Webisodes: Short Story Part 38

Later that evening, and exactly one week after her confrontation with Reid Pinkin, Marilyn Morrissey heard a knock on her door. She opened it, hesitantly, and found herself face-to-face with none other than the buffoon brothers themselves, Reid and El-Rey Pinkin, flowers in hand, forced smiles pasted on their guilty faces.

"Marilyn!" said Reid, stepping into the apartment. "Darling!" He gestured towards El-Rey. "I'm sure you remember my brother here, El-Rey...we just wanted to stop by and extend our deepest apologies for your kidnapping." He placed his bouquet of daisies in Marilyn's arms; El-Rey clumsily did the same.

There was an awkward silence.

"Well, I'm not sure if I forgive you," said Marilyn. "But thank you for the flowers." She jutted her head towards the doorway, as if to suggest to the brothers, you can leave now.

But Reid and El-Red continued to stand there, motionless, goofy smiles still plastered on.

"Is there something else I can help you with?" asked Marilyn with a sneer.

Reid cleared his throat. "Well, um, funny you should ask..." Marilyn glared at him. He better not say what I think he is going to say...

"So um, now that we're cool and all..." (we're cool? thought Marilyn) "Is, uh, there anyway you could introduce us to Nation?"

Oh fuck, thought Marilyn.

"Umm, no, not really," she replied. "Seeing that I don't know them. And even if I did, still no."

"Please?" asked Reid, looking desperate. El-Rey took a step forward.

"You better," he barked, in a gruff voice.

Marilyn was taken aback. “Are you threatening me?" she asked the fatter of the brothers. "Because you know I can call the police right now."

"Oh yeah?" said El-Rey. Without warning, he reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a shotgun. "I'd like to see you try."

Reid and El-Rey?

Marilyn Morrissey screamed; El-Rey placed the gun to the side of your head. "I think you had better call your friend who knows the Nation right now, and find out some information for us."

Marilyn was terrified, but trying not to show it. "But he’s in San Francisco," she protested. "He couldn't help you even if I call him."

"I really don’t care," said El-Rey. "You'll call him or I'll fucking shoot you."

And Marilyn Morrissey did.

Don't pick up, don't pick up, don't pick up, she wished. No answer. Phew, thought Marilyn.

"He didn't answer, " she replied hastily. "I'll send him a text message."

"You do that," said El-Rey.

Marilyn cupped her hands around the phone, pretending to text Jesse. But instead, she texted Patrick McKee. Help, come quick!

Not 2 minutes later, McKee barged in, pistol in his hand, an angry look on his face.

”What is going on here?" he demanded angrily, stepping between El-Rey and Marilyn. "I've already called the police; I suggest you two bozos scram immediately if you don't want to end up in prison." He gave them a stern look -- he was not messing around.

Slowly, El-Rey lowered his gun. “Fine," he said. "But don't think this is the end of it. We’ll be back," he added, backing out the door. "You can count on that.”

[We'll be back.]

11:14 a.m., San Francisco time (2:14 p.m. Brooklyn time) Jesse Milkovich woke up with a start. Where was he? He rubbed his eyes and looked around the room, then noticed Lulu passed out on a chair about 8 feet away. Whose house was this again?

It had been just about a week since he had arrived in San Francisco, and Jesse hadn't even had a chance to find a hostel to keep his stuff in. Lulu A. Quince was a full-time party girl, and in San Francisco, she seemed to know everyone, so the pair bounced from party to party and house to house, crashing on couches, showering awkwardly in someone else's shower, asking if they'd mind just keeping an eye on their stuff while they went downtown to shoot photos or grab coffee.

Jesse Milkovich had always been somewhat of a minstrel, but already, he was starting to get sick of it. It wasn't the movement as much as the atmosphere that bothered him -- Jesse prided himself on being independent, and he hated having to depend on others' charity for a place to sleep.

"Tomorrow, we find an apartment. Or at least I find an apartment," he had told Lulu Quince the night before, and she had nodded. And then what? Jesse Milkovich couldn't remember.

crashing on couches...

11:21 a.m., San Francisco time (2:21 p.m. Brooklyn time) Jesse Milkovich's phone rang. It was Marilyn.

"Jesse!" said Marilyn breathlessly. "I've never been so happy to have you not answer your phone!"

Jesse Milkovich was confused. "Ummm, I'm pretty sure I just did answer my phone," he said.

Marilyn Morrissey giggled. "No, not right now, silly. Last NIGHT!"

"Huh?" said Jesse, and Marilyn told him the story of El-Rey and Reid and the gun and McKee and the Nation.

"They want you to introduce them to the Nation," she said. "I think I should call the police."

"Wait, no," said Jesse. "Don't do that." His mind was hazy, and he was struggling to catch up and think clearly. "The police will go after Beinstein's guys AND the Nation," he said. "And the Nation will not appreciate it, and when they find out it's me, they'll probably have me assassinated." Jesse Milkvoich was not positive this is what would happen, but he had a pretty good feeling.

