#bob marley up rising!

[lyrasky]

和訳【Redemption Song/ Chris Cornell】Bob Marleyを歌うGrungeのリーダー A Leader of Grunge Rock

和訳【Redemption Song/ Chris Cornell】Bob Marleyを歌うGrungeのリーダーA Leader of Grunge Rock Lyraのブログへ #chriscornell #happybirthdaychriscornell #redemptionsong #bobmarley #thewaillers #クリスコーネル #soundgarden #audioslave #templeofthedog #pearljam #uprising #grungerock #reggae

Happy Birthday Chris Cornell! I still can’t believe you aren’t in the world. miss you.You’ve always inspired me. …always …You will continue to inspire everyone. 今日はChris Cornellのバースデイ。毎年恒例、LyraがChrisの曲を和訳解説するので、皆んなでChris Cornellを偲びましょう。 彼のバンドの曲を紹介しようと思いましたが、今日はソロ活動の中で、Chrisが色々なアーティストのカヴァーを歌っていたのでその中から前にも紹介したBob…

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#Audioslave #audioslave lyrics meanings #bob marley and the wailers #bob marley lyrics meanings #bob marley music video #bob marley up rising! #bobmarley #chris cornell birthday #chris cornell bob marley #chris cornell lyrics meanings #chris cornell wiki #chris cornell wikipedia #chriscornell #grunge rock #grungerock #happy birthday chris cornell #happybirthdaychriscornell #pearl jam lyrics meanings #pearljam #Redemption Song #redemptionsong #redeption song music video #redeption song wikipedia #reggae #Soundgarden #soundgarden lyrics meanings #temple of the doa #templeofthedog #the wailers #thewaillers

[moon8th]

Thoughts on Sagittarius Risings 💭

Spreading their Truth

The Ultimate Rebel placement, there are literally too many forms of pictures/music/art in general I can’t fit on this 1 post about these expansive Jupiter natives

Sagittarius is tapped into the higher chakras, (knowing, thinking, speaking) acting as “The Teacher” archetype, some able to touch the world 🌍!! don’t get too self righteous about that saggy, stay grounded, honestly I think life naturally humbles us anyway

~Bob Marley ~Jimi Hendrix

Rockstar Lifestyle!! Bc of there Gemini 7th house ong these natives want to learn about anything they deem will expand their minds for the best! Most Sag Risings desire to travel the world!! Explore and experience, they deeply impact there partners life by expanding their psyche and expanding their own

Aries 5th house,, these natives are most creative when they are just expressing themselves, (Aries is the self) so whatever fires them up emotionally and makes them passionate is wholeheartedly what you’ll see them lean into!

Humanitarians! Every single person I list on this post is/was for the people, Libra 11th house makes them see “the other, the partner” on a societal level. They really do care and want to help the world as much as they can

~Jhene Aiko ~Erykah Badu

“I am Alice, I’m in Wonderland” ~Jhene Aiko Bc of their Pisces 4th house, ooof these people come from such a confusing upbringing! As they grow, they wake up from their dream-like state and feel the extreme need to bring big truth and healing to the world (Virgo 10th house)

Sag 1st house, something is always big about them lol, it most likely is their presence in general (aura) but added to that it can also be their huge smile/muscle prominence/really tall/ really short/eyes/voice/etc.

Aquarius 3rd house, our mouths are slliiiicckk lmaaoo fast and sharp🔪, maybe we should check ourselves before we speak 😭😭, but some ppl need to hear the truth 🗣️🗣️

~Bruce Lee ~Wiz Khalifa

They are heartthrobs. please just look @ them broo 😭 too unique

But fr bc of their stubborn Taurus 6th house, they should build a healthy everyday routine, they can really benefit from doing some form of spiritual/traditional/body centering workout such as martial arts/yoga/kickboxing/swimming/weightlifting/etc.

Tattoos for us can be spiritual af, I have very sentimental ones, but look up Jhenes fr

As a Sag Rising, I always get called “spiritual” by ppl whether they mean it in a nice way or not.. which is fine when ppl are being nice🫶🏽 , but the people that are judgmental, they’re just trying to tame me, it backfires- I dare someone to try to tame a Sag Rising 😭😭✌🏽🖕🏽

~Nelson Mandela ~Princess Diana

Wellllll I feel as though these 2 don’t need an intro lmaoo, I forgot that they even knew each other!! Big Humanitarian Energy!!

Scorpio 12th house.. tbh it’s hard for me to fully grasp this placement bc it’s mine, however I do know it can make someone very intuitive- you can literally look at Diana in old videos and tell by her eyes she was reading everyone correctly

Tropical Sagittarius in Vedic can be the nakshatras Anuradha, Jyeshta, and Mula, which one is your ascendant?

All I can say is wHAT a line up! I tried not to be too bias, but I love us fr lol 🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽 lmk what y’all think

#astrology #sagittarius rising #sagittarius ascendant #astro notes #sagittarius #capricorn #aqaurius #pisces #aries #taurus #gemini #cancer #leo #virgo #libra #scorpio #astrology notes #astro community #astro observations #tropical astrology #western astrology #anuradha #jyeshta #mula #jhene aiko #erykah badu #jyeshtha #rising sign

[blueeyesfilledwithpassion]

Three Little Birds - Bob Marley & The Wailers

"Three Little Birds" (feat. The Wailers)

"Don't worry about a thing 'Cause every little thing is gonna be alright" Singing, "Don't worry about a thing 'Cause every little thing is gonna be alright!"

Rise up this morning, smiled with the rising sun Three little birds pitch by my doorstep Singing sweet songs of melodies pure and true Saying, "This is my message to you-ou-ou"

Singing, "Don't worry about a thing 'Cause every little thing is gonna be alright" Singing, "Don't worry about a thing (Don't worry) 'Cause every little thing is gonna be alright!"

Rise up this morning, smiled with the rising sun Three little birds pitch by my doorstep Singing sweet songs of melodies pure and true Saying, "This is my message to you-ou-ou"

Singing, "Don't worry about a thing (Worry about a thing, oh) 'Cause every little thing is gonna be alright (Don't worry) Singing, "Don't worry about a thing (I won't worry) 'Cause every little thing is gonna be alright!" Singing, "Don't worry about a thing 'Cause every little thing is gonna be alright (I won't worry) Singing, "Don't worry about a thing 'Cause every little thing is gonna be alright!" Singing, "Don't worry about a thing (Don't worry about a thing) 'Cause every little thing is gonna be alright

#bob marley #bob marley and the wailers #three little birds #my message to you #love #hope #dont worry #everything will be alright #rising sun #passion #passionate #spilled words #spilled thoughts #beautiful #songs #reggae #inspiration #motivational #love quotes #life #life lessons #friendship #worry #art #emotional music #music #SoundCloud

[leahweberking]

“Rise up this mornin’, smile with the risin’ sun.” Bob Marley

[handwerkstatt]

Rise up this morning, smile with the rising sun Three little birds pitch by my doorstep Singin' sweet songs of melodies pure and true Sayin′, this is my message to you

Singin′, "Don't worry about a thing" ′Cause every little thing is gonna be alright Sayin', don′t worry (don't worry) about a thing ′Cause every little thing gonna be alright

(Bob Marley)

#three little birds

[thedivinelights]

Console.WriteLine("A Christmas Carol");

STAVE TWO: THE OPERATING OFFICER

Ao3

(TW: Mentions of Miscarriage and Abortion)

⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯

It must have been a miracle — or perhaps a talent; one could never truly be sure of one’s own abilities until they are tested, after all — that when Scrooge and Marley awoke the next morning, it was not from the deafening sound of the alarm at half-past six, not from the satisfying ache that swelled across their marked bodies, and not from the drumming of Hephaestus’ hammer upon their heads. No, they awoke with a sober clarity that surprised them both, the pounding headache absent and the Scotch-fueled fogginess cleared away as if it had never been. Perhaps it was the sense of duty or the knowledge that their new executives would be arriving soon that motivated them to rise with such punctuality, though neither of them could be quite certain.

The morning rituals were conducted with a crisp efficiency that would have made even the finest of military generals tint themselves green with envy. Their suits were impeccably pressed, their ties flawlessly knotted, and their shoes polished to a shine to match the lustre of the finest gemstones. They partook in a simple breakfast — two cups of burning black coffee and some oatmeal most likely conjured by the microwave — and, without even bothering to clean up their mess, made their way to the office without any fuss, either in the car or in the office.

“With Bob and the rest of our main staff off for the holidays, we’ll have to take on the extra workload.” Marley remarked, glancing at his aged silver Rolex. Five to ten. Take away another five minutes and it was ten to.

“We’ll make do.” Scrooge adjusted his tie as he leaned into his chair. “We always have.”

And as soon as he had spoken those words, an incantation in and of itself, a knock, as gentle as the padding of feet yet still somehow so assertive, graced their ears.

“Good morning, messieurs. I’m here for my introductions?”

To say that the two executive officers were stunned would be an understatement. For when the door to their office opened as it had been countless times before, I tell you now that this time was different. You see, for the three decades in which Scrooge and Marley had resided in this establishment, they had seen that selfsame door open a hundred different ways from a hundred different walks of life. A newer employee would peep their head through the door. An angry business associate would strut about like peacocks, acting as if they had owned the place. Their own secretary, whom they had been acquainted with for as long as they could remember, would walk in without so much as a second thought, either with a coffee or a stack of paperwork in hand. They had seen it all, heard it all, smelled it all.

But this time? It was an unfamiliar situation. A new record in which they had yet to keep. The knocks appeared timid enough that they could judge it based on low self-esteem or intrusive second thoughts. The door opened hastily enough to believe it had been nerves alight with nauseating anxiety or insecurity which, considering the circumstances, would have been a reasonable response. But, I ask you, what was it that really, truly, absolutely threw them off their game? The stride. Yes, dear reader, it was the stride.

Sanguine. Poised. Graceful. Long and purposeful, but not so purposeful that it appeared arrogant or overdone. The heels that clacked against the floor were not nearly as loud or as prominent as they could have been, featherlight taps against polished wood being the only audible noise from the footwear that they could discern. It seemed contradictory. It looked contradictory. It was a stride of someone who knew their place, someone who was comfortable in their own skin and carried themselves with an air of quiet confidence. A stride of someone who understood exactly who they were, but made no show of ever flaunting it.

And the most surprising part of it all… was that neither of them had expected it from someone so young.

This woman was not so much a woman as she was a vision of juxtaposed contrasts. Youth and experience, confidence and humility, elegance and pragmatism all seemed to coalesce into this wonder of a woman, contradictory yet so beautifully blended into a harmonious whole. She was so strikingly attractive that even Marley — who had never been one to be infatuated with the fairer sex in lieu of his own inclinations — could not help but find himself captivated by her presence.

She looked the part of a fair maiden when she smiled, all innocent and forbearing like the tenderest spring bud about to bloom. But when her bright eyes locked onto the two men, grey against green and blue, her countenance displayed a wealth of knowledge and shrewdness that exceeded far beyond her years. Her hair, which hung loosely over her shoulders in flowing curls, was dyed the purest of white, tainted only by the thinnest of black streaks peeking through ever so slightly at the roots. Her forearms, exposed beneath a crisp white blouse trimmed with summer flowers, bore a musculature befitting that of an athlete. Yet her fingers, petite and delicate, hinted at the finesse of an artist. A pair of comfortable, tailored navy trousers accompanied her ensemble. But amidst the purity of the brighter shades, a single splash of colour adorned her body in the form of a single olive branch hanging upon her ear as if it was a part of her body, seeming so close to falling, yet ever securely perched where it was intended to be.

"Are you the candidate that Grantham has chosen for us?" Scrooge asked when Marley had been otherwise distracted.

"I am!" 

Her voice had been surprisingly soft despite her cheerfulness. "Mlle Pastelle Talon, M. Scrooge. Your new Chief Operating Officer, if you'll have me."

Marley, as he roughly skimmed Pastelle's folder, spoke with an odd mix between deference and intrigue. "It says here that you are twenty-one, a rather youthful age for such a prestigious position."

Scrooge inquired curiously to Pastelle upon whether or not she had worked with Asplex Industries before in any capacity, for one who seemed to have so little experience could not possibly have been recommended without some previous connection to the company.

“I took an apprenticeship here when I first moved to England two years ago.” Pastelle elaborated. “It was the previous COO who had taken me under his wing, actually.”

Scrooge remarked politely that the previous holder of the title was, to put it lightly, a piece of work that no one with a sense of self-preservation would ever wish to willingly associate with in any manner.

“Believe me, M. Scrooge, I understand that better than anyone.” Pastelle agreed with some restrained amusement, her lips forming a tight smile at the thought of the salacious, revolting, and crude being who had been her predecessor. “But despite my… situation, I learned a great deal about the inner workings of Asplex Industries because of him, so in a way, I have much to thank him for. I do hope my age has not discouraged you in your decision making.”

Marley swiftly and aptly rejected any intention to offend or discriminate. “Age is but a number, Miss Talon. If you have the qualifications and capabilities to excel in your field, then we see no reason not to have you in our team.”

“But that’s only if you are qualified.” Scrooge sharply added. Leave it to him to smother out the glowing embers of hope with a bucket of ice-cold reality. “I trust that Grantham has debriefed you with the details?”

