between my crooked teeth difficulty sticks in strings. i wince against the rattle of my [medicine] chest but i hold the moment by the fistful - despite inexperience, despite primitive implements, i flash those teeth and say “hello.”
JMT, 2009/2011
In my apartment, Vivaldi is playing at a volume loud enough to disturb the demon child and his deaf grandmother who forgets the rest of us can still hear her in the unit above me. I’ve just taken two Ambien and I must get this out before it kicks in and I reveal to you the seven secrets of Apollo, thus granting you eternal life and the sexual stamina of a god.
So let’s begin. This particular post has been in my queue for almost a year. Half-done. Almost done. Actually done, just too fatigued to post for fear of…something. Excuses perhaps. An explanation as to where I’m going. Where I’ve been. But in the end, maybe it doesn’t matter.
Troy manages to dissuade the paparazzi. I look like I'm saying a friendly hello. Obviously LA and I get along just fine.
One thing I’ve always had difficulty with is this moment, right now. It’s never this moment. It’s always what will be, what has been, what I’m missing, what I don’t have. This moment is never enough. The funny thing is, right now, this moment is all I have. I have no grand plan. I have no synopsis of what will become of me, or my work, or travel plans. And even if I did, what would that prove? It still wouldn’t put words on paper. It would be a lot of moments I’ve never lived in, though I’ve in fact lived them. You don’t have to tell me that doesn’t make sense.
I dream of dreams. I dream of dreaming. How backwards it is, to dream of a dream. To desire the act of dreaming, rather than achieving. I suppose the phrase “stop dreaming and start doing” is being kicked around in my head. (Quoth the raven, nevermore.)
For a long time I had an “idea” of what I was, of what Gossip [&] the Devil “should” be and how it should be “presented.” Like so many things kept past their prime I held on to that idea because I’d constructed it, executed it and I was seeing dividends in the process.
But isn’t there some risk in the process? Of course. But that risk doesn’t disappear when dividends appear. In fact, the risk rises. The edge becomes thinner. So thin it cuts your toes every time you pirouette. To keep your toes something must change. Equally absurd is it to continue to turn until you have nothing but stumps to show.
And so, there is change.
Vicodin, nicotine, timed prescriptions and what will be the death of me. I'm a professional pill taker.
There is a ride in the ruins of a city that begs to be remembered. The music is faint and its seats are cold. All of this can be rectified. Not glorified. Not memorialized.
But revitalized.
There is a certain amount of posturing that exists in our business (read: artists), a delicate balance of confidence and ego, of the je ne se quois any one of us posses. It’s a hard mix to homogenize, but it can be done. More often there is an uglier imbalance of too much talk and far less talent.
This is mine. My name, my place. I’ve felt unsafe in my own home, a learned behavior poisoning my children, these words. The very things I slaughter for – instead I’ve taken to slaughtering the necessary parts to create them.
I talk about the phoenix, the specatle of the fire bird, the awe of the rebirth – I’ve found it well past due to become it, embody it, to MOVE. I love what I’ve created. It was all I had, for better or worse, for glamour or grit.
It isn’t all I have now, but it’s damn sure still worth fighting for. I’ve found going about things in a healthy way is difficult. Who knew, right? But, as Reno from Final Fantasy VII so eloquently put it: A pro isn’t someone who sacrifices himself for his job. That’s just a fool. And that includes this job – THIS job. This little worker bee has to put her life into the sting she creates and find a way to watch the splendor in the resulting swell.
Expect something different for what Gossip [&] the Devil is and perhaps should have been a long time ago. A broadening of content. The only “call to arms” for the Modern Orphans is to EXIST- same mission – less exclusion – less “prerequisite” – less bullshit. I’m tired. And frankly I’ve met some people in the last few months who have completely shattered my notions of what it means to be brilliant, talented and well aware of that fact – yet still humble. (I’m looking at you, Troy Baker.) Is there a certain amount of swagger involved with any artist? Sure. What I’ve “discovered” is it isn’t the things we do well that necessarily keep us going – it’s the areas we tend to fall just short in that drive us to succeed. Success isn’t nearly as good a motivator as the idea that you are but one word away from being told you didn’t land the job.
Every ink pen lying still, every note left unheard is a loss, something to be mourned but mourned DESPITE them, TO SPITE them if you so choose.
