

He shuffles a bit while he’s mulling this over. In the two week span of Frankie’s time on tour with the band, she’s gotten one on one interviews with everybody but Harry. Whenever she attempts to reach out to him, he always wanders off. Lately, he’s been switching the roles and asking her questions instead.

She doesn’t like feeling vulnerable around him.

And with her deadline approaching soon and the final three shows looming in the distance, Frankie was starting to grow impatient.

“After the show. I promise,” Harry says, before turning his attention back out towards the window.

Frankie ignores Cherry’s gaze as she slinks into the seat in the back left of the bus. But Cherry is anything but adamant, and not even ten seconds later, Frankie can feel the tips of her blonde curly hair grazing Frankie’s exposed shoulders.

“He’s making this extremely difficult,” Frankie admits, slumping down further into the seat.

Cherry nods. “Give him time, Frankie. He’ll come around eventually.”

Frankie only wishes that were true.

***

The show in Vegas is nothing short of a disaster.

Frankie notices the mistakes more so than the audience members mainly because she’s been watching The Nocturnals perform the same show for two weeks now. From the second they walked onto the stage, there was a disconnect amongst the band members. Jett and Veronica did the best they could trying to appease both Harry and Rod, but it began to crumble halfway through their set. Rod began to overdue his solos, throwing the timing off for Harry. The worst part was when he started oversinging the backing vocals, almost making Harry sing the wrong lyrics.

The dressing room was quiet after the show. And for the first time since touring with the band, Frankie had no desire to ask anybody questions.

“Well guys, that was—”

“—A fuckin’ shitshow,” Harry says, interrupting Bryan.

Eddie stands closer to Harry, trying to calm his little brother down. Everybody knows that it was bound to happen, because Eddie always puts Harry first. But this seemed to spur Rod on, because immediately after Eddie puts an arm around Harry, Rod flies out of his seat and points an accusatory finger at the both of them.

“I’m so fuckin’ sick of you two. Every time there’s a disagreement, Harry is never at fault in your eyes, Ed. It’s about fuckin’ time you realize that your brother is singlehandedly ruining this band.” Rod’s words are venomous and Frankie practically flinches with each syllable.

“Well, maybe if you stopped being so jealous of H, we wouldn’t have this problem!” Eddie retorts, stepping in front of Harry and squaring his shoulders towards Rod.

“Jealous?! Of that prick? That’s fuckin’ rich.”

The rest of the argument seems to blow up in front of Frankie, but for some unknown reason, she chooses not to stare at Rod and Eddie yelling at each other in the middle of the room. Instead, her blue eyes fall onto Harry, who hasn’t said a word throughout this entire exchange. He looks as if he wants to be anywhere but here, and as if he can feel the heat of Frankie’s gaze on him, he tilts his head towards her and stares right back.

“If you don’t get your ego in line, Harry, I’m fuckin’ walking,” Rod says. Frankie watches Harry’s eyes snap back towards the bassist, and instead of responding, he just shakes his head slowly. Suddenly, Harry starts careening towards the exit, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and Frankie in the other.

“Harry…” Frankie says, but it’s useless. He’s walking so quickly and swallowing back whiskey so fiercely that Frankie has no choice but to hold onto his hand tighter and allow him to lead her out of the arena, past Bernie, and down a few roads until the flashing lights are fading into the distance and the honking of vehicles has practically ceased.

Frankie isn’t sure what to say because up until this point she hadn’t really considered her and Harry friends. Their conversation in Tempe only made Frankie more confused, and every time Cherry tells her of Harry’s fondness of her, she thinks that her friend is seeing things.

But now, standing hand in hand with him, Frankie begins to think differently.

His hands are shaking when he drops hers, and instead of speaking, he just takes another swig of the bottle. His cheeks are flushed and Frankie isn’t sure if it’s from the alcohol or something else, and then before she can dissect him any further, he stops abruptly and turns to face her.

“Do you ever feel like you need to get away? Like things are just happenin’ too quickly?” He’s back to asking her questions again, and Frankie isn’t sure how to respond.

“Shit, I shouldn’t be tellin’ you any of this.” He suddenly runs the hand that used to hold hers through his curly hair out of frustration. Harry starts pacing back and forth in front of Frankie, and she’s very aware that they are far from the venue.

“It’s fine, I won’t—” Frankie cuts herself off because she isn’t quite sure what she’s trying to tell him. She already promised to talk to him off the record back in Tempe, and deep down she really wants to tell him this again. But she’s losing focus on her assignment, and she’s doing everything that Lester Bangs told her not to do.

Harry’s green eyes are back on hers and he’s suddenly a lot closer to her than he was previously. But before he could say anything, a car pulls up and his eyes shift from blue to the approaching vehicle.

“Whoa, you’re Harry Styles!” A boy with straight blonde hair says. He’s driving a car and looks to be a few years younger than Frankie, and the rest of his friends seem to be as shell-shocked as the driver.

“Just Harry, s’fine,” Harry replies, stepping away from Frankie and smiling at the group of boys.

“Would you wanna come to a party? My parents are out of town and my house is down the street,” the blonde kid offers. Immediately, Frankie starts to shake her head, expecting Harry to follow suit. Instead, she bafflingly watches as Harry grins at the group before jumping into the backseat of the car.

“Harry!” Frankie shoots out, beginning to chastise him.

“C’mon Franks, let’s have some fun,” Harry says, grabbing her from the sidewalk and pulling her into the van. The group of boys cheer and begin asking Harry a million questions, but it might as well be white noise because Frankie’s eyes are looking into green and she finds herself agreeing to this ridiculous plan because she’s found that she can’t say no to Harry no matter how hard she tries.