The plans for the day, the day after, and the day after that, were simple enough to understand. For the entirety of the workday, Scrooge and Marley would accompany the aspiring executive, watching and observing and evaluating with keen eyes as each candidate would go about their duties, or rather, what would be their duties if they had managed to acquire the positions they sought. At the end of the three day, the two scrutineers would make an exhaustively detailed and comprehensive evaluation and decide then and there whether or not the candidate had gotten the job. And as an added bonus from the beloved Grantham, perhaps both a blessing and a curse for both parties involved, the couple themselves were not allowed to have any direct interaction with any of the applicants unless explicitly stated by said applicant or did so in a way that did not affect the results. Such rules had to be within reason, of course. I suppose if one of the entrants brandished a gun and forced the CEOs to dance the Macarena while singing show tunes, then yes, that would fall outside the realms of acceptable bounds of behaviour.

Fair rules and fair game, with few external factors that could sway their decisions. It was a pity that Grantham had gone off to celebrate the wretched holidays as so many others in their employ had been eagerly hurtling towards. Perhaps they could have had a few words with the elusive CHRO regarding these peculiar conditions.

Though, in retrospect, it mattered very little at this point. They were more than capable of keeping to the schedule.

Pastelle smiled, more genuine than it had been before. “Oui, M. Scrooge. I know all there is to know. Tristan told me what to expect when I arrived.”

Ah, first name basis. Denotes familiarity with the subject, in this case a C-suite executive. Human Resources Officer. A casual tone indicated either a rapport with the higher-ups or a certain level of confidence that bordered on audacity. That, or it had been a strategic move to seem more friendly and approachable. Regardless of her reason — I shall endeavour to leave it to interpretation — it was most certainly a mark in her favour, as Scrooge and Marley inwardly acknowledged.

“I would like to make a few inquiries, if possible.” Pastelle spoke up with such tact and consideration that it almost caught her employers off-guard. Rare was it that people in their line of work — bankers, financiers, and the like —  spoke to them with tried and true sincerity and cordiality, gestures all the more foreign to them in their high echelons of industry.

Marley peered over as Pastelle stood from her seat, quietly pushing it under her desk without so much as a whimper of the grating sound against wood. He responded, then, waving a hand in dismissal as he motioned to speak freely.

“How did Asplex Industries come to be?” Pastelle quizzed with curiosity. 

“Through hard work and determination. Naught else but perfection.” Scrooge replied simply, content with his answer until he found that his companion shared not his sentiment and earned himself a disapproving glare. “What? I answered the question, did I not?”

“You could at least give the lady a bit more than that, Scrooge.” Marley chided, tilting his head over to the expectant Pastelle. “It’s not often someone asks a query like this.”

Scrooge rolled his eyes but conceded nonetheless. “Fine, then.”

He stood from his chair, aches and pains from sitting in a rickety old chair for so long beginning to claw at him like a feral cat scraping against a deteriorated scratching post. A few swift strides were all he had needed to reach the expansive window that overlooked the heart of London's financial district. The city sprawled below, a labyrinth of glass, steel, and concrete, where dreams of wealth and success were forged and shattered daily. It was ever a sight to be envious of, sitting at the top of a building built upon the backs of brilliance and the betterment of the mechanical society.

“Thirty-two years ago, we were nothing.” Scrooge placed his hands behind his back, almost sensing the afternoon breeze tickling his brown hair through the double-glazed windows. “Just two men fresh out of a boarding school that refused us our academic accolades. No money, no connections, and no prospects. But we were young and brash and ambitious, just as people of our age usually are.”

“But perhaps even more?” Pastelle prompted as she tucked a stray strand of white behind her ear.

“All of this had started from ambition! What else could it have been?” Scrooge motioned around him as he turned back to his desk to swipe his jacket, moving from the comfort of a private setting to a well-deserved lunch break. Marley accompanied him. Pastelle followed behind like a curious pet learning about her owners. 

What was it that had been said by the man behind the mouse? ‘All dreams can come true, if we have the courage to pursue them’? Well, Scrooge and Marley had most definitely had the courage, and perhaps a touch of audacity to be sprinkled along with it. It was they who made a game of relevance. They who made a game of story, a game of innovation, a game of business. Who cared for sound directors? Who cared for artists? Who cared for designers? Who cared for programmers, or writers, or testers, or marketers, or whatever myriad of roles meant to accompany a game’s development? Surely not them! For Scrooge had programmed and developed and tested, Marley had designed and marketed and managed. They were their own creators and critics, their own team, their own entity. Between passionate intimacy and dispassionate business acumen, they had built the foundations of what would become Asplex Industries.

Novel Nexus, it was called. A role-playing game that took the dull, mind-numbingly senseless education of classic literature and screenplays and turned it into an interactive masterpiece, twisting the tales into horrifyingly enthralling narratives of duality, responsibility, ambition, and romance with narrative shifts one could only dream of. What if Utterson had felt no desire to intervene in the sinister plot of Jekyll and Hyde? What if Macbeth had never met those three witches? What if the Birling family had continued to live their extravagant lives without Inspector Goole’s interference? What if Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had never become roommates? The players themselves were tasked with making these decisions, altering the course of literary history and shaping the destiny of iconic characters. The game was an instant hit, a revelation in the world of interactive storytelling, and it catapulted their names into the limelight of the whole of the video game industry. All eyes had been on them, and it was so gratifying to spit in the face of their contemporaries, their critics, and their detractors. To laugh in the face of all those loutish dullards who thought that ‘those queers’ would be nothing but two men with disgusting predilections and proclivities. They had shown them. Oh, they had shown them.

“Mr. Scrooge and I loved these tales with every fibre of our being. And we loved video games just as much, if not even more so.” Marley interjected, a hint of long-forgotten pride swelling within him.

“I’m sure they must mean much to you, M. Marley.”

“For a boy who spent his formative years jumping families, only to finally find a home…” Marley closed his eyes. “It meant everything to me.”

“Do you still love them now?” Pastelle twirled the olive branch hanging from her ear. “Or has banality overcome your passions?”

Marley said not a word for a moment, wringing his hands as he pursed his lips to grasp at a suitable answer. “We are men of business, Miss Talon. Good men of business.”

He'd hoped that would be enough to satiate her. And even if it wasn't, he knew she wouldn't dare to ask for more as young Twist had done. Marley knew her ploy well enough. The position of Chief Operating Officer was by far the one that worked the closest with Scrooge and Marley. She was testing the waters of what was and what wasn’t, in a way. Keep them on their toes, see how much they would willingly share, and how much they would withhold. Neither Scrooge nor Marley had been ignorant of such tactics having been in business for so long. But if it unnerved them enough that one so young had been privy to such methods, they had done a fine job in hiding it.

Thankfully, Pastelle had been satisfied with their answers, and soon they travelled alongside each other through the interconnected maze of corridors and elevators that made up the sprawling Asplex Industries headquarters. Marley excused himself after a while, however. Despite his sobriety and the hours that had already passed, it appeared the indulgences of the previous night had finally caught up to his ageing and nauseated innards and took off in a hurry.

Thus did the two that remained travel on and on, never stalling or waiting for even a second to pass without movement. How now could he have forgotten such a sincere passion for literature? How could he, the stern and unyielding CEO of Asplex Industries, be filled with such gladness as he reminisced? Had he been affected by the plague of the festivities? Of course not! What cared he for a time of blatant consumerism when they indulge in gluttony and sloth to drown away the sorrows of their sad, sordid little lives? What good was it to pretend to jocund and jolly for one day when the other three hundred and sixty-four or sixty-five was filled with the drudgery of daily existence?

“Did you ever play Novel Nexus in your youth?” Scrooge asked inquisitively, both in a sense of curiosity and professional interest. Perhaps it toed the line between nonintervention and preference in these evaluations, but the subject seemed harmless enough. Pastelle had been the one to initiate the conversation, after all, and those who initiate change would have a better opportunity to manage the change that is inevitable… or so the saying goes.

“Nouveaux Nexus? I did not, personally. But my mother did.” Pastelle seemed almost wistful as she moved about, occasionally stopping to help some few employees that remained detached from the holidays, scribbling down notes as she answered. “My father had apparently bought the game for her as a gift to help pass the time when I was in the womb. Needless to say, when I had been old enough to hear the tales, my mother bought the screenplays and novels referenced in the game and read them to me in its entirety. Did all the voices too. She always was so fond of that Inspector Goole.”

“Hah! The Inspector?” Scrooge both exclaimed with amour propre and scoffed at the ludicrousness of it all. “He’s so bloody popular it’s almost sickening in its magnification. I was always partial to Arthur Birling, personally. The sexist bloke was as idiotic and foolish as they come. Who was he to assume anything of his own son’s actions in the pub, or his daughter’s actions at Milwards? To make long-winded speeches as a ‘hard-headed businessman’? It was he who was the fons et origo of Eva Smith’s ultimate downfall, mark my words. Besides, there’s something quite charming about watching an actor fumble through lines so dumb it's a wonder how he even managed to find his way to the theatre.”

To hear Scrooge speak of all of his childhood tales with such reverence and passion, one would believe him to be that radiant young man who had once stood at the precipice of a brilliant future, untainted by the scars or the cynicism of corporate warfare.

“Rather passionate, M. Scrooge.” Pastelle observed with a teasing lilt as she walked backwards in front of him.

“Ah yes… forgive me. We’ve gotten off topic.” Scrooge’s cheeks flushed a tint of pink, clearing his throat as he adjusted his tie and retained a more professional persona. Oh! How his fellow money men and moguls would gawk and gape at the sight of his perfervid admissions. “I trust that you will not derail this evaluation with such unimportant anecdotes any longer?”

The tone he had taken up this time brooked no room for further personal exchanges between the two, for such a degree as was necessary to complete the tasks at hand. They found their way out of the labyrinthine hallways, trusting that Marley would find his way to them soon enough, and escaped into the cafeteria. It was spacious enough, filled with enough glass tables to deter the employees from congregating for longer than necessary. Some few workers who did not deign to celebrate the holiday season lingered about like phantoms in a hauntingly empty space. Most of the cafeteria staff had taken their leave, but there was one lone barista who remained at his station in a dimly lit corner of the room, diligently preparing beverages — alcoholic and non-alcoholic alike — for the stragglers of the conglomerate who dared to defy the festivities.

It had been a large room, but comfort was as sparse as the holiday spirit that dwelled within it. A neat row of lockers, aligned and polished to a shine, were situated on the far left side, with automatic glass doors on beside it that led to more hallways and more cramped offices for talented programmers and cybersecurity analysts clearly not getting paid enough for their services. And upon the right, more glass doors awaited, leading to a balcony with about as much shade as a cloudless sky. Some few men and women soundlessly chattered with amicable politeness, the smoke of tobacco streaming up into the morning air, forming shapes of grey in a concentrated aerosol of nitrogen and oxygen and carbon, both monoxide and dioxide. The Foggy Balcony it was called, so affectionately named for being popular amongst both the juniors and the seniors who wished for solace amidst the stifling confinements of climate-controlled rooms. Barely a moment was spent on that platform admiring the view of London from on high, the time better suited to corroding lungs on a regular basis as the woes of deadlines and projects and emails were made abundantly clear.

Without his dearly beloved to look over his shoulder and berate him for unhealthy habits, Scrooge allowed himself a moment of indulgence to relieve some stress of his own. He pulled a single roll from a pack I dare not allude to the whereabouts of for my own safety as well as yours, dear reader, and made his way out onto the Foggy Balcony whilst Pastelle sauntered over to the lockers, fumbling for her key that appeared to have disappeared in the deepest recesses of her pockets. Those that had been taking up the space of the platform noticed Scrooge’s arrival, expeditiously stamping out their unfinished stubs as they made their excuses to leave, rushing back into the building as a chaotic clump rather than in a linear line. Few cared for the head honcho to catch them in the act, but it was far better to comply than to provoke.

In the end, only two ignorant souls remained, blissfully unaware of the shark that lurked beneath their calm waters. They were two gentlemen, vastly differing in age, yet still as attuned to their shared moment as one would hope to be. Hanging their suit jackets loosely upon their shoulders, they shared a cig between them, puffing out between conversations that Scrooge had heard clear as day.

“...I mean, we really don’t have much of a choice.” The younger man began, a brunette with bright blue eyes and a slender figure. “I hoped that my apprenticeship here would be enough to scrape by, but…”

“Aye, ah cannae blame ye fer bein’ idealistic.” The older, broader ginger with a clear and gritty Scottish twang shook his head sadly. “But Asplex Industries ain’t a charity, laddie. We all work fer our pay, the wee bit we get…”

The sound of footsteps caught their attention, and both men practically jumped out of their skins as Scrooge stepped in the gap between them and leaned against the railing, rendered speechless even as he looked to the older man with an expectant raise of his hand. It could have been said, then, that the speed in which the Scotsman offered his own lighter had been as swift and as mesmerising as the quick flicker of a striking match, which would ignite the end of the stub with a hissing flame that danced and twirled and spiralled before revealing the glory of the orangey-red tobacco as it glowed in the light of the early morning sun. It had been swift and without hesitation, for when the opportunity arises for a poor wage earner to perhaps seek gainful employment and the possibility of a larger paycheck, one takes whatever means necessary to secure it. And if that means must be procured through an easy transaction of expensive cigarettes, then so be it. He would not complain.

Scrooge looked between his stunned companions — if companions had been the right word to describe it, I am not sure — and watched their shifting countenances of fear, curiosity, intrigue, and awe, sighing as he shoved the lighter into his own pocket. It was cheap enough, he mused. The man could always get a new one.

