Aligator to Trouble Will Find Me
Oh God. The National.
There are many more people on this planet who know much more about music than I could ever wish or hope to know. I don’t have the catalogue memory for dates and origins and every drummer since the beginning. There are friends of mine who can do that, they can readily recall the strings of bassists and the b-sides released at single shows. Truly, I love them for it.
Since always, music has existed for me as the backbone of experiences. It holds up memories between the ribs of moments, protects lungs that breathe words, cradles the heart’s quickened beats or gut crushing fall.
The songs that accompany this skeleton are the vertebre, each stacking on top of each other; they are support, flexibility and integral protection of who I’ve become.
There has been a single band that I can think of that has always given me the reaction “Oh God.” It’s a mixture of gut wrenching awe, heart ache, pure joy. The wash of emotions that I’ve tied to each of their songs combined into albums have become a part of my musical backbone.
The National.
Aligator
(Released 2005)
It is a heavy handed Michigan autumn. It’s all the leaves gone burnished gold, drooping, defeated. It’s the constant background noise of a college football game; the whirling stumble of a tailgate started before the sunrise.
It’s a burnt cd with bad handwriting scrawled across it, tossed in the backseat of a Toyota Corolla.
It’s an empty stairwell echoing with sobs at three o’clock in the morning. It is fingers fumbling for a phone and someone to call and only getting your father’s voice on the line. It’s promising to never speaking to someone again and following through.
It’s wool scarves and gloves with the fingers cut off, the curls of smoke circling heads bent low; pint of whiskey passed around on a plaid blanket in fields gone crackly. It is steel tree boughs locked in a silent tangle. It is long, lean shadows at day’s end, breath hovering above mouths, red stung cheeks and noses.
It is every horizontal space covered in beer bottles, plastic cups, glasses; the lingering ghost rings the next day when the trash bags are full. It’s the uneven barstools and throwing peanuts on the floor. It’s the same order every time.
It’s all the wine, all for us.
Boxer
(Released 2007)
It’s tuesdays. It’s Joshua’s tapping steering wheel fingers and driving our favorite diner. It is every bright sun-filled car ride down two lane highways at top speeds. It’s free flying hair, sand coated shins and lungs forgetting to breathe for laughing so much.
It is long roads to tree shrouded cabins, streaking fireflies through low grasses and stars to run under. It is the chilled tongue of Lake Michigan lapping ankles. It’s emerald hued mornings. It is steam rising from coffee sipped from tin mugs, later to be filled with something stronger. It’s sparklers, candles and bonfires; golden, tremulous, wavering light.
It is JT’s Pacific-blue eyes. It is his porch and three steps onto the softest grass. It is boxes upon boxes of wine and cases of PBR poured into mason jars. It’s spin the bottle with best friends. It is bodies loaded with painkillers loosely draped over furniture. It is the sun creeping over a hill, face aching from smiling, teasing the light dusted curtains with our fingers, bodies finally in bed.
It is knowing everything is breakable yet still unbroken.
High Violet
(Released 2010)
It is the stretch of Sunset Boulevard between Lucile and Laveta Terrace. It is languorous liquid gold days sprawled on rooftops. It is moonstone nights.
It finding a family in friendships in a strange city. It is walking arm in arm at night singing at the tops of lungs, laughing madly, tripping over pavement’s uneaven grasp. It’s the precursor to free monday night shows, it is all the early morning comedowns . It is the hazy drive down Beverly to work shortly after.
It is a show at The Fonda theatre. It is seven people all holding hands and flying above the entire world, together. It is the drive home and police lights in the rearview mirror. It’s the confusion of flashlight demands, walking a line, blowing under a legal limit then being handcuffed. It’s hyperventilation and tears and six of the seven driving away. It is spending fourteen hours in South Central County Los Angeles Jail. It is a sleepless night.
It’s walking into Taylor’s apartment being greeted in song, guitar on his lap. It’s sitting on a sidewalk, Cameron at my side, speaking around cigarrettes, as the sun sets, his eyes going green. It’s slow mornings with Blair, crumpled hair and clothes, still shaking the night from our limbs.
It’s 4am, laying on the wooden floor, passing the last pint of whiskey, slurring words. It’s everyone’s fingers entwining. It is the heat between palms and heart lines, eyes half-open, eyelash whispers.
It’s knowing it isn’t love but still could never be forgotten.
Trouble Will Find Me
(Released 2013)
Is the G to the L or the G to the E or the M. It is all the faces never spoken to; the ones tired and sullen, mother’s arms around their sleeping children, the man in the army jacket with paint splattered pants cut a little too short, absently rubbing his wedding ring. It’s balance to keep from tumbling and jerking between stops. It is the sudden rush of air on stairways, the hollow atmosphere escaping spaces deep below the city.
It is the echoes of the midwest, the west, Michigan, California. It is the places grown up in, but not grown up enough. It is the search for home forgetting addresses or edifices. It’s the terrifying dark space between what is known for certain and unfathomable. It is knowing when to leave. It is knowing when to stay.
It’s the buzzing midnight rooftop and the looming ache of buildings that will outlast lives. It is the desire to go on living with them. It is being one among millions. It’s being a tiny thing with huge desires.
It’s the searing sweetness of anticipation. It is It is the pause between seasons, the moment before buds burst.
It’s solemn woolgathering before a New York summer’s extravagance.
