Love, Caution

Justin Oullette

Streetlight embraces.

Duckpond gropes.

Telephone hours.

Night drives.

Fight one, where I scream and she laughs.

Fight two, with the stranger without her pills.

A poem about chasing Ascher’s balloon in the rain.

A song about family.

Fight three, about writers who don’t teach.

Sex in the garage.

Holes in the wall.

Tears on the backseat.

Dents in the car.

Spouting about Ascher being a man.

Seething in the driver’s seat, admitting nothing.

Driving my brother, “Crazy,

man. This is it.”

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More by Justin Oullette.

Mery's "Streets" a Lovely Jaunt

Is there a modern genre more spiritual than R&B? I’m not referencing the presence of God so much as the emotional core that holds fast after the genre has been sonically stretched to Tantric proportions. Many of its champions barely sound like one another (ever listened to What’s Going On right after The ArchAndroid?), but the messages seldom change: I love you. I miss you. Let’s fuck. And, oh, what’s wrong with the world today?

It’s this context that helps shed meaning on Gentlemen Streets, the latest release from Nick Mery aka Merykid. The fact that Streets is the first title to bear Mery’s proper namesake tells us he’s starting a new chapter and is, at least, trying to drop the “youthful” persona. He enters the R&B fray as a five-year industry vet, having licensed his music to CBS, charted on Garage Band’s Top 25 Acoustic Artists and been nominated twice at the Feel Good Film Festival. All these accolades have been accompanied by a restless genre stretching of his own. He’s made eclectic folk his hallmark (as Merykid), but has also veered into garage rock (The Great ‘85) and psychedelia (The Texas Weather). In other words, Streets makes sense because R&B is forever mercurial and Mery is comfortable with his own weird. You’ll likely be, too, because, well, James Blake is in the world.

Mery understands the fundamentals: some butt-bouncing beats here, a sultry hook there, stacks of synths, plus guest verses by able rappers and one vocalist. The difference here is that Mery (writing, playing and co-producing with Edwin J. Stephens) drenches everything in a coat of space. That is, the music literally sounds meant for baby-making at zero gravity.

Streets soars on opener “Countdown (To The End of the World).” Mery lets wordsmith Carlton Zeus rule with his gravelly bro timbre for nearly half the cut, before entering the hook in a volley of vocal effects. Then he leaps into a respectable (if short) rap verse. This is the same guy who played “Master of Puppets” on a banjo.

The rest of Streets seldom hits as hard as its opener, but it makes several killings because of Mery’s sonic approach. Lead single “True” is why-won’t-you-love-me balladry stuck in the retrofuture. The warbly synths and glitchy snare don’t just reveal Mery’s love of vintage tech sounds. They also work with a cache of ambient synth noise to evoke that dreamy “4 am” sound. The same is true about “Baby (I Know),” which sounds like Mery giving a post-coital pep talk to his lover, their space suits still drifting around them. Meanwhile, “All I Had,” the suite “Strange World” and the beginning of “Now or Never/Just Say It” wouldn’t make sense on most R&B records, but end up becoming displays of Mery’s IDM prowess.

And on two tracks, Streets induces head-scratching. “Good Day” has Streets’ best segueway (from “All I Had”) and a spastic killer speed-verse from folk-rapper Chris Conde. But Mery mars the song with an un-enthused chorus. It aims for cool, but lands on meh, despite the fact that the cut makes “Galactic Trap” sound viable. (Conde was crashing on Stephens’ couch when he offered to freestyle over a demo of “Good Day.” Mery didn’t know him from Adam but gave Conde a try and decided the verse was, “the best thing I ever heard.”)

But the clincher is “Give It Up,” a smoldering soul anthem Mery built on rhode keys and abrasive guitars. The song will pique the interest of many simply because soul-rock chanteuse Carly Garza is credited in the track listing. She’s relegated to three-word-hook duty. The fact that Garza and Mery, both exceptional singers, aren’t engaging in any give and take (she doesn’t even get a verse) is criminal, especially as the boy-girl duet holds a cherished place in R&B’s history. On its own merits, the anthem is still a centerpiece, just a centerpiece that begs, “What if?”

Even so, Streets is a triumph. It takes a few listens to sink in, but the record makes R&B sound like it’s inhabiting Mery’s world and not the other way around. But also, Streets marks Mery’s fourth genre shift in as many years. He may not yet be the relentless genius his artistic output implies, but it’s clear Mery has no plans to slow down.

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Buy this album. 

Longinus and Cost

The night I drove the lance;

words like water and blood. I felt like God

was anything I could create.

Art industry. Inspired

to unearth old works:

Chapbooks bound by staples and bubble jet.

Childrens’ stories with stick figures

photoshopped.

The foul limericks I called poems.

The lazy anecdotes I called stories.

The absent women I called songs.

You snapped me out of my throes,

love, when you gathered your

art and drove into the school night.

I slept with a babbling mind

and a letting heart.

--

This post is a revision of a previous work.

On Angel Castorena, The Current and the Irony of the Year

In February 2011, I tried expanding my writing credentials. I was fast approaching a year's tenure covering entertainment and nipple pasties with San Antonio Current. So I applied with Backbeat Magazine, founded by Korova co-owner Angel Castorena and Puro Pinche blogger Stephanie Guerra. By that time, Backbeat was sans Guerra—she worked roughly 18 months as Managing Editor—and it may have had something to do with what followed. Today, I'm reminded of it as I read a recent Current story on Castorena acquiring booking responsibilities at Limelight on St. Mary's.

I gave Backbeat four stories. The first (on Alamodome's Illusions Theatre) was pro bono per Backbeat policy. The second was a profile on Eye in the Sky Collective founder Anthony Erickson. The third and fourth were profiles on Local 782 and the beatsmith-turning-councilman Diego Bernal. Castorena promised compensation shortly after I submitted copy and then delivered excuse after excuse for delaying payment. Days turned to weeks, as the deadline for another set of stories rapidly approached. Castorena finally paid me after I threatened litigation (which would include compensation for time missed at my community newspaper).

However, he post-dated the checks after next deadline. I deposited them anyway because I was broke and needing to pay bills (however wrecklessly). I promptly gave notice, citing his payment behaviors and the feeling that I was supporting a villain. The following week, Castorena contacted me saying the checks bounced and asking what I would "do about" the fees. I told him he would get nothing from me in light of his behavior.