And when he hands her the whiskey bottle and promises that she’ll like it, she drinks it without even thinking, smiling back at Harry when his eyes go wide.

***

A few hours later, Frankie finds that Harry is impossibly drunk. He’s stumbling throughout a high school party, fluttering from the living room to the kitchen and back. The teenagers are handing him plastic cups filled with a concoction of various liquors, and while Frankie has only had one cup, it was enough to make her feel warm and light, so she stopped after that.

She has just walked out of the bathroom when she realizes that Harry is not where she had left him. Nervously, Frankie begins checking each room in the house, praying that she didn’t just lose the frontman of The Nocturnals at a high school party in Las Vegas. Once she rounds the stairs, she hears his laugh from the first door to her left, and when she walks in she finds him sitting on a desk chair surrounded by a group of kids with glazed eyes and a bong sitting in the middle of a circle.

“And that is why you shouldn’t mix acid with vodka. It’s just—Franks! There you are! Thought I lost ya.” Harry blindly reaches out for Frankie’s hand, pulling her towards the group. She stumbles until she’s sitting right beside him, and he’s grinning at her with a mischievous look in his eyes.

“I made new friends,” he says softly, gesturing towards the group of stoned teenagers on the floor below him.

“I can see that,” Frankie responds, seemingly unaware of their close proximity. Harry’s arm is resting lightly around her shoulders, and if she leans in just an inch more, she could smell the whiskey on his lips.

“Maybe I’ll start a band with them. What d’ya think? They’d probably be more fun, anyways,” he mumbles, his slurred words meshing together.

Frankie isn’t sure what to say, so instead she just drunkenly laughs, standing up when Harry grabs her arm and leads her out of the room and into the backyard.

They walk further until they’re sitting at the top of a hill under a mesquite tree. The party is barrelling on below them, and when Frankie looks up at the sky and notices that the inky night has turned into a deep blue, she can assume that it’s the early morning.

Harry sighs contentedly beside her, sitting down close enough that their sides are touching. Frankie can feel his hip rest with hers, her shoulder pressed against his bicep, their thighs touching. The warmth from the alcohol flowing through her body suddenly becomes warmer, and Frankie can feel the flush on her neck begin to creep upwards.

“I never get to do this,” Harry says after a few minutes of silence.

“Do what?” Frankie asks.

“Act like a kid. Drink with my mates in our parents house. Be young, I guess.” Frankie cocks her head to the side and acknowledges the sadness on his features. She’s suddenly aware of the fact that Harry is the youngest in the band but never gets to feel like it because he’s constantly on the road, working with people much older than him, arguing about ridiculous things that shouldn’t matter in the long run.

She begins to feel bad for the rockstar who she believed had everything.

“You really didn’t miss much,” Frankie says, nodding her head towards the group of high school students surrounding a keg.

“No? Isn’t high school supposed to be the best years of your life or summat?” Harry asks, genuine curiosity dripping from his mouth.

Frankie just shrugs. “I sure hope not.”

Harry shifts his position and Frankie misses the warmth when she can no longer feel his body pressed against hers. His big hands reach out towards her forearms and pull so that she twists to the side, their knees knocking together. Harry’s sitting in front of her and his eyes are twinkling brighter than the stars and Frankie isn’t sure where else to look.

“Why are you so different from every other girl I’ve met?” Harry asks. Frankie tilts her head down, trying to hide the blush forming on her cheeks. She feels Harry squeeze her forearms, and she’s suddenly aware that his hands haven’t left hers.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Frankie says shyly.

His hand reaches out towards her chin, tilting it up so that she’s no longer hiding from him. Frankie watches his heels dig into the grass, allowing him to heave himself forward so that their legs are slotting, his knees surrounding hers. They’re much closer now, and she can see the glint in his eyes has turned into adoration and she suddenly feels frozen.

“Frankie Goodhart,” he whispers, “That would make for a good song.”

His fingers drop from her chin and Frankie can feel him getting closer. He’s angling his torso towards her and his shiny lips are getting closer to hers and she’s instantly panicking because shit, she thinks, this shouldn’t be happening.

And just before his mouth can close around hers, she backs away, and the look in Harry’s eyes fades. Instead, he’s staring at her, dull green eyes and all, and she suddenly feels empty inside. He stands up abruptly and begins walking down the hill back towards the street. Even in his drunken stupor, Harry somehow remembers how to get back to the carpark where Bernie is waiting with the rest of the band. They’re silent as they walk into the bus, the yellows and purples of sunrise filtering through the windows.

Harry chooses to sit near Rod, a sign of a truce. Frankie sits in the back, ignoring the looks Cherry gives her. For once, she just wants to be alone.

***

July 1973 - entry no. 6

Everybody besides Frankie seemed to be in high spirits on the journey to the San Jose Civic Center. The feud between Harry and Rod seemed to be an anecdote, something they could joke about during the long drive. Frankie watches from the back of the bus, a permanent scowl on her face, completely confused at the last ten hours of her life.

She was confused by the almost kiss, for starters. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to kiss Harry, because of course she wanted to. But when his mouth was inching closer towards hers and his irises were so wide all she could see was mossy green, the only thing running through her mind were Lester’s warnings.

“Don’t get lost in the madness of it all. They’re gonna eat you alive if they know that you’re a fan. They’re gonna want to be your friend, lure you into their world. Stand your ground. The second they hear you write for Rolling Stone they’re gonna shit their pants. Don’t let us down.”

So she panicked. And when Frankie saw the frown on his face, she could feel her heart fall towards her feet inside her body. Frankie was never the type of girl that boys chased after, especially boys that have the world at their fingertips with blonde/auburn/black haired beauties throwing themselves at him. What would Harry want with a freckled-face eighteen year old high school graduate who had little to no experience with the opposite sex? It would be utterly laughable for the two of them to end up together.

