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sophaeros · 3 months

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arctic monkeys for q magazine, june 2011 (x) (x)

ARCTIC MONKEYS: Inside Alex Turner's Head

Words Sylvia Patterson Portrait John Wright

The day Arctic Monkeys moved into their six bedroom, Spanish-style villa in the Hollywood Hills, where the first-floor balcony looked over the patio swimming pool, they knew exactly what to do.

"From the balcony, you could get on t'roof and jump in't pool," chirps the Monkeys' most gregarious member, drummer Matt Helders, in his homely Yorkshire way. "We looked at it and said, That's definitely gonna happen. So by the end, we did a couple of 'em. Somersaults in t'pool, from the roof. At night time."

In January 2011, as Sheffield and the rest of Britain endured its bitterest winter in a century, Arctic Monkeys capered among the palm trees, eschewing hotels for a millionaire's Hollywood homestead as they recorded and mixed their fourth studio album, Suck It and See.

The four Monkeys, alongside producer James Ford and engineer James Brown, lived what they called the "American man thing": watched Super Bowl on giant TVs, played ping-pong, hired two Mustangs, cooked cartoon Tom And Jerry-sized steaks on barbecues on Sundays, had girlfriends over to visit, all cooking and drinking around the colossal outdoor kitchen area featuring a fridge and two dishwashers. Living atop the Hills, they could see the Pacific Ocean beyond by day, the infinite glittering lights of downtown LA by night.

Every day, en route to Sound City Studios, they'd travel in a seven-seater four-by-four through the mountains, via bohemian 60s enclave Laurel Canyon, blaring out the tunes: The Stones Roses, The Cramps, the Misfits' Hollywood Babylon. For the sometime teenage art-punk renegades whose guitarist, Jamie Cook, was once ejected from London's Met Bar for refusing to pay €22 for two beers, the comedy rock'n'roll life still feels, however, absolutely nothing like reality.

NICK O'MALLEY: "It were really as if we were on holiday. When we came back it's the most post-holiday blues I've ever had!"

JAMIE COOK: "It's hard to comment on that. It were just really good fun."

MATT HELDERS: "We always said, As soon as things like that feel normal, we're in trouble. But it's just funny. You might think it would get more and more serious as you get older but it's getting funnier. We've done four albums now and I'm still only 24, I'm still immature to an extent. So who cares?"

Alex? Al? Are you there?

ALEX TURNER: "Yeah, it were good times. But we were in the studio most of the time. So there's no real wild Hollywood stories. Hmn. Yeah."

Wednesday, 16 March 2011, Strongroom Bar, Shoreditch, East London, 11am. Alex Turner, 25, slips entirely alone into an empty art-crowd brasserie looking like an indie girl's indie dream boy: mop-top bouffant hair which coils, in curlicues, directly into his cheekbones, army-green waist-length jacket, baggy-arsed skinny jeans, black cord zip-up cardigan, simple gold chain, supermoon sized chocolate-brown eyes.

Almost six years after I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor became the indie-punk anthem of a generation (from the first of Arctic Monkeys' three Number 1 albums), and nothing prepares you for the curious phenomenon of Alex Turner "in conversation". Unlike so many of the Monkeys frenetic early songs, he operates in slow motion, seemingly underwater, carrying a protective shell on his back, perhaps indie rock's very own diamond-backed terrapin. The most celebrated young wordsmith in rock'n roll today talks fulsomely, in fact, only in shapeless, curling sentences punctuated with "maybe... hmn.. yeah", an anecdotal wilderness sketching pictures as vague as a cloud. He is, though, simultaneously adorable: amenable, gentle, graceful, and as Northern as a 70s grandpa who literally greets you with "ey oop?".

"People think I'm a miserable bastard," he notes, cheerfully, "but it's just the way me face falls." Still profoundly private, if not as hermetically sealed as a vacuum-packed length of Frankfurter, his fante-shy reticence extends not only to his personal life (his four-year relationship with It-girl/TV presenter Alexa Chung, whom he never mentions) but to insider details generally. Take the Monkeys’ Hollywood high jinks documented above: not one word of it was described by Turner. Before Q was informed by his other Monkey bandmates, Turner’s anecdotal aversion unfolded like this:

Describe the lovely villa you were in. AT: "Well... we certainly had a... good view."

Of what? AT: "Well, we were up quite high."

The downtown LA lights going on forever? AT: "I dunno. It was definitely that thing of getting a bit of sort of sunshine. Is it vitamin D? If you can get vitamin D on your record, you've got a bit of a head start. So we'd get up and drive to the studio."

What were you driving? AT: "Nothing... spectacular. But yeah, we'd drive up the studio, spend all day there and sort of, y know, get back. To be honest... we had limited time. So we spent as much time as possible kind of getting into it, like, in the studio.

So your favourite adventures were what? AT: "Well, they were really… minimal. We were working out there!"

Any nightclubs or anything, perhaps? AT: "You really want the goss 'ere, don't you?"

Yes, please. AT: "I could make some up. Nah!"

And this was on the second time of asking. It's perhaps obvious: Alex Turner, one of the most prolific songwriters of his generation (four Monkeys albums and two EPs in five years, The Last Shadow Puppets side-project, a bewitching acoustic soundtrack for his actor/video director friend Richard Ayoade's feature-length debut Submarine), is dedicated only to the cause – of being the best he can possibly be. He simply remembers the songs much more than the somersaults.

