LetMeSleep wrote:Varis' or Sarge's. In fact that would be a fine side show at a V8 expo.
In fact Varis team by a mile.Lemmy, Homme, Nick Cave and SRV. Fucking too right mate
That's exactly the demographic I was going for! Imagine if I'd taken my original front man pick - Bon Scott. Fucken strewth maaate. Ida had to get the Coffin Cheaters in as security.
You might need to set aside all afternoon for mine. I'm pretty sure I've got over 4,000 words for a band who probably stands no chance of making it to the second round.
Lament wrote:You might need to set aside all afternoon for mine. I'm pretty sure I've got over 4,000 words for a band who probably stands no chance of making it to the second round.
But these things are all part of the process and are definitely noticed and have worth. Great job man.
Lament wrote:You might need to set aside all afternoon for mine. I'm pretty sure I've got over 4,000 words for a band who probably stands no chance of making it to the second round.
These are great musicians who never recorded together. Make me believe!
And I understand. I wrote 4 pages of text for a band maybe 3 people will vote for
I had plans to go out tonight and have dinner with this girl who comes into my club. She's kinda cute, and I felt like I was developing a crush on her. We'd made plans about a week ago, but as the date slowly approached, something in me started thinking it wasn't gonna happen. She didn't stop in to visit me on Sunday and Wednesday like she usually does, and it was slightly awkward when I bumped into her on Tuesday night. When I was leaving my friend's house in the wee hours of the morning after the train incident and then some fooling around with his hot roommate, I started to wonder if I even wanted to go out tonight.
I'm a man of my word though, and I wasn't going to bail. I gave her the opportunity to back out if she'd wanted, but she insisted she was looking forward to it. I went ahead and got ready and waited for a text from her. She was going to let me know when she'd finished picking her roommate up from the airport, and we'd go ahead and meet from there. It was supposed to be around eight, but soon eight passed, and then turned into nine. Around ten I finally got a text.
“So my roommate is mad that I made plans with you cause he expected me to hang out with him when he got back. I'm so sorry. I'll need to take a raincheck. LOL. I swear I'm not always a flake. LOL.”
Ugh.
“That's fine,” I texted back.
“LOL. I'm so sorry. LOL. I really never do this kind of thing. Don't be mad. LOL.”
While this all reinforced that my gut instinct to be over this person was right, I was still pretty pissed. I was all dressed up on a Thursday night with nowhere to go. I didn't want to go hang out at my club, but I didn't want to sit in my room all night. After shooting out a series of texts, it became pretty apparent everyone I knew was already busy. Great. Looks like a night of drinking soda in my room and RMing. Lovely.
Just then I heard a knock on my door. Fucking awesome. I had avoided talking to my roommate for like three weeks. I wasn't happy to see that streak end. I slowly made my way to the door and opened it in a slow, dickish manner, not removing my eyes from the TV so as not to have to look at her.
“What?” I asked disinterestedly.
“Wow, you're a ray of fucking sunshine, aren't you?” said a voice I knew all too well. I looked up.
“Future Lament?!?!?!?!?”
“Close. Multiverse Lament,” he replied.
“Multiverse Lament?”
“Yeah. I'm kinda like the Lament who oversees all the Laments in all the different multiverses, actually. Does that makes sense?”
“Uhh, yeah.”
“Don't like to me, you dick. I studied your universe before I got here. You're not very good with science. Your hair is cool though.
“Thanks. So, umm...why are you here?”
“I was flipping through some different universes from my Lament control center, and I came across you getting stood up by that girl. Trust me man, it's for the best. You'll see.”
“I'll take your word for it.”
“Anyways, when I saw that I thought 'ah, fuck that, I want to hang out with this guy.' So here I am. And we're gonna hang out.”
“Uhh, ok. What are we gonna do?”
“I'm gonna take you somewhere cool, since you're already dressed and all.”
“Won't it be weird when two Laments show up somewhere?”
“Yeah, but I can take on different forms when I travel between multiverses, so I'll just take on the form of your date. But I'll still look like Lament to you, cause I don't want you to try shit on me.”
“Ok. Who are you gonna look like?”
“Your roommate.”
“You're an asshole.”
“I'm kidding, I'm kidding. I'm gonna look like Aubrey Plaza.”
“Why don't you just take me to a universe where I'm married to Aubrey Plaza?”