But she would be lying if she hadn’t been kicking herself the entire journey to San Jose, regretting ever pulling away from him.

“Why are you so pouty?” Cherry asks from beside her. She opted to sit with Frankie mainly because Rod and Harry were rekindling their friendship with inside jokes and bottles of beer, and Frankie wasn’t all that mad that she was a second option.

“I’m not,” Frankie lies, sinking her head against the cool window. She needed her brain to stop replaying this morning's events over and over whenever her eyelids closed.

Cherry just hums beside her, knowing fully well that Frankie is lying. “I’m assuming it has something to do with Harry. He’s been looking at you like a lost puppy ever since we turned onto the freeway hours ago.”

Frankie ignores her friend the same way she’s been ignoring the warm heat of Harry’s gaze from the front of the bus.

She needs the silence to remember why she was even here in the first place. But there’s no denying that she’s so close to losing the point in the first place—feet dangling at the edge of the mountain, practically about to freefall below.

***

The San Jose show was the best one Frankie had seen yet, even better than the first night at The Troubadour three weeks earlier. The energy radiating from the stage was tangible, a thrumming of excitement Frankie could feel from the tips of her toes all the way up to the roots of her light brown hair. If she reached out to touch the handle of the steel door leading to the green room, she was convinced she would feel a zap of electricity from what The Nocturnals left out on the stage.

Harry was the best she had seen him yet. His voice was unmatchable, a perfect concoction of rasp and grit with a beautiful falsetto. Frankie was in awe, to be fair. Normally she takes turns watching each member of the band, but tonight, her blue eyes refused to move from his body.

Harry could feel her gaze. With Frankie’s eyes locked on him, he knew that he had to put on the best show of his life. He made sure to interact with the crowd, singing in a different octave so he could hear the gasps from the audience, leaning against Rod and Eddie with his head thrown back, shaking his hips to the pounding of Jett’s kick drum. Frankie’s hot gaze on Harry gave him a newfound sense of confidence, and it was palpable throughout the entire arena.

“What a fuckin’ show!” Bryan hollers from the doorway of the green room. Frankie watches as he interacts with each member of the band, even offering to take a hit of the joint Jett extends towards him. Rod even gives him a hug, and Frankie is just as confused as ever.

“Let’s celebrate!” Rod agrees, grabbing Cherry by her hips and bringing her towards his front. He drowns her giggles with a bottle of whiskey.

The band convenes in the middle of the green room, passing around a whiskey bottle and planning on throwing an after party in their hotel rooms. Eddie asks Bryan to upgrade their rooms so they can fit more people, and Jett agrees, telling Cherry’s friends to invite anybody in the area they know. Frankie ultimately feels like an outsider, having no desire to go out and drink with people who barely even wanted her around in the first place.

As she begins to gather her belongings and throw them into her tattered messenger bag to retreat to her own hotel room for the night, Frankie sees the tips of black leather shoes touch her white sneakers. She looks up slowly, her breath practically catching in her throat when she notices Harry peering down at her, a faint trace of a smile on his lips.

“Fancy that interview, Franks?” Harry says softly, and Frankie suddenly is at a loss for words. She’s unsure if it’s from his close proximity to her face, or the fact that he actually is ready to allow her to interview him, but she just nods slowly.

“You don’t want to party? I think you earned it,” Frankie mutters back, offering him an out.

Harry doesn’t take it though. “Nah, let’s get out of here,” and with that, he loops her messenger bag around his broad shoulder and places a large hand at the small of her back, tracing her out the door.

Frankie offers to conduct the interview inside Bernie, but Harry just shakes his head, “I’m sick of sittin’ on the bus.” When she mentions her hotel room being on a different floor than the rest of the band’s, Harry just wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, “Tryin’ to take me to bed already?” Frankie just rolls her eyes, wishing her skin was a darker shade so her blush wasn’t so prominent. Harry smiles, enamored that he can get her riled up so quickly, and drags her towards a small staircase on the top floor, a sign reading NO ENTRY in bright red letters.

Frankie pauses and Harry just laughs, opening the door with his hip and grabbing her wrists with his long fingers. “Live a little, Franks,” he whispers, dragging her up the staircase and onto the roof of the hotel.

The dark sky looks so vast from the roof, and Frankie cranes her neck back to take in all of the glittering stars above. She never gets to see the constellations through the LA smog, so from this vantage point, Frankie doesn’t hesitate to take it all in, her hair shining in the moonlight.

Harry doesn’t hesitate to take Frankie in, either.

“Ready, Franks?” Harry’s voice bursts Frankie’s imaginary bubble, and she fumbles around trying to grab her notebook and recorder before sitting across from Harry over a skylight. She doesn’t meet his eyes because she’s scared that if she does, she’ll forget everything she wanted to ask him.

“So, Harry. Why music?”

And it’s as if a dam has broken, split completely in half, and Harry’s words are the water that flows from the cracks. He tells Frankie that he started the band with his brother in small town Manchester, England, and they were shit at first. Tells her how the idea of a band came from the 1961 Ice Blue Fender Musicmaster their dad left behind when he left his mother when Harry was a boy. How the first few songs he wrote were about his fear of abandonment, and when he lost his virginity, all he could write about were girls and hearts and lips and feelings. He tells her things that Frankie didn’t even need to pry from him, instead, he willingly tells her how he was nervous to have five members in a band, nervous to leave England, nervous to be the frontman of a group when he was the youngest one. And when they were sat on the forty-fifth floor of a high-rise building with walls of windows in New York City, signing their recording contracts, Harry never felt more out of control in his life.

