I’ve had a bad case of writers’ block lately, which is ironic. Over at Paste, I just had two pieces go up that I’m very proud of: my review of the excellent new Joanna Sternberg album I’ve Got Me, which I just learned was cited by Wikipedia (!), and some words on DC punk and Fugazi’s album In on the Kill Taker, which celebrated its 30th anniversary at the end of June. Other than those projects, though, my writing has been…sporadic.
Things are weird lately. It’s been an unseasonal burst of June gloom and July rain in Richmond, and I just got some devastating news about one of my longest-term writing outlets — more on that later if I find the words. I have something like ten drafts open on Substack right now and even more on Microsoft Word, plus a series of scrawled notebook phrases for stories that have refused to sprout. Something similar happened last year, when I took a break from freelancing for a couple months to refocus, but this time around it’s like the urge is actually there but the ideas won’t flow.
So I did what I often do when I feel weird, anxious, or generally off, and I spent some time with the music of Frank Watkinson.
Frank Watkinson is a sweet old British man who calls himself “Virtual Grandad” and posts acoustic guitar covers under the bio “just performing songs my way ,nothing too serious.” (Spacing intentional.) The videos sometimes feature references to his daughter or adorable cameos from his little dog Marshall, but it’s mainly just Frank, strumming along to the most heartwrenching Slipknot cover you’ve ever heard. I try to keep a healthy distance from parasocial fixations, but I discovered Frank Watkinson’s covers on a Sufjan Stevens subreddit a few years ago, and I’ve been turning to them ever since. (I’ve even written a little about him here, back in Tugboat’s first iteration.)
My favorite recent video of Frank’s is his cover of “Honey, It’s Alright” by the indie folk musician Gregory Alan Isakov. It’s from The Weatherman, an album that turned 10 last week. I used to listen to this album all the time: on walks home from school through the cemetery, on Starbucks runs and between classes, and on long car rides where I’d stare out the window feeling like a main character. Isakov’s soft voice, swelling guitar, and vaguely-steampunk persona are deeply ingrained into my adolescence. Here’s the original if you’re unfamiliar:
The best covers do something new and interesting with the source material, and by design, Frank Watkinson’s version cuts this song down to the bone. Gone are the backing vocals, the distant piano and strings. It’s just a man with a guitar, sitting in his living room, trying to provide some comfort to someone on the other side.
In this way Gregory Alan Isakov is perfect for Frank Watkinson’s channel. His music yearns for kinship and ease, a static state of wellbeing that’s ultimately impossible to reach. There are polemics to this, but the desire strikes me as deeply human. To paraphrase Isakov’s “Amsterdam,” we all ache to come home somehow.
That beguiling desire has worked like a charm on me the last couple weeks, as I’ve found myself revisiting Gregory Alan Isakov for the first time in years — The Weatherman, This Empty Northern Hemisphere, and his new single, “Appaloosa Bones.” His older songs are more complex than I remember them, and at the same time simpler. They’re musical artifacts of a time when I was unafraid to be achingly sincere.
I heard some advice once that if you’re trying to fall back in love with books, you have to start with the type of reading that grabbed you in the first place. Maybe to carve out space for creativity, you have to spend time with an album you first loved when you were fourteen. Who knows? I’m awash in a stream of twinkly guitars and nature metaphors, and I couldn’t be happier.
tales from the crypt
anthem for a seventeen-year-old girl
I’ve been rewatching Twin Peaks lately and one thought keeps returning to me: justice for Donna Hayward. If she were onscreen today, with all her big sweaters and big emotions, I believe she would’ve been celebrated as an honest portrayal of messy teenage girlhood instead of the shoddy hand she’s been dealt. Your teens are all about feeling like you’re having the most beautiful dream and the most terrible nightmare all at once! Who among us has not swapped romantic fixations with their codependent bestie!
Some day I’ll write this out into the full essay it deserves. For now I’ll take this opportunity to plug my favorite shirt, whose seller (Chirophelia) is unfortunately “taking a short break” on Etsy. Hopefully it’s back up in less than 25 years….
the monstera mash
My neighbor’s girlfriend just got accepted into grad school across the country, which means I’ve inherited a gargantuan 4-foot-tall monstera plant that he had to part with. The sheer presence of this thing has me thinking about the practice of naming plants, something I used to be enthusiastic about but haven’t done in ages. I’ve hereby christened my spider plants Peter and Gwen and I’m brainstorming for the rest of my houseplants, but the newcomer especially needs a name. For now it’s simply known as The Creature, but post your suggestions in the comments.
That’s all from me this week, folks! I’m hoping to make these newsletters a more consistent and structured being and continuing to experiment with formatting, so keep an eye out in your inbox. For now, make sure to subscribe if you haven’t — and every day, once a day, give yourself a little present. - AVP