Throughout 2009, Arctic Monkeys toured third album Humbug – the record mostly made in the Californian desert with Queens Of The Stone Age man-monolith Josh Homme – across the planet. While hardly some cranium-blistering opus, its heavier sonic meanderings considerably slowed the Arctic Monkeys' live sets and on 23 August 2009, Q watched them headline the Lowlands Festival, Holland and witnessed a hitherto unthinkable sight – swathes of perplexed Monkeys fans trudging away from the stage. With the sludge rock mood matching their cascading dude-rock hair it seemed obvious: they'd smoked way too much outrageously strong weed in the desert.

"Heheheh, yeah," responds Turner, unperturbed. "That's your theory. You probably weren't alone."

Back in the Strongroom Bar, Turner's arm is now nonchalantly draped along the back of a beaten-up brown leather sofa. He ponders his band's somewhat contrary reputation…

"I think starting the headline set at Reading with a cover of a Nick Cave tune perhaps was a bit contrary. D'youknowhat Imean?! But to be honest, that summer, at those festivals, we had a great time. And I know some fans enjoyed those sets 10 times more. And you can't just do, y’know, another Mardy Bum or whatever. Because how could you, really?"

With Humbug, notes Turner, "I went into corners I hadn't before, because I needed to see what were there," but by spring 2010 he wanted their fourth album to be "more song-based" and less lyrically "removed". He was "organised this time", studied "the good songwriters" (from Nick Cave, The Byrds and Leonard Cohen to country colossi Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline), discovered "the other three strings" on his guitar, and wrote 12 songs through the spring and summer of 2010, mostly in the fourth-floor New York flat he shared with Chung before the couple moved back to London late last summer (the New York MTV show It's On With Alexa Chung was cancelled after two seasons). The result: major-key melodies, harmonised singing and classic song structures.

At the same time he revisited the opposite extreme: bands such as Black Sabbath and The Stooges ("we wanted a few wig-outs as well"); he was also still heavily influenced by the oil-thick grinder rock of Josh Homme, who is clearly now a permanent Monkeys hero. After four months' rehearsals in London, on 8 January the Monkeys relocated to LA for five swift weeks of production and Homme came to visit, singing backing vocals on All My Own Stunts. Tequila was involved.

"Tequila is probably me favourite," manages Turner, by way of an anecdote. "But it takes a certain climate... It's not the same... in the rain. Yeah. [Looks to be contemplating a lyric] Tequila in the rain."

Vocally, he developed the caramel richness first unveiled on The Last Shadow Puppets' Scott Walker-esque The Age Of The Understatement, finding a crooner's vibrato. "Everything before was so tight,” he notes, clutching his neck. "Probably just through nerves. That's just not there any more." Suck It and See contains at least four of the most glittering, sing-along, world-class pop songs (and obvious singles) of Arctic Monkeys' career: the towering, clanging She's Thunderstorms, the summertime stunner The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala, the heavenly harmonised title track and the Echo & The Bunnymen-esque jangly pop of closer That's Where You're Wrong.

Elsewhere, in typically contrary "fashion", there's preposterous head-banger bedlam (Brick By Brick, the rollicking faux-heavy rock download they released in March "just for fun", featuring vocals by Helders; Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair, and Library Pictures). News arrives that the first single proper will be Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair. Q is perplexed. Brilliantly titled, certainly, but arriving after Brick By Brick, the new album will appear to the planet as some comedy pastiche metal album for 12-year-old boys.

You've got all these colossal, summery, indie-pop classics and you've gone for... The Chair? AT: [Laughing uproariously] "The Chair! I'm now calling it The Chair, that's cool. Well for once it weren't even our suggestion. It was Laurence's (Bell, Domino label boss). And I were, Fucking too right! He's awesome. It'd be good to get a bit of fucking rock'n'roll out there, won't it? It's riffs. It's loud. It's funny."

If you don't release The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala as a single I'm going round Domino to kick Laurence's "awesome" butt. AT: "I think it'll be the next one!"

The record's title, meanwhile, could've been more enigmatically original than the un-loved phrase Suck It and See. The band, struggling with ideas due to the opposing sonic moods, invented an inspiration-conjuring ruse: to think of new names for effects pedals in the style of Tom Wolfe, Turner being long enamoured with the American author's legendarily psychedelic books The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test and The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby, "cos that just sounds awesome".

"There's the Big Muff pedal," he elaborates, "That’s the classic. I've got the Valve Slapper. And there's the Tube Screamer. So we came up with the Thunder Suckle Fuzz Canyon. And… wait till I assemble it in me mind… em… it'll come to me… The Blonde-O-Sonic Shimmer Trap. So we were going for summat like that."

A wasted opportunity?

"Nah. Because some of those things ended up in the lyrics anyway. Suck It and See was just easier."

Alex Turner, rock'n'roll's premier descriptive art-poet, still writes his lyrics long-hand in spiral-bound notebooks. "Writing lyrics is a craft that I've practised a bit now," he avers. "In me notebook it looks like sums. Theories. There's words and arrows going everywhere. There's always a few possibilities and I write the word 'OR' in a square."