“You seem to be so confident on stage though, so in control. I mean, you just look so cool up there,” Frankie mumbles, realizing that she isn’t asking a question anymore. Instead she’s prodding for more information that she isn’t sure Harry feels comfortable doting out to her.

“I promise you, I’m entirely uncool. It’s all an act. I’m far too in my head most of the time,” Harry says with a chuckle, shifting his body closer to Frankie’s. “Sometimes, I think you’re the only person in this world who’s seen me properly. I’m just as uncool as you.”

Frankie feels herself shifting closer, too. Her finger unknowingly hovering over the STOP button on her tape recorder.

Harry notices just like he notices everything about her. He can feel the shift in their conversation, and he turns his body closer towards Frankie, asking her the question that’s been on the tip of his tongue the entire day.

“Why didn’t you let me kiss you?”

His voice is uncharacteristically shy. Frankie’s never seen this version of him—so quiet, so unsure. It startles her.

“Um,” she pauses, pressing her finger down on the button, her mind suddenly confuddled. “I’m technically not supposed to.”

“Franks,” Harry shakes his head, his mouth practically inches from hers. “When are you gonna realize life is more fun when you do the things you aren’t supposed to?”

With his mouth so close to hers, Frankie feels like she can’t breathe. His eyes are sincere and she can feel her heart beating so loudly she’s sure her ribs are bruised. And for the first time in forever, Frankie doesn’t want to follow the rules anymore.

She wants to break them.

Specifically, she wants to break them with Harry.

Frankie brazenly drops the tape recorder into her messenger bag at her feet and wraps her hands around Harry’s neck, bringing his lips to hers. He stills at first, not entirely sure if this is actually happening or he’s just imagining her kissing him. But then she starts to nibble at his lower lip and he finally reacts, wrapping one hand into her brown hair and another around her stomach, fingers spread over the ivory skin uncovered by her cropped shirt.

Frankie shudders when Harry whines at the contact, and when he feels like he needs more more more, he drags her legs and hoists them over his thighs so she’s straddling his lap. Their teeth knock together hungrily and it’s literally better than anything Harry’s ever had, and he’s had almost everything there is. Harry feels dehydrated, and Frankie’s lips are the only thing quenching his thirst. He’s never been so enraptured by another person before, and just having her body wrapped around his is practically careening him towards the edge.

When Harry’s hand in her hair pulls back exposing her neck towards him, she moans when his lips lick a thick strip from her sternum towards her chin. She tries to think of love songs that explain how she’s feeling, and when her mind becomes blank, she figures that they can write their own song, fuelled by pink lips and hungry bites and satisfied breaths.

“Jesus, Franks. You’re everything,” Harry mumbles against her lips. Frankie just nods, her hands pushing open his unbuttoned shirt and fanning against his chest. When his head falls back in a blissful sigh, Frankie marks the part of his skin where his shoulder meets his neck, and she can feel it too. That this is everything.

When Harry tries to take her shirt off and lower his hands into the waistband of her jeans, she stops, fully aware that this is her first time ever having somebody this close to her. Of having somebody want to get this close to her, to feel her, to have her in every sense of the word. And she’s terrified.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Franks. I blacked out, I forgot. You’re just—fuck. Can’t fuckin’ think straight when you’re lookin’ at me like that with your mouth all pouty and your hair all messed up. I’m losin’ it,” Harry says hurriedly, his forehead falling against her clavicle. He’s completely breathless and Frankie is in awe that she brought him to this point.

When she feels his hands running a comforting line down her back, she’s fully aware that she wants nothing more than to feel closer to Harry. It’s inevitable at this point—all of the lingering gazes, the interrupting questions, the way he can feel her gaze on him when he’s performing, the way she doesn’t want to look anywhere else. He wants to tell her his secrets. And she wants to keep them, hidden away from the world, just for her to hold.

So she reaches down and places her hand over Harry’s, dragging it down her chest and stomach, over her stomach, against the button of her pants. Harry sucks in a breath and Frankie can feel it against her neck, his lips pursing in shock.

“Frankie, it’s okay, we don’t—”

He’s silenced by her popping the button open and unzipping her jeans. His head shoots up, eyes latched onto hers, arms wrapped around her hips protectively.

Frankie shushes him with a gentle kiss. “It’s okay. You’re everything.”

And with that, Harry reaches inside of her pants, and the both of them fall apart, seeing stars that rival the constellations twinkling above them.

***

July 1973 - entry no. 7

Frankie spends the next day trying to quell the butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

After her night with Harry on the rooftop, she feels as if she’s floating through thin air. She can’t stop the grin growing on her face whenever Harry is in a five foot radius of her, and she can practically feel his smirk from a distance. When they leave San Jose and travel to Palo Alto, Frankie practically forces her body to the back of the bus, trying to put as much space between them as possible.

Because if he was any closer, she wasn’t sure if she could keep her hands to herself.

Frankie has never felt like this. She feels as if Harry is her newest addiction, and no matter how hard she tries, she just can’t fucking stop thinking about him. It’s infuriating and infatuating at the same time, incredible and unknown and so new that she’s practically shaking in her seat from the excitement whenever his green eyes find hers.

Harry feels like he’s sixteen again. He feels so light and bubbly and giggly and the whole thing is reminiscent of a first crush, that he doesn’t even recognize who he is anymore. The most surprising aspect of it all is that he actually likes it. He feels his heart swell with every longing gaze, every secret smile, every phantom touch. He can’t get enough of her. Just one taste of Frankie wasn’t enough to soothe his ever-growing appetite, and he’s not sure if he can contain himself any longer.

After an entire day of almost touching her skin, Harry feels like he’s about to burst. Twenty minutes before the show, while the rest of the band is warming up, Harry finds himself sneaking off to find Frankie. She’s on her way back from the bathroom and when he sees her he practically jumps out of his skin, wrapping his arms around her waist and dragging her into a utility closet across the hallway.

