If You Weren’t Scared You Would’ve Levitated CD - Self-Released

Self-titled CD - Self-Released

It’s hard to be successful in the city. We tried hard though, I’ll tell ya. Knee-deep through the dangerous winters, the syrupy summers, bed springs and absent falls; we took her for all she was worth, made a go of it, a real go. We moved out, and took up like the best Parisian authors; we read our work, we offered our services free, we never begged. Ours friends started running things, hot spots and park side views; champagne flecked with slivers of silver and big gulps only. We stayed in most nights, studying, reading circular texts of fashion and dialect, Italy and Milan has it down; we had it down. I draped Christmas lights around the windows and after three years our purple three-wicked candle collapsed in on itself, the wicks bound underneath splintered matchsticks and hardened gobs of wax; we decided against another one. We pooled our money and opened a bank account, we found the future becoming; we knew it all along. Every season brought measured fortunes and we knew the right people so we started spinning records. At first we were a little apprehensive but, like anything we found ourselves comfortable, we were adjusting. I would come home to jolly thrift shop bags and old cassette tapes, “Beach Party-Summer ’86!” and “Tell Me More- Secrets For The Future Vol. 2.” We were fond of Vivaldi, whom we dubbed the Yanni of the 1700’s. After the darker months we started to make some calls, to catch up; after all, we couldn’t invite strangers to the house. Everyone seemed restless, we decided against R.S.V.P.’s, instead anyone could show up and, as it were, no one would stay for long, we didn’t prepare much, some mild straightening. The bell rang and we were a hit. Fewer gifts than last year and no one ate the food. Some friends stayed over that night, on the couch, on the floor, we held our laughter tight when we heard them through the walls. The next night we had a gig, it didn’t pay really, the first ones never do, though we went just the same, besides, the drinks were free. We arrived fashionably early and began setting up; our illinialist couture welcomed us, anxious and warm. Pushing an hour and forty-five minutes our set came to a close, Rogerhumanbeing sat upon the stage. A one-man band (?) we thought, how queer. Vivaldi sure, although Ride found their way onto our player from time to time so we nodded at each other after a few minutes and further focused on the shorthair fingering his instruments. We thought, The Lonesome Organist? Perhaps of a more urbane nature, a brighter and more ambitious sort, this one. Just before our set came to a close, we saw Roger bouncing up and down like a big blue ball. We assumed he knew Mr. Newman’s work and we were touched, though during Mr. Lloyd’s “Don’t Blink” we were challenged to adjust our summations. For every dancing romantic there is too, a dancing fool. Indeed someone was dancing at least, and in fact for every singular movement we are too endure irrational stasis. So we let him mock us and we were touched by the irony. Honestly, after the lights went out and the radio fell quiet you’d think we’d have taken to more physical gestures, though we were without discretion, we had had our minds on other things, and still, we were tired. Curious then when Sportfuck managed the stage and Yuki backed the keyboards. Such presence, so nimble and uncertain, we were transfixed. James stood cordially aware, thumbing his gadgetry and tightening his strings; Keith and Frank grounded themselves behind him. We clasped ours hands together, slipping free each time, our fingers rubbing sweat onto our pants. Vivaldi always, Ride some months and on occasion, the holidays especially, Built to Spill and Heavenly, one for her and one for me. After the sets had been cleared and our stakes had been met we went home, the lights went out and we saw ourselves in shadows rolling on the walls. (Josh Gabriel)



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