My tale is common and perhaps boring to many, but that is precisely why I'm telling it. I wasn't surprised by Castorena. A colleague told me he had screwed musicians all over the city. But like any budding working artist, I was desperate. And Castorena knew it. Most scene workers have stories of being either screwed out of pay or prospects through Castorena. Some have not been paid; others, simply led down a road of broken promises followed by limp restitution.

I know several people who have been wronged by Castorena. But more importantly, if you are reading this, you probably know someone else who has been slighted by Castorena. He owes money to and has broken promises with nearly everyone who works the scene in San Antonio. As a result, some people are no doubt scoffing at these words, as if I'm asking water to not be wet.

That's why I'm taking the time to write this. The Current polarizingly criticized The Korova's sound system and their efforts to improve the same at Limelight. Their tone struck a chord with Castorena, who aired his grievances with the alt paper in an equally polarizing Facebook status (promising to re-launch Backbeat as a counter medium, see thumbnails). Local members of the scene spouted off (including me here) on the matter. A week later, I'm left wondering if things could have played out better. 

Firstly, I don't apologize for my tone or words on Castorena. He is a phony that uses his professed "love" for local music to exploit scene workers. The fact that, even now, he tries to make me feel bad (see below) for wanting to be paid for my work is proof enough. Like all good manipulators, he has apologists, including some people he profoundly relied on with Backbeat, but who were paid months behind schedule (if at all).

But it's those reasons that make the recent Current article (all due respect) feel like such a missed opportunity in hindsight. Castorena is insidious to local music culture and is gaining steam. Now would have been as good a time as any to publish whether he has plans to work with more integrity now that he has acquired prime real estate. Ignoring that conversation simply because it's based on a commonly accepted knowledge does not negate its importance.

In the world of creative professionals, the Angel Castorena's are everywhere. They found companies like Demand Media Studios to pay new writers less than pennies on the word on the promise that they have "the potential to influence millions." They pay advances on script-writing jobs only to disappear with an incomplete draft, never paying a full deal (and certainly no royalties). They hire writers at minimum wage/part-time, make them furnish their own computers and participate at the CEO's church. They run Craigslist ads that say, "IT'S TRUE. WE WON'T CHARGE YOU TO PUBLISH YOUR WORK."

People like Angel Castorena diminish the creative professional. They are why talent leaves for Austin, Seattle or any other art-friendly pasture. They are why I left a career in newspapers to work the door at a bar in College Station. There are already too many of them forever minimizing the worth of writers, photographers, graphic designers, visual artists, and musicians, while simultaneously pretending that they are their champion. 

Rather than harp on Korova's shitty sound (a worthy conversation still), I'd rather ask Castorena what his plans are regarding paying local bands that open for national acts. What will be his pay system when he re-launches Backbeat? Meanwhile, I'd like to ask the community why we give our work to someone who isn't interested in paying for it. Why do we also patronize him when he outmanuevers other SA promoters? What will we do now that he is on the payroll at N. St. Mary's? At what point will we say "No" to this show or that gig with his name on it because we know starving such a beast is better than feeding ourselves?

There's no need to ask Castorena about his motivations and drive. His motto is "Never say die" and he'll live it to his last show. All he needs is our time, money and talent.

Atonement

The night I drove the lance,

my first words in months.

It was a retreat

where worship is putting tool to medium and God

was anything I could create. 

In my throes, you asked where I was. Your face burdened

by sleep, concern and closet light.

I did not know then

why I was sad.

A Way Two Drown: Ledaswan Split, Frontwoman Looks Forward

Ledaswan in happier times. (L-R) Lalo Rodriguez; David, Erica and Jaime Monzon; Nick Ochoa. Photo by Vanessa Mejia.

Discuss for me a bit the legacy of Ledaswan. Three EP's since 2004 right?

Yes, two seven song EP's and one six song EP. A couple of online only releases. As far as tour, we toured the midwest, west coast, and Texas.

How did this break up happen?

The break up was basically a shaky one just because of the personal tensions that come with a "regular" break up, so it was like a break up within a breakup. Basically, Jaime couldn't play in the band if we [he and she] broke up and if that was a truth and I wasn't at peace with myself, then I had to walk away from it all because it just went on too long that way.

Ledaswan was on the brink of releasing a new record. Tell me about it.

The music was getting very progressive in a good way and I enjoyed writing with everyone in the band. However, I think just something died inside me towards the end. I was feeling uninspired with the more gritty rock type stuff. I was trying to push it in a few different directions as we had experimented with electronic, ambient type stuff with a groove, which I really dig.

It's clear that you didn't want this breakup and so it's not surprising to see you taking your music out to solo gigs and open mics. Are you carrying on the Ledaswan catalog as your own now? Are you looking to form a new band using the Ledaswan name or start something else entirely new?

I am only performing Ledaswan songs that I wrote or co-wrote with Jaime. And I am writing new material. My intentions are not to go "solo" because I'm an artist and I want to continue to evolve as one, wherever that takes me. It's also an outlet; that's one reason I tried to still keep the band together regardless because it was everyone's outlet (so I thought). But they didn't see it that way. And right after we [she and Jaime] broke up, I felt I wasn't sure I wanted to continue playing music, but I was grieving this aspect of my life and I have to release all the shit I'm feeling. I’m a very sensitive person.

I'm uncertain what is going to happen with the recordings we have. Maybe we will post some of those songs or maybe not. [I’m] not using Ledaswan's name, just Erica Swan at the moment.

Having moved on from this project that was heading toward the decade mark, what are you feeling?

Moving on from this project, I'm feeling inspired (ironically) by the breakup and other relationships in my life that are in limbo or have ended. And excited about new relationships musically and just with myself. I am happy to at least be back at my roots and feeling natural about the songs I write and sing. I want to collaborate with people and experiment with maybe some electronic [or] indie, while still integrating my first love of heartfelt songs and guitars.

Erica Swan's next show is Friday, 3/1 at Melinda Martinez Art Studio (628 S. Presa). 

More by Vanessa Mejia.

Tale of Two Ernests

(L-R) Mexicans with Guns (Aka Ernest Gonzales), Pop Pistol, Diego Bernal. Collage created from work by Francisco Cortés, Aaron DuRall and Daniela Riojas, respectively.

It’s unlikely anyone would confuse space-rockers Pop Pistol and tribal beat-smith Mexicans With Guns (aka Ernest Gonzales), but a cursory glance at their music indicates the artists’ affinity: introspective tones, rain-maker rhythms, fastidious dynamics. Maybe it’s both acts’ helix-like intimacy that makes the MWG remix of “No New Years Know” feel a hair bit pedestrian. In this first piece from a forthcoming Animal Prisms remix collection, no party seems intent on taking any risks. MWG rides the original song’s main guitar riff and verses too hard. The signature Latin bass pulses and percussion are merely window dressing here, making this remix feel less like an explosive set piece and more a likeable intro or interlude.