Harry quiets her shrieks with a mouth-watering kiss, and he practically implodes at the feeling of it. He’s been waiting for this moment all day, and he would be lying if he didn’t admit that it was the best kiss of his life.

His hands are everywhere and Frankie feels overwhelmed, but in the best possible way. She’s breathing him in and feeling every inch of his skin on hers and it’s crazy to think that in her eighteen years of life she waited this long to experience this feeling.

She’s just so happy she’s experiencing it with Harry.

When they hear Bryan give the five minute call, Frankie breaks away breathlessly, laughing when Harry whines at the loss of her lips on his.

“Just one more kiss please Franks,” Harry begs, wrapping his hands through her hair and pulling her closer to his mouth.

She obliges but only momentarily, before pushing him back towards the door.

“Go,” she whispers, biting her lower lip to conceal her giggles.

Harry just groans, holding onto her for dear life. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Franks.”

She watches him walk away, blowing him a kiss and laughing when he catches it and tucks it into the pocket of his trousers.

When Frankie goes to claim her spot sidestage, she’s interrupted by Cherry grabbing onto her shoulders. She can see the band rustling around in the background, grabbing their instruments and getting mic'd up, but Frankie can’t focus. Because Cherry’s eyes are blown out and she’s holding onto her so tightly and Frankie knows that whatever is about to come out of Cherry’s lips next is either going to be monumental or devastating.

“Frankie! I need to tell you something,” Cherry whispers through her brightening grin.

“What is it Cherry? Are you okay?” Frankie is worried.

“I’m amazing. Better than amazing, actually. I’m gonna tell Rod that I love him after the show. I’m gonna jump into his arms, tell him that he’s the only one for me, and that I’m so far in love with him that I can’t even breathe.”

Frankie sighs. It’s devastating.

“But… Cherry. What about his fiancée? Kids? Did you think this through?” Frankie asks, watching as her friend’s eyes fall and her mouth form a straight line. Frankie hasn’t seen this look on Cherry’s face since the night she almost called her a groupie. Immediately, Frankie feels the twisting feeling of guilt in her gut.

“He’s leaving them for me. He told me last night.” Cherry’s voice is so low that Frankie isn’t sure if she’s trying to convince her, or herself.

Frankie just shakes her head. “Cherry, you can’t think like that. How could he promise you something like that? You can’t just—”

“—I can’t just what, Frankie? What are you even trying to say? I love him! That should be enough! It’s always been enough!” Before Frankie could even get another word in, Cherry just shakes her head, stepping away from her. “I don’t even know why I bothered telling you. You wouldn’t even know what love is if it slapped you right in the face.”

Frankie pauses, mouth falling slack. “What are you even talking about?”

Cherry laughs, and for the first time, Frankie hates the sound of it. “Because you don’t even give it a chance. I see the way Harry looks at you, and all you do is keep your head down, ignoring the entire thing. All you care about is your stupid article. Well ya know what? At least I let Rod close enough to give love a chance.”

Frankie isn’t sure what to say. Part of her wants to tell Cherry about the night she had with Harry on the rooftop, or the words he spoke to her, or the way he grabbed her no less than five minutes ago. But she doesn’t. Because saying them in an argument makes it less genuine.

“Cherry, I’m just trying to help. You deserve better than Rod,” Frankie says, reaching for Cherry’s hands to squeeze in reassurance.

But Cherry just jumps back as if Frankie’s hands are scorching. “You know what, maybe you and Harry are perfect for each other. Both lonely and selfish.”

And with that, Cherry walks away, and Frankie hangs behind the crowd sidestage, feeling her chest constrict in anger. Cherry couldn’t be more wrong about Harry. He let her in, he told her things he promised he would never tell anybody else. Frankie would never let him near her if he acted the way Cherry just described.

So when the show is over and Frankie feels herself retreating back into the hotel without a word to anybody else, she practically combusts when Harry shows up at her room. His eyes are blown wide and he has concern written all across his face, because all he wanted to see after the show was her. Just as he’s about to ask if she was okay, Frankie grabs him by the back of his neck and drags him through the doorway, crashing her lips onto his.

“Franks, wait, babe, what’s goin’ on?” Harry asks between kisses, and Frankie just sighs, noticing the way her head clears and her heart feels lighter whenever he is close to her.

“I just don’t want to think right now. I need you,” Frankie says, and Harry practically drops through the floor when she utters those last three words.

I need you is the closest thing to I love you Harry has ever felt. Love to him always felt compulsory, a feeling that was expected between two people. He never had to work for it, and whenever he said the words, they never meant anything to him before.

So when he hears I need you fall from Frankie’s chapped lips, he’s floored at the way those words feel inside his chest. If words were tangible, they would be pumping the blood through his chest cavity, propelling his heart up up up until it was lodged into his throat.

He never thought I need you would mean more to him than I love you.

Not until now.

“I need you all the time,” Harry responds, grabbing Frankie and pulling her onto the bed. They kiss until they’re both only wearing their undergarments, Harry clad in tight white boxer briefs and Frankie wearing a boring nude bra and matching cheeky panties. They make her feel childlike, and she wishes that she owned something black and lacy and sexy.

But Harry could care less what she’s wearing. Just the fact that she’s laying next to him, completely opening him up until he could feel like he was properly breathing for the first time in three years is enough for him. And when they kiss until their lips feel bruised, Frankie just lays her head on his chest, revelling in the feeling of his warmth.

“Thank you,” Frankie whispers against his skin.

“For what?” Harry asks, running a finger absentmindedly through her hair. Just one touch is never enough for him.