“Well? Don’t stop on my account.” Scrooge smirked with wry amusement, exhaling a plume of smoke into the brisk morning air. “Continue your conversation, gentlemen. I’m merely here for some fresh air.”

While the Scotsman had indeed lost his voice in the presence of such a prominent figure in the financial industry, the apprentice had as snippy a tongue as one could expect for a man upon the lower rungs of the proverbial corporate ladder. He muttered some few words of indignity, clearly taking offence to the sudden interruption with choice words hidden beneath that boyish exterior. But, as we know, this was Ebenezer Scrooge they were talking about. And if there was anything he was known for, it was that… well, putting it mildly, the older employees knew better than to fuck with their superiors. Especially when said superiors held the keys to their financial wellbeing, and one just so happened to be standing right beside them.

“P-Please, boss, dinnae to be too hard on the lad!” The Scotsman exclaimed at last, desperately trying to ease the tension that had settled in like the thick fog that often accompanied them. “He’s barely a wee bairn o’ an apprentice here, y’see.”

“Hm. Fresh blood.” Scrooge looked over the apprentice with a keen gaze. “Welcome.”

“Boss?” The apprentice paled under the scrutinising glare hidden behind layers of indifference between orbs of blue, the cig slipping from the loose grip of his fingers. “So you’re… Mr. Marley?”

“My partner is currently indisposed at the moment.” Scrooge took another drag from his cigarette. 

“Mr. Scrooge, then?” The apprentice inquired. The silence had told him all he needed to. “I thought you might’ve taken his surname, since… well…”

A valid assumption, to be sure. It was well known amongst the employees of Asplex Industries — often the general public had been sceptical of the men and their relationship — that Scrooge and Marley were partners in business and in life. It was a small fact that had garnered sprinkles of disdain amidst the more conservative employees in the early days of their business. But the years went on, and so did the people as their continued success made the criticism as nonsensical as it was irrelevant to the ever-changing world they cared little for. No one but the ignorant few remained, the other employees shoving the lot of them out of the way and completely ignoring their petty squabbles and questions and judgements in favour of getting the work that needed to be done. It was a very practical approach to the matter, one that Scrooge himself appreciated when it came to the affairs of business. His sexuality, much like his personal life, was no one’s business but his own. If the public masses preferred to continue on their merry little way, and if the ignorance did not escalate into anything more sinister, then he would be more than happy to leave them to their own devices.

“Like I said: Don’t stop on my account.” Scrooge repeated.

“‘S not a pleasant discussion.” The Scotsman argued feebly. Scrooge chose to ignore it.

“It’s hardly something to worry about.” The apprentice fired back as he stamped hard against the poor cig, invigorated by the encounter.

“New life ain’t somethin’ tae worry about?” The Scotsman looked indignant, unaware of the way Scrooge had stopped midway through a drag.

“It’s really her choice, in the end.” The apprentice’s voice softened slightly, looking to the endless expanse of the city as he let the afternoon breeze brush past his skin. “I can’t afford to care for it with my university debts and meagre earnings. If she wishes to give it up, it’s a load off my end.”

Scrooge felt none of the sting of the burns as he crushed his still-lit cigarette in his scarred fingers, the bite against his nerves doing nothing to alleviate the growing tension as the well-kept posture of the office overlord, the solitary shark, shifted with such vehemence to nearly lead to his ragged ruin. The sheer disdain that had been marred into his countenance had been so translucent that it was almost transparent. The magnitude of such a statement and the ramifications thereof were not lost on him.

“And if she chooses to keep the child?” Scrooge questioned in a tone as frosty as the December afternoon air.

“She can’t! I can’t!” The apprentice exclaimed, face white as a sheet as he stood aghast. “There’s no way! Not on her own! Not at our age! Not with the health plan in this bloody place! Not with my stipend! Not with the loans and the rates and the debt and the expenses! It’s not feasible!”

“You could make it feasible if you worked harder.” Scrooge countered sharply, his voice slicing through the chill with an edge of scorn. “You could make it feasible if you cut your spending, if you saved more, if you put in the extra hours, if you sacrificed the little luxuries for a greater cause. You could make it feasible if you stopped whining and started making something of yourself!”

Scrooge knew his words were harsh, but he didn’t care. He had built his empire from nothing, defied all odds, and carved out a place in the world for himself and his beloved Marley. He had no patience for excuses or self-pity. He had no tolerance for those who didn’t strive for success with every fibre of their being. He believed in hard work, in discipline, in the relentless pursuit of goals. And anyone who didn’t share that vision, who didn’t possess the grit to fight for their dreams, was nothing but a waste of potential in his eyes.

The apprentice’s face twisted into a mask of shock and indignation. He looked as if he might protest, might defend himself, might argue back. But the words died on his lips as he met Scrooge’s steely gaze, and the weight of the older man’s disapproval seemed to crush any further protests.

“I have little patience for those who can’t take responsibility for their own lives.” Scrooge’s voice was like ice, unforgiving and relentless. “If you can’t handle the consequences of your actions, then you have no business being here. You have no business expecting others to bail you out. You have no business bringing your personal problems into the workplace. We are here to work, to succeed, to build something greater than ourselves. If you can’t contribute to that, then you’re just dead weight.”

The apprentice stood frozen, his eyes wide and his mouth agape, as if the faintest of gusts would break him down at any moment. The older Scotsman beside him shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting between Scrooge and the younger man, uncertain of how to intervene, unsure of how to defuse the tension that had seized the balcony.

“Asplex Industries is no charity, boy.” Scrooge reiterated the Scotsman’s words as his voice softened, but was no less blunt and unforgiving. “We are still a business. You may be a new hire, but I will not suffer dullards who do not work to the best of their ability, refuse to mature, and then demand pity and pay for their mistakes as if it were my own.”

The apprentice hung his head, unable to meet the stern gaze of the CEO any longer. He was humbled and defeated, his sense of entitlement utterly shattered in the face of such blunt and cold reality. Scrooge scoffed and he remembered to breathe, not bothering to warrant either of the two men with anything more as he flicked what little remained of his cigarette over the balcony, watching as it was caught and carried on the winds and far from view. He had said what he needed to say, and they had taken it or they hadn't, but in the end, it wasn't his burden to bear. Scrooge was a man of business, and he had plenty of business to attend to. He strode back into the building, leaving the two men behind in an uncomfortable quiet.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and retreated from the balcony, leaving the apprentice and the Scotsman to their own devices. The apprentice's face remained ashen, and the older employee cast a sympathetic glance in his direction. The shadow of Scrooge loomed over them like the sword of Damocles, cruel and merciless. He was no saviour. No saint. The magnate of Asplex Industries cared nothing for the weak or the poor. But in the rarest of instances, in the most extraordinary of circumstances, he did what he did best: He made business deals. Transactions. Barter agreements. Acquisitions. Mergers. At the end of the day, it was he who was the shark that swam in the financial sea, not the fluke who was washed away by the waves.

Having found himself thoroughly satiated and a tad more irritable than he had been an hour before, Scrooge returned to the cafeteria without much fanfare or fuss, feeling not the least bit perturbed by the looks of trepidation and caution that had made their home on the faces of the scant staff members who had chosen to remain. He stopped at last to a glass table hidden in the farthest corner of the room, masked by shadows and contrasted by pockets of dim fluorescent lighting.

Pastelle had made a bit of a home there, having finally retrieved the contents of her locker, and Marley had finally returned from his sojourn as he examined the woman’s work. A laptop emblazoned with the symbol of Asplex Industries on the lid, paired only with a collection of organised folders stacked atop each other. Marley had returned, then, having finally caught up with his partner. His sleek, framed, black spectacles rested comfortably atop the bridge of his nose as he examined Pastelle’s screen, a sight not visible to Scrooge as he stood on the side, waiting for either of them to acknowledge his presence. Scrooge had never been the sort to stand on ceremony. He rarely waited for attention or pleasantries. If he had something to say, he said it. But the interactions that he had just borne witness to on the balcony left him with a bitter aftertaste, and he found himself in no particular hurry to rejoin the conversation.

Fortunately or unfortunately, depending upon one’s point of view, Marley had noticed him almost immediately as he reached for his coffee — black, no sugar or milk — and Scrooge half-expected the disapproving stare that had been directed at him with such chagrin as Marley pulled his glasses up to his forehead, berating him as he often did regarding his smoking habits. Though Scrooge, as he often did, gave him a dismissive shrug as he took the seat next to Marley and took a long sip of his husband’s coffee, allowing the bitterness of the dark liquid to momentarily distract him, even for a brief instant.

“What’s all this, then?” Scrooge motioned to the screen with a tilt of his head.

Marley didn’t miss a beat as he replied. “I gave Miss Talon access to some of the company database and systems so she could familiarise herself with our current projects and operations. I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t, but some insight would have been nice.” Scrooge chided him gently, or as gently as he could have given his disposition, to which Marley gave him a halfhearted shrug in response.

It was solid logic, either way. This evaluation was far more than a simple questionnaire about qualifications and experience. To be Chief Operating Officer of Asplex Industries was to be the best of the best, to climb and grasp at the beanstalk of upheaval and innovation. It required an intimate understanding of the company's inner workings, its projects, its goals, and its challenges. To be without any of that knowledge was to throw away any hope of being accepted. Scrooge knew that. Marley knew that. They hoped that Pastelle knew that, too. Scrooge turned his attention to Pastelle, who sat calmly between the two men, her fingers tapping away at the keyboard in front of her. She appeared to be absorbed in the contents on the screen, her brow furrowed slightly in concentration.

“Anything catching your eye, Miss Talon?” Scrooge inquired, his voice still tinged with the lingering impatience from his encounter on the balcony.

Pastelle shook her head. “Nothing much of note, monsieur. Just that one of our main suppliers for semiconductors, FezziTech, has failed to meet the latest shipment deadline for the fourth quarter in a row.”

Scrooge pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course it had been FezziTech that had to be the perennially underperforming supplier. Who else could it be? They had alternatives, of course. Asplex was not so foolish as to rely upon the weight of just a singular company. But there were no excuses to allow such incompetence to persist, even with such a longstanding partnership. Pastelle shifted tabs quickly as she scrolled through FezziTech’s social media platforms for any information, perhaps a public statement or reason for the repeated delays. Yet, her search appeared to yield no results regarding anything pertaining to financial discourse or other external factors. All except one thing of note.

“It appears that Nigel Fezziwig is hosting a Christmas ball this evening.” Pastelle murmured as she continued to scroll through the feeds. “It says here that it’s—”

“Open to the general public? All proceeds go to the local orphanage?” Marley finished, letting out a bitter laugh as he cleaned his spectacles. “God… he does these grand gestures of generosity every year.”

“What’s so wrong about generosity? I’m sure the children would be glad for the donations.” Pastelle replied.

Marley scowled, gripping the hinges of his spectacles tightly as he pocketed his lens wipe. “The orphanage would be glad. Damn Fezziwig and his bleeding heart…”

“That’s Old Fezziwig for you.” Scrooge rolled his eyes.

Pastelle asked curiously if they knew him well.

“Know him? We were his secretaries back in the day!” Marley chuckled, reminiscing despite the disdain. “Fezziwig was a character, let me tell you. Always throwing these lavish parties, showering everyone with gifts, acting like the jolliest man in all of England. He was quite the boss to work for.”

“But his business practices were hardly sustainable.” Scrooge interjected, his tone retaining a sharp edge. “He was all about the show, but when it came to the bottom line, he couldn’t make the numbers add up. It’s a wonder he’s still in the game at all.”

“He’s got a good heart, though.” Marley defended, adjusting his glasses. “Maybe too good for his own good, but he means well. Can’t fault a man for trying to spread a bit of cheer in this cutthroat industry.”

“That cheer only goes so far in this world.” Scrooge interjected with a countenance more impersonal than usual, if such a thing could be believed.

“Regardless, we’ll have to address this.” Pastelle reminded as she closed her laptop. “I’ll make plans to schedule a meeting after the holidays…”

Perhaps it was in the manner in which they dismissed such a thought — brought only by a lack of understanding in the way her seniors operated, just as the Beauty had misunderstood the nature of the Beast — for when Pastelle had voiced her seemingly logical solution, Scrooge and Marley looked to each other with a silent, shared understanding. They rose from their seats, sifted through drawers upon drawers, pocketed a USB stick, donned their coats and gloves, and bade her to follow them to the car without so much as an elucidation or an explanation. I will not bore you with the trivialities of the ride, or the route taken, or the length of such a journey, or the longitude and latitude of their destination. Instead, let me assure you, dear reader, that they arrived at the aforementioned Christmas ball being hosted by Nigel Fezziwig with all the punctuality and grace that one would expect from two seasoned businessmen.

But what a celebration it had been! Why, if there had ever been a more voracious gathering of Christmas merriment and mirth, speak it to me, and I shall not hesitate to challenge the validity of your claims! The grandeur of the event — the lights, the decorations, the splendour of the scrumptious feast, the blasting music, and nigh-on-endless flow of champagne — was rivalled by none and bedazzled many.

