Because something is gone, that doesn’t mean that it goes away. We often clutch at stories, real or those we imagine, that can help give our lives meaning against randomness and disorder.
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All These Things Engulfing Me by Joe Bonomo
"I can see the singer looking hopefully at the person with whom he’s speaking, seeing the kindness in their shining eyes, understanding the words they offer yet singing, in that eternal melancholia of melody, the real truth."
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Obituary (For my Cousin) by Emma Kaiser
He tried to form a band with a group that included my high school boyfriend, but kicked them all out of his house when they didn’t take the music as seriously as he did.
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Birds Sing to Breathe by Joe Bonomo
“She sings about idealized romance bruised by clumsy hands; she sings about drinking, and f***ing, and mornings waking up in dubious beds. She sometimes sings about her own career (“Paid”) and about singing. (And singers. Cue up “Steve Earle.”) I’m wondering how much of a story a voice, alone, can tell.”
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You Don't Own Me by Joe Bonomo
Infamy is fine. Did you hear the news? John Bonham used a mud shark as a sex toy! Rod the Mod had to have his stomach pumped! Paul is Dead! But when a band gets too famous, literally too big for the room, I resist. My name’s Joe. I’m a fameist.
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Bafflement, Clarity, and Malice by Joe Bonomo
How can something I don’t understand come to mean so much?
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Field Recordings From the Inside by Joe Bonomo
My younger brother Paul developed a phobia of listening to records played at the wrong speeds. We’d be listening to a 45 or an LP, and if I moved the rpm knob one way or the other and the song lurched into nasal, pinched hysteria or growled down to a menacing dirge, Paul would cover his ears, his eyes flashing. Sometimes he’d dash from the room; sometimes he’d cry.
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Gone by Joe Bonomo
Jackie was an ugly girl. At age twelve, I could see it: the doughy, mottled face, the bulbous and hooked nose, the fat legs, the stringy hair. I confidently assumed the general playground condemnation of her, joined in the ranks of those who intuited, somehow, that she was less fortunate than the rest of us.
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