“Being here. Being you.” It’s trivial and shouldn’t really mean much, but to Harry it means everything, and he sighs blissfully at the thought that just being himself was more than enough for this beautiful girl.

“God, Franks,” Harry says slowly, resting his chin against the top of Frankie’s head. “I feel like I’ve known you my entire life.”

And when she’s wrapped around Harry in every sense of the word, she can’t help but think that if this is how she were to spend the rest of her nights, she wouldn’t want it any other way.

***

July 1973 - entry no. 8

The term bittersweet comes to mind when Bernie rolls into the Fillmore in San Francisco.

Bitter because it’s her last show with The Nocturnals. Bitter because Cherry hasn’t looked at her in two hours, and she doesn’t want to leave with her friendship falling to pieces in front of her. Bitter because she feels like she’s truly found herself, and she doesn’t want this feeling to escape when she arrives back in Santa Monica. Bitter because she won’t be spending her nights wrapped with Harry anymore.

The sweet part is all Harry, Frankie hates to admit. His sweet smile, the taste of his sweet lips, the way his hands feel sweetly wrapped around Frankie’s middle, the way she won’t hear him say her sweet nickname Franks.

Frankie looks over towards her right and smiles at his sleeping frame tucked next to hers. Her heart practically stilled when he chose to sit near her in the back of the bus instead of his usual spot behind Bryan in the front. If anybody felt a certain way about it, nobody mentioned it, which made Frankie relax into the ripped leather seat. When Harry’s warm hand latched onto her thigh, Frankie’s heart almost stopped beating.

“Franks, ‘m tired. Can I use you as a pillow?” Harry asks, his voice thick with sleep.

Before Frankie could reply, Harry’s head was already resting in the crook of her neck, his chestnut curls ticking the underside of her chin. Frankie just smiles, knowing that this would probably be the last spare moment they have together before she has to leave after the show to write her piece for Rolling Stone.

“So soft. You’re the sweetest, Franks,” Harry mumbles before drifting off into sleep.

The hotel is conveniently across the street from the Fillmore, so while the band unloads their instruments, Frankie slinks into her hotel room to deposit her duffle bag and sort through the endless notes she had taken during her summer with the band. Most of them are scribbled in her notebook that was practically ripping from overuse, but the most important tidbits, the ones that Frankie didn’t want to forget, were written on bar napkins and setlist pages. On room service menus and gas station receipts. Frankie makes sure to stuff those into her folder, making sure they stay with her forever.

On her way back to the concert venue, Frankie hears screaming from the room Cherry and Rod share. Part of her wants to knock and make sure that her friend is okay, but after their last conversation, Frankie’s convinced that she’s probably the last person Cherry wants to see anyways. So she saunters back to the Fillmore, rushing to try and find Harry to lift her spirits once again.

But what she sees does the complete opposite.

Bleach blonde hair. Pretty red dress. Deep hazel eyes. Brand new patent leather pumps. A handbag that definitely cost more than the entire ensemble. Matching red lips.

Red lips that were attached to Harry’s.

Frankie freezes. She can feel her heart burst, but not in the way that it has been used to doing the past few days. Instead, it’s a painful burst. She can feel shards slice through her beating flesh, ripping her open and spluttering on the concrete flooring.

Suddenly green eyes are latched onto hers.

And suddenly, they’re the last thing she wants to see.

“Oh, hello! You must be the reporter everybody has been telling me about. Frankie, right? It’s so great to meet you! This is such a great opportunity for everybody,” the pretty girl is saying, but Frankie isn’t registering anything.

All she’s registering is Harry’s hands jumping away from the girl’s waist. His green eyes wide and pleading. His uncomfortable shuffling behind her.

Frankie snaps her mouth shut, trying her hardest to pull herself together. “Hi, yes. I’m Frankie. Nice to meet you, er…”

“Roslyn. I’m Harry’s girlfriend.”

Frankie tries her hardest to keep a straight face, but she’s practically breaking at the seams. She doesn’t even register two sets of feet stopping short behind her, doesn’t even acknowledge her shaky hand slipping into Roslyn’s, doesn’t even feel the heat of Harry’s eyes on hers, of everybody’s eyes on hers.

She feels like the biggest idiot in the world.

Before she could sink into the floor, Frankie feels a small hand settle on her back, blonde ringlets falling onto her bare shoulder. She shuffles back, feeling the warmth of Cherry’s embrace behind her. She knows that Cherry’s heard everything, and with one look into Frankie’s eyes, Cherry can see her reflection through the tears that threaten to fall.

“Frankie, did you bring the necklace you borrowed from me last night?” Cherry asks. It’s an out, an excuse to drag her away from the absolute nightmare unfolding in front of her. Frankie can barely shake her head back, instead she’s gripping onto her friend for dear life, feeling that if she wasn’t anchoring her into the cement flooring she’d be sinking.

“Wait, Cher! Franks, I—”

“—Don’t. We’ll see you after the show,” Cherry says. And for the first time since knowing her, Frankie shivers at the coldness dripping from her mouth.

The two girls don’t bother to hear a response. Instead, Cherry whips through the exit door of the venue and drags Frankie back into the comfort of her hotel room. Once she’s sitting on her flimsy mattress and the door is deadbolted, Frankie finally cries, painful sobs ripping through her chest. She hunches over, feeling her chest constrict at the lack of oxygen rushing through her respiratory system. But she doesn’t care. The hurt she felt watching Harry kiss another girl feels worse than this.

“Frankie, shush, it’s going to be okay,” Cherry says sadly, wrapping a thin arm around Frankie’s shoulders.