For our most celebrated colloquial sketch-writer of the everyday observation (all betting pencils, boy slags and ice-cream van aggravations) the more successful he becomes, the less he orbits the ordinary. "I'm not struggling with that, to be honest," he decides. "In fact I'm enjoying writing lyrics much more than I did. Stories. Describing a picture. Um. There's quite a bit of weather and time in this one. Which is probably not reassuring. 'Oh God, he's writing about the weather.' Maybe leave that out!"

There are also some direct, funny, romantic observations: "That's not a skirt, girl, that's a sawn-off shotgun/And I only hope you've got it aimed at me..." (from the title track).

Some of your romantic quips, now, must be about Alexa. AT: "Right. Yeah. Definitely. Well... there's always been that side to our songs, when we weren't writing about... the fucking taxi rank. It's kind of inevitably... people you're with." [At the mention of Chung's name, Turner is visibly aggrieved, head sliding into his neck, terrapin-esque indeed.]

It must have been very grounding being in a proper relationship through all this madness. Because if you weren't, girls would be jumping all over your head. AT: "Em. Hmn. Well, of course that helps you to... I don't really know.. what the other way would be."

Does Alexa wonder if the lyrics are about her? AT: "Oh there's none of that. Yeah, no, there's no looking over the shoulder."

She must be curious, at least. "Maybe."

Did you ever watch Popworld? AT: [Nervous laughter] "Em! Now and again."

Did you ever see the episode where she helps Paul McCartney write a song about shoes? AT: "Ah, yeah I think so, maybe I did see that."

Well, if I was you, I'd have been thinking, "She's the one for me." AT: "Well. Yeah... maybe that would've... sealed the deal! Hmn. But maybe that wasn't when i got the ray of light. When was? Nah [buries head in hands]. I might have to go for a cigarette..."

Q can't torture him any more and joins him for a snout. Turner smokes Camels from a crumpled, sad, soft-pack and resembles a teenager again. As early song You Probably Couldn't See For The Lights But You Were Staring Straight At Me says, "Never tenser/Could all go a bit Frank Spencer…”

In January 2006, when Arctic Monkeys' Number 1 album Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not became the fastest-selling debut in UK history, inadvertently redefining the concept of autonomy and further imploding the decimated music industry (& wasn't their idea to be "the MySpace band", it was their fans': the Monkeys merely kick-started viral marketing by giving away demos at gigs), the 19- and 20-year-old Monkeys were terrible at fame. They weren't so much insurrectionary teenage upstarts as teenage innocents culturally traumatised by the peak-era fame democracy.

To their generation (born in the mid-'80s) fame was now synonymous with some-twat-off-the-telly a world of foaming tabloid hysteria where renown and celebrity meant, in fact, you were talentless. Hence their interview diffidence and receiving awards via videos dressed up as the Wizard OfOz and the Village People. Which only, ironically, made them even more celebrated and famous. (“That were a product of us just trying to hold onto the reins," thinks Turner today. "Being uncooperative.")

Q meets The Other Three one morning at 11am, in the well-appointed, empty bar of the Bethnal Green, Bast London hotel they're staying in (all three live in Sheffield, with their girlfriends, in their own homes). First to arrive is the industrious, sensible and cheerful Helders, crunching into a hangover-curing green apple. He has recovered from last year's boxing accident at the gym, which left his broken arm requiring a fitted plate. Now impressively purple-scarred, the break felt "interesting" and the doctor couldn't resist the one-armed drummer jest: "D'you like Def Leppard?"

Currently enjoying an enduring bromance with Diddy, he still doesn't feel famous, "it just doesn't feel that real, there's no paparazzi waiting for me to trip up." He and Turner, during the four-month rehearsals last year, became an accomplished roast dinner cooking duo for the band. "I reckon we could have us our own cookbook," he beams. "Pictures of us stirring, with a whisk."

O'Malley, an agreeable, twinkly-eyed 25-year-old with a strikingly deep voice and a winningly huge smile, is still coyly embarrassed by the interview process. A replacement for the departed original bass player Andy Nicholson in May 2006, he went from Asda shelf-filler to Glastonbury headliner in 13 months and still finds the Monkeys "a massive adventure". His life in Sheffield is profoundly normal – he's delighted that his new home since last October has an open-hearth fireplace: "Me parents had electric bars." He has also discovered cooking. “I’m just a pretty shit-hot housewife, most of the time," he smiles. "I cook stews, fish combinations, curries, chillies. I made a beef pho noodle soup the other day, Vietnamese, I surprised meself, had some mates round for that."

Recently, at his dad's 50th birthday bash, the party band, made up of family and friends, insisted he join them onstage "for ...The Dancefloor. So I were up there [mimes playing bass, all sheepish] and it were the wrong pitch, they didn't know the words or 'owt, going, Makin eyes... er..." He has no extra-curricular musical ambitions. "I'm happy just playing bass," he smiles. "I've never had the skill of doing songs meself. It'd be shit!"

Cook, 25, is still spectacularly embarrassed by the interview process. He perches upright, with a fixed nervous smile, newly shorn of the beard and ponytail he sported in LA: "Rockin' a pone, yeah, because I could get away with it." With his classic preppy haircut and dapper green military coat (from London's swish department store, Liberty), he looks like a handsome '40s film star. (Turner deems Cook "the band heartbreaker" and had a word with him post-LA: "I said to him, Come on, mate, you've got to get that beard shaved off. Get the girls back into us. Shift some posters.")

