Celebrating the first day of long sleeves season with Ozzy.
I can’t decide if this is a good or masochistic quality, or maybe one that’s a little bit of both: for a generally cautious person, I take big, big chances in the name of love. I gamble with my heart. I put money on sentiment. I rarely win, but I don’t learn from the losses. There’s little hope in that kind of romance.
I do things like get on a train in the middle of the afternoon to go kiss a man two states away and return home 24 hours later and no less confused. I rent cars at the drop of a hat and run red lights to surprise someone halfway down the eastern seaboard. I type locations into Apple Maps just to see how long the drive would take if I needed to get there and whether or not I can see him before the sun goes down. I make elaborate confessions and roll dice on friendships because I have a penchant for falling in love with my best friends. I do know how to pick ‘em; I just pick the ones that don’t pick me.
Despite the fact that this has yet to work out, to result in the mutual thrill of putting a heart out there for someone to hold who actually wants to do right by it, I keep doing it. I hear no shortage of compliments—“You’re an amazing girl!” “If we were in the same place, this would happen!” “I can’t stop thinking about you and that’s why I’m never going to kiss you!” “You’re the kind of girl I should fall in love with!”—and no declarations of affection, no invitations to see how it goes. My challenges are rarely matched. When I walk away from the table, I walk away from the table alone.
Still: I’m the one who asks if the seat is taken in the first place. I gamble, I lose, I keep going. I come back. I wonder if this will be the one roll that wins. Even if I know that there’s a really, really good chance that these grand gestures of love keep unrequited, I try anyway. The leap of faith is less of a deliberate action and more of a reflex of risk at this point.
It’s impulsive, painful, stupid and steadfast, but it’s how I love. And there’s no use changing this crazy capacity for adventure and despair, because if I wind up with someone under different circumstances, that one flaw—that I fell for them and held myself back when it came to expressing it or telling them how I felt—would color that connection and throw a tinge over it that wouldn’t make it true.
The risks continue, the rides get longer, the timing continues to suck, but the chance remains. It’ll wear me out, this tendency to hurl myself headfirst into passion and affection, but it hasn’t broken me yet. And it won’t.
— Six Word Story #2 (via thatkindofwoman)
Last month, Aloud performed a one-of-a-kind stripped down gig at the intimate Lizard Lounge in Cambridge. By the sheer power of fire codes, room capacity, geography, and astute statistical analysis, it’s probable that you were not there.
Lucky for you, Stephen LoVerme and Erin Genett of Treebeard Media (a/k/a the team responsible for making this and filming this) and OldJack guitarist and longtime Aloud cohort Hugh Wyman defied the numbers and were there to capture this performance of It’s Got To Be Now‘s”Jeanne, It’s Just a Ride!”.
If you’re into comparison studies, give the original version of “Jeanne…” a listen.
So, THESE beautiful humans: I know I say every Boston band is my favorite band, but that’s only actually true of about five of them: Viva Viva (RIP), Bodega Girls (RIP), Bad Rabbits, Kingsley Flood and Aloud. (I know there are some I’m forgetting in there.) You can hear me scream “CIELO DE MI VIIIIIDAAAAAAA” at some point in this video, but yeah, they’re great and you should listen to them.
— This is from my feature on Interpol, which can be found in those little red boxes that The Village Voice lives in today. Talking about barf and music and ’90s New York glory with Paul, Sam and Daniel was pretty great, and extra brownie points to Sam, who was cool as a cucumber when a mouse scurried up the wall of the Bowery Hotel’s lobby not three inches from where we were sitting.
The new Shovels and Rope record is SO DAMN INVIGORATING and has been one of my most worn-out records of the summer, so I gushed about Swimmin’ Time for Rolling Stone. It dropped last week. Go buy it and wait for them to bring the junkyard kit and banged-up guitar to a city near you this fall.