“You're a whiny, demanding little bitch sometimes. Trust me, I'm gonna take you somewhere fucking awesome. Unless you'd rather sit here and vote on Pearl Jam songs all night. It's up to you.”
“We can go. I'm sorry.”
Multiverse Lament whipped out what looked like a tablet and punched in some information.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“This is what I use to coordinate travel. What I do is I punch in whatever slight variations I'm looking for, and it'll take me to the universe that is most like mine with exceptions I've requested. Alright, ready?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
There was a huge flash, and suddenly I was standing in line on some street with a crowd of people. I looked around. I was back in Chicago. We were in line in front of the Metro.
“You brought me back to Chicago?”
“Yep. I also brought you back to 2002.”
“Why?”
“Cause Maryland was still good at basketball then. Even in this universe.”
I looked up at the marquee.
“Who's Broken Signals?”
“You'll see. Just be patient.”
A few feet away from us sat a dirty hippy with a ragged Cubs and a filthy beard singing some hippy-dippy song about surfing. As the line moved and we got closer to him, I felt like I recognized his face. Then he let an unmistakable hurr-durr and I started laughing.”
“Is that...y'know?”
“Yep. Andy Wood never died in this universe, so there were no ashes of Mother Love Bone for Pearl Jam to rise from. Ed works at the 7-Eleven down the street gets smashed in the bleachers at Wrigley Field all summer long.”
“Well played, Multiverse Lament.”
“I thought you'd get a kick out of that.”
Finally we made our way into the Metro and took our place among the crowd. It was pretty diverse in age, with plenty of people both in their late teens their early fifties, and everything in between. I killed about thirty or so minutes listening to Multiverse Lament explain the details about what he does and how everything is related or some shit like that, but I'll spare you the details. Also, I kinda kept tuning him out cause there was this girl there who totally looked like Rashida Jones, but hotter. I tried making eyes at her, but then I remembered that from her perspective I was there with a date who looked like Aubrey Plaza, so I was just coming off really creepily. I went back to listening to Multiverse Lament until he finally shut up and we proceeded to wait there in silence.
As we stood there in the packed room listening to the Stones' “Shine a Light” blare over the PA, the moment finally arrived. The lights went down to a raucous cheer, and one by one shadowy figures emerged from the corner of the stage. I stood there in stunned silence. First came Dave Grohl, fully beareded and in a black turtleneck and black jeans. Expecting him to walk over to one of the guitars, my heart skipped a beat when he sat down behind the drum kit. Next was Peter Hook in a black button down shirt and black slacks, his hair graying but still looking like a force. A slender character with his face buried under a mop of hair in a black t-shirt and black jeans made it all the way to his rig before brushing his hair out of his face just long enough to reveal himself to be Jonny Greenwood. I knew what I thought was happening, but still refused to believe it. Then came Lindsey Buckingham, dapper as ever in a black blazer and pants set worn over a black dress shirt. I could barely breathe. Finally, a fifth figure appeared. Looking absolutely ethereal in long-sleeved white dress which stopped right above the knees, the pale blue stage lights just barely reflecting off of her jet black, shoulder length hair, was none other than Polly Jean Harvey.
“What did I tell you?” asked Multiverse Lament as he smirked at me.
“What is this?”
“I brought us to a universe where in 2002 PJ Harvey, Lindsey Buckingham, Dave Grohl, Peter Hook, and Jonny Greenwood formed supergroup of sorts. Their careers up to this point are identical to what you know them to be. Also, Ed is a dirty hippy who hangs out in Wrigleyville all day long.”
“Those are the only differences in this universe?”
“Yeah. I told you. There are infinite universes, some with only the most random and negligible of differences.”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“You're a dick. I know you were staring at that Rashida Jones looking girl when I explained that.”
“Uh, whatever.”
I turned my attention back to the stage. It was starting to hit me what I was about to witness. I reached into my pocket to use my inhaler. I could feel my chest absolutely collapsing in on itself. I was overwhelmed by the magnitude (to me at least) of what I was witnessing.
“Good evening, Chicago,” Buckingham calmly said into the microphone. “We are Broken Signals.”
