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I took my sister to a cat cafe. Tell me about your dream destinations. [19 Aug 2017|03:35pm]

jphoebe
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[info]biography can we get a superbad 2 or.. [10 Aug 2025|10:52am]

alexisre
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What would you tell yourself four years ago, if you could? [08 Aug 2017|12:03am]

haimdani

There’s trepidation in my movements when I sit down at the bench… a melody has been haunting my brain for four years. I haven’t figured out what to do with it. It won’t evolve and it won’t fade away. It just exists. And exists. Pulsating every once in awhile like a heart underneath the floorboards, driving me slowly insane. And every time I’ve sat in front of my piano, I am ever more reminded of its presence. I have never had a piece of music be so stubborn before. And yet, before I can second guess myself for the millionth time, an anxious finger hits record on the tape player.

***

We haven’t seen each other in weeks. Weeks. My recording schedule. Your touring schedule. My priorities, your priorities. Nothing seems to align. And we’re both victims of pressing ignore when the other calls, dreading the inevitable. It’s a plethora of text messages filled with feigned proclamations and broken commitments. “I’ll call you tonight, promise.” It’s bordering on a month before we both finally muster up the courage to lets voices do the talking. And much to my surprise, I am the only one who is ready to quit. It’s a little too late, this renewed injection of faith from him. And yet when I am on the edge of letting go, he pleads on the phone, “I need you, babe.... right now….”

Those words, they echo internally. I think of running my hands through his hair, of kissing the hollow of his cheekbone and of starting over. I give in, because who doesn’t give in when someone is begging for a second, third, fourth chance?

(I later find out his clutching onto a dying ember was because his record deal fell through. Not for the sake of us, or me, but for the sake of him and his self-esteem. I am not the same after this deception. Lines are crossed. Whatever we had is dead. All I can do is sit in silence. All our days are gone. Nothing feels the same for years. I retreat inward while the world finally begins to takes notice of us three girls from the Valley.)

***

The click of the tape translates straight to my brain, and so my fingertips begin finding their way up the octaves, playing those three notes that won't leave me alone. Somewhere in the upper range is where they send a chill down my spine, the kind of chill that isn't easily duplicated or feigned. I played it over and over. Three notes. Over and over. it was terrifying and liberating at the same time. I could imagine those notes sounding ideal on an organ, vintage and yet modern in mood. The greats before me like Rick Wakeman and Robert Wyatt would know exactly where I culled the inspiration and feminized it with the desperation of Stevie Nicks on her first solo record. I think of that ex-lover, that ex-friend, that ex-everything. I think of how he didn't believe I would amount to anything. I think of how he tried to tear me down when I did. I think of all the pain and all the love and all the pain disguised as love. I was bleeding openly from a wound that until the final drum beat was written, wouldn’t heal.

***

It has never been my nature to be forthcoming about most things, let alone my inspirations. I guard my thoughts with the careful calculation of a middle sister, choosing only to speak when I need to be heard. That sort of discipline is what I would do over when it came to our first record. There was a layer of self-preservation attached to those pop songs. A detachment, if you will. I was young, naïve, and nursing a shattered heart. At the time, I felt like putting his name, his mistakes, and his indiscretions out into the open would be disrespectful to whatever there could have been. I felt like it wasn’t my place to share our story, so I sang in the abstract, letting my sisters harmonize the depth of my blues. As a result, I spent four years on the road mourning a future I would never have.

It was just about a year ago, that day that I sat in front of my piano, plagued by the curse of inspirations past, I always felt a bit like a liar... telling stories without exposing all of my truth. A few dozen pop songs with some semblance of honesty, but mostly a bunch of catchy hooks and killer guitar riffs. This time around I vowed to cut the vein and let it all bleed out, no matter the consequences. I was tired of hiding. I was tired of protecting the truth as if it was going to somehow change the outcome of events past. It was fucking exhausting. So I channeled my discipline into writing every single day. Most of it was shit, but when it made sense... well, it became my way to stop believing in ghosts. To stop letting someone else tell my story. On Something To Tell You, I found my voice. And all I can say is, somehow… it’s all clear now.
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