Gonzales hits harder in a recently released track that is, ironically, more subdued. His collabo “Somber Arrows”—with lo-fi beat conductor (and San Antonio City Councilman District 1) Diego Bernal—is instrumental hip-hop at its finest. Part of an EP that is also forthcoming, both Bernal and Gonzales (under his birth name) weave a hypnotic tapestry of warped pianos and haunting string plucks over linear bass drops and a reverb drenched snare. The cut is Preemptive Strike-era DJ Shadow with a dash of SA swagger.

Pop Pistol's next show is Friday, February 22nd at Sam's Burger Joint. Doors 8 pm, all ages, $10 pre-sale/15 at door.

More by:

Francisco Cortés

Aaron DuRall

Daniela Riojas

Poetic Whatever: Carly Garza on rebelling through her saxophone and her tug-of-war with SA Music

Garza fixes her hair outside Korova in downtown SA. David Terry.

This interview took place in late January over tapas from Mon Thai Bistro. It has been edited for continuity. Stomping Grounds regrets that the tidbit about the dorkiness of both Adam Villela Coronado and Ryan Teter did not make the final draft. 

AVC: What’s it like growing up in a musical family? 

CG: I had to listen to my mom sing and play all the freaking time. I’m an only child so I like being alone and being in the quiet and all that. It was strange because my mother was always singing and, even now, sings out of nowhere. 

In an environment like that, do you endeavor music just through osmosis?

When I was a kid, my grandma started giving me little piano lessons, so I learned a couple of classical pieces…But I didn’t continue it then because “child” Carly was not interested or something. Or I would get frustrated the way kids do. Which is silly, because I remember liking it and being proud that I could play these pieces on piano. I don’t know why I stopped. 

When did you start actively playing guitar like you do now? 

I was about 14. That was when I became friends with Nina [Diaz of Girl in a Coma, in 2002]. Basically, it’s strange because…Hold on, I’m getting ahead of myself. In middle school, I was in band. 

What did you play? 

[Laughing] Saxophone. Clarinet and saxophone. When I tried out for band, I think was rebelling against both of my parents, “I don’t want to play guitar or drums.” Instead, I chose the saxophone, the most random instrument. 

So your “punk” move was saxophone?

Yeah, and the assistant band director played beats on his lap had me repeat them and they got progressively more difficult and I could play every single one of them. He said, “She’s a drummer.” But I was, “I want to play saxophone” and he was like, “Ooooo-kay, I guess,” so they started me out on clarinet. 

Do you still practice the saxophone or clarinet? 

[Smiles] Ooooh, no. No, no, no, no. 

Why not? 

The last time I tried, I couldn’t even get a sound out of it. 

How long ago was this? 

When Chuck [Kerr] and Chris [Maddin] were doing the Kid A thing [the full-album covers project at Broadway 5050].

They wanted brass for “National Anthem.” 

Chuck was desperate for a saxophone player. I was like, “I can’t play saxophone.” He was like, “You can just make noises.” 

But Nina was playing guitar and I thought, “Oh, that’s really cool.” I don’t know why it was cool when Nina did it and not when my mom did it. 

So let’s call what you’ve been doing recently in the music scene—booking and playing shows, leading the open mic and so on—your professional career. How long has that been going on? 

I was 19 and I had just come back from New York [from college in 2007]. I got a boyfriend [guitarist Danny Cantu] and he and I played music together in Blue Means Go. They were always his songs; we kind of worked together. It started as him on guitar and me singing and then we added a bassist and drummer. We just kept going through drummers, so I decided to play drums. 

We [she and him] broke up in 2010 and we were both like, “Let’s keep the band going,” and we did that for one show and I was like, “Fuuuuuuck this.” 

And since then you’ve been kind of doing things here and there. The first time I saw you was at a Nicolette Good gig in 2010, where you were singing backup. I thought the same thing that Nicolette eventually admitted to on Facebook: that you upped their cool factor. 

[Laughing] I love Nicolette… 

I take it that at this time, “singer-songwriter” Carly Garza had not yet really emerged. 

[Laughing] I still haven’t…I had one song written after the band broke up. I would take out my laptop sometimes and do some stream-of-consciousness writing and then kind of organize it into some semblance of poetic whatever. I had only a few songs back then. 

When did you start taking over the Martini Ranch open mic? I’ve only ever gone when [Pop Pistol bassist] George Garza Jr. has hosted it. 

I took over in 2012 because Nina was doing it and she wanted me to take over when she went on tour. Well, she was on tour for half of 2012. I feel like I got better at performing. 

My impression of that gap between Blue Means Go and Martini Ranch is that you just kept popping up. You were in Black Magic [and the Full Expose] and you did backing vocals for Nicolette…I saw your show at Blue Star with Jason Christopher Trevino and you were playing an art premiere [in fall 2011]. It was a mixture of covers and originals and it felt like the Carly Garza that I know was kind of emerging at that time. 

That’s basically where I’m still at. My writing process has been so painstakingly slow. 

Why? 

I’m not sure. I’m just barely learning how to write songs right now and I hate everything I write. 

My songs are really, really personal and they’re about people, you know? A moment in time or a certain conversation I had with somebody and I’ve had people ask me, “Is this song about me?” and I’m like, “No, [laughing] I don’t want to talk about it.” 

[Laughing] “No, it’s not, but this conversation is over.” 

Maybe everybody is that way. 

Everybody encounters this struggle. Mark Twain forbid the publishing of his memoirs until he was dead because he didn’t want to be around to be accountable. I understand that, but I often think that we need to start giving less of a fuck…which reminds me, what have you been working on lately? 

I have five [original] songs that I play in front of people. And two others that are basically done, but I’m still getting up the courage to play them. I probably will at these upcoming shows. You know, I see people [other artists] and get inspired by them and then frustrated because I can’t be like them.

I’m still learning how to write. I have a lot of pieces in my GarageBand…a lot of them are crap. Some parts of them are really good, but I need to do something with them. Now I’m like, “What’s the most important part of a song? A melody. How do I come up with a strong melody?” And going from there…The most success has come from having the words and thinking of a melody and plugging chords in at the end. I know it’s different for every songwriter. But I’ve only just discovered that this is how I have to go about this process. 