The explosion of the crowd suddenly vanished, giving way to an almost holy silence. Behind the kit, Grohl began to pound out a slow, sparse, funereal beat. Greenwood, his guitar slung behind his back, let out a long, droning, single chord on his keyboard. I was in a trance, mesmerized, soaking in the simple but stately music that was filling my ears. They couldn't have been more than a minute into the song, but it felt like I'd known it for years already. As I stood there with my eyes closed, a voice cut through the atmospheric haze. Harvey sounded clear, powerful, wise, and yet still vulnerable, not unlike on the title track from her brilliant To Bring You My Love. This was the lovelorn Polly Jean, that permeated through so much of her best material, ragged enough to bring to mind her earlier work, but with hints of the maturity that began to develop on Is This Desire and emerged in full forces on Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea. She was on another level here though. As they finally reached the chorus her voice seemed to shake the entire hall by itself.
Returning for the second verse, Peter Hook came in with the kind of simple melodic bass line he's known for, a slow one with echoes of Joy Division's Atmosphere sprinkled throughout. Grohl's beat became more elaborate, with bursts of snare chasing down the final words of each line Polly Jean sang. His face bore of look of sheer focus that I'd forgotten he'd ever had, what with him constantly opting to be some kind of joker/jock combo with the Foo Fighters for the last decade or so. Greenwood was absolutely lost in his keyboard playing, layers upon layers of smoky gray sound blanketing us as his head bobbed furiously to the beat. With the second chorus, Buckingham finally made his presence felt, harmonizing with Polly Jean as he'd done so beautifully for so many years with Stevie Nicks & Christine McVie. As he fixed his gaze across the stage squarely on Harvey she continued to pour her being in her vocals, eye closed tightly as she dug deeper and deeper within herself. The wistfulness of the first verse has become a slow rage. It became obvious something had to break.
Buckingham stepped back from the mic and for the first time all night put his guitar skills to work, unleashing a slow but devastating, heavily distorted guitar solo. It was like his best I'm So Afraid solos all rolled into one, but even better. Ragged emotional torment oozed from every note. Grohl and Hook pushed the proceedings higher and higher, following Buckingham's lead as it built into a fury. Before I knew it, Grohl was all flying limbs and a whirl of hair, locking eyes with Hook, back to the audience as always, hunched over next to Dave's kit.
And in a flash it was over. Before the last strains of feedback from Lindsey's solo died off, Hook was off and running. Instantly Grohl jumped in with a rapid fire, almost dementedly danceable beat. It was like they were playing a game of Love Will Tear Us Apart vs. Everlong. Greenwood, freed from restraints of his keyboard joined in a circle with them and cut loose with jagged slashes of Bends-era, octave laced leads. Still locked into the same tone from his previous solo, Buckingham snuck into the race with a melodic, three note melody, playing with the speed of a man playing whose existence depended on it. If you didn't know any better, you'd think it was some sort of filthy synth programmed by Trent Reznor.
The only thing that could make this song better was a grand slam of a melody, and Miss Harvey did not disappoint. A speedy, elastic verse which pushed higher and higher towards the end of each line was followed by a chorus where she pleaded with the utmost urgency. It was instantaneously memorable and totally captivating and, like so many great pop songs, over just past the three minute mark. Finally a chance to catch my breath.
Or not. With merely seconds gone by, the “holy shit” factor reached another level as Dave pounded out the intro to Scentless Apprentice. Lindsey and Jonny traded off parts throughout, alternating who would play the chunky main riff and who would play the blistering, howling lead lines. But the real star here was Polly Jean. Grohl looked on with a huge smile on his face as I witnessed just why over in our world he had suggested PJ Harvey was the one person he'd want to perform a Nirvana song with. This was vintage, Rid of Me-style PJ, taking the performance of one of her biggest admirers during his lifetime to levels even he couldn't reach.
As Scentless Apprentice finally came to a monstrous conclusion, the five members finally allowed themselves a breather. Polly Jean and Lindsey stepped back to the fore of the stage as their techs brought them an acoustic guitar and autoharp respectively. The two proceeded to play a beautifully mournful, delicate ballad, trading off verses and harmonizing in the bridge. Buckingham's guitar part comprised of quick, sharp, single strums of each chord followed by his trademark gentle finger-picking in the gaps between chords. Harvey shuffled along on autoharp, adding an off-kilter, almost haunting dimension to the song. The crowd sat in stunned silence, completely and utterly captivated. As the song reached its conclusion, Grohl snuck in, adding light percussion using brushes, giving the song a tinge of an Unplugged in New York feel to it.