His life in Sheffield is also profoundly normal. He still plays Sunday League football with his local pub team, The Pack Horse FC (position, left back), remains in his long-term relationship with page-three-model-turned-make-up-artist Katie Downes and "potters about" at home, refusing to describe said home, "cos I'll get burgled".

A tiler by trade, he always vowed, should the Monkeys sign a deal, that he'd throw his trowel in a Sheffield river on his last day of work. "I never did fling me trowel," he confirms. "Probably still in me shed." He's never considered what his band represents to his generation. "I'd go insane thinking about it, I'm pretty good at not thinking about it… Oh God. I'm terrible at this!"

Back in the Strongroom Bar, Alex Turner is cloudily describing his everyday life. "I just keep meself to meself," he confounds. He mostly stays indoors and his perfect night in with Alexa is "watching loads of Sopranos. And doing roast dinners".

No longer spindle-limbed, he attends a gym and has handsomely well-defined arms – "You have to look after yourself."

Suddenly, Crying Lightning from Humbug rumbles over the bar stereo. "Wow. How about that? I was quite happy the other morning cos Brick By Brick were on the round-up goals on Soccer AM. It's still exciting when that happens. It was like Brick By Brick is real."

He spends his days writing music, "listening to records", and recommends Blues Run The Game by doomed '60s minstrel Jackson C Frank ("who's that lass?... Laura Marling, she did a cover recently), a simple, acoustic, deep and regretful stunner about missing someone on the road.

Lyrically, he cites as an example of greatness the Nick Cave B-side Little Empty Boat [from ‘97 single Into My Arms ], a comically sinister paean to a sexual power struggle: "Your knowledge is impressive and your argument is good/But I am the resurrection babe and you're standing on my foot."

"I need a hobby," he suddenly decides. "I'd like to learn another language." Since his mum is a German teacher (his dad teaches music), surely he can speak some German? "I know how to ask somebody if they've had fun at Christmas." Go on, then. "Nah!"

Where Turner's creative gifts stem from remains a contemporary rock'n'roll mystery; he became a fledgling songwriter at 16, after the gift of a guitar at Christmas from his parents. An only child, did his folks, perhaps, foresee artistic greatness? "I doubt it!" he balks. "Cos I didn't. I wasn't... a show kid." Like the others, he doesn't analyse the past, or the future.

"You can't constantly be thinking about what's happened," he reasons, "it's just about getting on with it." The elaborate pinky ring he now constantly wears, however, a silver, gold and ruby metal-goth corker featuring the words DEATH RAMPS is a permanent reminder of he and his best friends’ past. The Death Ramps is not only a Monkeys pseudonym and B-side to Teddy Picker, but a place they used to ride their bikes in Sheffield as kids.

"Up in the woods near where we lived," he nods. "Just little hills. But when you're eight years old they're death ramps." The ring was custom made by a friend of his, who runs top-end rock'n'roll jewellery emporium The Great Frog near London's Carnaby Street. Ask Turner why he thinks the chase between his writing and speaking eloquence is quite so mesmerisingly vast and he attempts a theory.

"Well, writing isn't the same as speaking," he muses. "Not for me. I seem to struggle more and more with... conversation. Talking onstage... I can't do it any more. Hmn. I'll have to work on that."

The ever-helpful Helders has a better theory.

"Since he's been writing songs," he ponders, “It seems like he’s always thinking about that. So even when he’s talking to you now, he’s thinking about the next thing that rhymes with a word. Even when he’s driving. We joke he’s a bad driver, his focus is never 100 per cent on what he’s doing. Which is good for us cos it means he’s got another 12 songs up his sleeve. I think music must be the easiest way for him to be concise and get everything out. Otherwise his head would explode.”

The Shoreditch.com photo studios, 18 March. Alex Turner, today, is more ethereally distracted than ever, transfixed by the studio iPod, playing Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, a version of I’d Rather Go Blind. Occasionally, he’ll completely lose his conversational thread, “Um. I’ve dropped a stitch.”

The first to arrive for Q’s photoshoot, he greets his incoming bandmates with enormous hugs (and also hugs them goodbye). Today, Q feels it’s pointless poking its pickaxe of serious enquiry further into Turner’s vacuum-packed soul and wonders if he’ll play, instead, a daft game. It’s called Popworld Questions, as first posed by someone he knows rather well.

“Oh, OK. Let’s do it,” he blinks, now perched in an empty dressing room. He then vigorously shakes his head, “Um…I’ve gotta snap back into it.”

Here, then, are some genuine “Alexa Chung on Popworld” questions (2006-2007), as originally posed to Matt Willis, Amy Winehouse, Robbie Williams, Pussycat Dolls, Kaiser Chiefs and Diddy.

Why do indie bands wear such tight jeans? AT: “Um. I supposed they do. They haven’t always. When we first were playing I was definitely in flares. You need to be quite tall to get the full effect, though. So, that's why this indie band wears such tight jeans, cos we've not got the legs for flares."

What makes you tick in the sexy department? AT: "Wow. Pass. What do I find most attractive in a woman? Something in the head? That's definitely a requirement. Well... Hmn. I'm struggling."