One of my goals this year is…I really need a band. I want to learn how to play with other people. Sometimes I get together with musicians and it’s like, “What do you want to work on?” and I’m like, “[indistinct noise indicating that she is shutting down].” 

I’m seeing a parallel here. Being an only child, naturally pre-disposed to being alone. So frequently we see you with just your vocal, guitar and a mic. 

And I don’t write with other people. It scares me. 

That’s weird because I remember being at Broadway 5050 in October 2011 and watching you, Libby Wardlaw and, I think, Melissa Malick all sing backup for Chris Maddin and Chuck Kerr doing “Monster Mash.” I could tell that doing the backup was spur-of-the-moment and that kind of interdependency was a sight to behold. Is there just reluctance for you to take the reigns? 

I guess so. I once did a jam of my original material with Dave Terry [drummer for Kubrick]. It wasn’t like we were going to start a band and it was liberating and something I need to remember. But then I was, “No Dave, play that beat this way…” and it felt like I shouldn’t be taking myself so seriously. 

For me, the thing that I associate with you the most is the Martini Ranch open mic. Why has that become such a fixture for you? 

[Quizzically, but smiling] I don’t know. Cause it’s there. I haven’t had any new material, haven’t been playing shows. Black Magic has been trying to record. 

There’s this weird tension in your career. I can’t think of the San Antonio music community and not think of some key players—[recently departed Bad Breaks creative force] Chuck Kerr, [singer/songwriter/broadcaster] Nick Mery, [label owner and promoter] Scott Andreu, Pop Pistol—figures that always seem to making a noise. It feels as if you do the same thing except it’s in this weird form. 

Well for me, it’s about practicing in front of people. Forcing myself to learn new songs. Getting used to play with people. I’ve made new friends through this thing. It’s a good thing. 

And there is also this coming together of disparate musicians. Someone is playing generic bar songs. Someone else is playing Texas Country. 

Yeah. We’re not all the same. At Chris Maddin’s thing, it’s the indie hits. At Martini Ranch, I’m the person playing indie hits and everyone else is playing Sublime or fucking Weezer [smiles]. 

Shifting gears, tell me what was going on at the KRTU Plugged In Session with the use of loop pedals and so on. 

I’d been wanting a pedal for a while. Nina was using one for her shows and it felt like it would help me write. I just needed something because I’m tired of playing shows with just a guitar. 

Did the sessions feel tentative to you? I felt I was catching you in a state of rapid change. 

It’s funny you’re mentioning that because I want my next incarnation to be entirely different from what I’ve been presenting onstage. I don’t want to be seen as a singer-songwriter. I want to have a band that represents [my music]. But I’m just now learning about gear. I’m still learning GarageBand. 

Well, discuss for me the place you want to carve out for yourself in the community. It feels like you’re interested in doing more than simply evangelizing people of your music. 

Well, I definitely want to connect with people through music. I mean, isn’t that the point? It’s really important for me to continue to make friends through music. Finding people to play with. I don’t know. It’s a lot to think about. 

The San Antonio scene is weird. Part of me just wants to leave. Part of me feels like I have a space to fill somewhere. 

Most artists go one of three ways in San Antonio. They give up. They move away. Or they stick it out. What’s your motivation for staying if you decide to? 

Honestly, to finish college. I’m not here because I wanted to come back from New York. I was so devastated to come back from art school; my dreams were crushed [because of financial problems]. I need to follow at least one of those dreams. It’s hard for me to talk about the community here…I don’t know. It’s because I’ve had relationships with people who are big parts of the San Antonio art and music community and I think they felt the same ambivalence that I do. It’s like, “I’m a fixture here. A lot of people are looking at me. And yet, I don’t want to stay here. But I want everyone else around me to be better.” I don’t know. Why would I want to be here when many people are complacent? 

Well, I had a revelatory talk with Chuck Kerr one time about something similar. He admitted to being guilty of having his little chunk of territory and being able to score a show when he wants and do the shows he likes and not really carry the scene nor his own career onto a national stage. Not really being interested in doing the work of projects like Local 782, which are trying to elevate the art and music community to something greater than it already is. 

I just don’t know how successful that will be ever. And that type of work, I don’t have any interest in doing it because…I don’t know. I mean, I evaluate everyone I see on stage, asking myself, “Should they really be doing this? Should I?” I mean, [growls]. I’m a shit talker…

Carly Garza and Lorita Drive will play a special Valentine’s Day show on 2/14 at The Mix. Doors at 8 p.m. 21+.

Buy Garza’s KRTU Plugged In Session here.

More by David Terry.

GARZA'S MIC STILL OPEN

There are a few revelations in the short doc recorded by Carly Garza at KRTU’s Studio B. First, the burgeoning SA songwriter is sure of her influences, but not necessarily how they define her sound. Garza’s clean, cool rhythm guitar is a dead ringer for Grace-era Jeff Buckley. Her flirtation with loop pedals betrays her interest in one day making a Saytown answer to Age of Adz. But the four originals and surprise cover (Morning Benders’ “Excuses”) here show Garza playing it strikingly safe. We hear her as we might at her open mics at Martini Ranch: one guitar, a lone vocal and a few harmonic layering tricks. Secondly, even if her music is still finding its footing, Garza’s sound is still united by that voice. Her sensual, haunting pipes sit at the crossroads of Buckley, Winehouse and Apple (the latter two are unique contraltos). The feeling is that Garza needs a Mark Ronson or Jon Brion to provide her contemplative soul rock with gaudy ornamentation. With such a fate feeling like destiny at this point, Garza’s KRTU Plugged In Session is an intriguing footnote in a career that will hopefully launch sooner than later.

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Buy this album.

Redemption is a Mute Hand

“No one knows when my parents will forgive you. No one knows when you can be a father. No one knows when you’ll be on your own. It’s not anything. It’s all of them. I love you and take care of yourself.”