"Ok, well what do you think I should do?"

Silence.

"I don't know, "said Jesse. He didn't, and thinking about it was hurting his brain. "Maybe you cut them a deal. Give 'em some cheap drugs or something. That's all they want."

"And how am I supposed to do that?" asked Marilyn.

"Well, I guess..." started Jesse Milkovich. "You could...umm, well..." He paused. "I don't know Marilyn. Let me think about it and call you back."

He heard Marilyn sigh on the other end; she was annoyed.

"Did these guys like give you a deadline or something?" asked Jesse. It was a ridiculous question, but it was all he could think of at the moment.

"Are you shitting me?" asked Marilyn. Just like her to call him out. "Yes, they told me I have until 5:00 on Friday to pronounce one member of the Nation, ready to do business." Sarcasm was Marilyn's strong suit.

Another silence.

"Jesse?" asked Marilyn.

"Yes?" replied Jesse.

"When are you coming back?"

Now it was Jesse Milkovich's turn to sigh.

"I don't know Marilyn," said Jesse. "I really don't know."

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You know those days, when your head feels fuzzy...

...and you're just sort of out-of-it, for no particular reason? Maybe it's the humidity, the lingering threat of rain, or the fact that you couldn't sleep last night, tossing and turning in the stale Philadelphia air. Maybe it's PMS. Maybe it's mid-week blues, not being busy at the moment but feeling overwhelmed by what's to come. Or maybe it's all in your head (Of course it's all in your head.)

Whatever it is, you're fighting it. You have your Wawa coffee (2/3 French vanilla, 1/3 Hazelnut, skim milk and 2 sugars) , a pack of watermelon gum, time. It's not enough. You want a cigarette but don't even smoke. What's there to do at a time like this?

If you're me, there's only one place to turn: the Silver Jews.

They don't call 'em the Jews for nothing!

Why the Joos? That's a good question. There's something about David Berman's voice that perfectly encapsulates mixed emotions; he's sad, and hopeful, and tired, and silly, and shy, but whatever he is, he's aware -- self aware and OVER-aware, and stuck in his own thoughts the same way I am.

The Joos have only excellent records, and my favorite these days is Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea, an album so full of ironic quips and folksy melodies that it already seems like a classic, even if it's just over a year old. God, I love this record!

Berman riding off into the sunset.

The band's no so into videos (this is old-school Drag City we're talking), so bear with me here as I link. "Suffering Jukebox" is alt-country-classic (but not in an annoying way); "San Francisco B.C." is pure, unadulterated irony, and "Party Barge" is just, well, silly. (I want a party barge!)

The last track, "We could be looking for the same thing" might be my favorite, and melts my heart every time. If only things were this simple!

Yes!

It's not exactly a pick-me-up (but then again, neither is 16 oz of brew!) but it IS music to get lost in. Day-dreaming the afternoon away listening to the Joos? Fuzzy-headed ain't so bad.

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Look who's on the Philly.com homepage!

Yeah, that's my article. I rock. Thanks to Leah for sending this my way!

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It's awesome having a Media Pass at the Xponential Music Festival...

...because rather than fight the crowds, you get access to the coveted photo pit located directly in front of the stage, where everything's a little cooler and the artists are so close you can practically touch them.

I was on the list as a photographer -- really, I was just there to write an article -- but I brought my camera anyway, and went to town. Check out my recap -- text (c) Phrequency.com. All photos by Kate Bracaglia (click any to enlarge)

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Xponential Music Fest: Xponentially Awesome

(originally published at Phrequency.com)

“Come on, you’re coming with me,” says Illinois front man Chris Archibald, scooping up a small, wavy-haired child Saturday afternoon at WXPN’s Xponential Music Fest. It’s just minutes before the band’s 3:30 performance, and everyone’s getting settled into the grassy hillside.

“It’s a beautiful day, we have sunshine, we have beer, we have our lives!” exclaims Archibald a few minutes later to a growing crowd of eager festival-goers as he strums his banjo and lets loose a cavalcade of rambunctious, rollicking tunes.

“I know it’s hot and all, but can people stand up and move around a bit here?” asks the singer, clad in an oversized orange tee and knit headband. “I feel like we’re at a school assembly or something!”

The crowd gently chuckles—everyone’s in good spirits—and does as asked, small children, college students, and couples old enough to be their parents, all coming together to dance gleefully on the hillside…

Chris Archibald, Illinois. (Click any photo to enlarge)

Illinois.

large crowd on the hillside.

This same spirit of fun, music, and laidback good times (“positive jams”, as the Hold Steady’s Craig Finn would put it) permeates the festival—XPN’s 16th—in droves. Bands are carefully selected and varied—from Guster to Aimee Mann to They Might Be Giants—and in top performing shape. It’s a magical, family-friendly environment, and I’m happy to be a part of it!

The festival is spread out over the course of 3 days—Friday afternoon through Sunday evening. I decide to check out Saturday, and head over to Wiggins Park, on the Camden waterfront, around 1 p.m.

