Ashen Arrow Eyes

CW: vulgar language

What most people get wrong, is this radical optimism that it’s never too late. To me it’s clear to see that most people are given a few forks in the road, and if you take the wrong way, you can’t get to your destination. There’s no doubling back, continuing down the streets until the end, there’s no reverse feature for us.

This was my late twenties, and my stage name was Buoyant Jones. I did not like the stage name Buoyant Jones. I had recently gone solo, from the aptly named Buoyant Bros. “We’ll float to the top!” Was a slogan and merchandising we’d capitalize on. Clever, I know.

It was a kind of fake pop-punk crossover band. Made to capitalize on the trends of the time. A little nostalgia for the aughts. This was a rather frightening time in my life, one of my other band mates, Buoyant Bobby, on all levels was more attractive than me. Good teeth, I spent too much time smoking for good teeth. And on account of those lovely veneers, those twinkling gums, those blasted pearly whites, the label put all the energy into him. Dropping the rock and sticking to the pop. I was the alternate. I was made to carry the rock and stay in the alternative lane. It was two events really that ruined my life.

The first was a party, and as was my custom around the time, I don’t remember it. I stayed away from drugs, because legally I’d prefer to say I always stayed off drugs. But I did drink a lot. I remember dances, a porch smokier than the mountains, and a girl. Some kind of girl. A girl I never saw again. I’m not too caught up in it, but, there was a girl.

This is how I first came up with the song that would undo me. In my drunken stupor, I wake up at my house with a demo. The name: Ashen Arrow Eyes.

I showed it to my manager and we had this lovely talk. His name was Chauncy, I felt if he were born a hundred years ago he’d be this classical style of butler, rotund with the aluminum tray and glasses. The type of man who I’d smoke with and cherish. In this lifetime, he was an agent, and an okay one. He got me gigs at least. I was due for my first single, where people would decide to take me seriously and my artistic lane was to pivot from Timberlake to Cobain. I play him the song. He likes it. He brings up some reservations.

“Yeah. So. I’m a bit worried.” He says.

“Worried?” I say.

“Well. Yes. Keep in mind. You’re still, I mean, the song is great, you don’t ever need to worry about the quality here but, there’s something very wrong. Not to cramp your style, or step on your toes or whatever. But. Well. I mean. Have you ever mowed the lawn?”

“This doesn’t seem too relevant.”

“Mmhmm. Yeah. Sure. But actually, it’s extremely relevant. You’re the type of man who gets a little gung-ho with the whole artistry thing. You’re a lawn mower.” He starts to comb his hair with a toothy brush. To me this is a message. How the fuck am I gonna pitch this to the label? “Because people like you, or maybe, I should say, artists, well you either sell-out or mow the lawn. That’s how you see it. You’re not Jewel, you can’t be used for sex appeal. And you’re definitely not Dave Grohl, you won’t become this brand. Maybe you’re a bit more In Utero. Maybe a bit more Cobain. I could try to sell that. But I feel like. And don’t hate me. Please. But I’m the bridge. You’re there, the ever brooding mister artist. An island all alone, and the labels all the way on the other side. In this nation called capital. And I’m going to be honest, you’re not hot. And this isn’t an alternative label. So it’s great, so great, that you believe in your music, and that I believe in your music, but they might refuse this as a single, and if you’re dropped, well, I’m dropped. I want you or- No. I need you to explain why this will sell. Why is this good, to you, so I can get on the ground and let you and the label meet atop me. Got it?”

“Okay.” I mull it over for a second. “You’re going to find this so pretentious.”

“Be insufferable now so you can be tolerable later.”

“There’s this thing called the western canon-”

“Jesus.”

“Intolerable now”

“No go ahead.”

“Notes are strange, at some point, hundreds of years ago, we decide, twelve notes, in half-steps and full-steps. This is due to the ease of use of these notes. They naturally sound good together and so we make a treble clef that represents these notes. A type of expression built off the backs of composers who all composed the same way.”

“For the white man?”

“Basically. And what’s super interesting, is that the Beatles knew about these limitations. It’s often said everything comes from the Beatles. Every genre. You think George Harrison became a Buddhist because he was doing LSD? I’ve done way worse shit in churches and I didn’t see God. It’s because Indian music is about the in-betweens. The space between an F and G note. The whole realm of vibrations from one note to the other. There’s a real specific beauty in what we have and what they have. The western music is this beautiful innovation through restriction. Eastern music, a bit more enchanting, it lulls you in with its variables. But how do you bridge these two together?

“Who’s the me of music.”