The first Sunday waking up when the room is unfamiliar. The second Tuesday when Celeste’s stress is having no one to call. The second Friday when I say it’s not a UTI. Hearing her eyes burn. “I’m just me,” she says, when I ask what’s wrong. The third Monday when she’s sick of suffering my bad decisions, offering to fuck behind my next girlfriend. The third Friday when the lithium is telling me to come over and just bring condoms and I thank her for the year after therapy. We’re speechless. The fourth Wednesday when she’s too angry with the new guy. The fifth Saturday when I’m wondering if pissing battery acid would be preferable, drinking on antibiotics, masturbating fearful, furious, wanting to numb visions of my fiancé looking at a man I’ve never met. Dimples beneath her cheekbones. The fifth Sunday where she invites me for pizza and cookies. The sixth Monday where she tells me no new girl will be as hot. The sixth Thursday where they are done and I can’t visit this Saturday because I am still diseased and irrational. The sixth Saturday where they are back on. The seventh Monday where she says, “It’s time for us to stop talking now.” Thanksgiving.  The thirteenth Wednesday when my Doctor sneers at the idea I got it last summer and not the week I had symptoms when I was with no one else. The fourth month when communication is stones in a canyon. The fifth month when I’m finally healed and fuck like a pimp owed millions. The fifth month when she wants me to pay the broken lease and I do half and actually I know who gave what to who and when and how. No satisfaction. The sixth month when it’s my former son’s sixth birthday. The eighth month when I am blocked on Facebook. The twelfth month when I am sending an e-mail I hope no one finds out about. The twenty-third month and the only lesson is that you don't get a say with redemption, a cosmic thug that squeezes as long at it pleases. Sorry, your sorry isn’t sorry enough. Everyone is sorry. Keep sorry and sorry on. The wrongs a wash. A non-synapse in her world of happiness any way, even when she sees my brother.

 --

This post is a revision of a previous piece.

You Don’t Get A Say With Redemption

“No one knows when my parents will forgive you. No one knows when you can be a father. No one knows when you’ll be on your own. It’s not anything. It’s all of them. I love you and take care of yourself.”

The first Sunday waking up when the room is unfamiliar. The second Tuesday when Celeste’s stress is having no one to call. The second Friday when I call and say it’s not a UTI. Listen to her eyes burn. “I’m just me,” she says, when I ask what’s wrong. The third Monday when she’s tired of suffering on account of my bad decisions, before saying she’d fuck me behind my next girlfriend’s. The third Friday when the lithium is inviting me over and I am trying to thank her for the year after therapy. She doesn’t know what to say. The fourth Wednesday when she’s too angry with the new guy. The fifth Saturday when I’m wondering if battery acid in my urethra would be the same, drinking on antibiotics, masturbating fearful, furious, wanting to numb visions of my fiance looking up at a man I’ve never met. Dimples beneath her cheekbones. The fifth Sunday where she invites me for pizza and cookies. The sixth Monday where she tells me no new girl will be as hot as her. The sixth Thursday where they are done and I can’t visit this Saturday because I am diseased and still in love. The sixth Saturday where they are back on. The seventh Monday where she texts “It’s time for us to stop talking now.” Thanksgiving.  The thirteenth Wednesday when my Doctor sneers at the idea I got it last summer and not the week before I had symptoms when I was sleeping with no one but her. The fourth month when I throw texts like prayers into a canyon. The fifth month when I’m finally healed and fuck away a world’s debt. The fifth month when she wants me to pay for our broken lease. The sixth month when it’s my former son’s birthday. The eighth month when I am blocked on Facebook. The twelfth month when I am sending an e-mail I hope no one finds out about. The twenty-third month and the only lesson is that you don't decide when your debt is paid. I am writing this and thinking I guess I'm fine about it and am certain she never thinks of me, not even when she reads my brothers’ updates.

Your Self Is Steam

Iulian Nistea

It's why you zip your life into a carry-on. Trek three states to learn glass blowing and the economic utility of tuna salad and high gravity.

You are both world and grain. Rough and diamond. Toil and fruit.

Vindicating chicken soup social media. Dogs on bicycles. Cats in ties. All saying that you are enough. Always enough. So much enough that you'll never know what to do with it all.

Then you encounter the frustration of not being able to crawl inside someone, past their body freckles and vitals to writhe in instrumentality. You can't help, it seems, rolling back the rhetoric that brought you here, with everything you've ever wanted both in and in front of you.

This is happiness, a question endlessly changing based on the answers life gives us. (In/Com)plete.

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More by Iulian Nistea.

Chuck Kerr Breaks Bad

 

If one musician could be considered the nucleus of indie rock in San Antonio, it’s probably drummer-for-hire Chuck Kerr. His resume reads like a roster of every unique rock act you’ve seen: We Leave at Midnight, Tiago Splitters, Nicolette Good and Black Magic and the Full Expose most recently. But he’s also contributed to Marcus Rubio and the Gospel Choir of Pillows, the Angel Headed Hipsters and may be best known for co-leading a meticulous album covers project with Chris Maddin.* Being as in-demand, on-the-scene and, well, cool paints Kerr as something of a local celebrity (especially when considering his position as Art Director with the San Antonio Current), but to hear his debut LP Bad Breaks, he’s as washed up as the rest of us.

Each of Breaks’ 11 tracks are snapshots of a relationship in melt-down and Kerr (drummer, vocalist, creative force) wouldn’t be able to keep up the trick if he weren’t so damn good at injecting every texture with self-deprecation. Just his voice—jumping for Spoon’s Brit Daniels and but landing on Elvis Costello—makes impolite truths sound like apologies (see “Red Lips,” where he accuses, “You’ve got a lot of nerve/one for every curve”). As Kerr warbles along, his fronting band—consisting here of Alex Wash (keys), Marcus Rubio (electric) and Ryan M. Teter (bass, trombone)—bring Kerr’s testimonials into cheeky, macabre focus. It all coalesces into a springy indie pop whose polish doesn’t necessarily betray its origins. “I'm not going to sing something 25 times when take two was probably the best it would ever get,” Kerr said recently via e-mail. With as much experience in jazz as with any incarnation of rock, it should surprise no one that he has a no-nonsense approach to recording. Kerr cobbled together Breaks on weekends and evenings across seven months with producer Jaime Rader (Morris Orchids).

His “fuck this, roll the tape” approach flies in the face of nearly every one of his local and national contemporaries, but on Breaks it works like a jackhammer. None of Kerr’s personnel are in the same room together, but you wouldn’t know it listening to them marry breakup with soaring groove on harder rockers “Seppuku” and “Get It Right.” Meanwhile, Kerr’s musical approach is often convergent, academic and daftly simple. Opener “Victoria” channels the same beat that opens “Billy Jean” because Kerr thinks one of the best pop songs of all time proves all you really need is a kick and a snare. Similary, “Good for Me” hawks half of Spoon’s catalog with piano lines that sound pounded out with only index fingers. He also built yacht rock slow-burner “The Way Things Are” around the bassline from Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams.”