Walking into the festival is like walking into a fairground. There are food vendors everywhere, whipping up anything you might want—hot dogs! Fried shrimp! Hummus! Fajitas! —and beer that is surprisingly not too overpriced ($6 for a Flying Fish summer ale.) There are a variety of clothing and craft vendors, mostly peddling useful green products, and, most importantly, 2 stages, on which 40 different artists impress crowds.

Philly skyline from across the river.

A little hot, but still gorgeous.

Chillin.

Matt got a Media pass too, even though he was just my guest.

Surprisingly, I went the entire festival without using the facilities.

Illinois plays on the JerseyArts.com Marina stage, along with local favorites like East Hundred and far-away visitors like Nashville’s Katie Herzig, whose low-key folk is sweet and charming.

“This next song I actually heard on XPN earlier today while I was driving here—it’s so great to hear your music on the radio,” says Herzig exuberantly to the crowd, before launching into a toe-tapping rendition of “Hologram.”

East Hundred.

XPN Morning show host Michaela Majoun.

Katie Herzig and band.

Providence, RI’s the Low Anthem take the stage later and wow the crowd with their musical prowess (I count at least 10 different instruments, including organ, cell phone, and crotales—the bizarre, bell-like instrument made with small brass disks) and gorgeous melodies.

Local roots-rock legends Hoots & Hellmouth close out the night, offering up an upbeat, danceable set of country-meets-gospel-meets-tons-of-energy rock. What a day!

The Low Anthem.

Walking into the festival Saturday afternoon, I stumble upon the Marina stage first, and am impressed by the large crowd gathered. Yet this group soon seems insignificant as I find my way to the Camden County River stage—just a couple hundred feet away, on the other side of the hill—on which hundreds—nay, thousands! —are gathered, spread out on blankets and in beach chairs, enjoying picnic lunches and laid-back tunes.

Crowd at the Marina stage.

At the River stage.

Former XPN “Artist to Watch” and local gal Sharon Little kicks things off on Saturday—a feisty blonde with a large red hat and even larger voice—supplementing her throaty alto with a groovy brass section. Next up are Brooklyn’s Yeasayer, whose capricious indie-rock melodies are made even funkier thanks to lead singer Chris Keating’s twitch-y antics and lots of synths.

Classic rock revivalist Steve Wynn and the Miracle 3 take the stage next, invigorating the crowd with earnest, visceral anthems and then it’s the Bacon Brothers, the—yes, that’s right —rock outfit of one Kevin Bacon and brother Michael—who are everything you’d expect a Kevin Bacon-fronted band to be like, assuming you expect Bruce Springsteen covers and a rolling, alt-country number called “Too old for playboy.”

Sharon Little.

Yeasayer.

I went to college, and even participated in college theater, with Anand Wilder,
guitarist for Yeasayer. Does he remember me? Probably not.

Super synths.

Crowd in front of the stage.

Crowd in front of the stage: questionable fashion choices.

The formidable K. Bacon.

The rest of the Bacon Bros.

"Cut loose, foot-loose!"

6 degrees from Kevin Bacon.

The evening brings about Pete Yorn, the shaggy-haired, Ray-Bans-clad indie-rock heartthrob whose poppy, intimate tunes like “Life on a chain” and “Closet” have the crowd screaming for more. The singer himself is full of smiles and quips—a natural charmer.

They Might Be Giants take the stage around 8, and their 45-minute set set has both children and adults clapping and dancing along. For their encore, the band plays a frenzied rendition of “Instanbul”—the fast-paced song that chides “Instanbul, Constantinople”— and guitarist John Flansburgh pulls 4 strings off his guitar in an ultimate act of rock n’roll bad ass-ery. Awesome!

Pete Yorn.

Yorn-nators.

They Might be Giants.

Eager crowds.

The Hold Steady close out the show, walking on stage triumphantly to Pete Townshend's "Rough Boys." THS front man Craig Finn is one of my favorite performers possibly ever, and tonight he is on, bouncing around stage like a ball of energy, spitting into the mic, flapping his hands, and mouthing words to the audience who yell back and cheer enthusiastically.

“Wow, there’s a lot of you!” comments Finn, picking up his guitar, and strumming the opening notes to “Stuck between stations.” As the performance continues, the temperature drops and it starts to rain, but the band keeps on playing and the audience presses close together, determined not to let the weather get in the way of the music.

Energetic front man Craig Finn acting energetic.

Finally, after 40 minutes, Finn puts his guitar down reluctantly, announcing, unfortunately, that they have to stop—there’s a wave of thunderstorms on the horizon, and XPN has deemed the situation unsafe.

The audience boos—everyone wants more rock! —but as an XPN representative reminds the crowd that there’s still a whole day of music left tomorrow, people nod and reluctantly head home—bodies covered in sweat and rain—to rest up for another exhilarating day.

Cheering, despite rain.

Thanks for a great show!

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