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The Continuing Tales of… Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Fever To Tell

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    It’s strange that in just 10 short years, an ostensibly modern era can feel so separate. There’s a generation of people who can now say they’ve grown up with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, the anointed New York early-2000s indie-rock scene had a defiant, exciting sense of nowness. But in 2013, with Karen O in her mid-30s, Fever to Tell has become something we can look back on. Those songs don’t just hold our attached memories, they represent an entire bygone world. Whether these feelings are invented or organic, Fever to Tell already seems so distant, and up for our interpretations.

    Feature artwork by Cap Blackard

    Purchase this artwork (via Society6): Print || Canvas || iPhone Case || Laptop Skin

    Click the arrow to continue to the first story…

    “Rich”
    BY LUKE WINKIE

    Man I’ve got a fast car. You don’t even know. It’s got spikes and chrome and big black wheels, I soak up the asphalt like a bruise. That’s ‘cause I’m rich, I got the stars and the moons jingling from my keys. I feel them on my leg, and I feel you getting smaller and smaller in my mirrors. I pump up the volume and shift back the seat, drink a little something from a Styrofoam cup. Don’t even start with me, bro, I’m rich.

    That inheritance is coming. Just a couple more years man, it’ll all be mine, at least it’s gonna be. Those other cats think they got a fortune delivery, but those other cats ain’t rich like me.

    Got my girlfriend now. She’s all dusky and red and full of flirty little chemicals, I like the way she looks at me, she likes the way I mold her skin. She keeps scratching on my thigh with her baby index finger. She likes those other boys, but she loves me the most. That’s because I’m rich. I make her rich all day and night.

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    Haven’t moved for the last 12 hours. Took a mulligan today, curled up in the darkness and blasted off. Need to remember to close my eyes. Need to remember to touch the water. Need to remember to breathe. Roommates making a ruckus, they’ll be first against the wall when I’m rich.

    A rough couple of nights, a rough couple of days, hard to feel my face. Toes are tingling. Hazy where I fell asleep, a total mystery where I woke up. Can’t wait for that inheritance, gonna stack my coins like pillars on the table.

    I’m in the club, I’m always in the club. You just gotta be rich – shrink down and slip on by. See my girlfriend doing her thing. She ain’t looking at me right now, but she will be soon. Order a coke and rum, spend $16, it don’t matter I’m rich. Wait for the girl to come over. Still not looking at me. I wave. Still not looking at me. It’s cool, she’s doing her thing. Sometimes that’s just how it be.

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    Walk out of the club, feeling dizzy and clean. Sky opens up and speaks to me, get down on my knees. I’m the commissioner of this alley, it’s holy matriarch, I say a few prayers and watch the world smile back. I get these blessings on the regular, I deserve them, I’m so fucking rich.

    Scream bloody murder. I don’t got a gun but I look like I do. Can’t get the register open so I pull the whole thing out with me. A handful of sweettarts too. A handful of glazed donuts too. Hands are goddamn freezing. Throw the cash machine in the side door. I’ve got a fast car. You don’t even know. Blaze through the streets. Heading to Johnny’s place. Turn up the radio, Johnny’s dead. Things are popping off now. Things are getting tense now. Chopper looking at me weird, lights all around. Cuffs around my wrists now. Headed toward the impound.

    Don’t know any phone numbers, don’t have any friends. Can’t believe that Johnny’s dead. Little concrete box and a shrinkwrapped bed. I’m so rich though, they don’t even know. Blue-suits passing by, they can’t take my inheritance. Just thing about the inheritance. Always thinking about the inheritance. Curl up in the darkness. I’m so rich.

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    “Date With The Night”
    BY ELI WATSON

    Gloria Morris stares at a fire she helped create. Pieces of burnt paper ascend into a night sky. Gloria inhales slowly, as if these breaths were her last.

    Maybe they were.

    Maybe they were the final breaths of an adolescent girl coming into her own. Introspection is interrupted: “Gloria! Come on girl!” This voice, calm and assertive, was not familiar to Gloria. Where was the girl whose timid voice often disappeared in crowded hallways where lockers slammed, chiseled-bodied athletes bragged about their “fuck of the week” and teachers cheered on students “to finish the year off successfully”?

    Gloria jumps in the backseat of the girl’s blue and white Mini Cooper. The girl steps on the pedal as another girl in the passenger seat smiles at the orange and red flames roaring in the still night. The tires screech, the speakers pop — not a word is said. “The night isn’t over yet y’all,” yells the girl in the passenger seat.

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    It’s 12:00. “Usually I am asleep by now,” Gloria thought. Pages upon pages of class notes and assignments, along with her mother’s sternness, had essentially made Gloria a recluse. But this was not involuntary — Gloria never found herself curious by the weekend recaps discussed every Monday morning. Even the most detailed retellings of a friend vomiting on a party host’s parent’s luxury car, received unenthused responses from Ms. Morris. However, curiosity had finally presented itself: what would the rest of this night hold?

    The Mini Cooper rolls to a stop before a red light but Gloria’s mind continues to race. Scattered parts of the day disappear as quick as they appear.