Look upon Dick Wilkins, the DJ with the sharpest taste in music, blending old classics with modern hits with all the finesse of a man who had turned the tables many times over. Look upon Mr. Nigel Fezziwig, all dressed up in a glittering, gaudy red suit as he pranced about atop the receptionist’s desk like he was in the comfort of his own home, laughing as if he was the reincarnation of Santa Claus himself. Look upon Mrs. Chloe Fezziwig, a woman whose lips seemed to be perpetually turned up into a fabulous smile. Look upon Benedicta, Bridget, and Belle, the triplets of the Fezziwig clan greeting each guest with cheerful radiance, the beauty of each having aged just as finely as the most tasteful of wines. Look upon the numerous employees of FezziTech, loyal and upstanding. Look upon the friends and family, known and unknown. Look upon the boy who had but recently escaped the clutches of a drunkard’s grasp and found himself in the relative safety of the orphanage hiding shyly behind the girl who had resorted to thievery to feed her helpless brother. Look upon the timid, the brave, the elegant, the gauche; look upon them all and tell me, my dear friends, if there had ever been a more blatant display of kindness and prosperity, even if they had known then they had little to offer and even less to lose.

Not one bit of it mattered, in the end, when the Shark and the Snake of London waltzed through the gilded doors, side-by-side, unwavering and undeterred. The attendant, who had been taking coats and cloaks with a practised efficiency, froze midway into his movements, into his words, as the cold air of the outside world interspersed with the warmth of the room, and all who had finally felt the frigidity fell silent at the formidable titans of Asplex Industries, the monsters of finance and industry, the embodiment of success and ruthlessness, the two men known as Scrooge and Marley. The music in which Dick Wilkins had been orchestrating with such energetic fervour stopped abruptly like a needle dragged unceremoniously across the grooves of a vinyl record. The laughter in which Mrs. Fezziwig had been producing was stifled into a nervous silence like a petite bird hushed by the looming shadow of a deadly predator.

The greetings in which the triplets had been working diligently to maintain had been cut like a life lost too soon by unfortunate circumstances. Step by halcyon step — one, two, three, four — Scrooge and Marley advanced in an unbroken rhythm that had been their signature — five, six, seven, eight — slacks echoing on tiled floors without fail, without a misstep. A path had been cleared through a sea of partygoers who knew all too well not to bar their path, lest they incur the wrath of such an infamous duo. Pastelle trailed closely behind them with the same confident stride, but the sprout of unease grew within her as she looked upon the faces of those who had looked on, anxious and tense even as they murmured amongst themselves.

“What do they have on her…?”

Pastelle had chosen to ignore the mumblings for the moment, her thoughts disrupted as she bumped into Scrooge’s imposing figure when he and his partner had stopped abruptly at the receptionist’s desk. Scrooge spoke not a word as he reached across for the bottle of red from a dazed waiter and poured a glass, swirling the contents within as waves rippled in the contained Bordeaux, still as the ocean on a windless night.

“I see you’re still doing these ostentatious gatherings of yours, old man.” Scrooge grinned toothily as he took a long, hard, slow sip of his wine, the ice of his trained glare on the man standing above him not thawing one degree even with the burn of alcohol that danced along the edge of his tongue. “I would have thought that you of all people would have the capacity to learn from your mistakes. After all… bad things have a tendency to happen at parties.”

The words alone could have frozen all the air in the room and then some, forever entrapping all in a solitary moment of icy dread, caged amongst two barbarous fiends wearing human skins. Compassion had left, and so had mercy. All that remained were the strings of fate, messily binding the past and the present together in an amalgamation of what was and what is. To think that years ago, in a time not known to younger generations, Fezziwig had been their superior, their mentor, their guide, and their most trusted ally. A man of goodwill and generosity that spread to all those who were in the bubble of his good graces, Yet, here they stood, not as comrades but as enemies cloaked in the thin vestiges of a friendship long gone, estranged by the bitter winds of betrayal and the cruel games of personal and professional warfare.

“Scrooge! Marley! How wonderful it is to see you boys again!” Fezziwig jumped down from his perch, his exclamations betraying a forced gaiety, his grin strain and tainted. “Come to partake in the festivities, have you?”

“We’re here on business, Fezziwig.” Marley shared a few sips of his husband’s glass before taking on the act of diplomacy Scrooge had often tried to suppress. “I don’t think we need to tell you why, I don’t think we need to remind you of what is at stake here, and I don’t think we need to tell you just who you’re dealing with.”

Fezziwig laughed weakly, stammering under their ruthless scrutiny as he tried to reach out to them with a trembling hand. “Come now, boys, surely business can wait! It’s almost Christmas, after all! A time for making merry! Surely you understand, Jacob, Ebene—”

“Scrooge.”

The man in question shrugged Fezziwig off and corrected his old mentor with such a severity in his tone, whispers were hushed and guests recoiled.

“A-Ah, yes… Scrooge.” Fezziwig looked almost solemnly disappointed. “Let’s talk in my office, shall we? Don’t want to disrupt the celebrations.”

Scrooge scoffed. As if they hadn’t already been disrupted already. 

Both he and Marley knew the way to Fezziwig’s office all too well, having spent many a night there in the past, inebriated with cheap whiskey and dreams of a future they had once believed in with all of their heart and soul. But those days had long since been behind them, and the office held no nostalgia now. No fond memories of camaraderie or shared laughter. It was just a room, just a space, just a place where they would conduct the business that needed to be done. Fezziwig led the way, stumbling slightly in his haste to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the ballroom, the partygoers parting like the Red Sea as they disappeared down the hall. The office was just as Scrooge and Marley remembered it to be. Lavishly decorated, filled with antique furniture and expensive knick-knacks, framed achievements littering the walls with no sense of order. But there was a tension in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the history that lingered between the three men, a history that had once been defined by camaraderie and mutual respect, now overshadowed by betrayal and manipulation.

Fezziwig gestured for them to take a seat, his hands trembling slightly as he poured himself a stiff drink from the decanter on his desk. Marley remained composed, his expression unreadable as he watched the older man, while Scrooge leaned back in his chair, a faint sneer playing at the corners of his lips. Pastelle stood at the side, far from the negotiations, yet not so far as to be unseen, her hands placed behind her back as she watched on with a calculative eye.

“Would any of you care for a drink?” Fezziwig asked, hoping to retain some of that cordiality that he had been so well-known for. 

Scrooge declined with a curt shake of his head, while Marley kept his eyes upon Fezziwig for a few moments longer, as if he expected the old man to pull a trick or two to get himself out of the precarious situation he found himself in.

“I, uh, don’t believe we’ve met.” Fezziwig chuckled nervously as he glanced over at Pastelle, hoping to stall for just a few moments more. “Are you a new hire?”

“Who she is shouldn’t be any of your concern, Old Fezziwig.” Marley cut off that dialogue before Pastelle could even hope to respond. “What you should be concerned with is whether or not this partnership between Asplex and FezziTech should be considered null and void.”

Fezziwig’s form seemed to wither under Marley’s scrutinising glare, even if he had refused to falter. “Listen, I-I know we haven’t delivered on time as we should have, but there was a massive chemical spill in one of our main factories and caused a fire, completely decimating our inventory. We’re doing our best to recover, but—”

“Four quarters, Fezziwig.” Marley’s timbre seemed judicious enough, but the coldness alone sent a shiver up the older man’s spine. “Now, I’m sure a man of your stature understands basic mathematics, but in case you’ve forgotten how business works, let me remind you that that’s a full year’s worth of missed shipments. Your excuses haven’t changed the fact that we’re the ones paying for your incompetence.”

Incredulous, Fezziwig opened his mouth to fire back a retort, but Marley continued.

“We have been more than patient with you, Nigel Fezziwig.” Marley leaned against his gloved hand, crossing his legs as his green eyes radiated with a sly glint. “We’ve shared history together. Scrooge and I will always be grateful for how you’ve brought us to where we are now, but gratitude can only get so far in our line of work, and neither of us are going to stand by while you piggyback off of our success, reaping the benefits like a leech.”

Fezziwig paled. “Jacob, my boy, you can’t just… we’ve worked together for years! You can’t seriously be thinking of cutting us off like this!”

“Come on, old man, don’t you have other companies to turn to?” Scrooge asked rhetorically, barely hiding the malicious grin that had spread across his face. It looked wrong. It felt wrong.

“Eben— Scrooge. Please, you must see some sense!” Fezziwig pleaded, begged, grovelled.

Scrooge continued undeterred, his smile more prominent now. “Oh yes, that’s right! We’re your main source of revenue, aren’t we? Without us, you’re nothing more than an old relic struggling to keep up with the changing times.”

Marley nodded at his words, looking down at his hands to examine the wedding band adorned his finger. “I do believe you’re right, my love. FezziTech is nothing without the contracts and the minimal funding we’ve provided over the years. And considering our vast connections, we could always divert our attention to another supplier, couldn’t we?”

Fezziwig’s expression contorted into one of panic as the realisation had finally set in. “Boys, please, I-I implore you to reconsider!”

Marley looked back, a malefic and venomous countenance to rival his husband’s. “Of course, that does mean that certain… obligations are no longer binding, doesn’t it?”

Scrooge nodded, leaning back even further as he feigned an innocent smile, sighing almost dreamily. “That’s true indeed, Marley. I shudder to imagine what the press would think of FezziTech profits and ‘donations’ having once been used to fund Benedicta’s little drug ring operation.”

Fezziwig’s face had drained of all colour at this point, his joviality long since departed from his features. He stumbled backward, knocking over the decanter and spilling the remaining liquor onto the plush carpet with a resounding clink and a thud. A waste of good whiskey, if I had to be honest, for whiskey of such a quality should be savoured, never squandered. But of course, were it up to the shark circling around him and the snake coiling about his throat, he would not have the luxury to afford such niceties.

“You wouldn’t dare! I-I’ve been good to you! To both of you!”

Scrooge laughed bitterly, a grating sensation to the ears. “Hah! You always were one to make such ludicrous jokes, Fezziwig! But let me assure you that this…? This right here? This is no jest.”

Fezziwig gripped the edge of his desk, his knuckles turning white as his mind raced through all the possibilities, the backdoors, the loopholes, the escape routes. But there were none to be had, none to be given, none to be deserved. 

The clock struck ten, and Pastelle pitied him, in a way. In an hour’s time, this congenial gathering would be broken up. The Fezziwigs would take to their stations, shaking hands with every person individually as they went out with smiles on their faces and a skip in their step, wishing all a Merry Christmas. But underneath it all, they knew. The triplets knew, Dick Wilkins knew, Chloe Fezziwig knew, Nigel Fezziwig knew. Those smiling faces, who just moments ago had partaken in a gathering that represented the yuletide season of cheer, of wonder, of hope, of love… they would all be turned to scorn and derision. And Scrooge and Marley, with their fangs bared in delirious, malicious, giddy glee, would howl at the downfall, shriek at the ruin. But they all knew that Scrooge and Marley did not have so much time that they could spend it laughing at the ruin of another. For as Marley had said, they were men of business. And men of business always moved forward to the next conquest, the next victory, the next deal to be made.

Fezziwig slumped back at last, defeated and forlorn and feeling all the more his age than he had felt in years. “What do you want from me, then?”

“Compensation.” Scrooge replied. “Assurances that the profits lost due to your repeated failure will be reimbursed with exceeding interest.”

“We’ll keep you on, but we want a portion of FezziTech’s profits for the next year, roughly… shall we say fifteen percent? And we’ll need full transparency regarding your operations.” Marley added, his smirk never wavering. “Our secretary is off for the holidays, as is the majority of our workforce so, luckily for you, you have eleven days to prepare the necessary documentation. I trust that we can expect production to be running smoothly by then?”

Fezziwig pulled at his tie. “W-Well… repairs have been slow with—”

“I trust that we can expect production to be running smoothly by then?” Marley repeated, his tone firm and unwavering.

Fezziwig nodded frantically. “Y-Yes, of course! We’ll get everything back on track immediately!”

“I’m glad we can finally come to an agreement. Now, there are a few more things I should like to discuss with you…”

Scrooge had excused himself then, citing a mixture of responses from not being needed, to needing some fresh air, to allowing Pastelle an opportune moment to fully grasp and comprehend the intricacies of their world. He did not care for which one they latched onto, and why would he? Sentimentality only hurts and scars and tears you apart. Ambition for the sake of others only leads to your downfall in the end as those pushed for trampled on your heart and soul. Scrooge had learned those lessons long ago, and he had no intention of making them twice. Fool him once, shame on him. Fool him twice, shame on all.

He didn’t know where he had been walking to — perhaps the loo, or the exit through the party, or the hideaway hidden in a little nook away from the building where he could smoke, he wasn’t sure — only that he had been walking. Until he hadn’t. Until he was not alone, and there stood a fair, aged woman, donning a loose-fit blue dress that glimmered in the fluorescent lights like stars upon the night sky, and white gloves that reached her forearm that surely cost quite a bit more than the average. Her blonde hair  was lightly dusted with streaks of grey, and those eyes… those blue eyes so filled with warmth and love that it gave little excuse for Scrooge’s to not hold the same.

“Belle.” Scrooge greeted her as cordially as he could have, which was to say not at all.

“Quite the entrance you made earlier.” Belle mused.

Scrooge grunted in response, looking away.

“How long has it been?” Belle pondered, more to herself than to her companion.

“Not long enough, it seems.” Scrooge replied tersely, enough for her finger to twitch ever so slightly.

“You’ve changed.” Belle observed as if it hadn’t been the most obvious observation in the world.

“I should hope to have changed.” Scrooge retorted. “Thirty years without change? I might as well be a VHS tape in a world of streaming services.”