It was becoming very apparent to me that this band was every bit as dynamic and cohesive as I'd imagined it to be. From that gentle ballad, they went right into a devil-ish, raging stomper. Lindsey handled the lead vocals, howling like a banshee while unleashing a scorching, twangy lead over an absolutely filthy Grohl beat. My head wanted to describe it as Fleetwood Mac's World Turning slowed down and channeled through Them Crooked Vultures Scumbag Blues. My ass just wanted to shake though. PJ Harvey and Peter Hook both shared bass duties on this one, Polly Jean playing on the very low end with a garishly distorted, Uh Huh Her style tone while Peter Hook played a clean, super melodic bass part on the high end, one that called to mind his work on New Order's Paradise. For a lot of people though, the highlight was the solo, which was not a traditional Lindsey corker, but rather a wicked banjo solo courtesy of Mr. Greenwood.
While Lindsey's turn on the mic was a splendid diversion, it was short lived. Polly Jean was back in the forefront and we got what ended up being one of the most delightful new (well, new to me) songs of the night. The music had to be the work of Buckingham, as it wouldn't have been out of place on of Rumours. Greenwood contributed a almost whistling, whining lead to the mid-tempo number, as if he were channeling Lindsey's work on Dreams through his very own twinkling, phase-drenched lead from Subterranean Homesick Alien. Harvey took on the role of the love-struck narrator in a way Stevie Nicks could only dream of, her voice trying to hide the jubilation waiting to burst from just under the surface, not unlike on her very own You Said Something. It was a slice of pure pop perfection, the kind of thing that would be destined to come on in the dead of night on every radio station between now and the end of time (if people still listened to radios).
Greenwood then made his way back to his rig and triggered a drum loop. Both ominous and catchy, it seemed tailor made for the work of Peter Hook, and Hook did not disappoint, providing his personal high point of the night. (and maybe the best bass line he's written since Crystal, that part after the choruses where goes off). Devastating and irresistible, it was perfectly accompanied by an acoustic lead from Buckingham which made me think of his now infamous-for-other-reasons performance at the Grammys with Nine Inch Nails, Queens of the Stone Age, and his alternate universe bandmate Dave Grohl. The verses were sparse, but with each chorus came menacing bursts of You-style lead from Greenwood and soaring vocals from Harvey. This was undoubtedly my favorite song of the night.
The next song carried on in a similar vein, but the claustrophia-pop of the previous one was replaced with a wide open yearning, aided by Greenwood's spacey, layered Let Down-esque lead line. The tempo and the way it built brought to mind New Order's Ceremony, but with an oddly country-esque element courtesy of Lindsey Buckingham's finger-picking. My first thought was “This was the song Clap Your Hands Say Yeah thought they were writing when they did The Skin of My Yellow Country Teeth.” Freed from the urban paranoia of the previous song, PJ Harvey unleashed the wandering, innocent spirit which only a girl from a tiny seaside town in the south of England would be capable of generating. These song reached the kind of heights Bono has wet dreams about without ever crossing over into the realm of being crass or losing touch with reality.
With it being near impossible for things to get bigger from here, they went in the complete opposite direction. This time it was Polly Jean and Greenwood. Harvey strummed a gentle three chord pattern with Jonny sprinkled it with the kind of elegaic piano part he played on Paranoid Android all those years ago. Intensely personal and hushed, the moment felt almost voyeuristic the way it often can when PJ is at her most vulnerable. With each chorus her voice seemed to lilt and float above, vague hints of torment bubbling beneath the surface, like on her very own Angelene or You Come Through.
We then got our second “cover” of the night. This time it was Greenwood's Radiohead getting the treatment, with PJ Harvey more than capably filling in for her long-time friend and sometime collaborator Thom Yorke. Their take on Black Star didn't vary much sonically from the original, but it hardly needed to. The harmonies between Polly Jean and Lindsey during the chorus were impeccable, and when everyone dropped out in the third verse except for Grohl, and Hook as Harvey and Buckingham simultaneously delivered the “I keep falling over, I keep passing out” part, I was pretty sure you'd be able to see the goosebumps on the back of my neck from across the room.