    “Fuck, finally this year is done. Graduation and summer time bitches!”: Clark Madison, all-star quarterback, high school superstar and “sexting” mastermind. (It’s rumored that he has nude pics of every senior cheerleader on his phone.)

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    “Gloria, I expect greatness from you. Your mother must be so proud of you graduating valedictorian, and going to college on a full ride. I look forward to hearing all about your successes.”: Mrs. Hill, English teacher, devout optimist and diehard Radiohead fan. (“If you think about it guys, Hail to the Thief is essentially a dedication to George Orwell’s 1984.”)

    “Glory! Come to my party later tonight. You never go out–always have your head in a book. You’ve worked your ass off, now it’s time to celebrate!”: Elias Pitt, weed enthusiast, “the guy everyone is cool with” and my crush since freshman year.

    “All right girl here’s the plan. Lily brought her car 2 school 2day, so you’ll tag along w/us once the bell rings. Ask ur mom if u can spend the night at my house. We’ll just hang out until it’s time to go to Elias’ party. Girl…U KNO HE WANTS U RIGHT? LOL JK OK NOT JK’ING!”: Eleanor Reese, competent speller (her text messages can be misleading), mischief maker and one of my best friends.

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    “Of course you can spend the night, darling! You have earned it. What time should I expect you home tomorrow? I bet Lily and Eleanor are so excited to finally get you out of the house. But you’re living proof honey–hard work does pay off! XOXO”: Danielle Morris, slow (but getting progressively better) texter, my greatest enemy and my greatest friend. (And my mother, obviously.)

    “Hello Ms. Valedictorian! Come on! We got some thangs to do before Elias’ party.”: Lily Ruth, soft-spoken angel, occasional drinker and my other best friend.

    The light flashes green; Gloria is welcomed back to the present. The wheels begin to roll again, just as Gloria’s mind finally comes to a stop. She looks at Eleanor, who’s on her phone sending a picture of the fire they made, to some guy named “James Babe.” (Gloria correctly assumes that James’ last name is not “Babe.”)

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    Eleanor’s phone screen flashes, illuminating her cherry-red lips. “It all happened so quickly,” Eleanor thought to herself. It wasn’t planned. It just happened.

    “PARK CLOSED BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 10 P.M. – 4 A.M.,” read one park sign.

    “NO CAMPFIRES,” read another.

    Leaves and small twigs broke underneath the weight of the Mini Cooper, as Lily drove to a more-secluded part of the park.

    Lily parked the car. The girls stepped out. They took several steps before sitting around a self-made fire pit. (James is quite the handyman.)

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    Pieces of burnt wood took up the pit’s center, most of it still burnable. Lily remembered she had a half-full container of lighter fluid in the trunk of her car (“Thanks, Senior Ditch Day”) and went to get it. Once Lily returned she sprayed the fluid on the wood. Eleanor immediately lit up the wood with a match, the fire crackling loudly as if to express its sovereignty over the pieces of lumber.

    They talked: “I am going to miss you guys so much,” “Oh my God, Eleanor! You did that in class,” “Remember when we shared the same profile song on Myspace?” They laughed, staring at each other with admirable eyes. Eyes that provided a much deeper and unspoken conversation. A conversation of worries, fears and uncertainties about the future. Will we always be friends? Blink. Will we never grow apart? Blink. Will we still call on each other when life becomes too much to handle? Blink. Will we ever have a moment like this again? Blink.

    The fire began to die out. “Yo, I’m not ready to leave yet,” said Lily. “Do we have anything we can burn?”

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    Without thought Gloria stood up, ran to Lily’s car, grabbed her backpack and returned to the fire. Inside her backpack were those pages of class notes and assignments, that took precedence over her social life. (And took refuge in her school locker.) She started from the bottom, throwing about 20 papers in the fire, papers tainted by large and blood-red A’s and B’s. The fire could care less about the grades; the sacrifice was enough to keep it going for 10, maybe even 15 minutes.

    But Gloria could not stop. It was as if she was possessed: one, two, five, 10, 18, 29, 35. The papers fell gracefully into the mouth of the fire, overwhelmed by the relentlessness of the flames. Lily and Eleanor ran to get their backpacks and immediately joined Gloria once they returned. Valentine’s Day letters, class doodles, documents with forged parent signatures, crude drawings of teachers, incomplete assignments–nothing was not fed to the fire.

    It almost seemed as if the paper genocide would never end. But what began with Gloria would end with Gloria. In her hand was the final paper: a letter from her school declaring that she was this year’s valedictorian.

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    She hesitated. This document essentially encompassed all that she had worked for, and all that she had sacrificed. It was worth it, right? Right? Gloria’s indecisiveness frightened her. She had adhered to the rules bestowed upon her by her mother and teachers. And in her hand was the result: this paper that several years down the road no one would probably give a shit about.

    Gloria couldn’t understand where this newfound skepticism came from.

    But Lily and Eleanor knew. They could see the answer in Gloria’s troubled eyes: devotion. Gloria had devoted all she could to receive what was in her hand. In four years she had learned about everything that didn’t matter, and nothing that did matter: herself.