Belle smiled softly at his quip, the corner of her eyes crinkling. “You were always so witty, Ebenezer—”

“Scrooge—”

“Ebenezer.” Belle insisted, and it caused Scrooge to bristle, if only for a moment. Her smile wavered, and she looked away. “How could you do it so easily? How could you and Jacob fall so far as to demand so much of my father? To demand so much of the man who thought of you both as the sons he never had?”

“I am not his son, Belle, and I never have been.” Scrooge fired back, thrusting his hands into his pockets as he often did in moments of pure agitation. “You can call it demand or you can call it what it is: Business. Fezziwig made his choices. Marley and I made ours.”

“And are you happy with Jacob? I heard you’re living together now.” Belle looked down to the ring that adorned his finger. “I heard you got married. Or as close enough to it you can get considering the law.”

Scrooge’s features softened — just barely, mind you — as he looked down at his ring, his thumb gently caressing the wedding band. “We are content. What of you and Dick?”

Belle knew the question was more a formality, but she answered nonetheless. “We’ve had our fair share of struggles, but we're working through them, as we ought to do. That's what marriage is all about, isn't it?”

Scrooge grunted once more, and Belle’s smile dimmed. 

“You can't keep doing this, Ebenezer.” Belle warned. “Sooner or later, word will get out, and you and Marley and all of Asplex Industries will have to answer for all that you have done.”

“Look at you, taking the high ground, acting as if you’re above it all.” Scrooge scoffed.

Belle held his gaze steadily, her expression unwavering. “I don’t claim to be perfect, but I do remember. I remember the young, brash, ambitious young man I fell in love with. The man who had dreams and aspirations that extended beyond money and power. The man who wanted to change the world, not conquer it. What happened to that man, Ebenezer? What happened to him?”

“That man was young, dumb, idiotic, and naive.” Scrooge ground out through clenched teeth. “He trusted, he cared, and look where that got him! Look at where he is now! There is nothing so challenging in this savage, unforgiving world as poverty, yet nothing so condemning to it as the pursuit of wealth. You think I haven’t tried to change the world, Belle? You think I haven’t attempted to make a difference, to leave a mark that isn’t stained with the blood of those who have stood in my way? The world is not a kind place, and if you think otherwise, then you are the one who is naive!”

“You dread the world far too excessively.” Belle shook her head, her voice rising slightly in defiance. “I have seen your morals get thrown to the wayside over and over and over again! Even when we had been one, you brushed me aside. You were always too busy! You always told me later! Could you not have even spared a thought for your—”

She stopped, mouth agape for a moment longer before she took a step back, then another. Her eyes flickered to the side, inhaling deeply before she exhaled shakily. Her hand trembled upon her stomach, and Scrooge's gaze followed suit, falling upon the gentle swell of her abdomen, barely noticeable under the loose fabric of her dress.

He’d seen it once before, when they had been but different people. Younger people.

“How far along?” Scrooge breathed out, barely able to disguise the softness in his voice.

“Five months.” Belle replied after some hesitation. “Topper is to have a sister.”

He shook his head.

“Let’s hope you are able to keep her this time.” Scrooge felt the bile rise in his throat, as bitter and acrid as the words itself, the pain of loss still fresh in his mind long after the toll of those bells, reminders of the ghost of a newborn he never knew. 

It was hard to unhear the gasp that escaped her like she had just come up for air in an endless ocean, or unsee the way her hand clutched at her stomach. But even then, he chose to ignore the sounds and the sights, as he often did these days.

“Don’t think I don’t miss her too, Ebenezer.” Belle whispered, her voice cracking. “Because I do. A lot.”

Scrooge laughed, the acidity not directed to anyone in particular. “Life can be a bloody bitch sometimes, can’t it?”

“You’re not wrong.” Belle laughed back, far weaker and hardly meant, but still just as hurt and wounded as his own. “I just wish I could have held her.”

“Sometimes we don’t get to choose what we want, Belle.” Scrooge replied, his voice almost tender, almost remorseful, almost kind. “You and I both know that.”

They stood in silence for a while longer, the revelry and the festivities fading in the background between them.

Belle looked up once more, twirling her own wedding ring as she forced a smile Scrooge knew damn well was false. “I-I should get going. Dick will be wondering where I’ll have run off to.”

Scrooge nodded in acknowledgement, his gaze hardening just as hers had softened. “Tell Benedicta to stop sending those manipulative packages of ‘goodwill’ to my husband. If he catches even a whiff of whatever is in those parcels, holidays be damned, Fezziwig will have more to worry about than just failing shipments.”

Belle’s lips quivered in something that resembled rueful gratitude. “You always were the overprotective type.”

“It’s not just about protecting him.” Scrooge replied curtly. “It’s about protecting my interests.”

Belle didn’t argue, didn’t push any further. She knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t be swayed.

“Well, Merry Christmas, Ebenezer.” Belle said with a genuine warmth.

“Don’t say it like you mean it.” Scrooge muttered.

He turned around, and they parted.

He did not say goodbye as she turned to leave, did not watch as she disappeared into the crowd and forced a smile as she greeted her husband, did not allow himself to dwell on what could have been or what should have been. He simply stood there, alone in the corner, a solitary figure amidst the remnants of joy, a man scarred by the wounds of his past and shackled by the choices of his present. And as the merriment continued on around him, as the laughter and music swirled together in a cacophony of celebration, Scrooge remained still, trapped in the prison of his own making, haunted by the echoes of a life he had once known and the shadow of a future he could not escape.

Marley called for him, then, and Scrooge had put the confrontation — that was what he assumed it to be, anyway — to the wayside as he made to Fezziwig’s office without so much as an utterance of what had befallen him just minutes ago. His husband stood at the ready, smirking triumphantly, arms across his chest as he tapped his foot in such a manner that I would not bat an eye if he had been orchestrating some grand symphony in the corners of his mind. Scrooge often admired that in him, enthralled in the way his lips upturned in satisfaction as it often did that he paid little heed to the glimmer of something in his gaze as it had settled upon Scrooge. He was good at masking it, at burying it deep beneath the layers of their shared history and the manipulations of their cutthroat world. But Scrooge could see it, could feel it, and it was a comfort that he often refused to admit to himself.

They had discussed the terms, finalised the agreement, and left Fezziwig’s office with a sense of victory that had become all too familiar. Pastelle had awaited them, as patient and eager and young as ever, as they had so clearly observed from the woman for most of the day. But, in a nature unknown to her seniors, she was quiet, oddly so. Granted, having just borne witness to the more unsavoury aspects of their business dealings, she had every right to be quiet. Scrooge thought nothing of it, and he had little concern to think it was more than nothing. Marley thought everything of it, though if he could tell you why, I would speak it in a heartbeat, revealing his thoughts for all to see.

But he did not know why, until at last they removed themselves from the premises just as the party had neared ever closer to its completion. When at last they stood upon the worn pavement, and the heat of the building radiated into the crisp winter air, that Pastelle stopped in her tracks, the tension a palpable thing, thick and suffocating. Scrooge and Marley had never been the sort to receive it for as long as they had been united in their pursuits.

“...What the hell was that?” Pastelle spoke at last, her voice a barely contained hiss.

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to, Miss Talon.” Scrooge answered simply, his hands behind his back as he turned to face her.

“C’est de la connerie.” Pastelle spat, getting up in Scrooge’s face despite her smaller stature. “You know damn well what I’m talking about, M. Scrooge.”

“No, I don’t.” Scrooge said coolly, his gaze unwavering. “Enlighten me, if you will.”

“M. Fezziwig was celebrating the spirit of Christmas, the goodwill, the joy, the giving, and you both barged in like a pair of tyrants, threatening and intimidating him and his family in front of his guests.” Pastelle's voice rose with each word, her anger simmering just beneath the surface. “You have no respect for anyone or anything, do you? Not even for the man who helped build your empire. You treated him like he was nothing, like he was the dirt beneath your heels!”

Scrooge's expression remained stoic, unmoved by Pastelle's outburst. “Business is business, Miss Talon. Sentimentality has no place in it.”

“Sentimentality? Is that what you call it? Caring for someone who believed in you, who gave you opportunities, who trusted you?” Pastelle's French accent grew more prominent with her rising fury. “You have become heartless, M. Scrooge. Non, not heartless, for that is too kind a word. You have forgotten what it means to be human.”

Scrooge's patience seemed to wane at this point, his tone turning icy. “I suggest you watch your words, Miss Talon. You may be my employee, but that does not give you the right to speak to me in such a manner.”

“Maybe someone needs to remind you of the reality you're so eager to overlook, M. Scrooge.” Pastelle’s grey eyes bore into Scrooge’s even as she flung her hair back. “Maybe you need to remember the people who have helped you get to where you are, the ones who believed in you when nobody else did.”

Marley stepped in at this point, his voice calmer but no less firm, though even he could not stop the crack that broke through his words. “That’s enough, Miss Talon. You will show some respect to Scrooge right this instant.”

Pastelle's eyes flickered to Marley briefly before settling back on Scrooge. “No, M. Marley. I will not be silent. You both need to hear this. You have lost touch with humanity and humility, and all who know you suffer under your rule!”

“That’s it, Miss Talon, I will not tolerate your insubordination any longer!” Scrooge’s patience had finally snapped, and he shifted to the road. “This conversation is over.”

With a force that could best be described as a combination of both frustration and decisiveness, Scrooge reached into his coat pocket and gripped his phone tightly. A few swift, precise, and rough movements were all he needed to call an Uber, memorise the plate number, and thrust his phone back into his pocket. The vehicle arrived within minutes, and despite all of her protests, Pastelle found herself entrapped and enraptured by Scrooge’s impartial, impassive glare.

“Get in the car.”

“Monsieur, I refuse to—”

“Get. In. The. Car.”

She refused again, and Scrooge, clearly exhausted and debilitated by the day’s troubles, simply took hold of her arm, gripped it firmly, and forcefully shoved her into the backseat of the car without so much as a second thought whirling through his mind as he instructed the driver — who at this point had chosen not to interfere, and wisely so — to take her to her address, no detours, no stops. 

“Was that really necessary, love?” Marley asked as he watched with a keen eye as the car pulled away and drove off, the scent of the exhaust lingering in the air.

Scrooge merely shoved him off the pavement as he walked to the car, not bothering to give a response. He had had enough socialising for one night, if it could even be called that, and his husband’s concern was the last thing upon his mind. But though he had walked briskly, back turned and pace unrelenting, Marley’s gaze bore into him, weighing heavy on his back even as he stepped into the passenger’s seat. Because for Marley himself, the weight of his burdens wound all the more tightly around his waist, clanking and dragging behind him. For burdens of metal are often more pernicious than burdens of flesh and bone.

Tagged: @rom-e-o@crimson-phantom-designs@quill-pen@a-christmas-carol-from-hr@ray-painter@pinkytoothlesso11

#scrooge a christmas carol #ebenezer scrooge #scrooge: a christmas carol #a christmas carol #jacob marley #ao3 #jacob alexander thorne marley #ebenezer lysandre percival scrooge #scrooge x jacob #jacob x scrooge #ebenezer/jacob #everyone lives/nobody dies #Youtube

[whileiamdying]

Sinead O’Connor, Evocative and Outspoken Singer, Is Dead at 56

She broke out with the single “Nothing Compares 2 U,” then caused an uproar a few years later by ripping up a photo of Pope John Paul II on “S.N.L.”

By Ben Sisario and Joe Coscarelli July 26, 2023 Updated 5:41 p.m. ET Leer en español

Sinead O’Connor, the outspoken Irish singer-songwriter known for her powerful, evocative voice, as showcased on her biggest hit, a breathtaking rendition of Prince’s “Nothing Compares 2 U,” and for her political provocations onstage and off, has died. She was 56.

Her longtime friend Bob Geldof, the Irish musician and activist, confirmed her death, as did her family in a statement, according to the BBC and the Irish public broadcaster RTE.

“It is with great sadness that we announce the passing of our beloved Sinead,” the statement said. “Her family and friends are devastated and have requested privacy at this very difficult time.” No other details were provided.

Recognizable by her shaved head and by wide eyes that could appear pained or full of rage, Ms. O’Connor released 10 studio albums, beginning with the alternative hit “The Lion and the Cobra” in 1987. She went on to sell millions of albums worldwide, breaking out with “I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got” in 1990.

That album, featuring “Nothing Compares 2 U,” a No. 1 hit around the world and an MTV staple, won a Grammy Award in 1991 for best alternative music performance — although Ms. O’Connor boycotted the ceremony over what she called the show’s excessive commercialism.

Ms. O’Connor rarely shrank from controversy, though it often came with consequences for her career.

In 1990, she threatened to cancel a performance in New Jersey if “The Star-Spangled Banner” was played at the concert hall ahead of her appearance, drawing the ire of no less than Frank Sinatra. That same year, she backed out of an appearance on “Saturday Night Live” in protest of the misogyny she perceived in the comedy of Andrew Dice Clay, who was scheduled to host.

But all of that paled in comparison to the uproar caused when Ms. O’Connor, appearing on “S.N.L.” in 1992 — shortly after the release of her third album, “Am I Not Your Girl?” — ended an a cappella performance of Bob Marley’s “War” by ripping a photo of Pope John Paul II into pieces as a stance against sexual abuse in the Roman Catholic Church. “Fight the real enemy,” she said.

That incident immediately made her a target of criticism and scorn, from social conservatives and beyond. Two weeks after her “S.N.L.” appearance, she was loudly booed at a Bob Dylan tribute concert at Madison Square Garden. (She had planned to perform Mr. Dylan’s “I Believe in You,” but she sang “War” again, rushing off the stage before she had finished.)