“It’s not going to be okay. Cherry, I can’t breathe. Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Wait, I should be apologizing, Cherry I—” Frankie’s rambles are cut off by Cherry kneeling in front of her, holding her glistening face in the small palms of her hands. Cherry smiles, and when Frankie looks hard enough, she can see that it doesn’t meet her eyes. And she instantly knows that something is wrong.

“Wait, Cherry what’s wrong. Did something happen?” Frankie whimpers, holding her hands on top of Cherry’s, trying to squeeze the truth out of her friend.

“I think we should get out of here. What do you think? Let’s get away from it all,” Cherry says, gesturing at the front door where Frankie’s duffle lays untouched. Frankie feels herself nodding, grabbing Cherry in one hand and her bag in the other, walking outside of the hotel with a shattered heart.

Before they can get too far, she hears his voice. And that’s all it takes for her to feel the shards rip through her skin again.

“Franks! Please you’ve got to listen to me, please!” He’s pleading and Frankie feels disgusted that he’s calling out for her when his beautiful blonde-haired girlfriend is waiting for him inside just as she’s been waiting for him at home while he’s been wasting his time with Frankie.

“Cher, please let me talk to her, I’ve gotta—”

“—Goodbye Harry,” Frankie says softly. It’s final. Absolute.

She’s not sure who’s heart is breaking more, and honestly, she can’t bring herself to care. All she knows is that she feels as if Harry had shown her a world unlike any other—bright and unknowing and enticing and full of new wonders and surprises. But at the same time, he introduced her to heartbreak and pain and suffering and emptiness.

Frankie doesn’t look back as Cherry drags her towards the street, hailing a taxi and shoving them both into it. She doesn’t look out the window when the tires peel from the pavement, falling into traffic on the motorway. If she did, she would see Harry’s heart crumpling into the ground, his chest heaving in pain, his eyes watering.

Because they were both the closest to love they had ever felt in their lives. And Harry had ruined it. And the worst part of it all?

Frankie should have known better.

***

Inside the departures terminal in San Francisco Airport, Frankie finally wipes all of the water from her eyes. She’s pretty convinced that she’s cried all of the tears her body could produce, so with one last shaky inhale, she lifts her head from the crook of Cherry’s neck, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

“Thank you, Cherry,” Frankie whispers to a girl she never thought she would ever call a friend.

“I should be the one thanking you, Frankie,” Cherry admits, laughing softly to herself. It isn’t genuine, and Frankie can see the pain hidden behind her silver eyes.

“What happened?”

“You were right.” Cherry doesn’t need to explain more, but Frankie feels her heart aching for her friend. She feels horrible about their fight, but she feels even worse at the fact that Rod hurt Cherry.

“Why doesn’t he love me?” Cherry asks, and Frankie wonders how the two of them had gotten to this point. Both broken and scarred over two men who couldn’t love them the way that they needed to.

“I don’t know the answer to that, Cherry. But I do know that you never needed his love. Because love doesn’t feel like this. Love is supposed to be the thing that people write songs about, and you’ll find it one day. We’ll both find it one day.”

Cherry just nods at her brown-haired friend she’s grown to love in the span of three weeks. She hugs her tightly, hoping that this embrace will help heal their shattered hearts. Because even though they didn’t find love with Rod and Harry, they found love between each other. And that’s something worth remembering.

“Thank you,” Cherry mumbles against Frankie’s hair.

“Of course. I’ll always be here for you, Cherry,” Frankie replies, squeezing her friend a little tighter.

“I know that, and I will too.” Cherry stands up, grabbing Frankie’s hand one last time. Her suitcase is in the other, and she has a distant look in her silver eyes. “I just can’t do it here.”

Frankie smiles, knowing all along that Cherry was too good for this place. “I know. I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she says with a promise.

Before Cherry runs off to purchase a one-way ticket to a city far away from California, she turns back around, her eyes glistening. She reaches down to grab Frankie’s hand one last time.

“Aubrey Lennox,” she whispers.

“What?”

“My name,” Cherry replies with her infamous grin. “Is Aubrey Lennox. I’ll call you when I’ve found a place.” And with that, Aubrey walks off, giving Frankie one last parting glance.

An hour later when the hollowness inside Frankie seems to slowly start dissipating, she sees Mary in her stewardess outfit, a million questions at the tip of her tongue. With one look at her little sister, Mary knows something is wrong, and when she tells her that she’ll take her anywhere she wants to go, Frankie only has one place in mind.

She wants to go home.

***

August 1973 - entry no. 9

Frankie writes the Rolling Stone article the night Mary finds her in the airport in San Francisco. After promising her little sister that she’ll bring her home after she checks in with Greg and feeds their cat, Frankie stays up all night, clacking away on her sister’s old Smith Corona Classic 12 typewriter, writing three thousand words about her time with The Nocturnals.

She writes about their origin. She writes about their dazzling stage presence, the way they build off of each other, the way they trust each other wholeheartedly throughout each show. She writes about their growing tension. She writes about their poor management. She writes about how they’re debut album was incredible, chart-stopping, and the main reason why they’ve been successful. She writes about the promise of their second album being better than the first, and how she couldn’t imagine them breaking up any time soon, and how their music is for all the uncool people in the world.

It’s amazing and honest and truthful, void of spite or hatred or bias. She tells their story the way it should be told—open and honest and real. When she delivers it to Rolling Stone, they tell Frankie it’s going to be on the front page. They love the way she portrays The Nocturnals as normal people, chasing the high they provide for those who pay to watch their show.

But when they make out the call to fact check her piece, they deny everything.

“Did you talk to Harry Styles?” Frankie asks, growing frantic. She figured the least he owed her was to be honest and allow her to write their story.

“He was the one who denied everything.”