Back in the realm of originals, the next song seemed to share the same DNA as Fleetwood Mac's Second Hand News and PJ Harvey's C'Mon Billy, almost as though the Spanish-flavor of her song had been replaced with country shuffle of Lindsey's. Grohl's work on the song reminded me of what a versatile drummer he can be when he wants to, shuffling along perfectly with Buckingham's percussive acoustic guitar work, all the while accompanied by Greenwood's playful glockenspiel part. As the song concluded with everyone dropping out and leaving Greendwood to tap out his melody, Grohl kicked in with a single, steady kick. Greenwood finally stopped, letting his final notes hang in the air, but Grohl kept on.
The entire band formed a circle, locked in on Grohl and seeming to be oblivious at this point to anyone else in the building. I could sense something amazing was about to happen, but I wasn't sure what. All of the sudden Greenwood, back on guitar, begin to play an almost My Iron Lung-like melody, each note twisting before fading off into the distance. After a few measures of this, Buckingham turned to away from the circle, faced the crowd, and dove right into his iconic opening licks of Rumours' emotional centerpiece, The Chain. Pandemonium swept the room for a brief moment before all of the focus was back on the band. As Lindsey went into the first verse the musical tension in the building was unlike anything I'd ever witnessed. Greenwood's sonic landscape worked perfectly against Buckingham's passively nasty signature riff. Harvey fulfilled her harmony duties with the greatest of ease. When Lindsey reached his declaration of “If you don't love me now, you will never love me again,” Peter Hook came in with an absolutely post-punked to the bone take on John McVie's lumbering bassline, upping the tempo and playing it in a manner not unlike his very own Shadowplay. Grohl took this opportunity to cut loose, going all In Bloom on the chorus and bringing the emotional torment of the song to another level.
This was blood and guts. This was The Chain stripped of all it's mid-70's California cool and thrust right into the dark visceral realm that the song always hinted at but Fleetwood Mac wasn't equipped to reach (or interested in reaching). But this band was. This band was made for it. As the song shifted gears and headed towards the outro, Grohl joined Peter Hook in Shadowplay-ing the daylights out of it, giving Buckingham an urgent, pulsing background to take perhaps his most devastating solo to filthy new places. Greenwood made his way back to his keyboard to add a haunting layer to everything as Harvey bellowed at the top of her lungs “The chain will keep us together.” But at this point it was all about Lindsey. He was a man possessed. You'd be forgiven in thinking he was going to hurt himself. But this was always what made him great.
In fact, this is what made all of these musicians great, and made this line up work so well. Anybody can toss a few chords together and hope for the best. It takes a special kind of musician to chase their muse through the most painful and ugliest of human emotions possible. Buckingham did this, and knows first hand that sometimes you need to go through that fire and allow yourself to get burned in ways no sane human ever world to come out on the other side with something that would satisfy an undying artistic drive. Him and his bandmates in Fleetwood Mac endured their own self-created personal hells which were completely bound up in each other in order to make one of the most enduring, beautiful records of all-time. This is a man who to this day will still get on stage with Stevie Nicks, lock eyes with the woman who will forever be tied to him in the eyes of the world, and push forward as she torments him with the promise that “You'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you.” He knows he won't. He knows he can't. And he knows he must do something with that.
Harvey is no different. Record after record, she delves into the darkest personal spaces imaginable to come out with things that run the range from the ugly brutality of Rid of Me and Missed to the majesty of We Float and Is This Desire. She's driven herself to the point of personal breakdown, but is always ready to dive right back in to chase the muse, just like Buckingham.
And who better to chase it with them than these three? Peter Hook, Dave Grohl, and Jonny Greenwood know as much about helping someone chase their vision wherever it goes, even when in the case of Hook and Grohl it winds up with their one-time leaders dead of their own hand. So many bands of this nature fail because they can't coexist. That's not a problem this band has. Harvey is the unquestioned leader, the musical chameleon. Buckingham is the traditional virtuoso, able to reach the same creative heights with his vision as Harvey, but always willing to step back and throw his never-ending efforts into the vision of someone else as he did so often with those of Stevie Nicks and Christine McVie in Fleetwood Mac. Greenwood is the mad scientist, filling in with whatever is needed whenever it's needed, generating both the ugliest and most breathtaking beautiful aspects of the band's sound. Peter Hook is the pulse, be it paranoia and torment a la Joy Division or wistful nostalgia and heartache a la New Order. Grohl is the engine. The fat, stinking guts. The sledgehammer to the head. But he's more than a one trick pony. Grohl is also the pop historian of the group. The one who came to the table able to play every song on every record the other members of this band have ever made because Grohl is the unabashed music fanatic in the group. He's the one who looks across the stage and thinks “Holy shit, I'm playing alongside members of Fleetwood Mac, Joy Division, Radiohead, and PJ fucking Harvey.” His undying passion for music pushes them forward when they need a swift, refocusing kick in the ass.