For a time, the vitriol directed at Ms. O’Connor was so pervasive that it became a kind of pop culture meme in itself. On “S.N.L.” in early 1993, Madonna mocked the controversy by tearing up a picture of Joey Buttafuoco, the Long Island auto mechanic who was a tabloid fixture at the time because of his affair with a 17-year-old girl.

Once a rising star, Ms. O’Connor then stumbled. “Am I Not Your Girl?,” an album of jazz and pop standards like “Why Don’t You Do Right?” and “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered,” was stalled on the charts at No. 27. Her next album, “Universal Mother” (1994), went no higher than No. 36.

The British musician Tim Burgess, of the band Charlatans (known in the United States as the Charlatans UK), wrote on Twitter on Wednesday: “Sinead was the true embodiment of a punk spirit. She did not compromise and that made her life more of a struggle.”

Ms. O’Connor never had another major hit in the United States after “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” from “I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got,” although for a time she remained a staple on the British charts.

But in her 2021 memoir, “Rememberings,” Ms. O’Connor portrayed ripping up the photo of the pope as a righteous act of protest — and therefore a success.

“I feel that having a No. 1 record derailed my career,” she wrote, “and my tearing the photo put me back on the right track.”

She elaborated in an interview with The New York Times that same year, calling the incident an act of defiance against the constraints of pop stardom.

“I’m not sorry I did it. It was brilliant,” Ms. O’Connor said. “But it was very traumatizing,” she added. “It was open season on treating me like a crazy bitch.”

Sinead Marie Bernadette O’Connor was born in Glenageary, a suburb of Dublin, on Dec. 8, 1966. Her father, John, was an engineer, and her mother, Johanna, was a dressmaker.

In interviews, and in her memoir, Ms. O’Connor spoke openly of having a traumatic childhood. She said that her mother physically abused her and that she had been deeply affected by her parents’ separation, which happened when she was 8. In her teens, she was arrested for shoplifting and sent to reform schools.

When she was 15, Ms. O’Connor sang “Evergreen” — the love theme from “A Star Is Born,” made famous by Barbra Streisand — at a wedding, and was discovered by Paul Byrne, a drummer who had an affiliation with the Irish band U2. She left boarding school at 16 and began her career, supporting herself by waitressing and performing “kiss-o-grams” in a kinky French maid costume.

“The Lion and the Cobra” — the title is an allusion to Psalm 91 — marked her as a rising talent with a spiritual heart, an ear for offbeat melody and a fierce and combative style. Her music drew from 1980s-vintage alternative rock, hip-hop and flashes of Celtic folk that came through when her voice raised to high registers.

She drew headlines for defending the Irish Republican Army and publicly jeered U2 — whose members had supported her — as “bombastic.” She also said she had rejected attempts by her record company, Ensign, to adopt a more conventional image.

The leaders of the label “wanted me to wear high-heel boots and tight jeans and grow my hair,” Ms. O’Connor told Rolling Stone in 1991. “And I decided that they were so pathetic that I shaved my head so there couldn’t be any further discussion.”

“Nothing Compares 2 U” — originally released by the Family, a Prince side project, in 1985 — became a phenomenon when Ms. O’Connor released it five years later. The video for the song, trained closely on her emotive face, was hypnotic, and Ms. O’Connor’s voice, as it raised from delicate, breathy notes to powerful cries, stopped listeners in their tracks. Singers like Alanis Morissette cited Ms. O’Connor’s work from this period as a key influence.

Not long after “Nothing Compares” became a hit, Ms. O’Connor accused Prince of physically threatening her. She elaborated on the story in her memoir, saying that Prince, at his Hollywood mansion, chastised her for swearing in interviews and suggested a pillow fight, only to hit her with something hard that was in his pillowcase. She escaped on foot in the middle of the night, she said, but Prince chased her around the highway.

The effects of childhood trauma, and finding ways to fight and heal, became a central part of her work and her personal philosophy. “The cause of all the world’s problems, as far as I’m concerned, is child abuse,” Ms. O’Connor told Spin magazine in 1991.

Her mother, whom Ms. O’Connor described as an alcoholic, died when she was 18. In her memoir, Ms. O’Connor said that on the day her mother died she took a picture of the pope from her mother’s wall; it was that photo that she destroyed on television.

On later albums, she made warmly expansive pop-rock (“Faith and Courage,” 2000), played traditional Irish songs (“Sean-Nós Nua,” 2002) and revisited classic reggae songs (“Throw Down Your Arms,” 2005). Her last album was “I’m Not Bossy, I’m the Boss,” released in 2014.

As her music career slowed, Ms. O’Connor, who had been open in the past about her mental health struggles, became an increasingly erratic public figure, often sharing unfiltered opinions and personal details on social media.

In 2007, she revealed on Oprah Winfrey’s television show that she had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and that she had tried to kill herself on her 33rd birthday. Her son Shane died by suicide in 2022, at 17.

Ms. O’Connor said in 2012 that she had been misdiagnosed and that she was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder stemming from a history of child abuse. “Recovery from child abuse is a life’s work,” she told People magazine.

Several years ago she converted to Islam and started using the name Shuhada Sadaqat, though she continued to answer to O’Connor as well.

Complete information on survivors was not immediately available. Ms. O’Connor had two brothers, Joe and John, and one sister, Eimear, as well as three stepsisters and a stepbrother. She wrote in her memoir that she was married four times and that she had four children: three sons, Jake, Shane and Yeshua, and a daughter, Roisin.

In discussing her memoir with The Times in 2021, Ms. O’Connor focused on her decision to tear up the photo of John Paul II as a signal moment in a life of protest and defiance.

“The media was making me out to be crazy because I wasn’t acting like a pop star was supposed to act,” she said. “It seems to me that being a pop star is almost like being in a type of prison. You have to be a good girl.”

Alex Traub contributed reporting.

Ben Sisario covers the music industry. He has been writing for The Times since 1998. More about Ben Sisario Joe Coscarelli is a culture reporter with a focus on popular music, and the author of “Rap Capital: An Atlanta Story.” More about Joe Coscarelli

#Sinéad Marie Bernadette O'Connor #Shuhada' Sadaqat #Magda Davitt #Sinéad O'Connor #The New York Times #Obituary #Ben Sisario #Alex Traub #Joe Coscarelli #Bob Geldof #Frank Sinatra #Oprah Winfrey #Nothing Compares 2 U #Nothing Compares To You #Kris Kristofferson #Pope John Paul II #Sean-Nós Nua

[madamlaydebug]

“Rise up this morning, Smiled with the Rising Sun” - Bob Marley ☀️

—

The first and last 15 minutes of our day is extremely important for our overall mood. This is the time when we have an opportunity to rewrite programs in our Subconscious mind due to the lower level of brain wave activity 🌊

—

When the alarm hits, make sure you sit up within 5 seconds, this helps with getting up early. Start with showing Gratitude and repeat your own Loving Affirmations. Bonus points if you create Elevated Feelings 🌟

[boricuacherry-blog]

Long before Tiger Woods offended Black America by refusing to label himself as just a Black man, Mariah Carey was the original Cablinasion, acknowledging that the sums of her parts be acknowledged equally. (All together now, her mother: Irish, her father: Black and Venezuelan.)

For White America, it was simple. She was Not White. She could have been half-Sicilian and a quarter-Martian, she was still thrown in the same pot: Not White. Black people, for the most part, sucked their teeth and rolled their eyes. Her father was Black and Venezuelan? How come she couldn't be just black? Mariah's decision - and ability - to acknowledge more than just two races became a distracting issue.

"It was a problem because of the way I look," says Mariah, running a hand up her bare arm. Her skin is much lighter than the average Italian. "We're such a visual society. As soon as we look at someone, we have to put them in a box." (Indeed, the caramel complexions of famous biracial figures like Halle Berry, politician Barack Obama, Bob Marley, Jimi Hendrix and Lenny Kravitz make them black, period.)

In his review of her debut album in Playboy, noted Black music critic Nelson George alluded that Mariah was a white girl who sang like a black girl. When Mariah read it, she was furious. But she was politely encouraged by her label to let it go. What would be so bad if people thought she was say, Italian?

"It's not like they overtly said it," says Mariah. She stops herself and rolls her eyes. "I mean, they did," she tosses off under her breath. "But I could not control my response to him because I felt very offended. I understand people being put off by me. But I'm only going to take so many shots."

At a luncheon with Black music journalists, 20-year-old Carey confronted George. "I told him I didn't appreciate what he wrote. And that was at the very beginning of my career. There's never been a time when I didn't spell out exactly what I am. But for some people, I was still just a white girl. To others, I was a Black girl who was just passing." Years later, Mariah went toe-to-toe with a stand-up comedienne who used the n-word when referring to Mariah and mocking her friendship with rap artists.

"This is a woman that belongs to two groups that I do not belong to," says Mariah, her voice rising. "If I'd ever said anything about those two groups, people would be picketing in the streets. And you know what? If I was two shades darker, there'd have been people protesting for me." Instead, Mariah called the NAACP herself to complain. She says that the commedienne's one-woman-show was taken off the air as a result.

"It's easy to take shots at me," she says, shrugging her shoulders. "No one feels like they need to protect me."

It's a strange position to be in. All of her life, Mariah admits to being desperate to fit in. And yet, for better or for worse, she's consistently rallied against anyone who attempted to create any kind of box for her - literally or figuratively. Even if it was the head of her record label, her husband, or both.

#mariah carey #article #biracial #a true aries

[aunti-christ-ine]

Sineád O’Connor, the troubled Irish singer and activist who scored a global smash with Prince’s “Nothing Compares 2 U” in 1990 and was banned from Saturday Night Live for tearing up a photo of Pope John Paul II during her performance two years later, has died at 56, according to a statement from her family provided to Irish TV and radio broadcaster RTÉ. No details on the cause, date or place of her death were given.

“It is with great sadness that we announce the passing of our beloved Sinéad,” the statement reads. “Her family and friends are devastated and have requested privacy at this very difficult time.”

O’Connor was hospitalized in January 2022 after posting a series of disturbing, soon-deleted tweets in the wake of the suicide of her teenage son, Shane, that month. Her tweets hinted at suicidal thoughts. Shane O’Connor, 17, was found dead two days after he went missing from a treatment facility in Dublin.

She posted this tweet on July 17:

Sineád O’Connor, who changed her name to Shuhada’ Sadaqat after converting to Islam in 2018 and was known for her closely cropped hair, was one of Ireland’s rising stars by age 20. She shot to fame with her haunting cover of “Nothing Compares 2 U,” which Prince wrote and recorded for his side project The Family. Her single hit No. 1 more than 20 countries — becoming the No. 1 single worldwide that year — and spent four weeks atop the Billboard 200 in 1990. The song’s was nominated for three Grammys including Record of the Year, and its stark video won three MTV VMAs including Video of the Year.

“Nothing Compares 2 U” was culled from her second album I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got, which was No. 1 in the U.S. for six weeks and has gone double platinum. It won a Grammy for Best Alternative Music Performance.

Despite the commercial juggernauts that were the single and album, O’Connor struggled to follow their success. She had only one minor hit in the U.S. after “Nothing Compares 2 U” and only a spotty chart history around the world despite releasing eight more studio albums. Her 1992 follow-up, Am I Not Your Girl?, reached the U.S. Top 10, and 1994’s Universal Mother hit No. 19, but neither would spawn a hit single. Her most recent was I’m Not Bossy, I’m the Boss in 2014.

Born on December 8, 1966, in Dublin, O’Connor courted controversy throughout her career. As the musical guest on Saturday Night Live in 1992, she sang a cover of Bob Marley’s “War” that shifted its lyrical focus to child abuse by the Catholic Church. When the song ended, O’Connor produced a photo of the popular Pope John Paul II and ripped it in half.

Reaction was swift in the pre-social media world, and the singer was banned from SNL permanently.

O’Connor is the subject of Nothing Compares, a feature documentary that had its world premiere at Sundance in 2022 and later aired on Showtime. Here is the logline of director Kathryn Ferguson’s film: The story of O’Connor’s phenomenal rise to worldwide fame and subsequent exile from the pop mainstream. Focusing on her prophetic words and deeds from 1987-93, the film reflects on the legacy of this fearless trailblazer through a contemporary feminist lens.

In an interview in the documentary, O’Connor revealed the abusive upbringing that left her feeling betrayed by both church and community and ultimately led her to find the therapeutic power of music.

She received the inaugural award for Classic Irish Album for I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got at the RTÉ Choice Music Awards in March.

O’Connor’s autobiography, Rememberings, was published in 2021 by Dey Street Books.

— Source

#deaths #sinéad o'connor

[manifestopaulo]

Post-Punk, Reggae, and the Evolution of East London's Music Scene

Introduction

The British music scene has a vibrant history of embracing and transforming genres from different cultures, particularly black music. From the Beatles' admiration for American rock 'n' roll in the 1960s to the rise of reggae music, the British have taken these influences and added their own innovative touch. However, it was with the emergence of reggae in Britain that an exciting and transformative journey began. This journey eventually paved the way for genres like rave, jungle, garage, and dubstep.

Moreover, East London played a central role in shaping this musical landscape. This essay aims to uncover the deep connection that East London has with dub and reggae music, as well as the influential East London artists who emerged and played a significant part in transforming British music.

Early days of Reggae in East London.

