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Quite the opposite: it fueled the lively beat of the drums, the guitar solos. My friends would call those screams noise, shy away from their echoes, but the noise never felt out of place for me.
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Every track was an event, blood shed in front of my eyes, and even at fourteen when that beautiful mess was exactly what I needed, I knew it wasn’t meant for everyone. My friends never liked Pierce the Veil’s music, but in their defence, I never asked them to give the band another shot.
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I couldn’t help but wonder how he managed to catch his breath between the oil spill of emotion, the main act’s excess I willingly consumed. Maybe he thought his art was more believable when he had to bleed for it. Maybe he thought the pain in his throat accentuated the red-painted tenor of the song. He sang as if he intended for his body to give out all along-and maybe he truly did. I could imagine the metallic tang, veins in his throat strung taut. Spinto tenor rising into screams, despair into rage, piercing through the illusory calm of the first few verses. The shift in Vic Fuentes’ voice, only as abrupt as anticipated. I remember thinking that when I first heard it, sweet on my tongue. Isn’t that the whole point of screamo?Ĭolide With the Sky tasted a lot like smoke. Sticks against snare, while the cymbals sob. I suppose you could think of new-age rock, then, as an auditory Marlboro. Things that fill the gaping interlude of your humdrum days, that keep your long-silenced demons at bay. Actions you must keep repeating, whether or not you enjoy them. Hear me out: they’re both inescapable, constant. What about music, then? I’m unfamiliar with the technicalities of it, yet I’m certain it has to be synonymous with breathing. I never liked the taste they left on my tongue, but I was so drawn to that idea of a steady, gradual deterioration. They say one cigarette is equivalent to three minutes off your life. All I know is inhaling it makes you lightheaded, ticks against areas in your brain that trick you into believing the pleasure. How much do you know about nicotine? Me, not much. Breathing, I think, is a coping mechanism more common than we realise. I’m still not entirely sure whether the technique actually helps for its claimed purpose-but sometimes all calmness takes is a little faith in your own flourished pretense, a concrete reminder to pause between notes. It was a Google search that brought me to the 4-7-8 breathing exercise, supposedly used to counter anxiety. Thinking: if someone else reads this and inhales, it will be worth it. Thinking: if I can’t do as I write, at least this won’t all be for nothing. In desperate times, I tweet it out, like a public service announcement. More often, I just type it into my phone, a memo to self. Occasionally I write the word on a sticky note, tuck it in between pages of the planner I don’t use as much as I should. The great pause in my life is the way I am constantly forgetting to breathe. Carbon dioxide as the demons inside your body that never learned to pay rent.