All this scholarship doesn’t come at the expense of emotional heft either. On “Won’t Come Home,” Kerr tells a lover that if she leaves, he’s not chasing her. But the following soft rock passage—with its somber keys and ghostly falsetto vocals—indicate a night spent drinking regret, eating crow and staring at the phone. Also, album center piece “Something True” drives a simple stomp clamp into a spiraling carnival of the absurd. Kerr’s voice and lyrics belong to a revenge ballad, but the dissonant waves of tenor sax (Alex Sutherlin) and cello (Meg Lobasso) reveal he’d rather get horizontal (even for pity’s sake) than even.

Kerr re-wrings heartbreak successfully across this LP’s 53 minutes because he’s willing to cast it in every possible light. He’s frequently sardonic, taking no issue with addressing the silliness of lovers’ quarrels along with their very real pain (often within moments of each other). But Break’s best moment is still a singular one. Closer “Only Distance” climaxes with Kerr and a haunting female chorus chanting “move on,” with the drummer coming as close to losing it on record as he’ll likely get for some time. It’s a Jack White moment for Kerr, keeping that which causes him pain close as a modus operandi. And like that blues-rock icon, Kerr may enjoy a bit of notoriety, but he’s as subject to humanity as the rest of us.

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Preview and buy this album here.

This review is dedicated to Marcus Rubio. Good luck in Cali.

*This article initially credited Kerr as having played in Hacienda. Kerr corrected Stomping Grounds, saying he sat in on some informal jams that would become demos for the SA pop group's latest album. Stomping Grounds regrets the error.

Good's "Monarch" Rules

Beneath Nicolette Good’s profoundly earnest exterior lies something relentless. This was never made plainer to me than at a Casbeer’s gig (RIP) she played in 2010, where she slogged through a solo set of consciously reverent Americana/Country. Each song was an ace in its place. There was her twangy ode “Ramona,” the swingin’ two-stepper “Sunshine,” the revenge jam “All My Crying,” all songs expected to be in the quiver of any western singer worth the mud on their boots. But then she played “Marathon” and shit got real.

In a forthcoming San Antonio Current profile on Good, I would describe “Marathon” as “Stand By Your Man,’ run off the road and wrapped around a tree.” The lyrics read like a love-letter, with Good emoting, “I am a woman, hot blooded and bored/in the moonlight, hanging on your every word.” Paired with the song’s eerie guitar phrasings and Good’s own ethereal vocal, it became apparent that the musings were birthed not out of true love but desperation. Good channeled the need to escape the trappings of a city with a population under 500 and whose claim to fame is having nothing “to do.” One imagines countless young girls in small towns across our fair state, holding their lover’s hand and praying for more than the Double-Wide Dream, yet powerless to resist a change dressed as a holiday.

The veracious complexity of “Marathon” and Good’s drive on the “business” side of local music—attending song-writing conferences, entering song contests, investigating copyright, landing a part on Troubadour TX and chronicling everything on her blog—made her seem ahead of her contemporaries while being behind them. She had yet to release her first EP at that 2010 gig. Her music, though immensely polished, still reflected a conventional approach. But her creative urgency told me that she was reaching for something more nuanced and nebulous if she could just get enough artistic milestones behind her. That something is her debut LP Monarch.

Well-meaning critics and promoters will describe Monarch as having indie rock elements, but Good—producing here with longtime idol Britton Beisenherz and longtime collaborator Jesse Basham—is less an innovator and more a craftswoman. She deliberately avoids pastiche on Monarch, a children’s piano red-herring on “The Road” not with-standing.  In fact, the cleverly blurred edges are what make Monarch so fetching. “Pretty Clementine” maintains a western swing even as its chorus takes us to Tiger Lily-era Natalie Merchant. Substantiating her classicist method, the cut revisits the traditional that features the same central character, a fact that listeners may miss simply because they know so little about the original (guilty) and also because Good’s version divorces itself with darker, more emotive storytelling.

Good also displays her flair for allegory on both “The Last Word” and the title track. The former is a sweeping swan song for a woman who’s committed a justified act of cruelty. The latter injects banjo-plucking into a vaguely Celtic tune on the strange relationship birthed by a pauper paying musicians to sing. The producers at Troubadour TX asked Good if the “The Last Word,” with its frequent demonization of money and power, revealed she was writing the song about—or simply directing it at—them. Good said no, but admitted that that is one way of hearing the song. With as much certainty, she said the same about “Monarch,” a song that required a self-wrangling of lyrics in the studio. She describes “The Last Word” as about injustice and the title cut as about being trapped. What’s important here is not necessarily how Good feels about the industry. It’s how her wide-open, debate-courting simplicity is a reminder of how little one needs to say in order to start a meaningful conversation. Good has this quality in spades.

Meanwhile, even Good’s takes on classic Americana tropes sound new. The heartache ballad “Call Me” draws a direct link to heyday Hank Williams, painting Good as a drunk in a phone booth, finding the receiver to be “a desperate woman’s microphone.” “Hurricane Caroline” is about a woman with “a heart like a weather vane,” who shows up with chocolate, wine and prescription drugs and leaves a trail of broken hearts and forwarded mail. All of the songs work because Good is so concerned with not making them brand new, just presenting them in a way that’s humanistic and utterly charming.

But the most striking quality about Monarch is its mighty restraint. Good didn’t deliberately decide to make a record so subdued, but she wanted to “make an album that sounded big without being big.” She achieves this by deploying a host of session players that work with bonsai precision, including Basham (electric guitar, banjo), Beisenherz (bass, electric, harmonica, percussion), Jon Greene (percussion), Jonathan Doyle (clarinet), Jesse Ebaugh (double bass, pedal steel), Oscar Interiano (organ) and Steve Bernal (strings). This cast ignores all that is obvious about the country, Texas or anything “western,” instead favoring a quiet, organic music that just as easily invokes hill country, fields of wheat and the open road.

The tone of this album isn’t for your dancehalls at midnight or even your cross state road trips. It’s for the clean-up still going at 4 a.m. It’s for falling asleep roadside halfway to El Paso, the memory of a fleeting love on one’s mind. It’s for the woman Good first chronicled on “Marathon,” stricken by a hunger for more than a roof, food and a husband, but unable to quell that desire. And that message may say more about her relationship to the music industry than anything else she’s written.

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Buy this album.

Early Times

Carl Spencer

I only ever call Celeste’s name

the first (fast) time in front of the mongolian stir fry.

The night I say I delayed asking

because I was waiting on Savannah.

Nights later fumbling by the duck pond

or in the passenger seat,

her jeans nudging the flask,

expunging the lead sigh.