First meeting, 6 years ago. I was far heavier and had a youthful glow. Mat has continued to drink the blood of virgins and looks the exact same today.
To the Modern Orphans, my friends, to my fans, to my lovers, to my fantasies – there is little that is needed from me more than simple honesty.
Honesty.
Some of you have been with me for years. Literally since the beginning. But it isn’t just to you I owe this to -I owe it to me too.
A potential muse has spent many nights with me, swapping prescriptions and speaking so far above my head I had to reach for the stars to catch their words. I’ve spent time outside blackening my lungs with them, scribbling on crumpled napkins, trying to understand their ethos. I feel the first bite of new life. I feel the venom and thank the wily bastard who produced it.
From now on at G[&]D you’ll find the “me” who isn’t necessarily always in Seattle, or Chicago, or with Amanda Palmer, or with Marilyn Manson, or with our lovely Monsieur Devine. Characters are necessary, but a character is only that – temporary. Eventually you have to own up to the fact that, sooner or later, someone is going to catch you without makeup, and that’s far more telling than any spider-web spin of tongues and teeth could ever provide. Bat those doll-lashes, purse those doll-lips, find those doll-veins. At the end of the day you still close your eyes and try to make sense of the ink-blots stuck to the back of your lids.
Next up I’ll FINALLY provide promo to MD’s incorrigible poetry (sorry, Mat), a long-due post on mental illness (and some great books for reference), anime masturbation and yes, perhaps even some poetry. (Bated breath, I know.) In the meantime – keep dreaming.
This post is thanks mostly in part to my friends both new and old, who keep me honest: Jai Marie (who asks the tough questions), Troy Baker (“Stop dreaming and start doing.”), Elias Mallin (“Julie, you talk enough bullshit. Now write it down.”), Peter Pixie (“POST IT.”) and, as is usually the case, to Mat Devine (co-creator of Hopeless Beach), who I had the pleasure of meeting six years ago today. Thank you, truly, from the bottom of my heart for inspiring me to work, write and NEED again. After all, there is someone in the world studying me – and I don’t have the heart to help this poor student fail any attempt at higher education:
Let’s get one thing clear: innerpartysystem have always been too smart for the scene, from the Orwellian origin of their name to critiques on current culture so enlightened I could write a thesis on the various conversations we had during tour. Even more amusing is the “scene” they tended to fuck was the very environment they always saw right through. They became a part of – and in some cases fed – a very consistent theme in their music.
“Nothing’s too excessive when you’ve got nothing left. We’re all here ‘cos we lost control. If we all should die tonight, we will have no regrets. If this night should take my life we can’t go back. We’ve got nothing left. You can see the plastic, dripping of your face, we may not all be pretty – but we feel pretty fake.” – Die Tonight, Live Forever
I found innerpartysystem’s“indefinate hiatus” announcement surprising not only because I was certain their best work was yet to come (which is saying something, considering the brilliance of the work they’d already done) but because it was following on the heels of their Never Be ContentEP that was released earlier this year, and a new studio album that was announced for a release later in 2011.
IPS at the Metro, 2008
They’d heavily promoted the American Trash single not just with words but with an entire merchandise bundle to go along with the EP. The follow-up single, Not Getting Any Better, came with a stellar 8-minute video and a heavily promoted remix contest, falling into the hands of such up-and-coming and established artists like Designer Drugs and Treasure Fingers. I’d read numerous sources citing IPS as one of the “bands to watch” since they hit the ground running in 2007.
Everything just seemed…right.
“While we will always treasure our time as innerpartysystem, we as individuals have chosen a path different from the one the band originally set out on.” – from the IPS announcement
The “path” they’d set out on was one that took the current pop culture mindset and applied an attitude reminiscent of what grunge did in the early 90′s. During a time where any and everything could be considered “famous,” IPS seemed disgusted with the state of pop culture affairs and had no problem vocalizing said disgust. From the creative suppression organized religion and small-town mentalities can impose to failed relationships, they ran the gamut of emotion for stellar lyrical content. Musically they took the metallic crunchiness of late 90′s rock and the 21st century Pro-Tools explosion and gave birth to something I personally had never seen or heard before. It was refreshing. It was exciting. It gave me hope for a better musical landscape in the future. What they did was no easy task, and managed to walk a fine line without crossing over into pretension or some laughable echo of a TOOL album remastered with super-synth and auto-tune. (Even when they were performing entire sets using little more than their iPhones.) The modern desire to turn people like Snooki and the cast of Teen Mom into “celebrities” was virtually puked on with contempt. They took all of this, made it current, and what’s more: They were damn good at it. They slaughtered the idea that electronic music was soulless, a vapid excuse for no-talent wannabes.
