Prozac and Whimsy

It’s been an odd year, I have been unwell both physically and mentally for most if not all of it and I’m just so, so tired at this point. As previous trauma dumping posts tell you I don’t have a lot of family around me and as a result I have made one for myself out of friends who I trust with my life.

I have three male friends who I love and treat like the brothers I never had to the point that their children are written into my will. Two of the three I met online on the same site as Sals (more on that another day) Our friendship is forged with the hellfire of over twenty years of idiocy and the inevitable heartbreaks that life throws in along the way. There are layers upon layers of in-jokes and references  that are all but impenetrable to anyone from the outside and we are very guilty of trying to entertain ourselves first and foremost with anyone else who laughs along with us counted as a welcome bonus.

The third was a workmate, someone I knew and spent time with in the really real world. He was a stranger to the infamous brand of internet chaos that the Edna side of me revels in. He also wasn’t part of the world that the thoughtful and creative JJ inhabited. He knew me as me, away from all the bullshit of my past and the masks I hide behind  and was the first person to do so properly since my late teens or early twenties at a push. We bonded over past failed relationships, a love of music and a similar warped sense of humour. We spoke every day without fail and had done for over a decade but this year he left our shared place of work and we’ve drifted apart.

There’s a little more to this than just drifting apart but it wouldn’t be fair on him to air the dirty laundry on here. We haven’t fallen out, there’s been no fight. There have been cancelled gigs on his side and cancelled runs due to my series of ongoing injuries. We haven’t seen each other since June, the daily messages are now every few days at best. As I have already said I wasn’t a popular kid, I cherished the few mates I had and I still do. The loss of this friendship has frankly broken my heart.

Things I haven’t thought about in thirty years plus have been dredged up and the loneliness of high school came screaming back with no warning. The death of my aunty knocked me, work stress ground me down and this final straw ruined me. But somehow I knew that no matter how bad things were they had been worse in the past and no matter how much it hurts they will get better again.

And it is with this slight weird tangent that I give to you the second album Still Here by UK punks Brutalligators. four years after their excellent debut This House Is Too Big, This House Is Too Small the intimate and honest lyrics have a whole new side to them. Life has moved on as life does and this is an album not of a broken heart but of one that is still breaking.

It is an album of resilience, defiance, of recognising who and what you are carrying on anyway. It is an album of hope and regret, It is an album that looks forward with a glance over it’s shoulder. It is an album that literally says “I’m still here and I’m alive.”

The ten tracks rattle by in under 40 minutes. Along the way we have East Coast punk tinged shout alongs (think Iron Chic at their absolute best) There are hints of Screamo, dabbling’s of different shades of emo and a surprising nod towards the likes of The Deftones with the almighty Safe Haven.

There isn’t a weak track amongst them but the highlights are Safe Haven, Get Better, Still Here and Nice Try. It’s been a long time since an album felt like it was speaking to me personally but from the opening lines of Still Here…

“God help me find myself again, I lost the fucking thing that makes me, me”

I knew this was going to be special.