Reggae has been a part of East London's music scene since the 1960s, and we owe a great debt to the generations before us who not only created this music but also embraced it, making it cool to listen to. As a personal example, my father was part of the first-wave of skinheads and frequented reggae or 'Blues beat' clubs like the Four Ace's in Dalston during his formative years. The Four Ace's, established in 1966, the Wikipedia entry for the Four Ace’s states that ‘in the 1960s and 1970s, the club was one of the first venues to play black music in the United Kingdom and was credited with playing a significant "role in the evolution of reggae into dance music, from ska, to rocksteady, to dub, to lovers, to dancehall and the evolution of jungle.’

The experiences my father had during that time left a lasting impact on his musical taste, which included artists like John Holt and Bob Marley, as well as Tamela Motown Records and sophisticated 70s soul. These musical preferences were shared by many East Londoners during that era.

A Confluence of Influences: Post-Punk and Reggae

When punk arrived, my father's generation might have been considered too old for that scene. However, it was during the emergence of the second wave of British reggae enthusiasts that something truly groundbreaking occurred. This generation not only embraced punk music but also incorporated elements of reggae and punk into their own music. These individuals were visionaries who played integral roles in the music industry and the post-punk scene. Artists such as Jerry Dammers and Terry Hall with The Specials, John Lydon and Jah Wobble with Public Image Limited, Pauline Black and The Selector, Neenah Cherry with Rip Rig & Painic, Adrian Sherwood, The Pop Group, The Clash, The Slits, and even Madness, played a vital role in the cultural fusion of post-punk and reggae.

The connection between post-punk and reggae in the British music scene is a testament to the remarkable diversity that emerged during this period. They took reggae as a starting point and created their own unique punk versions or experimented with unconventional, abstract variations of the genre. The intertwining of post-punk and reggae is an undeniable connection that can be viewed as a breeding ground for the unique British diversity that would resurface and continue in genres like jungle and dubstep These genres can be seen as natural progressions of the groundwork laid by the reggae-inspired post-punk musicians.

It is important to acknowledge the pioneers of reggae and those who stayed true to its traditional roots. Reggae itself deserves immense praise, but this piece focuses on the diverse sounds it has inspired. Reggae did not necessarily require diversification, but it played a pivotal role in encouraging white British individuals to embrace diversity and undergo transformative experiences. Reggae was everywhere while I was growing up in Hackney - resonating from tower blocks, playing at parties of friends with West Indian Caribbean backgrounds, and streaming from radios & stereos of guys I worked with. During my early teens, there was a Dancehall reggae boom, with half of my friends into ‘Dancehall Ragga’ and the other half into either rave or Heavy Metal music. It was just the way things were back then.

The East London Connection: Jah Wobble.

The biggest noteworthy figure from East London who played a pivotal role in this transformation is Jah Wobble. Born John Joseph Wardle of Stepney Green, the bass guitarist and singer known as the original bass player in Public Image Ltd (PiL) in the late 1970s. Jah Wobble perfectly embodies the open-minded and diverse music approach ingrained in certain types of East London residents. He went on to pioneer a plethora of diversity in his music.

The Influence of Post-Punkers on Rave

Among the post-punk artists, it was the industrial music musicians who wholeheartedly embraced change. Hackney resident Genesis P.Orridge of Throbbing Gristle made influential contributions to acid house with his project 'Jack the Tab,' just as Richard H Kirk of Cabaret Voltaire did in the Sheffield scene and early Warp Records. They were not interested in remaining loyal to a single genre but instead chose to move with the current and embrace whatever manifested at the time. Artists like Jah Wobble, along with many likeminded individuals, were already exploring the realms of reggae, hip hop, and electronic music. The combination of these factors sparked an optimistic and forward-thinking attitude towards music, and the post-punk era cultivated a remarkably imaginative and inventive environment during the vibrant decades of the 80s and 90s, which proved to be an optimal period for artistic exploration and groundbreaking innovation.

Mutation, diversity and open-mindedness towards music all idea’s that would find home and be carried forward in Rave. Other influences added to the cultural blend, including the energetic beats of hip hop, house, and techno. As a result, the British Reggae-Rave version of this music emerged. Some of it had an electrifying party energy that gleefully crank-up the insanity level, with an emphasis on multiculturalism much similar to the British Ska movement of the late 70s. Then some of it would be dissonant and otherworldly like a mix of techno and more abstracted post-punk like Public Image Ltd. This thrilling evolution proved to be revolutionary, setting the stage for Jungle, Drum & Bass & Dubstep. This emerging genre of dance music would serve as a platform for even more numerous young individuals, many of who had little music training or equipment, to engage with music. Enabling them to flourish, thrive and capture the spotlight, which, in my opinion, truly epitomises the essence of punk. This indomitable spirit, reminiscent of both British Punks and Jamaican rebels, continued to exert its influence within the rave generation, as a real rebel connection.

Furthermore, when artists from East London who had primarily focused on reggae music began experimenting with abstracted reggae elements and rave-inspired tempos, as exemplified by the likes of 'Shut Up & Dance' and their 'Hackney Hardcore' projects, the rapid development of Jungle music was greatly accelerated.

Since then, East London has consistently been at the forefront of underground dance movements, particularly during the ascent of rave music in the UK. This is not by chance, as at that time, East London's vibrant music scene provided the perfect nurturing ground for experimentation and creativity to flourish. This collective effort resulted in a vibrant underground dance movement that East London has continued to lead ever since.

Conclusion

The journey from post-punk to rave exemplifies music's ability to transcend boundaries and spark creativity. The experimentation and melting pot of ideas in the post-punk era have had a lasting influence on future generations. The contributions of reggae-inspired post-punk musicians will remain a source of pride and inspiration, serving as a constant reminder of the limitless possibilities in both music and life.

In conclusion, the most significant impact of rave was its ability to bring people together and overcome differences. Rave culture was about breaking down divisions and embracing unity. The transition from reggae to rave, jungle, garage, and dubstep is a testament to the coming together of people from different cultures within these shores creating genres that celebrate the cultural mix in music. The enduring legacy of East London's music history reminds us of the importance of unity and transcending differences. The influence of these artists and the love for dub and reggae music in East London continues to shape not only the UK music scene, but also that of the world.

#NewBlogAlert #Tumblr #LinkInBio #BloggerLife #ContentCreator #DigitalStorytelling #BlogLaunch #WritersOfInstagram #WatchThisSpace #JoinTheJourney #*© #blog #journalism #design #copywriting #advertising #fashion #Music #london #Style #graphic design #art #musicculture #short form #Culture #Critic #analysis #contentwriter

[lin-coln]

Bob Marley and the Wailers - Them Belly Full

[Manhattan Center, New York, 1975]

The Natty Dread tour started on the 5th in Miami so by this show The Wailers were in a tight groove. It was a new time for Bob and The Wailers band with the addition of the I-Threes Judy, Marcia, and Rita on tour. The performances on this tour would help sky rock Bob’s music to the mainstream with the huge popularity of No Woman, No Cry. The recordings from the Lyceum in London later in the Tour being used for one of the greatest Live LP’s ever showing the power of Bob’s live presence to everyone. The setlist contains one of the rare performances of Nice Time and So Jah Seh. Plus a very special rendition of Get Up Stand Up with Bob scatting and changing up the lyrics through out. A few recorded sources have surfaced over the years. This one recorded by a well known New York area musical archivist Jerry Moore and from copy of his master. Many Marley live concert collectors put shows from this tour and 1979 tour as their favorites. Performance like this and the rest of this tour massively helped shape the aura and highly rising popularity of Bob Marley.

Bob Marley & the Wailers

6/21/75

Manhattan Center, NYC

[thatscarletflycatcher]

15, 22, 26, 50, 71, 97, 100

Hi! :3

15.- Rick Astley - Rise Up

22.- Chris de Bourgh - The Lady in Red

26.- Belinda Carlisle - La Luna

50.- Steve Tyrell - This Guy's In Love With You

71.- One Republic - I Lived

97.- Bob Marley & the Wailers - Is This Love

100.- Leslie Barber/James Shearman - Themes From Mansfield Park.

Spotify wrapped is HERE! send me a number 1-100 and I’ll tell you the song it corresponds with on my top 100 playlist

#spotify wrapped #ask #elizabeth--march #ask game

[princesssarisa]

A Christmas Carol Holiday Season: "A Christmas Carol: Scrooge's Ghostly Tale" (2006 animated feature)

We now reach (as far as I know) the first CGI animated version of A Christmas Carol. Unfortunately, it's not a particularly good one. But it is an interesting version. That I'll grant.

This retelling takes place in a world of animals. Scrooge is a skunk, as are his nephew Fred and sister Fan. Bob Cratchit, Tiny Tim, and their family are rabbits. Marley's Ghost is a cricket, and in a possible reference to another Dickens story, The Cricket on the Hearth, he emerges from Scrooge's fireplace. The Ghost of Christmas Past is a Scottish-accented stork, the Ghost of Christmas Present is an Australian-accented kangaroo, and the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come (who speaks in this version) is a walrus with a broken tusk. The two charitable gentlemen are bears, and the other London citizens are an assortment of frogs, cats, turtles, horses, mice, and such.

Predictably, this retelling is very much aimed at children, and the story is accordingly condensed and sometimes rewritten. Christmas Past leaves out Fezziwig and Belle, instead focusing on the child Scrooge's neglect and loneliness, and showing that he became estranged from Fan after Fred's birth made her unable to bring her younger brother to live with her. But Christmas Yet to Come gets more extensive changes. In the vision of the future, Tiny Tim is still alive and grown up, but his bad leg has been amputated, which has left him just as bitter and mean as Scrooge was. Meanwhile, Scrooge is said to have died when his hoarded pile of gold coins fell and crushed him, and at the cemetery, he sees his own ghost chained and wandering with Marley. Last but not least, after Scrooge redeems himself (and makes Bob Cratchit his partner, as in three earlier animated versions), he once again sees Marley, who for helping him is freed from his chain and rises up to heaven.

I have to admit that this Carol's main value is just as a curiosity. The CGI animation is generally crude and ugly, and while the voice actors do a fine job with their roles, the characters are written as caricatures of themselves. None of Dickens's original dialogue is used, but several quotes are borrowed from the 1951 Alastair Sim film, making me suspect that the screenwriters just watched that movie and didn't bother to read the book. The soundtrack also includes two mediocre songs – "Hey, Hey, Hey, Holiday," sung by Fred and his guests, and "A Second Chance," sung by Scrooge – despite the fact that the rest of the production isn't a musical.

Small children might enjoy this Carol, but personally, even for small children, I'd recommend many other versions above this one.

@ariel-seagull-wings, @faintingheroine, @reds-revenge, @thealmightyemprex, @thatscarletflycatcher

#a christmas carol holiday season #a christmas carol: scrooge's ghostly tale #2006 #animation #cgi #animated feature #tim bentinck

[dustedmagazine]

Listening Post: Souled American

Souled American arose in the context of the roots-influenced alternative rock scene of the mid to late 1980s that included “cowpunk” bands such as Rank and File, Green on Red’s acid country and the more refined sound of the Jayhawks. This nascent Americana movement built on the tradition of Dylan and the Band etc. and fed into the No Depression scene associated with Uncle Tupelo in the 1990s.

The first Souled American release, Fe (1988), is in this larger tradition—kind of. “Magic Bullets,” “Make Me Laugh,” and “Going Home,” in particular, have a fairly conventional country rock sound, with rattling drums, twangy guitar, and heartfelt nasal singing, and “She Broke My Heart,” is all weepy country. Some of the other tunes, though, point in a different direction. “Notes Campfire” sets the mood with acoustic strums and a classic country set-up (“I heard about your love/so you’re alone today”) but soon becomes unintelligible (“Slavic notes campfire”?) and introduces odd harmonies somewhere between the Byrds and the Holy Modal Rounders. The distinctive elements of the band sonically begin with the bass of Joe Adducci, which is up front in the mix, shows the influence of his time playing reggae, and is unique in the genre. Equally important are the restrained percussion of Jamie Barnard, the atmospheric playing of guitarist Scott Tuma (who has maintained a solo career), and the voices of Adducci and guitarist Chris Grigoroff.

Everything comes together on Flubber (1989), which starts off with a suite of five tunes on side one that are, for me, 15 of the best minutes of music in the genre in any period. If you’re looking for an entry point with SA, this is it. The blend of burbling bass, acoustic strums, keening electric accents, and atmospheric harmonica is full of emotion and mystery. The sound is simple but layered, making the whole so much more than the parts. The harmonica serves, not to punctuate the vocals, as in Dylan, but to fill the space often filled by accordion, fiddle, and keyboards (e.g., “Wind to Dry”). The lyrics don’t really make sense, but the atmosphere that they create perfectly matches the sound. Characters emerge, such as the lonely woman at a bar in “Mar’Boro Man,” and images such as the canvas punching bag in “All Good Things,” while “Drop in the Basket” hints at an America coming apart at the seams (“this church is on fire/the sirens scream . . . searching every alley for patches for holes”). The other tunes are less immediately compelling but equally rewarding as an early example of slowcore. On “You and You Alone,” “Over the Hill,” and “Zillion,” the band slows to a crawl and the percussion becomes vestigial, pointing forward to the space that has since been inhabited by artists ranging from Will Oldham to SUSS. Flubber creates something new out of well-worn parts, a kind of Old Weird Americana that is neither ironic, overly earnest, nor beholden to the rock tradition. The reissue well includes the mission statement (originally only available on cassette) “Marleyphine Hank” — i.e., the band is made up of equal portions of Bob Marley (that bass), morphine (the slow tempos), and Hank Williams (of course).