In 2007 I was in Chicago to see my friends in Kill Hannah perform an intimate set as part of their annual New Heart for Xmas weekend. What I didn’t expect was one of the opening acts – a then relatively unknown innerpartysystem (with a much smaller version of their light show) – completely blow my mind. I had no clue what happened to me, like a drive-by fucking. It left me breathless. It was like one of those whirlwind crazy boyfriends: You wonder if they were real, if that one night reading poetry and fucking in a school parking lot were actually a part of your tangible life, or a figment created because you needed it at the time. I didn’t know shit about IPS then, but I stood in awe of their art in a way I hadn’t for a band in a long, long time.
The Download EP didn’t leave my musical rotation for months. 6 songs repeated over and over in the car, on my headphones, on my computer. Don’t Stop was the single I didn’t know I wanted, but couldn’t stop once I started. Don’t stop. Ha.
In 2008 I was lucky enough to seem them nearly a dozen times in support of Kill Hannah’s “Hope for the Hopeless” tour, when I decided I missed the touring life. (I needed to remember how it felt not to bathe and lose entire days in booze and bad drugs, apparently.) I drove across the country and flew when driving wasn’t possible, everywhere from Houston, TX to Milwaukee, WI. Eventually I ended up in Chicago at the end of 2008 and to catch the final stop at the Metro, where the show not only took my breath away but hijacked the entire crowd. That show I nearly fell off the balcony from exhaustion. I had no voice left (hello end of tour) – but I forced it out to chant SHE WAS SIMPLY JUST A CONCEPT right back at them when they asked. Their cover of Joy Divison’s Transmission STILL gives me goosebumps.
They decimate you live.
I didn’t see them again until Valentine’s Day of 2009, when a ninja trip to Denver, CO reminded me that driving 10 hours, doing a show and driving 10 hours back takes a lot more stamina than I remembered. Of 48 hours, over 20 of those were spent driving but the handful spent at the Marquis Theater watching this band DESTROY their crowd made the drive more than worth it. That show remains one of the most violent and beautiful things I’ve ever been a part of, a show that truly changed my life and the way I think about music and the industry that comes with it. I was crushed, hit, beaten up, wasted and tripping on ecstasy. If Heaven actually existed, I couldn’t think of a better place than the moment I was standing in. I thought: This is it. This is immediate. This is now. This. Is. Living. Kris and Jared lept into the crowd even as Patrick was still screaming “it’s just, don’t stop!” and Jesse danced around on something other than booze. You couldn’t see anything after the strobe lights died. I couldn’t tell the difference between sweat and booze soaking my hair and clothing.
I knew as soon as the crowd let me breathe that I would never see IPS like that again. Everyone knew the words. Little girls, old men, bartenders, babies, addicts, schizophrenics, hipsters, metal heads, scene queens…everyone. Four days after the show I posted a blog on Myspace that said:
“I’m quite confident that this will be one of the last times I see IPS like this. They’re blowing up, and will soon be on their way to ‘don’t have to sell our own merch’ status…they want to sell records, make music and worm their way into the ‘man’s’ territory (to eat it from the inside out) – which they’re doing. So, say your goodbyes now kids. They’re going up and away from the Earth.” - from my Myspace blog
Their self-titled album was released and the video for Don’t Stop had to be re-shot because of its original “edgy” content. This Empty Love, Heart of Fire and Die Tonight, Live Forever also received video treatments, and to this day I still watch the former at least once every couple of weeks. I love it THAT much.
After that their sound moved from a less rock/electronic hybrid (they pretty much ditched the live guitar, much to my dismay) and more into strictly dance/electro territory, and lost member Jesse Cronan to his own endeavors. By the time the Never Be Content EP came out I was certain the band had a renewed vision, a direction they’d all agreed on. Their video for the first single, American Trash, seemed to support this and their previous themes of slamming pseudo-drug-glam culture and jaded ass kissing. The song was nestled between songs about love and loss – which was something I’d come to expect from them.