Tell us about all the lovely groupies. AT: "No!"

If dogs had human hands instead of paws, would you consider trying to teach them to play the piano? AT: "Absolutely. I'd teach Hey Jude."

How many plums d'you think you can comfortably fit in one hand? AT: "They're not very big. [Holds small, pale, girly hand up for inspection] It's a shame. Probably three. Diddy only managed two? Maybe not then. I can carry a lot of glasses at once, though. If they're small ones I can do four."

Are you cool? AT: "Not as much as I'd like to be. There's this clip where Clint Eastwood is on a talkshow and he gets asked, Everybody thinks of you as defining cool, what d'you think about that? And he gets his cigs out, takes one out, flicks it into his mouth, lights it and says, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Here, Turner locates his Camels soft-pack and attempts to do a Clint Eastwood. He flicks one upwards towards his mouth. And misses. Flicks another. And misses. "Third time lucky?" He misses. "I'll get it the next time." And succeeds. "Hey. Fourth time. Don't put that in! So there you go. I'm four steps away from where I wanna be."

Thank you very much for joining me here on Popworld, here's my clammy hand again. There it is, let it slip, hmmn. You can let go now. AT: "OK! Were you a Popworld fan, then? It was funny. Cool. What were we talking about, before?"

Blimey, Alex. What must you be like when you're completely stoned out of your head? AT: "Stoned? What d'you mean, cos I seem like that anyway? Yeah. A lot of people... tell me I'm a bit... dreamy. But I like the idea of that. Of being somewhere else."

Two days earlier, Turner had contemplated what he wanted from all this, in the end. Many seconds later he gave his deceptively ambitious answer.

"I just wanna write better songs," he decided. "And better lyrics. I just definitely wanna be good at it. Hmn. Yeah.”

—

RUFUS BLACK: AKA Matt Helders, on his ongoing bromance with Diddy

Matt Helders has known preposterous rap titan Diddy since they met in Miami in 2008. “He goes, Arctic Monkeys! Then he said summat about a B-side and I was like, He's not lying! I just thought, This is funny, I'm gonna go with this for a while." Last October Diddy texted Helders, suggesting he play drums with his Diddy Dirty Money band on Friday Night With Jonathan Ross, to give his own drummer a day off. “I were bowling with me girifriend at the time. In Sheffield, on a Sunday." On the day of recording, says Helder, "We had a musical director. That were one of the maddest times of my life. Next day Diddy said, Why don't you just stay? Come along with me. So I went everywhere with him." Diddy had "a convoy of cars" and made sure Helders was always in his. "He'd stop his car and go, Where's Matt? You're coming with me! So I'd get in his car. Just me, him, his security, driver." Diddy, by now, had given him a pseudonym - Rufus Black. "He kept saying, I don't wanna fuck up your image. And I'm, I don't think it's gonna do me any harm!" He stayed in Diddy's spectacularly expensive hotel. Some weeks later, Helders almost returned to the Dirty Money drumstool for a gig in Glasgow. "But we were rehearsing in London. I were like, I might come, how are you getting there? And he were like, Jet. Jump on t’jet with me. But I had to stay in Bethnal Green instead.”

Love’s young dream: Diddy (left) with Helders

#arctic monkeys #alex turner #matt helders #nick o'malley #jamie cook #sias era #interview #q magazine #my image id #bands #this is such a funny interview honestly shfjwjs #self proclaimed housewife nick my beloved......#also why did the interviewer describe alex's hands as small pale and girly HELPME #btw im missing page 93 it's probabky just a photospread but yeah #i managed to find the dead links' images on vk #eye contact #not my scan

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queenshelby · 2 months

Text

The Director (Part One)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Infidelity

Characters:

Name: Y/N

Age: 29

Job: Second Assistant Director on the set of Oppenheimer

Personality: Strong-willed, caring, determined

Background: You come from a wealthy family in Hollywood but have to work hard to establish yourself in the film industry. You are a devoted mother to your two children and juggle your career with your responsibilities at home.

Name: Mara

Age: 7

Character Role: Your daughter

Appearance: Cute with curly brown hair and big, innocent eyes

Personality: Sweet, sensitive and very attached to you following her father’s death

Background: Mara is very close to you and looks up at you as a role model. Mara adores her older brother, Max, and enjoys spending time with your mother Lisa at her mansion in Hollywood. Mara has a split relationship with her stepfather James who is introduced below.

Name: Max

Age: 10

Character Role: Your son

Appearance: Energetic with messy blonde hair and mischievous blue eyes

Personality: Rebellious, challenging, protective of his family

Background: Max can be difficult at times, but he deeply cares for you and his sister. He struggles with his emotions due to the absence of his father and also has a split relationship with James. As a result, he often acts out.

Name: Bill

Age: 60

Job: Owner of one of Hollywood's biggest agencies for actors and musicians

Character Role: Your father, your mother’s ex-husband

Appearance: Distinguished with grey hair and sharp features

Personality: Business-minded, influential, protective

Background: Bill is a powerful figure in Hollywood, known for his connections and influence in the entertainment industry. He has always supported you in your career but lacks understanding when it comes to your troubled relationship with your husband James.