Around the Horn (1990) includes tracks every bit as strong as those on Flubber and Fe — the title track, “Second of All,” “In the Mud,” and an inspired take on Little Feat’s “Six Feet of Snow” — and continues the move toward slowcore country, especially on the epic “Rise Above It.” It also represents a major inflection point. The three subsequent releases (which were only available in the U.S. as European imports) double down on the slowcore approach (facilitated by Barnard’s departure in 1991). Sonny (1992) consists mainly of covers of country and traditional songs and instrumentals that are a lot like those on previous records. It’s pleasant enough, but the bass has receded into the background, the harmonicas are rarely in evidence, and there’s a sense that the band was running out of ideas. Frozen (1994) and Notes Campfire (1996) both consist of originals played at the characteristic molasses tempo. There are some great songs, especially “Before Tonight” and “Heyday,” but, at the time, there was simply no market for this kind of music, and the band fell largely silent. Even diehard fans may find these releases challenging, and the place to start for newcomers remains the three remarkable records released from 1988 to 1990.

So, I’m wondering how those who were there at the time think these songs have aged (I think they hold up really well) and how they strike those who are hearing them for the first time.

Jim Marks

Fe by Souled American

Bill Meyer:  I first heard Souled American around the time of Flubber. I had people telling me how wonderful they were, and when I listened at the time, I didn't hear it at all. The music sounded kind of cartoony to me. I decided to take the albums in sequence, and I am currently halfway through. I no longer hear the vocals as caricatures. They seem like a natural synthesis of the group's interests and aptitudes.  And the arrangements, which I once merely registered as kind of annoying, now sound highly idiosyncratic. I gather that the bassist, Joe Adducci, played in ska bands. Instead of toning down his assertive rhythm plus counterpoint approach to suit country-rock convention, the playing jams his style into the tunes. I haven't decided whether I like it any more, but I get how singular it is in a way that I didn't 30-odd years ago. So, I guess that listening to this music again is acqauinting me with evidence of how I've changed as a listener.

Justin Cober-Lake:  I'm one of those hearing them for the first time, and I'm drawn to the early albums (probably Fe the most) for the same reason I'm drawn to artists like the Band. The music slips between time periods, between genres, between whatever else. If you'd told me that Fe was recorded 20 years earlier, I'd have believed you. It's a very earnest approach to a certain sort of country rock that came before, and I can even hear some inflections of cosmic country. I don't think Souled American fits the alt-country narrative very well at all, beyond the fact that everyone probably listened to Gram Parsons.

The "slowcore approach" that Jim mentioned definitely sets them apart from their alt-country cousins, and it feels like an element of their music that does slot into the early '90s more so than their instrumentation or influences. By the end of the discography, it begins to feel predictable -- it's hard to think, "What *is* this?" after six albums -- but until then it's very striking, and gives the first few albums a very distinctive flavor. One of the connections I wonder about is how this music connects to the current wave of ambient country (or similarly named music). We're hearing more and more music that uses pedal steel and other country instruments for non-traditional music. I'm thinking of acts like SUSS or Luke Schneider's various projects. I'm not sure there's a throughline at all here, but that gets me back to my first point about what attracts me to this music. It sort of fits into a whole bunch of places without really having a proper home.

Flubber by Souled American

Christian Carey: Timing is so important in the record industry. A band can make great music that would have gained wider currency if only they had released it when the Zeitgeist was in their favor. I think this is the case with Souled American. Imagine if the band’s first album had been released in 1996, the date of their last LP, Notes Campfire. Souled American might have fit in well in the No Depression era. Instead, they struggled with labels and sales and, perhaps inevitably, stopped releasing records. As they matured, so did Chris Grigoroff’s vocals; the earlier releases have twang and warble that are a bit too on the nose. So too did the band’s sound, moving from more straightforward production to experiments one might consider proto Wilco. Fe morphs their sound in this direction, and the songs themselves are more experimental in construction. Notes Campfire has a gloomily valedictory quality. My understanding is that Souled American still plays the occasional gig. It would be nice to see what they would do in the studio today.

Jennifer Kelly:  I remember reviewing a really lovely Scott Tuma solo album for Dusted during the Otis years, and it looks like we did a couple of others as well. 

This is the paragraph that addresses what has Scott been up to since Souled American.  

It’s been roughly a decade since Scott Tuma played guitar in Souled American, the cultish alt.Americana outfit whose unstrung country blues inspired, among other things, Camden Joy’s “Fifty Posters About Souled American” project (and a cameo in Jonathan Lethem’s Chronic City). Since then, Tuma has contributed to the ambient explorations of the Boxhead Ensemble and, with members of Zelienople, to Good Stuff House. He has also released four solo albums that warp familiar, organic sounds into strange dream-like shapes.

Bill Meyer:  As far as I know, he still lives in Chicago, but I haven't seen Tuma in years. He has continued to make albums, and discogs says that a cassette came out on Emmett Kelley's label, Haha, last year. I've heard a lot of them, and while each has its own character, they're all loose, slow, and more inclined to communicate via tone than words. While there was a time in the early aughts when you could see him reasonably often, he performed out significantly less in the years before the pandemic.

Jim Marks:  Yes I gave Tuma's records short shrift in the intro. They're uniformly excellent, taking the slowcore in another direction, and I've actually listened to them more over the years than the Souled American records.

Justin Cober-Lake:  Now I'm detouring into Tuma's discography, and he does something quite different. It's still in some sort of Americana-based slowcore whatever, but it doesn't sound like Souled American. I don't want to dwell on the band's decline or dissolution, but is there any connection between his changing sound and the end of Souled American. The band runs out of either steam or ideas for its last couple records, but Tuma hadn't. "Untitled 2" on The River 1 2 3 4 beautifully develops the broader aesthetic, with both a classic loveliness and innate weirdness that could have continued to drive the band (which I realize had been broken up for seven years at this point).

Sonny by Souled American

Bill Meyer:  I’m only up to Sonny, which I’ve just heard for the first time ever, so my thoughts my change as I play through the final two. But on Sonny, what stands out about Tuma’s playing is the extent to which it doesn’t sound like him as I got to know him later on; instead, he plays what the music requires in order for it to be Souled American Music. This feels like the point where they drew their line vs. the rest of the world. We’re going to play so slow, our drummer quits on us. We’re going to make an album of classic country songs, and make them all sound just like us. They really double down on slow tempos and a style of singing that emphasizes emotional and locational signifiers (quavers, elongations, that rural drawl), but seems to drain them of emotion, and locates them in a place that probably doesn’t exist beyond the four walls of their rehearsal room. They seem very determined to be themselves, for better or worse pursuing some ideal form of Souled Americanness.

I should clarify, the drummer left after this record was done. At the time that record came out, their manager had a form letter responding to all Souled American queries, and in it he said that the drummer quit because he got married. Interestingly, the letter says that it took eight months to record Sonny; apparently, these guys were slow in more ways than one.

And as I s-l-o-w-l-y drawn to the conclusion of album number five, Frozen, the Tuma solo connection starts to materialize. With its more drawn-out tempos drawing everything within gravitational reach towards a strange state, this is the first record to sound anything like solo Tuma, albeit fuller and more polished than anything he did on his own. Chris Grigoroff’s singing sounds less engaged than ever with country-rock convention, and more like this one weird guy from the country singing. He sounds more emotionally invested in these songs than he did in the covers on

Sonny

, which reinforces my notion that Sonny is the record where they decided to show the world, "this is how it must be done," and they used those songs to do it. 

I think this might be the record I like the most out of the five that I’ve heard.

Notes Campfire by Souled American

Jim Marks:  Nice to see the later Souled American records getting some love. They were ignored or scorned at the time (I remember a particularly scathing review of Notes in the Austin Chronicle) despite having, among other charms, great accessible tunes like "Heyday" and "Before Tonight." Bill has it exactly right: this is uncompromising outsider music.

Jennifer Kelly:  I am belatedly getting into all this.  Have to say that I failed to make much of a connection with Fe, but I am liking Flubber a lot better, especially the parts where the country blues haze parts and you get some soul-ish vamps as on "True Swamp"  and "Cupa Cowfee."  

At its best, this stuff is very trance-y and transcendental, but sounds deeply rural, which makes me wonder how these city boys came to this type of music.  Also, it's reminding me of some of the weirder backwoods psych we have around here, like Sunburned and Tower Recordings and MV and EE.  Is there a line of influence there?  

Am I right that these are just straight reissues--no extra tracks and so forth? About to tackle Around the Bend, more later.

Bill Meyer:  I have never heard of a band claiming Souled American as an influence. My recollection is that in the 1990s they had a critical buzz. I believe that Mike Krassner of Boxhead Ensemble was a fan, and this influenced the decision to recruit Tuma into Boxhead in the late 1990s.

Bryon Hayes:  I'm also late to the party with respect to Souled American proper.  My induction into their orbit was via the series of releases that Scott Tuma recorded with members of Zelienople.  Jenny's comment about trance-y and transcendental really applies to those records, but I also definitely hear it in the latter Souled American releases, especially Notes Campfire.  It's my favorite of the lot; the unhurried tempos and melancholic atmospheres really resonate with me.

I'm wondering if the connection to the northeastern US backwoods psych scene has to do with the band's affiliation with Zelienople. Even though they were also from Chicago, that band seemed heavily aligned with that psychedelic folk scene. I know that Time-Lag released the first Good Stuff House recordings.  That project included Tuma alongside Mike Weis and Matt Christensen from Zelienople.  I'm unclear whether any of the other Souled American band members were aligned with that other band, however.

Jim Marks:  Just for the record, "Tall Boy Blues," "True Swamp Too," "Torch Singer," and "Marleyphine Hank" did not appear on the original vinyl releases but were cassette- and CD-only tracks. The only thing missing from the reissue that I know of is a (fairly straight) cover of a Kris Kristofferson song that appeared on an early 2000s tribute to Kristofferson.

Around the Horn by Souled American

Chris Liberato:  Something clicked for me in the last couple of weeks and I've been enjoying the heck out these records! I haven't digested them all yet, but Fe, Flubber, Frozen and Notes Campfire have all been doing it for me. Flubber is the only one that I was familiar with prior. I bought a used copy in the early aughts (at Twisted Village, rest in peace), but I couldn't get into it at the time and ended up letting it go. Like Bill, I remember being turned off by the vocals. Now I'm hearing shades of Curt Kirkwood from the Meat Puppets, Will Oldham and a little bit of Jay Farrar in the vocals -- all folks whose voices I like a lot, and who I was familiar with long before I heard Souled American. I don't know what my problem was back then.

I'd like to stay on the Meat Puppets comparison for a second because they're the band that Souled American might remind me of the most. Not in their choice of tempos, of course, but in many of the ways we've already touched on: the prominent, burpy bass (flubbery is actually is a  great word to describe it's sound); the spacey, interweaving guitar lines; the cryptic and occasionally profound lyrics. Both bands have this way of blending (many of the same) genres to create something not easily classifiable. And they take a similarly unselfconscious approach to performance, especially in the vocal department. I poked around to see if the Meat Puppets comparison was a common one, but only found a couple mentions. One was in a recent Raven Sings The Blues feature with Eric Johnson of the Fruit Bats where he described Frozen as sounding like Meat Puppet's Up on the Sun but with the tape slowed WAY down." I think that's a pretty accurate description, and one that could be applied to many moments in their catalog.

Jennifer Kelly:  Huh, Meat Puppets, good call, though I think of them as more rock and less Americana.  

I've been listening to the live Strapping Fieldhands from the early to mid-1990s lately and hearing some commonality there as well.  Also very weird and kind of offputting vocals.  

#dusted magazine #listening post #souled american #jim marks #justin cober-lake #bill meyer #christian carey #bryon hayes #chris liberato #scott tuma #zelienople #meat puppets

[freddiemercurydaily]

Queen’s Greatest Hits has reached the landmark milestone of 1,000 weeks

3 June 2022 - Queen Reaches A New Milestone Queen’s Greatest Hits has reached the landmark milestone of 1,000 weeks on the Official Album Chart.   Rising one spot to Number 18 this week, Queen now become the first British act and third act overall to achieve 1,000 weeks inside the Official Albums Chart Top 100 with an album after Bob Marley & The Wailers’ greatest hits collection Legend (1032 weeks) and the original record-setter, ABBA’s Gold – Greatest Hits (1048 weeks).  Originally released in 1981, Greatest Hits peaked at Number 1 on the Official Albums Chart and would stay on the top for 4 weeks

Its tracklist contains the best-known tracks from Freddy Mercury and co.’s first decade-or-so as a band, with classics such as Bohemian Rhapsody, Killer Queen and Somebody To Love. Discover Queen’s Official Charts history in full here https://www.officialcharts.com/artist/21275/queen/Martin Talbot, CEO of the Official Charts Company, says of Queen’s feat: “What an incredible achievement by Queen, to become the first British act to strike up 1,000 weeks on the Official Albums Chart with their Greatest Hits, a total which amounts to more than 19 years solid - and how appropriate too that should reach this record-breaking landmark in the week of Queen Elizabeth’s Platinum Jubilee.” Source: Official Charts Congratulations To The Best Band Ever Long Live Queen 

#queen #freddiemercury #freddie mercury