Buckingham, Grohl, Hook, and Greenwood managed to coexist with, create with, and help drive and define the vision of some of the most iconic figures in music history within their respective band settings. There's no reason they wouldn't do the same for another one of the icons of alternative music, one who has always been quick to lend her talents to other visions across the entire musical spectrum, from Tricky to Nick Cave to Mark Lanegan to Josh Homme to Sparklehorse to Marianne Faithful and beyond. There is no clash of egos here. What they lack in big name sizzle they more than make up for in focus chemistry, and work ethic.
The Chain ended the main set, and we spent the entire break in disbelief of what we'd seen. They returned for a brief, three song encore. It started with a soaring rendition of PJ Harvey's Good Fortune, the original's jangle replaced with with an achingly beautiful Landslide-style approach from Buckingham. Peter Hook's Regret-esque take on the bassline made the song flow as effortlessly as ever, and I was reminded (as I always am) as to why this is my single favorite song ever about being in love.
They made their way through one more original, a quirky Buckingham number, the kind he would've written during the Tusk era. Unbound from the pop-restraints of being in Fleetwood Mac, he was able to let Greenwood and Harvey take this into the realm of pure sonic collage meets carnival barker dementia. It was deliriously entertaining, loud, and ultimately fun as hell.
The night ended with a atomic bomb-blast version of Joy Division's Transmission. Bernard Sumner's simple, distorted guitar line took on new life in the hands of a master like Lindsey. Dave Grohl took Stephen Morris' frenetic beat to another level, punching in blast after blast of military-style snare in between Harvey's possessed demands. Greenwood triggered sample of sample of FM radio bits, distorted almost to the point of snow. Among these strains of real radio transmissions were brief bursts of Fleetwood Mac's Don't Stop, Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit, New Order's Bizarre Love Triangle, and PJ Harvey's Down By the Water. There was no other way this show could end. Nothing else could encapsulate the spirit of why this worked, of the shared bond between those involved.
“Well I could call out when the going gets tough./The things that we've learnt are no longer enough/No language, just sound, that's all we need know/To synchronise love to the beat of the show/And we could dance.” Polly Jean delivered every line with an unhinged fury that maybe no one other than Springsteen has ever reached in the annals of popular music hsitory. “Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance to the radio,” she cried out.
The song pushed on and on, finally reaching the ten minute mark without losing any of its power. One by one, each member pulled out. First it was PJ, dropping the mic in sheer exhaustion and making her way off stage. Then went Buckingham, his guitar propped up against his amp to allow the wall of feedback he'd created to brutalize ear drums well after he was gone. Then followed Grohl, kicking over half of his kit as walked away. Jonny Greenwood continued to layer FM radio loop after FM radio loop until it all became a mess of squeals and beeps and pure white noise. Just as it reached the point where it was almost too physically intense to take, he cut it all off. On his way off stage he flipped off Buckingham's amp, leaving Hook alone, hammering out the bassline to Transmission one more time before finally throwing his bass down, cutting the power on his amp, and disappearing to join the rest of his bandmates.
“Alright, let's go. I've got to get you back. I've got somewhere to be,” Multiverse Lament said.
I stared at him. Stunned. Speechless.
“Yeah, I know.”
And in a flash I was back in my room.
“I. I can't. I don't even know what to say.”
“Getting blown off tonight wasn't that bad, was it? And check your pants, you're ¼ of the way towards hitting for the cycle, and you haven't even touched yourself.”
I reached down. He was right. The show was that fucking good.
“How can I ever thank you?” I asked.
“Stop being worthless. Nah, I'm just kidding, I know you can't stop being worthless. Just be a good host when I bring some Laments from other universes here to see your weird-ass roommate in action.”
“Yeah, sure. Anything.”
“Alright man. I'm gonna bounce. Later.”
And with that, he walked away and vanished into the ether.
Yeah, I can't add mine into the OP. It's too long. Is there a way I can just put a URL under my band in the OP that will take someone right to my absurd post?