“Precisely. This is my music. My true music. Not the god awful pop-punk stuff where we whine about not having enough drinks. This is gaze. Or rather, shoegaze. This is the wonderful invention of Kevin Shields of My Bloody Valentine. An early nineties gift the world wasn’t ready for. What if a song didn’t have one guitar? Not two? But dozens? How through repetition and playing the same notes but altering the sound of the guitar through other means you create this cacophony. Dozens of chords layered and eventually in this beacon of light. This erupting sound, you create a noise greater than the sum of its parts. You create a catharsis. The lighthouse that guides one to the shore in a storm. It’s everything.”

“How many listeners do they have? My Bloody Valentine and George Harrison?”

“A few million I’m sure”

“That’s a selling point. Thank you. Built in audience. Keep going on.”

“Well the fact that I’m famous should be the selling point. Anyways. You’ve heard of Phil Spector?”

“That guy who killed his wife?”

“He killed someone but it wasn’t his wife.”

“Oh.”

“Great guy. I mean, not with the whole wife killing business. I say great in the same way we say Alexander the Great. The influence. He pioneered a little ditty called wall of sound. Be My Baby, Ronettes. And frankly, it sounds completely like shit. He dials every noise up to eleven and beats you to death with it. Awful.”

“But?”

“But people fucking loved it. It’s a supersonic blast. Like watching a rocket ship take off. And I get to capture the rocket with no explosions. Informed by the sensibilities of sad indie rockers and divorced grungy dads, I’m here. I get to combine all the lessons and make this. Ashen Arrow Eyes. Because when you look at the world and see the gas prices above what’s livable for even the rich and the wages lower than the rent, you need something. You need catharsis. You need Ashen Arrow Eyes. How’s that for your pitch?”

Chauncy nodded. I saw the gears in his head urn. He was uniting the diaspora of information I’d given him into one roof. A package for sale. He did another one of my favorite Chauncy-isms. Snapping his right right when in thought. Like the red phosphorus on the edge of a match striking the side of the box. When he ignited, we’d sell it.

“Tell me about the lyrics.” Chauncy, needing more fuel, requested. “The song. No more biographies. The real thing. Right now.”

“Okay, now I don’t want to go over any of the boring things.” I was hoping I didn’t irradiate phoniness. I can’t have this oh so personal first single emerge from a drunken stupor subconscious commune. “I hate it when pedestrians even attempt to understand what occurs in my, or any other, real artist’s brain when they’re inspired. There is no direct inspiration. Robert Smith makes tearjerking balladry about losing a girl while he’s happily married. Artists deserve some credit. We reach into fundamental truths. The sad part of this deal is the root of our work, the beating heart that informs it, we are often not entirely aware of. A disclaimer for you. What really makes Ashen Arrow Eyes tick is its bassline. A roaring droll that captures the spirit of the open roads. Imagine you’re on a motorcycle for the first time and the experienced rider revs the engine not enough to scare you but to drive an anticipation for what comes next. It’s a doldrum of noise. Tasteful palm-muting keeps the line punchy, deep, dark. As the line repeats itself it goes from exciting to catchy, like the march of a military down your back street. Of course. This is accentuated by the drums. A kin of iron crashing that forces your attention to it. A quiet boom into a large Bap. Small cymbal hi-hats mixed to fly past your head. The start of Ashen Arrow Eyes is all about propulsion until our next phase. Electricity. A soaring electric guitar. And I mean soaring. I had recently read this paper about this dormant part of the human brain forever connected to the chirpings of birds. When we hear their lovely calls we’re relaxed, at ease. Because birds meant no predators, so we have a natural propensity towards the sounds of our avian counterparts. This guitar is the call of a bird. Eagle. Falcon even. So you have this seismic Richter reading bass and percussion and this dream-like bird epiphany guitar. They merge and the low end and peace unite. But still, there’s something off. The juxtaposition begs an answer. There I am.

Ashen Arrow Eyes how I beg for thee

The Ashen Arrow Eyes that set me free

Fear the future stuck in the past

You are the only thing made to last

And if the whole world's gone to shit

You are the one thing I can’t quit

Ashen Arrow Eyes now I flee

Ashen Arrow Eyes just for me

“It’s powerful.” (It drives me insane I don’t know where I got the lyrics from). “I think it comes across in the demo. A song that disarms and forces you to engage. A type of immediacy to it. And I don’t think it’ll stratosphere into the charts. It’s no Billie Jean or Beat it or Rock with You or Bad or Smooth Criminal or Thriller or… But it’s mine.

“Okay.” Chauncy pursed his lips. “Alright.”

He left the room. And a few days later we met with our label president. Barry Boudalaire. Barry Billionaire we called him. A bit of a nouveau riche bourgeois. More willing to flaunt his wealth, or rather, his father’s wealth than my preferred crowd. I sulked in and my manager stomped. Bravado and shyness. Perfect picture. Barry had some Newton Balls on his desk he’d like to play with, stainless steel balls in a room of varying grays and cold lights. Modern. Boring even. He reminded me of cats with strings. I suppose the totality of him reminded me of a cat, but one of those obese gray ones. Unable to scamper. Gray suit today too, another perfect image. Chauncy gave his pitch and there were smiles all around and-

“No.” Barry said.

