I’m here now.That helps more than I thought it would.
You can talk about your dad if you want.Or not.I’m fine either way.Just listening to whatever you put on next.
StringTheory27:You picked the right version, by the way.
Everyone goes for the piano cover now—slow and tragic, like that’s the only way sadness works.But the original?It’s worse in a good way.There’s this weird tension in it, like the song isn’t ready to fully commit to the breakdown.
It remains polished.Like it’s trying to hold it together for the meeting.For the carpool.For whoever’s watching.
That’s what makes it hurt more.
That’s Tears for Fears in general, isn’t it?
They wrote pop songs like therapy sessions.Big drums, clean synths, and lyrics about emotional collapse in the middle of adulthood.Songs for people who smile through anxiety and only scream in traffic.
They never gave us answers, just mirrors.
I like mirrors.Even when they’re unflattering.
You still listening to Disintegration, too, or have you moved on?
DeadStrings:Yeah.That’s exactly it.
They wrote like people who were trying to sound okay so they wouldn’t scare anyone away, but if you actually listened, everything broke underneath.Like emotional ventriloquism.
I used to play “Head Over Heels” when I wanted to pretend I wasn’t falling apart.Something about the way it keeps trying to be upbeat while saying everything’s out of control— that made sense to me.Still does.
Also, you calling Mad World a mirror?That stuck.
It’s been so long since I had anyone to talk music with like this.Not just about favorite bands or amazing solos—this.The why behind it.The stuff no one else hears unless they’re already bleeding a little.You get that sometimes the only thing keeping you above water is that chorus that somehow captures exactly what you can’t.
So, thanks for that.
ChapterNine
Roderick
April 25th, 1997
“This is good for you, Rod,” Connor Dempsey says, pouring a bit more cream into his almost-white coffee.
He should’ve just ordered a glass of milk.But what the fuck do I know about coffee when I like it dark and bitter—like my heart.
“New sound, new career,” he continues, stirring the mug with the same bored swirl as always.“Grunge died in ‘94, kid.Your solo career didn’t pick up as ...what were you even trying to do?”
“I was?—”
“It’s rhetorical,” he cuts in before I get a chance to defend myself.“Solo punk-grunge isn’t a thing.You’re Roderick Wilder, but you’re not reinventing music, kid.The prodigy years are behind you.”
“Way to make a guy feel good.”I let out a slow, scornful breath.“And you want me to sign in with you?”
Listen, I know I stopped being a child prodigy years ago ...when I stopped being a fucking child.Anyone with training can do what I do, but not when I was four.Those were different times.That’s when my father swore I would become the next ...well, him.I didn’t.
“I’m not here to sugarcoat shit, Rod.”His tone is blunt, matter-of-fact.He’s not cruel, though.Yet, his voice slices you open without even aiming for it.“That’s what your last agent did—and look how close that got you to a body bag.Is Caleb going to promote this new record?”
I shake my head, jaw clenched.There’s no new record, not even a fucking career.What is he talking about?
“I can talk to him,” Connor offers, lifting his coffee as if he’s toasting to old regrets.“We’re on good terms.”