    But a solution began to present itself in a smile appearing on Gloria’s face. She let the paper go; not out of anger or frustration, but curiosity. She watched the final paper burn, remorselessly engulfed by the dying flames. The paper was gone but she continued to stare into the fire. “What’s next,” Gloria asked herself. “Where do things go from here?” There were no answers to these questions. No book, no class, nothing that could provide an answer for Gloria’s existential inquiries. And yet, the 18 year-old, soon-to-be college student found comfort in this. Comfort in questions that would take her entire life to answer. Comfort in the unknown.

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    “Gloria! Come on girl,” yelled Lily.

    “And now we’re here,” Gloria said aloud, smiling at the image reflected in her mirror: Elias’ house. It was quiet. A few rumbles from speakers inside the house would occasionally escape to the outside, and some conversation from the backyard could be heard. But for the most part it seemed pretty tame. (Which made sense. Elias’ neighbors were notorious for reporting parties. “Most of them are old ass people that probably just eat Raisin Bran,” was how Elias described them on more than one occasion.)

    Eleanor knocks on the front door.

    A few seconds pass. Then, reluctantly, Elias opens the door. “Well, look who it is,” Elias says with a relaxed smile. “And here I thought you were a group of party-crashing cops.” The girls laugh and enter. Gloria enters last, batting her eyes coyly at Elias. The inside is fairly full: seniors from our school and other schools talking and dancing. Elias leads the girls outside. Everyone looks up but only Clark is brave (or drunk) enough to say what is now on everyone’s mind: “Holy shit! Gloria is at a party? Ms. Valedictorian is here?!” The addition of several I’s, A’s and N’s in “valedictorian” confirms to everyone that Clark is drunk.

    “Yes, I am here,” says Gloria coolly. “This is history in the making. Cement it in your memory, or right next to my picture in your yearbook. Take your pick.” Everyone laughs; Elias hands Gloria and her friends a beer. The eyes of many are still on Gloria as she sips from her can. Her presence was a distraction; the recluse had emerged from somewhere unfamiliar to her peers. They knew something was different. But what?

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    “It’s her look,” said Penelope Jones (the school’s cheer captain) to Jane Smith (the school’s co-captain and Jones’ gossiping cohort). “The black boots, the charcoal black pants, the band t-shirt (it’s the album art for Sonic Youth’s Goo), the red lipstick, the hair down and no glasses. She cleans up well,” evaluated Penelope.

    Gloria was unaware of the eyes watching her every move. She was only focused on one person: Elias. Of course she found Elias handsome: semi-long black and straight hair, hazel eyes, a semi-muscular build and dime-sized gages. But she always enjoyed their conversations, whether they be amusing (“Who do you think Madonna preferred kissing more? Britney or Christina?”) or mundane (“Fuck this invasion of Iraq.”).

    Tonight’s topic: “Have you ever thought what comes after this? What comes after high school,” Elias asked Gloria. Gloria, who drank her beer quickly (and was requesting another) turned to Elias in a surprised manner. Did Elias know? Was his intuition that great? Am I only thinking like this because I’m drunk? Am I drunk? I might be drunk. Whatever.

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    Outward, Gloria kept her cool. “I actually thought about this before I came here,” she responded. “Ideally, success will come after this. A life of happiness and prosperity. The stuff people usually want, you know?” She must have said something correct; Eleanor handed Gloria another cup of beer while making a “ding” noise.

    Elias laughed. “Honestly, I’m a little bit scared. I mean, the real world is a horrible fucking way of describing this next part of our lives. But whatever it is, I’m actually nervous about it.”

    “Me too,” replied Gloria. “Me too.” Before the two could continue Clark and his “fuck of the week,” a girl by the name of Jamie Ross (supposedly a first-year college student), asked them if they wanted to play beer pong. “Are you game, Elias,” teased Clark. “Sure. Just hope you’re ready to get that ass whooped,” responded Elias confidently. Elias grabbed Gloria’s hand and followed Clark and Jamie inside to the kitchen.

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    After this the rest of the night became a blur for Gloria. According to Lily, the most sober between Gloria and Eleanor (and probably the most sober person at the party), Gloria did the following in no particular order: lost to Clark and Jamie at beer pong (who becomes a beer pong MVP after drinking the “right” amount, apparently), snatched a cigarette from Eleanor, kissed Elias, drank eight beers, told the DJ to put on some song by some band named the “Yeah Yeah Yeahs,” kissed Elias and almost threw up in Lily’s car.

    Of course pictures would end up on someone’s Myspace some time today. And conversation of Gloria’s night would be retold and discussed through hazy memories. But Gloria wasn’t worried about that. And even if she was, the early symptoms of a hangover would serve as a distraction.

    “But did you have fun though,” asked Eleanor, handing Gloria a cup of water.

    Too weak to talk, Gloria motioned her head back and forth, which only added to the pain in her head.

    The world is a fucking hangover waiting to happen. The thought made her laugh.

    It was a laugh like none she had before. A painful and joyful laugh. A real laugh.

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