Name: James

Age: 31

Job: Hollywood Actor who has appeared in several supporting roles and mediocre movies

Appearance: Good looking with a charismatic smile

Personality: Arrogant, abusive, entitled

Background: James is a semi-famous actor with a privileged background, thanks to his father, Peter, who is the studio head of Universal Studios. His father always tries to get him leading roles in big productions but most directors do not like to work with him. He has acted in about twenty movies, in supporting roles or as a second lead due to his father’s influence. In the past, when he had met you, he enjoyed theatre productions and indies but after his first role in a Marvel Movie, it is only fame that interests him.

Name: Peter

Age: 65

Job: Studio head of Universal Studios

Character Role: James's father

Appearance: Imposing with a commanding presence, impeccably dressed

Personality: Arrogant, controlling, manipulative

Background: Peter holds a position of power in Hollywood and uses his influence to secure roles for his son, James. He is domineering and meddles in James's personal life, causing tension within the family dynamic.

Name: Cillian Murphy

Age: 46

Job: Actor

Background: Cillian is married to Danielle and has two adult children, one son and one daughter, both of whom are at university.

Intro Part

Driving through the busy streets of Los Angeles in your small Kia, you listened to your favorite playlist blasting from the speakers.

As usual, you were running behind schedule and the traffic seemed to agree with your tardiness today. As usual, it was horrendous, and you reconsidered whether or not avoiding public transport was really worth it.

Eventually, the stoplight turned green signaling it was now your turn to proceed forward onto the bustling boulevard ahead. The sun shimmered brilliantly overhead casting shadows across the pavement, creating a visual dance reminiscent of a dreamcatcher.

But then, out of nowhere, it happened – a collision so sudden and unexpected it left you startled and bewildered. Your perfectly planned school pick-up routine took a drastic twist and your heart raced as the reality sank in - you had just been involved in your first ever car accident.

Adrenaline surged through your veins making you feel alive, but also overwhelmed and, in those precious seconds, all your focus shifted towards assessing the damage to your car.

Stepping outside, your breath caught in your throat.

"I can't believe this!" you exclaimed as you eyed the damage to the side of your car. "What were you thinking, running that red light?" you pointed accusingly at the other driver, who seemed surprisingly calm and nonchalant about the situation.

Fuming with anger, you marched over to him, the frustration evident in every step. "What's wrong with you?" you shouted, barely containing the mixture of fear and rage coursing through your veins.

The other driver simply shrugged, his nonchalance sending a surge of disbelief through you. "Jesus, accidents happen. I didn't run into you on purpose. Despite, it is merely a scratch," he retorted with a heavy Irish accent, his tone infuriatingly dismissive and his lack of concern only fueled the fire of your indignation.

"Maybe it is just a scratch, but now I am fucking late for school pick-up because I have to deal with this crap," you raged, gesturing toward the damaged metal of your beloved Kia.

He raised an apologetic brow, acknowledging your inconvenience without offering further explanation.

"Look, let me give you the car-hire company's details. They will deal with the insurance claim. I took out extra cover," he began tentatively, reaching into his wallet and pulling out a card embossed with golden letters.

"Fuck, your car is a hire-car?" you asked incredulously, narrowing your eyes as you studied him more closely. This guy looked familiar somehow, but you couldn't quite place him.

"Yes, I am just visiting town," he replied, reading your confusion.

"Clearly!" you snapped, taking back control of yourself slightly before accepting the business card. "Now can I have your number too? Because those hire companies are awful to deal with and I need my car fixed as soon as possible," you said, glaring fiercely at him.

"Nice try, but no, I am not going to give you my number," the man then chuckled while clearly sensing your agitation.

"Are you serious? What kind of person refuses to provide their phone number after crashing into someone?" you demanded, growing increasingly irritated. "I mean, this wouldn't even be an issue if your stupid driving hadn’t caused this mess," you then spat and the blue-eyed stranger raised an imperious eyebrow, his pale face betraying no hint of emotion.

“Yes, I am serious. I am not giving you my number," he said, his voice firm and unfazed by your aggression, which is also when it hit you.

"Oh my god, you think that I am hitting on you?" you laughed sarcastically, attempting to cover up your growing anger by poking fun at him instead.

"Not precisely, but I don't know you and I don't know what you would do with my phone number if you had it," he responded matter-of-factly before asking you for a pen and paper. "I will give you my agent's number. If you have any problems with the car-hire company or my insurance, then you can give him a call," the stranger offered, finally breaking away from his stoicism.

"Your agent?" you chuckled skeptically, "Alright then, hand it over," you mused before you snatched the piece of paper from his hand, scrutinizing the contact information scribbled there with pursed lips.

"So, you are yet another big shot 'wanna be actor' here in Hollywood, huh?" you jeered sarcastically, unable to contain your amusement as he handed you the contact details of one of your father's competitors. Unless he was actually famous you thought, he should have given you his number simply for politeness sake.

"No, not quite," he corrected, cocking an eyebrow at you as he returned his gaze to the scratched front fender of your car. "But listen, I really have to go. I am late for a meeting," he interrupted, already reaching into his pocket for his keys.

"Oh, sure," you said, rolling your eyes. "I suppose I will be in touch with your agent then," you added with a hint of sarcasm.

"Listen, you can trust me," he assured you, flashing a smile that made his otherwise stern demeanor seem almost warm. "We will get your car fixed up," he assured you politely while you rolled your eyes.