After that phone call, Frankie returns home with Mary. Once she’s opened the door and said hello to her mother, she locks herself in her room for three days and doesn’t leave.

Frankie didn’t think her heart could withstand any more pain, but she was wrong. She feels a bone-aching tiredness shiver through her body, the hollowness making her feel as if she was just barely there on most days. She can’t sleep because her pillow isn’t the rising and falling of Harry’s bare chest, the soft snoring from his mouth, the gentle caress of his hands over her arms.

Her anger overrides her feeling of emptiness in regards to her heart. She’s crushed at the fact that Harry lied to her about Roslyn, but even more so, he continued to lie when he denied her story from Rolling Stone. She hates him in these days, wishing she could tell him how much of a coward he was to his face.

And when she can’t sleep at night, she hears Lester’s words reverberating through her brain, don’t get too close, don’t get too close, don’t get too close.

Frankie wishes she just fucking listened.

***

The next morning, Frankie is lathering a thin layer of butter over her charred toast when the doorbell rings. She doesn’t make a move to answer it, and when Mary approaches the kitchen with a twinkle in her eyes, Frankie knows that whoever is at the door is waiting for her.

“Mary, no—”

“—Go answer it, Frankie.”

Frankie gulps her dry toast down her throat, letting it fall onto a paper towel with a soft thud. She walks slowly to the front door, hoping that whoever it is could see the state of disarray she was in and would presumptively leave her alone.

Once she reaches the foyer, she hears a gruff laugh, a noise she’s never heard before.

“Holy shit, you’re a fuckin’ kid.”

When she looks up, it’s no other than Lester Bangs in the doorway. His long hair is parted to one side, brown eyes covered in black wayfarer sunglasses. His brown leather jacket hangs off his arms, and she’s shocked that he would come all the way from San Francisco to talk to her.

“Cat’s out the bag,” Frankie shrugs, realizing that she’s too tired and too hurt to keep up her adult façade. She’s fully aware that her plaid pajama bottoms and high school t-shirt give away the fact that she is actually eighteen years old.

But somehow, Lester doesn’t seem to mind.

“Had a feeling. You write like you’re experiencing shit for the first time in your life.” Frankie tries to ignore the truthfulness to his words.

“Yeah, well… What are you exactly doing here, Lester?” Frankie asks.

Lester holds up his left hand and clutched inside is the August edition of Rolling Stone’s magazine. On the front cover is a picture of The Nocturnals: Harry, Eddie, Veronica, Jett, and Rod, posing in front of a red backdrop. On the left hand column reads THE NOCTURNALS: Sex, Drugs, and Life on the Road. And right under that, in glossy red print, reads Written by: Frankie Goodhart.

Frankie starts to feel the hollowness inside of her fill up.

“Harry Styles called and told us that everything you said was true. And that he’s sorry, for some reason,” Lester says, holding out the publication for her to keep. She runs her fingers over the words, smiling for the first time in a week.

“Wow, uh, I don’t know what to say,” Frankie says, floored.

Lester laughs and produces a second copy, holding out a Sharpie in the other. “Mind if you sign mine? Figured it’ll be worth a lot once you make it big, kid.”

Frankie laughs, before shakily reaching out and signing her name in big swoopy letters. Before Lester leaves, he tells her to keep sending him her album reviews, and that whenever she figures out what she wants to do with her life, he’ll always be waiting for her call.

A few days later, the hollowness doesn’t feel as painful anymore. Frankie distracts herself by hanging out with her sister, spending time with her mother, listening to new records, telling Mary the in’s and out’s of her time on the road. She leaves out a certain curly-haired boy with green eyes that broke her heart, but Mary knows that Frankie will tell her over time, once she’s finished mending the scars he left her with.

When Mary announces that she’s heading back to San Francisco, her departure isn’t as sad as the first time. Cynthia and her daughter seemed to have found common ground with Mary’s outlook on life, and with a promise to be back for Thanksgiving, Frankie starts to feel like the ground isn’t as shaky as it was a month earlier.

“Want to go to Tower Records with me? One last time before I go, for old time’s sake,” Mary whispers in her sister’s ear when their mother is busy making lunch.

Frankie nods, and the two girls set off across the boardwalk.

The sun warms Frankie to her core, and she suddenly starts to feel the weight being lifted from her shoulders. She feels more in control of her life now than ever before, and walking side by side with her sister, she no longer feels hollow. Instead, she feels excited. Excited for her future. Excited for the idea of endless possibilities and newness.

“You should come with me to San Francisco, Frankie! I can get you a stewardess position and we can travel the world together. Live like we never have before. What do you say, kiddo?” Mary asks, rifling through the “M” section of the new releases in the record store.

Before, Frankie would have done anything to be closer to her sister. But now, in the after, she feels a new sense of home in Santa Monica.

“I think I’m gonna stay here. Go to college at UCLA. Probably study English, if they’ll let me,” Frankie announces. And for once, she actually means what she’s saying.

Mary smiles at her sister, her thumbs crossing over towards the “N” category.

“Whatever you end up doing Frankie, just remember that you’re doing it for yourself. And that no matter what, I’m in your corner. Always have, always will.”

Frankie reaches an arm around her sister, holding her close. She hopes that Mary can feel the love she has for her through her embrace, and when Mary smiles, she knows she can feel it.

“Oh, I haven’t seen this before,” Mary says, coming to a stop on a record in the middle of the “N” bin.

Frankie watches as her sister pulls out a black vinyl wrapped in a pink and blue sleeve. The band she spent weeks on the road with is written on the top, with the picture from the Rolling Stone cover in the middle. When Frankie’s eyes scroll towards the bottom of the record, she can feel her breath catch in her throat when she reads the name of the title.

GOOD HEART.

#1dff #movies challenge #harry

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