“I get my facts from the TV. Believe in everything I read. It’s such an ignorant bliss when the whole fucking world wants to be like me. ‘Cos I’m just American trash. Stupid American trash.” – American Trash
All systems seemed go – as mentioned before with the bundle packages, remix contests, hit shows at SXSW and gigs with Moby in NYC (where one could be shuttled to and from in a limo with bottle service) – I was left screaming “GROUND CONTROL TO MAJOR TOM!” when the bomb was dropped that they’d each be heading in different directions. Where were they going? What planet was I on?
It’s funny to describe an IPS show as a “religious” experience, given their distaste for such things. I highly doubt that was their intention and none of them set out to be any kind of messiah or harbinger of enlightenment to the 21st century youth. If anything there was a very Timothy Leary-esque message behind those bright lights that told you to “think for yourself and question authority” and find in their music what they were trying to say, because they certainly weren’t handing it to you.
Frankly I wouldn’t want them to. I don’t know what led to their hiatus other than the admission that each of them wanted to go in their own directions, much like Jesse had months before. I have no doubt I’ll see them together again, but in what form, and what message will they want to convey? Much of the magic IPS possessed seemed intrinsically due in part to the mental makeup of its members together as a unit. It’s a hard pill to swallow that they came across a fork in the road and each took the one the other wasn’t traveling.
I can only hope that as long as I keep moving I’ll stumble across said roads some day. (However this time I won’t rack up a $250 bar tab in Dallas buying Patrón, since I insisted that was all anyone could drink.)
(What the fuck DID happen in Dallas anyway?)
Patrick, Kris, Jared (and Jesse) – good luck and thank you.
Orphans, it seems the time has come. The first pressing of The Rough Chronicles of Bipolar Romance is:
SOLD | OUT
The limited-edition, vellum covered chapbook featured every one of my previous publications, plus a few exclusive works and a psychosocial history outline (blacked out government document style) from my personal collection – all wrapped together with laser guided precision. From “He’s A Drummer By Trade” to “Voyeur” this was the coveted first edition, hand bound in house by Gossip [&] the Devil Inc. Though any artist would love to admit they just knew it was going to happen, the reality is most of us sit there and hope it’ll happen.
Acclaim for Julie M. Tate [&]
The Rough Chronicles of Bipolar Romance:
“It’s very sexual…it’s amazing. I loved it…[she's] my favorite underground poet.” – Mat Devine, vocalist, Kill Hannah
“The Rough Chronicles of Bi-Polar Romance should not be a limited edition. It should be dispensed far and wide for the reading world to quietly taste…” – W. B. Burkholder, editor, Troubadour 21
“There are writers who speak to the minds of us and then there are those few who speak to the souls and hearts of us. They talk to our guts…They make us shiver and shake with their words and they make us know them a bit deeper than we had ever imagined we would.” – Tairrie B. Murphy, vocalist, My Ruin
“An absolutely fantastic writer.” – Eric Victorino, vocalist, Strata/The Limousines
“I love [her] website.”- wiL Francis, vocalist, Aiden/William Control
“If you submit this [poem] to any other format…it’s going to get rejected. This poem will be rejected by most other poetry formats but it’ll make you famous…I actually had it in an envelope to reject it, but I couldn’t do it, it’s too good.” – Larry Ziman, editor,The Great American Poetry Show
“I’m scared you’re going to fuck your talent off, which would be a shame because you’re just too good.” – Ai, winner of the 1999 National Book Award for Poetry
“‘This is Your Capitan Speaking’…read like [a] short story. I didn’t want the poem to end.” – Danielle Dreger-Babbitt, Seattle Books Examiner
None of this – NONE OF THIS – would be possible without you, Orphans, fans, supporters, gawkers, voyeurs, perverts, addicts and DIY-ers. You KNOW who you are. You’re the dreamers, schemers, the take-a-chancers, the middle fingers in the face of your roadblocks and naysayers. YOU.
It’s 2011 and shit is about to start happening. Get ready for the 5th Season. More soon. Cheers! xx
Acclaim for Julie M. Tate [&] 