"Yeah, right," you scoffed, still unconvinced.

"Hey, I promise I won't leave you hanging," he promised earnestly, extending a hand out to you.

Feeling a strange tug, you hesitated, but eventually placed your hand in his.

"I guess so," you sighed, releasing his grip and stepping back into your car, murmuring under your breath, calling him all sorts of names, before finally driving off.

To be continued...

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#cillian murphy #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x you #cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy x reader

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blindmanspuff · 1 year

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Black Works Studio Announces Ambush - Cigar News

Black Works Studio Announces Ambush - #Cigar News @BLTC_Cigars #cigars

Black Works Studio (BLK WKS) has announced Ambush, a sampler including multiples of each of its Tiger Series. Ambush will be available at select BLK WKS retailer events beginning this month. It is rolled, like all other Black Works Studio and Black Label Trading Company cigars at Fabrica Oveja Negra, in Esteli, Nicaragua. Given the popularity of our Tiger Series in 2022 we wanted to continue to…

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#Ambush #Black Label Trading Company #Black Works Studio #BLK WKS #James Brown

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reflectismo · 9 months

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He made me feel so confident.

INT: I love the Tom Snyder interview from 1975 where John talks about how proud he was of Ringo's success.

MARK HUDSON: Yeah! Well, you know what's interesting? Ringo gave me a great compliment one time. I'm very energetic, multi-colored beard, which you can't see out there in radioland, it's pretty frightening, and when Ringo sings, I really get him energized because he's always insecure about his voice, and Ringo always says, "I wanna be James Brown. I walk up to the microphone, l'm Bing Crosby." So that Ringo thing that we love so much, he would rather be Little Richard or Stevie Wonder or James Brown. And I always sort of like make him feel like he can hit notes that he never could. And one time in the studio he said, "You know, you remind me of John," because whenever Ringo had to sing a song, he'd get insecure, and evidently, from what Ringo said, that John would come out and say, "Alright Ring! Here we go man!" and he would start this thing like a football player. "You can do it! Here we go! Hit that note! With a little help from my friends!" and he would hit the note and he says "John had this thing that made me feel so confident," and a huge compliment to me, saying that made him feel the same way. And it's only because I quote Lennon, "Nothing you can do that can't be done." And I think that was a way of life, and I think that was the way John felt that way about Ringo. And that's when we look at John's first solo album, its three guys playing on it: Klaus Voorman, John Lennon and Ringo Starr, and that goes to show you the faith that obviously John had in him, was you know, three guys is pretty naked, and this day and age usually we do things to cover up.

— Interview with Mark Hudson (who produced five studio albums for Ringo) from Beatlology Magazine (May/June 2003 Edition)

#John Lennon #Ringo Starr #The Beatles #(IT’S JOHN AND RINGO HOURS FOR ME)#(Their bond was always so strong. They took care of each other.)#(I have a longer John & Ringo post that I’d like to post – just trying to locate a few final quotes that I’ve seen)#(In the meantime for all the John & Ritchie lovers this one’s for you!)#Mark Hudson #Beatlology Magazine

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marinas-drafts · 6 months

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|| Sarge & Lil Mama

|| Finishing What They Started ||

Blurb: 1k word count

Warnings: PG13 -Mentions of gun violence, assassination attempt, mentions of the murder of Sam Cooke, discussions about the real mob connections to record labels that threatened Cooke and others, Elvis being a protective husband and daddy, slightly misogynistic commands for a woman to give up her vocation??

Note: this is very much self indulgent for my own fascination with Sam Cooke and my theories regarding why he was shot dead in a Los Angeles motel while at the top of his fame, dismantling segregation with his performances, starting up a new label where artists owned their work and becoming publicly supportive of the likes of James Brown and Cassius Clay. He’s was RCA’s second most successful artist right behind Elvis Presley, a lovely human and an incredible artist, if you haven’t listened to him I throughly encourage you to, he’s groovy 💋 You may recall that in the proposal fic of Sarge, Elaine mentions having helped produce Cooke’s recent first record and Elvis urges her to marry him, there’s always time for music ventures after babies

Sarge & lil Mama Masterlist

February 1965

“Elvis, you don’t understand!” Elaine insists as if there’s nuance to the fact she’d just got shot at in broad daylight on Memphis’ Main Street with Jesse in her backseat.

“The hell I do!” He screams back, disheveled from the beating he’d administered her bought-off driver and gloriously beautiful in the greatest rage she’d ever seen take over him. Their sunny nursery on the top floor at Graceland was illuminated by a cheerful late winter’s sun and the pastel’s of the empty baby crib and curtains was in stark contrast to the dark mood hanging over the couple.

Elaine had gotten three shots into the windshield of the car that had done the drive-by and the Shelby county police were on a manhunt and giving Graceland’s phone an update call on the quarter hour.

Elvis hadn’t waited for no police when he’d heard shots outside the studio. Runnin’ out and finding no other culprit to get his hands on save the most recently inducted member of the Memphis Mafia who’d paused in a damn intersection plenty long enough to allow the hitmen to aim, fire and leave despite Elaine’s screams and threats. The man wasn’t recognizable in his mug shot, so swollen and bloodied was he from Elvis’ ire.