A weekday afternoon,

can't stay hard to Neutral Milk Hotel,

her face a polite but driven downcast

serving sounds and sensibilities.

Her whispering in the campus hallway,

“Did you like that?

Because I want to be good.”

[More by Carl Spencer]

Station Days

It can be like climbing ice,

passing on the computer

to dive into my eyelids.

Listening to the air exit my teeth.

The dull roar of walls.

Deep pulls,

through my nostrils and wrist.

Remembering Celeste’s tattoos in the full length mirror

Or Gwen’s moled sternum.

A channeling that exits according to aura.

The release days makes me repulsed,

canceling an itch and plans on a Tuesday night.

The others are my brain giving birth to itself.

My heart is capsized

by a hopeful hummingbird.

Nick Zammuto Talks The Books' Breakup, Homesteading, Failed Band Names, And Working Real Damn Hard

Courtesy Image

If you haven't read my story on Nick Zammuto's new project, check it out here. Zammuto opens for indie-proggers Explosions in the Sky at Backstage Live (1305 E. Houston SA, TX) on April 24 (T). More info about the show here. Meanwhile, here is the full-length discussion I had with Zammuto, one of the more fascinating and earnest characters still active in indie rock. -AVC

AVC: You’re being very classy about The Books’ breakup.  I read a Pitchfork interview where you said going into the details of the breakup won’t serve anyone. I think it’s humane, but also kind of not rock n’ roll. 

NZ: [laughs] You want me to just tear into him?

Well that was kind of the expected narrative or what they might hope for at a national magazine.

Yeah, I kind of blew it there, I could have gotten way more attention if I had flown off the handle. I considered a long time about how I should handle it. As all breakups are, it was messy, dirty and frustrating and it was mostly the women in my life who talked me down [from retiring]. They said, “Keep working and just be gracious about it” and it worked out.

Moving on from that, compare and contrast Zammuto to The Books.

Umm. Sure. Because I’m inside of it, I may not be the best one to give the ‘real’ answer. Books was never really a band. It was sort of a meta-band. There was a lot of pre-recorded material and video was kind of the frontman of the band. For what it was, it was a good show. But what I wanted to do was have a new band.

I gathered something like that from just listening to the new album. I don’t know if the right word is “lyrical” but there is certainly a greater instant likeability to Zammuto, whereas with The Books I felt like I had to let things sink in and I thought, alongside that, just the fact that the project and record are simply called Zammuto gave me the impression that there is no overarching theme here. This is just a group of songs that you put together.

Yeah, even working under my own name was kind of a big decision. I came up with a lot of names and they all failed and some of them were awesome but I couldn’t live up to them. My favorite one was Sexsexful. You know, so successful that it’s Sexsexful. I couldn’t live up to it. Falling back on my family name felt right.

Some of these cuts on the new album are heavy despite their general springiness. I’m thinking in particular of “Idiom Wind,” where the singer is weary of talking through issues and of a person’s supposed “knowledge.” The singer is ready to cut their losses through a “ruthless cutting.” Talk to me about the friction there between the sound and message.

I love that tension of opposites wherever I can find it. That song, I felt like for the first time ever I was writing from what was inside of me. My wife and I are homesteaders, essentially. We live on top of a mountain in Vermont and we’ve managed to grow most of our own food up here and that’s what we really love to do. That’s what those lyrics revolve around. It’s easy to say, "Oh he just went through the breakup and it’s about that," but it’s more about this universal theme to make a choice to move away from society and build your own place. That’s what the education line comes from for me. When you’re up here trying to make a garden grow, it throws your college education out the window. It’s totally useless when you’re chopping firewood to be thinking of that class on religion you had. We’re not up here for idealistic reasons; our instincts brought us here.

I want my kids to be able to run out the door and disappear into a field for a while, to really be free. Every year we know twice as much as we did before. That incredible process of really getting to know a place and becoming rooted in it. We went from having an little shack to building a studio out of a tractor garage. I go there to play drums in the middle of the night without bugging anybody. We have a big garden to put away food for the winter and we heat with wood and constructed most of our house ourselves.

It sounds like whenever the American Empire falls, the place to be is going to be your house.

[Laughing] I don’t know. We’re not off the grid yet. We do have the high ground but not the weapons stockpiled yet. You have to bring your own if you stay with us.

What’s it like working with a new band? How have the performances been in February and March?

Oh man, February was just…it felt so good to be playing with these guys, a total 180 from what I was used to with The Books. The Books were kind of sitting on stage and trying to stay low profile. With the band, I really wanted to work with players. That was the whole point really, say to have a live time keeper. I found Sean Dixon, who is like a scientist on the drums. His real passion is polyrhythmic playing. I’ve seen him do stuff I’ve never seen anyone else do. In "Shape of Things to Come," he’s playing a pattern double time with his right hand and half-time with his left hand. I could practice my entire life and not be able to do this. But he does it so smoothly,  it looks easy. Gene Beck, who was part of The Books, he’s playing keyboard and electric guitar, sometimes simultaneously. And my brother Mikey plays bass, far better than I ever could. Meanwhile, the vocal effects are totally reproducible live, which I was careful to do.

I’ve seen many EDM musicians in one form or another including Underworld, DJ Shadow and the Chemical Brothers, and they all do what they do well, but it’s always about having a lot of sound and light with them kind of taking a mad scientist role in front of the sequencers and turntables. What I love about live instrumentation, especially speaking as someone who’s played in a band, is the very real possibility of having something go wrong because of human mistake.

Yeah, instead of a power failure. It took me some time to discover that because I never really considered myself a real player and I still don’t. But I feel like I’m a writer, so I can take the raw materials and turn them into something that has structure and that will work. But I can count on these guys to take this stuff and turn it into something I could never imagine.

Playing as Zammuto, can it be assumed that you won’t abandon material by The Books in your live show? What can people expect?

At headlining shows, people should expect The Books material, but not at opening shows like Explosions in the Sky.

You said you’re weary of the idea that language is the best way to express oneself. Why do you feel that way?

A love-hate relationship. You can’t live without words, but they can lead to many un-intentional problems. I just have this awful fear that people [confuse] writing a lot of e-mail with getting a lot done. Also, I supposed living up here there’s always a lot of work to do that doesn’t require a lot of mental activity, like collecting firewood or weeding or whatever. And it’s real work and it really affects our bottom line to get that work done. It’s very satisfying for that reason. I wish people had that experience every day in their lives. Again, not to be idealistic about it, but just that’s what we’re designed to do, a lot of physical activity, so I feel like in terms of expression music is a wonderful thing. You can do things that people don’t really have names for and they just kind of surrender to them and enjoy them without having to intellectually process them.