“What.” I pound my hand against Barry’s desk. “You’re fucking joking. Right? You’re fucking me.”

“I just think it’s boring. It takes way too long to start. For the guitar to come in. That part is pretty cool. But, like, it’s an attention based economy right now. And if you aren’t getting my attention; you lose. I actually scrolled through I think, seventeen vertical videos, and each of them generated revenue while I scrolled. Your song has no five second highlights. No memeability. It’s boring. And like, be mad, be upset, but my father put me in charge of his department for a really very important reason. I have to make a new Tori Sazzle. And Tori Sazzle wouldn’t make this.”

“You really think I’m Tori Sazzle?”

“I’d hope so. I mean. Like, she brought us a lot of money. Like think of the number ten, and then add eight zeroes to that. A lot. And it’s great because she is really the blueprint for you. Both were these teen dreams. And she was good country girl gone sour. Gone bad. You’re cute city boy who’s gonna go metrosexual, maybe even become a manipulator. Think Nick Jonas. That way when you reunite with the Buoyant Boys it feels like returning to home. Prodigal son is what my dad said.”

The rest of the conversation involved Chauncy trying to save my vision and Barry refusing in a cycle. I didn’t let my anger get to me. I tapped my feet in a seven-eights time signature to keep my brain busy. I hadn’t ruined my life yet. There was still a chance of escape. As the drumming continued I thought about Barry. About how he “learned” guitar at the age of seven but picking up a few power chords. Green Day waits. Fame, definitely not. He couldn’t tell a dorian from an aeolian, and his interest in not actual alternative culture, but the aesthetics of the alternative is what lead his father to giving him this cushy deal. A job with no work. Say yes. Say no. Say maybe? Move on. Maybe if there was still a power to artistry, if a Dylan or even a Cobain was here. The substantial star. Nothing like that goddamned Tori Sazzle.

“Barry,” I say. “Have you ever considered, that maybe, you don’t understand the art?”

Chauncy freezes. I knew I shouldn’t have said that. But my mouth was dry after all the bootlicking. Had to get in a lick somewhere else.

“I don’t need to understand the art.” Barry grumbles. “I understand something more important than you. And it’s that he LLMs are right around the corner. And everything you make is going to be disposable. This isn’t a business for music anymore. Okay. This is the personality business. You think Tori Sazzle’s a good musician? But she really appeals to the WASP sensibility. They're a huge economic unit. Geeze. Like, I feel like you think I’m dumb. God. As if I need to understand music to do this job? Okay. So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re a good brand. We need some more counter-culture and, as you just demonstrated for me, uhhh, right now, you aren’t the best at keeping your mouth shut. So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna keep running your smart mouth. And you’re gonna be the opposite of the whole anti-intellectualism deal that’s going on in this country. Cool? Because you’re my investment, and if you march on, making these poppy and rocky hits, you’re REM. You’re the alt band that gets mainstream and makes us hundreds of millions. And maybe, after that. After ten years, and you keep on begging and begging me, I’ll relent, and you can release that song. Heard?”

I argue in vain. There wasn’t any breaking through. But, I can’t help but think of this great magnitude to the song. Maybe, I met someone, and they opened the world and i can’t even remember them. The song has to release... And here’s where I ruin my life.

That night, I went home. I cried, I’ll admit. In my head, I was the ship’s captain. Turns out I’m a passenger. I think about my future, filling out stadiums and chart success and being drowned in brand deals. Playing the fiddle to a preordained tune. I can’t do that. I’m the type of person who can’t let go. Rome must burn.

I release Ashen Arrow Eyes. Illegally. But this obsessive pursuit of why I made it, what it was about, and how I could stick it to the man, that all inspired me.

Ashen Arrow Eyes how I beg for thee

The Ashen Arrow Eyes that set me free

Fear the future stuck in the past

You are the only thing made to last

And if the whole world's gone to shit

You are the one thing I can’t quit

Ashen Arrow Eyes now I flee

Ashen Arrow Eyes just for me

Who owned the eyes and what made them ashen arrowed? Did they point at me? A lustful beg? A beg for release? Is the death mentioned an impalement? A real death or a metaphorical one?

An arrow to the heart or an arrow to the eyes. I can’t decide. I just know, there’s someone. Someone inspired this. I’m listening to it in my room, my phone abuzz. My contracts getting voided, all my profits taken away in a legal battle. And I don’t care. There’s some things you hold and some you let go. I knew I had ruined my life, but, maybe in Ashen Arrow Eyes there was a peace. The type you hold onto. You don’t let go. The representation of one moment where nothing else matters. And as I aged and played bars instead of festivals, I was happy. I ruined my life to make it mine.