“Woman,” Elvis claws at his destroyed pompadour with gnarled hands, “you tell me our friend Sam Cooke didn’t die by accident, ya tell me he got taken out with two bullets in him and bled out on some seedy motel floor -not for some damn hooker but over y’all’s lil venture. You get your car windows blown out by a twelve gauge, my fanmail’s laced with love letters from the fuckin’ Chicago mob warnin’ us, sayin’ leave off the music level venture -or else. Ya tell me ya ain’t paranoid then ya ask me to let ya just keep at it? W-w-what do ya expect me to do, Tink? Huh? W—w-What?” he is bellowing at her by now, his terror coming out in anger, and Elaine just stares at his positively battered fists.

“E, your knuckle’s bleedin-“

“-don’t change the goddamn subject!”

“I’m not it’s just- it’s drippin.” she mutters meekly as the lemon yellow carpet specks from crimson drips.

He sticks the offending fist in his mouth and sucks at the cut before continuing, his voice shaking, “Ya tell me all this then ya insist on goin’ about your damn career! I don’t get ya. I really don’t get ya.”

“It’s not just my career, Elvis!” she begs, “It’s yours! It’s the future of dozens of independent record makers hinging on this. If I just lay back after this -we ain’t gonna have a free music industry where artists get their rights, own their work! We’ll always be payin’ up to the mob -and we ain’t ever gonna be free of Colonel without it! This is why they’re so damned scared, E, so scared they’d turn to murder! I’m doing this for us, keepin’ at it for you!”

“W-w-we got enough as is, Tink.” he whispers, eyes wide and scared for her as he looks down at her, pastel blue coat grimy and bloody as his hands, a mockery of their pristine little life. “We got enough as is, an’all that risk takin’ -i-it ain’t your job, sweetheart. That’s man's work.”

“They killed that man, Elvis.” she repeated disbelieving the truth that’s been haunting them these past two months. “They’ve killed Cooke. Our friend, my collaborator. Killed him dead. And they think they’ve got us all scared, ‘cept for me. And they tried to finish it today.”

“Yeah.” he agreed, eyes watering, “And I ain’t gonna let that happen to ya ever again, I just ain’t. Not even if I gotta chain ya to my bed.”

Elaine swallowed down the warmth she felt rush through her at his rampant protectiveness. “A couple more months and we’ll be set, we can switch you over, you’ll be independent.” she sniffles, “You won’t be beholden to the colonel. You’ll have options.”

“I-I-I d-don’t need rid of him, Tink?” he disagrees while his tone stays questioning, still unable to understand her icy animosity towards the man. “He done gave us all this!”

“-and to quote your mama, we don’t need all this.’ We never have.” Elaine replies, putting her hand over his fist as he’s walked closer to her seat on the edge of the nanny bed, “But it wasn’t him, it was you that gave us all this. He goes on like he’s connin’ the nation into lovin’ ya. What a fool. There’s not a soul on God’s green earth who didn’t love ya once they knew of ya.”

“I don’t need all them lovin’ me.” Elvis whispers, his eyes glued to her lips as he sits down beside her gingerly as if fearful he’ll hurt her while he’s still keyed up, “Jus’ you. Tink I can’t do nothin’ -nothin without ya.”

“Elvis, just give me a few months more,” she begs softly as they sway towards each other, “give me your men and guns and what else, but let me finish. For Sam. And for us.”

His nose brushes hers, long and elegant and nuzzling her cheek and the bridge of her own, nuzzling tears she didn’t notice she had shed, his breath ghosts over her parted lips.

“No.”

He answers as he slots his mouths over her own gasping one, dragging his lips over and up and to the side of her own, smooching her clean, savoring the softness of them like he nearly lost her.

Which he had. He almost had.

He grips her tighter and forces her to accept his terrified love, bending her backwards in his fervor, massive hand, so recently used to maul her attacker, now cradling the back of her neck tenderly, rubbing at the soft spots on either side of her skull.

“Elvis-“ she whimpers at the denial.

“No.” he mutters and shakes her by the neck like a kitten, “Lovin’ ya gives me enough right as it is, but I got more, you know I’ve got more reason. You're my children’s mother! You ain’t meant to be out there gettin’ shot at! Working nine to five like some sunnuvabitch’s damn Secretary. I married me a woman not a-a-“

“I’m doin’ this for us.” she insists weakly.

“And I’m the one who decides for us.” he reminds, his hand still firm on her neck and those lean, piano playin’ fingers span all the way to her pulse point, she thinks she feels pressure increasing there, “And I say no. Be my wife, Tink, be their mama. S’why I married ya.”

Hope y’all enjoyed! Your “bugging” and “screaming” is music to my ears, fuel to my fire and keeps me writing, please never hold back -this is a safe space for feral little Elvis loving rodents…like you and me.

If you’d like to be tagged in this particular series please drop a note below. I’ll admit I’m disorganized and have trouble keeping all the requests sorted when they’re scattered, what I do check regularly are the requests in the notes for chapters -and I do manage to get those added. So, if you’ve put in a request and I’ve failed ya, or if you’re new and would like to be added, please pop a note below. Xoxo 💋

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#sarge and lil mama #elvis presley #elvis fanfiction #elvis fanfic #elvis x reader #elvis imagine #elvis #elvis presley x reader #elvis presley fanfiction

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