Whenever I’m writing a song with lyrics, there’s always this tension between the intellectual side and the musical side pulling back on it in a way. Words in general kind of require the idea of dichotomy and I guess since I’ve sort of studied Buddhism a lot in my former days (not so much now), the idea of opposites being intimately connected with one another is a theme that runs throughout everything I write. It’s sort of like the sun, which everything else revolves around. It’s the real existential issue. Existence and non-existence are almost the same thing in a way. Everybody’s really happy to be alive, but everyone wishes stuff were different also. That’s kind of what moves you forward.

I think it’s interesting what you’re telling me because you’re concerned about sounding too idealistic about living this life of what maybe Thomas Jefferson would have described as a “joyful toil,” but what I’m hearing from you is actually something that would upset a lot of intellectuals, these educated urbanists who love to sit and talk about deep things, not that I’m not one of these people. But what I’m saying is that what you’re doing seems to be the opposite of that. It’s not a idealistic at all; it sounds more like a return to the primordial  existence of humankind.

Yeah, yeah. We’re animals and we come from that same place where all these other animals come from. It’s a situation where it’s easier to feel.

How old are you?

I’m 36.

I just turned 30 and went from writing full-time to working as a bartender. I went from 60 hours a week of desk work to working with my body all the time and I thought this was going to be misery. But what I’ve discovered is that I don’t want to work behind a desk most of the time ever again. I’ve been thinking, like you, that our bodies were meant to be used, that it’s good to be lifting 100 pound beer kegs and squatting and sweating and stooping and walking around.

You should really just be tired at the end of the day.

Writing full time was an existential crisis.

[Laughing] I ran into that in my mid 20s. What most people do between 20 and 30 is realize all the dreams that aren’t yours in some way. Like, I was living in LA working in a pharmaceutical company when I was 26. I was trying to bike to work whenever I could but I had to leave at 4:30 in the morning. It was just an absurd way of life. And since I was this "promising white kid," they [his employers] were trying to force me into this leadership role over these other people who had been there forever. It was just an offensive situation. I was like, "I’ve got to get out of here" and I hiked the Appalachian Trail. That was my reset button, the turning point for me.

For me, it wasn’t necessarily trying to take on dreams that weren’t my own, but just competing with forces that were much greater than me. Trying to become a full-time freelance journalist in this economy…I did it for two years and it didn’t work out because of a number of factors, most of which were beyond my control. So it was kind of a surrendering. My hiking the Appalachian Trail was pursuing another trade I always wanted to do. Other people would call that “losing” in some way (as in “Why did you give up?”), but I haven’t worked in three months even though I’ve been giving 40 hours a week to the bar. And I’m actually doing the research needed for, say, an interview like this and actually looking forward to it.

More power to you. For me, if there is a lasting effect of what I do, I’m hoping that this helps people gain that sense of themselves, that they need to do something else.

Before you started Zammuto, you thought of perhaps stopping doing music. What would you be doing instead to make ends?

Construction actually. It’s something I’ve always loved to do. I built my house out here and I made a huge amount of errors, but luckily no structural ones. I love working with wood and especially framing, focusing on the skeleton of buildings, creating that space from nothing. Nailing boards together is an incredible thing, extremely satisfying and scratches that primordial itch in such a direct way. I could definitely do that for a living; it would be a blast compared to sitting in front of a computer all day.

As If, Suddenly, There’s Time

Lyle Rosdahl

The first time she comes, it’s by accident.

Head hanging off the mahogany desk,

breathy praise choked by clitoral ruptures

when most of the family is home.

This wasn’t important to her and now it is,

becoming each time a communion as much a congress.

First with my mouth and then my fingers, violently,

pinching and biting flesh as needed,

until the vein flexes in her throat

and I see the undersides of her incisors.

She’s absent, her world one with little oxygen.

Calid, clammy, a blotched sternum that

fake tan can’t hide.

Returning, eyes centered but weary.

Suddenly quiescent.

Four years of that.

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More by Lyle Rosdahl.

Surrender

Ascher is sprightly, kicking

sand, ocean and moonlight .

The weeds washed

back to sea. It’s the scene he,

Celeste and I were robbed

of that afternoon.

I’m glad his mother dragged me out again, soaking

black water and moon shards, huffing

warm salt and picking

granules from the hard

basil lemonade gone

tepid.

I wade in until I’m deaf

of my family,

the blink of the wash house behind

me, the quilt of lunar and liquid

in front.

Still standing, knowing

the world wouldn’t see me die.

My reason for coming

back is why Celeste goes out,

courting any death disguised as a thrill.

I’m calm until she disappears

but rationally respond.

She wouldn’t wade too far.

I’m not afraid.

I can do nothing.

“Mortal,” she says, upon return.

That’s how she felt between Aransas Pass

and the abyss.

We walk with Ascher and I

think I understand now.

Life will always be a series of quiet

panics and respites, made

worthy through trials and exaltations

We can only plant

our feet, breath deep and

hold.

I never told her so.

Whether for better or worse,

I’ll never know.

Building a Still (In Brazos)

“I’m about to turn 30.”

In a college town, where the kids look freed from shrinkwrap, saying your age is like copping to an airborne herpes anyone can catch. Even though the only people who care are the 25-year-olds. They use “us” and “we” talking with you. 

It’s not just the age. You exercise, avoid poison, hustle with the kids you work with. But you’re a prime buck checking IDs and throwing out fawns that were in diapers when you first heard this song on the radio—the one where he settles for a burger and a grape snow cone—the one this kid is singing too loud while falling and puking on his date.

“Fuck you, you fucking douchebag!” he yells, the river of youth swirling around him on the sidewalk. Tonight he’s a maroon-faced pain in the taint, but he’ll get his BS in Engineering, find work on an oil rig, marry some other girl and make more money than you ever will a year or two before you got your act together.

“Shut it,” says your benevolent roommate (same age), tossing green beans to flank your birthday ribeye. “Choose the happy. Choose it. You can.”

And you wish she was the 22-year-old bartender with the same hobbies and name as the girl you almost married, horizontally glistening under slivers of moonlight. Wisdom and assurance (however self-indulgent) at 4 a.m.

But redemption is neither a fledgling beauty nor a labor of love. It’s being too old in a town too young, knowing that each second is a penny flung into a cosmic well.