literature
Beat's music literature from the New York Times or the recesses of online. Our favorite stories showcase musicians.
The Lead Man's Journal
The Lead Man’s Journal 5/14/22 New Orleans, Louisiana Congratulations little black Moleskine notebook - you just became the landing strip of the thoughts nobody else will hear, but must be expressed. Ever since I blacked out after the Mardi Gras concert two months ago, I’ve been poked and prodded by doctors, only for them to say it was all in my head. They told me to write, so I’m writing. Derrick, my manager is so obsessed with getting me right only because his job depends on me. Otherwise, I think he’d throw me to the wolves and get a brand new model. He still may. I’m the front man, so if I go, the band would have to have a complete overhaul. Rebranding, new merchandise, maybe even a new name. You think the bet’s worth the hand? Honestly, when I landed this gig, it was like winning the lottery to me. Now I feel like I’ve traded my life for a blur of an existence and a miser who’s in charge of my piggy bank.
By A Rose Williams5 years ago in Beat
The Angels of Hell, Michigan
The Angels of Hell, Michigan by AP West It was a cold November Wednesday evening in 1998 when Serendipity unpacked her guitar and flute from the trunk of her car. She headed into The Blind Pig in Ann Arbor, Michigan for its local band night. This was a national rock venue and she was a young woman in a new city trying to prove herself and trying to network with the local bands.
By Pamela West-Finkle5 years ago in Beat
This Child Can Sing.
This Child can Sing By Anquinette Miller February 23, 2021 One thing is certain, everyone has a voice, every baby born, alive, has a scream, a yell, yelp, a squeal, raspy, low, high, different sounds, soft, loud and all in between, for many parents they feel a Star is born.
By Anquinette N Miller5 years ago in Beat
The Great Mr. Handel
Short Story: "The Great Mr. Handel" Here I was again, taking a walk in the streets of London in the year of our Lord, 16 February 1741. As I left my residence and embraced the cold wintry air, my hands soon after leaving became swollen with sores laden with perseverance from the harsh winter the current year impressed. My face was of the driest crustiness and paleness, like overcooked bread, yet not burned, and dusted with bits of red tempera and dried blood. Enduring the cold, I pressed forward this day, as I did every day of the year for the last eleven years of my time in London. I charged through the snow that blanketed the streets, as usual. I then became ill as I neared a corner street by the Thames. With my fatigue, I began to wonder if my hourly walk would need an amendment or if I could still brave the cold.
By Randall Johnson III5 years ago in Beat
I Just Need A Friend Right Now
I looked over at Harry, wondering how to wake him up. He’d been sleeping solid for the last two hours. He had his sunglasses on and his hood up still, his head resting against the window. I had spent the time with the music low and making sure to drive as smooth as possible. I didn’t know what his schedule was like, but I assumed he didn’t get to take naps very often.
By Mary Booth5 years ago in Beat
